Dancing Towards Destiny

Flashback…

We only had five minutes left to solve our exam papers and for the teacher to collect our test  papers. 

There I was with a completely blank paper in front of me. Since I didn’t know the answer to the most  basic questions, I had an internal dispute going on with myself about what would have happened  had I studied a bit instead of sleeping. But what could be done? It was not my fault, teacher himself  had told us to pursue our interests, and my interest in studies was non-existent. 

I was fooling myself with these silly excuses when the last damned five minutes were over too. After  seeing a completely blank paper in front of me, the teacher gave me a condescending look, shook  his head in despair, and left. 

I had chewed all of my nails out of worry and anxiety. Meanwhile, praying for some kind of miracle to  happen, like all the test papers getting lost. 

When my friend Shabnam called my name. 

"Raha, how was your exam?" 

I looked haughtily at her and cussed at her, "I didn’t know any of the answers frowned in despair. Kept looking at your stupid face, hoping you might look at me and give me some answers, but no,  Her Highness didn’t even spare me a glance." 

"Well, it's not my fault. How many times did I tell you to stop practicing dance on test days? But  when do you ever listen to anything anyone says? Raha, someday your obsession with dancing will  get us in serious trouble." 

"HA HA HA! Are you done? That was the speech of the year, by the way." 

"Bitch!" 

Shabnam was my best friend and the only girl I got along with. She knew that despite my rough  words, I had a kind heart, so she never minded my unpleasant choice of words. We would always go  to school together, hum songs together, laugh together, cry together. She was my partner in crime;  we were inseparable, each other’s ride or die. 

On the other side of the road, almost 200 meters away from school, there was Kaka Ahmad's (uncle  Ahmad) ‘shornakhod’ stall. He would make the world’s best ‘Shornakhod’. Shabnam and I would 

always go there during our recess hours and listen to him talk about Khala Shirin (Auntie Shirin)  while eating our Shornakhod. 

Kaka Ahmad loved us like his daughters. on a plate of 10 rupees, he would pour 20 rupees worth of  Shornakhod for us every single time. 

Khala Shirin was Kaka Ahmad's love interest when he was young. She belonged to the upper class  of Mahkada city and had run away with Kaka Ahmed. Her parents were socialites who deemed it  embarrassing to even be mentioned in the same sentence as Kaka Ahmed’s family. Kaka Ahmed  had gone to ask for her hand in marriage 27 times with his frail parents, but each time his proposal  got rejected without a second thought. One day, Khala Shirin gathered enough courage and ran  away from home.  

She went to Kaka Ahmad’s grocery shop and told him that if he loved her, he should run away with  her to a place where no one could create a rift between them. Kaka Ahmed was shocked at first, but  he took her hand without a second thought, and from there, they came to our city by bus.  

Khala Shirin died during childbirth of their daughter, Farzana. At that time, Kaka Ahmad was 25  years old.  

Now, he is 75 years old. He never married again, and his daughter is also happily married. 

Now, only Kaka Ahmad was there, and the four walls of his home and his stall which Khala Shirin  painted with her own hands for Kaka Ahmad; filled with memories of his young love.  

He cried every time he retold their love story, and whenever he heard Shirin’s name, his whole face  lit up with a beautiful smile that made him look juvenile, as if he had been taken back 50 years in  time. 

In truth, it wasn't Kaka Ahmad and Khala Shirin’s story that captivated my attention; it was the  stories I would hear about Mahkada—a city utterly fabulous, where life felt like my dreams. I had  heard that women could do rope jumping and ride bicycles in the morning, and then go to work by  car. 

It was astounding to me. I mean, could women also drive cars? My father would always tell me that  women were only made for home and that they needed to be literate enough to write their names  and read them. 

We were heading back home when I saw an advertisement on the window of the shop with cracked  dusty windows across from Kaka Ahmad’s stall. It read, "Try your luck and win Rp 1,000,000." Since  Shabnam devoutly believed in lotteries and tarot readings, I took her hand and increased my pace,  

hoping she wouldn't notice it. But could something like that really go unnoticed by Shabnam, who  claims she has 6 pairs of eyes—one on her face like us ordinary folks, one pair behind her head, and  the other pair above her ears. I would die from laughter every time she said it. 

"Please, Raha, it won't take long. We'll quickly buy it, and you won't be late!"

Knowing she wouldn't leave me alone until I complied, we hurried to the shop, bought two lottery  tickets, and went back home. 

I bid farewell to Shabnam, and just as I was about to knock on the door, my father swung it open,  looking furious. 

His eyes narrowed looking like a thin ready to melt metal. 

Before I could utter a word, I felt a sharp pain on my cheek, my ears went ringing and pee roll down  my pants rushingly —he had slapped me. He shoved me inside the house, and as I gathered myself,  I felt the sting of another slap. 

"You insolent girl! Didn't I tell you not to be late even by one minute? It's my fault; I shouldn't have  sent you to school. 

Now you must help your mother all day and learn all the household chores. Get lost before I smash  you on the ground like a dirty fly!" 

