IN the bathroom, Khalid splashed cold water on his face and quickly made wudu, a ritual purification that involved washing hands, face, arms up to elbows, ears and feet. The familiar rhythm calmed Khalid’s mind and cooled his cheeks.
Women didn’t usually laugh at him. Amir made fun of him, and Zareena used to tease him, but he had never experienced this before. Hafsa’s laugh had slid over his ears like caramel.
Was he funny? Khalid looked in the mirror, smoothing down his hair, which fell below his ears. Maybe he was funny looking.
Hafsa’s poem came back to him again. What do you see when you look at me? He saw her onstage again: eyes that missed nothing and looked at him with irritation and humour, full of life. When he looked at her, he was not sure what he saw.
But he was starting to feel something.
Oh no, he thought. Not her. Not like this.
When Khalid returned to the seminar room, it was empty.
He wandered around the mosque looking for Hafsa, but she had disappeared. He found the imam and Tarek inside the prayer hall, deep in conversation.
“The May long weekend is not possible,” Imam Abdul Bari said. He looked distressed.
“If the Toronto Muslim Assembly wants to host the conference, you don’t have a choice,” Tarek said.
The imam’s hands were clasped in front of him, and the furrow in his brow deepened.
Khalid stepped forward. “Is there a problem, Imam? I thought the conference was scheduled for the July long weekend.”
Tarek smiled brightly, showing off white teeth. “Unfortunately my team has a conflict. We just signed a contract with another, larger mosque in the west end of the city for the same weekend. If your mosque still wants to host a conference, you will have to move it up to the May long weekend. I’m so sorry,” he said, looking anything but.
Khalid looked at Imam Abdul Bari. “Four weeks is not enough time. We will have to cancel the conference.” A small voice in his head protested, but he ignored it. The meetings would come to an end, and then he would have no reason to speak to Hafsa again. Which was probably for the best.
The imam stared at the ground, arms wrapped tightly around his body. “We cannot cancel, Brother Khalid,” he said quietly. “There is something you should know. Something I have kept from you and the congregation, may Allah forgive me. The mosque is in debt. Attendance is dropping, and despite generous contributions from community members, we are barely afloat.” The imam lowered his voice. “The executive board is thinking of selling the property.”
Khalid stared at him. Sell the mosque! The Toronto Muslim Assembly was the heart of the community, one of the oldest mosques in the city, and the first to be designed and built by Muslims. He looked from Tarek to Abdul Bari, waiting for one of them to burst out laughing and singsong “Just kidding!” They remained silent.
“The mandate of Muslims in Action is to help communities,” Tarek said. “As I mentioned, we are a non-profit organization. In exchange for hosting our summer conference, the mosque will be given all proceeds, less our administrative fee. We have a proven model for success and can raise a large sum of cash in one weekend. However, considering the situation, I’m not sure we can help you out of this financial mess.”
“Ammi thought the conference was a bad idea,” Khalid said. “Maybe she was right.”
Tarek looked at Khalid. “Your mother, Farzana?” he asked, his voice sharp. “She didn’t want the conference to happen?”
Khalid didn’t hear Tarek, his attention focused on the imam’s bleak expression.
“I prayed for a miracle, and Allah sent me Brother Tarek,” Abdul Bari said.
“We can’t sell the mosque,” Khalid said.
“I would hate to see such a well-established mosque community suffer,” Tarek said, his voice casual. “Maybe we can help you out after all.”
The imam nodded, determined. “Then it is settled. We must ensure the conference is a success and move the date to May. I see no other option.” He turned to Khalid. “Sister Hafsa had to leave early. Can I count on you to coordinate with her to spread the word on social media? I know you would be heartbroken to see our beloved mosque turned into a strip mall.”
Khalid agreed reluctantly. He resolved to call Hafsa from work, where there would be less chance of their conversation being prolonged. He would be succinct and businesslike, with no unnecessary laughter. And definitely no more smiles.
