Mahsood’s Audi sped at a hundred and thirty kilometers per hour, its tires rumbling on the smooth asphalt. The headlights of the oncoming vehicle flashed in his face.
Mahsood tightened his one-handed grip on the stirring wheel and kept in his lane. His other palm remained on the gearshift.
No potholes. No buzzing rickshaws. No goats raising clouds of dust. The roads were the best part of his new life. The other aspects of it were…tangled, like the golden locks of a certain houri spilling over the ruby petals and satin sheets of theirmarital bed. He chuckled and pressed on the gas. Should he have been hitting the brake and making a u-turn instead? Mahsood shook his head. Two intersections and one left turn later, his car entered the parking lot of the apartment complex.
The distant humming of the highway mixed with the whooshing of the AC units. Dusk hung over the vehicles stationed in neat rows. Only the spots further away from the entrance remained unoccupied.
Mahsood parked in one of them and exited. He walked toward the building, the strap of his briefcase pressing down on his shoulder. He tugged on it with his thumb.
How long would it take him to get a hang of Gafar tayaa’s business? He’d been a top student among his batchmates, a savvy In-Charge at his family’s plantation, a connoisseur of the rice market, and a member of the agricultural committee in Punjab. But, of petrol pumps he knew nothing.
He growled and kicked a stone that lay in his path to the staircase. The rock hit a sidewalk edge and crumbled into pieces.
Mahsood Khan, the shrewd businessman, had disappeared while talking with Gafar tayaa’s friends during the walima. They’d spent their wisdom on him in vain—suppliers, contracts, accounting, marketing, insurance, environmental protection, zoning, security, business licenses, and endless incomprehensible regulations—all of it made his head spin.
His shoulders slumping, he climbed to the second floor and halted, staring at the entrance. Ya Allah. He didn’t even have a key to this so-called ‘home.’ On impulse, he reached and turned the doorknob. It gave way.
Mahsood frowned. Houri had no sense of self-preservation. Allah, have mercy on him. He entered, removed his shoes, and turned on the lamp.
A couch, a coffee table, and a clock crowded the space of twenty-five square meters.
He sighed. Their accommodation was more than modest. Everyone had expected them to stay in the main house, but Gafar tayaa had thrown him a googly with this unorthodox living arrangement. Mahsood crossed the room in two strides and planted himself on the sofa.
The couch’s stiff, low back cut into his ribs.
Urgh. What a torture device. Another reason to move to Gafar tayaa’s. When they’d first arrived at this residence, his wife had heaved her luggage using her own two hands. Her clothes were of the cheapest quality, with no jewelry or adornments— Ilma tayi had borrowed an outfit for her for the second day of the festivities. He thumped his fist on the armrest. In Pakistan, he would’ve faced the Sharia justice brought on by the bride’s kin, but houri seemed clueless about the size of the nafaqah she’d entailed.
Was he her only male relative? She’d signed the marriage contract on her own—her featherhead mother chasing the guests with tea and biscuits didn’t count. Mahsood buried his face in his hands but after a few seconds sat up. He took his wallet out of the pocket of his cotton salwar and counted the money.
Ridiculous. Father had sent funds, of course, but not enough to create a household from scratch, not on their level. All the spare cash went into the new business. Land constituted the bulk of their wealth, and Father needed to sell some to raise the investment capital, and that required time. Mahsood rubbed the nape of his neck. His gaze fell on the Quran that lay on the tabletop in front of him. He’d inherited the volume from his grandfather and consulted it in the moments of need.
Argh. A man who couldn’t support his wife wasn’t allowed to have one—such was the sacred covenant. But, the Sharia law permitted the groom’s family to help. He had to get her to Gafar tayaa’s house, where she’d get everything she merited until he could provide a home of their own. He rubbed his chin. That was decided then. Mahsood reached for the old text, his hand hovering over it.
Next to the Quran, rested a larger, multicolored book. Introduction to Accounting, read the cover page.