My father's logic was that women are feeble-minded—until they are in their father’s house, they  must serve their fathers and entertain their guests. When they go to their husband’s house, every  two years they must give birth to beautiful preferably blonde and white boys and raise them  conservative and obedient to their father. 

I grabbed my bag and hurried to my room, threw my bag to the side and began changing. I had the  habit of doing everything in front of the mirror while dancing. I was busy changing and dancing when  my sister Arzo entered the room. She was surprised by my condition. 

"Anyone who hadn't witness the scene just now would think nothing had happened." 

"You know too that only dancing can make me feel better, and I'm used to father's slaps. Not a day  goes by without me getting beaten." I said with a silly voice. 

Then we both burst out laughing. 

"You silly girl, you'll never learn your lesson." 

"My dear sister, I don't need any lessons. I'm perfect." 

I raised my head in an act of self-righteousness. 

"Get over yourself. Now, let's go. Father will ask for food any moment now. Guess what I cooked?" "No need to guess. You'll cook beans and I don't know—is that even possible?" "Smarty-pants, now hurry, let’s go." 

Arzo and I prepared the food. Everyone was busy eating when my stepmother—my mother  according to my father—started spreading poison through her slutty voice. She would never replace  my mother.

"Raha, did you hear? A proposal came for the neighbor’s daughter, and her father accepted it. She's  just one year younger than you. Her older sister is about to give birth any day now; I saw her at the  grocery store yesterday. 

Her stomach is completely round." 

She finished her last sentence with that evil smile which she wears every time my father beats me. "Oh God, she's such a troublemaker. Now she'll start pestering me to get married too." "No, Khala Jan, I didn't know anything about it." 

"What do you think, Raha's father? Isn’t it time for her to get married too?" 

As my father gazes through my forehead. This look means how many times shall I tell you to call her  mother & not Khala, yet he didn't say it loud and continued with a frown: 

"Yes, I've been thinking about it too. She's literate enough now; there's no need for her to continue  going to school." 

"What are you talking about, Father? I'm barely 13. How can you think about such things?" 

As my father loudly chewed his food, my stepmother started humming a (Chahar baiti) a poem in  Hazaragi accent: 

*Guli Bolo Guli Boloya Dukhtar 

Dusal Khane Padar Memoya Dukhtar 

Du Sal Khane Padar Memo Chi Basha 

Akhiri Kar Sangi Palkhoya Dukhtar* 

(A girl is like a flower in the garden, 

A guest at her father’s home for two years. 

Even if she's a guest for two years, 

Ultimately, her place is beside her betrothed). 

My father was also enjoying the poem, sneaking glances at me and Arzo from beneath his lashes,  like a slaver must have looked at Yousuf. 

"It's often said that once a mother is gone, you lose your father too, even if he's still alive. May God  not take anyone's mother away from them. When my mother was alive, my father was very kind and  would never beat us. That was until he married this conniving woman." 

I had completely lost my appetite; the food tasted like cardboard. After they finished eating, I  collected and washed the dirty dishes. Later, I avoided hand embroidery by feigning a headache. I  retreated to the small room on the rooftop that my mother had used for baking bread. It was the 

only place that comforted me, where I could dance—not just dance, but feel the essence of love.  For me, dancing was an expression of love where I would mold all the negative energy into positive  vibes.  

My style of dancing differed from others because it wasn't bound to music. It was infused with the  essence of love, allowing me to close my eyes and escape to a different universe where I could  completely let go, like a free bird. 

While other dancers might tire after dancing, Raha felt energized by this essence, which always put  her in a good mood. Shabnam and Arzo had dubbed my style "the method of madness," teasing me  about it all the time. 

It wasn't long before Arzo burst through the door, panting. 

"Raha, Khala called her friend who asked for your hand in marriage for her son.  She said Father has accepted the proposal, and they can come with sweets." 

"What?! That devil of a woman is always up to something evil! She can do whatever she wants; I'll  see how she will try to marry me off." 

The very next day, Khala Maryam arrived with her kipchak son and lame husband. They forcefully  placed the shawl on my head and showered me with Shah-Mahmoodi candies. 

When Arzo and I were children, we loved Shah-Mahmoodi candies. My mother would always buy  them for us. We used to make sunglasses for our dolls and ourselves with its wrappers. Those were  the best days of my life... 

I thought to myself that it was okay; I wouldn't say anything about my school ban because schools  were closed for a month anyway. But they could only dream about my wedding because there  would be no wedding. 

Just like that, another week passed, and during that time, the she-devil did everything she could to  convince my father for my Nikah. The Nikah ceremony would be on the 15th. 

"exactly two days after the announcement of the lottery winners, I had completely forgotten about  the lottery and had not mentioned it to anyone except Arzo. 

Today was the 12th of the month. Shabnam came early in the morning to suggest we go and see  who the winners were. I was completely drained and badly needed some fresh air, so I agreed. I was  eagerly anticipating tomorrow, hoping to be one of the winners so that my life could change  overnight, just like in the movies. 

