As I remember the color of his eyes and the way that they would penetrate my soul like the tips of spears that had been dipped in the sweet poison of love. It was like a hundred arrows were launched in my direction when he would look at me and each...
I pictured my wedding day before I even thought of the day that I would graduate from high school or what I would study thereafter. I had every detail of my special day pinned down and etched into my memory, from the sunny sky, to the color of the roses and how they would match my pastel pink dress perfectly. I would match the pink roses with a delicate subtle pink ball gown. A bodice of lace would envelope my upper body and my netted skirt would be embellished with delicate swarovski crystals. The contrast of the color would be so alluring yet so vague that every guest would wonder, was her dress pink or not. I designed that dress at the age of twelve and I've kept the sketch that I made of it on my hello kitty paper pad until this day....
I pictured that moment when Aslaan and I would meet each other for the first time as husband and wife more than a thousand times. A trail of butterflies would peck away at my navel trying to release themselves from within me in sweet ecstasy. My hand would tremble as he took it within his strong hand and his energy, his electrifying current would course through me causing every hair on my flesh to stand in attendance to our union. Shock-waves would cause me to lean in to him for support, and then he would whisper; " I've never seen you look more beautiful before".
Instead my wedding day was one that I dreaded for weeks and as each week passed by, the knot of dread tightened within the pit of my belly. The image of life in another country made me ill to my stomach! I hardly ate, I hardly slept, I sat depressed and I wallowed in thoughts of what could have been and what was going to be.
I woke up to my wedding day on a wet, grey and lifeless Saturday morning. How ironic I thought, even the sky is crying for me. I made my way through the antagonizing hours in a daze and blur. It was as if I wasn't really there. People told me where to sit and what to do. Someone slipped my dress on for me, plastered my face with make up and spritzed me with some expensive designer perfume. I sat looking at my reflection in the mirror as someone I'd never seen before pulled and teased my hair. I was barely present when they read out my nikaah and when they asked me if I agreed to this marriage I almost said "NO". Alerted by the question being asked, the imam asked me again; " do you agree to marrying Zayaan Mohamed? Do you consent to this marriage of your own free will?" I opened my mouth to speak. For the first time today I would speak on my own behalf! My lips parted just enough, I drew in a breath as the words almost rolled off my tongue. But the glare from my fathers aging eyes made me swallow my "no" meekly, excruciatingly and I exhaled painfully as I said, "I agree"....
I remember entering the reception hall not knowing how it would look because I had no hand in the decisions or the preparations of my own wedding! I was taken aback by the elegance of the decor. Gold trimmed round tables filled the hall like dancers on a ballroom floor. Crystal candle sticks cast a golden glow upon the faces of people I had never seen before, my wedding guests. Countless candles danced and delighted as I walked past them. The stage was alight with studded fairy lights that looked like the stars were pulled down from the heavens just to adorn my wedding....
Finally, I've reached the end of the road, I thought. Zayaan, my husband, sat waiting for me at the top of the elaborately decorated stage. His face was peaceful and solemn with what looked like a copied,cut and pasted smile. I remember wondering, what is he thinking? I trembled. I turned around to look at my father one last time, wanting to run back to him, to beg him to not let me get married. To beg him to let me be his little girl again. But before I could do that he turned around a little too swiftly. He walked away and I was left to stand there alone as I made my way to my husband....
That was the last time that I saw my father like that. The next time that I would see him would be six weeks later and he would be lying on a steel white hospital bed connected to machines and pipes that would make him unrecognizable to me.
I held his hand as tears washed over our fingers laced together. I was sorry for putting my father through any hardship or pain. Was I responsible for his heart-attack?
Three days later he passed away and a week later I boarded another flight to London's Heathrow airport still a new and trembling bride...
As I sat in my window seat staring at the twinkling lights below me,
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I thought about Aslaan. I wished that I would have seen him, even just once, just one last time. But he kept his distance as he had promised both our parents that he would. My eyes misted over as hot tears transported me to my memories, again. As the engines roared and the airbus build up momentum to soar into the night sky, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be me, the old me, even if only for the duration of the 8 hour flight.....
