I hadn't planned it this way. My parents had. I peered around the corner to take a good look at him, but his back was toward me. I sighed and went back into the kitchen to gather some foods my mother helped me prepare earlier. I arranged the tray and filled a pitcher of water. I stopped at the mirror to fix my hair; even if this marriage was against my will, I still had to look good. I bit back my nerves and took some deep breaths. Then I carefully lifted the tray, so as to not drop anything, and attempted to walk gracefully into the sitting room.
"Aisha, what are you doing?" my father asked gently.
I bit my lip and quickly stopped my sad attempt. I tried to smooth things over with a quick smile at the parents of the boy I was to marry. The word "boy" is completely appropriate to call him. He seemed very young; too young, just like me. Maybe he didn't want to marry either. I pushed this thought aside quickly; of course he did, he was most likely the one who had asked permission from my father. Now it would happen. I held back a wince as this thought crossed my mind.
He was staring at me. I swallowed and asked in a voice that was too squeaky if he wanted some food or water. He grinned, as if I made him laugh. It was like he knew just what I was experiencing. Maybe he was good to talk to, I thought. Maybe we could have lots of conversations after we were-married. My brain was still in denial of the upcoming events. I didn't feel ready to marry, I felt too young. Amina, my best friend, she was ready. She was very mature, and she had confided in me her greatest desire was to be married as soon as possible. I disagreed, denied my approval, did anything to change her back to my way of thinking, but none of it worked. She was too obsessed, and now whenever we would talk, it would be about marriage, not what party we went to last week. It would be about the other single men, no, boys, around, that she had dreamt about marrying.
With shaking hands I poured some water in his glass. I wasn't allowed to speak to him directly. Only to ask what food he wanted or how I could serve him. I guessed his age wasn't much older than me, and this made me grit my teeth. If he was a kid, he didn't deserve the same amount of respect as other adults.
He kept looking. I felt a part of, way deep inside, wonder why, but the rest of me was disgusted. However, I couldn't mess this up though, because then I would never get married, not to mention the shame I would bring to my family, and of course my father wouldn't be to happy. I served everyone carefully, giving each person the desired amount of food. His parents seemed happy. He seemed...pleased. Suddenly I grew a big dislike for this *boy* who came in my house to judge whether or not *I* was worthy of *him*. I didn't express this, however, and simply exaggerated my facade of kindness, generosity, and hospitality. He didn't seem to notice, so I asked him in an exaggeratedly sweet tone if he was still thirsty.
"Would you like more to drink?" I managed to get out behind my fake smile that consisted of a wall of teeth holding back insults and hatred. The wall was crumbling, mind you.
"No, madam. But please, feel free to serve my wonderful parents," he said in an equally exaggerated tone. So he didn't want to get married too, my brain concluded. Or he was just annoyed because that was the third time I asked him.
I resumed my duties, finally retreating to the kitchen to hide. That was the worst time ever. I hated serving people, especially those who didn't need my respect, or hadn't deserved it quite yet. I wondered what life would be like once we were married. Mother said married people got used to each other, and eventually loved each other. I sensed a hint of sadness in her voice, and wondered if maybe she had loved someone else. I thought about what our honeymoon would be like, where we would go and see. I wondered about our children we may or may not have, though chances were we would have them. I pondered what his family was like, and how accepted I would be. Most of all, I wondered what we would talk about, since the most I thought we had in common was probably our strong dislike and disapproval of this marriage. I came to the conclusion we had better find something else we both liked if this marriage was to happen. I counted approximately how long I had until I was to move in with him and become his bride, until death. About...6 months if I was lucky. 6 months before I was forever bound to this man I barely knew. Would he have multiple wives? The thought made me shudder. What job did he have? Could he support me? Who was his family? Would I ever see my family again? I didn't know. Right now, all my trust was invested in my parents' knowledge of this...boy.
They seemed to finish up, so I hurried in and took the empty plates and glasses. I didn't make eye contact, mainly because after thinking deeply about my situation, I didn't want anything to do with him, at all. It's amazing, isn't it, how one's mood can change so fast after just a few moments of thought. I washed the dishes as my father strode in.
"That Fareed is a nice boy, a nice well-governed youth indeed," my father proudly stated.
*So that was his name.*
"Yes, pappa," I replied obediently.
"You will be married well, I know this for sure," he commented.
*That is really necessary,* I thought sarcastically.
"I am thinking, this wedding, it should be in two months. I will contact Fareed's family and ask."
I almost choked, but kept it inside. I had overshot the hurry. Thoughts of my education and school raced through my head.
"Pappa, what about my education?" I managed to force out as respectfully as possible.
"Oh, Fareed is almost done with his school education, and then he will be able to support you. He is in college for engineering, you know."
He definitely looked too young for college. Unless I had undershot *that*. I bit my tongue. How old would he have to be? About...well, around 23. I felt sick suddenly. How many years? Easy subtraction, but my brain stopped working. Eight years, I managed to work out. I did it again, to make sure I was right. I was right. I smiled, forced an approving nod, and excused myself. I hurried up the steps to my room, where I closed the door and sat on my bed. I was too sick to react, I didn't know if I should be sobbing or screaming, or if I should be happy. I bit my lip, and lay down, and stared at the ceiling. It was too blank. I could give my parents the image I was a rebellious teenager, and then I could get out of it. Then I thought of consequences and it wasn't worth it. I could try to meet him, I supposed, but my parents or his would have to be there. Maybe he wasn't as bad as my imagination led me to believe. But what if he was worse? I had heard rumors of men beating their wives, and then wives had to stay with them or they could be killed. I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
YOU ARE READING
Arranged Marriage
RomanceAn arranged marriage, two people who don't even know each other well.