Samar was Iqbal's splitting image. Sehmat couldn't help feeling overwhelmed any more than she could help a painful trip down the memory lane.
He had been Iqbal’s spitting image since the day he was born. His every feature matched that of his father, and as Sehmat held him, she could not help but feel overwhelmed.
The infant’s wide eyes were strikingly like Iqbal’s, looking at her in wonder, his little hands reaching for her—giving her a familiar sense of calm while also making her heart give a painful throb. It had not sunk in completely, not yet—She was his mother, Iqbal his father. She wondered for a second how he’d have felt if he had known.
The little one was still looking at her, still trying to reach for her, and then, the most random thought crossed her mind. When had she last met Iqbal’s eyes? And then, For the first time since the last seven months, her mind went to the one moment she had locked away in the back of her mind. She exhaled sharply, averting her gaze from her son’s deep brown eyes.
She did not want to think about it. Not now, not ever. It would haunt her for the rest of her life, how these familiar pools of brown had searched her own, how his eyes had exhibited the betrayal he had so clearly felt. She didn’t know how she would ever be able to look into her son’s eyes without seeing Iqbal, his accusing gaze upon her, asking her, “Was any of it true, Sehmat?"
Hidayat’s heart broke into a million pieces every time he looked at her now. Her radiant demeanor had turned sombre. She had changed dramatically, and he was responsible.
“देख रहा था–जो सुस्थिर हो
नहीं बैठती थी क्षण भर,
हाय! वही चुपचाप पड़ी थी
अटल शांति सी धारण कर।”
~सियारामशरण गुप्त, एक फूल की चाह
Translation :
“I watched–she who remained still
Not even for a moment,
Oh! She was lying quietly
With an air of uncanny silence around her.”
~Siyaramsharan Gupt, Ek phool ki chah (A wish for a flower)
~~~~~~~
Hidayat’s heart broke into a million pieces every time he looked at her now. Her radiant demeanor had turned sombre. She had changed dramatically, and he was resposible.
She was not the Sehmat who used to smile brightly at butterflies fluttering in the garden anymore, the Sehmat who used to grin cheekily while asking her mother for loquat, the Sehmat who was optimistic always. You could practically feel it.
She was now the Sehmat who had been forced into war, the Sehmat who was pondering death, the Sehmat who had undergone training as a spy.
She was not the same Sehmat whose presence was made known to every corner of the house anymore, the one who was always onto a task with a vigour and a bright smile—She had now turned into the Sehmat who was facing a near impossible, more than dangerous and trying task, all because of her love for her country. Love for her country, which was a part of their family’s legacy.
Hidayat the patriot was proud, but Hidayat the father was scared. More than anything, he was saddened. It was harsh to be sending his daughter—his only child, his Sehmat—straight into the heart of danger. The guilt was heart wrenching—another stab to his already wounded conscience.
He sorely wished he had consulted Teji before making his decision, but impulsiveness was his fatal flaw—his father had told him so. He acted before thinking. He remembered his Abbu warning him several times against this trait of his.
Hidaya sighed. He wished he had been wiser. He wished he hadn't imparted such altruism into her. He wished he had been a better father. He wished she’d smile again. He wished he could turn back time, for he had turned his radiant daughter sombre, and he’d give anything to be able to undo it.
In an alternate universe Iqbal is able to meet his child and name him. Happy drabble.
The first time Iqbal holds his son he is awestruck. Awestruck at how tiny he is, and how perfect. At first glance he resembles him perfectly—same dark skin, same brown eyes—but on taking a closer look he can see Sehmat’s features in him. They are a lot more subtle than his own, but there is no mistaking that happy curve of lips when Iqbal strokes his cheek—exactly like the one that he is so accustomed to—or his high cheekbones and sharp nose which speak of his Kashmiri descent.
Their son is perfect, Iqbal decides, and he cannot believe that he has had a role in his creation. He slowly turns back towards Sehmat—who is lying in her hospital bed half asleep, tired from the long labor—and gently pads across the room towards her from where he is standing near the window, evening light falling on them. He is mindful of every step he takes, because he is holding a child—something he’s never done before—and any missteps could lead to disastrous consequences. Sehmat stirs as he approaches her, even as he tells her to relax, and sits up with some effort. Iqbal places the child into her arms gently, and both of them—Sehmat and he—sigh a collective sigh.
