It was a calm evening at Khan Haveli, and the family was gathered around the dinner table. The servants laid out steaming dishes of biryani, kebabs, and freshly baked naan, while the clinking of plates and spoons filled the air. The atmosphere was warm, the usual banter flowing freely, and everyone was in high spirits.
Murtasim sat at the head of the table, chatting with his father about business matters, while Maa Begum sat across from Meerab, who was focused on her food, trying to avoid anyone’s gaze. She had been feeling particularly self-conscious all day, knowing exactly what was hidden beneath her full-sleeved kurta—a series of very obvious, and very conspicuous, handprints, bite marks, and scratches courtesy of a night of "enthusiastic" passion with her husband.
Meerab had tried her best to stay out of the spotlight during dinner, hoping no one would notice the faint red marks peeking out from under her sleeves. But fate, as always, had other plans.
Just as she reached for a piece of naan, the sleeve of her kurta slipped down slightly, revealing a bright red handprint on her wrist.
Maa Begum’s sharp eyes zeroed in on it immediately.
“Meerab, beta, what’s that on your arm?” she asked, her voice tinged with concern. Everyone at the table froze.
Murtasim, who had been distracted by his father’s discussion, suddenly turned his attention to his wife. His eyes widened as he saw the mark. Oh no.
Meerab quickly pulled her sleeve back down, her heart racing. “Oh, um, nothing, Maa. Just… a little scratch. It’s nothing serious.”
Maa Begum was not convinced. “That doesn’t look like a scratch! Let me see,” she demanded, her voice laced with the authority of a matriarch.
Before Meerab could protest, Maa Begum reached across the table and grabbed her wrist, yanking her sleeve up. Gasps echoed around the table as Maa Begum’s eyes landed on the red handprints, bite marks, and the faint outline of nail scratches running up and down Meerab’s arm.
“What in Allah’s name is this, Meerab?!” Maa Begum exclaimed, horrified. “Who did this to you?!”
Meerab’s face turned bright red, her mind scrambling for an explanation. **This is so awkward.**
Murtasim, suddenly alert, nearly choked on his food. He dropped his fork and leaned forward, his face a mix of panic and confusion. “Maa, what are you talking about?”
Maa Begum’s eyes were wild as she looked at her son. “You! Did you do this to her? Have you lost your mind, Murtasim?!”
Murtasim’s mouth fell open. “Wait, what? No! What do you mean? I didn’t do anything!”
“You expect me to believe that?” Maa Begum snapped, her voice rising. “Look at these marks! These are not the kind of marks that just appear out of nowhere!”
Meerab’s heart raced as the situation spiraled out of control. She looked down, wanting to sink into her chair and disappear. **How in the world am I supposed to explain this?!**
“Maa, I swear, it’s not what you think,” Meerab stammered, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
“Then explain it to me!” Maa Begum demanded, her eyes wide with both anger and concern. “What kind of husband leaves these kinds of marks on his wife?”
The table had gone dead silent. Murtasim looked as if he wanted to vanish into thin air. His face flushed with embarrassment as he realized where this conversation was going.
“I didn’t hurt her!” Murtasim blurted out, trying to defend himself. “I don’t know why she has those marks! Meerab, why do you have those marks?”
