“I don’t . . . I’ve never had a . . .” Khalid trailed off, but Clara’s eyes were full of understanding.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I like her.”
Perhaps she would have some suggestions that might help his situation; Allah knew he could use it. Khalid waited patiently for her advice.
I LIKE her. The words hung in the air between them as Clara took in his finger-raked hair, the cookie crumbs on his desk. Poor Khalid. He really had no idea about what was going on. Not about the anger he had generated in Ayesha, or the trouble this account had caused at work.
Sheila had been so irate after the ladies at WomenFirst Design dismissed her, everyone was walking around on eggshells. She had fired an assistant yesterday for sniffling too loudly. Khalid wouldn’t last two minutes if Sheila could figure out a way to fire him without Vanessa and Lorraine finding out.
And now this sudden, unexpected revelation about Ayesha. He clearly needed her help.
Clara had noticed the way her friend had looked at Khalid during her open mike performance—like she wanted to fry his beard with lightning bolts. No other man had ever roused that much emotion in Ayesha, ever.
“I told Sheila about your attempt to socialize with your co-workers, and she’s really, really pleased,” Clara lied. “Why don’t you come over for dinner sometime next week, and we can talk job strategy? My partner, Rob, makes a yummy pad Thai.”
Khalid appeared to consider the offer. “Will there be alcohol?”
“Only the finest non-alcoholic wine for you,” Clara promised. And my beautiful friend for dessert, she thought. “I’ve been hearing rumours about you. Your saag paneer and kofta kebab have become the stuff of Christmas party legend.”
“Cooking relaxes me,” Khalid said.
“Women love a man who can cook,” Clara said. “When Rob makes me an apology dinner, it’s hard to stay mad at him.”
She gave him a knowing look. Part of her mandate as HR manager was to make suggestions, plant ideas, and encourage her clients to add the water and sunshine necessary for them to blossom. Khalid was an intelligent man; she was sure he would put two and two together. And if he didn’t—well, then he didn’t deserve a chance with her friend.
She smiled her goodbye and left him to it.
KHALID furrowed his brows, thinking about Clara’s cryptic advice. His forehead cleared. He would cook Hafsa a meal! What a brilliant solution. Before he could change his mind, he texted her.
Salams. I’ve enrolled in AA—Apologizers Anonymous—and I’m working through the steps. The next one is to make amends to people I’ve wronged.
His phone pinged with her response a few minutes later.
Ok, I’m intrigued. How do you make amends for this very serious and completely not imaginary problem?
Khalid typed quickly, before he lost his nerve.
Your forgiveness for a kofta?
There was a long pause, and Khalid stared at his phone, feeling nervous and exhilarated. A tiny voice urged him to back down, but for the first time in his life, he didn’t pay it any attention.
His phone pinged with another message. 6 pm. Meet me in the parking lot of your favourite lounge.
AYESHA parked her car and walked toward Khalid, who leaned against his rusting Honda and waited for her. He passed her a plastic container filled with rice and peas, kofta meatball curry and a packet of homemade crispy papad lentil chips. The savoury scent of cinnamon, cumin, cloves, coriander and melted ghee enveloped her in a flavourful cloud when she lifted the lid. It smelled so good, she dug in right away, using the fork Khalid had packed. Teaching made her hungry.
“Your mom is a good cook,” she said, chewing.
“I made it,” he said absently. “Ammi is a terrible cook, actually.”
Ayesha laughed softly and Khalid looked away. “I’m sorry about what happened at the mosque,” he said to his shoes. “Something you said reminded me of my sister, and it’s a painful subject.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister.” Ayesha speared two peas on the tines of her plastic fork and popped them in her mouth.
“She doesn’t live in Canada, and I haven’t seen her in a long time,” he said. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Please don’t give up on the conference because of what I said.”
“I can’t help you, Khalid,” Ayesha said, her mouth full of kofta. “I’ve got a lot going on. Work, my family.” But her will was weakening with every bite. “If you made me dinner again, I might change my mind.”
“Ammi hates it when I cook,” Khalid said. “My sister always loved my pasta.”
“Tell me about her.”
