A Hazel Haven

Chapter 2

The hustle and bustle of the city pulsated relentlessly, and amidst the buzz of querulous haggling, blaring of horns, whizz of vehicles as they passed by, dust and exhaust fumes trailing as they speedily went, Huma nestled in the comfort of her father's new car-his very first.

Despite the persistence of the noise while her eyes shut in respite, she basked in the tranquility that possessed her mind in the darkness as she meditated her breath.

A lot had happened over the years: the good, the bad, and the ugly, but mostly the good. It had been a most auspicious time for her family, surmounting dogged hardship and surpassing expectations to be blessed abundantly, enough to afford charitable intentions. Now they helped instead, mitigating the suffering of others--a common burden--because their period of lack had been humbling unto compassion and empathy.

Brisk footsteps sounded outside, drifting into her hearing, and she rolled her eyes under dropping lids to the rearview mirror, and watched her father stomp his feet on the tarred road as he approached, clutching a black nylon bag in one hand and hiking up his jalabiya with the other.

She rolled her head on the headrest when the door snapped open, and folding the overflowing gown across his legs, he dropped into his seat, then stuck out a hand and reached up to the roof of the car.

The bag crackled as he grabbed it and twisted in his seat to place it in the backseat, and leaning forward, he slammed the door shut.

Huma noted the beads of sweat coating his forehead, the bridge of his nose and upper lip, and smiled to herself, knowing the reason behind his hassle.

He dug into a pocket of his shirt and wriggled out a handkerchief. "Your grandmother's bitter kola-I almost forgot. You marry a woman and her relatives will bleed you dry." He muttered, taking off his finely embroidered Kufi cap and wiping his guzzled head. "Bringer of happiness indeed! That woman is a terror!"

Laughter bubbled in her throat and folding in her lips to repress the urge, she reached for her father's hand on his laps and squeezed reassuringly. He turned to her as he reciprocated, grasping briefly, his eyes haunted. Her lips trembled and Huma had to look away and stare out the window. If she wasn't careful, the laughter tickling her inside would erupt and her father wouldn't appreciate finding his distress a matter of entertainment.

Grandmother Jawaria, one who brings happiness, the name was nothing but ironical to him. Contrasting his disposition towards the old woman, Huma thought her vivacious and witty-she lit up the dreary nature of the place with her anecdotal stories, quipping retorts and fiery personality, and it was in that fire her father burned each time she 'graced' the household with her presence.

Her father had been pitiably improvised in his early beginnings, born to peasant farmers in their hometown, where he had grown with a hoe slung on a shoulder and a cutlass in hand.

Her mother had been one of those fair maidens books talked about were forbidden to certain unworthy folks, but that hadn't stopped the pursuits of many, especially him.

They had fallen in love once upon a guava tree.--typical love story. From what Huma knew, Grandma Jawaria had vehemently deplored their union-a struggling man could not ensnare her daughter in the name of love and keep her trapped in the maze of poverty forever.

"It will all end in tears", apparently her infamous phrase, was what she had purportedly foreseen after they had defied her and married against her wishes.

Even now, with their recent streak of good fortune, she still saw him as that same struggling man destined for terrible misfortunes. Her father thought her vain and appallingly materialistic, and hardly a virtuous muslim---Islam preached contentment in all things, and the woman was hardly that.