Azaan (Two Months Later)

"Do you like, Frozen?" seven-year-old Inayah Mina Khan asked my wife with all the seriousness of a lawyer cross-questioning a homicide suspect.

"What's not to like?" Layla replied back, suppressing her mirth with a press of her full red lips.

"Good. Because Azzy loves it. I watched it with him seven times...no, nine and a half times." Inayah chirped cheerfully, flipping her mop of curls to one side, dramatically. She then strategically nudged my hand away from Layla's waist, so she could be closer to her new best friend.

"Nine, and a half, huh?" Layla raised an eyebrow at me, her eyes twinkling. I mimed blowing my brains out with a hand pistol.

"Yeah, that one time Mommy said we had to leave early, so we couldn't finish it. Azzy was very upset." She beckoned Layla closer to whisper loudly in her ear, "He was so sad that he had to eat dinner twice. It was pea qeema. Yuck."

"I bet that was a real tragedy for him." My wife shook her head gravely.

"Ina. We talked about this. You have to call me Mamu, or Uncle or something similarly respectful, in public." I frowned playfully at the little girl. Inayah had a tendency to imitate her mother in everything. It was almost scary.

"This is a private conversation, Mamooo! " she rolled her tongue at the Urdu word, making Layla shake with silent laughter.

Every time Mina visits from the US, her daughter's Urdu accent gets worse. Kulsoom Dadi has taken it upon herself, to only speak to Inayah in pure Urdu. She refuses to answer in English, so as to help Inayah 'Reconnnect to her roots'. It is actually hilarious seeing them both converse in totally different languages, yelling out difficult words to make their points.

Speaking of willful relatives, our wedding reception was rapidly turning into a battleground, with all the drama-loving females of my family (namely my cousin's daughter Inayah, her mother, Mina, and Kulsoom Dadi), all grilling Layla "To make sure that she is as awesome as you say she is". For the most part, my wife of two months was now pretty used to it, and was holding her own against them, which was something I was excessively proud of.

We had gotten our Nikah done in a very small, private ceremony at Layla's house. If our parents had reservations about the haste, they tactfully hid them. My mother was only too ecstatic to have me properly hitched, and Layla's Mama was typically respectful of her daughter's wishes. Only our families plus Pareeshae-Faris had attended the quick exchange of promises, and legal papers. It wasn't the dream wedding any girl would wish for, but the relief of finally making her my own, had been worth it.

We had decided to slowly get used to being married, before we moved in together, and truly started our married lives. So the grand reception and the Rukhsati (Bride's departure to the groom's house) was then planned for two months later, which gave both sets of mothers and sisters, plenty of time to prepare for the event.

Layla had made it clear that she didn't mind an earlier reception, but I wanted to give her more time to get used to the idea of 'us'. And I had been proven right.

After the horrifying encounter with Musa, she was pretending to be fine on the surface, when she was anything but. There was a persistent fear in her eyes sometimes that I just couldn't do anything about. So I convinced her to reconnect with her old therapist, who helped a lot in getting her to accept her past.

Whenever we weren't swamped at work, we went back to volunteering at schools like we used to, and that always cheered her up. Eventually, we house-hunted properties for Hiraeth and managed to find a place bigger and better than the current house they were situated in. I thought that would have been enough, but she still cried when they had to move everyone to the new building.

Every day has been an upward struggle for her. And by extension; for me.

Every day, I am grateful that Allah has made her out of some special combination of bravery and resilient strength, because a lesser person would have given up long ago. But not her. Not my Nightlife.

After our Nikah, it took her a while to get used to my touch. For the first two weeks after the event, she'd flinch away if I made a move to do more than hold her hand. Even after a solid month of wooing my wife, the most I'd gotten from her was a chaste kiss on the cheek. Reluctant to push her for more, I never let her know just how much I needed her to trust me wholly.

In retrospect, I am glad that I didn't push her, because when more happened...It happened in the best of ways.

