She had finished her breakfast and was flipping through the pages of the Urdu daily, Inquilab. She liked to read about world events and local politics and opinions on religion and about the scandals of the rich and famous, the film stars. It had been a while since she has last seen a movie. She knew it starred Meena Kumari and had great songs and had something to do with Tansen, but she couldn’t remember the name . It wasn’t Awara, that had Nargis. Dastaan? No, she had not seen that. She would have liked to. She liked Suraiya. And some people had said she looked like her. Maybe there was a slight resemblance. She definitely didn’t look like Nargis, who had a long face. Round faces were pretty. Like the moon. Mahjabeen. Meena Kumari’s real name. But what was the name of the movie? Her meandering thoughts were abruptly interrupted when her husband barged through the door leading into the balcony and sat on the empty chair next to her.
“Want some?” he asked, pushing a bowl of boiled peanuts in her direction.
She shook her head, turned away form him, ruffled the newspaper to straighten the pages and pretended to read. She had no intention of talking to him or even acknowledging his presence.
They had argued late into the night. About him not earning enough money and her staying alone in a big city. He claimed that her plan was a failure and this domed adventure must end. She argued that they were doing just fine despite having no help from him. He demanded she return to Murud and she challenged him to move his practice to Bombay. Back and forth, back and forth. They traded accusations of abandonment, pleas for understanding and trust and warnings of dire consequences for the children’s future. There was very little listening but a lot of shouting and posturing.
He watched her white skin glowing in the sun. Wisps of her curly brown hair peaked out of the sari she had draped over her head. Her lips were tinged with red paan juice. She had the ability to frustrate and anger him, but there was no denying that even after all these years he still admired her.
He remembered the first time he had met her, in Dive Agar, a village a few miles south of Murud. His elder sister was marrying her brother. He was still in college getting his law degree and was home for the summer. Being a highly eligible bachelor, there was a constant stream of prospective brides being introduced to him, but he was not interested in being tied down. He was focused on finishing his education and when that was done, hoped to travel: to Delhi and Agra, to the Himalayas, to Baghdad and Istanbul, to England. He was young, handsome, educated, rich. Marriage could wait.
It was her laughter that had initially piqued his interest. A loud and robust laugh that resonated through the room. Who was the girl and why was her laugh so infectious that it even made a serious, dour man like him smile? And she was pretty and bubbly and full of energy. And she loved to talk. And when she talked, people listened. And he was captivated too, but couldn’t really comprehend what she said because in her company his brain stopped functioning and his heart fluttered. He was in love.
He heard her mutter something and that brought him back to the present. She had stopped reading the paper and was leaning over to grab some peanuts.
“What did you say?” he asked.
She smiled, then laughed. That same laugh.
“Baiju Bawra,” she replied.