Alina Hoshur weaves through Nurala’s bustling marketplace. Vibrant silks flutter from stalls, their colors rivaling the spice-filled baskets. The mingled aromas of saffron, cardamom, and fresh produce that reminds her of distant lands.
Curious stares prickle her skin, yet her gaze remains fixed, scanning the crowded bazaar eagerly.
The air fills with Uyghur haggling as she sidesteps a cart of ripe melons. “Tatliq qoghun! Sweet melons!” a vendor calls. Children dart between adults, their laughter brightening the afternoon. Nearby, an elderly man carefully measures tea leaves for a waiting customer.
Nan bread perfumes the air. Her stomach growls, but a deeper hunger gnaws. Eyes darting, she seeks the herbalist amid the market’s bustle.
A goat’s bleat startles her. She smooths her blue headscarf, composing herself. Approaching the herb section, her steps falter. Her heart pounds in her ears. Her fingers flit nervously from headscarf to earring to sleeve hem, betraying her uncertainty.
The sea of people parts revealing the herbalist stalls. Alina’s breath lodges in her chest. Her eyes flit from face to face, seeking Rayan’s familiar features. Surrounded by Nurala’s bustle, she stands at a crossroads.
Upon spying his stall, her pulse quickens. Sunlight glints off the herbalist’s jet-black hair as he works. His hands move with assurance, measuring dried leaves into rough cloth pouches. The earthy scent of herbs mingles with the market’s spicy aroma. Feigning interest in nearby fruit, she edges closer, stealing glances at him.
The herbalist selects herbs from jars and baskets with practiced ease. When a child tugs at his mother’s skirt, complaining of a sore belly, he crouches down. His voice carries a soothing quality as he mixes a cure. Warmth creeps up her neck at the sight of his gentle demeanor. His smile transforms his handsome face, momentarily arresting her attention. Laugh lines crinkle at his eyes, hinting at joy despite life’s hardships. A shy grin spreads across a young boy’s face when the man tousles his hair.
An elderly man hobbles up, leaning on a gnarled stick. The herbalist guides him to a stool without hesitation. “Assalamu alaikum, ata,” he greets warmly. “Please, rest here.” The two converse easily, their animated discussion blending with the merry sounds of the marketplace.
Noting his tanned, muscled forearms, she finds herself at a loss for words; his presence captivates her completely.
Suddenly, boisterous children dash through the crowd, nearly upending the carefully arranged jars. He steadies the wobbling shelf with swift movements, saving the precious herbs. Admiration wells within her at his deftness.
Visions dance in her mind: those arms cradling their children, that gentle voice soothing nightmares. She yearns to join his world, to bask in his warmth each day.
Sunlight creeps upward, painting patchwork shade beneath market stalls.
From her vantage point, she absorbs every detail. His brow furrows during herb grinding, his head tilting slightly while explaining a remedy to a customer. She imagines the rough texture of dried herbs beneath his fingertips. With each passing moment, her certainty grows: Rayan Yehya embodies the perfect husband in her eyes.
“Rayan might be leaving for Kashgar.” The words pierce her reverie. Her body stiffens, breath trapped in her lungs. Time slows. She registers the familiar name—his name—spoken by unfamiliar lips.
Two women stand mere paces away, unaware of the turmoil their hushed chatter has sparked. The older one leans in, eyes darting furtively. “Have you heard the rumors floating about?” she continues, her voice low but clear in Alina’s hyper-aware state.
Blood rushes in the 20-year-old girl’s ears. Her fingernails dig into her palms. She fights the urge to whirl around, to demand answers. The market’s bustle fades to a dull roar. Every fiber of her being focuses on the gossip, desperate to glean any information about the man who, moments ago, was the center of her dreams.
The younger woman responds, “Leaving? But what of his family and patients here?”
“There’s talk of a renowned healer there,” the older woman explains. “Think of the knowledge he could gain!”
A heaviness settles in Alina’s chest. She grips the edge of a nearby stall, steadying herself. The implications sink in. The colorful market blurs at the edges of her vision. Her mind races.