I'll remember our first kiss forever. You see, a couple of weeks before the wedding reception, we'd been bickering over who'd have to help our families with the wedding preps. Layla was being forced to sit through dress alterations and hair appointments, and she was pissed that my contribution to the event was limited to picking food menus for the caterers. Her silent treatment just wasn't acceptable to me, so just to annoy her, I took the time to create a digital techno-graphic-print henna design for her hands and feet. It may or may not have involved a few emo skulls and my own initials (M.A.M) in gothic print.

Since Layla hates henna, I was expecting a punch to my throat when she walked into my office that morning, clutching the print of my email. I didn't expect her to yank the blinds shut, climb onto my lap, and say:

"If you think I'm henna tattooing your initials on my hands, you need to get your head examined. Idiot!"

After which she proceeded to kiss the surprise right off my mouth. It took me less than a second to participate as enthusiastically as her.

My hands wound their way into her hair, expediently removing her clip. I loved the feel of her satiny strands flowing against my fingers. She tasted just like she smelled: a maddening mix of blueberry pancakes and coffee; of her vanilla mandarin bath soap, and her coconut shampoo. I was drowning in her flavor, and I was glad of it. It overwhelmed my senses, and I gasped for air, so I could inhale her more. In that moment I knew that I would never, ever, in all my life, have enough of this girl.

She obviously felt the same way, because when I tried to move onto her neck, she hummed annoyedly until I was right where she wanted me. I grinned against her neck when I felt her tugging at my hair, trying to nudge me back to her lips. I enjoyed teasing her with half-kisses, before giving in, and taking her mouth once more.

Eventually, after an eternity, I gentled our passion, stroking the soft skin beneath her chin, as I kissed a path from her lips to temple. She just stayed motionless in my arms, holding onto my shirt collar with white-knuckled fingers, her eyes shut, her breathing erratic.

Somehow, I knew exactly what she was reliving when she started crying with relief and sorrow; just sobbing the word 'Sorry' over and over again. She tugged my hands up to her mouth, kissing it repeatedly, as if to atone for something. It seemed like the regret and apology was being wrenched from her very soul. Even after I had repeatedly forgiven her, she seemed to believe that she wasn't worthy of this absolution. I imagine it's one of those things which will always be under that "eternal regret" folder in her psyche. Everyone has that folder: that collection of regrets, mistakes, and if-onlys. You relive those moments again and again wishing that somehow, time would be kind enough to allow you a second chance, because you'd give your life for a do-over. Or at least, you'd give your life to forget them; to never be reminded of them.

Although it tore at my heart; her guilt and pain, I was glad that this time I could hold her in my arms and try to exorcise her bad memories with new ones.

She asked me once, how I could ever have that kind of faith in her: The blind kind.

The answer is simple really. Faith means eternal devotion. It means, the kind of faith that we have in God's greatness. The kind of faith we have in the sun's rising and setting. The kind of faith I have in the awesomeness of Biryani. Naturally: I have this unwavering faith in my Nightlife. She could literally be standing over a murdered corpse, with blood on her hands, and if she said she didn't do it--I'll just nod and hand her a mop, before throwing up repeatedly.

Like I said; it's been an upward struggle.

For most of Layla's life, her body has been a source of pain, and humiliation for her. As her husband, I have the privilege of showing her how much her trust and love means to me. I have the privilege of giving her the freedom that should always have been hers: the freedom to give and withhold her desires.

She wanted to wait for our wedding night.

I just wanted her: on her terms.

With every shy twist of her mouth, and every meaningful gaze of hers tonight, I feel like I'm the stereotypical desi bride, about to go through an emotional weeping phase. It's because we've won...finally.

This beautiful vision in crimson is mine. And I am hers.

Her light brown hair is twisted into a thick intricate French knot-(don't ask me how I know that. It involves Pinterest pins and Maria)-her ears and throat glittering with tasteful gold-bronze jewelry, her flowing traditional bridal skirt makes her look taller than she is. Sanam Hayat should be proud of both her masterpieces: the dress and the daughter.

