He looked at her, a smile overtaking his features. They were in a mosque, and her face was covered. He noticed the hands with mehndi. Red for auspiciousness.

He remembered the first time they'd met. At Karachi, where he was selling cashews and nuts. And a bit of dates. Her in a green and golden skirt and blouse with a red bindi on her forehead.

How she'd bought a work of Rumi, one of the greatest poets and mystics and how he noticed her eyes. They were what made him wonder why people didn't love dark eyes. It wasn't exactly dark but a brown hue. Like the nest of a cuckoo. With the stealth of a raven.

He didn't see her for the remaining of the day, but saw her the next day, asking for a temple nearby.

And then, they'd talk. Him about the cuisines and brightly lit mosques and her about the poets, banana leaves and coconut water of Kerala. A South Indian state in India.

As he looked around, he saw the thinly veiled disapproval from his aunts and uncles and the haughty pride of her family.

A reluctant marriage.

A disapproval stretching to the moon.

She remembered the dates. Always. The sweet melody of it on her lips. The fact that he sold it made it even more better. And now, as the veil stood stubbornly from seeing him, she cracked a wispy smile. It'd have to move soon.

The hazel eyes that captured her. The slap she'd received from her grandmother when she'd told her. Because one, transwomen don't get all rights as normal women do. And two, you don't marry your enemy. Especially not after all the riots and whatsoever happened.

Auntie Mary who'd told the neighborhood of her love when they were alone. When they were alone and the wind kept their secrets.

Safe. In the nest of crow. Nestled in.

The astounding fact that her father always wanted the bitter rivalry to end between India and Pakistan. The shock of the neighborhood.

A sin so great.

She thought of her mother. Schizophrenic, always with one question.

"Who are you?"

And she with one crying reply. "I'm your daughter."

How they'd kept her mother locked up because she conceived a boy who turned into a girl. A shame. It was her mother-in-law. How her father loved his mother too much to pull her out. How they'd give her food from underneath the door. Yelling to conceive a proper son.

She let a tear fall.

Zahir thought of the border crossfire between India and Pakistan. How his little sister, Aisha, would always ask whether they were firing even it was a knock. His heart ached for a more peaceful place for his little flower.

How the police came for his house, with an arrest warrant of brainwashing an Indian. They came when he was out in India. For visiting her. It was a police complaint filed by Sarita's family, excluding her father.

How they'd chained him and she fought bare and bold; not by yelling but by keeping silent. Her eyes said it all.

In the end, they won. Because of her eyes. That had the love of a bird. And the stealth of a raven. The Supreme Court upheld the decision that she could marry anyone of her choice because India is a free country. So says the Constitution anyway.

The saffron milk they'd share and the dates they'd exchange. The poems read aloud from a myriad of woes and joys.

"Why are we taking a banana leaf?" he asked.

"Tradition," she replied, serving a curry on a side onto his leaf. It was Onam, a festival celebrated in Kerala and she'd invited him. Much to her disapproval, her family served curries as though they'd wanted to hit her(probably him) on the head with the spoon.

Zahir sat down, licking the pickle. "This is nice."

"There's much more," she laughed. The food consisted of many servings, with a bit of rice topped with sambhar, rasam, curd, and lots more. It actually consisted of making twenty six or so curries but they'd limit it to ten.

Zahir ate after saying a prayer. He was full by the time the three servings of rice was over.

"Wait, now what?"

"A dessert. It's called payasam. Made from the beans. Not French," she frowned, trying to find the right translation into English. "Oh, well. Food is for eating."

"He shall punish you!" said her grandmother. She'd call her Ammachi.

Sarita rolled her eyes and muttered. "I think he knows..."

Zahir looked at her appreciatively; the food was tasty. He'd have to give her a taste of pure Pakistani food sometime. If she hadn't yet tried out the North Indian food in her country, it might be good.

