Honeymooning

Jawad marvelled at the intricate patterns hennaed on his wife's – his bride's, more precisely: they had just been married two days – hands. Elaborate curlicues, ornate lines twining around her slender fingers, frenetic petal bursts on her palms. Just looking at her hands stirred desire in him. Her delicate wrists, the stretch of dainty, satiny skin left bare by dangling sleeves (the latest fashion, she had told him); he wanted to grab her in his embrace. But this wasn't the time or place for that. They had just boarded a crowded van that would cart them uphill to the alpine retreat of Murree, to coniferous trees and rolling hills and mists: perfect for their honeymoon.

They were coming all the way from Multan: hot, dusty, parched Multan, its temperatures soaring even in this first week of May. The bus from Multan dropped them at Rawalpindi, the town that led you to Kashmir, to the foothills of the mighty Himalaya. They waited half an hour at the clogged, smelly, cacophonous bus-and-van station, trying to catch a ride to Murree. No buses were forthcoming anytime soon, so they decided on a van instead. It was derelict – seats ripped, inner rubber linings peeling and dangling serpentine over passengers' heads – and cramped, but also much cheaper. He took it nevertheless: he was eager to reach Murree as soon as possible. He had only been there once, as a child; he remembered that jaunt dimly: how he frolicked with cousins up and down pine-clad slopes, chomping spice-laced chips and roasted chickpeas, and shuddering in the unexpectedly nippy whiffs of alpine air. The trip had been all fun and excitement.