Kaabil

35. Wish

Meerab

A year later

I threw my head back.

Will it ever feel different? Nope. Never.

The sensation built up again, and a loud moan threatened to escape my mouth, forcing me to swallow and bite my lips to keep myself in check.

"Good, Murtasim." I panted. "This feels so good."

He smiled and replied in his muffled voice. "Trust me, it never gets old."

The body rose in goosebumps, and a moan finally escaped. The savory taste of spices hit the back of my throat, and I had to close my eyes.

It had been a year and a half since I discovered my husband was a fantastic chef—a year and a half of being together.

Murtasim and I had gotten used to each other, yet every day held a new surprise for both of us.

Allah says in the Quran that Husband and wife are each other's garments, Libaas. The literal meaning is that clothes are a necessity.

Just as garments shield and beautify the body, husband and wife serve to protect, support, and adorn each other in the journey of life. They envelop one another with love, compassion, and understanding, fostering a sense of security and comfort in each other's presence. Like garments, they cover each other's vulnerabilities and flaws, offering warmth and solace in times of difficulty.

Just as garments seamlessly intertwine with the body, husband and wife become intertwined in their shared experiences, joys, and challenges. They complement each other, filling the gaps and enhancing the strengths of their union.

Murtasim is my home. Without him, I feel bare and incomplete. He had given me a sense of belonging while supporting my new endeavors.

I became an official Laywer, passing my bar exam last autumn. With my father's and Murtasim's help, I opened a small law firm in the village, where I sit three times a week and take on local cases. Of course, our opinions clash on multiple occasions—okay, not multiple, but almost on every occasion, but we sit through each one. Most of the time, he is right, while others, he caves in.

Either way, I was born to be right.

Not that I mind. Murtasim has more rural experience than I have ever received. But, staying and spending three days with Maa Begum and her sessions, I am getting somewhere.

Haya got married last month, and much to everyone's dismay, her paternal family attended her wedding. She had insisted on having a small nikkah ceremony with just her close ones, which we agreed on eventually. Still, Maa Begum, being Maa Begum, held a splendid Barat ceremony, with Ahmed Bhai's family having an even bigger reception.

This leads to Haya and Ahmed Bhai coming over for the Iftari tomorrow. That means Murtasim will cook in our kitchen while I help Maa begum downstairs.

This is our new tradition: Murtasim in the kitchen.

Has he been a good influence on me? No. I suck at cooking. One time, I almost burned onions while sautéing them. Nearly because Murtasim quickly pulled me back, taking the matter in his hand. Other times, I cut my finger while peeling carrots. I can't handle holding sharp knives!!!

Except for the brownies and Chai, which my husband is a massive fan of, I can't cook to survive. Water has to do.

Right now, my husband plans to torture me with the world's best Chicken pocket. The dripping cheese mixed with salt, black pepper, and chopped capsicums is the best combination ever.