"First you changed! And now, this!" she shouted. Her father came by and shook his head, telling her to ignore it.

"So, Zahir, how is this place?"

Zahir swallowed. "No words, uncle."

In both Pakistan and India, anyone elder was called uncle and auntie. Even if they weren't by blood.

"Who is this?" asked her mom.

"It's her friend," her father explained.

She came close and looked at him. "He has weird eyes." And then, she returned to her room.

Zahir saw Sarita hunch over a bit more over her food. He asked permission to walk the lanes with her. Kurien agreed.

"I wish she'd know you. And me," she said bitterly.

"Don't be like that, Sarita. We all have our problems. You know that."

Sarita knew what he meant. The conditions of living close to the border. The firing. The tap, tap, thud, thud. Scared souls together.

He kissed her that day. Until the time her neighbor, Auntie Mary screamed and phoned home. And the truth came out like a flood too soon. A bit unexpected for her family.

Shocked faces shook her. Tried to shake some sense into her.

"Our reputation, molay! Think about it!" Molay meant daughter. Little one.

"Love's captured me," she said painfully.

"He's a cashew vendor! What are you going to live off? First you changed and now..."

"I have a job," she whispered. Sarita wasn't Sarita before. She was Sanjay, until he got to know that he didn't act like others. Feel like they felt. He wanted to drape a sari and parade in long earrings. You don't do that when you're a boy.

"A job," they emphasized. "Like you'll have one when you get kids."

"I will," she said determinedly.

"Oh, we've seen it all. You don't know motherly love, girl," Ammachi spat and then scoffed. "Like you will. Not a man turned woman does..."

She even continued about breastfeeding and so on but Sarita walked away. There wasn't a point. Sometimes, when you were silenced all your life, you had to stand up and speak. And sometimes, a rebel had to keep silent.

"But, you can't!"

The next day everyone went to the temple. Praying and praying for hours. About her madness. Doing puja, following the pujari's instructions.

It wasn't simple in Zahir's house either.

"She isn't fair! Can you see her? Even a crow is more majestic!" said his mother.

"Mom, I like her. She's wonderful. Curious."

"But, think about the generations you'll produce! They'll be dark skinned!" said his aunt.

He clenched his fists. "That's all that matters right? Marry and produce fair children! We aren't some kind of Nazi followers!"

They gasped. "Are you comparing us to Hitler?"

"What's the difference? Our names? Our nationality?" he asked. "It's terrible, okay? The stupid matrimonial ads you all put advertising fairness. There are people who are beautiful inside."

That day when he sat on the mat, praying, he asked Allah for help. He cried. Because God was unfair. Because he'd made him fall in love.

Sarita prayed hard. To Lord Krishna. Asked for help. Because He knew love.

But then, the gods were silent that day. And all the days. Seeming to have taken an oath of silence.

In the silence, they found their hearts. Because when Sarita went back to her home, she saw the trees dance. And the birds sing a song of his love. And when Zahir sold his dates and cashews, he remembered how she loved them. The soil his feet were upon embraced him. Almost as though she had.

The winds carried his breath to her.

The rain brought her kisses to him.

And then, they understood the silence of the gods.

Sarita waited for when they'd look in the mirror, at each other.

Someone cried out. "Objection!"

She recognized her mother. She froze, stopping. Was this part of the plan? She peeked from beneath and saw her father gently lead his wife away, the momentary triumph on Zahir's mother, Fatima's face. The shock on his little sister's face.

"Please continue," Kurien said.

But at that moment, her veil was ripped and she was embraced. The feeling of loss. Of being lost amongst the folds of the winds.

"Zahir," she said softly.

"Sarita. I am scared."

"Aren't we all?" she said, patting him.

The embraced in pain and joy, both balancing against the warm breeze. A love not hollow. Filled to the brim by both joy and sadness.

******

So, this is something i wrote for forbidden love contest! hope you'll enjoy and well, may love speak the rest.

Rose