"The doors of Heaven will open in four situations—when it rains, when a child looks kindly at his parent's face, when the Ka'bah is unlocked, and when marriage occurs,” Bambad khalu said, citing the Prophet.
Mahsood nodded, his gaze sliding from the narrator’s sharp eyes to his thin mouth surrounded by heavy wrinkles. Bambad khalu quoted verses by memory and condemned sinners without mercy. He’d married Mother’s sister over thirty years ago and, after her passing, had followed his son to Ontario. Along with Gafar tayaa’s household,Bambad khalu and his descendants comprised Mahsood’s family on this side of the planet.
The antique clock above them chimed midnight, reverberating through the stillness of the great hall. Most of the guests had retired to their abodes—married couples and young women rested upstairs, and single fellows occupied the basement. A few men stayed with Mahsood, reclining on plush pillows in the huge, dusky room, sipping tea, and sharing intimate advice.
Mahsood fidgeted on his low settee, his limbs tense. This discussion had become harder than he’d anticipated, pulling unwelcome recollections to the surface. How he wished he was the person they expected him to be and that Bambad khalu’s promise of divine mercy applied to him.
“You don’t have to do it tonight, cousin-brother,” said Rohaan, Bambad khalu’s heir. “During the first time, the male physique can act prematurely. Things will fall into place with the experience.”
A wave of heat burnt Mahsood’s cheeks. On that cursed evening, weeks after he’d passed out of the university, his body had acted out of control. His first solo trip to Lahore to negotiate with rice dealers ended on the brightly-lit streets of Heera Mandi, the Diamond Bazaar, where the chick blinds of tall, arched windows hid jewels of a different kind. On a sofa inside a brick-walled chamber, reclined a rounded, middle-aged beauty. She removed her own clothes and undressed him. He fornicated with her all night, knocking out all the lust that had plagued him for years. In the morning, he threw her some rupees and fled, scanning his surroundings for any acquaintances.
Adulterer. Why couldn’t he pass by that rotten neighborhood? He plunged his soul into the mud, and the wrath of Allah would chase him until the end of days. Never again would he violate the tenets of the Koran or touch any female except his wife, which had up to recently meant Yasmine. Now, someone else took her place, a dissimilar and perplexing woman. When he saw Jane’s photo on Father’s laptop, he thought that Allah had blessed him. But the beauty of a houri could conceal the wickedness of a shaitan—his punishment for the misdeed, the fire of Jahannam on Earth, a lady at whose hands he would suffer.
“Bhanja, listen to me.’’ Gafar tayaa, who sat next to him, patted his shoulder. “I didn’t discuss everything with your father. There’re more last-minute details—”
Mahsood raised his eyebrows. For the past few hours, he’d been accepting well-wishes on this marriage. Wasn’t it too late for new arrangements?
“Local traditions are somewhat different from ours, and … well, after the wedding, you will live in Jane’s home.”
At her house? Did he mishear?
“Don’t be in tension. It’s normal here,” said Gafar tayaa.
“What if someone finds out?” The words came out louder than the respect for his elder demanded. “I’ll never wash off from shame. Who is husband and who is wife here?”
“Calm down, bhanja. Everyone doesn’t care here, and in Pakistan, no one will know. You won’t reside with her kin but simply live in her apartment. Together.”
He wouldn't need to enter her family the way a bride enters a groom’s. Still, this setup was strange. “Is it impossible to do things properly?”
“I already agreed. It was one of the conditions for the wedding. Believe me, this is temporary. You stay there for a while, and then you bring her here.”
Mahsood sighed. “Are there other terms I don’t know about?”
The old man lowered his eyes. “No.” He hesitated. “I know how your parents feel about Jane, but she isn’t a bad girl. We all talked to her. She wants children, and if you do business here, she’ll be more use to you than Yasmine.”
Warmth spread across Mahsood’s chest. If Gafar tayaa thought highly of Jane, maybe there was hope.
Gafar tayaa smiled. “I see that you like her. So forget what your father said and give her a chance. No one will gain from divorce.”
Could Father and Mother have been wrong about Jane? If Gafar tayaa believed that their union had prospects, Mahsood would put his best efforts to make it work. “I’ll follow your advice,” Mashood said.
“Now you go rest, bhanja. Jane’s been waiting for a while.”
Mahsood stood up and facing the remaining elders, lowered his head. “Ma'a asalaama. Thank you for your wise words.”
“May peace be with you.” Several voices sounded at once.
After he left the sight of the others, he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and paused on the second-floor landing. He’d been waiting for his first marital night since he’d been a teenager, and when he’d met the houri, this expectation had become unbearable. From the minute he’d seen her photograph, the desire to possess her had engulfed him. He’d languished, counting the seconds before this moment.
He stared at the bedroom door, clutching his empty hands. He should’ve brought a wedding gift for Jane, but Mother had kept his grandmother’s ring, an heirloom intended for his wife, for Yasmine.
Mahsood closed his eyes and exhaled. Yasmine. The girl appeared in his thoughts for the first time since he’d landed. A marriage with familiar and understandable Yasmine would’ve brought him peace and contentment. Over the years, she’d become an integral part of his life, and he’d never imagined a different future. Today he’d promised the man in the black robe to hold on to Jane until parted by death. He had to leave Yasmine behind. She would find herself a worthy husband and closer to her in age. Inshallah. He held his breath and turned the handle.
Inside, in the middle of a crumpled bed, lay his houri. The dupatta slid to the side, and her disheveled hair glimmered in the warm light of the lamp. Her dress bunched up around her knees, revealing slender long legs. Jane’s chest heaved in even breathing, her cheeks flushed, her eyes were closed, and a faint smile glided across her lips. She slept.
So relaxed and vulnerable. Mahsood sank down next to her and reached for the headcover. He removed obscure clips and hairpins, pearls and a heavy golden comb—Allah knows how she managed to inlay all these accessories. The thick, crimson fabric fell, and light, soft strands brushed his palms. A tart, sweet aroma of her shampoo crept up his nostrils.
His head spun. She was so close. He could do whatever he wanted with her. No, he had to do that. That was his duty as her husband. He lifted his hand and traced her exquisite neck with his fingertips.
Jane stirred.
Mahsood drew back. He shouldn’t wake her. Not like this. Maybe she wouldn’t welcome his caresses. And he wouldn’t be able to stay innocently by her side. There was no way out except through the door.
Mahsood slipped back into the hallway unnoticed. He spent the night downstairs with the unwed youth. His slumber, a delirium of a rabid man, swarmed with images of Jane’s feathery locks and delicate, translucent skin88Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPtsBPvUFQy
