Things Nadir N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ Said | [MUSLIM]

XV

X V

N a d i r

She was in the midst of explaining something about wooden flooring when my eyes caught his. I was as certain about it as of the colour of the sky: he wouldn't even be able to tell if she was speaking English or Urdu. His expression made it clear that he was not listening to a single word of whatever she was on about.

Just gazing.

Gawking.

When Zaeb seemed to have reached the concluding elements of her adept counsel, he looked down at his feet, on his face that dainty, suspicious half-grin.

"So," she let out a fiddly chuckle. "How did you like my idea for this neat little office?"

She had barely finished uttering the question when the reply came.

"Tremendous! Just too good. I sceptical about giving any arbitrary decorator the job. Your plan would be stolen, and from me, they will demand a thousand pounds per square meter."

All three of them laughed, but I certainly couldn't make myself laugh. And of course no one noticed.

Suddenly it was difficult to even breathe in his presence.

"You know, it would definitely benefit your resume," Fahad said. "Having landed the contract of an office this big — not to mention all the people Sami knows — would undoubtedly pave the way for a long and successful career for you. This place could be your ticket to instant eminence in the field," he grinned, and his eyes met Sami's for a fraction of a second. "Overnight fame, if you agree."

Now, I was never, and could never be the kind of husband who makes his wife's decisions for her. But Zaeb was definitely one to ask me what I thought before going ahead with even the minutest one. And since I knew that was most likely what she was going to do within moments - look for. my eyes and find my answer in them - I deliberately turned away from the lot and began looking intently towards my phone. Pretending I wasn't much into the topic of discussion.

But Zaeb would certainly know why I did it.

I could tell from my peripheral vision when she threw a sideways glance towards where I stood, paused, and turned towards Sami again, without saying a word.

"I think he made Fahad say it because he didn't want to ask himself," she said, her hands mindlessly fidgeting with her seatbelt. "Don't you think so?"

In the car on the way back home, while my children and the riotous traffic occupied my mind, Sami still occupied Zaeb's.

"Do you think he would be mad at me if I rejected the offer?"

I looked to my side and picked up what looked like the remains of a cookie from a corner of the dashboard, and felt a smirk coming up involuntarily. It was definitely one of my little ones' doing.

Zaeb sighed. "Knowing Sami, he's probably steaming up about my vague answer itself."

"To at least think over a professional offer of this kind is...it's obviously important," I reassured. "There is no way someone would just agree with-without considering all the things that would be affected by such a deci-decision."

"Yeah, I know that," she sighed. "I just think he must've expected me to say yes to the offer simply because it was him asking, you know? I don't want to say that he was always like this. But he has always been like this. The very fact that he actually asked me to do this office is supposed to be enough reason for me to take up the job — take it up happily. And anyway it surely is good grounds to accept, only that if I didn't..."

I met her eyes. "Zaeb."

She puffed-out a cheek, a habit Mishal had picked from her and exhausted to the point that it seemed to belong to her more now. Now Zaeb looked like a little girl when she did it.

"I looked away. I didn't want to have anything to do with your answer."

"I know," she whispered.

I did it so that you use time and reason properly, I thought, but she already knew that. "You have to decide. But you have to know that being hasty almost always leads to wrong decisions," I said, steering into our parking lot.

"I know," she said again, and I squeezed her hand once before unclasping my seatbelt.

"I said it goes to the right cabinet, Mishal, don't you know what the right and left sides are?"

I peeked from behind my easel and frowned as Mishal shut the wrong cupboard with almost as much an irritated fashion as her mother.

"Mishal that is the bottom right cabinet. I said right cabinet, Mishal, RIGHT. It's literally right in front of you! I don't know if you're doing this on purpose or not but I swear I do not have the patience for it today."

I dipped my brush in turpentine as Mishal wordlessly opened, thankfully, the right cabinet this time.

. . . and ran out of the kitchen with full speed within seconds. I smirked.

"Great, she ran away," Zaeb muttered, clawing at her forehead. "First Mustafa fakes a tummy ache and enjoys a long untimely nap, and now this child of a maharani here can't tell right and left — "

"Zaeb," I called. I stood up and abandoned my current painting of a seascape and walked up to the kitchen table, where she sat fuming. 

" — this godforsaken headache I have just wouldn't go away, and of course it's raining cats and dogs and one has no way to tell how — "

"Zaeb."

"What?" She snapped. "Are you going to tell me off now?"

"You know I'm not."

"I didn't decide to yell at your little princess, okay? She brought it on herself. I didn't hit her, did I?"

I went on and stood behind her chair. Removing her hairband, I began massaging her scalp with slow, pressing movements.

The way she slouched silently in obvious relief made me smile.

I would've asked her what was wrong, but I already had a little idea. All through yesterday she had been okay, but since this morning, (and I imagined this was because she felt that she should respond to Sami today), she was stressed. 

Indecisiveness agitated Zaeb. Whether or not to allow someone she knew so well on a personal level to turn into one of her professional contacts? It was a given that she would be angry at a small child not being sure about her right and left sides.

"She is your child, too," I spoke through my smile. "You can yell at her."

"But I shouldn't have."

"Yeah. I was coming to that. She is f-five years old. Back when you were five you probably didn't know ri-right from left, either."

"I should apologise to her."

"Yes. Preferably over that killer pineapple sorbet she loves. She would totally forget you ever yelled at her."

"Nadir, she likes strawberry sorbet," she chuckled, and touched my hand where it rested on her head. "If you want me to make pineapple sorbet you can just ask me."

"I know," I whispered, and kissed her head, but I didn't think she noticed.