Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  He was a large man, tall and broad, and the corridor was narrow. He looked up to see his co-worker Clara standing in the middle of the hallway, whispering into her cell phone. Khalid did not wish to disturb what appeared to be an intense conversation; he also did not wish to brush past her in the hallway. He had been raised to believe that non-related men and women should never get too close—socially, emotionally and especially physically.

  “When an unmarried man and woman are alone together, a third person is present: Satan,” Ammi often told him. Khalid found this reminder helpful, especially when paired with cold showers. There wasn’t much more that a twenty-six-year-old virgin-by-choice could do, really.

  He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Clara had raised her voice. “When do you get to be happy?” she said sharply into her phone.

  Khalid blinked at the question, which so neatly mirrored his own thoughts.

  His cell phone dinged with a new email, and he opened it, grateful for the distraction. His heart sank when he read the subject line and recognized the sender: his sister, Zareena. He hadn’t told her about their move. He hadn’t been sure how she would react to the sale of their childhood home. It looked like some other busybody had thoughtfully informed her instead. He began to read.

  Re: the last to know?

  Khalid,

  I can’t believe I had to hear the news from my father-in-law. You sold the house and moved? I loved that house. It was so easy to sneak out of my bedroom. But I guess it was too hard after Abba died.

  Guess what? I got bored and started volunteering my time for a Cause. You would be so proud of me. I’m teaching English to a class of little girls at the local school. My students are super sweet. Their parents can barely afford to send them to class. Half the time they show up with no lunches, but their clothes are so tidy, their hair in neat braids, and they want to learn so badly. Not like when I was in school! They always bring me a flower or a fruit they stole from someone’s garden. I sneak them rice and dal sometimes.

  —Zareena

  P.S. Maple donuts and Tim Hortons hot chocolate.

  P.P.S. Thanks for the gift. Can you use Western Union next time plz? It’s closer and you know how I hate to walk.

  Zareena’s emails and texts arrived every few days and reported on her daily life. Sometimes she complained about the dullness of her days, or which of her dozens of in-laws were irritating her. Sometimes she asked him about work, or if he had talked to a girl yet . . . or even made eye contact with one.

  The one thing she never asked about was their mother. The second thing she never discussed was her husband.

  The postscript was always something Zareena missed about Canada. Her words brought the taste of maple dip donuts and too-sweet hot chocolate to his lips. Their father, Faheem, used to treat them on the way back from Sunday morning Islamic school when they were kids. Before Zareena went away.

  After she left, whenever Khalid mentioned her name, his father would freeze and Ammi would become upset. Soon her name became an unspoken word in their home.

  Clara’s call had ended, and he noticed her examining him as he read his email. They knew each other, but had never spoken. He wondered if she was uncomfortable with the way he dressed. Some people found his robes and skullcap difficult to reconcile with an office environment. But Khalid had long ago decided to be honest about who he was: an observant Muslim man who walked with faith both outwardly and inwardly, just as some of his Muslim sisters did by wearing the hijab.

  Still, sometimes it made people nervous. Though Clara did not seem wary. She appeared almost . . . appraising.

  Which made him nervous.

  Khalid motioned in front of him. “After you,” he said politely.

  Clara didn’t move. “My friend is having a crisis. Her first day at a new job.”

  “That can be difficult,” Khalid said, looking directly at her.

  Now she looked curious. About him? Women were never curious about him.

  “It’s sort of my first day too,” Clara said, leaning close. “I was promoted to regional manager of Human Resources.”

  “Congratulations.” Khalid inclined his head in acknowledgement. “I know you will fulfill your duties with integrity.”

  “My boyfriend, Rob, is happy about the pay raise,” Clara said with a smile. “I’m reporting to Sheila Watts. Do you know her?”

  Khalid shook his head. Sheila had replaced his old director a few weeks ago, but he had yet to meet his first female boss.

  The door behind Clara opened and a petite woman with black hair and blue eyes stepped out. She was shorter than Clara, dressed in a sleeveless top and tight black pencil skirt. Above her right breast was pinned a large crystal brooch in the shape of a spider, its winking red eyes matching her lipstick.

  Clara stepped forward with a friendly smile.

  “Sheila, I wanted to introduce myself—I’m Clara Taylor. John promoted me just before he left the company.”

  Sheila looked at the outstretched hand and beaming face before her. A faint expression of distaste lurked at her lips and she briefly shook Clara’s hand, using only the very tips of her fingers.

  Khalid knew what was coming next, and he felt powerless to stop it. Usually when he was introduced to female clients and co-workers, he had time to prepare beforehand with a carefully worded email about his no-touch rule.

  As the women talked, he subtly edged away from their conversation, taking tiny steps down the hall. But it was no use; Clara’s friendliness foiled his escape.

  “Sheila, this is our e-commerce project manager, Khalid Mirza,” she said, and both women turned to him.

  A hard glance from Sheila took in Khalid’s white robe and skullcap. Her eyes lingered on his long beard.

  Her gaze was the opposite of appraising, Khalid thought. She looked annoyed.

  Then everything went from bad to worse. Sheila leaned forward and stuck out her hand for him to shake.

