Zara's long, slightly curly hair was hanging from the back of a white leather couch. She raised her head for a second and turned it right and then left. "Oh, my neck hurts!" she said to herself. She had been sitting like that for almost two long hours. She knew she needed to leave the couch and mind the million and one important things that were going on in her life, but she was fatigued, mentally. She did not even want to open those kolh-lined eyes of hers - she feared returning to reality.
"Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your day here?" Saadi asked her with a smile. Saadi, Zara's husband, was a most loving and considerate man. Zara had always felt lucky being his better-half. No, they did not know each other well before their marriage; they were not romantically involved in any kind of relationship. It was a marriage arranged by their families. But things clicked on their wedding night - they realized soon after tying the knot that nothing could and would ever separate them from each other.
"No, I need to get up. Would you please find out if lunch is ready?'
"Bua has already set the table," Saadi replied. "I am starving."
He smiled at her - his eyes glistened with love for Zara.
Learning that Saadi was starving, Zara left the comfort of the soft couch, stretched her hands and then drew them toward her neck, which was stiff from sitting in an awkward posture for a long time. "Ouch!" she exclaimed as she massaged her own neck and shoulders.
The couple sat at the dining table. They knew not at that time that they would not see each other in another two decades to come.
"Are you sure you want to go ahead with the divorce?" Saadi asked. "I have already told you a thousand times that I do not want a baby. I want to spend my life with you."
"Come on, Saadi, you love babies. I love babies too but..." Zara's voice cracked.
She would have probably started crying hysterically if the housemaids were not around. She gathered herself, coughed twice to clear her throat, and finished the sentence. "... but I can never have a baby."
They saw doctors in Dhaka, Singapore and Delhi. They spent the last taka on their savings accounts to travel to different countries and meet infertility specialists. But doctors everywhere concluded that Zara's uterine abnormality would make it impossible for her to become a mother.
"So what?" Saadi was shaking in rage. He pushed a bowl of chicken curry aside - its thick red, aromatic gravy spilled and spoiled Zara's favorite table runner. He did not care. He would have cared it were a different day and time but not today.
Saadi had been trying to persuade Zara not to leave him and this house for the past 6 months. But Zara, an apparently soft-natured young woman from outside, was adamant in her decision. She wanted to set Saadi free so he could re-marry and become a father.
Zara sat at the table, playing quietly with the rice and fried prawns on her dinner plate. In an effort to appear perfectly normal, she stuffed some rice into her mouth. Saadi stormed out of the room without saying another word -- he did not finish his food.
She pushed her plate aside. The front door closed with a bang -- it was Saadi who just left the house. Zara washed her hands in the sink and went to their bedroom, where her bags lay on the floor. The next one hour she ran her slender, neatly-manicured fingers on every piece of furniture in the house. She touched her favorite crystals, and even sat on her favorite couch for a few minutes and played with her left thumb - a habit that she developed when she was just 5 years old. Zara played with her left thumb when she was melancholic and felt lonely.
20 years later...
Saadi was in the bustling New York City to attend a 3-day IT conference. It was the second day of the conference and they did not have an afternoon session. "Finally, some relief," he thought. He left the conference center with a chicken salad sandwich in one hand and a cup of frappuccino in the other. It was mid-July and the temperature on his smartphone read 90 degrees Fahrenheit. He stepped outside the center, which was on the 39th Street of Manhattan. He loosened his navy blue silk tie. His white shirt with sky-blue stripes was already showing signs of sweat.
Saadi, who turned 52 less than a month ago, was still strikingly handsome. Strands of grey hair here and there on his head only added to the good looks of his middle age.
Saadi waived at a yellow taxi, which stopped in front of him with a screech of brakes. "Central Park!" he said as he entered the cab.
"Are you new here?" the cabbie asked.
"Yes, my first time in New York City. I'm here on a conference."
Saadi read the driver's name, Shohid Ullah. He looked like a Bangladeshi.
"Are you from Bangladesh?" he asked the driver, who also seemed to be in his 50s.
"I am," Shohid Ullah answered excitedly, all ready for a conversation with his new passenger.
Saadi and Shohid Ullah discussed politics, food and economy until they reached the Central Park. Saadi tipped the driver $10, got off the taxi, and began to walk toward the park.
Saadi checked a few trees and seated himself under a maple tree standing far away from the madding summer crowd. His frappuccino cup was sweating in the July heat. Saadi took a sip and the coffee tasted watery. The whipped cream on top had already melted. The chicken salad sandwich, however, looked fine -- the lettuce was still crisp.
He began to take a better look of his surroundings as he sunk his teeth into the chicken sandwich. There were literally only a handful of people in the spot where he was resting. There was a family of four picnicking under another maple tree. About a hundred yards from where Saadi was, a woman in an off-white skirt and a blue kurta was sitting under a red oak. From where Saadi himself was sitting, he could not see the woman's face. He could only see her hair, which was long and slightly curly ebony. He wondered if she was an Indian.
The woman was pulling her left thumb right and left, back and forth. Watching the woman play with her thumb, Saadi felt lightheaded for a moment. He thought his middle-aged heart missed several beats - he was almost gasping for breath. Then he felt his heart race the way a teenager's heart races at the sight of the girl he loves. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He placed the half-eaten sandwich on the crumpled brown bag, brushed away bread crumbs from his black pants and stood up.
"It cannot be Zara. No, it cannot be," he thought. "I cannot be so lucky."
"Excuse me," Saadi stood behind the woman, gathered all his courage and said.
Saadi could vouch that his heart missed another beat.
Zara broke out in a cold sweat. "The voice is so familiar, so familiar," she thought.
Even though she had not heard the voice in 20 years, she had not forgotten it. The voice belonged to the only man she ever loved, the man who she thought she liberated so he could re-marry and father a child. She broke her own heart the day she left that house. She could never mend her broken heart -- the cracks only widened with time. Pain and loneliness seeped into those ever-widening cracks of her heart and swelled it. Now it was too heavy for her to even carry it around. She left Bangladesh and settled in the USA with the help of her brother because she wanted to flee the memories, which were beautiful but tormented her every day.
"No, it cannot be him. He doesn't know where I live," she shuddered at the thought of turning her head and finding out that it was Saadi standing behind her.
But she knew in her heart that it was him. She remained seated under the red oak with tears flowing. She had not realized that she was weeping until the sleeves of her blue kurta felt cold and damp. Just then a sudden breeze from the south caressed her hair and whispered into her ears, "Things will be just fine." Hearing the breeze speak to her, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Saadi thought an eternity elapsed before Zara finally turned her head and looked into his eyes.
Date of publication: Nov. 10, 2015
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© Wara Karim
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