MANGO MILKSHAKE

Chapter 3

One should not measure their status before starting a revolution. I could see four people sitting on the sofa in a very adequate manner. Holding a cup of tea with one hand and tapping on one knee with the other, a man in his early sixties chatted with my father. His fairly white clothes and long white beard tells me about his pious nature. Right next to him was a woman of the same age as my mother but she reeked of old money. Her overly glamorous jute saree, pearl jewelleries, gold framed spectacles and a dignified posture made me uncomfortably fascinated. Two similar looking men, in their twenties, sat opposite to each other but one looked more displeased than the other. The younger one looked hopeful, concerned and searched for validation from the elder man. Quite the opposite of everyone else, the last guy seems to be as troubled as I am. The annoyance and stubbornness flashed stubbly on his tolerably handsome face. Their demeanor is telling me that if someone has even slightly more vanity and confidence against their will, it's the end for the certain someone. Now I know where exactly I have to attack.

Without wasting another single second I paced towards the gathering. Suddenly every gaze falls on me. While choosing a wife for her well cherished son what a Indian mother searches for is a shy, timid, out mostly ladylike woman who can cook, clean and keeps her mouth shut to 'a little' abuse. I'm probably also expected to do so. For starters, I need to hold my gaze lower, smile shyly and keep standing like a doll until I'm told to sit.
Alas! Not today. I held eye contact with each of the guests one by one. An alluring and scandalous smile added fuel to the fire. Without asking for permission I sat on the chair in an edging unladylike manner.
Elderly people in the room held an uncomfortable silence along with a condemnatory gaze. While the younger male internally screeched for help, the other one remained dazzled. If I could pause the time I would've done so and burst out laughing like a hippy on drugs.

"Assalamualaikum ( peace be unto you), Uncle - Aunty, I'm Ayat" even though I chose violence today still I faked a smile as bright as I could.

"Walaikum assalam (and unto you peace), Ayat. How are you?" The old woman faked a genuine smile as I did.

"I've been better before but you asked so I'm fine" at this point I'm being criminally honest.

She didn't like it. My own parents didn't like it. Nobody liked it, not even the bacteria the floor liked the show I'm putting on.

"So, Ayat, why don't you tell us about yourself a little?" The old man smiled breaking my assumptions of him being more pretentious than his wife.

"You didn't get an envelope? Like the one I got about Yaseen. There was almost every detail about him except for the very personal one" I dropped the most unforgivable bomb as nonchalantly as possible. A polite woman doesn't backfire another question to an already asked question. An ideal wife never utters her husband's name in broad daylight. Two weapons in a single sentence.
On the other hand, Yaseen, sitting opposite to his younger brother got startled by hearing his name from the most unexpected person in the room.

My mother who was sitting next to my father hurriedly stood behind me and rubbed my shoulder while whispering into my ears "once they leave, you're leaving this house too".

I didn't flinch as I curiously waited for the response of my 'to be' father in law.

"The envelope? I read it. I thought I might ask you as well but that'll be just waste of time at this point " old man sounded mildly agitated.

Just when things were about to get more unpleasant Yaseen's younger brother Yahya ( I learnt his name from yesterday's envelope) who was untill now sitting awkwardly started speaking
"I think Yaseen and Ayat should talk to eachother without surveillance of anyone else, why don't you to go and talk a little?" He feebly looked at his brother who is now very guarded as all eyes fell onto him.