*Shezana’s Diary* Date: *Sunday, 15th June* *Garments for Each Other©* Dear Diary, Bismillah... It’s been a full six days since I last poured my heart into these pages. So much has happened, my thoughts feel like a river that has met the sea — wide, deep, and filled with emotions I can’t quite bottle. After Eid, the house settled into a gentle rhythm. Mum and I spent a whole afternoon sorting the freezers. It was a learning experience I didn’t know I needed. We neatly organized the meat — chops in one section, fillets in another, mince in labeled trays — everything looked so well-placed and purposeful. The mutton and lamb in a separate freezer and the beef in a separate one. It reminded me how much barakah there is in working with love, order and intention. Back home, Baba always did the Qurbani himself — he slaughtered a goat with his usual calm and determination. The remaining of our Qurbani was ever done abroad. From the goat he slaughtered he distributed one-third to the underprivileged and another third to relatives. Ammi cooked what remained — her hands moving as if they knew stories written before I was born. However, Eid this year felt different. Not just the celebration, but the stillness that followed — it was like being inside the Qurbani, not just around it.It was spiritual so surreal. Tuesday night: Rehana’s mother-in-law hosted a grand Eid dawat. It could have easily been mistaken for a wedding. Two tents sparkled in the garden like stories lit by fairy lights — one for the men and one for the women. The garden looked like a scene from a royal dream — two grand tents stood tall under the night sky, their white fabric draped with golden tassels and fairy lights twinkling like stars. Inside the women’s tent, everything shimmered — sequined long evening gowns , flowing anarkalis, and jewel-toned hijabs that caught the light with every movement. The air was thick with the mingling fragrances of expensive oud, musk, and floral perfumes, layered over the rich, mouthwatering aroma of barbequed t-bone, beef gravy, roast lamb, creamy buttered mutton cubes, and spiced kebabs steaming gently in gleaming chafing dishes. Each table was laid with ornate serving ware, and laughter echoed against women's chattering. From the men’s tent came the subtle rustle of embroidered sherwanis and the deep tones of conversation, completing the perfect, opulent Eid dawat atmosphere. Mum and I had prepared eight desserts and brewed ten cups of fragrant naam. I loved working beside her. She’s my compass — steady, soft, but so wise. She would gently correct me: “Beta, maybe try rolling them like this next time.” Not once did she embarrass me. Her compassion felt like silk against my heart. Ahmad chose my outfit that day — a deep turquoise flowing dress paired with a silver-grey dupatta. He said it brought out the glow in my cheeks. And honestly, I did feel lovely. As I walked into the women’s tent, my eyes found my friends and cousins at one table. I went over. “Oh Shezi, you look so beautiful! Marriage has made you even more radiant!” Shamila gushed. The others joined in, nodding with warm smiles. But soon the conversation shifted. “Did you end up going for your honeymoon after all?” asked Raniya. Before I could respond, Aisha — my cousin’s wife — smirked, “Bechari doesn’t speak for herself! She should’ve just tagged along on his Germany trip.” I smiled gently and said, “You know, I’ve realised love isn’t measured in plane tickets or destinations. Every quiet chai, every shared sunset, every moment where we smile at the same thing — that is our honeymoon. When your heart is at peace, the place becomes paradise.” Their silence was golden for a few seconds. Then, of course, came the ring saga. Rehana had on a breathtaking ring — a slim band studded with diamonds and one central stone surrounded by eight little ones. It looked perfect on her long, fair and elegant fingers. “Wow, Rehana, that ring!” Shamila exclaimed “ He chose it! “Rehana smiled “Show me yours Aisha ?” Raniya added. Then someone noticed. “Shezi, why aren’t you wearing a ring?” I took a breath. “Ahmad didn’t give me one. In Islam, rings aren’t a requirement for marriage. It’s more of a cultural tradition. Honestly, I’m okay without it.” Shuraiqa chimed in, “My husband took my ring size before we even had our nikah!” “I gave him pictures,” said Rabia proudly. “I made a huge fuss,” said Maryam, “He got me this hideous one at first. I told him flat out, it was ugly. He’s promised to replace it soon.” Then Shuraiqa turned to Samina. “Why