Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  She had told Khalid she wasn’t looking for a husband, and she meant it. But as she stood at the precipice of a permanent teaching job, she wondered if this choice was really that inevitable or if it only felt that way.

  And what had Khalid been about to say before he’d caught himself at the door last night?

  Ayesha thought back to the way his eyes had lingered on her face as they rolled out parathas, his uncertain reaction to that brief, forbidden caress. They were both so new at . . . whatever this was. Both inexperienced at relationships, at romance . . . and love? She mentally shook her head. This wasn’t love. He didn’t even know her real name. When they met at the caterer’s tonight, she would have to pretend to be Hafsa again. The thought made her even more tired, and determined to move on with the rest of her life.

  “Thank you,” she said to Mr. Evorem, her voice firm. “I’m very interested in the position. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

  The words were true, once. She just wasn’t sure if they were anymore.

  KHALID had slept well the previous night, which was surprising. Today was the twelfth anniversary of Zareena’s banishment to India, an unmarked day of mourning on his calendar. Yet his memories of her today felt more like a dull ache, not the usual sharp pain of another year spent missing his sister.

  Perhaps his optimism had something to do with Nani’s cooking lesson yesterday. Hafsa’s small house had been filled with shabby furniture, yet it had felt warm and inviting. He had been accepted and welcomed by her and Nani. The anniversary of his sister’s banishment seemed less distressing as a result. He had wanted to say something to Hafsa last night about what he was feeling, but he’d lost his nerve. He rehearsed the words galloping around in his mind while he drove to the caterer the imam had chosen for the conference.

  Have you ever wondered, Hafsa, what it would be like to spend your life with someone like me? Have you ever wondered, beautiful Hafsa, what it would be like to open your heart to something unexpected, someone wholly unanticipated? Because I am starting to wonder. Actually, I am having a hard time thinking of anything else.

  Perhaps he would find the words today.

  KHALID met Hafsa in the parking lot of Kamran’s Superior Sweets at eight thirty that evening. As his eyes met hers, his courage failed him, and he politely asked after Nani instead. They walked into a restaurant with beige linoleum floors, greasy green wallpaper and dingy white Formica tables. The place was famous for its extensive and well-priced catering selection. Kamran himself had presided over many mosque events, and his restaurant had catered more than half of the community weddings.

  Khalid was surprised to see Tarek sitting at a table, a plate of samosas in front of him.

  “I did not know you would be joining us, Brother Tarek,” Khalid said, his hopes of having Hafsa to himself dashed.

  “When the imam told me you were going to Kamran Khan’s, I had to come too,” Tarek said, smiling. “Best butter chicken in the city.”

  They settled around the table and Mr. Khan entered the dining room from the kitchen, wearing a black apron and a white T-shirt that strained against his pot belly.

  “Who’s getting married?” Kamran asked abruptly.

  “The two of us, if Hafsa will have me,” Tarek said, putting his arm casually on the back of Hafsa’s chair.

  Khalid stiffened.

  “We’re here to discuss catering for the conference at the Toronto Muslim Assembly. Imam Abdul Bari sent us,” Hafsa said, moving her chair forward so Tarek’s arm was dislodged.

  Kamran opened an unstained page in his black notebook. “I can do both. Wedding and conference—I’ll give you good price,” he said.

  Tarek leaned forward. “I’m still working on her, Brother. Give me a few weeks and we’ll talk.” He winked, and Kamran grinned, revealing teeth stained red with betel nut.

  “I thought you were here to help,” Hafsa said firmly to Tarek, but with a smile. “We need to focus.”

  “How can I focus when you’re such a distraction?” Tarek asked. He turned to Khalid. “Don’t you find it distracting to work with Hafsa?” His words were playful, but the look in his eyes was shrewd.

  Khalid cleared his throat. “Sister Hafsa is very easy to work with,” he said, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

  Tarek laughed out loud. “I think Khalid just said he doesn’t find you attractive. Which is good for me. Less competition.”

