Asiya quickly turned away, pretending to be looking for something.
"Ah, Ditto, good you're here. Let's go," Shair said, getting out of the car. Asiya joined him, and together they walked up a dry, dusty path.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to her husband, still mortified.
Shair smiled, looking as relieved as she was to be out of the car.
"That building you see there," Shair said, pointing to a large brick structure in the distance, "is my ancestral haveli, my actual home!" He explained, "We came this way, from the north end of the village. It's an easier approach to the old haveli."
"What do you mean by 'north entrance'?" Asiya asked, trying to get her bearings in the vast landscape.
"It means this is the back entrance," he explained. "The main entrance faces the village. My mother wasn't fond of driving through the village to reach the haveli, so she had a gate built here. We stopped so I could show you the view from this side. In the future, we'll drive straight into the haveli through the main gate."
"When I told my staff to prepare for your arrival, word spread through the village, and everyone wanted to come and welcome you," Shair explained. "Don't worry about a thing; the servants will take care of everything. Just… try not to let them overwhelm you. They can be a bit… enthusiastic sometimes." He continued as they climbed a small hill near the haveli. A large, solitary mango tree spread its branches wide, offering shade. Beneath it sat a charpoy with a pillow and a checkered sheet, a hookah resting nearby. It looked like someone's favourite spot. From here, Asiya could see the single-story, mud-plastered houses scattered across the other side of the haveli. "All the land you see here, as far as the eye can see, belongs to my family," he said casually.
Asiya gazed in awe at the uninterrupted fields of wheat, shimmering like a golden sea with gentle waves rippling in the soft breeze. "These fields are so beautiful, Shair," she breathed, her voice filled with wonder. "I wonder if the children from the orphanage could come and play here sometime."
"I'm sure they'd much rather play inside the haveli," Shair replied matter-of-factly. "There's plenty of room, and besides… There might be snakes and rats out there."
Compared to the modest houses in the village, the haveli appeared colossal, dominating the landscape—a clear symbol of the Nawab family's authority and influence. It was difficult for Asiya to fully grasp and identify with the kind of power Shair spoke of so nonchalantly.
She followed Shair down the hill, across a small stream, and toward the massive gate. Inside, Asiya stopped short. The place was teeming with people—women and children of all ages, everywhere she looked. Dressed in vibrant, glittering clothes, they rose to their feet as Shair entered. The sounds of dhols and cheers filled the air, and a Punjabi song began to weave its way through the joyful chaos. By the time Shair and Asiya reached the porch, most of the crowd was singing along. They walked toward a seat of honour, conveniently placed under the porch, at the head of the gathering. Shair acknowledged the crowd with a wave and a smile as the music swelled, and some of the villagers spontaneously broke into the circular steps of the luddi dance.
Asiya smiled at the crowd, her heart pounding in beat with the dhol. Having been a wallflower for most of her life, she was unprepared for this level of attention. Her smile faltered as she noticed a couple of women whispering to each other, their eyes fixed on her. Was she not dressed appropriately? Did they know she was an orphan, an immigrant? Were they judging her? Seeing the women scrutinise her from head to toe, she instinctively wanted to shrink back and hide behind her husband.
Shair, sensing her nervousness, took her cold hand and gently guided her toward their seat. He realised how much Asiya had missed—days of celebration and the formal acknowledgement of her position as his wife—because of their elopement. She was unfamiliar with his people, their traditions, the expectations, and the unspoken demands of her new role. He wished his mother had been there to support and guide Asiya, as Aunty Yusra had during their nikah. His mother could have introduced Asiya to his people in the manner befitting the wife of a nawab.
Shair didn't want to leave her side, but tradition dictated that he join the village men in the hujra outside the haveli, leaving Asiya with the women. He glanced at her before departing, and she mouthed, "I'll be okay." Though her reassurance did little to ease his apprehension. He knew she was resilient and would handle the situation the best she could.
The spring sun was bright enough to make the world beautiful, but not so harsh as to be unwelcome. Its warmth was a pleasant contrast to the cool breeze. Having experienced the sweltering summers of Punjab, Asiya thought the weather was perfect for being surrounded by such a large crowd.
Masi Fazilat, a tall, imposing woman who seemed to be in charge of everything, ushered forward an old, frail lady. The woman placed a red and gold veil over Asiya's head, then turned and shouted something in a thick Punjabi dialect. Asiya was certain it sounded harsh, even offensive, but it had the opposite effect on the other women. A group of them gathered and began to sing, while another formed a circle and launched into the traditional luddi dance.
As the festivities continued, Masi Fazilat organised the women who wished to pay their respects to the new bride. Asiya nodded and smiled at each woman who came forward. Dressed to impress in their finest, often rather gaudy, attire, some of the women observed Asiya with intrigued approval. In contrast, others offered what seemed like blessings and prayers, but with barely concealed disapproval.
A loud call rang out, followed by a procession of men carrying large dishes laden with mutton qorma, chicken roast, and sweet rice. The banquet tables were barely set before most of the women abandoned all pretence of interest in the new bride and surged toward the food.
While the more assertive women jostled for position at the food tables, the shyer ones gravitated toward Asiya. She noticed a young girl in a green and yellow chunri who had been standing quietly beside her. "What's your name?" she asked gently.
"Asima…" the girl replied, hiding her face behind her dupatta.
"She's to be married to Allah Ditta, begum sahiba," Masi Fazilat interjected with a smirk. "And then she'll serve you."
"Oh, how wonderful!" Asiya exclaimed, rising to give Asima a warm hug. "I'll be so happy to have you around in that big, empty house!" As she smiled brightly at Asima, she noticed the noise around them had quietened down. Turning, Asiya saw that, aside from those completely engrossed in the food, almost everyone was staring at her. Low, subtle whispers rippled through the crowd, escalating into louder discussions in Punjabi. "What happened?" she asked the equally surprised Masi Fazilat.
"Umm, Bibi," Masi Fazilat stammered, looking flustered for the first time. "Nawab sahib's mother never even shook hands with any of us, let alone… embrace us." She added quickly, "Don't misunderstand. She's very generous, and she visits the haveli occasionally to help us with any problems. But… touching a commoner is simply out of the question!"
"And I thought I'd done something wrong," Asiya said, grinning with relief that she hadn't committed some terrible faux pas. Ignoring the continued whispers, she turned back to Asima. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen or fifteen, Begum Sahiba," Asima replied without certainty, clearly awestruck by Asiya. Her gaze was filled with open admiration.
Asiya knew that girls in the village often married very young, education being deemed unnecessary, and the younger the bride, the better it was considered.
"How many brothers and sisters do you have?" she asked.
But Asima's answer was lost as Shair called out, "Enough for today! Save some questions for our next visit."
Anyone paying attention would have noticed the change in Asiya's expression at the sound of his voice. Her shoulders relaxed, and her eyes crinkled into a wide, genuine smile.
Women began to gravitate toward Shair, eager to offer their congratulations. He thanked them and responded to their questions in their local dialect. It took him a while to extricate himself from the crowd. Finally, he and Asiya waved goodbye and walked back to the car.