The Centre(7)

And sometimes, it felt like I was smearing a thin layer of vanilla over my life to make it more palatable for him.

And he kept asking me, possessively and insecurely, whether I fancied my married friend, Mazhar, despite my constant denials (I did, in fact, fancy Mazhar, but that’s neither here nor there).

And once when we were watching a Bollywood film, he’d called it “colorful” and asked whether our wedding would be like that.

And, of course, the sex. I still dreamed of the fireworks that had never come. And I hope this isn’t a bad thing to say, but sometimes, it felt like a deliberate withholding. Like, how come when it came to running or biking, the man seemed to have endless energy, but when it came to fucking, he was so easily depleted? There was some emotional work, surely, that needed to be done there, but he just wasn’t interested in doing it. Instead, he would deflect, or become defensive. Like when he teased me once about my always “being in the mood.” I swiped back saying that it was because I rarely got any, and the conversation descended into a heated argument that ended with him leaving the flat and not speaking to me for days.

And I didn’t like hiking, nor the countryside, nor football, nor the pub. And I’m sorry, but his family was cold and boring, and the first time I met them, they tried to serve me pork even though they knew I was Muslim. Adam insisted this was accidental, but seriously, come on. And then he brought up the fact that I drank alcohol but didn’t eat pork, implying hypocrisy in a way that felt all too familiar.

But still … still, still, Adam was good. Reliable. Dependable. Secure. I also felt fairly sure that if I didn’t marry Adam, I wouldn’t marry anyone at all. I’d had enough relationships to know that if another one didn’t work out, the problem very likely lay with me. So I couldn’t say yes, but I also couldn’t say no. I decided, maybe as an in-between step, or a consolation prize, or perhaps a test, to fly with Adam to Pakistan and introduce him to my parents.

I’d already told Amma and Abba about Adam, but I’d kept it casual, simply saying there was someone I was sort of seeing. Amma, excited, had asked for a photo, and I’d sent her a YouTube video of him speaking at an event for the Italian company he worked for. That got her stamp of approval straight away. Abba, a workaholic surgeon, was more circumspect; he had always felt that my sister and I should marry within our culture. And I could see why he said this. In many ways, I agreed. But as time went on, he had softened his stance. By the time I hit thirty, he said that okay, maybe a non-Muslim boy would be fine.

“As long as he’s not Indian,” he added, to my outrage.

Then, as thirty-five inched closer, I was starting to get these “accha bas, quickly now, anyone will do” vibes off him, so I sensed some relief along with the expected wariness when I told him about Adam.

“What do his parents do?” he asked.

“Abba, please.”

Adam, too, was nervous.

“Are you sure you want me to meet them?”

“Of course. I mean, you kind of have to, right? If we’re talking about marriage? Um, not that I’m saying—”

“No, I know. But … what if they don’t like me?”

“Of course they’ll like you. Why wouldn’t they?”

“Maybe they’ll feel like you could do better.”

I had learned by then that Adam carried within himself a wholly unsubstantiated sense of inferiority that was often powerful and relentless. I don’t know where it came from—maybe growing up without much money or being bullied at school (he said the two were related). Even though he’d jumped from one success to the next in his career, somewhere in his core he’d held on to the belief that he wasn’t enough.

“It’s weird for me when you get like this,” I said. “I just wish you could see how amazing you are.”

“I just … I feel like they’ll see through me, that’s all.”

“What do you mean? What’s to see through?”

“I dunno, Anisa. They just … they won’t like me.”

By then, Adam had figured out some things about my background. I hadn’t gone into detail, but he’d learned that I had a wealthy and indulgent father and that I didn’t make much money at all. “Trustafarian,” he would sometimes call me, but only in private. In public, he didn’t acknowledge this large buffer of privilege that I rested upon. He understood my discretion, embarrassment even, and we diplomatically swept such things under the carpet.

“They’ll love you,” I said. “Just like I love you.”

I spoke these words with a stab of guilt, worrying that my own doubt and hesitancy were probably not helping with his sense of inadequacy but also feeling resentful for having to play the role of soothing caretaker. Anyway, he agreed to meet them. He said that he had a conference in Berlin at the end of the month and would be gone for two weeks, but afterward, we could go.

“We could book flights for September,” he suggested.

“September’s perfect. Karachi weather’s great in September.”

I instantly went back to single mode when Adam left for his trip. I have to say, ten days of watching Bollywood films in my pajamas with a cat snoozing by my side was heavenly bliss, especially since I knew this state wasn’t permanent. It made me paradoxically wish I could spend my whole life being single while also knowing that the singlehood was temporary.