“What did you say to me?”
“I’m nineteen years old. You can’t just—”
“Go to your room,” my father said, his voice as quiet as death. “Now.”
So I went to my room. Not exactly a power move, but I knew my father. There was no reasoning with him just then. I’d try again tomorrow.
A text from Zar told me that I’d come in second at Renaissance Man. Natari had won. He sent a few pictures of them celebrating. There’d be time enough for me to congratulate them both. Just then I had to warn Bisma.
She… did not take it well.
Before I was even done telling her what my parents had said, she was crying. She just kept saying, “I told you, I told you this would happen, I told you,” until Suri had to take the phone from her.
“This isn’t fair, Danyal,” Suri said.
“I know,” I said. “I’m going to fix it.”
“Promise?”
Making promises is a dangerous habit to get into. It’s like a drug. You think you’ll do it one time, and then, before you know it, your word is bound to impossible tasks.
“Yeah, Suri. I promise.”
Bisma stopped showing up at the library. She stopped answering my texts and wouldn’t take my calls. I sent her a long email, the longest thing I’d ever willingly written in my life, explaining what had happened, how I hadn’t meant for her secret to get out, but she didn’t reply.
I didn’t know what to do.
I was alone. I couldn’t talk to Zar because I didn’t want to have to tell him Bisma’s story, and for once Sohrab seemed to be out of helpful suggestions. He did tell me that Kaval felt really bad about what had happened, that she hadn’t meant for my father to overhear anything about Bisma. Whatever. That did me no good.
My parents wouldn’t talk to me about Bisma at all. They weren’t talking to anyone else about her either, though, so at least her secret hadn’t spread. It didn’t matter much. Enough damage had been done.
A week went by. Zar, who had assumed I was bummed because I’d lost Renaissance Man to Natari, began to suspect something else was wrong and started asking questions. I tried to avoid him, saying I didn’t feel like hanging out.
It was the truth. I didn’t feel like doing anything, actually.
It was like all the colors had died.
When another week went by, Sohrab suggested, as gently as he could, that maybe it was over. Maybe things do get screwed up so badly sometimes that there’s nothing we can do to fix them.
That night I lay in bed and wondered if I should just ask Bisma if Sohrab was right. I’d been texting constantly, though she never replied. I picked up my phone and looked at our recent conversation. All the word bubbles were mine.
Please call me.
I’m sorry. Call me please.
Can we please talk?
Can we meet?
Just let me know you’re okay.
She hadn’t responded to any of those messages, but I still hoped to hear from her. What if I asked her if there was no chance, if it was really over like Sohrab said, and it ended up being the first time she did answer?
What would I do?
I took a deep breath.
I know I fucked up. I’m so sorry. Please let me fix it. Please.
I waited.
Okay. I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry I kept bothering you. It’s just… I love you.
Nothing.
I wiped the tears that fell from my eyes, dropped the phone beside me, and turned off the light in my room. Sohrab had been right. I should’ve known. He was right about most things.
It was over.
I needed to sleep.
The tears would stop soon. Then I would sleep. It would be better in the morning.
Wouldn’t it?
I was about to close my eyes, when the screen on my phone lit up.
The full moon was alone in the sky when I pulled into the library parking lot. No stars were out tonight.
I drove up to Bisma’s Prius. She was already outside, standing next to her car, with Suri slouched over in the front seat, reluctantly playing chaperone for our midnight meeting.
As I got out, I couldn’t help but notice that Bisma looked pale and tired and the skin around her eyes was swollen. Her hair was done up in a messy ponytail, and… well, she looked like she was recovering from the flu or something.
She smiled when she saw me, though, and I’ve never seen anything that beautiful.
Suri waved at me without getting out of the car.
I might have waved back. It was a little hard to think about anything but Bisma just then.
“You’ve been crying,” she said softly.
“So have you.”
Bisma shrugged. “I’ve been trying to get over a guy.”
“Me too,” I said. Then frowned. “I mean, you know, not… You know what I mean.”
She stuffed her hands into the pockets of the hoodie she was wearing and was silent. Her text had just said she’d meet me at the library, so I didn’t really know what she was thinking. She was here, though, at this late hour. That was something.
I stepped toward her. “I… don’t want you to get over me.”
“Good. Because I can’t.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Bisma spared me the search for words that wouldn’t have been enough to express what was in my heart anyway. She rushed toward me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I held her, burying my face in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I told her.
“You can stop saying that now,” she whispered.
“I love you.”
“That you should keep saying. You know, we’d have been here sooner, if you’d said so earlier.”
I leaned back and stared at her. Had I never said that to her? I hadn’t. She’d texted it during my speech, when I’d been onstage. I hadn’t exactly been in a position to write back. It wasn’t until earlier tonight, in my last text, that I’d actually told her. “That’s what you were waiting to hear? I mean, I kissed you.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“But… you knew, right? You knew I was in love with you.”
“But did you know? Someone once told me you’re not very bright.”