Khalid hesitated, as if judging if she truly wanted to know. “Her name is Zareena, and she’s almost four years older than me. She lives in India.”
Ayesha thought about this. She had assumed he was an only child. “Why India?”
“She married and moved there. Or rather, moved and then married.”
Ayesha looked at him curiously. “That’s a big decision, to reverse immigrate to a country your parents left behind. Does she like it there?”
This time he didn’t hesitate. “I’m pretty sure she hates it.” Khalid was silent for a beat. Then: “I’ve never told anyone that.”
Ayesha picked at the rice, not sure what to say. “I have a little brother, Idris. He’s seventeen, and sometimes it feels like we haven’t had a proper conversation since he was seven and obsessed with Pokémon.”
Khalid smiled briefly. “After she left, I didn’t hear from her for a long time. I didn’t handle her absence well. I went through a rebellious phase.”
Ayesha nearly choked on a kofta. She tried to picture Khalid dressed like Haris, in low-slung jeans and gold chain, a cigarette behind his ear, white skullcap replaced by designer baseball hat. “What did you do, listen to Islamic spiritual music with the volume turned up? Take up the tabla drums and Sufi whirling?” she teased.
Khalid scuffed his foot against the loose gravel of the parking lot. “Something like that. Then Zareena started emailing me, and things got better. At least I knew she was okay. I put away my anger and started going to the mosque in my old neighbourhood with my Abba. We went for Fajr and Isha prayer every day. He died last year.”
Ayesha lowered her fork at his words; she wanted to reach out and squeeze his arm in sympathy. “I’m glad you had those moments with your dad before he passed. I lost my father too, when I was younger,” she said, her voice quiet.
“The mosque was my refuge, if that makes any sense. I feel the same way about the Toronto Muslim Assembly. I have to help save it.”
Ayesha replaced the lid on her half-eaten dinner and held it in front of her, glancing at Khalid’s face in profile. He had long eyelashes and beautiful skin, big hands and thick fingers. She felt safe and comfortable beside him. You are good and kind and wholly unexpected, she thought with surprise.
“My Nani wants to teach me to cook,” she said instead. “I’m scared I’ll burn the house down. I think I embarrassed her a few days ago. Some aunties came over and I told them I was too busy to learn how to fry frozen samosas.”
“The first time I cooked an egg, I put it in the microwave and the yolk exploded. I wish I had someone like your Nani to teach me.”
“Why don’t you come over to my house for a lesson?” Ayesha asked.
They both froze at her words.
What have I done? Ayesha thought.
Khalid looked stunned. “Thank you for the offer,” he said carefully. “Is that a yes?” Ayesha asked, mirroring his cautious tone.
Khalid was silent for a moment, clearly thinking. “I’m free Monday night.”
Monday her mother was working a double shift, and Idris had basketball practice and wouldn’t be home until ten.
“Okay then,” she said.
AYESHA could still taste the basmati rice on her lips, could still picture the look on Khalid’s face as he talked about his father and his sister.
He’s not s
o bad, she thought. How many guys cooked for someone they barely knew? Also, Nani would be thrilled to finally lure Ayesha into the kitchen.
She was rationalizing, and she knew it. Her offer of a cooking lesson and Khalid’s acceptance was spontaneous, and she regretted both. Khalid was a repressed mama’s boy. Plus he thought her name was Hafsa. How could she explain any of this to her grandmother?
When she got home, Nana and Nani were sitting on the front lawn in plastic chairs. They greeted Ayesha as she got out of her car.
Nani gave Nana a meaningful look, and he stood up. “Jaanu, I was just about to take a walk before dinner. Will you accompany me to the park?” he said. Nani disappeared inside the house.
It was nearly seven, and the streets were filled with children. Basketball and cricket games were underway on driveways and streets, while other children skipped rope or formed whispering clusters on bicycles. Stately grandmothers in bright cotton saris kept a close eye on their young charges. The children knew they had time to play. Dinner wouldn’t be served until eight, bedtime after ten. An ice cream truck slowly cruised the street, a Pied Piper parting children from their allowance money.
