The Price She Paid - Ayesha Pervez (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

hardly see him myself? He is always gone on business trips!” Amina joked. She wanted Aunt Seemi to know that her husband was a busy man and that he earned well.
“Hmm … so enjoying marriage?” Aunt Seemi teased, but Amina didn’t miss the flicker of worry in her tone.
“So far, everything’s going well.”
“What are you doing about your admission?”
Amina had dreaded the question. “I haven’t spoken to him about it—yet.”
Aunt Seemi was calling from work, so the conversation had to be kept short. She made Amina promise to call back when she had spoken to Omer about obtaining admission in an arts university, and then they said their good-byes.
An elder second cousin from the maternal side, Aunt Seemi was quite close to Amina. She admired Amina’s art and knew that she was capable of producing masterpieces if given the proper training.
Aunt Seemi had recognized the independent spirit in Amina and had often urged her uncle—Amina’s father—to allow her to get admission in an affluent art school in Karachi, offering to let Amina stay with herself. She always told Amina that marriage can wait—a girl must first acquire an education and establish a career. A living proof of her preachings, she was the branch manager at a prestigious bank in Karachi and was engaged to a charming man whom she had met—and fallen in love with—during her years at university.

One morning when the day seemed bright and something special lingered in the air, Amina woke and walked into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. It was a Saturday; Omer went to work later than the usual 8:15 AM. She noticed a package on the countertop.
Amina tore open the bright wrapping. Inside was a round chocolate cake with the words “Happy Nineteenth Birthday, Amina” written in sugar icing. A smile made its way onto Amina’s lazy morning face. The brightness of the day had been brought into effect; it was her birthday. Smiling, she took out the handmade birthday card from her sisters. She noticed another envelope tucked in between the card.
Amina’s heart started thudding wildly when she saw the return address. It was from the Valley Institute of Arts. Amina tore open the envelope and proceeded to read the letter inside:

Amina Bokhari
63-2, Gulraiz
Peshawar

March 4, 2008

Dear Ms. Amina Bokhari,

This letter is referring to your application to the Gifted Females Scholarship Program at the Valley Institute of Karachi.

We are pleased inform you that based on your art samples, you have been selected into the program. The scholarship will cover your tuition fees only.

In order to verify the art samples, you must contact the school as soon as you receive this letter.

Sincerely,

Sabina Khan
Director, Scholarship Program


Amina stared at the words so intently that they blurred. Then she exclaimed, “Oh my God! It can’t be—I don’t believe this!”
Omer rushed into the kitchen, dripping wet and wearing only a towel. As a reflex, Amina hid the letter behind her and smiled wildly at him, controlling her urge to jump around the house like a little child.
Omer smiled brightly. “Oh! You’re up—happy birthday!”
He gestured to the box on the table. “The guy from gifts express came while you were sleeping.”
He peeked inside at the cake. “Wow, nice sisters you have. Listen—don’t you dare cook; we are going out for dinner.”
Amina stared at Omer’s face and continued to smile.
Omer seemed to notice Amina’s lost gaze, and his eyes went to her hands, which were still behind her back. “A card …?”
“Oh no—it’s a bill,” Amina mustered, coming back.
“Which bill?” Omer said and extended his hand.
Amina handed the letter and observed as confusion followed by relief registered onto Omer’s face. “What’s this?”
“I had applied to the program before the wedding,” Amina said, somewhat glumly.
Omer stared at Amina’s face and then broke into a small smile. “Amina, you have talent, but in order to take this scholarship, you will have to live in Karachi for two years; I might be okay with that—but what about our families?”
Amina knew she had received her answer. She decided to stay quiet.
Omer continued, “I’m not one of those males who wouldn’t want you to get an education; I understand your passion. If you find a similar program in Lahore, I won’t stop you.”
Amina’s hopes soared momentarily. But reality sunk in. How many scholarships can one get? She thought. “I think you should change; I’ll make breakfast,” Amina said, changing the topic.

That night, Amina was lost in thought during dinner at the Chinese restaurant Omer had taken her to. She felt as if she had been interrupted from a beautiful dream and was not allowed to resume sleep. Omer was sensitive enough to comprehend her pain, but he did not touch upon the topic of her unrest. It was a quiet evening.
When they returned home, Amina had a surprise in store for her. While she changed, Omer prepared tea and lit the birthday cake with three candles. When Amina emerged from the washroom, Omer led her gently by the shoulder to the dining table, where he had placed, along with the cake and tea, a small velvet box. Amina cut the cake and then opened the box. In it was a gold ring lined with three tiny zircon stones. It was simple yet absolutely beautiful, and Amina was touched from the entire scenario that Omer had created for her.