“How can he consider leaving… permanently?” she whispers to herself, grappling with bewilderment and an abrupt, hollowing sensation that carves into her heart.
Her fingers loosen their death grip on the stall. The herbalist ties off a pouch with a neat knot, handing it to a customer with a respectful nod. The scene, once delightful to behold, now stings with sudden dread. Her mind churns with questions. His journeys for work were part of his life, something she’d observed during her visits to Nurala. But this? The foundation of her imagined future quakes beneath her feet. She takes a deep, steadying breath, pushing aside the initial shock. A new urgency courses through her veins: she must act fast, before this departure happens and her rare chances to see him vanish entirely.
“Fear Allah and Lower your gaze, girl,” growls a rough voice, shattering her reverie.
Startled, she turns to find the orange vendor eyeing her with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. His rough hands continue to methodically clean a basket of fresh oranges, the bright fruit against his sun-darkened skin.
A flush warms her face. “I mean to say, I was merely—” she stammers, struggling to find an excuse.
The vendor’s eyebrow raises, a knowing look crossing his face. “Just admiring the herbs, eh? They won’t sell themselves, you know.” He nods towards his own wares. “Unlike these beauties.”
Alina forces a weak smile, her fingers absently tracing the contours of an orange. “They do look delicious,” she manages, her mind still whirling with thoughts of Rayan and Kashgar.
“Aye, that they are,” the vendor agrees, his tone softening slightly. “Take one for the road. Might clear your head a bit.” Grateful for the distraction and the kindness beneath his gruff exterior, her fingers close around a plump orange. She savors its solid weight. She hands over a few coins, murmuring her thanks.
She then quickens her pace, cheeks burning with embarrassment. This is literally mortifying, she thinks, weaving through the crowd. Did I truly make such a spectacle? The market square seems to close in, every glance in her direction a potential judgment.
She hurries through the village streets, her mind racing faster than her feet. Upon reaching her aunt’s house, Alina flings open the wooden door, stumbling inside. Her chest heaves, breath coming in short gasps from her hurried journey. Sweat beads on her forehead, dampening wisps of hair that peek from beneath her headscarf.
As she paces the spacious living area, her embroidered slippers sink into the thick wool of the central rug, its deep red and navy blue gül (flower) pattern blurring beneath her restless steps.
The familiar scents of cardamom and rose water hang in the air, but she barely notices them. Her mind races, filled with the overheard gossip about Rayan’s potential departure. Time presses against her, each second amplifying the need to act.
Alina’s restless circuit of the room quickens, her embroidered slippers scuffing against the carpet. She pauses by the low table, fingers drumming an impatient beat. Her gaze falls on the half-finished embroidery her aunt left there—delicate flowers blooming on silk. The tidy, meticulous stitches clash with the tempest raging in her mind. A floorboard creaks in the next room. Her head snaps up, her body tensing like a drawn bowstring. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. Her mind churns with half-formed plans and desperate hopes, all hinging on her aunt’s wisdom and assistance.
The orange escapes her fingers, tumbling across the table. She snatches it mid-air, her fumble mirroring her inner chaos. With her heart thundering, she pivots toward the oncoming steps, fighting to hold back the torrent of words threatening to escape.
Zuhra scrutinizes her niece’s face, her brow furrowing. Shadows stretch across the room, intensifying the gravity of the moment. Alina yanks off her headscarf, her skin flushed with sudden heat.
“Aunt Zuhra,” she blurts out, her voice trembling, “I mean to say, I’ve heard the most distressing news. It’s about Rayan. He might be leaving for Kashgar, and I… I literally don’t know what to do.”
A brief silence falls as her torrent of words subsides. “Qizim,” her aunt begins, her tone soft yet resolute, “I comprehend your sentiments, but Rayan’s situation… it’s complicated. There’s a lot you don’t know.”
Alina leans in, her eyes wide with eagerness. “I mean, do enlighten me,” she presses, scarcely masking her restlessness.
