K A I N A A T

If every time I said I was lazy was an understatement, then I take that back.

Because Zaidaan, in all his knightly glory was lazier than any average girl on her TOMs.

"Zaidaan, don't test me. If you don't wake up right this second, I will throw water on you."

"Okay." He mumbled befire turning on his side and snuggling his head in the pillow.

I huffed and yanked him to face me, lightly slapping the side of his face to make him look at me,

"WAKE UP RIGHT NOW, IT'S ALMOST NOON AND WE HAVE TO LEAVE."

He sighed before placing his hand on mine, which rested on his cheek, and closing his eyes, smiling as he incohorently mumbled,

"Your hands are soft,"

I took in a deep breath, "Right."

I made sure he fell asleep before removing my hand from under his head and tip toed to the kitched and filled a glasss with water.

Walking back in, I proclaimed,

"You left me no choice, Zaidaan."

With that, I poured it right on his head.

He sat upright startled, panting as he placed a hand to his heart,

"What in the world..." he tralied off as his gaze fell on me, my hand on hip and a glass in my grasp.

He narrowed his eyes, "Is this how you wake your husband up?"

My nose flared as I pointed an accusing finger at him,

"Excuse you, I've been trying gently since the past two hours. Literally two hours."

He frustratrdly sighed and shook his head, the waterdroplets falling on the duvet as he ran a hand through his hair,

"What do you want?"

I shrugged, "I was bored."

With that, I sprawled on the bed as he looked at me in bewilderment. He inched upto me and said,

"You know, woman, you could have slept if you were bored."

I cracked a sheepish smile, "Well yes. But we have to leave too."

He sat upright and rubbed his eyes, "Are you forgetting that we own a private jet and we can leave anytime we want?"

I blinked. Well, that thought had not even occured to me. At all.

I bit my lip and shrugged,

"Well, now you're up, come on and get ready, freshen up. Go, go, go!"

With that, I pushed him in the washroom and slammed the door shut as I made my way to the kitchen.

There wasn't much running in my mind, for somehow, even in this mess which wasn't really a mess, I felt peaceful. I didn't know if it had anything to do with any spontaneous half-confessions that happened last night, or the way he's so soft with me, or the way he randomly, unknowingly smiles in his sleep or the way his eyes look when he looks at me or the way he breathes.

I munched on the cookies as I flipped through my messages and waited for him to join me, and maybe make me breakfast because I sucked at cooking.

He entered the kitchen, fortunately- or unfortunately- completely clothed, typing away on his phone as he made his way to me and pecked my forehead- I guess that came as a second nature to him now- and made his way to the counter, picking up a banana, peeling it and taking a bite as I followed his every move.

He seemed to notice my calculating gaze as he raised an eyebrow, "What?"

I shrugged, "Make me coffee?"

He rolled his eyes, "My bad, I expected something more romantic coming from you."

I chuckled, "Coffee is romantic."

"Bless the world with your theories."

I grinned and said nothing as he obliged and made me a steaming mug of coffee and turned back to grabbing his apple and strawberries. This guy loved fruits a bit too much.

Taking a sip of the coffee, I got up from my place and made my way to him.

What I did next was probably unexpected- no it was apprehensively unexpected- but nonetheless deserved a load of applause for I have no idea where I gathered this confidence from.

I snaked an arm around his torso and leaned my head against his shoulder, instilling a shockwave of an abrupt stop in his motion as he stilled, went rigid, and I sighed as I whispered,

"Why does the coffee taste so much better when you make it?"

It took him a few seconds to register my words abd he let out a shaky breath, kind of giving away he was nervous- maybe not half as nervous as me- but he was, and a hint of a smirk lingered over his lips as he whispered back,

"Because I add in my love for you in it."

Now, I expected something cocky along the lines of 'Because yours truly is a masterchef' or something and maybe because the meaning behind this hinted on something I think is too soon to happen or something about the way his voice changed towards the end of the sentence but whatever it was, this was my turn to turn rigid.

He seemed to realize his words as he,once again, stopped and much to my dismay, turned around and searched my face. Probably for a reaction.

All he got was a blank face.

For a good two seconds, my face was all blank. Before a huge grin plastered itself around my face and internally screaming, I leaned ahead,

"Are you telling me, Zaidaan-"

"No."

"-that you love me?"

I expected him to blush. However, this guy, my husband, seemed to have a reverse card as instead, he pulled me closer, making purposely sure that our faces were inches apart as he leaned his forehead agaisnt mine and brushed his nose to the side of my face,

"And are you implying, Kainaat, that me saying I love you makes you happy?"

