Engagement

Writer: Husny Kanwal

Novel: Meri Khurchan (My little Scrappy One)

As soon as I passed my matric exams, I began insisting to my mother that she arrange my engagement. I was deeply fond of my uncle’s eldest daughter—she studied in the same school as I did. She was in grade nine.

In our family, girls were not usually allowed to study much, which is why I was in such a hurry. I feared that someone else might propose for her before me. That was the reason I kept pestering my mother day and night.

At last, my poor mother took pity on me and went to my uncle’s house to ask for the proposal. I was confident my uncle would never refuse his sister.

I was overjoyed, as if my feet no longer touched the ground...like walking on air

When my mother returned, I was already standing at the door waiting for her.

We lived in Hyderabad, and right opposite our house was my uncle’s home. In fact, the entire street was filled with our relatives.

“What did Uncle say?” I asked impatiently, not even giving her a chance to sit.

“Wait, let me catch my breath first…” Mother replied, settling onto the sofa.

“Alright, alright, sit down comfortably. Now tell me, what did Uncle say?” I asked again, my voice full of eagerness.

My ears ached to hear the words: Uncle has agreed to Sherish’s proposal.

“He said yes,” my mother finally spoke.

At that, I raised my hands in the air with joy, exclaiming “Yes!” before lowering them again.

At that moment, I could not contain my happiness.

“But…” Mother’s expression suddenly changed, as if stopping me from celebrating.

“But what?” A wave of uneasiness ran through me. Nervously, I asked again.

“Your uncle has agreed… but for Aimen’s hand.”

The words hit me like a ton of bricks

“What? Aiman? She’s still a child!”

I was a handsome sixteen-year-old boy, and Aiman was barely six years old… just a little girl.

In her love for her brother, my mother had asked for his youngest daughter for me. My blood boiled.

My happiness shattered in an instant

“You’ve gone and asked for that scrappy little one’s hand for me? This is absurd!” I protested loudly. But my mother seemed determined to sacrifice me at the altar of her brother’s love.

Aiman was the child of my uncle’s old age. He had three grown sons and three daughters—the eldest, Sherish, was in ninth grade; the second one was in sixth grade; and then came Aiman.

As for Aiman, what could I even say? She hardly ever attended school. My uncle’s endless pampering had completely spoiled her. She spent entire days playing in the streets—careless about studies, careless even about eating.

***

It was Friday. I stood in the street with my friends, dressed in a white cotton shalwar kameez.

One of my friends was heading out on a date, all dressed up on his motorbike. I could only watch with envy as he rode away.

I was considered the most handsome boy in the entire family—the kind of boy neighborhood girls secretly admired. At school too, I was well-known for both my looks and intelligence. Many girls wanted to be friends with me, but I never gave any of them a chance, being too consumed with Sherish. A choice I now regretted deeply.

“Ah, ah…” I was just about to head home when suddenly that scrappy little one came running straight toward me, shrieking loudly.

She darted behind me, hiding in fear.

Before I could make sense of the situation, a dog lunged at me and bit hard into my leg.

Crying out in pain, I fell to the ground, struggling to push it away.

In that instant, Aiman snatched up a stone from the roadside and hurled it at the dog.

Just as it turned toward her, I screamed for help.

By the time neighbors came rushing, the dog had bitten her too.

Despite my own pain, I stumbled to her side—I cared more for her wounds than my own.

Both of us were rushed to the hospital.

On the way back, I glanced at Aiman, who was slumped against me, her head resting faintly on my shoulder as she lay weak in the car seat.

“Khurchan… why was that dog attacking you?” I asked sternly, though I knew no one else in the family would ever question her.

Because if Aiman so much as tripped over a stone in the street, the entire family—and even the neighbors—would blame the lifeless stone, never their precious princess.

I always called her “Khurchan”—the scrappy one—being the youngest in the family.

“Well… Junaid bro, I was just trying to tie a string to its tail. But the dog didn’t like it…”she replied with a disarming innocence

.

In that moment, I wanted to smash my head against the nearest wall.

She was already nine years old, yet still had no sense at all—only her height seemed to be growing.

---

One day, I was returning home from college with friends when I spotted Aiman playing in the dirt with neighborhood children.

I was obsessed with cleanliness; she, on the other hand, was chaos personified...Cleanliness was my creed; she was a storm in human form.

Her red frock was stained with dust, layered over dark blue jeans. Her hair was tangled and full of sand, her skin flushed red and darkened by the harsh sun.

“Lucky you, Junaid—you get to look at your fiancée whenever you want,” one of my friends teased.