I realized that my gaze kept finding her throughout the wedding. It brought me so much peace, just watching her move gracefully around the party, hugging relatives, smiling at friends, laughing at something Pareeshae had whispered in her ear. My shameless ogling was interrupted by the whack of a walking stick squarely hitting my ass.

"OW!" I yelped, scowling down at my Dadi smirking from her perch on the VIP section sofa. "What was that for?"

"I Just wanted to remind you to say MashaAllah when you see her. She looks so beautiful, you should be phoo-ing anti-nazar duas (prayers) towards her, with every ogle." she admonished snootily, "I think you've forgotten, the story of our neighbor Pasha's son-in-law's sister."

I blinked.

"Which one is that again? The one with the glass-eyed husband? Or the one with the demented singing house cat?"

"It's the one where the groom forgot to say MashaAllah when he saw his bride, and then she ran away with his best friend instead," she shook her head ruefully, "broke the poor boy's heart. Probably broke his brains too. He is a social activist now. Lives in vans, and makes cushions out of empty cocomo wrappers. Pity..."

I curbed the urge to laugh. She takes offense when she isn't taken seriously. Dear old dragon Dadi.

"I'll make sure Layla steers clear of Faris at all times." I assured her straight-faced, "No bride of mine is running away with my best friend."

She watched me out of beady narrowed eyes, before barking out her orders; "Do you know how old I am, BOY?"

"You're not a day over 250." I grinned back.

"HAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!" she banged her cane, cackling with amusement, "Impertinent grandchild! I should have asked your mother to give you more Zamzam water as a child. You were a demon then, and a devil now!"

"Age is just a number, Dadi." I shrugged, "In your case, it's a biiiiig one."

"Hmmph, is that so? Then you realize that I don't have a lot of numbers left? Now, don't give in to your mother's babbling requests. Listen to me carefully, and don't be a blushing teenage girl about it, for God's sake!!" she snorted, eyeing my mother sitting with Layla's Mama at the next table, she leaned in conspiratorially and whispered: "Let me die in peace before rushing to make me a great grandmother, I beg you."

I felt my ears turn hot as I coughed repeatedly.

"Well you know, when Allah wants to bless us with a kid He--"

"Kids don't fall from the heavens, you fool!" she thundered, pushing her spectacles back onto her nose, rolling her eyes meaningfully at me, "The education system in this country is deplorable..."

My approximately 90-year-old grandmother was lecturing me on planned parenthood in the middle of my goddamned wedding.

I wanted to swallow crushed glass in that moment, to end the misery.

Thankfully Layla and Mina arrived to save me from responding.

"You told my daughter that she should be an ice-cream taster, instead of an artist!?" Mina hissed at me, "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Your kid's art is utter shit, Mina."

"SHE IS SEVEN, AZZFACE!" my cousin smacked her forehead exasperatedly.

"She drew me a picture of Yoda. Except it wasn't Yoda, it was supposed to be the Pakistani National flag!" I argued while Layla and Kulsoom Dadi let out snorts of laughter.

"Oh Yeah? Well, now she wants an ice-cream machine, so she can 'start practicing for her career'. Thanks a lot."

I smiled gleefully at that, "I'm sure your husband will indulge her."

Mina's husband, Shehzer is known to be quite a shopaholic.

"You don't get it. He already has. A damned ice-cream machine is waiting for us back home. At this rate, it's a wonder if my kid survives childhood without being spoiled rotten" Mina griped exasperatedly.

"That ship has sailed long ago." Kulsoom Dadi grimly shook her head. "Yesterday at the family dinner, Inayah ate my dessert, so I wouldn't die from diabetes. Now where would she be getting such horrendous manners, I wonder."

That dessert had been shared by me and Inayah, but Dadi didn't need to know that. Although, by the censorious looks she was slanting at me, I had a feeling she had a pretty good idea.