When he’d left, this hadn’t been here. Houri didn’t trust him to do his job, did she? How dared she doubt him… He clenched his fists and glared at the treatise.
An array of pink and yellow stickies peeked out from between the leaves.
All right. Just one glimpse. He needed all the help he could get. Pride alone wouldn’t take him far. Mahsood picked up the publication and opened it at the first tab.
Highlighter markings covered the page, and annotations appeared on the sides of the paragraphs.
The corners of his mouth crept upward. She’d put a lot of effort into this. He leaned back on the sofa, stretched out his legs, and delved into the writing.
Some minutes later, his phone chimed.
He broke away and picked up the device.
The Facebook icon popped up on the screen.
Mahsood clicked on it.
An incoming message from Yasmine.
He creased his forehead. She’d never contacted him first.
As-salamu alaikum, Mahsood. Did you settle well in America?
What was he to say to her? When they’d been engaged, the lines of behavior remained clear. Since then, their relationship had stooped into uncertainty. He glanced in the direction of houri’s bedroom.
The corridor leading to it drowned in shadows.
He shouldn’t have slept downstairs on their shab-i-zifaf. Cursed be his indecisiveness. He pressed his lips together. Weren’t Western women supposed to be more approachable? He’d been married to one for three days and had no idea how to come near her. Things would’ve been simpler with Yasmine—her mother would’ve taught her how to fulfill the wife’s duty, and, at the right hour, Yasmine would’ve performed her part as expected.
He glanced over the girl’s salutation once again. Gafar tayaa had wanted him to give houri a chance while Father’s plans had differed. The elders could’ve resolved this between themselves in the upcoming years of his marriage, but Kasim Basra didn’t like to leave anything to chance—the prospects of doing business in America were too lucrative. The message had been his idea, no doubt. Yasmine would never write to a man without prompting.
Mahsood stroked his chin. What an unholy situation. He got up and paced the tiny space that pretended to be the sitting room—three steps to reach the wall across and three steps back. He stopped at the couch and inhaled.
Allah had commanded to respond to a greeting with a greater one.
Allah had prohibited salaaming a young woman unless one was to marry her.
And a proper marriage must be consummate…Or at least the demand had to be made.
He put the phone down and turned toward the passageway that linked to the sleeping quarters. He hesitated a few seconds, then raised his hands and looked at his palms.
“O Allaah, I ask You for her goodness and the goodness which You have created in her.” His soft voice scattered in the pindrop silence of the night. “And I seek refuge with You from her evil and the evil which You have created in her.” Mahsood bit his lip and moved forward.
The hallway had two doors, to the left and at the very end.
Which one concealed his houri? He stopped next to the first one.
A rustle came from behind it.
Mahsood grasped the handle and took a deep breath. He pushed the door open and froze on the threshold.
The lamplight from outside spilled onto the bed. A crumpled sheet covered a female figure. To the right of her dainty feet, a set of hairy legs twisted around a blanket, and in the semidarkness an outline of a man’s torso stood out.
Blood thumped in Mahsood’s temples. In one jump, he reached the sleeping couple and jerked the adulterer’s shoulder.
The man’s body whirled off the bed and crashed into the wall with a loud thud.
A woman’s hysterical shriek pierced the air.
Black dots danced in front of Mahsood’s eyes, and a hollow feeling spread in his chest. Somewhere deep inside, he’d always known that this was how this marriage would end. Mahsood advanced at the lecher and towered over him.
The man shriveled next to the baseboard. He clutched his nose as red stains covered his shaking fingers. His gaze followed Mahsood’s movements. “Please, don’t…” He wheezed.
The lights went on, engulfing the scene in day-like brightness.
“Mahsood…Oh, my God!” Houri’s voice rang behind him. “What happened?”
He turned around.
His wife stood in the doorway, her hair disheveled and her limbs bare. On the other side of the room, a short brunette holed up in a corner, her arms out with palms forward.
Mahsood closed his eyes and exhaled. His fists unclenched and shoulders relaxed. It wasn’t her. Alhamdulillah.79Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRpE7sr6xzf