“Oh. My. God. You two are so extra,” Suri called from the car. I realized that she had her window down. “Is there a reason this couldn’t wait until the morning? Did I really have to get dragged out of bed?”
No. It absolutely could not have waited. I was about to tell Suraiya that, when Bisma asked, “Did you mean what you said to Suri? That you can make this right?”
I nodded, hopefully sounding more certain than I was. “I think so. I’ve got a plan.”
“Is it a good plan?” Bisma asked.
“Of course it’s a good plan,” I said. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a Renaissance Man. Well… almost.”
“And that’s great,” Suri called. “But we can talk about it later. I’m tired. Apa, can you kiss him already, so we can go home?”
She could.
She did.
“What are you doing to my kitchen?”
I gave my mother the very best smile I could pull together.
“Making food,” I said.
“I can see that,” she told me. “Why so much food prep first thing in the morning? Are you preparing for a party?”
“Yeah. I invited the Akrams over for dinner.”
“You did what? Danyal, your father is going to end you.”
“Mom. Help me make him understand. Please.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.” It sounded like she meant it. “I can’t be with you on this, Danyal. What that girl did, it was a very big sin. And there is video evidence of it—”
“Only because someone violated her privacy and committed a crime. Why do you guys insist on punishing her?”
“She made a choice too. Now, I feel bad for her, and for you. I really do, but we all have to pay for our mistakes, beta.”
/> “But how much? For how long?”
My mother shrugged. She’d never had a problem admitting when she didn’t have all the answers. “I can help you with the food. If you want.”
“Okay,” I said. It was something. “That’d be great. Thank you.”
Like I told Bisma forever ago, food is a miracle.
It just is.
It has said so much over the centuries. It was probably how the first human beings expressed themselves, probably our very first gesture of friendship, of love and caring.
It was how we first spoke to animals.
It was why we first developed a relationship with the earth.
It is necessary and beautiful, basic and extra.
So that day, when I needed a miracle, I reached for the only one that was in my power.
I didn’t make anything foreign. I wanted everyone to feel at home, to feel comfortable, so it had to be desi food.
Dum goat biryani, with Spanish saffron and long-grain basmati rice.
Seekh kabab laced with a hint of ghost pepper.
Chicken tikka seasoned with Iranian blue salt.
Naan, which I ordered from a restaurant, but brushed with my mother’s homemade ghee.
Ras malai with crushed pistachios, and a halwa made from almonds.
When it was all done, I looked at Mom and asked, “Do you think it will be enough?”
“The trouble with using food as an apology and a prayer, beta,” she said, “is that you still have to bring people to your table. You’ve done an amazing job here, but it is your words, I think, that you’ll have to rely on.”
Great.
I’d never really been good with those.
The handshake between my father and Mr. Akram was tense. I’d thought for a minute there, when Bisma’s tall, distinguished father extended his arm, that my dad wouldn’t take it. He’d looked at it like it was a thing to be mistrusted.
“You should have told us, Mr. Akram, about your daughter’s situation.”
“We told your boy. If you have a complaint, it isn’t against us.”
They both turned to look at me.
I waved at them a little.
Obviously, they didn’t wave back.
Bisma looked hollowed out. Her eyes were still swollen from weeping, and she wouldn’t look up at anyone. Not even me. I didn’t want to think about the things that had probably been said to make her look like that. I’d seen how harsh her father could be, and convincing him to come here must’ve been ridiculously difficult.
As Suraiya walked past me, following our families into the formal living room, she whispered, “Tell me you got this.”
“I got this,” I said with absolutely zero confidence.
Suri’s smile in response was equally weak.
We all sat in tense silence together, the only sound in the house the tinkling of glass against glass as Mom served pineapple juice. She gestured for me to start talking.
“So,” I said, trying out a wide smile that no one returned. “I guess… I’m just going to say… things. I have this friend, Sohrab, and he spends way too much time at the mosque. I don’t mean to sound like I think that’s a bad thing, but it isn’t for everyone and—”
“Is there a point to this?” Mr. Akram demanded.
“Let him speak.” Bisma’s voice was paper thin, and she managed nothing more than a whisper, but there was enough anger in it to cut and draw blood. I’ve always been surprised that paper can do that.
Her father fell silent, and I gave her a grateful look.
“Well,” I went on, “Sohrab asked me to come to a lecture at the mosque once, and I learned about this thing called qalb-e-saleem. Have you heard of it?”
“A pure heart,” Dad said. “What about it?”
“The Quran says that on the Day of Judgment people will only be saved if they’ve got one of those.”
“How does that apply to anything—”
“It applies to everything, Mom. Don’t you see? If Allah is going to look at your heart, don’t you think he’s going to look at my heart? And Bisma’s heart?”
I caught Bisma’s gaze.
“He’ll look at them all. And when this God that we worship, the source of all love, of all justice, looks at her heart and finds it broken… what do you think He’ll do? Ignore it? I think, maybe, He’ll wonder who dared to break it and why. What will any of you do then?”
