Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  “Tell me that really happened. Tell me I’m not dreaming,” Idris said, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “I’m going to get so many views when I post this on YouTube.”

  “You can’t post it—promise you won’t!” Ayesha was doubled over, holding her stomach.

  “Fine, I’ll wait until after your nikah to Masood.” Still laughing, Idris picked a tiny device out from the hanging plant and strolled upstairs, leaving the plates and cups for Ayesha to clear up.

  “That was interesting,” Ayesha said when Saleha returned. “Maybe the next rishta will have a secret identity—stockbroker by day, rock star by night.”

  Saleha straightened the chairs.

  “You have to admit it was funny,” Ayesha said. “Idris caught the entire thing on camera, if you want an instant replay.”

  Saleha turned to face her daughter. “I thought this might be the solution, but I was wrong. Marriage is too important to leave to chance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I met your father, it was because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

  “‘No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved,’” Ayesha quoted softly.

  Saleha was startled. “Why did you say that?” she said. “Who told you about that?”

  “It’s from As You Like It, Mom. Shakespeare.”

  Saleha turned away from her daughter. “No more rishtas,” she said. “I would rather you stay single for the rest of your life than quote that fool poet and think the world is a comedy when it always turns out to be a tragedy.” She walked upstairs, wiping her eyes.

  Ayesha stared after her. What was that all about?

  And what kind of desi mother didn’t want her twenty-seven-year-old daughter to get married?

  Ayesha checked the time on her cell phone: six twenty. Before she could change her mind, she texted Khalid.

  My schedule just cleared up. I can meet you tonight at the mosque after all. If you want.

  Ayesha could pretend to be Hafsa for a little longer. She needed to get out of this crazy house.

  Khalid replied immediately, almost as if he had been waiting by his phone. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Khalid sat in the mosque conference room facing the door, nervously waiting for Hafsa. His tasbih prayer beads clicked in his hands as he repeated, “Subhanallah, Alhamdulilah, Allahu Akbar”—Glory be to God, all praise to God and God is great. The repetition of the familiar chant calmed him.

  She entered, face drawn.

  Brief and professional, Khalid reminded himself. No random conversation, keep this business only. “I googled Muslims in Action and you’re right, there is very little online about our event. I can set up a website for our conference, and maybe you can do a write-up,” he said.

  “Have you ever had a rishta before?” she asked.

  Khalid paused. “No,” he said. “I’ve signed us up for a Facebook account. We can prepare a few posts in advance and ask prominent community members to help spread the word.”

  “I just had a rishta from a professional wrestler–slash–life coach.”

  “Oh, Masood,” Khalid said.

  “You know him?” she asked.

  “Everybody knows Masood. He sponsors the youth basketball tournament every year. What do you think we should write for our first post?”

  “It’s not like I want an arranged marriage. It’s just strange my Indian mother doesn’t care if I stay single for the rest of my life. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

  Khalid felt himself wavering. This beautiful girl actually wanted to talk to him, not laugh or scowl at his words. But if he looked up, her eyes would lock him in a tractor-beam trance. So he kept his gaze on the screen and his voice bland. “I think you should always listen to your mother. When the time is right, Ammi will find me a suitable wife. I really have no opinion on the matter. What colour scheme best represents the conference? I was thinking yellow and purple.”

  She put her hand out. “Wait. You don’t really believe that.”

  “We can do green and orange if you prefer,” Khalid said. When Hafsa didn’t respond, he looked up from the laptop screen. Her wide brown eyes were looking at him intently. She was wearing eyeliner, he noticed, which made her eyes look larger. He moved his gaze lower, to her soft, pink lips. Khalid swallowed.

  “You don’t honestly believe that your parents should pick out your spouse?” she asked.

  Khalid forced himself to focus on the screen. The conference, he reminded himself severely. Stick to the conference and stop staring at her like a girl-starved teenager. “I suppose ‘Hello, world’ is too obvious for our first post,” he said. “Your expert writer’s eye would be of use here.”