The winner would be announced at exactly 10 o’clock. I woke up early that day and quickly  completed all my chores. Around 10 in the morning, Shabnam arrived and after much insistence,  convinced Khala to let me go. She thought that by being kind to me, she might persuade me to  agree to get married, but the idea of marriage hadn't even crossed my mind.

I knew all these efforts were not for my happiness but rather for the hefty dowry promised by  Maryam’s father. We set out from the house after saying Bismillah. Quietly, I prayed for all this bad  luck in my life to end.  

The lottery ticket crumpled in my hand as we anxiously headed towards the shop. I didn't have  much hope for the lottery; instead, I was waiting for another miracle. Suddenly, we encountered a  woman who also had a lottery and seemed to be in a rush. 

I don’t know why, but I felt a strange connection with her, an uncanny familiarity. As I was about to  look away, she hurried towards me and asked if I wanted to exchange my lottery with hers. 

“But why?” I asked. 

“I don’t know, maybe a miracle will happen,” she said. 

As soon as she mentioned 'miracle', I exchanged my lottery with hers without a second thought.  That woman disappeared as quickly as she had appeared. 

I didn't think about the lottery at all as we made our way to the shop. I was shocked to see around  150 people gathered there. I mean, had all these people bought their lottery tickets from the same  shop? 

We maneuvered through the crowd and entered the shop. We still had five minutes before the  winner was announced. Shabnam and I found a table in the corner and sat down on the two  remaining chairs. I was fiddling with my ring when I accidentally dropped the lottery ticket. As I bent  down to pick it up, my eyes caught sight of a magazine lying on the floor. I picked up both the lottery  ticket and the magazine and started reading. "Freestyle dance competition – come and show us  your style!" 

I checked the date. What if it was an old magazine? No, the competition was scheduled for the 15th  of this month – the very day I was supposed to become a bride. I wanted to laugh. 

The writing on the back of my lottery ticket caught my attention. It read, “Miracles always happen;  you just need to believe in them.” My whole body froze. I checked the competition's address. It was  exactly in Mahkada, the place Kaka Ahmad and Mom used to talk about – the place I had always  dreamed of visiting. It was an opportunity I couldn't ignore, even if I was supposed to be getting  married that day. 

Everyone was eagerly awaiting the announcement of the winners, but somehow, I had a feeling I  would be the winner. Ever since I exchanged my lottery ticket with that strange woman and heard  her words, I had been feeling odd. 

The shopkeeper turned on the radio. The announcer began the countdown to announce the winners  from 3rd to 1st place. I held my breath, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. As they announced  the 1st place winner, I felt like I might faint. The numbers matched exactly with those on my lottery  ticket. This time, a miracle had truly happened.

The winner of the exchanged lottery ticket was none other than Raha! 

As I was eagerly exchanging my adventurous and heroic story with a girl who I just had met. I heard: "Raha Azad, you're next, be ready!" Through loud echoing speaker. 

I snapped back to reality upon hearing the announcement. The girl sitting beside me, an Iranian  participant in the dance competition, continued speaking. 

"Abji! Can you tell me what happened next? I want to know! You still have time until your turn." 

"The rest is quite clear. I bought two more tickets with Shabnam, and the winner could claim the  prize the next day by showing their ticket and ID card." 

I couldn't leave my sister alone with that she-devil, and my father had become a slave to his wife's  whims. Upon returning home, I was greeted with the searing pain of my father's slaps, but for the  first time, I didn't mind the pain. Without saying a word, I went to my room with Arzo following me. 

"Arzo, my dear sister, do you want to escape from this cage?" 

"That's all Arzo wants," she replied softly. 

"Very well. Gather your things; we are leaving tonight." 

Her eyes lit up, but fear quickly dimmed that light, and she spoke timidly, "Where to?" "The place Mother always wanted us to go." 

"Mahkada?" 

"Yes." 

"But how? Can we leave? Is it possible? Father will kill us both!" 

I looked sharply at her and said, "Do you think we're living right now?" 

She lowered her head and asked, "Do we have anyone? Do we even have any money? Do we have a  place to go? You only heard the name Mahkada! We can't go unless a miracle happens!" 

"Shhh! My naive sister, a miracle has already happened! I won the lottery!" 

Her eyes lit up again, and she ran over to hug me. "I knew it! Thank you, God, I prayed so much; my  prayers are finally answered." 

"God doesn't accept the prayers of Satan," I joked. 

We laughed together and celebrated our miracle in each other's embrace. That night, when my  father and his wife fell into a deep slumber, Arzo and I went to the rooftop to bid farewell to my  sanctuary. We ran away without trouble because my father couldn't fathom his daughters running  away from home, not even in his wildest dreams. He believed his authority over us was enough to  prevent such thoughts.

"And now you know the rest, here I am in front of you," I concluded my story to the Iranian girl. "So, only your sister is with you?" she asked. 

"Yes," they called my name again, "Raha, it is your turn." 

I was about to step onto the stage when she asked me another question. "Raha, do you think you will win this competition?" 

I smiled and replied, "Well, I believe in miracles!" 

To be continued...