“You are speaking of her deceased father, Hafsa,” Khalid said gently. “There is nothing amusing about that.” He turned to Ayesha. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “How old were you when he died?”
“I was ten. We left India soon after and moved to Toronto. I lost my father and my country at the same time.”
“Yeah, but who would want to stay in India?” Hafsa said. “There are cows and amputated beggars everywhere, and people poop in the middle of the street. Why are you talking about things that happened so long ago?”
Ayesha and Khalid had no reply to this ignorant image, both shocked into silence. Hafsa had already moved on, her gaze fixed on the door.
Tarek had just entered the room, dressed in a tight-fitting white shirt. Its top two buttons were undone, showing off a smooth, sculpted chest. With his grey pants and hair carefully gelled into mussed-up peaks, Tarek was a fashion model straight off the runway.
“Who is that?” Hafsa said, her eyes fixed on Tarek’s face. When he caught Hafsa’s eye, he gave her a slow, lazy smile.
Ayesha and Khalid exchanged a glance, and then looked away. After what had happened at Kamran’s Superior Sweets, Tarek had morphed from Prince Charming to Big Bad Wolf in Ayesha’s eyes, and right now he was eyeing Hafsa hungrily. From the concerned expression on Khalid’s face, he was having similar thoughts.
Ayesha’s phone pinged again—another text message from Masood.
How about “Punch of the Seven Veils” for your signature move? Just think about it. The FIRST Muslim hijab-wearing wrestler. You could be famous!
Ayesha turned her phone to silent. Imam Abdul Bari had followed behind Tarek, and he lit up when he spotted Ayesha. “I knew you would return, Sister Hafsa,” he said.
She shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, my name is Ayesha. This is my cousin Hafsa. I was just filling in for her. She’s the real event planner, and also Khalid’s new fiancée.”
Hafsa was still staring at Tarek, the thrill on her face obvious when he selected the seat beside her.
“Congratulations on your engagement,” Tarek purred to Hafsa. “I bet you weren’t on the market for very long.”
Hafsa preened. “Is that shirt from the Armani Spring collection?”
Tarek leaned close. “Observant and beautiful,” he said softly. “This conference is sure to be a success.”
“Let’s get started,” Ayesha said sharply. “Since you missed the last few meetings, Hafsa, we’ll have to get you up to speed.”
Hafsa laughed. “My cousin is always so focused on the goal. I prefer to enjoy the journey.”
“I’ve always admired the way Ayesha gets straight to the heart of the matter,” Khalid cut in. “Brother Tarek, what is on the agenda for today?”
Tarek called the meeting to order and updated everyone on the progress so far, his eyes lingering on Hafsa as he talked. Khalid didn’t notice. He stared at the table, or took notes in a blue leather notebook that was familiar to Ayesha.
He bought us matching notebooks, she realized with a lurch.
Tarek asked about the website, and Khalid filled him in. “Sister Ayesha suggested black and white as the colour theme, and I have come up with a beta of the website. The attendees will be able to pay for tickets online as well. What is the banking information?”
“I’ll get that to you,” Tarek said. “So we have agenda and speakers confirmed. Sister Hafs . . . I mean, Ayesha will open the conference with a poem. We are on track for a successful event. Now we just need to figure out the marketing tag line and mission statement to tell the speakers, so their speeches can align.”
“And decorations,” Hafsa said. “I think we should go with something classy. How about a 1920s theme? Like that movie with Leonardo DiCaprio, The Good Greatsby.”
Everyone paused. “You mean The Great Gatsby,” Ayesha said. “I’m not sure that’s the right theme for an Islamic event.”
Hafsa shook her head. “Ashi Apa, you should leave the event planning to the experts. Trust me, it’s perfect. You know how there was Prohibition in the 1920s? And we’re like a Muslim conference and don’t drink alcohol? Plus, those flapper dresses are loose, like abayas, and all the men can wear three-piece suits, and we can maybe play some jazz music to get everyone in the mood.”
“We’re planning a conference, not a costume party, Hafsa,” Ayesha said. “What’s next, give everyone a Tommy gun in their swag bag, and open a speakeasy in the gym?” Ayesha and Khalid shared a smile.
Hafsa caught the glance between them and stood up, furious. “You know what? I don’t need this. This conference sounds super boring. I’m leaving!” She flounced out of the room.
Ayesha sighed, but Tarek stood up. “I’ll go talk to her,” he said, just as the door was flung open and Farzana entered.
“Imam Abdul Bari, I have arrived!” she announced.
The imam’s smile tightened. “Welcome, Sister Farzana,” Abdul Bari said. “We weren’t expecting you, but please join us.”
“You cannot stop me from attending this meeting!” Farzana said, hands on hips. “I am a member of the executive board. Everything that happens in this building is under my domain!” She took a seat at the head of the table and Khalid sunk low in his chair.
Tarek, still standing, looked as if he had seen a ghost. His breathing was shallow as he lowered himself into his seat.
The imam cleared his throat, smile stapled to his face. “You are always welcome, Sister Farzana. I value input from all community members.”
Ayesha was impressed with Abdul Bari’s people management skills. She knew he was a veteran of seven mosques and was likely familiar with people like Farzana: They were both the sources and disseminators of all community gossip. Except Farzana was even worse than an idle gossip, Ayesha realized. She was an active troublemaker, so consumed with the need to control those around her that she would even lie to her own son. Ayesha struggled to remain calm. It would be no use making a scene, not here.