  Hafsa swatted Tarek’s arm. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Tarek leaned in close. “Imam Abdul Bari isn’t around to disapprove. I guess Brother Khalid will have to keep me in line. He’s good at policing behaviour.”

  Khalid clasped his hands tightly together. “Why don’t we concentrate on the purpose of our visit,” he said, indicating Kamran Khan, who was directing a waiter to set down plates of food and watching them with quiet amusement.

  Tarek winked at Hafsa and offered her a plate of sizzling chicken tikka. “Don’t worry about upsetting Brother Khalid. We’re old friends. Did you know he has an older sister?”

  Hafsa shifted, clearly uncomfortable. Khalid felt her glance at him, but he kept his gaze on the lamb biryani. “How are the conference plans progressing with your team?” she asked instead. “Have you found any more female speakers?”

  “I knew Zareena in high school, but I haven’t seen her in at least twelve years,” Tarek said. “Actually, I think it’s been exactly twelve years.” Tarek looked at Khalid, who remained silent. “When was the last time you saw your sister?” he asked, taking a bite of spinach pakora. The happy flirt of a few minutes ago was gone, replaced by a wolf in their midst.

  “I am in regular communication with my sister,” Khalid said. “Thank you for your concern. I will pass along your greetings, though I doubt if she remembers you. She has never mentioned your name before.”

  Tarek dropped the spinach pakora. “Too spicy,” he whispered to Hafsa, who looked back and forth between the two men, confused. “Do you have friends that your parents don’t know about, Hafsa? Or do you only ever talk to people who meet with your family’s approval?” Tarek’s tone was genial, but his eyes were hard.

  “I think people’s families are their own business,” Hafsa said evenly. Khalid felt a flare of gratitude at her words. He took a bite of the biryani—it was quite good, though heavy on the ghee.

  “Butter chicken is popular with the goras, the white people,” Kamran offered helpfully. He spooned some onto their plates and then sat down, as if to watch what would happen next.

  “I hate butter chicken,” Khalid said to no one in particular.

  “How’s your mom?” Tarek asked him, leaning over Hafsa. “Your sister used to complain about her all the time.”

  “Butter chicken is bland and boring and completely predictable,” Khalid said, ignoring Tarek.

  “Do you know Khalid’s mother, Hafsa? He calls her Ammi. Isn’t that adorable?” Tarek turned to her. His smile was pointy.

  “No,” she said shortly. “Eat your food.”

  He glanced over at Khalid. “I haven’t seen your Ammi in twelve years either.”

  “My mother is doing well, though she doesn’t approve of your conference. She thinks it will encourage mixing between the young men and women.” Khalid kept his voice even, but his heart was pounding. He didn’t know why Tarek was bringing up Zareena and Ammi, but every instinct screamed at him to be careful.

  “Ammi didn’t approve of the company Zareena kept either,” Tarek said. “She doesn’t approve of anything she can’t control. That must be why she is so happy to have you around. I bet you don’t give her any trouble.”

  Khalid saw Hafsa look helplessly at Kamran Khan, who was sipping a cup of tea. He watched as Kamran shook his head at her, as if to say: Girl, you don’t know the things I’ve seen. What happens at the caterer’s stays at the caterer’s.

  “You seem to know a lot about my family,” Khalid said. He felt rattled, but his tone was calm.

  “You kno
w what they say about gossip.” Tarek leaned close. “Most of it is true, and whatever isn’t is wishful thinking.”

  Hafsa smacked the table. “That. Is. Enough.” She glared at Tarek, daring him to say another word, but the spirit that possessed him had vanished. He put his arm around her plastic chair, easy once more.

  “Relax, Sister Hafsa,” Tarek said, smiling his raffish Prince-Charming smile again. “I was just kidding.”

  Khalid sat silently for a moment. Then he grabbed his jacket and, after thanking Kamran, left the restaurant. Hafsa jumped up and followed him.

  Tarek and Kamran were left alone at the table. The caterer began to stack the half-full dishes. He gave Tarek a conspiratorial wink. “It won’t work, you know,” he said in Urdu. “I have seen enough couples to know. You will never get that girl.”