They sit like that for a while, mostly because Iqbal doesn't know what to say, and Sehmat is too tired to say anything. The baby fusses in her arms and takes hold of Iqbal’s finger when he traces his hand, and for a moment, for a single moment, Iqbal forgets about the war that is being fought outside this happy bubble that has enveloped him and Sehmat. The one that has enveloped his family.
It is Sehmat who breaks the silence as she gently strokes the child’s soft hair. “What will we name him?”
Iqbal looks up from the baby, and muses his wife’s question silently as he takes in truly how tired she is, and, in that particular moment, how vulnerable she looks. He slowly disengages his hand from his son’s, and brushes away a stray strand of hair from her face before returning his gaze towards the child. Dusk has fallen properly now, the sky outside more pink than orange, tinged with inky blue. It fills the room with an ethereal sort of light.
“Samar,” he says after a while, looking at Sehmat intently while she ruminates his idea. She too turns to look at the child, then looks up at Iqbal and smiles.
“Tumhara rishta Pakistan mein kyun hua ye sirf hum jante hein, Sehmat. Toh apni saheliyon ko batane ke liye koi munasib kahani soch lo.”
Translation :
“Only we know why you are being married away to Pakistan, Sehmat. So think up an appropriate story to tell your friends.”
Mitali knows something is off the moment Sehmat tells her that she is getting married and then leaving the country. She looks at her with wide eyes for a moment, almost hoping for her best friend to burst out in laughter and tell her that it was a joke, even if a very bad one.
“Mitali?” Sehmat asks her, frowning slightly on not receiving a reply.
“But why?”
She wants to hit herself with the largest tome she can get her hands on the next moment. That is not what you say to your friend two minutes after she tells you that she is getting married. You are supposed to congratulate her, maybe tease her and needle her for more information on her husband-to-be. ‘But why?’ Way to go, Mitali. She diverts her attention back to Sehmat, however, who is now blushing.
“Well …” she begins, then stops. “They’ve been talking of marriage for a while now, and now that our course is coming to an end, it won’t even hinder college.”
Mitali simply raises an eyebrow. “There has been talk of marriage for a while now? And you didn't tell me? Weren't you going to marry for love anyway?”
Sehmat ducks her head at this point but Mitali can see her cheeks turn a shade brighter. Her eyebrow arches higher.
“Sehmat?”
“Well… umm…” she looks up, sees her friend’s bemused gaze and looks back towards her hands toying with her pen. “We met a few months ago, when Abbu had held a party to celebrate his company’s successful expansion beyond the borders. He’s from over there, too. We’ve been communicating over letters since then. The topic of marriage was breached about a month ago.”
Mitali looks at her friend in wonder. Maybe she is a little hurt but more than anything she is baffled. She has known the girl sitting beside her since they were in third grade. Sehmat couldn't keep a secret to save her life. Even so, they told each other everything. How come she never told her about this? And how come she was going to simply leave for Pakistan after marriage and live as a housewife?
Sehmat had plans for the future. Teaching had always been her passion. She wanted to open a school for the underprivileged children of Srinagar. Somehow the fact that she is getting married this early and giving up on her dream by her choice doesn't sit right with her.
Her indecision about how she feels is more than a little apparent on her face, seeing which Sehmat scoots over and links her arm in hers.
“I did mean to tell you, Titli, but somehow it never came up and I was so embarrassed, I don’t know… I’m sorry.” Mitali finally gives Sehmat a smile, although her mind is still whirring. Titli. She doesn't remember the last time Sehmat had called her by her childhood nickname. She must look very upset then. She is still far from convinced, but for Sehmat’s sake she smiles.
They turn back to their books after that—they are preparing to give their final exams for their last year in college in a few days—but Mitali finds that she cannot concentrate on the text after all. It’s not like she can be blamed, anyway. This news has hit her like a freight train for some reason, and all of it completely different from what anyone would have expected.
They have talked about things all twenty year old girls talk about before, and she knows that Sehmat had not had any intention of marrying anyone anytime soon (a voice in the back of her head says that she could very well have been lying but she ignores it). And being married into Pakistan? Sehmat is patriotic—the Khan family is patriotic—sometimes almost to a fault. If there was one thing about Sehmat’s potential grooms that she had been certain about it was that they would be Indian. But it is not so—Iqbal Syed is Pakistani. He serves in the Pakistani Army. And anyhow, she remembers quite clearly Sehmat telling her that she was going to steer clear of any and all boys for the foreseeable future not three weeks ago.
