"Seriously? Is their son made of diamond?" Aamina snapped, her voice ricocheting off the walls like a firecracker tossed into a steel room.
"Fifty pavans of gold and a piece of land? With today's gold prices, are they planning a wedding or executing a heist?"
She paced the living room like a lit match, phone clutched in one hand, the other tugging furiously at the edge of her hijab. Her words came out fast, precise, laced with righteous disbelief. She didn't shout to attract attention. She shouted because silence, to her, meant submission.
On the sofa, her mother sat quietly, watching her daughter unravel yet another absurd marriage proposal. With practiced fingers, she reached up and gently fixed Aamina's hijab where it had slipped from all the pacing.
"But he earns a decent amount , Aamina. He could take good care of you," her mother said softly, fastening the last pin in place.
Aamina froze. Slowly, she turned around, eyes blazing.
"I earn three times what he does, Amma. Three times. I don't need a provider—I need a partner."
Her voice lowered but sharpened into something steely. "And do you know what leeches do? They don't take care of anyone. They suck blood. This isn't a proposal—it's a ransom demand."
Before her mother could respond, Aamina was out the door, her sandals slapping against the stairs like thunderclaps, her black abaya trailing behind her like a streak of smoke.
On the landing, a voice stopped her.
"Aamina! What happened now?" Nasira Aunty asked, standing by the railing with a bowl of jasmine flowers in her hand. Her face wore a look of concern, laced with the quiet exhaustion of someone who had survived the arranged marriage market decades ago.
Aamina didn't bother with small talk.
"You remember the people the matchmaker sent yesterday, Aunty?"
Nasira nodded cautiously.
"They want fifty pavans of gold, Aunty. Fifty!"
"And that's not all—they want a piece of land too. Near their house. Registered in both our names. As if I'm buying a husband and a down payment on his family's dignity."
Nasira blinked. "Fifty pavans?" she repeated in disbelief. "Astaghfirullah…"
"You know what that costs? Over twenty-five lakhs! For what? For the honour of marrying someone whose greatest life achievement is being a male?"
Nasira opened her mouth but couldn't find words.
"They said they 'invested' in raising him. Like he's a mutual fund! And now they want returns." Aamina's nose wrinkled. "I didn't ask them to raise him. That was their personal project. Why should I pay for it?"
She looked straight at Nasira, voice cold. "What next? Should I reimburse their maternity bills too?"
Nasira tried to stifle a laugh but failed, covering her mouth as her eyes sparkled.
"And the best part?" Aamina folded her arms tightly. "He doesn't even plan to move out. No separate living, no independence. He wants me to leave my home, adjust to his family, follow their rules, while they demand dowry like they're offering me a lifetime subscription to happiness."
Her voice dipped, wearier now.
"If anyone should be paid, it's me. I'm the one leaving everything behind my parents and my business and my parents spent lots of money on my education. I'm the one adjusting. I'm the one who—" she paused, then muttered, "—should be reimbursed."
For a moment, even the birds on the wires outside seemed to pause, as if stunned by her fire.
Nasira sighed deeply. "People have forgotten what marriage means, kutty. They only remember the price tag."
Aamina looked out toward the street. Her jaw was set. Her silence wasn't soft. It was forged.
"I'm not a transaction," she said. "I'm not a bargain. And I will not price tag myself just to fit into someone's outdated version of tradition."
On the opposite balcony, a nosy neighbor peeked out, caught a glimpse of Aamina's thunderous expression, and quickly vanished inside.
Everyone in the colony knew: Aamina didn't raise her voice to argue. She raised it to destroy.
Nasira reached out gently. "You haven't had breakfast. Come in, I'll make you tea."
But Aamina was already heading to the gate.
"No tea today, Aunty. My shift starts in 20 minutes."
And just like that, she was gone.
The street felt quieter in her absence, as if it had been temporarily cleared of heavy rain.
Inside, Nasira lingered at the doorway before stepping back into the house.
From the hallway, a sleepy voice emerged.
"Wow," said her youngest son, Aneez, peeking out from the side room. "That was... terrifying. I seriously pray for whoever ends up marrying her."
Before he could finish, Nasira's glare sliced through the air like a knife.
Aneez gulped and sprinted out the gate, backpack bouncing, clearly deciding school was safer than his mother's wrath.
Back in the kitchen, Nasira tied her dupatta and reached for the poori dough. But she paused when she noticed her elder son at the counter.
"Nazeer?" she asked, surprised. "You're up early? I thought you were resting."
Nazeer looked up from the cutting board, half a pile of onions already neatly diced.
He smiled gently, voice calm and steady. "I thought I'd help. Chopping onions isn't that hard."
She watched him for a moment—quiet, thoughtful, warm-hearted Nazeer, who could calm a riot with a smile.
As she began rolling out the pooris, he asked, "So… is that the new tenant?"
Nasira let out a tired breath, her tone unreadable. "Yes. That's Aamina."
"She seems... intense," he said, suppressing a grin.
Nasira gave a half-smile. "She's the most intelligent girl I've ever met."
"Really?" Nazeer raised a brow.
"Yes," she said firmly. "Do you know—even if she didn't opened a convenience store, she'd still end up earning more than this entire family combined."
"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "You seem to like her."
Nasira replied with a soft smile, "It's more like admiration, yes. I wish I had been like her when I was younger." Her voice trailed off, nostalgic. "But I'm grateful I was able to guide you and your brother right."
"Is she really that amazing?" he asked.
"She's practical," Nasira replied. "Fiercely so. She sees through people and tradition like she was born doing it."
Nazeer smiled to himself and returned to dicing onions, the sound of the knife rhythmic, soothing.