  Tarek stared at Khalid through the restaurant window, a knowing, determined expression on his face. “I’m not worried about Hafsa,” he responded to Kamran in perfect Urdu. “Women always come around to me, one way or another.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Khalid was at his car when Ayesha called his name. He looked back at her, his face tight with anger.

  “I don’t need you to speak for me,” he said.

  Ayesha stopped short. “You were like two boys wrestling in the mud.”

  Khalid’s fists curled. “I know most women are taken in by a pretty face, but I thought you were different. Tarek is trouble.”

  His accusations were unfair. As if Prince Charming could ever turn her head. She had been sticking up for him! “At least Tarek isn’t afraid to make eye contact when he talks to me. Have you really not seen your sister in twelve years? Why on earth not?”

  Khalid’s expression hardened at her words. “You have no idea what is expected of me or how I feel about it. You can’t be bothered to look beyond the surface.”

  Ayesha reeled back. “Me? What about you? You’re so afraid, you run away whenever things get real. You’re nothing but a coward!”

  Khalid stepped closer, his eyes dark with anger. “At least I know what I want from my life. I know who I am. You can’t make up your mind about anything.”

  His words struck harder than he could possibly realize. Ayesha thought of her mother, of Hafsa and Clara and even Khalid himself, and their utter certainty about everything. It was infuriating. She’d thought Khalid was different, but her first impression had been right after all: He was a judgmental conformist, content to bow mindlessly to tradition and the expectations of others.

  Just like me. Her face flushed with anger, at him and at herself. “Your mother has you on a leash, and you’re happy to be her puppet!” she said, hurling her words at him. “We don’t live in India or Pakistan. You’re allowed to choose your own wife and live your own life.”

  “For someone who claims to have no interest in finding a husband, you care an awful lot about who I marry,” he threw back.

  They glared at each other, furious and helpless, their faces inches apart.

  “Actually, you’re wrong, Khalid,” she said deliberately. “I don’t care about you at all.”

  He jerked back, and the hurt on his face made her wince.

  “I never expected you to,” he said, more to himself than her. He unlocked his car and drove home.

  WHEN Ayesha returned home, her thoughts were churning. She was halfway up the stairs to her room when her mother called from the kitchen, taking her by surprise. It was a rare evening that found her mother home early.

  “I heard back from Masood’s mother,” Saleha said. “He is interested in speaking further. I gave him your number.”

  Ayesha wanted to throw up her hands in fury. After a lifelong drought, suddenly it was raining men. She turned on her mother. “Masood the wrestler? You didn’t like him. You told me finding a husband is too important to leave to the arranged marriage crapshoot.”

  “It turns out wrestling and life coaching pay well. His mother told me Masood is on his way to becoming a wealthy man.”

  Ayesha sat down at the kitchen table. “So now you want me to talk to him?”

  Saleha took a seat beside her. “I want you to be safe, to keep your expectations reasonable.”

  Ayesha was silent, her thoughts lingering on Khalid again. “What about love?” she asked.

  Saleha met her daughter’s eye and then looked away. “I fell in love with your father, a long time ago. We were students at university. He was so handsome and charming, so passionate about everything. All the girls had crushes on him, but he chose me,” she said, and there was a trace of pride and wonder in her voice. “Your Nani didn’t approve. His family wasn’t rich, and he wanted to be a journalist. You got your literary skills from him.”

  Ayesha traced patterns on the tabletop, listening intently. Her mother never talked about her father, not in this kind of detail.

  “Nana gave us his blessing. He knew it would break my heart to let Syed go. Your grandfather has always been a romantic. We married, we had you and then Idris, and we were so happy. When he died, I thought I would die too.” A single tear traced a path down Saleha’s cheek, and she smiled at her daughter. “Love is not enough. I thought it would be once, but after Syed died, I realized how much of myself was wrapped up in the idea of him. Perhaps Masood is not your ideal candidate, but he is a decent man. I don’t think he would ask too much of you. You would be able to keep a part of you for yourself.”

