In Androon, where some steam stood sentinel over old buildings, and green growth mingled amongst the people, Fawad waited. At the corner of a coffee shop, Fawad stood, watching the traffic go by. And through the noise, hustle, a rattle of taxis and people, and a chime of motorbikes, Fawad heard an anklet.
The twenty something year old saw Noushin, pass by. A native to this town, in black Abaya, running a daily errand.
And, while Fawad was a foreigner, clearly told by his standing outside a coffee shop -- out of time, like an expat -- Noushin was well in the rhythm of the city.
And, she conveyed the rhythm to Fawad, by her feet flapping in flats.
Daily flats. But, it was music. At least, to Fawad. He, who had the kind of taste in music that belonged to old worlds, enamored by a daily sandal, of a quite ordinary woman. Before she could pass by forever, Fawad battled his fate in an instant, asking for a chance.
And, he won. A packet fell, slightly. Okra.
Fawad took a step forward, approaching Noushin. An unusual confidence, to help. She was getting into a taxi, and their eyes met. A recognition, between two strangers... of maybe never being strangers again.
From now, and across lifetimes. She was older, he was younger. But, the age of their souls seemed quite the same. The first lines of conversation, utterly by their eyes. A nod. A yes, she was okay.
"Can I help?" Fawad went further, unwilling to lose the meeting.
She declined, gracefully.
Fawad's coffee arrived, and a box of pastry. He thanked the man, and returned to meet Noushin's eyes before they could depart. Time was running out, fate gifts you only a moment. The moment passed. He thought, offered the coffee and pastry...
Again, Noushin declined.
"Aap kahan se hain?" asked Noushin.
"America, here for a wedding." answered Fawad.
"Achaa." Noushin smiled, with some kind of wait.
The two stood still in the traffic.
"How did you know?" enquired Fawad.
Silly question. Fawad wore trackpants and a hoodie. And while it was grey and overcast, it was hot. The late twenties boy was foreign dressed, not in kurta. And Noushin wore open shoes, an abaya and a bare face. She was in the lateness of thirties, tired and obeyed the rules of life. Her scarf, loosely draped.
The taxi man silently asked to take off. Noushin nodded. She smiled at Fawad, goodbye. Fawad returned one. And, she left.
Fawad, left with a pastry box, stood in the middle of the street. Nothing left to do, but return to Uncle Nazhim's home.
But he was wrong, fate gives you more than a moment.
II - THE NIGHT BEFORE
It was late evening, and Uncle Nazhim's house was lit, for the night.
A middle class home, charming in all the ordinary ways. Warm. Gold radiated from the upstairs bedrooms, and left to talk to the streetlights. The back garden was set, staged. The front door was wide open, and the driveway began to buzz.
An electrician, packing up.
"Are the front gate lights working?", beamed Uncle Nazhim, a made man in his sixties.
It lit up, instantly. Fawad watched from the terrace, this was a wedding house. Inviting. As Fawad watched the sun set, eavesdropping on a gen z conversation, a minaret called Maghrib.
He kept up, on the upper terraces, watching as the gold and violet sky darkened.
People began to arrive, Fawad began to hide. Fawad was the guest of Uncle Nazhim, and it should have been his honor, of welcoming. Or, at least standing witness to all the welcoming. Of family and friends, and guests close enough for the grand 'night before'.
He kept away, from gold haired high heeled women and balding bearded man, spawning below with trays. And from some family friend named Taylor.
From the terrace, Fawad considered hiding out, in one of the children's bedrooms. Find a space, hijack a PlayStation. He was not a kid, but Fawad was quiet, an introvert for most of his life. He loved questions, but meaningful ones. A crowd like tonight's, were only capable of a certain kind. The ordinary. He stayed away, at least until dinner.
And past dinner, the seekh smoke turned to steam from teacups.
Fawad explored the table. Rasgullahs arrived late. Some raspberry tart. The night was into conversation, out of pleasantries. Middle aged men boasted advice, for better deals. Children ran across the garden, for better hiding spots. Aunties, in chintzy dresses, talked for better marriage. And late aged men were preparing to recall tales from earlier times.
Fawad was out of time, and out of place.
He strolled away, past the packing up caterers. Down the street, and into the night.
The street was crisp, cool and warmly lit. Rows of houses, storied, rested between great gates and under free running electric wires. Fawad strolled, until a smaller part of town. Development turned to establishment. Sandier roads. He looked up, and noticed Noushin.
Placing a potplant at the balustrade, she wore a facemask, crouching peculiarly. Noushin smiled, embarrassingly. Fawad raised a hand, hello again.
She wanted to hide, but it was too late. Noushin gestured, and disappeared back in, presumably on her way down, to meet him.
Fawad noticed now the house was in an older part of town, with squeezed buildings and more electric lines crossing. The house was smaller, poorer but adequate. And, quiet. The gate grunted open, breaking the quiet.
She appeared, in the gateway. Face, washed. Glinting in the moonlight, a little. The two strangers stood, with nothing quite to say.
It's not usual, for a boy and girl to talk like this, in the street.
"When's the wedding?" asked Noushin.
"Day after tomorrow," said Fawad. "It's up North, somewhere."
The conversation stood.
"Do you want something, to drink?" Noushin asked, to be hospitable at least. To make up, for being seeing in the facemask. Tax, for the embarrassment.
Fawad was not young, and did not have a parent here, to ask for permission. He nodded yes, before realising it. He did realise though, not to follow her in. Because he was a young man, and she was a woman. He didn't hear anyone else around, but this was considered the devil's playground in their mutual culture.
Surprisingly, Noushin asked him in.
He entered, and she went to the kitchen.
"Tea or coffee?"
"Water, is fine."
"Dont be silly. It's coffee, right?"
Noushin appeared at the kitchen doorway, waiting for an answer.
"Tea," said Fawad, unsure if Noushin had coffee.
She smiled, gestured for him to sit and disappeared into the kitchen. Fawad noticed the wall cabinet, and all its ordinary things, bowls and ornaments.
"Who are you here with?"
"Just me."
"Kaun kaun hai, ghar mein?" enquired Noushin.
"Just mom, my sister and I." Fawad said.
Fawad noticed the quietness of her home, the emptiness.
"Aap?" he asked.
"Me. And an older married sister." Noushin replied.
Fawad took the time to listen to an old song, streaming in through the window. From somewhere in the neighbourhood. Awaara Hoon, meaning I'm a wayfarer. It was license, to be here. Noushin appeared with two cups of tea, and a plate of biscuits. Placing it on the ornate mahogany table.
Noushin wore a light green floral kurti dress, in contrast to her dark wooded home. And she sat, appearing like a potplant.
Fawad noticed her sandals stood just off the carpet, and moved to remove his sneakers too.
"No, no. It's okay." stopped Noushin.
Fawad sipped the tea, wondering how he came to be sitting in a strange woman's home, a million miles away from home. And Noushin wondered how a strange male sat in hers, in a society like this. But she was old enough to make her own decisions, and talk to whom she pleases.
And at some stage, all choices for our lives... belong to us alone.
Fawad sipped the tea, and they talked.
III - MIDNIGHT