  She stood up and started pacing the room.

  “Obviously your parents should have some input on your partner,” she said. “We’re South Asian, you really do marry the whole family. But to let your parents choose for you, without any input of your own—I know you’re traditional, but that’s crazy. Even Hafsa wants to talk to one hundred guys before she picks one.”

  Khalid looked confused. “Hafsa? You mean you?” he said.

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes I refer to myself in the third person,” she said. “And if you think purple and yellow or green and orange are good colour combinations for a website, your dress sense no longer surprises me.”

  Khalid closed his eyes. This conversation was giving him a headache. He opened his eyes—it would be worse if she stopped talking.

  “I’ve never been in a relationship before,” Khalid said. He stopped, and the heat rose in his cheeks at this admission. He had been teased often for his lack of relationship status. He continued. “I’ve never had a girlfriend. How could I possibly know what I want in a wife? Ammi knows me better than anyone else, and she wants me to be happy. I trust her opinion and her choice.”

  Hafsa sat down abruptly. “I’ve never had a boyfriend either. That doesn’t mean I want my family to pick out my husband like they’re ordering something off Amazon.”

  Khalid kept his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “This is the way things are done, the best way to keep families united and avoid problems. Love comes after marriage, not before. Whatever you feel for someone before marriage is just attraction and chemistry. It’s not real.” He looked up at her. She looked irritated, thoughtful. And beautiful, Khalid thought, and swallowed hard.

  “Your words sound rational, but it doesn’t seem like you completely believe them,” she said slowly. “Does your mom ask you to dress like that?”

  Khalid glanced down at his white robe, the tasbih prayer beads on his wrist. “This is who I am,” he said. “I’m not hiding what’s important to me.”

  “But don’t you know how you look to everyone else?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

  “You wear hijab,” Khalid said. “That’s an act of faith and bravery. All I’m doing is wearing a really long dress shirt. Besides, Ammi said the beard makes me look manly.” He smiled, clearly taking her by surprise. She laughed, and his smile widened.

  “Maybe you should write a poem about your rishta,” he said.

  “Are you mocking me?” she asked, face flushing.

  “When something bothers me, I read the Quran and pray about it. You could try that too, but since you’re a poet, you should write about it.”

  “I’m not a poet. I’m a substitute teacher.”

  “I heard you at Bella’s,” Khalid said, locking eyes with her again. “You’re a poet.” His pulse began to speed and he looked at her hands instead, her long, delicate fingers, smooth and copper-coloured and . . .

  “You could title it ‘Rishti-culous,’” Khalid said, desperate to distract himself. “The poem, I mean.”

  “‘Rishta Rage,’” she said, smiling. “‘Runaway Rishta.’”

  “‘Risht-ocracy,’” Khalid said.


  “‘Hasta La Rishta,’” she said, laughing. “Have you seen the Terminator movies?”

  Khalid froze. “No,” he said, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

  His sister had quoted Schwarzenegger too, right before she had disappeared from his life forever. The memory was still so painful, his hands clenched.

  Zareena hugging him tightly at the airport, full of bravado and unshed tears, their mother shifting impatiently beside them.

  “Did you even want to help with the conference?” he asked, his voice rough. “I’m not your friend, Hafsa. We need to focus.”

  Her face registered surprise and hurt before she wiped it clean of emotion. “White and black for the conference colour scheme. We should put together an ironic video we can post on our website and YouTube. I’ll take care of the posts.” She spoke quickly, but he was not listening.

  Khalid knew he had failed his sister. His guilt lurked below the dark shadow of his anger and rose to the surface whenever he thought of his grim-faced mother marching Zareena toward the security gates at Pearson International Airport. His sister, a light sheen of sweat on her face, had looked so meek. So hopeless.

  He should have done something. He should have stopped them.

  Instead, he had looked to his father for guidance and found none. Faheem couldn’t bear to watch his daughter leave. He had kept his back to her the entire time.