is your ring so… cheap? Change it, girl.” Samina’s face fell a little, “I’m happy with my husband’s choice,” she replied softly. Suddenly, they turned back to me. “Shezi, ask for a ring now. You deserve it. You’ll sit like this your whole life if you don’t speak up.” I smiled, but inwardly I felt like I needed to come up for air. Their talk clung to material things — the sheen of gold, the sparkle of diamonds, the dazzle of Dubai. But there was no soul in it. No heart. Just then, I spotted Ammi. I excused myself and rushed to her. She wrapped me in her arms — it felt like a breath of fresh air. Then my mother-in-law came with some ladies, introducing me proudly. I whispered, “You know, Mum… you’re the best. I love you.” She chuckled, “Even more than Ahmad, Beta?”then she gave a hearty dua, “may Allah always keep this love between us.” Back at the table, Rehana announced, “Girls, are your husbands going for the golf tournament this weekend? Let’s all go with them!” “Yes, mine is going!” Shuraiqa said. “I’ll tell my husband I’m coming too!” Aisha grinned. I leaned in to Rehana, “Can we talk?” We stepped away. “Rehana,” I said, “inviting all the girls like this… it’s not wise. So much fitnah can happen. Be careful, sister.” She rolled her eyes, “Stop being old-fashioned,like a Dadima! Have fun and let others have fun, sis! ” I sighed. “And about your husband… you asked him about vaping?” “Yes,” she said, “He denied it flat out .” There was sadness in her eyes. I held her hand, “Maybe he is waiting for the right time. But now that you’ve seen it, talk to him with love, not attack. Start with: ‘I saw this and I felt hurt. I just want honesty between us.’ Let him explain. Don’t accuse. Let the door to communication remain open.” She nodded. Then she lowered her voice, “I can’t take my mother-in-law anymore. I need to move out.” I thought for a moment. “ I understand . But your husband is still growing. He vapes, he doesn't tell you the full truth, he hangs out with friends… If you live alone, you’ll be alone. At least his parents question his late nights. He is accountable here. Until he matures, stay put. Be patient. Keep the Duas going.” Later that week, Zahra messaged. She had reached home safely — Sydney, Australia — on Tuesday night. I miss her already. Then on Thursday, Samina called. “Shezi… can I ask something personal?” “Of course.” “ Your face reflects a calm and peace that I desire too? What's the secret? “ I thought for a while and answered with one word, “contentment. “ She asked, “ How do you do it? I mean how can you be content? I smiled and said, “ We have to learn to be happy with our lot… with whatever Allah has destined for us. “ Her voice trembled. “ Shezi, I am not OK. I don’t know what’s wrong. My husband is calm, kind, gentle… but emotionally, it’s like he’s not there. He is so quiet, like unusually quiet. I feel alone. No blaming, no yelling… just distance. I feel like a burden now.” I paused. “Samina, emotional absence is real. Some men never learned to express connection. Start with creating shared rituals — a daily cup of tea, a bedtime walk, a Friday reflection. Invite him in. Don’t force him. And also… express what you need without complaint.” She was quiet. “Jazakillah khairan … I will try.” “And Samina,” I added, “please speak to Apa. She has guided many in similar situations.” On Friday, Rehana called, brimming with excitement. “Everyone’s going on the trip with their husbands! We leave Saturday morning. It’ll be so fun!” I didn’t say much. Just felt this knot in my chest tighten. And yet… in my little world, I have joy. Ahmad… he steals time from his busy schedule for me. Sometimes it's just a soft knock at my door with a fresh fruit plate, or curling up under one blanket for a quiet documentary, or a slow walk in the garden with our hands brushing. He may not have taken me on a honeymoon, but his presence — when it’s there — fills my heart. And still… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a pinch when the girls talked. A tiny ache whispered, maybe I missed something. Every now and then I feel like asking Ahmad to take me somewhere divine for a honeymoon. But then I remind myself: There is more to a marriage than the flash of a ring or a trip abroad. To the young women reading this one day: Sit with women of wisdom. Not with those who make you feel like your life is lacking. Comparison robs contentment. Seek meaning over materialism. And remember: A husband and wife are garments for each other — not ornaments. Till we meet, Shezana 🌸