Something is not quite right in this entire matter, even though she cannot put her finger on it. Sehmat has never contradicted her own self this dramatically. She doesn't know why, but she gets an ill feeling on thinking about this upcoming event, a feeling that makes her feel scared for her companion.
~~~~~~~
Sehmat knows that she has done a really bad job as far as telling Mitali about her upcoming wedding is concerned. She can lie to a thousand and ten people but she cannot lie to Mitali—she knows her too well. She tries to keep beaming and blushing as a bride-to-be is expected to throughout the conversation but she can practically hear the gears turning in her friend’s head.
It is quite clear that Mitali is not able to digest this idea at all. Sehmat doesn't blame her, really, she has shown no inclination at all to get married in the past few months, and then she comes up and says that she’s getting married. She doesn't think she has ever behaved or felt this out of character before. She has to admit she is more oblivious than a brick wall as far as men are concerned. It has always been Mitali who tells Sehmat that the boy she was talking to was, in fact, trying to flirt with her. They would always laugh over it later on.
“...Weren't you going to marry for love anyway?” She has to cover up fast, trying to not seem as out of character as she feels and says that she was practically being courted and didn't tell her about it. She cannot even look at her when she says this for the fear of being found out. Mitali is hurt, of course she is hurt. This girl knows her inside out and to keep something like this from her…
She does finally seem to accept it, though or at least pretends that she has, and both of them bury their heads back into a book, although Sehmat isn't really reading. Mitali can tell something is wrong even when Sehmat is trying her level best to act happy and content and as if her entire universe has not been ripped apart. She feels honoured, somewhere inside, that she has Mitali for a friend. She wonders briefly if she should say more on the topic of her getting married but then decides against it, not wanting to lie again, and no more is spoken of it.
~~~~~~~~~
After their exams and then the graduation ceremony are over she gets to see Mitali only two weeks before she is to be wed. Mitali has been in Uttrakhand for the past month, visiting her grandparents, so Sehmat really doesn't have to cover up for the extra month she has spent in Delhi undergoing training, although when they finally do meet she wonders if it really is to her benefit. Training has changed her, she knows. She is not as carefree, not as oblivious, not as lost in a different world. More than anything Mir sahab has made sure that she is always in anticipation of an attack or of getting her cover blown. Mitali notices this the moment she sets her eyes on her, of course, and then takes her to a more sheltered nook of the house to ask her if she is truly okay.
“You look terrible, Sehmat, as if you haven't peacefully slept in a thousand days. And you're quiet. Are you sure everything is okay?” Sehmat doesn't think she has ever felt such a rush of affection for someone. She is truly, eternally grateful to God for Mitali.
She manages to somehow convince her that it is all okay, not that she thinks that Mitali is convinced for even a single second, but she isn't exactly lying when she says to her that she has turned into a bundle of nerves due to the excitement and nervousness that is a part and parcel of getting married.
~~~~~~~~~
Sehmat really laughs out loud on the day on which she is to be wed when Mitali asks her if she really wants to do this, although she isn't quite sure if she is laughing at the audacity of the question or of the situation. It’s too late now to back out anyway. Still, she pretends to be happy all through the day and quietly sighs to herself when she is finally left alone in her bedroom—minutes before groom’s party is set to arrive—and allows herself to truly thank God for giving her such a wonderful friend, a friend whom she would probably never see after this day.
‘ What will Sehmat's personality be like? I thought about that a lot.There was simple, very simple layer to this girl that was very apprehensive of portraying. Not because I didn't think it was correct but I was just like I hope I don't come across as a child but you just come across as a very nice person. That's a very big difference - of being very nice, and being a child. She is a young girl, and a mature girl, but she is a very nice, young, mature girl. Now that to bring is not very easy, because how do you really do that, in what way? So I mentally struggled with that thought of, how will she speak? It's as basic as that. Like what kind of a 'talker' will Sehmat be? How will she communicate? Like how will words escape her mouth? You can tell a person's personality by just the way they speak. Thairaav ki taalash kaafi thi. But that's why I sat, and i prepared and I read and read, cleaning up my hindi, speaking in Urdu, getting the Kashmiri diction right. All those little things added a lot to the way Sehmat speaks, I think.’
