Ishq

Things I like| 17

Beautiful cover by Btw_its_her ❤️

____

I like mornings. They are predictable. Every day, I wake up and see the sun rising at the same angle through my window. The sunlight feels like a gentle hug.

I make breakfast exactly the same way every day. Routine is comforting. Today, Murtasim sits at the table. He looks serious, as usual. I notice the way his hair falls on his forehead and how he always wears dark clothes. Dark colors suit him; they make him look strong.

I place his cup of tea in front of him. "Tea is ready," I say. His eyes soften for a moment. I think he appreciates it, even if he doesn't say it out loud.

The garden is my favourite place. The colours and patterns of the flowers calm my mind. I sit on the bench, feeling the texture of the wood under my fingers. Each groove and line is familiar to me.

Murtasim joins me. He doesn't sit too close but close enough. He is like a shadow - always there but not overwhelming. I feel safe when he is near, even if he doesn't talk much.

"Maheer itni pyaari hai phir uske Abbu aise kyun?"

Murtasim's eyes flicker with a mix of emotions. He is trying to read my face, perhaps wondering if I am questioning his feelings for Maheer. I know Maheer means a lot to him, just like the roses that can shift my world with their beauty and scent. Maheer is soft, with an angelic nature. Murtasim has always been drawn to her, perhaps because she is everything his mother is not. Where his mother is harsh and critical, Maheer is gentle and supportive. He admires her; he is attracted to her. Were his feelings involved? Yes, they were.

"Shayad uski Ammi pyaari hongi," I answer my own question, offering a simple explanation.We are sitting in the garden again. Murtasim is wearing his baby blue shirt with a blue coat on top, his 'to impress' outfit. He has had other crushes before Maheer, but he was always too introverted and proud to express his feelings.

"Bashar Uncle ne humein 1 crore aur honeymoon ke paise kyun diye?" I ask suddenly. Murtasim's head turns swiftly towards me. It's a question that has been bothering me, and it seems it bothers him, too. Why was Bashar Uncle so generous?

"Tumhe bura nahi lagta ki humari shaadi itni zor zabardasti ki?" Murtasim asks, shifting the topic.I think for a moment, my mind processing his question.

"Hmm," I finally say. "Shuru mai laga tha magar, fir socha itna haseen shauhar mila hai..." It's true. At first, the forced marriage was painful, but Murtasim turned out to be a good husband. The pain of the past is fading.

"Accha ji, shauhar ke baarey mai kya accha lagta hai?" he asks, his tone teasing.I smile and move closer, as if sharing a secret. "Ammi kehti hai shauharon ki zyaada taarif nahi kartey warna woh sar pe chadh jaatey."

"Aur agar shauhar biwiyon ki taarif karte hai toh?" Murtasim questions, his eyes twinkling.

"Karte hai kya? Maine kabhi nahi dekha. Chai mai shakkar kam hai, dal mai namak kam hai, sharbat mai nimbu zyaada hai, roh afza mai roh afza nahi hai..." I start, listing all the things my father would say to my mother.

Murtasim listens, amused, as I go on like a radio, animatedly recounting how my father would always find something to complain about.I laugh as I tell him how I would sometimes take advantage of my parents' fights to steal my father's food. "Mujhe laga aapko parantha nahi accha laga," I would say innocently, and my mother would always save me.

Murtasim takes my hand in his, and I pause, feeling the familiar comfort of his touch. It's different from other times. I think back to when people had freaked me out before. In school, there was a guy who wanted to marry me. When he and his family came for the rishta, I mistakenly spilt tea on his mother's lap.