The Flying Dreams

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I watched the phone ring, Shifa's name between two sunflowers and then back at my arms. Henna covered every inch, from the tips of my fingers to the shoulders with elegant flowers and vines, somewhere in there Wahab's name was supposed to be hidden but when my cousin asked where I would like the name, I had shaken my head and they all took it as a sign of bride's abashment and laughed and teased and I had tried to play the part, forcing my head to conjure images of Wahab and his smile which I had once considered more beautiful than anyone else's. Tried and failed miserably as the only person I could think of was the person whom I disparately wanted to vanish from my memory. Instead of the full name, my cousin only wrote a W in the centre of my palm, the giggling and chatting never once stopped, leaving me with nothing but a strange emptiness. I hadn't looked at it but knew that the word took most of the space. The henna was still wet in places and if I took more than half an hour inside my room, someone would come looking. And drag me back to the merriment that I found appalling.

The bell stopped ringing and without thinking, I grabbed the phone and dialled her number. Pressing the device harder against my ear and she picked up on the first ring.

"Send me a photo of your hands," she said, a little breathless and without any humour.

"No."

"Why not?"

Adjusting the phone between my ear and shoulder, I examined my hand, where the word W should have been inside a petal, I only saw the brown blob of henna and told her the truth, "There's nothing to see. It's smudged."

There was a silence, only the faint noise of music and laughter and shouting leaking through my doors. But nothing from her side which made me wonder where she was hiding this time. She had called me at night after she left my home with her brother. I was on my bed, listening to Zoya talk about something. My attention only half on her and half travelled back to Shifa's flat. That wasn't the first time I had imagined her in her room, sitting on the floor with a shapeless bag, staring at her old clothes and telling herself to do better and I felt her dread of failing and being forced to grow out her hair and wear the skin she had left behind in my veins.

When my phone rang, Zoya had snatched it from my hand with a squeal, thinking perhaps that Wahab had been the one calling but when she read the name, her eyes stayed on the screen a little longer and there was a touch of unease on her face when she passed me the ringing phone, her stare followed me to the room balcony and when I returned to bed after more than an hour, Zoya didn't bring up anything and continued to talk about the dresses she had brought for my wedding. I might have just imagined it, but Wahab's name was attached to everything she said after. Shifa didn't hide the fact that she was hiding on the roof, behind the wall and only chuckled when I asked from whom. Ever since then, she had called me daily and sent photos whenever and as much as it pained me to admit that the favourite part of my day was when she called, it was true.

None of the photos was of her and I didn't even ask her to send me any. Her mother had shopped for her and I didn't want to rub the wrong wound.

"You smudged your wedding mehndi?", she paused and added, clearly bemused, "Nice."

I didn't care for the ruined mehndi and the initial of Wahab's name. My heartbeat didn't increase, no sweat broke out and no voice inside my head screamed at me to feel shame and guilt. I wanted to hear her voice more than anything. My mother would freak out and my cousins would reattempt to apply another design on it, another layer to hide the ugly spot and I was aware the more I spent time talking to Shifa instead of wiping the henna, the darker the colour was becoming. But leaving the room meant no return to Shifa.

"Thank you. It's partly your fault but I'll graciously take the blame."

I held the phone again in my hand and walked into the balcony. The street was lit up with lights and people buzzed around in groups, dressed better than I felt and young girls carefully navigating the way with their hands full of henna. None wanted to ruin the delicate designs on their palm, none should. Not when their wedding was the day after, and their husbands would hold the coloured hands and try to find their names in the swirl of vines.

"My fault? How?"

Leaning against the iron railing, I spoke, "You shouldn't have called."

The conversation took the veil of silence again. I spotted Zoya walking out of the house, her mustard lehnga clutched in one hand and a tray balanced on the other. I followed her trail and finally stopped before a small gathering of men. They all talked at once and I couldn't hear anything, she placed the tray on the round table in middle and turned her back to them. And suddenly, she glanced up and saw me standing there. I knew how it must have looked and knew what she must have thought. I felt the air of unease and something close to fear rifting below my chin, but Zoya just took hold of her lehnga and walked inside the house, not once smiling at me as she usually did.

"I know, sorry. I didn't want to."

"Then why did you?"

I heard my name behind me and hoped whoever it was would get lost in the way so I could have one more minute to talk to Shifa. I wasn't surprised by her lack of hesitation; she hid less when I couldn't see her face.

"I wanted to talk to you as... a friend for the last time, I guess."

Yes, I would be her cousin-in-law soon, in fact in less than 24 hours, she would be standing at the gate to welcome me inside her home along with other girls of her family. Wahab had expressed his disapproval when he learnt I called Shifa by her name, no way would I dare again. I parted my lips to say something, but nothing came out and my sight blurred a little and before I let my heart do the thinking, I ended the call as the door of my room creaked open. I knew who it was and still failed to stop the upcoming tears. I didn't want to, I realized with a dull beat of surprise. I didn't want to hide it anymore—not from Zoya. What was the point? She already knew without me saying a thing.

"Adia... you shouldn't."

Her hand snaked around my shaking shoulders and the control, the hold I had maintained on my emotions ever since I came home loosened. My throat ached and my body shook violently in Zoya's embrace. I let her lead me inside the room and she went to close the door after making me sit on the edge of the bed. She sat beside me and said nothing, but I could not bear the silence.

"I don't want to do this," my voice broke with each word I uttered but Zoya didn't stop me from speaking, didn't even look at me, "I can't."

"Shifa, isn't it?"

There was a note of fear in her tone which showed on her face as I nodded. Zoya squeezed her eyes shut and kept repeating what have you done. How was I supposed to tell her that I didn't do anything?

"Uncle will cut you in pieces and bury them six feet deep, do you understand?"

I shook my head, as if her words brought no threat, hadn't kept me awake for days, "I don't love Wahab."

"Then who do you love? Shifa?" her eyes touched the doors before settling back on me, her voice lowered, "Don't be stupid, Adia," she kept talking, ignoring me completely, her eyes looked above my head into the balcony and for a second I felt terrible to drop this weight on her. The lines on her face deepened and by the time she opened her mouth again, tears of her own stained her cheek, "What had happened—"

She didn't finish her sentence, but I understood. What had happened to me? I wished I could tell her, but I didn't know the answer. Not really.