  They stared at each other.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t shake hands with women. It’s against my religion,” he blurted.

  Sheila left her hand outstretched for another moment, cold eyes locked on his face. Then she slowly pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “I should have assumed as much from your clothing. Tell me, Khalid: Where are you from?”

  “Toronto,” Khalid answered. His face flamed beneath his thick beard; he didn’t know where to look.

  “No,” Sheila laughed lightly. “I mean where are you from originally?”

  “Toronto,” Khalid responded again, and this time his voice was resigned.

  Clara shifted, looking tense and uncomfortable. “I’m originally from Newfoundland,” she said brightly.

  “I lived in the Middle East for a while,” Sheila said to Khalid, her voice low and pleasant. “Saudi Arabia. I found it so interesting that the women wore black while the men wore white. There’s something symbolic about that, isn’t there? Half the population in shadow while the rest live in light. You must be so grateful to live in a country that welcomes everybody.” Sheila’s laughter sounded high and artificial. “Of course, when I was in Saudi Arabia, I wasn’t afforded the same courtesy.”

  Khalid’s eyes were lowered to the ground, his head bowed. “I apologize, Ms. Watts. I meant no disrespect,” he said finally. “Please forgive me.” He turned around and walked back the way he had come, hands trembling.

  He took the long way around the floor and caught the service elevator down to his small office in the basement. It was sparsely furnished with two grey metal desks squeezed together, a black bookcase wedged behind the door and a sagging blue couch against the back wall. Rumour had it this office used to be a maintenance closet, but he was grateful for the privacy, especially when he prayed in the afternoon.

  It was nine thirty in the morning, earlier than usual for Amir to already be at his desk. Though judging by the rumpled suit, his co-worker had spent last night at the office. Again.

  “Assalamu Alaikum, Amir. I thou
ght we talked about this.” Khalid hid his shaking hands by folding his arms.

  “My date wasn’t exactly interested in a sleepover, if you know what I mean. Bitches, am I right?” Amir reached for a water bottle on his desk, opened it and began chugging rapidly.

  Khalid winced at his description. “I can’t keep covering for you.”

  Amir had been hired the previous year as part of Livetech’s “Welcome Wagon” program for immigrants. Technically, Khalid was his manager. Most days he felt like a babysitter.

  “Last time, I swear. This would never happen if you came out with me and stopped me from committing my many sins. I promise I’ll introduce you to some pretty girls.”

  Khalid was tempted to confess Ammi’s plans to find him a wife, but instead he stuck to his usual line. “Out of respect for my future wife, I don’t believe in sleeping around before marriage.”

  Amir only laughed. “Classic Khalid. I tell my friends about you all the time. They don’t believe half my stories. All the other Muslim guys I know scrub up for Friday prayers just like you, but they know how to have fun.”

  Khalid ignored him and settled down to check emails; the most recent was from Sheila, sent only moments ago.

  Khalid, I’m glad we met today. I’d like to begin our working relationship with a performance review. I look forward to a frank discussion of your strengths and many areas of improvement. The meeting is scheduled for Monday at 3 p.m. I trust this appointment will not interfere with any religious obligations.

  Amir, noticing Khalid’s concerned expression, got up to read over his shoulder. He whistled. “What did you do?”

  Khalid shrugged. “I declined to shake her hand.”

  “K-Man, you need to edit. Figure out what works for you, throw out what doesn’t. It’s not like we’re still riding around on camels, right?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Amir punched Khalid lightly on his arm. “You’re too old to be this naive. Watch your back, brother.”

  Khalid kept silent. He knew how Amir saw him—as an anachronistic throwback, a walking target for ridicule.

  Sometimes he wished he were different. But even if Khalid “edited” everything about himself—his clothes, his beard, his words—it wouldn’t erase the loneliness he felt every day. The loneliness he had felt ever since his sister left home almost twelve years ago.

  His white robes and beard were a comfortable security blanket, his way of communicating without saying a word. Even though he knew there were other, easier ways to be, Khalid had chosen the one that felt the most authentic to him, and he had no plans to waver.

  Besides, the robes provided great air circulation.

  And everything happened by the will of Allah.

  Chapter Four

  Sheila had an entire wall of windows in her office, Clara noted. Her new boss sat at a large black desk so shiny it reflected her perfectly poised image. She was typing an email, and she looked angry, her red nails stabbing the keyboard. Clara was seated on a lethal-looking chair; the curlicued metal embellishments on the back felt like they had been filed to a knife’s edge.

  Sheila sent her email and then stared at Clara for a moment before leaning forward with a confidential air. “Five years ago, I was in customer support, and now look at me.” She spread out her arms to encompass the large, airy office. “Hard work, that’s the key. And it doesn’t hurt to look good doing it.” Her tight smile revealed tiny white teeth.

  Clara shifted uneasily. The scene outside with Khalid was still fresh in her mind. As the new regional manager of Human Resources, she felt responsible.

  Sheila straightened in her chair. “People are intimidated by a woman in power, Clara. They think it goes against the natural order of things. But the world is changing, and it’s important that we embrace the transformation. You grew up in Newfoundland.”

