Haider had gone to bed early with the promise of taking my sister to the psychiatrist the next day. I struggled and tossed in my bed with hopes of my fatigue translating into deep slumber. Nothing worked. I took my usual sleeping pills and even opened the bedroom window twice but shut it again to save myself from catching flu from the winter winds. I was fighting the urge to take another dose of sleeping pills when I caught a glimpse of Haider. His calm expressions and his peaceful demeanor looked alien to me. My mother would argue with me over the matter. She had mentioned it quite a few times that she had never seen Haider angry. She insisted that even in his bad moods, he did not make a monstrous display of it like men usually do. Once, she asked me to thank God for sending him in my life.
It is still incomprehensible to me that a lack of display of one’s anger by throwing glass plates and yelling at one’s family is considered a noble trait and not an expected one. The first time that I had slammed my bedroom door was at the age of seventeen when I was upset with my sister, my mother had locked me up inside and made me compensate for my mistake by doing my sister’s chores for the next day. Father slammed the bedroom door almost every other night. All we did was pray that he didn’t punish us the next morning.
Haider wasn’t bad tempered. I should be grateful. He had never come close to raising his voice at me. He spoke in such a soft tone that certain people struggled to comprehend him if they were sitting a few steps away from him. I felt guilty for wanting to cry. I had been crying for my sister. She had lost her senses. Somehow, my tears forgot their purpose. I found myself crying for me. I found myself pitying me. Why did I pity myself?
I got up from the bed because I felt nauseous all of a sudden. I rushed to the washroom and grabbed the corners of the basin waiting for something to come out of my mouth. I looked at myself in the mirror and was horrified. The woman that stared back looked disheveled. Her hair was a mess. Haider hates it when I straighten my hair. I had done it twice after our marriage. The first time I did it, he had said, “I love your curls” and I assumed that it was a compliment. But the second time I was doing it he grabbed the straightener from my hand and threw it on the bed. He later instructed me to either give it to someone who may need it or throw it away. I never asked him why he did that. I simply learnt that if he didn’t like anything about me, he wouldn’t throw a fit. He wouldn’t shout at me. He would simply make amends and this did not merely apply to things but also my personality. Mother has taught me that a man who respectfully changes who you are is a blessing because most men like to be violent in the act. I looked at my curly hair again. Haider liked them. That was enough.
When I got out of the bathroom, I looked at Haider and reminded myself how fortunate I was. How fortunate I was to have landed with a man so unlike my own father.
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