That night Amina thought of the day that had gone by. She felt terrible whenever she thought of the letter, but the way Omer had conveyed to her the reasons—why it was not fit to accept, the thoughtfulness of the tea, and yes, the ring—it stirred in her feelings of being accepted and loved. And perhaps it was more important than a dream. She struggled with contradictory thoughts until slumber finally captured her.

The next day, Amina awoke deeply motivated. She had decided she would research art institutes in Lahore. She would have to make a fresh start, but, she realized that with an amazing husband’s support, it would be well worth the struggle.

Having a large collection of books, Omer had converted the spare bedroom in the apartment into a study. The furniture consisted of a solitary shelf stocked with books of varying width and length, a thick chestnut table on which was a desktop computer, a chair, and a sofa. Yet more books were found in every corner of the room, even towering one upon the other in the corners. Amina liked to call it her art room, as she had put her art supplies here as well. She found herself in this very room the next morning after Omer had left.
She began feverishly surfing the Internet. The connection was slow and kept disconnecting, and so by midafternoon, Amina had come up with the details of two institutes. Neither of them had any open scholarships, which left Amina feeling dismayed. Her stomach started to grumble, and she realized she had not cooked lunch. Turning off the computer, she decided to continue her research the next day.
That night Omer informed Amina that he would be leaving early in the morning for an official trip to the capital and would return by the night coach. “I feel bad leaving you all by yourself so frequently …”
He was seated on the dining table, and Amina had just placed a hot roti9 on his plate. “That’s alright—I’ll be looking up some art institutes on the Net tomorrow,” Amina said enthusiastically.
“Uh-huh …,” Omer responded, apparently without a trace of interest.
They ate the meal in silence.

When Amina woke the next day, she found that the enthusiasm of the previous morning had all but vanished. The space next to her on the bed was vacant, and the door was ajar, which meant that Omer had departed.
Amina walked into the kitchen dejectedly. She put the kettle to boil and went into the washroom.
After breakfast, Amina did some household chores; after which she found herself completely idle. She went into the study. The computer was there, reminding her of an excited afternoon just the day before.
It had taken that single gesture of indifference—perhaps indicating disapproval—to bring Amina to a halt. That’s how she had been reared: to always put others’ happiness before her own. She was now sure that her husband was not the least bit interested in her aims. She realized that he was the sort of person who would say things to make someone feel temporarily comfortable—and not mean them. It crushed her.
She slumped miserably on the sofa. An hour passed in bitter thoughts; then Amina decided that she would not indulge in further self-pity, so she got up and looked around the room.
She thought she might as well read to divert herself. She scanned the shelf for book titles; most of which were on information technology and communication, and there were course books. A title caught Amina’s eye, and she propped her tiny frame on her toes to take out the book from the topmost plank.
She stared at the cover. “Emma by Jane Austen,” she said aloud. She opened the cover and was startled by the handwritten message in the middle of the page.

Cambridge
March 2005

Dearest Omer,

Hope you’ll think of me while reading this!

Love,
Jane Dover

Who was Jane? Why would she want Omer to think of her? What is this? A train of questions rose in her mind. The phone was ringing now.
“No one by that name lives here, wrong number.” Amina carried the book to her bedroom and crumpled onto the bed. Her heart was beating wildly. She felt a sudden burst of ravaging jealousy. Who is this other woman in my husbands’ life? she thought.
She stared at the message again. A teacher? Colleague? Colleague’s wife? She counted the possibilities.
“Don’t be stupid, why would either of them write that they want him to think of her? And ‘love’?”
It made her feel betrayed that there had been a woman in her husband’s life. She herself had never been involved with anyone, and perhaps, she felt that she was making a mountain out of a molehill, but she had always wanted a man without a romantic past, since she herself was without one.
She opened her eyes and realized that she had fallen asleep. The bedside clock read half past five. Her eyes fell on the book on the bed. Picking up the copy, she walked into the kitchen. She arranged a cup and saucer and filled the teapot with water. Then she walked to the study and stood on her toes to return the book to its place. The books were stocked so tightly together that she had to make a space with one hand while pushing in the book with another. She lost her balance and stumbled backward as books flew out of the shelf. Regaining her composure and shaking her head irately, she noticed a bunch of papers tucked at the back of the shelf, which had been covered by the books. Grabbing the chair over from the desk, she climbed and seized the papers. What she saw seemed like a bunch of important documents, licenses, a degree and a marriage certificate. Amina’s eyes bulged out of their sockets.
She gaped at the document. It was a court licensing the union of two individuals: Omer Lateef and Jane Dover.
In a sudden moment, her world came crashing down. Nothing that had happened in the past few months could be compared to the immense pain