"Now Layla dear, you make sure to change the locks on your refrigerator, okay? This BOY can bring you to the brink of starvation in a week. I remember his mother had to do groceries every 3 days..."

"Thank God we have online shopping now. I can just place orders with my phone in minutes without having to leave the house at all." Layla nodded seriously at The Dragon's husband-keeping tips.

"Hmmph. Filthy culture it is: this online shopping business." Dadi griped, "Did I tell you about the time my secretary Sophia ordered a recipe book, and they sent over The Communist Manifesto?"

"I must say, this beautiful mistake warrants full Marx for the person responsible." Mina wiggled her eyebrows at the pun she'd made, making me groan with agony.

"They did?" Layla bit her trembling lip from laughing out loud. "I bet you gave them a piece of your mind, Dadi."

"Of course I did dear. I gave their sales manager a proper earful. He sent over a book called "Qabar say Aagay" (Beyond the Grave) as compensation for the mistake." Dadi's nostrils flared, offended. "Had to ask Sophia to mark corrections in the copy, riddled with factual errors that book was...I'm going to call the editor next. Idiocy should never be tolerated my dear, it gives rise to idiocy through contact. I say that again and again, but nobody listens to me. Now look at Americans. First elected Donald Trump, and now Kanye is in the oval office. Mark my words, children: idiocy is contagious!" she thumped her cane once to make her point. Mina nodded gravely.

"What do you suggest we do to idiots? To stop this virulent disease?" Layla slanted a playful gaze my way. You idiot. She was saying.

Dadi sighed gustily, "I would have them enrolled in special anti-idiocy schools, but then I think that these people are happy in their world of incompetent stupidity. Allah put these people in the world for a reason..."

"To hasten up the Apocalypse, probably." Mina suggested.

"...hence, I think they should be loved, like all of His creation."

"So we should love our share of idiots, Dadi? Is that what you're saying?" Layla's hand drew through my arm, and I felt my heart tighten at the possessiveness.

"Hmmph. Yes. Love them. Otherwise, you'd have to kill them,"

.......................

Layla

"Would you stop staring at me like that? I'm trying to be a gentleman here!" Azaan muttered a few minutes into the movie we were watching.

"You're the one who suggested this. Not me." I tore my eyes away from his half-dressed body, forcing myself to watch our choice of Wedding Night Film: Monsters Inc.

Apparently, my overly considerate husband wanted to make sure I was "Comfortable" tonight. His brilliant idea: "Let's have a Pixar marathon!". He'd even arranged my favorites in a pile on the bed. We had our choice of popcorns (Butter, Cheese, Chili and Caramel), and soda. I had been so amused and captivated by his sweetness that I went along with the plan.

So he started setting up the movie while I changed out of my wedding dress, in our spacious walk-in closet. It felt surreal somehow; that this place was "Ours" now. Azaan and I decided to live in his bachelor pad, until we could afford something bigger. Both of us had blown our savings on buying the new hiraeth home.

Azaan was sifting through the DVD pile when I walked out of the closet wearing my brand new black lace nightdress, and I suppressed a giggle when he dropped a couple of disks on his foot when he caught sight of me, swearing under his breath. I knelt down to help him clear up the mess, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath.

I waited for nervousness, or modesty to overcome my mood, but...nothing. I couldn't have been happier, more comfortable, or more in love with my husband. This moment, this night was so perfect for me, that left no room for anything other than our desire for each other.

"So what are we watching again?" I stood up slowly, placing the disk pile in his hands, making sure to graze his fingers with my own. Azaan swallowed once, and I could feel his gaze everywhere; from the tips of my hair left undone down to my waist, to the sheer fabric that showed off more than it covered. I had removed all my makeup, and after wearing Mama's heavily embellished princess dress all day, I felt almost floaty without the added weight.

"Pick one." He murmured huskily, offering me the pile.

I blindly reached for a disk, and handed it to him without looking at the cover.

"Monsters Inc.?" His lashes lowered briefly to the movie before a grin broke out over his handsome face. "How romantic, Wife."