  Ayesha paused, thinking about her job offer and the life she had vowed to lead. Her thoughts travelled back to Khalid, to his stricken face when she’d told him she didn’t care. Maybe this was all for the best. Khalid was too conservative, too tied to his mother’s commands. He could never make her happy.

  The path was clear. It was time to start walking.

  “I’ll talk to Masood,” she said to her mother.

  THE smell of onions and garam masala greeted Khalid as he parked his car in the driveway, and his stomach sank. His mother only cooked late at night when she was angry, and he didn’t know if he had the energy to deal with that right now, on top of everything else.

  “Assalamu Alaikum, Ammi,” he called cautiously, but his stomach growled, betraying him. He hadn’t eaten at Kamran’s Superior Sweets. Khalid followed the smell of spices to the kitchen, where his mother stood sentry over four pots.

  “Brother Tarek called,” Farzana said. “He wanted to thank you for helping to pick out the food at the caterer’s tonight.” She gave the pot in front of a her a violent stirring. “I have to learn what you are doing from strangers now. Who is this Tarek person?”

  He leaned against the doorway. “Nobody.”

  “Why are you being so secretive? I’m your mother. I have a right to know what you are doing at all times.”

  Hafsa’s words rang in his ears—Your mother has you on a leash—and Khalid flushed with shame and anger. “Tarek is from the conference committee. He was helping us pick out the caterer.”

  “Yes, Tarek mentioned that you and Hafsa were both there. Is this Brother Sulaiman Shamsi’s daughter?” Farzana took two plates from the cupboard and ladled out a generous serving of rice, chicken and naan.

  “No, Hafsa’s father died a long time ago. We all arrived in separate cars. She joined us after work.”

  Farzana’s hand stilled over his plate. “Where does this Hafsa work?” she asked carefully.

  “She’s a high school teacher, I don’t know where.”

  His mother’s eyes were watchful as she passed him the food. “I thought Hafsa’s family lived in a big house nearby. The family is very rich.”

  Khalid swallowed the rice, which was too salty, and took a bite of chicken, which was dry and tasted sour from too much lemon. “I don’t think their house is that large. They live across the street from us, in one of those old townhouses. You must be thinking of another family.”

  Farzana nodded, her lips thin. “Yes, of course, that must be it. Another family.”

  They ate their food in silen
ce, both deep in thought.

  AS soon as Farzana was sure her son was upstairs in his bedroom with the door shut, she dialed Hafsa’s house.

  “This is Farzana,” she said importantly into the receiver. “I must speak to Hafsa immediately. It is an urgent matter.”

  After a few minutes, a voice came on the line. “Who is this?”

  Farzana resisted the urge to scold Hafsa for her rude lack of greeting. Instead, she coated her voice in honey and crooned, “Hafsa beti, this is Farzana Aunty. I came to see you a little while ago, do you remember?”

  Hafsa’s voice was wary. “Yes, I remember you. I’ll get my mom.”

  “No, wait!” Farzana said. “I’m calling to apologize.” There was a pause, and Farzana continued. “Beti, when I met you, I was so overwhelmed by your beauty and refined behaviour, I’m afraid I came off as quite rude. I was only thinking of my darling son, Khalid. He is such a sensitive boy. He could never handle being rejected by you.”

  Hafsa’s voice softened, mollified. “That’s okay, Aunty. I know how hard it can be for boys. I have received quite a few rishtas.”

  “I am not surprised at all. Though I know my Khalid is out of the running, whoever you decide to marry will be one lucky young man.” Farzana was afraid she might be laying the compliments on a little thick, but Hafsa accepted the flattery easily.

  “That’s so kind of you, Farzana Aunty. Maybe I was too quick to reject your son. After all, I didn’t even meet him.”

  Farzana’s voice took on a sorrowful tone. “Oh my, this is embarrassing. It’s just that my Khalid has moved on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I would love to have a beautiful, modest young woman like you for my daughter-in-law. But I have one rule, Hafsa: A mother must never interfere in the lives of her children. If Khalid has taken a liking to your much older cousin Ayesha, who am I to object?”

  “Ayesha? MY Ayesha?” Hafsa said loudly.