“Are you enjoying your wedding?” Amar asked as soon as there was a lull.
Tariq made a sound of indifference. Then said, “Not much for us to enjoy. We sit, we smile, we talk for too long with guests.”
“And you?” Hadia asked, putting her hand on Amar’s knee. “How are you finding it, seeing all these familiar faces?”
She searched his dark eyes for a hint to how he was really doing. Tariq, as if sensing she wanted a moment with him, looked out across the hall and waved back at someone.
“To be honest, it is nicer to see familiar faces than I expected.”
“Not too overwhelming, then?”
He thought for a moment.
“That it feels unexpectedly comforting is, in and of itself, difficult.”
“Still a poet,” she said, smiling and shaking her head.
The emcee took the stage and announced it was time for the nikkah. The two moulanas representing her and Tariq walked to the stage, and though she knew this was what their night was for, a hundred tiny flutters flared up in her stomach and she felt light-headed.
“Good luck,” Amar whispered and he kissed the corner of her forehead, then stood.
Suddenly she did not want him to leave. She wanted to hold on to his arm, thank him for coming, make him promise to tell them more about cooking soon, about anything, but he was already stepping forward to shake Tariq’s hand. Amar moved in for a hug, one arm around Tariq’s back. After you ran away I began to sleep with the window open, she wanted to say to him. Even now, when it rains, I hesitate for a moment before shutting it. But there was no time. Amar stepped from the stage. She watched him become another suit in the crowd. The emcee asked everyone to please be quiet. Hadia looked down at her palms, not because she wanted to appear as shy as Mumma wanted her to, but because she suddenly felt it: this was the moment, the ten minutes that would solidify her decision, and she wanted to be absolutely present to it. She felt dizzy. Everyone shifting in their chairs. The light of the chandelier casting shapes and shadows and making her squint when she glanced up. Soon the space between her and Tariq would be closed a bit more. Photographs would be taken and she would be allowed to touch him openly, laugh loudly. Mumma Baba would no longer feel upset she was with him without being married. She would be a wife. What a strange and archaic word. She would move into her new apartment with Tariq in the Midwest, where they would both begin their new jobs. The moulanas began to recite verses she did not understand. An aunty handed her the Quran and whispered to her to read it. Her friends held the red cloth above her and the light changed beneath it. Hadia glanced up at Huda and at Dani, who had flown across the country to attend, and saw how their eyes were filled with tears. Married women from the community began to grate sweet misri into flakes that fell onto the red net. Her hands shook. Tariq looked as he did during his exams. How had she made a leap so drastic, stuck to her decision with such stubbornness, with such relentless resolve. Once she had been a girl dyeing a section of her hair blue and what a thrill it had been—to take her life in her own hands even in so small a way. She glanced out at the crowd. Mumma’s lips were moving quickly; she was praying for her. Hadia calmed. Hadia should pray for something too. Mumma would always tell them to be completely silent during the nikkah, to put all their energy into prayer, that it was a holy time when something unseen in the universe was torn open and angels descended to bear witness to the momentous occasion. Please God, she prayed, let ours be a successful and happy marriage. Let us maintain what we have. Let us create a loving family. And let me always feel that this life is mine, experience it proudly, fully, and ever alive.
* * *
TARIQ HAD A strong handshake, sharp features, and a calm presence; he seemed relaxed even onstage in front of everyone. He would be good for Hadia. Hadia was prone to anxiety, an obsessive planner; she was not one to easily change plans at the last minute or know how to relax. Tariq had gone out of his way to be nice to Amar. He was the one who waved at him when he saw him approaching, said to him: you must be Amar. Tariq asked him questions that came from a place of genuine curiosity and interest, and he did not avoid questions in an obvious way. Amar looked back now at them on the stage, Hadia with the red cloth held up like a canopy above her.
In less than twenty minutes he would sneak out to the courtyard. He scanned the hall for Amira. Did she feel as restless and nervous as he did? She was sitting at a middle table by her mother; she had draped the dupatta over her head and only her bangs peeked through, out of respect for the nikkah recitation. Seema Aunty had aged. Everyone in the hall was completely silent for the nikkah. If he looked down at his hands, if he cupped them in prayer, would he want to pray? If it was Hadia and Tariq’s life they were meant to pray for could he bring himself to do it? Amar recognized Moulana Baqir. For years Amar had stood in prayers led by him, sat in his speeches. It had become clear, by the time Amar was sixteen, that he would not be like the other community boys who helped bring out food and served everyone, who cleaned once the speeches were done, who sat attentive in the first row and whose hands shot in the air with questions. But Moulana Baqir had never changed in his attitude toward Amar, had continued to greet Amar with kindness, as though he were one of those boys.
Even the children who sat by their parents were instructed to sit still and cup their hands together, as if they were waiting to catch invisible water, and he did not want to. He looked around until he saw where his parents stood, side by side, both of them facing the stage. Mumma’s hand covered her mouth the way she would hold it when she was afraid she would cry. His father held his hands together behind his back. The nikkah came to a close. Moulana Baqir invited them to pray. The hall was utterly hushed. He could sense everyone in the room honoring the moment. Amar looked down at his own hands, his one thumb kneading the knuckle of the other. He closed his mouth until he felt the line of his jaw tighten and teeth clench but still the thought escaped him: God, if you’re there, if you’re listening, let Hadia have a happy life, let hers be a fulfilling love. Let him be respectful of her, in awe of her, and tender toward her.
* * *
IT WAS DONE. Her daughter was married. Layla was surprised to find herself crying. She held tight to her mouth but let her tears fall freely; soon she would force herself to stop, but for now, she welcomed the rush of emotion. Hadia was looking down at the Quran in her lap and at once Layla saw the girl she had been, petite for her age and so bright that people at grocery stores would see something in her that Layla, being with her all the time and having no other children to compare her to, could not see. Now her first child was married and she felt grateful to God. Rafiq placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and she turned to him and his eyes were also glistening. When he nodded at her, she knew: they had arrived at this moment together.
“Mubarak,” he said to her, and she said the same—congratulations.