  Hafsa picked up her bag from the floor. “I should go. I think we’re both having trouble staying focused right now.”

  She was almost at the car when Khalid caught up to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You apologize an awful lot,” she said. “You might want to get that checked out.”

  “I’m sor—” Khalid paused. A smile eased the grim line of his jaw. “I’ll make an appointment with my doctor,” he said instead. “Thank you for meeting with me, Hafsa.”

  Her answering smile faded. “Listen, Khalid. I don’t know how much longer I can help with the conference. I’m very busy right now, with work.” She didn’t look at him.

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll ruin everything?” Khalid tried for a light tone, a return to the moment they had shared earlier in the conference room, but it was long gone.

  “Men always expect women to pick up the pieces and then they swoop in and claim all the glory,” she said, her voice flat. “If you ruin everything, you’ll only prove me right.”

  The call for sunset prayer began, but Khalid didn’t move. “I’ll tell the imam you aren’t feeling well.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me.”

  Khalid watched her get into the car with a sick feeling in his stomach. “The mosque is going bankrupt!” he announced, surprising himself.

  She stopped, door half-open. “That’s impossible.”

  “The imam told me. That’s why they want to host the conference. It will drum up donations and business. Otherwise they will have to sell the building. You don’t want our mosque turned into condominiums, do you?”

  She paused, biting her lip.

  “Khalid, we’re too different,” she said quietly. “This isn’t . . . real. Please, just let me go.”

  AYESHA drove straight to the Taj Mahal, but Hafsa wasn’t home. “She’s at the mosque,” Samira Aunty said when she answered the door, cradling a cordless phone. Her aunt looked at her with disapproval. “Sulaiman told me you haven’t been showing up at the mosque to help Hafsa like you promised.”

  Ayesha was tempted to tell her aunt the truth, but she swallowed her irritation. “I’ve been so busy with school,” she said instead. “I’ll try to do better.” Back in her car, she texted Hafsa.

  We need to talk. Where are you?

  Hafsa replied almost immediately. Busy. Talk later.

  Ayesha felt her face grow hot. Fine. I’ll tell your parents who really attended those meetings.

  There was a pause. Then: I’m at the mall. Usual spot.

  The Scarborough Town Centre was the largest mall in the east end of the city, and one of the busiest. Ayesha parked close to the theatres and made her way through the food court to the bubble tea stall. She ordered a lychee mango drink and waited.

  Hafsa was in front of the Laura Secord ice cream stall with a young man who was dressed in late-nineties’ fashion: baggy pants and wallet chain, Doc Martens, white tank top and a single cigarette behind his ear. His dark hair was buzzed, his skin a tanned taupe. As Ayesha watched, Hafsa leaned in close to the young man and whispered something. He nodded and took a seat at the food court. Ayesha got a good look at his face: baby round, light stubble, hooded eyes. There was something off-kilter about his carefully cultivated appearance. He looked like a little boy pretending to be a badass.

  He was nothing like Khalid, she thought. Khalid, whose face transformed when he smiled, who had gentle brown eyes and broad shoulders hidden under his long robe, thick, curly hair beneath his prayer cap. Khalid was a surprise, Ayesha admitted to herself; funny and thoughtful and maybe even a tiny bit cute.

  She shook her head. What was she thinking? Ayesha remembered her words to Clara only a few nights ago: He’s a fundamentalist.

  And Clara’s response: No, he’s not. He’s a good guy.

  Hafsa walked up to Ayesha, smiling but uncertain. “You’ve been avoiding me all week,” she said.

  Ayesha was still checking out Hafsa’s friend. He had a lighter in his hand now and was flicking it on and off, moodily posing for the mall crowd. “What happened to one hundred rishtas and a wedding?”

  Hafsa followed her gaze. “That’s Haris. We’re just friends.”

  “What do you and Haris talk about? Your twenty-two rishtas?”