Chapter Thirteen
Ayesha played the movie Mean Girls during first period. She had been substitute teaching for a few weeks now, and she knew the drill. When teachers called in sick, they usually left work for students to finish, or a group assignment. English teachers loved to throw grammar exercises at their classes, and science teachers usually left textbook work. But math and history teachers always left movies. As a substitute teacher, she had sat through Marvel superhero movies and Pixar adventures, but the most popular choice by far was Mean Girls, Lindsay Lohan’s classic portrait of high school life.
Fifteen minutes into the movie, just as Lindsay was being inducted into the popular crowd, a shadow detached itself from the class. The door opened, letting in a shaft of light from the hall and illuminating a small figure.
Ayesha sighed. There was a runner in every class. She followed the student into the hallway.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she called after the speed-walking teen.
“Washroom, miss,” the girl said. She leaned her weight on one leg and looked Ayesha up and down. “Mrs. Gerard always leaves that movie. Someone needs to get her a Netflix account.” Ayesha remembered the girl from attendance. Tanisha Mills, back row, far left.
“You’re not supposed to leave the class without letting me know first,” Ayesha said.
The girl huffed. “I had to pee. I know the way.”
“I’m the teacher. You need to let me know before you walk out.”
“You’re the substitute teacher.” She pivoted on one foot and stalked toward the bathroom without a backward glance.
Ayesha looked back at the closed classroom door. Great. She didn’t have a key. She would have to knock and hope that one of the students would open it for her. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would just laugh from the window while they snapped pictures. She was just a substitute teacher, after all.
She leaned against the wall. Is this what I’m supposed to be doing with my life?
When she had worked in insurance for a few years after graduating with her B.Sc., the only downside had been the boredom and a few unreasonable supervisors. But she’d had her own desk, she was assigned work that needed to be done on a computer, and mostly she was left alone to get on with it. The only time someone was rude to her was when her boss was having a bad day, and it was easy to avoid one person.
Now she was belittled by kids who weren’t allowed to use the bathroom without permission, and left instructions by absent teachers who took delight in leaving work their students would hate. Or the same movie the class had watched so many times before.
Her cell phone rang with an unfamiliar number. She knew she shouldn’t answer her phone during school, but what if it was an emergency?
“Assalamu Alaikum,” a deep voice said. “Is this Sister Hafsa?”
“Who is this?” Ayesha said cautiously, though she had a pretty good idea.
“Khalid Mirza. From the mosque. The imam gave me your number.” There was a burst of female laughter in the background and Khalid cleared his throat. “Sorry about that. I’m at work right now.”
Where did he work, a beauty salon? Ayesha tried to picture Khalid surrounded by women in rollers waiting to get their hair blown out and hanging on his every word. “I’m at work too,” Ayesha said.
There was a pause. “You have a job?” Khalid asked, surprised.
“I also dress myself, bathe myself, drive a car and have opinions about things,” Ayesha said.
“I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry to have assumed . . . When you pick
ed up your cell phone, I just thought . . .” Khalid floundered.
Ayesha took pity on him. “I’m a high school teacher, and you’re right. I shouldn’t have picked up my phone during school hours. What can I do for you?”
“Are you free tonight?” he asked.
There was a long pause. “You have to give her a time!” someone hissed in the background. “Otherwise she’s going to think you’re weird.”
Ayesha laughed out loud.
“Please excuse me,” Khalid said. When he returned, his voice was muffled. “I had to go out in the hallway. My clients keep interrupting me. I wasn’t trying to ask you out, before. That would be inappropriate.”
“I understand,” Ayesha said, matching his solemn voice, though she was smiling. “Now that you have explained your intentions so clearly, why don’t you get to the actual reason for your phone call?”
There was an awkward pause before Khalid said, “The imam would like us to coordinate the social media campaign for the conference. Are you free to meet tonight at eight?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, stalling.
