I never had it easy.
From watching my parents succumb to the horrors of a car accident to craving the healing presence of the man I love-my entire life-I had navigated through this messy maze I call my life with a shard of hope in my heart.
Every da...
If you're a silent reader, I would really appreciate a comment or vote from your side, with whichever you're comfortable <3
Chapter 16 | Inconclusive Heart
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"Your dress seems pretty," Farzana spoke as she pulled away from the embrace she had capsulated Mubaraka in, her lips stretched in a tight, forlorn smile.
Mubaraka shyly glanced down at the ensemble layering her body, her cheeks hued a bright shade of pink. She ran a hand over the smooth green silk, biting back her smile.
"Thank you," she spoke. "Wahdan chose the colors."
"Green and gold is an appealing combination," Farzana hummed. "Sadly, they're two of Zidan's least favorite colors."
Mehek nudged her mother's side, casting a warning look her way. "Mubaraka, never let a guy dictate what you wear and how you wear it. If you like a colour, go for it. Nobody cares about the guy's choice anyway."
"Grow up," Farzana scolded. "Your feminism will take you nowhere."
"Right," Mehek nodded, simultaneously locking gazes with Mubaraka, silently communicating how much she disagreed with her mother's stance yet had to bite her tongue from spitting facts.
"When your husbands frown at you in disapproval and refuse to treat you right because you refuse to come through on their wishes and preferences, you can sit at home and dress in all the colours you like."
"Mama," Mehek addressed. "Say I asked this 'husband' to adorn a potato sack. I doubt he'd do so without any resistance."
"It does not suit a man to be a joruu ka ghulam. His masculinity is tarnished."
"My femininity lies in the liberty to make my own choices."
"Mehek," Mubaraka hurried forward, gently laying a hand on Mehek's arm, feeling the girl's stiff posture. "Shall we go see how Bhabhi's doing up on the stage?"
As Mubaraka dragged Mehek away from the mother she was about to burst upon in frustration, Mehek glared at the floor, her gaze boring holes into it.
"What did the floor do to anger you?"
"You should've just let me speak up," Mehek grumbled. "I mean, did you hear the way Mum was talking? We're way past the sixteenth century!"
"It's okay," Mubaraka comforted. "Our parents grew up in a time worlds apart from ours and we can't blame them for choosing to believe what they do."
"It's not about opinions, di! These views are toxic and all they do is glorify men!" Mehek took a deep breath. "Look, I'm not saying the man has absolutely zero rights over his wife. He does. But why state half truths? Can a wife not help her husband choose what to wear for a special occasion, or can she not ask him to adorn a specific color just because she likes it on him? Does this not go both ways?"