When Ayesha had moved to Canada, the neighbourhood park was the first place she’d felt safe. With baby Idris in a stroller and three-year-old Hafsa toddling beside Nana, she would race to the playground after school, ready to lay claim to the geo-dome in the centre, a structure that stood nearly ten feet tall and resembled a metal lattice egg. When she climbed to the top, she would survey the park’s inhabitants: schoolchildren playing tag, mothers pushing babies on the toddler swings. Her eyes had lingered on the fathers kicking soccer balls or throwing baseballs to their children. Nana let her stay there as long as she liked. He knew she would join them on the ground when she was ready.
Now they approached the playground and took a seat on a faded wooden park bench. “I spoke to the imam today after Zuhr prayer,” Nana said. “Abdul Bari mentioned how pleased he is with Hafsa’s help. It seems Hafsa has many creative ideas for the conference, and she has offered to recite one of her poems.” Nana gave Ayesha a sidelong glance. “I am so happy to learn we have two poets in the family. Perhaps she was inspired by you, jaanu.”
Ayesha turned her face away to mask her blush. Her grandfather continued.
“Shakespeare enjoyed a good farce. Separated twins, love triangles and mistaken identity were his specialty. Yet it is through his tragedies that one learns the price of silence. ‘False face must hide what the false heart doth know.’”
“Hafsa isn’t Macbeth,” Ayesha said.
“Macbeth did not start off evil. It was the choices he made that sent him down a dark path. Hafsa is not as silly as she appears, and you are not as strong. Your father placed a high value on loyalty as well, but he was an idealist who died for his beliefs.” Nana stared at the play structure, cheerfully painted in primary colours and swarming with children. He turned to his eldest grandchild. “Beta, there is nothing worse than watching your loved ones suffer. Promise you will always choose laughter over tears. Promise you will choose to live in a comedy instead of a tragedy.”
Ayesha ducked her head to hide her confusion. Nana spoke of Syed as if he were a freedom fighter. She wondered what romantic cause her father had sacrificed himself for, and if it had been worth leaving behind his heartbroken wife, and children who barely remembered his face. Her mind raced with unanswered questions.
“Nana . . .” she started, but her voice trailed off. Her grandfather held himself so carefully, face lined with worry but filled with love. His brown eyes pleaded silently: Don’t ask me questions I can’t bear to answer.
Ayesha looked away. “I promise.”
Chapter Sixteen
Farzana pounced as soon as Khalid walked in the front door. “Where have you been?” she asked, wrapping a black hijab around her head. “I promised my friend Yasmeen I would visit today.”
“Have a nice visit. I can make myself something for dinner,” Khalid said.
Farzana fixed her son with a glare. “They are expecting you too, of course. You must drive me.”
Khalid protested that he was hungry and tired, but his mother only sniffed. “If you keep eating so much, you’ll get fat. Then it will be even harder to find a suitable wife. Hurry, I said we would be there for six thirty.”
The rush hour traffic was brutal, a forty-minute slog north before Khalid parked in front of a two-storey house with large windows overlooking a patterned-concrete driveway. Giant planters stood sentry on either side of the granite walkway next to a manicured lawn.
Farzana looked impressed. “So pretty, no?” she said at the daffodils blooming on the front porch.
His mother’s genial mood made Khalid nervous. “I’ll wait in the car,” he offered, but she insisted he join her.
“You’re not a dog. Make sure you eat whatever they offer and then ask for more.” She walked up to the double-door entrance.
Warning bells rang in Khalid’s head. “Ammi, what is going on?”
“I told you, we’re here to visit my old school friend. Also her youngest daughter, Ruhi. She’s nineteen and quite lovely. Make sure you compliment her on the chai she brings for you.”
Realization dawned: He was on his very first rishta visit. He was about to protest when he heard footsteps and giggling. The door was thrown open by Yasmeen Aunty, who greeted Farzana with rapturous air kisses.
Khalid hung back and felt eyes upon him. He looked down into the fierce gaze of a five-year-old boy.
“Ruhi Phuppo will NEVER marry you!” the boy said, and he kicked Khalid in the shin.
“Ow!” Khalid bent down to rub his leg. “What are you talking about?”