  Hafsa tossed her head. “Mostly he tells me how pretty I am, and I tell him about my business plans.”

  Ayesha closed her eyes. “Hafsa . . .” she began.

  “Before you say anything, I want to thank you for covering for me. You’re the best!” Hafsa leaned over the table to give her older cousin a half hug, but Ayesha was stiff.

  “Marriage is a lot of responsibility,” Ayesha began again.

  Hafsa puffed out her cheeks, eyes scanning the food court. “As if you would know,” she muttered.

  Ayesha stopped, anger rising.

  “You’re acting like a child,” she blurted. “Do you know how busy I am? I’m working all day, and then at night I go to these stupid meetings at the mosque for you! The least you can do is show up.”

  Hafsa’s eyes filled with tears. “I know,” she said. “I’m such a screw-up.”

  Ayesha’s anger immediately deflated, and she reached across to squeeze her cousin’s hand. “Don’t say that, Hafs.”

  Hafsa wiped her eyes. “I’ve had forty-five, you know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Proposals. Rishtas. All the guys were too poor, too ugly, too boring or too old.”

  “You don’t have to get married,” Ayesha said. “Finish school. Start your business. You’re only twenty, there’s no rush.”

  “Yes, there is. I don’t want to leave it too late and end up like you. You’re almost thirty and nobody wants you.” The note of pity in her cousin’s voice was clear. “You think I’m silly and keep changing my mind about school, but I know what I want. I want to be rich and married. In the meantime, I want to have some fun with Haris.”

  Ayesha shook her head. “You’re stalling. What have you been doing while I impersonated you at the mosque all week?”

  “Dad was so happy when the imam told him I’d shown up. He offered to give me five thousand dollars for my business.” Hafsa sniffed. “As if I can do anything with that.”

  Ayesha stared at her baby cousin, who loved flowers and makeup and thought that rishtas were knights coming to woo the princess. She didn’t recognize the spoiled brat sitting in front of her.

  As if sensing Ayesha’s thoughts, Hafsa’s eyes flashed. “You always behave like the saintly star of the story. Well, you’re not. Exciting things can happe
n to me too. You’re not Jane Eyre. I’m going to find my Mr. Darcy, and all my problems will be solved!”

  “I think you mean Elizabeth Bennet, not Jane Eyre,” Ayesha said. “Mr. Darcy is the hero of Pride and Prejudice.”

  For an instant, Hafsa’s face wobbled. Then her eyes hardened. “You can tell my parents about the conference meetings if you want,” she said. “They’ll only blame you for not keeping a closer eye on me. And what kind of a saint will you be then?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Khalid was having a hard time concentrating at work, and not only because Sheila was breathing down his neck about the WomenFirst Design account. His conversation last night with Hafsa kept playing over and over in his mind. They had been talking easily, enjoying themselves, and then he had messed it all up. What was wrong with him?

  And what was wrong with orange and green or yellow and purple background colours? His mother owned plenty of shalwar kameez with similar colour combinations.

  When Clara dropped by during lunch, he was grateful for the distraction. Amir had gone out, and he was alone in the office.

  “The word around the water cooler is you landed a very lucrative client. How did you manage that?”

  Khalid looked sheepish. “I’m not entirely sure. I told them I hadn’t designed a website since high school, but Lorraine and Vanessa said honesty was endearing in a man. I don’t think Sheila is too happy about the situation.”

  He felt comfortable confiding in Clara. There was something about her that reminded him of his sister, Zareena. She listened to him, and her eyes never rested on his clothes or his beard with condescension. She accepted him as he was, and that gave him the courage to open up.

  “I met your friend at the mosque,” he said, careful to keep his voice nonchalant. “The poet from Bella’s. We are working together on a community project.”

  Clara perked up at this, and he continued. “I annoyed her for some reason. I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  Clara pulled Amir’s chair from his desk and sat down. “You like her,” she said, stating a fact.