“We can meet earlier, if you wish. I am free at six. Or seven. Or even seven thirty.”
This was getting strange. “Listen, I have to get back to class. We’ll figure something out,” she said, and before Khalid could reply, she ended the call.
Tanisha stood in front of her, hands on hips. “Was that your boyfriend?” she asked.
“No,” Ayesha said.
“You’re not supposed to pick up your phone during class,” Tanisha said. Then she smiled. “Still, it’s pretty badass of you to call your boyfriend when you should be watching Mean Girls.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Ayesha said.
“Whatevs,” Tanisha shrugged. She sailed past Ayesha and rapped on the door, which immediately sprang open.
Ayesha crept into the class behind her, back to Lindsay Lohan’s high school jungle.
WHEN she returned home that evening, the house was quiet. Her brother, Idris, sat at the dining room table fiddling with a camera.
“Where is everyone?” she said.
Idris jumped up and pointed the camera at her. “Do you have any last requests?”
Ayesha smiled. She hadn’t seen him in such a playful mood in a long time. “A long bath and five million dollars, please,” she said.
Saleha bustled into the room, holding a familiar pink shalwar kameez. She stopped at the sight of her daughter, and the camera. “Idris,” she said sternly. “What are you doing?”
“Capturing every second,” Idris said.
Saleha threw her son a warning glance, then smiled at her daughter. “Look what Hafsa lent you,” she said, holding the suit up.
Ayesha swatted her mother’s hand away. “I hate pink. Where’s Nana?” she asked as she began climbing the stairs.
Idris’s camera was still trained on his sister. “He went for a walk. He refused to have any part in this outmoded mating ritual.”
Ayesha stopped dead. “What did you say?” she asked her brother.
“Beta, you don’t have to wear pink,” Saleha said, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her mother never called her by the Urdu endearment. “After our talk, I started to worry. And then when Nilofer called . . .” She trailed off in the face of her daughter’s stony expression. “It will only take thirty minutes. Just meet the rishta, please. Nani already fried the samosas, and Masood and his mother are on the way.”
Idris kept his camera fixed on Ayesha’s face, capturing her swift transition from anger to a flash of vulnerable contemplation.
Hafsa was not the only one who could capture a man’s attention.
Ayesha tried to shake off that shallow thought, but it lingered. She was twenty-seven years old, still young for so many things. Too young to die, too young not to start over. Still young enough to live with her family.
But she was too old for other things. Too old to never have held someone’s hand. Too old to never have been kissed. Way too old to never have fallen in love or at least teetered on the brink of it.
Maybe she would find love, right here in her own living room, while her mom and brother watched from the sidelines and wished her well. Maybe she would meet Masood and electricity would shoot through her fingertips, and her heart would start pounding when their eyes met for the first time. Why not?
Besides, she had told Khalid she was busy tonight.
“Okay,” she said, to her mother’s relief and Idris’s delight. “Just this once.”
WHEN the doorbell rang, Ayesha was ready. Idris had tried to set up his camera on the dining room table—“So I can get a wide-angle shot”—but Nani made him put it away.
“Don’t worry, I have another camera hidden in the room,” Idris whispered to Ayesha. He danced away before she could demand he hand it over.
Saleha walked down the hallway, followed by the rishta, Masood, and his mother, Nilofer. Saleha made the introductions and they all looked awkwardly at each other.
Nilofer Aunty was a fashionable woman dressed in a shalwar kameez cut in the latest style, her dupatta shawl draped casually around her neck like an Hermès scarf. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, her makeup expertly applied. She took a seat on their old brown armchair and glanced around the tiny living room with appraising eyes. Her son was a stocky man with extremely broad shoulders, a barrel chest and stubby legs. He was dressed in a green polo shirt and blue jeans with white socks.
Ayesha looked at Idris, who subtly motioned to the hanging spider plant in the corner of the room, the perfect hiding spot for the second video camera.