Though he hadn't said it directly, the words coming from him caused a havoc in my stomach. And my heart. And my brain. And let's face it, I almost fell if it wasn't for him supporting me with his arm around my waist.

I stuttered to form a sentence, so in all my glory, I pushed him aside and walked to my place,gulped down the coffee and rolled my eyes at his smug look before marching out- more like stumbling out- and made my way to the bedroom.

Closing the door behind me, I slumped against it, my legs shivering as I hugged my knees to my chest.

Oh heart, stay still.

And to say he hadn't even said I love you.

Yet.

***

"Paris. We're in Paris."

Zaidaan grunted beside me,

"It's obvious, so you don't win anything this time."

"Admit it, I'm observant."

"You're nosy."

"That doesn't make sense."

"You don't make sense."

"Am I riling you up, Zaid?"

"It's Zaidaan."

"Definitely riled up."

A hint of a smile graced his lips as he shook his head and shuffled in his wallet for a change as I held our ice creams in my hands.

It was a bit past evening as we walked out, the sky a hue of a calm sky blue and midnight blue, grey clouds spotting the clear sky here and there.

He stuffed the luggage inside as I waited for him to join me, and when he did, instinctively, my fingers reached for his and itched for his touch as they entertwined, it seemed on their own accord, as if finding a missing piece of a puzzle that I didn't know was incomplete.

This time, he leaned his head against my shoulder and for some reason, there wasn't any words exchanged. It suddenly felt like we had nothing to talk about, and if I opened my mouth, it would all turn awkward.

And it seemed like the world wanted to fill in our silence, as the rain pattered against the window, one drop at a time, letting itself trail down the glass, blurring our view of the world outside, pouring moisture over us, without even touching us.

When we reached what seemed like a cottage, an actual, real country cottage with a fence, Zaidaan got down, and someone appeared from the shadows, taking our bags in as he helped me out and the car drove off as I stood aloof.

Confused, I turned to him,

"What's going on?"

He shrugged, "I figured we needed more space. Or rather, privacy. And I personally don't like hotels, so."

He rubbed the back of his neck as I let out a low laugh,gazing ahead at the beauty in front of me,

"We'll stay here?"

"You can make it home."

"I can?"

"You make me feel at home, anywhere."

With the way he looked down, and played with the gravel, I figured I wasn't meant to hear that and leaving him behind, like any honeymoon couple would not do, I walked ahead and barged inside, literally.

Everything inside was polished to the brim, the mahogany staircase to te white tiles and furniture that was perfectly designed and fit, as if made precisely for this abode, some pictures framing the side of the wall against the staircase, as if going through the memories down the lane.

"This is our vacation home."

Startled, I looked to my side as Zaidaan stood beside me,gazing at the same old and recent pictures framed on the wall,

"My grandfather built it in nineteen sixty-one, upon my grandmother's request. Dadaji, was a high class bussinessman,and in those days,one of the greater riches. My dadi was a divorcee, a widow at the young age of nineteen. She met my dada on a train journey from Karachi to Delhi, where her husband's family lived. It was said that in those days, travelling between India and Pakistan was even more difficult than it is now. I was a kid when Dadi told me this story, but I remember her saying that when they reached Punjab, and my grandfather boarded the train, everyone had taken a double take, except her.

She was married at that time, forced, but married nonetheless, and was on her way to her in-laws. It took her five days, she used to say, tjree of which she spent with my dada in the compound. She says in those days, wo ek gunaah tha, mohabbat nahi. Because as it goes, how can you love someone when you're already married?

She says my dada was striking, both in his appearance and speech, and though she never looked at him in those three days they spent in the train, as would any well-mannered shy newly wed bride, the way he spoke was all it took for her to fall in love. She says they shared the same views, how women deserved more, how the caste system was something dissapproving in both their minds. Eventually she revealed that her ex-husband's family did not approve of her education after tenth, another reason she was so rebellious in tat household. As she reached her home, however, my grandfather informed her that he would like to meet her again.

And call it a classic tragedy, but at that same moment, her then husband emerged from the backgrounds and let's say it didn't end quite well.

They exchanged letters for three months, no one knew about it, but eventually her husband found out and that thread of connection was soon lost. Along with my dadi's heart. Her husband, also her cousin, she says, was very oppressing and deprived her of basic needs. They of course didn't love each other, and two years later, he died in an accident, leaving behind an unloved wife looked down upon by the society as a widow.

Things worsened, until being the feminist that she was, she took the reins in her hands to reign jer own life and moved to Lucknow to start afresh. She soon started a textile bussiness all on her own.

