I put the phone down and smiled. Finally, we were getting somewhere. I immediately called my best friend and divulged all the details to her, all within earshot of my father. She was overjoyed and offered to help me plan for the engagement. Traditionally, it was be done in our home so we began planning the food, decor and what I would wear. My father folded his paper and went upstairs. In the morning, my brother asked what I had said to upset him. "He was talking in his sleep all night," remarked my brother. I told him that I had spoken only to my friend over the phone about my engagement plans. I mulled over what my brother said the next day and realized that my father was concealing his true feelings. He did not want this to happen. But why was he going along with it? I moved my player on the board.
From all my friends, only my best friend knew about my engagement. It was odd but I didn't or couldn't talk about it to others until it was legitimate. Within my own extended family, as everyone gushed about my actual engagement, I chattered along with them, devoid of emotion. What was wrong with me? I should be happy - an exciting chapter in my life was about to begin. What I did note was that I attributed it to the fact that my mother was not there to share in my joy. A diversion? A mask? Only she would have been able to decipher the truth. But she was not there to explain the lingering feeling that nagged me as if someone was tapping on the window of my soul.
The silence of my father was the only thing I could hear. It was loud but not clear. Growing up with an opinionated parent was what I was used to. I was used to his arguments and I would keep quiet out of respect. But as he watched me quietly, I became louder to block out his wordlessness. Occasionally I caught him looking at me with a sad smile. When I would smile back confidently, he would sigh and return to what he was doing. I moved another player.
My fiancee's sister called me to get my measurements. Her mother was in Pakistan preparing my dowry. We talked about the colour of my engagement gown and how to match the decorations. She told me that I made her brother happy. I smiled bashfully into the phone, not knowing what to say next. As she babbled about other details, I swallowed a lump in my throat as I looked at my parent's wedding picture on the wall. My mother stared back at me. A perfect China doll, with porcelain features, red lips and a small petite smile, hands folded dutifully in front of her, standing inches away from my stern-looking father. I stared back at the picture. And then I dreamt of her that night.
She came to me, standing at the top of our stairs, wearing a blood-red sari. She looked sad and she stood alone. Her arms were folded in front of her and she called my name. I tried to answer back but I didn't have a voice. She continued to speak but I couldn't hear what she was saying. I tried to read her lips and I realized that she was repeating a word. Over and over again. I strained to hear her and I tried to climb the stairs to come closer but my legs were like lead and my voice was inaudible.
I woke up in the middle of the night, gasping for air and wildly looking around my room. When I realized it was all a dream, I lay back down. My pillow was wet and I realized I had been crying. The lump was still in my throat. And as I calmed down and lulled myself back to sleep, it wasn't until the morning when I understood what my mother was saying.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
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