“This is an especially small house,” Nilofer Aunty said, breaking the silence. “How do you all manage to live here together?” She asked the question mildly, like a scientist who had crash-landed in a strange new world.
“We all have our little spaces,” Saleha said. “My parents are in the basement, and my children and I are upstairs.”
“My house is easily twice the size of this, and there’s only my husband and Masood. I never understood extended family living situations,” she said. Then, as if remembering the purpose of her visit, she peered at Ayesha. “Your cousin Hafsa is prettier than you,” she observed. “Younger too. Pity she rejected my Masood without even meeting him. I wanted to take a peek inside their house.” Nilofer Aunty sounded so wistful Ayesha nearly laughed out loud.
“I can give you a tour, if you like,” Ayesha said. “They’re offered every Tuesday afternoon. Admission is five dollars for adults.”
Nilofer Aunty glared at her, but Masood cracked a smile.
“What did you study in school?” he asked. His voice was mild, his eyes fixed on her face like a moony calf.
“Life sciences, and then teaching.”
Masood nodded slowly. “Teaching is a good fallback career.”
Ayesha bristled at his knowing tone. “I wanted a job that challenged me, and I like working with kids.”
They lapsed into silence again, and Saleha offered tea. Nilofer requested sparkling water—“Perrier, if you have it.” Masood declined all offers of food and drink, explaining that he was on a strict diet regimen.
Ayesha looked at the clock. Only five minutes had passed. She had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to go on a blind date in front of her entire family.
“What about you, Masood?” she asked, casting about for a topic. “What line of work are you in?”
Masood and Nilofer Aunty looked at each other. “Consulting,” he said quickly.
“What do you consult on?” Ayesha asked.
He hesitated. “Life.”
“Do you mean you’re a fortune teller, or a psychiatrist?” Idris asked. “And would you mind facing that way when you talk?” He motioned to the plant.
“I’m a life coach,” Masood said. “For professional wrestlers mostly, but I work with all professional athletes.”
Ayesha didn’t look at her brother. “That must be an interesting job,
” she said. “Is there great demand for life coaches among professional wrestlers?”
“Professional wrestling is an elite sport that requires just as much mental stamina as basketball, soccer or gymnastics,” Masood said defensively. “People don’t really get how tough it is to be a wrestler in today’s competitive market. The Australians are really taking over. I blame the kangaroos.”
Ayesha blinked. “The kangaroos?” she asked, as her mother entered the living room with a tray laden with water, tea and cookies.
“Their national mascot is a kangaroo, so they really focus on jumping more than the rest of us. They’re trying to trademark the move for Aussies only,” Masood said bitterly. “I’ve seen a real uptick in business since the lawsuit.”
Ayesha’s eyes watered from biting her tongue. “I had no idea the world of wrestling was so fraught with international intrigue. You must need a Ph.D. in conflict resolution to understand it all,” she said, avoiding her brother’s gaze.
“Actually, I think being an effective life coach is something you’re born to do,” Masood said. “Just like wrestling.”
Saleha sat down abruptly on the couch. “You’re a wrestler?” she asked. “Is that a real job?”
“My son could have gone pro and joined World Wrestling Entertainment, but he held back for the good of the community. His life coaching skills were needed more than his Cross-Face Mississauga Eggplant move,” Nilofer Aunty said, looking fondly at her son. She took a sip of her sparkling water and made a face. “I asked for Perrier, not no-name club soda.” She stood up. “We have a few more girls to see today. We will be in touch if Masood thinks you will be a good fit for the position.”
Masood smiled shyly at Ayesha. “Nice to meet you. Call me if you know anyone who needs my services.” He passed her an embossed white card. “I’m trying to do some outreach in the Muslim community. Being a pioneer is lonely.”
Saleha accompanied the guests to the door while Ayesha and Idris remained in the living room, and the moment Masood and his mother left, they looked at each other and dissolved into giggles.
Ayesha At Last Page 10
