WHY ME

** The Weight of Expectations**

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the small, bustling street outside Ayesha’s family home. The distant sound of vendors calling out their wares mixed with the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer somewhere down the lane. Ayesha sat by the open window of her room, her journal perched on her lap, her pen hovering hesitantly above the page. The breeze carried the faint scent of jasmine from the garden below, a fleeting reminder of the small freedoms she still had.

But not for long.

“Ayesha!” her mother’s voice called sharply from downstairs. “What are you doing up there? The guests will be here any moment. Come help me prepare!”

Ayesha sighed, closing the journal and tucking it into her drawer. She smoothed the folds of her pale green kurta, taking a moment to steel herself. Today was not just any day—it was the day. The day her family would finalize her future, as if it were a business transaction, as if her dreams and desires were mere trifles.

She descended the narrow staircase into the sitting room, where her mother was meticulously arranging trays of sweets and cups of tea. Her younger brother, Ali, lounged in the corner, scrolling on his phone, blissfully unaware of the gravity of the day.

“Ayesha, bring the samosas from the kitchen,” her mother ordered without looking up.

“Yes, Ammi,” Ayesha replied softly, moving toward the kitchen.

Her heart felt heavy, the weight of unspoken fears pressing against her chest. She had always known this day would come; in their world, girls like her rarely had a say in their futures. Yet the thought of marrying a stranger, of leaving her home and family to live with people who might never truly accept her, filled her with dread.

As she arranged the samosas on a silver platter, her mind wandered to the fragments of conversations she had overheard over the past weeks. The groom’s family was wealthy, respected, and influential. Arman, the prospective groom, was handsome, they said, with a promising career in business. But no one had bothered to ask her what she thought.

The sound of car doors slamming jolted her from her thoughts. The guests had arrived.

Her mother rushed to the door, her smile wide and welcoming. Ayesha peeked around the corner, her heart pounding as she caught her first glimpse of them. Arman stood tall and confident, dressed in a crisp navy suit. His sharp features and piercing gaze immediately set him apart. He looked every bit the polished, successful man she had heard about.

But there was something in his demeanor—a cold detachment—that unsettled her. He didn’t smile, didn’t acknowledge the warm greetings from her family. Instead, he seemed distant, as though this entire meeting was a mere formality to him.

Ayesha’s father ushered the family into the sitting room, and Ayesha hurriedly placed the tray of samosas on the coffee table. Her hands trembled slightly as she arranged the cups, feeling the weight of Arman’s gaze briefly flicker toward her. She avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the delicate china in her hands.

“Ayesha,” her mother said, her tone overly sweet, “why don’t you sit with us for a moment?”

Ayesha hesitated, but there was no refusing. She perched on the edge of the sofa, acutely aware of the room’s charged atmosphere.

After the initial pleasantries and discussions, Ayesha’s father cleared his throat. “Perhaps Arman and Ayesha would like to speak alone?”

Ayesha’s heart sank. She wanted to protest, to say she wasn’t ready for this, but the words caught in her throat. Arman stood, his expression unreadable, and gestured for her to follow him into the adjacent room.

The study was small and cluttered, lined with bookshelves and an old desk piled with papers. Ayesha stood awkwardly near the doorway, unsure of what to say or do. Arman, leaning casually against the desk, regarded her with a faintly amused expression.

“So,” he began, his tone flat, “this is how it’s going to be, huh?”

Ayesha frowned, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “The meeting. The forced smiles. The expectations. I’m sure you’re as thrilled about this as I am.”

His bluntness surprised her. “If you’re not interested, why are you here?”

“My parents insisted,” he replied, his voice tinged with irritation. “It’s not like I have much of a choice. Do you?”

“No,” she admitted softly, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Ayesha felt a flicker of vulnerability in his words, a hint that perhaps he wasn’t as detached as he seemed.

“Look,” he said finally, his tone softening slightly. “I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But I can promise you one thing—I won’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Ayesha looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. There was no warmth in them, but there was something else—a quiet sincerity that took her by surprise.

“Thank you,” she murmured, unsure of what else to say.

He nodded, pushing himself off the desk. “We should get back before they start wondering what we’re talking about.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of polite conversation and strained smiles. When the guests finally left, Ayesha felt both relieved and exhausted. Her mother, however, was practically glowing.

“They seemed very impressed,” she said, her voice brimming with excitement. “I think this will work out wonderfully."

Ayesha didn’t respond, retreating to her room instead. She sat by the window once more, staring out at the darkened street. Her mind replayed her brief conversation with Arman. His words had been blunt, even cold, but there had been a strange comfort in his honesty.

For the first time that day, she allowed herself a small glimmer of hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to Arman than his detached exterior.

As the stars twinkled faintly above, Ayesha made a silent vow to herself. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she would face them with strength. And if the world refused to value her, she would find a way to create her own worth.

Ayesha sat still by the window, her thoughts spiraling as the dim hum of the neighborhood quieted for the night. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: “I think this will work out wonderfully.” But what did “wonderfully” even mean? Would it mean losing her voice, her dreams, and her identity to become just another dutiful wife in a household that might never truly accept her?

A faint breeze stirred the loose strands of her hair, and her fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of her dupatta. She stared at the streetlights, their glow a soft contrast to the darkness creeping into her thoughts. She could still see Arman’s face in her mind—calm, collected, and somehow distant. He didn’t seem cruel, but he also didn’t seem...interested.

A small part of her wondered what he thought of her. Had she come across as timid? Did he see her as just another piece in this inevitable arrangement, like she saw him? And yet, his honesty during their brief conversation lingered with her.

Her gaze fell to the journal tucked into her drawer. Inside were pages filled with half-written dreams: snippets of poetry, sketches of distant lands she longed to visit, and ideas for the education she had always wanted to pursue. But now, all of it felt like an illusion slipping further from her grasp.

The sound of footsteps pulled her out of her reverie. She turned to see Ali standing in her doorway, his usual mischievous grin nowhere to be found.

“Didi,” he said softly, “are you okay?”

Ayesha blinked, surprised by his concern. “I’m fine,” she said, though her voice was unconvincing even to herself.

Ali stepped inside, leaning against the doorframe. “I heard Ammi talking. They’re already discussing dates for the engagement.”

Ayesha’s stomach twisted. So soon? “Of course they are,” she muttered.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Ali hesitated, his voice dropping. “If you don’t want this, Didi, maybe you should say something.”

Her heart tightened. “And say what, Ali? That I don’t want to get married? That I want to keep studying? You know they won’t listen.”

Ali looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he sighed and nodded. “Yeah. I know.” He paused, then gave her a small, encouraging smile. “But...if it gets too much, tell me. I’ll always be on your side.”

Ayesha’s throat tightened with unexpected emotion. “Thanks, Ali,” she whispered.

As he left, she turned back to the window. For the first time that evening, she allowed a tear to slip down her cheek. But even as she wiped it away, her jaw set with determination. She didn’t know what the future held, but one thing was certain—she wouldn’t let herself disappear into someone else’s shadow.