His Guiding Star

Eleven

Manha

From all the things in my to-do list, sneaking in my husband's room hadn't been something I thought of myself doing.

Last night, between the whole fight and flight that had happened, I hadn't even thought to fetch my suitcases from his room. So after I'd cried in frustration for half an your but was too prideful to go ask for my things, I'd silently gone to sleep in my wedding dress. In that same wedding dress, I'd prayed Fajr too, until I'd almost cried again when I found a bath robe in the bathroom and shed the heavy lehenga and covered up with the robe instead.

And, now, after the four walks of my room seemed to be minutes away from eating me up whole, I slid out of the room, still wearing just the bathrobe over my undergarments, I made my way up the black stairs, each step light by golden LED lights.

Though I promised myself to not get carried away, carried away was exactly what I was getting. By the magnificent interior of the house. By the colors, though neutral but matched so well. By the paintings that lined the hallway I walked through, the main attraction being an oil painting of the back of a batsman swinging his bat, the name Aaban and 07 painted onto his jersey. I couldn't understand if the purpose behind the painting was to show how self-obsessed he was or how excellent his taste in art was.

Nonetheless, it took effort to move on from the painting and not stop and stare at each one. Moments later, I found myself in front of the door to Aaban's room, my breath caught in my throat like it would alert him if I even breathed outside his room.

My first prayer was that the door wasn't locked. I twisted the knob slowly, sighing quietly when the four easily gave way without so much as a creak. My next prayer was that Aaban really was asleep and that I wouldn't find him prancing around the room and get caught red-handed.

Surely, Aaban was asleep, tucked under the duvet like a baby, only his hair sticking out. I smothered a smile as I tiptoed into the room, one eye on the suitcase in the corner and the other on the man on the bed.

I pulled at the handle of the trolley, freezing when it made a sound too loud for a room so quiet as it popped open. Instantly, my eyes went to Aaban to find him stirring but not waking up fully.

My last prayer was that the wheels wouldn't be too noisy as they rolled against the hardwood floor and I safely exited the room. Slowly dragging the heavy suitcase along the hallway, then carrying it down the stairs, I took a break, breathing deeply with my hands on my hips.

"Asalam Alaikum."

"GAH!" My jump of horror was at least two feet high. With a hand to my heart, I slowly turned to find a stout woman standing there. Her skin was wrinkled and her hands were folded in front of her, her eyes hard and her mouth set in a thin line. Though she was easily twice my age, there was barely any warmth in her. She was almost intimidating.

"Walaikum Asalam..." I replied cautiously, half expecting her to pounce on me. Her eyes trailed over my form, emotionless, yet I felt like she was judging me.

"I'm Salma, Aaban's housekeeper and chef." She informed me, her tone formal.

"Oh." Should I say something else? "Alright, I'm going to go change." I gestured at myself.

"Before that, please tell me what you would like to have for breakfast, Mrs Khan."

I audibly winced. Mrs Khan? "No, no, please call me Manha. And my father will be bringing over breakfast." She paused as if contemplating what to do but nodded in the end and swiveled on her heels to go to the kitchen again. I didn't ask her what she was doing and if she found it peculiar that I went to a room separate from Aaban's, then she didn't comment.