Ayesha At Last(100)
There were over eight hundred people admiring the decorations while they waited in line for appetizers. He paced the hall, looking closely at all the young women who might be Ayesha but weren’t. A few smiled back at the handsome, intense stranger in the navy blue suit.
He made his way to the head table where Hafsa, dressed as a Mughal princess in an empire-waist cream-and-pink lengha, sat on a rented throne made of inlaid tile, mirror and gold paint. An oversized pearl maang tika adorned her forehead, and her hands were covered with henna and diamonds. Painted red lips curved in a smile at Khalid’s approach. He shook hands with Masood, who was dressed in a cream-and-gold suit that looked like it had been removed from a museum, before turning to the bride.
“Mubarak, Hafsa,” Khalid said, offering his congratulations.
She looked at his outfit with approval. “I don’t know if I should be irritated you never dressed like that when we were together, or happy for Ayesha,” she said. “No drama until after the cake, okay?”
The irony of the Queen of Drama asking him to cool it was not lost on him. “I promise.”
“I got you both in the same room. What you do next is up to you.”
Dinner was a sit-down affair. The servers, in their Mughal-e-Azam finery, paraded to the centre of the hall with steel dome–covered dishes of mutton biryani, haleem and Mughlai chicken. They uncovered the platters in a flourish and Hafsa clapped. The rest of the servers began dishing out the food while the guests, revelling in their luck, dug into the meal. Khalid chatted with the people seated at his table, his eyes continually scanning the room for Ayesha, but she was nowhere to be found.
Musicians entertained the crowd with Urdu poetry after dinner, ghazals on love and loss that made the older aunties cry. Then the Hyderabadi comic poets took over, and soon the Urdu-speaking guests were rollicking with laughter and translating mother-in-law jokes to their non-Urdu-speaking table partners.
Khalid wandered outside the main hall to the tea and coffee station. He spotted Nana in a starched black sherwani with silver buttons, standing beside Nani, resplendent in a light green sari. The older woman smiled at Khalid and motioned him closer.
“I know who you are looking for,” she said quietly, in English. “You’ve been looking for her all your life. When you find her, I hope you will remember my words: Always dream together, raja. Always leave space in your life to grow and soften.”
Khalid inclined his head, before turning to greet Nana. “Assalamu Alaikum,” he said politely. “Are you enjoying the Urdu poetry?”
“I’m more of a Shakespeare man,” Nana said. “My favourite are the comedies. Weddings are such a cheerful way to end a story, don’t you think? So full of hope and promise. And love.”
Khalid nodded in agreement. He handed a cup of tea to Nana.
“‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” Nana quoted, his voice a deep rumble. “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’” He twinkled at Khalid. “I believe they are cutting the cake. A Taj Mahal, commissioned at great expense by the bride. Completely tacky, of course.” Nana nodded at Khalid. “Perhaps you will be good enough to inform my granddaughter, Ayesha. She enjoys wedding cake.”
Khalid turned around slowly.
Ayesha was dressed in a white sari flecked with silver. Her white hijab was tied away from her face, a sparkly crystal maang tika on her forehead. Her bangles were silver and diamond, and flashed cold fire at her wrists. Khalid’s breath caught at the sight of her, and her eyes widened in shock at his altered appearance.
The strains of the song “Pyar Kya To Darna Kya” floated out of the main hall as Khalid walked to her. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said.
“Hafsa said no drama before cake,” she said, her voice warm and low. “Did someone take you shopping?”
“My friend Amir. Do you like it?”
Ayesha didn’t answer, but her eyes lingered on his broad shoulders, neatly combed hair and trimmed beard.
They drifted down the hallway together, drawing curious looks from cranky toddlers and the parents stuck entertaining them. They left the hall, and stood outside in the humid night.
“Idris told me what you did to Tarek’s website,” Ayesha said. “I wanted to thank you, on behalf of my family. It would have destroyed my aunt and uncle if those pictures of Hafsa had remained online.” Ayesha didn’t look at him. “What Tarek said that day . . . He was wrong. I trust you. It took me a while, but I know who you really are.”
Khalid forced himself to focus on the conversation, despite his racing heart. The urge to gather her in his arms was overpowering.
“Tarek hurt my sister too,” he said. “He had to be stopped. I’m happy to spare your family any pain, but I confess I wasn’t thinking about them. I thought only of you.”
Ayesha turned to face him. “Your mother doesn’t like me, and I don’t want to come between you and your family when you’ve already lost so much. I know how it feels to lose someone important.” She looked at her hands, covered in henna for the wedding, and traced the design of a vine from index finger to wrist. Khalid watched, mesmerized, wanting to press his mouth to her delicate palms.