Mainu Heer Naa Aakho Koyi

XII // Earrings In His Pocket

I stay indifferent towards the camera. Apart of some assalamualeikums I don't utter a word.

He switches on his boring mood and I gulp down my yawns a hundred times until tears build up and my head weighs too much to stay up.

I put my elbow up on the table and lean my face on the palm of my hand to watch him speak.

He looks at me. A silence interrupts his sentence.

My eyes move towards the camera, having forgotten they are capturing me too.

I yawn one fucking last time and apologize in the mic, "I'm sorry, I— I'll go," I push my chair back and get up.

A laugh or two from the journalists before Haider puts a hand on mine.

"I'm sorry. As I was saying, this is the love of my life, my beautiful wife, Alaya Haider."

I sit down as his political rants end and the conference gets more personal. He talks about how the happiness of our wedding brought his family back here for this ritual.

I, still upset with his threats, stay mum.

"Bhabhi ko urdu aati hai?"
(Does Alaya understand urdu?)

I look at Haider and he raises his brows.

I grab the bottle of water in front of me, denying to answer.

"Bas thori reserved aur shy hain. Urdu toh bohot achhe se aati hai innhain." (She's just a bit reserved and shy. Otherwise she speaks Urdu very well.)

"Kyun nahin aati ho gi," I murmur to him.
(Why would I not understand it?)

"Bhabhi mic mein bolein please. Arranged marriage hai yaa love—" (Alaya, speak in the mic please. Is it an arranged marriage or a love—)

"—Ji haan, arranged marriage hai." I cut off the journalist's question, afraid of Haider's answer. (Yes, it is an arranged marriage.)

Baba and the family's going to watch this.

He looks at me, "In ke yahaan shaadi ho rahi thi, waheen pe mile the." (There was a wedding at her house, we met there.)

"Mile nahin the, wahaan in ki ammi ne passand kiya tha mujhe," I cover it up and he chuckles. (We didn't meet there, his mother liked me there.)

"Alaya ma'am ka taaluq kisi political party se nahin hai," (Alaya isn't related to any political party.)

I grin at the ma'am. Bhabhi was acceptable. This level of respect is excessive.

"Nahin hai." (No, she isn't.)

Back at home they don't consider me anything. And it's not like I am anything. But the difference that came in my status in the matter of seconds. I signed a paper and pum! Alaya Haider's worth, net worth and power just spiked.

Alaya Hamid.

"Alaya, hum ne sunaa hai aap pehli dafaa Pakistan aayi hain. Aap yahaan ke politics mein kitni involved hain? Kaisa lagaa humaara mulq?" (Alaya, we've heard this is the first time you have come to Pakistan. How involved are you in its politics? How did you like our country?)

"Aap ka mulq? Meri pehchaan yehi hai. Yeh mera bhi mulq hai." (Your country? This is my identity. It's my country too.)

They ask how much I know about the politics of this country and I show them my perfectly aligned teeth and let my attention shift to a leaf of a tree.

Until I realise that's not enough of an answer,

"Mujhe koyi dilschaspi nahin hai," (I have no interest.)