I pushed open the gate with my elbow, the chill of the evening still clinging to my sleeves. Ahad's notebook felt like it had burned my hands even though I had returned it minutes ago. His eyes, his words… they still echoed in me.
But as soon as I stepped into the courtyard, the air was different. Sweet. Too sweet.
Mithai ke dabbe khule paday the — laddoos, barfi, rasgulle. The aroma of ghee and sugar spread everywhere as if the house itself was celebrating something. My brows knitted.
"Yeh sab…?" I whispered, sliding off my shoes.
From the drawing room, laughter spilled out — heavy, elder laughter. I recognized voices: Uncle Rashid, Aunty Farzana… Ali's parents. My steps faltered. What were they doing here?
Inside, Abbu was seated, back straight but with that faint tiredness of his recent return. Ammi's face glowed, her dupatta pinned neatly as if it were some formal occasion. The uncles and aunties exchanged smiles, talking in low but excited tones. And Ali — sitting at the far end, his gaze briefly catching mine before quickly looking away, his lips pressed as though hiding something.
"Iman aagayi," Ammi announced warmly, almost too warmly. "Beta, salaam karo."
I murmured my salaam, trying to understand the scene. Mithai boxes, shining smiles, my father's rare nods. Something was being celebrated… but what?
Only one face didn't match the mood — Dadi's. She sat at the corner of the sofa, tasbeeh in hand, her thumb rolling the beads with sharper movements than usual. Her lips were pursed, her gaze sharp, restless. When her eyes landed on me, they softened just a fraction — as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't in front of everyone.
Ali smiled faintly, but it wasn't his usual smile. There was weight in it, like he was carrying a secret on his shoulders.
"Beta, mithai lo," Ammi urged, sliding a tray toward me. I obeyed, taking a small piece of barfi, though my appetite was already restless with questions.
Something had happened in this house while I was out. Something that everyone knew… except me.
And the strangest part was the way Dadi's hand tightened around her tasbeeh when she looked at me, her eyes warning, almost pleading.
My steps slowed without my permission. Why were there sweets here?
On the sofas, my khala and uncle were sitting comfortably, as though they had been here for hours, faces carrying that strange mix of pride and satisfaction people wear when a matter is nearly decided. My parents were with them, my father leaning back, arms folded as if weighing the discussion, my mother leaning slightly forward, a glow in her eyes. They were speaking in low tones—serious, but with an undercurrent of excitement.
And then there was Ali.
He sat on the edge of the single chair, legs slightly bent, his hands resting on his knees as though unsure whether to relax or to brace himself. The moment I entered, his eyes flicked toward me, and then quickly away, almost too quickly.
"Iman!" my khala responded warmly, her eyes immediately softening as they rested on me. She had always been fond of me, but there was something extra in her smile now—something I couldn't place. My uncle gave a polite nod, and my father's brows lifted as if to say, Come in, sit down.
I moved toward the sofa across from them, my heart beating too fast for such a simple moment. Why did I feel as though everyone here knew something I didn't?
"Iman," my mother said gently, "you came just in time. We were talking…" She trailed off, exchanging a glance with Khala that I caught but didn't understand.
Talking about what?
My eyes flicked to the table again. The sweets. Two boxes already opened, a third still sealed. A sign, a message, a celebration waiting to happen.
My khala leaned forward with a warmth that made me both comforted and nervous. "You've grown so much, Iman," she said. "Mashallah, you look more like your mother every day. Do you know, when we were younger, she had the same stubborn eyes?" She laughed softly, and the room joined in, even Ali with a half-smile.
I smiled faintly, though my mind was elsewhere. Stubborn eyes. Sweet boxes. Quiet discussions. And why had Dallé left so suddenly?
"Sit, child," my uncle said firmly, though not unkindly. "We were just finishing something important."
I sat. My hands folded neatly in my lap, the way Amma always told me to in front of elders. Ali's gaze flickered toward me again, just for a second, then back to his knees. His silence was loud.
I decided to fill it. "Khala, you brought these?" I asked, nodding toward the sweets.
Her smile deepened. "Yes, beta. For a happy reason, of course. You don't bring sweets without cause, no?" She chuckled, but her words carried weight.
Happy reason? My throat tightened.
My parents exchanged another look. Baba cleared his throat. "It was time," he said simply, as though the sentence explained everything.
Time for what?
Ali shifted in his seat, finally breaking his silence. "Iman, do you… like barfi?" His question was abrupt, almost awkward, but it drew a small laugh from Khala.
"She must," she said. "Every child loves sweets, no matter what they say when they grow up."
I blinked, a little startled by his attempt to include me. "Yes," I said slowly. "I do." My lips curved into a polite smile, though my heart was beating wildly. Why was Ali speaking to me about sweets when the entire room seemed drenched in something heavier, something unspoken?
"I like the pista one," he added quickly, as though needing to fill the silence again. His voice was soft, uncertain. "The others are too sweet for me."
Ammi shook her head fondly. "This boy! Always so particular. Even as a child, he used to pick only the green ones and leave the rest."
My uncle laughed at the memory, but I only nodded, not knowing what else to say. My chest felt tight. Something was happening, something everyone understood except me.
The words between the elders flowed again, quiet but with weight. I caught fragments: "finalized," "timing," "good match." They tried not to include me, as though I wasn't sitting right there, but every half-heard word made my skin prickle.
Ali looked as though he wanted to say something, but couldn't. His hands fidgeted against his knees. His eyes, when they finally met mine, were almost apologetic.
I swallowed hard. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.
And still, no one explained.
I was left in the middle of a scene I didn't fully understand—a celebration, a decision, a beginning of something I hadn't agreed to.
And all I could think about, absurdly, was the unopened sweet box on the table, sitting there like a promise I hadn't asked for.