"Just call me Queen of Seduction. Husband." I flipped my hair in an exaggerated gesture, striking a Covergirl pose meant to make him laugh.

He didn't laugh.

And about ten minutes into that animated movie, I wasn't laughing either.

I kept sneaking peeks at my deliciously disheveled looking husband reclining next to me. He was wearing his old black Deadpool tee, with gray Bermudas, hair customarily standing on its ends. His muscled arms were folded over his chest tensed, and I wished he'd put them around me. His face was taut with the effort of holding back, and I couldn't help but melt at his patience with me.

"I can't watch anything with you ogling me like that!" Azaan grumbled at me.

As an answer I inched my way closer to him, situating myself securely on his lap. He reflexively drew me against his chest, and I heard him chuckle.

"You're comfy here?" he asked slyly, his hand playing with the lacy hem of my dress that ended near the top of my thighs.

"The comfiest."

My attention was now occupied at his neck. I traced the smooth corded muscle there, and his Adam's apple, which bobbed under fingers.

"I always wanted to touch this." I leaned forward, kissing his neck gently.

"You did, huh?" his voice was rougher now. As if just he'd woken up. And for endless moments, he just held still and let me explore him at my own pace.

"But more than anything, I wanted to touch--" I whispered, tracing my fingers up to his stubbled cheek. "Smile, please."

He grinned his adorable smile, and his cheek dented with the appearance of my favorite facial deformities.

"Aha!" I poked my finger at his dimple, before kissing it. "I think around 50% of the reason I love you, has to do with these. I've always been a sucker for your dimples."

"Alright, enough." He growled out, yanking me closer, "My turn now."

Yes!

"Did I tell you how much I love your ears?" Azaan's question was followed by a thorough investigation of said body part. I gasped when he bit my ear-lobe gently, soothing it with his tongue later. "They're so soft, and tiny and perfectly shaped."

"No, I don't think you mentioned it before." I squeaked when he pushed me onto his pillow, his warm body covering mine.

"Well. Now you know." He left my ears to trace my mouth, "I think you know how much I love your lips."

"I-I forget things."

"Hmm. Well, maybe this will refresh your memory." Azaan murmured gruffly before taking my mouth in one soul shattering kiss after another. Sometimes he was achingly slow and gentle, while others he'd be almost rough with his passion, and I never could figure out which ones I liked best.

"I'm crazy about you, Nightlife." He breathed out, nuzzling his way down to my collarbone. I angled my neck farther back to give him better access. "Completely. Idiotically. Irrevocably." He said as he tugged at the ribbon covering my shoulder, reverently kissing my scarred shoulder. 

"Good. Because this would be so awkward otherwise." I sighed happily.

"Layla?"

"Azaan?"

"I don't want to watch the movie anymore."

.......................

Author's Note

*Bawls my eyes out*

My babies all grown up and being all matrimonial!

That was cheesy enough for you, Wattpad? Huh?

That's it folks. The End.

Well, I do have an Epilogue, and Bonus Features thingie left. But basically yeah, we're done. "Don't Remind Me", is officially OVER. And I feel so damned nostalgic already *sniffs*.

Before I lose my nerve, I gotta show you this dress:

When I saw it, I thought: Queen. Layla. Love. (Yass and Slay may also have been involved). 

This is totally Layla's Wedding Dress. *Heart Eyes* I swear, If Pakistani designers are doing one thing right: it's wedding dresses. 

hershey-z suggested this beautiful song (Little do you know by Alex and Sierra) to me that I attached above, a while ago, and I think it goes beautifully with this book <3 don't you agree? :') 

So... you know the drill by now!

Vote. Comment! Let me know EVERYTHING you thought about this chapter. I love hearing back from you, and rest assured that I will comment back to you, as soon as I have control over my work pile.

*work pile laughs manically*

This has been the best time, friends. Thank you all for that. <3

Love and BBQ,

-E.

M