Spring was at its peak, and the lush green garden behind the house was in full bloom. Rose bushes, gladiolas, marigolds, petunias, pansies, sweet peas, and dahlias created a riot of colour. It looked less like a garden and more like a slice of heaven. Beyond the roses and the evergreen hedge, a large swimming pool shimmered invitingly. Oh, how wonderful it would be to swim in clear water, she thought, a pang of longing hitting her as she remembered swimming with friends in the murky canal near the makeshift orphanage.
As she turned away from the pool, the blood drained from her face. The colossal structure towering before her was her house! It was bigger than the school she had attended, bigger than any building she had ever been associated with. A shiver traced its way down her spine, and she could almost hear her grandmother's voice, full of weary wisdom, berating her mother: "There is a price for everything in this world. Every spring is followed by autumn, and every happiness by sorrow. How else will we ever know the true value of our blessings?"
Asiya's desire to explore vanished. She found a garden chair and sank into it. She had already paid a steep price for the small measure of happiness she had experienced in her life—the loss of her family, her home, her innocence. The thought that this newfound happiness, this extravagant life, could also come at a cost filled her with a rising tide of anxiety. She closed her eyes, willing the warm sunlight to soothe her nerves. She took deep, slow breaths, feeling the cool breeze gently brush against strands of her hair.
Marrying Shair had been the most significant, most daunting decision of her life. She knew nothing of the world he inhabited. His mother's opposition to their marriage terrified her; it was a looming shadow over her newfound joy. Begum Zubaida was known for her iron will, and Asiya, who had yet to meet her, was filled with apprehension about their eventual encounter. Unbeknownst to Asiya, on the very day of their nikah, Shair and his mother had a fierce phone conversation in which both stood firm in their decision. She shivered as she opened her eyes. The sun's warmth had waned, and the air had grown chilly. She had no idea how long she had been sitting in the garden. The grandeur of the house, which had felt inviting moments before, now seemed to press in on her, a burden rather than a blessing. She quickly went back inside.
It's almost evening, Shair should be coming back home any minute now. Asiya thought as she hurried to her room and slipped into a pink satin saree with intricate dabka work, silently thanking Aunty Yusra for putting together her wardrobe for the initial days.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, amused by the sight of a stranger in such extravagant clothes, sporting an impeccable beehive bun. "Halima," she asked, "where did you learn to style hair so beautifully?"
Halima blushed with pleasure. "My mother used to work for Lady McMillan. She taught me, hoping I would one day work for a lady myself. And by God, Begum Sahiba," she added, her eyes sparkling, "I never imagined I'd work for someone as beautiful as you."
Asiya rose to thank her and came face to face with Shair, the familiar scent of Old Spice filling the air, grounding her in his presence.
"Oh, Assalamualaikum," Asiya greeted him, her cheeks mirroring the pink of her saree.
Shair stood still, momentarily speechless. His wife was transformed. She stood tall and radiant, her demeanour changed from that of a timid wallflower to a beautifully blossomed rose.
He stepped closer and whispered softly, his voice a low rumble, "It's not right for you to look so alluring when I'm not around."
Asiya's ears flushed crimson, a reaction that thrilled him. He lightly stroked her bare arm with his fingertips, enjoying the trail of goosebumps that rippled in their wake.
"There's a banquet at the Governor's House tonight. We're invited. You'll get to meet some of the pioneers of our political world, including the Prime Minister. Do you want to go? Or would you prefer a game of bridge at the club?" Shair asked, hugging her from behind as he admired their reflection in the dressing table mirror.
She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "I haven't been to either, so I can't say. What do you want to do?"
"Of course, I want to go and show off my gorgeous wife…" he said, smiling as he pecked her neck. "But I'd much rather spend the evening with you alone." He glanced at his watch. "Come on, let's go." Hand in hand, they walked toward the porch.
"But where are we going?" Asiya asked, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
"Patience, my darling, patience." He glanced back at his Mercedes-Benz, a satisfied look on his face. He put his arm around her shoulder and held her close as they walked forward.
"For you…" He said, gesturing with his free hand toward a gleaming red 1959 Chevrolet Impala parked just beyond their usual car.
Asiya's eyes widened, darting between her husband and the classic car, a wave of disbelief washing over her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly what I said," he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. "Just like me and this house, this car is also yours, my love." Shair ran his hand lovingly over the Impala's hood, as if admiring a priceless piece of art.
Asiya had never even imagined owning a car, let alone such an extravagant one. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she impulsively hugged him, right there in front of the driver and the guard—an uninhibited display of affection that was quite uncommon for the time.
"We both have red cars!" she stated through a teary giggle, as he opened the passenger door and ushered her inside.
"It's the best colour there is," he chuckled, closing the door behind her and walking around to the driver's side.