In the silence that answered my question, Bisma took a long, shuddering breath.
“I know I’m not… you know, wise or whatever, but the way I see it, by punishing people for what we judge to be sins, by hurting them, we all become sinners. The only thing we have to do with other people is to be careful with their hearts. That’s all. Who is forgiven, who is punished, it’s not our business.”
No one would look me in the eye.
Well, except for Suri, who grinned and gave me a thumbs-up.
“Anyway,” I said, “that’s what I believe. No one has to agree with me. But that’s why I don’t care what anyone says about Bisma. Anyone who has anything to say about her should have a hundred things to say about themselves. I’m not going to let this amazing girl that I’m lucky enough to be in love with go because of the opinions of hypocrites.”
I got up and walked over to where Bisma was sitting, next to Suraiya, and knelt down before her, like I’d done all those months ago when her father had been so cruel. “Hi,” I said.
She sniffled and didn’t say anything.
“You have the most beautiful face pond in all the world.”
Bisma sort of sobbed and chuckled at the same time.
“Will you marry me?”
Her eyes started to drift away from mine, searching for her parents, and my parents.
“Listen,” I said. “Look at me. I didn’t ask them. I asked you. What do you want? Do you want to marry me?”
She nodded, fresh tears falling from her eyes. She wiped at them, but kept nodding and said, so softly that I barely heard her, “I really do.”
She held out her hand.
I took it.
We rose up together.
Suri pumped her fist in the air. “Fuck yes!”
“Language!” everyone cried at the same time, and Suraiya wilted back into her chair.
Ahmed Jilani got to his feet and walked over to me. He was a few inches taller than I was, and he stared me down. I swallowed. Bisma held my hand tighter. I met his gaze.
“Jaleel,” he said finally, turning to Bisma’s father, “when you came here today, you said that you’d told my boy about your daughter’s circumstances. Now I have to tell you that there is no boy in this family for your daughter to marry. Don’t you see? Today, my son is a man.”
And then we ate, which, by the way, is how all stories should end.
Nothing says happily ever after like a meal crafted with love.
I mean, of course, there was a lot of hugging and crying and asking for forgiveness before that, but in the end, we gathered around good food and were together, as one family.
Bisma and I didn’t get any time alone, of course. That’s not how these things work. Still, we sat next to each other at the table, and if our eyes whispered promises to each other, or if I took her hand and kissed it when I thought our parents weren’t looking… well, I don’t think anyone has to know.
Acknowledgments
Having made it this far, I find that I have no words to adequately express my gratitude for the incredible people that made this novel possible. This too is a gift. If words are going to fail you, after the end of a story is not a bad place for it to happen.
I have to begin with my extraordinary agent, Melissa Edwards, who is always there to answer questions, provide guidance, open doors, vanquish obstacles, and can be counted on to see the potential of first drafts and respond: THIS IS SO GOOD! Holy fudge. It’s so good. This is a professional email.
My editor, Deirdre Jones, is a marvel. She understood Danyal’s story from the very
beginning, somehow seeing it with clearer eyes than I did, and without her vision, wisdom, hard work, and patience, this book would not have come to life. I am incredibly fortunate that she, and Thorne Ryan, worked on this manuscript. You guys were right about the lemon bars.
I am aware that novels are written without the guidance of my mentors, Léonie Kelsall and Marty Mayberry, but how that happens I do not know. Thank you both for so generously using your time and energy to teach me the craft. If I weren’t typing, this would be a serious heart-hands moment.
Thank you to my copyeditors, Annie McDonnell and Maya Frank-Levine, and my proofreaders, Christine Ma and Mary Auxier, for their thorough work. They are not to blame for any weird italicization choices in the text. Those are on me. Their work was impeccable, and I appreciate it. (Does that comma go there, guys? I’m pretty sure a comma goes there.)
My thanks to Megan Tingley, Alvina Ling, and the entire Little, Brown Books for Young Readers team. Thank you to the book’s designer, Marcie Lawrence, and to Hallie Tibbetts and Anna Prendella. Thank you also to Sammy Moore, who brought Danyal and Bisma to life on the cover.
Thank you, Madelyn Burt of Stonesong and Addison Duffy of United Talent Agency. Thank you to the Pitch Wars Class of 2017, especially Elizabeth Chatsworth, Anne Raven, and Robin Winzenread Fritz, who went through the gauntlet with me.
Publishing is a long road, and an exhaustive list of people who’ve encouraged me, said kind words, or held out a helping hand is impossible to produce here. I’ll just say that I remember all your kindnesses and will not forget them. Thank you.
Finally, thank you to Saad Ahmad, for Mortal Kombat and a friendship unbound by continents. Thank you to Lendyl D’Souza for our long Skype sessions and his constant enthusiastic support.
And to my wife, Amena, who makes writing feel possible and love stories seem real. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
And to my mother, Hajra Masood, who thought buying her kid novels would get him through the boredom of having chicken pox. She wasn’t wrong, and that one magical gift completely altered the course of my life.
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