All my friends teased me like that.

They knew very well I couldn’t stand Aiman.

“Just look at her, though—your bride-to-be looks so beautiful today…” another chimed in, bumping his shoulder against mine with a sly grin.

I glared at them furiously, then stormed toward Aiman with my bag slung over one shoulder.

“What are you doing outside in this heat?” I scolded, yanking her up by the arm.

“I… I was just playing with my friends, Junaid bro…” she whispered timidly.

I had never noticed before how she always spoke to me politely, in a soft tone.

“These are boys! Go inside and play with the girls!” I snapped.

“But I don’t like playing dolls and dollhouse games with girls…” she quickly argued. Fearless, even in the face of my anger.

And how could she fear me? She had never learned fear.

Had I managed to truly frighten her that day, the entire family and even the neighborhood would have bowed down to me in respect.

While I was chasing dreams of an engineering degree, she was busy earning a PhD in profanity. She invented curses so creative that even dictionaries would raise their hands in defeat. It was as if she were a professor of swearing—delivering lectures so fluently that books themselves would blush into silence.

---

At Sherish’s wedding, while the other young couples of the family exchanged shy glances, I sat in shock, staring at Aiman.

At twelve years old, she still hadn’t learned how to dress properly. Sweaty, disheveled, she darted around helping everyone.

After the wedding, I doubled my protests at home.

But my mother’s response was always the same: “She’s still a child. Just wait—you’ll see, one day she’ll blossom into such beauty that every girl in the family will pale beside her. Then you’ll thank me for my choice.”

---

While other young men stole moments of romance with their fiancées, I forced mine to sit and study.

After much effort, I managed to fix a daily time for her to come to my house for tutoring.

If she ever missed a day, I myself would go to my uncle’s house to fetch her.

I refused to accept an ignorant partner. Since her parents were spoiling her with endless affection, it was up to me to make sure she studied.

---

One afternoon, I was in the kitchen making tea for my mother when Aiman burst inside like a storm. She grabbed my hand and tugged at me.

“Junaid bro, come quickly!”

“Why? What now? Whose head have you broken this time?” I asked dryly.

At fourteen, she was a walking disaster—I sometimes called her an atomic bomb. She had fought with nearly every boy in the street, leaving many with broken heads.

There was nothing remotely ladylike about her.

Her hair now cascaded down her back, usually tied in a ponytail. The sun had turned her once-fair complexion almost black.

Whenever she held my hand, the contrast of her dark skin against my snow-white one would make me ache with frustration—and once again, the thought of breaking this engagement would burn in me.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just… your mango tree has grown small raw mangoes. I want to pluck them. And I know if I do it without your permission, you’ll punish me with double homework all night. So here I am, being a good girl—asking permission. Now give me the big stick, quick!” she blurted all in one breath, tugging at my hand again.

“Wait! Let me give this tea to Mother first…” I sighed, trying to stay calm.

She pouted, then climbed onto the kitchen counter, swinging her legs impatiently.

“Hurry up!” she whined.

I took the tea to my mother. But as I returned, I suddenly heard her scream.

Rushing in, I found the kettle overturned, hot tea spilled all over the floor—and Aiman’s feet scalded.

“Khurchan! Why did you try to pour the tea yourself? You could have just asked me!”

I lifted her into my arms, carried her to the lounge, and set her gently on the sofa.

It felt as though my own feet had burned—I was in more pain than she was.

“You can’t even pour tea properly? Girls your age are running whole households, and you—your childishness never ends!” I scolded harshly, though in truth I was angrier at myself for leaving her alone.

As I applied ointment to her burns, I kept scolding. She listened silently, without shedding a single tear.

Any other girl would have been wailing loudly by now. But not her. She was stubborn beyond measure.

---

By then, I had started working. I had even sent my résumé to a well-known American company, certain that my skills would impress them.

In only my second week at work, my boss’s daughter approached me with an offer of friendship. She was beautiful—and I instantly agreed.

When my uncle’s son’s wedding came, I invited her as a guest.

For me, she was just a friend. But my mother and relatives interpreted it differently. They grew furious, thinking I was trying to give someone else the place that belonged to Aiman.

The only person who should have cared—Aiman—didn’t seem to notice at all. She was lost in her own world, unaffected.

I sat in my chair, a glass of cold drink in hand, unable to take my eyes off her as she danced with her cousin.

Her cousin twirled her around, holding her finger, and Aiman laughed brightly. She looked so happy.

And there I was, transfixed—my glass emptied without me realizing.

To be continued…

#HK❤️

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