Zuhra’s gaze wanders to the intricate designs adorning the rug. “He’s shooed away more than a handful of marriage prospects. His attention remains fixed on his children and his profession. The grief of losing his wife continues to burden him deeply.”
“But surely—” Alina’s posture stiffens, her fingers fidgeting with the embroidery on her sleeve.
“Qizim,” her aunt interrupts, holding up a hand. “We must approach this with wisdom and respect for our traditions. Have you considered the Islamic way of expressing interest in marriage?”
Alina’s cheeks flush, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I… I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” she admits reluctantly.
Zuhra nods, her expression softening. “It’s not just about your desires. We must consider Rayan’s family, his reputation in the community and whether he’s considering remarrying. These things matter greatly.”
“But if he leaves for Kashgar—.”
“Hush,” Zuhra says gently. She leans forward, her tone measured and instructive. “Truth or not, we mustn’t act hastily. Such recklessness could bring shame and misfortune to both families.”
Alina bites her lip, struggling to contain her frustration. Her fingers drum an impatient rhythm on her knee while Zuhra presses on with her speech.
“We could arrange a meeting to allow for conversation between both families. But first, I must consult with your uncle.”
Her gaze wanders to the window, where the fading sunlight paints the sky in vibrant hues. Each word reinforces the impossible chasm between her and her deepest wishes.
A gentle pat on her hand draws her attention back. “I understand your eagerness, but we must balance our personal wishes with our cultural and religious obligations. It’s not just about you and Rayan, but about honoring our community and our faith.”
“I understand, Aunt Zuhra,” she murmurs, her expression a mixture of resignation and determination. “But please, can we at least take some small step? I fear losing this chance entirely.”
The older woman studies her niece’s face, noting the genuine emotion in her eyes. She takes a deep breath, weighing her words carefully. “Let me send a letter to your parents first. If they don’t object, we can talk about setting up a proper meeting.” Her tone grows serious. “But you must vow to adhere to the proper etiquette in this matter. No more marketplace spying or hasty actions. Agreed?”
Dismay flashes across the young woman’s face. She dips her head, plastering on a smile while her fingers worry the embroidery on her sleeve. “I promise, Aunt. I’ll… practice patience. It’s a virtue, isn’t it? I mean, I’ll obey every custom.”
Zuhra eyes her, torn between sympathy and determination. “Come, help me with dinner. It’ll clear your head.”
Alina opens her mouth to protest, but the stern look she receives quashes her objection before it escapes. With a resigned sigh, she rises to follow, her mind already racing with possibilities despite her promise.
Alina slips into the bedroom she shares with Dilara, her cousin’s soft snores filling the darkened space. Moonlight casts intricate patterns on the woven rug. She sinks onto her quilted mattress, her teeth worrying her lower lip as she stares at the ceiling, mind churning with possibilities and doubts.
Her aunt’s voice rings in her ears. Patience. Propriety. Tradition. Each syllable presses down on her chest.
She rolls to face the window. Jasmine scent wafts in. Her mind settles on a decision.
“Thank you for your advice, Aunt,” she whispers, tone deceptively respectful. “But I can’t risk losing him.” The young woman rises, avoiding the ancient bedframe’s telltale creaks. At the window, she surveys the slumbering village. Mud-brick houses huddle around the square, their flat roofs gleaming under a canopy of stars. A dog slinks between shadows while the breeze carries mingled scents of jasmine and livestock. Distant poplars mark the boundary where village yields to vast desert. A lone figure patrols, his steps muffled in the quiet night.
Cool air caresses her cheeks, stirring unwelcome memories. That man’s face surfaces unbidden, aristocratic features twisted in disdain. His words cut fresh: “I cannot pretend, Alina. My heart belongs to another – one who values humility.”
The rejection burns anew. That old ache flares in her chest. She bites her cheek, grounding herself. No, this time she shall write a different story. Remembering Rayan’s warm smile eclipses the storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
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