  Clara blinked, head spinning at Sheila’s abrupt topic change. So her new boss hadn’t been simply ignoring her outside in the hallway.

  There had been rumours about Sheila Watts. When Clara was first promoted, her co-workers had warned her about the new boss.

  “They call Sheila ‘the Shark’ because she always circles her prey before she attacks,” one remarked. Clara didn’t take gossip seriously, but now she was worried.

  If only Khalid had shaken Sheila’s hand, things would have been so much easier. Her friend Ayesha had no problem shaking people’s hands, and she was Muslim. But this was HR 101: Everyone was entitled to their own interpretation of faith, even if it did make her job especially challenging. Also, her new boss’s repetition of that question—Where are you from?—hadn’t sat well with her. If Khalid had been awkward, Sheila’s reaction had been no less so, though Clara doubted her new boss would see things that way.

  Ayesha thought she had it bad standing in front of bored teenagers. Finding a way through the tricky waters that made up people’s backgrounds and beliefs was even worse. She reined in her thoughts and focused on Sheila’s words.

  “We’re fortunate at Livetech to employ people from all over the world. Diversity is essential in today’s global marketplace, but it can also present unique challenges,” Sheila said.

  “I grew up in a diverse neighbourhood, so I’m used to living and working with people of different ethnicities and cultures,” Clara said.

  Sheila waved her words aside. “I’m going to let you in on a secret, Clara. Livetech Solutions is ready to join the global technology stage with our new product launch, but there are bad apples polluting the orchard. That’s where you come in.”

  Clara’s laptop was open now, and she was taking notes. Polluting the orchard. Bad apples. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. “Are you asking me to fire someone?” she said, not quite masking the squeak of terror in her voice. “So far my HR work at Livetech has focused on mediation, conflict resolution and mental health initiatives.”

  “Termination is a last resort, and proper protocols must be followed. We wouldn’t want Livetech to be involved in any legal unpleasantness.” Sheila gave Clara an arch look. “Let’s start with Khalid Mirza. I want you to prepare a file on his work habits, how often he misses deadlines and his inappropriate behaviour toward women.”

  Clara was typing furiously but slowed down at Sheila’s words. “Is this about what happened in the hallway earlier?”

  Sheila lowered her voice. “You saw what he did,” she said. “He’s clearly one of those extremist Moslems.”

  Clara leaned back, fighting to appear calm. The chair pinched her shoulder and she winced. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Sheila’s tinkling laugh rang out. “You are so innocent. I love working with a blank slate.”

  Clara’s sense of unease grew.

  “I was headhunted by a big conglomerate in Riyadh, the capital city of Saudi Arabia, a few years ago. I lasted six months.” Sheila’s teeth gleamed. “Khalid would fit in with my former employers perfectly, right down to the bedsheets and dirty beard.”

  Clara’s stomach clenched. “You can’t get rid of someone because of their religious beliefs,” she said carefully. “And his beard looks presentable to me. He told me he dry cleans his robes every week.”

  Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “Livetech is a growing global player. Our senior team must maintain a certain professionalism, and that includes a uniformity of dress.” She leaned across the desk. “Sweetheart, you’ll find this type of behaviour the higher you climb. Men afraid of a woman with power, men who can’t handle a woman’s ambition. There are limits to religious accommodation—and it’s your job to find those limits. I’ve set up a meeting with Khalid for next week, which is more than enough time for you to compile your report. I do hope your promotion was the right decision for Livetech.”

  When Clara left the office, she felt uneasy. She thought about Ayesha and her family, who had embraced her when her own parents had moved back to Newfoundland during freshman year. They prayed five times a day and wore “funny” clothi
ng too.

  Khalid might have chosen to follow his faith in a way that appeared conservative, but that didn’t mean he deserved to be fired. By all accounts he was respectful and hard working, if a little quiet. How could Clara, in good conscience, allow this to happen? She’d gone into human resources to advocate for people, not to promote inequity.

  Yet Sheila had made it very clear that her job was on the line. Clara had been so proud of her promotion, so excited to begin climbing the corporate ladder. But already her new role was turning out to be more difficult than she had imagined.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  An idea popped into her head. Perhaps there was a way she could help Khalid, and Ayesha too. Her friend needed to have some fun, and her co-worker needed to loosen up and learn how to talk to women. Besides, Sheila had asked her to investigate Khalid, not fire him. As the new regional manager of Human Resources, she had the responsibility of seeing both sides of any workplace issue.

  Clara took the elevator to the basement. Standing on the threshold of Khalid’s shared office, she tried to see him the way Sheila did, as a dangerous, sexist outsider. But he looked like the other Muslim men in the neighbourhood where she’d grown up, like Ayesha’s grandfather dressed for Friday prayers. She knocked on the door and entered the office.

  “It was so nice bumping into you in the hall today, Khalid,” she said.

  He looked up from the screen, surprised. “How was your meeting with Sheila?”

  The less said about that, the better. “Do you enjoy listening to poetry?” Clara asked instead.

  Khalid considered this, puzzled. “I read the Quran. It is a very poetic book.”

  Amir snickered. Khalid’s obnoxious office mate stared at her, eyes on her breasts. She ignored him.