There in Lucknow, she had a neighbour who was a native french, married to an Indian. She told her how they met, and how much she missed France. As she told my dadi more about Paris, her homeland, the more my Dadi fell in love with that place, which she describes as a dreamland.

Three and a half years later, unmarried and at a ripe age of twenty-three my grandparents met again, on a train journey if we call it irony.

But this time was no coincidence, for back then maybe she was timid, but this time and around, my dada was gone again. When they were telling this story, he told me that on this second journey to Hyderabad, they spoke more openly than before. For this time they weren't being heard upon. He says my dadi was so enthralled by France that she insisted on staying there one day, and he had smiled, saying,

Shah Jahaan ne banaya hoga mehel Mumtaaz ke liye, hum apni Kainaat ke liye ghar banayenge, watan ke bahar hi sahi.

Dadi says that he often used to comment, even if they lived in a mehel, it is only his love for her that made any place ghar, home. And that's how, this place came to existence, within an year of this second shot at love."

As he ended, he turned to look at me and with a smile,

"Her name was Kainaat too."

A short gasp left my mouth as he continued,

"And my grandfather's name was Ibraheem."

"That's your middle name!"

He laughed, like literally laughed and nodded,

"I'm aware. Exactly why I told you all of this."

I smiled at him, and he smiled back, closing the gap between us as he enveloped me in a hug, resting his chin on my shoulder and pointing to a picture,

"That's me and Inaya with our Dadi."

"She's beautiful, mashaAllah."

He continued to talk as I gazed at him, the way his eyes crinkled at the end everytime he smiled genuinely.

And it was at this sight, that I felt my heart go warm before it twirled and burst open in happiness at the curve of his lips.

***

I stood against the glass wall as the rain plattered against it, the wind harsher this time around.

Zaidaan was asleep, I'd made sure of it before I slipped out to explore the house on my own, when I found this wall. It was a glass wall, similar to the one we had back home and I couldn't help but stop by to admire the rain outside. And think.

I had a lot on my mind, and yet it also felt like I had nothing on my mind because both of it revolved around the same reason. Same person. Same someone who was slowly, but surely, changing the way my world revolved around its axis. He was altering the directions of my wind, wrecking a havoc and somehow still, still managing to keep me on my toes. Still making me feel alive.

We're all living. Somewhere, somehow.

But I?

I feel alive. I feel the blood rushing in my veins, the pumping of my heart, the way my breath warmed the glass at some point,the way my collar bone stood out in the reflection everytime I took in a breath. I felt alive. I was living. I felt the things my eyes tried to hide from me. I felt my eyes speaking to me. Untold, yet told, my eyes. They were alive.

I was alive.

I pressed my hand against the cold glass, the city lights seeming far off, and then a lightnning struck and I stumbled back.

Two strong arms snaked around my waist and pulled me back, burrying his head in the crook of my neck.

It was way past midnight, and i'd expected him to have fallen asleep, so when he did this, he startled me and I turned around in his arms, my arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.

He looked down and pulled me closer, my feet on his, a hairsbreadth away from each other as our eyes met.

His warm eyes melted in mine, before darkening just a shade darker as another lightning struck the ground and he bent down, his lips locking in an embrace against my damp jawline.

With a thunder that shook the skies and my heart, I pushed his head up with his hair and locked our eyes, the eye contact suddenly too intense.

I wanted to mutter his name, to tell him that he makes me feel at peace, that his presence made me feel stuff I never felt with anyone else, that his eyes made me want to never let go, that his breath against my skin felt just right, that him being so close made feel weird in my stomach and that he...

He.

Set.

Me.

On.

Fire.

Everytime.

He.

Looked.

At.

Me.

But my throat was parched and my tongue stuck to the top of my mouth and all I did was breath as his eyes gazed in mine, probably unravelling every thought that existed within, every want that seemed too impossible.

And in his eyes, I saw something I never saw in anyone's eyes. I saw what he feared to say but it was there and if I hadn't known better I would even believe it. In his eyes was everything untold, left a mystery yet all of it, all of it was told. Known.

Perplexed I looked away. Untold. Yet told. So many things, questions, answers hung in the air as he positioned himself right against my ear and took my breath, heart and rooh away with every syllable he pronounced,

"I love you."

*****

Shah Jahaan ne banaya hoga mehel Mumtaaz ke liye, hum apni Kainaat ke liye ghar banayenge, watan ke bahar hi sahi. -

Ghar- home.

Shah Jahaan was a mughal Emporer who built Taj Mahal, a palace, in the loving memory of his beloved wife, Mumtaaz after her death. Legend has it, that he had ordered for the hands of the architects and crafters of Taj Mahal to be cut off so that no one cam recreate the tomb of his beloved.