The little boy whacked him over the head with a stuffed orange tiger.
Yasmeen Aunty grabbed the little boy. “Adam, go to the kitchen for a special treat from your mother,” she said, smiling at Khalid. “My oldest grandchild. He’s very possessive of his phuppo aunt, my youngest daughter, Ruhi. She’s so good with children. Do you like children, Khalid?”
“Um . . . I . . . Yes. I suppose,” Khalid mumbled. Adam fixed him with an evil glare before trotting off in search of his treat.
On second thought, Khalid was pretty sure he didn’t like kids.
“Maybe I should wait outside until you’re done,” he said to his mother.
The women started laughing. “You never told me he was funny!” Yasmeen Aunty said to Farzana. Then she turned to Khalid. “I haven’t seen you in so long. Who knew you would turn into such a tall, handsome man? Please come inside. Ruhi will be right out.”
She led them to a large living room stuffed with furniture—four couches crammed along the walls, a large coffee table, a credenza, a hutch and a dining table. Khalid gingerly took a seat on a bright-green patterned couch.
A younger man who looked like Yasmeen’s son, his wife and Adam walked into the room and sat down. There was a moment of silence as the strangers looked at each other.
“How long have you lived in this house, Yasmeen?” Farzana asked brightly.
They chatted about the neighbourhood, the proximity of the halal butcher, the astonishing number of halal restaurants that had sprung up in recent years (“No good—outside food is so bad for digestion,” Farzana declared) and other topics unrelated to the real reason for their visit. Finally, after what felt like hours but was really only fifteen minutes, the main attraction entered the room.
Ruhi was slender and dressed in a mint-green shalwar kameez, her dupatta shawl pulled demurely over her head. She balanced a tray of tea and snacks, which she placed gracefully in front of Khalid before taking a seat beside her mother, eyes on the ground.
“You’ve gotten so tall since I saw you last, Ruhi. What are you studying in school?” Farzana asked her.
Ruhi’s voice was so low, Khalid strained to hear it. “Early childhood education, Aunty.”
“That will come in handy once you have children,” Farzana said, smiling at
her. “Do you read your prayers every day?”
“Yes, Aunty.”
“And you live in an extended family, so you are used to listening to your elders.”
“Yes, Aunty.”
“How many dishes can you make?”
“Over twelve, Aunty. I’m also taking a course in Italian cooking.”
Khalid wondered if his mother realized she was carrying the conversation by herself. Farzana looked over at Khalid. “My son loves pasta. Beta, do you have any questions for Ruhi?”
Khalid’s neck prickled with discomfort. This whole set-up felt wrong. He thought about his careful explanation to Hafsa about marriage, his confidence in his mother’s method and in her selection of his wife. Was the process supposed to be this awkward? He had pictured his arranged marriage very differently, more sophisticated and mature, like a thoughtful business merger. This felt more like a backroom deal.
The rest of the family was staring at him—or in the case of Adam, shooting daggers at him—and he shook his head. Ruhi had yet to lift her eyes to look at him, and he shifted uneasily. Perhaps she shared Hafsa’s disapproval for the arranged marriage process and wanted him gone.
The silence stretched as everyone tried to think of another topic of conversation.
“Maybe we should let the young people talk on their own,” Yasmeen Aunty finally suggested. “They can sit at the dining table and get to know each other.”
Farzana narrowed her eyes. “Khalid does not talk to women,” she said. “It would not be proper.”
Khalid flushed at his mother’s words and their implication. Of course he spoke to women; he talked to Sheila, and Clara, and his clients at WomenFirst Design. He spoke to Hafsa—could not, in fact, stop thinking about their conversation. He wanted to correct his mother’s ridiculous pronouncement, but Yasmeen Aunty hurried to respond.
“Of course, of course. Ruhi, help me make some more chai for Farzana Aunty.”
Khalid wanted to disappear. He eyed the door and wondered how quickly he could orchestrate an escape. If Hafsa had been here instead of Ruhi, things would have been very different. She would have made jokes, laughed at his awkwardness and asked inappropriate questions. He would have enjoyed every second.
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