“We were just about to decide on a marketing tag line for the conference. Two suggestions previously raised were ‘Muslims in the Twenty-First Century,’ or ‘Beyond the Sands of Time: Examining Faith in the Modern World,’” Imam Abdul Bari said to the group.
Farzana looked disgusted. “This is what you have been wasting your time on, Khalid? Themes and silly discussions? How are you going to make any money for this mosque?”
The imam, no doubt spotting a chance to get rid of Farzana, said, “I’m afraid this is all dull work, Sister. I’m sure your talents are better employed elsewhere.”
“No, no—the problem is that your choices are terrible and you are wasting too much time in pointless debate. The theme will be ‘Islam: The Only Pure Choice.’ I’ll order a banner and flyers tomorrow. As for the tag line, let’s keep it simple: ‘Follow Islam, Stay Pure.’ The colours will be white and green, like the Pakistani flag.”
“Sister Farzana, you can’t just bulldoze our meeting,” Ayesha said, her resolve to be quiet rupturing with an almost audible crack.
“You don’t think Islam is the only pure choice?” Farzana asked. “What kind of a Muslim are you?”
“You’re twisting my words,” Ayesha said, her face turning red.
“Perhaps it is your heart that is twisted. Everyone knows you were impersonating your cousin Hafsa for several weeks. Jealousy is so ugly in a woman.”
Ayesha was shocked but didn’t back down. “Insults are not going to work, Farzana Aunty. You have two options: Stay and contribute to the discussion in a respectful manner, or leave.”
The two women glared at each other. Farzana turned to the imam. “Abdul Bari, I am appalled at the shameful behaviour of your committee members. The executive board will be hearing about this. Let’s go, Khalid. The caterer is waiting for us.” She stalked out of the room. After a moment of embarrassed silence, Khalid followed.
The imam stood up slowly, a pained expression on his face. “As much as I enjoyed your reprimand, Sister Ayesh
a, Farzana is a force of nature. Perhaps in the future we should all moderate our tone when dealing with her.”
“She’s a bully!” Ayesha said. Her heart was pounding.
“I am afraid she will make good on her threat to speak to the executive board. I had to fight very hard to get them to agree to the conference in the first place. They only went along with the idea due to our financial problems. I will attempt to calm her down,” Abdul Bari said, and he walked swiftly out of the room, leaving Tarek and Ayesha alone.
Tarek glanced at Ayesha, then away. He seemed quieter since Farzana had arrived, his usual swagger gone. Maybe he disapproved of her words too.
“Come on,” Tarek said to Ayesha, grabbing his car keys. “I’ll drive you home.”
“I can’t stand that woman,” Ayesha said a few minutes later, taking a seat in Tarek’s Lexus SUV. “I can’t believe she’s related to Khalid. He’s so different from his mother.”
“You mean he’s not dogmatic and stubborn about his beliefs?”
Ayesha stopped, considering. “Well, I think I understand the beard and robes a bit better now. Imagine having Farzana for a mother. What would that do to a person?”
Tarek’s shoulders hunched, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“It’s hard to imagine,” he agreed, his voice thin. Tarek took a deep, steadying breath, and smiled slyly at Ayesha. “You like him.”
“He’s engaged to my cousin.”
“I mean you really like him.”
Ayesha flushed. “No, I don’t.”
Tarek looked at her. “You can do better.”
“I know a Muslim woman’s love life is an open book, but can we please move on to the next chapter?”
Tarek laughed. “You’re funny. I like that.” His smile faded, and his face grew serious. “Actually, I’m glad this happened. I wanted to talk to you about something serious. How long have you known Khalid?”
“Not long. He’s new to the neighbourhood. Why?”
“Did you do a background check on the family before Hafsa’s engagement?”
Ayesha raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure the usual inquiries were made. What’s going on?”
Tarek shifted in his seat, his eyebrows angling down so that he resembled a regretful puppy. “I really don’t like to gossip, but when it comes to marriage, you have to tell the truth. I know Khalid Mirza’s family. We both used to live in the west end of the city.”
Ayesha nodded her head. She had a bad feeling about this.
“You probably remember the way I behaved at the caterer’s.” Tarek looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. I was upset because Khalid has everyone fooled. You see, I knew his sister.”
“Khalid told me about her. She lives in India. Zareena, right?”
Tarek sighed at her name. “There was a big scandal, years ago. Zareena got into some kind of trouble, and her family freaked out. They shipped her to some relatives in India and forced her into an arranged marriage.”
Ayesha’s hand was at her mouth. She had heard stories of girls being forced into marriages against their will, of course. It happened around the world, across different religions and cultures, and the practice disgusted her. The thought of Khalid going along with such a despicable plan made her ill.
“Are you sure?” she asked. Then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Khalid about his sister:
Does she enjoy living in India?
No. I’m pretty sure she hates it.
Tarek’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Hafsa seems like a sweet kid. I just want to make sure she knows what kind of family she’s marrying into.” He reached over and squeezed Ayesha’s arm. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
Ayesha’s stomach twisted at his words. Was he telling the truth? Tarek was too smooth, too polished to be entirely trusted. But then, what did he have to gain by lying about Khalid’s family? If what he said was true, then her cousin was about to make a terrible mistake. Sulaiman Mamu and Samira Aunty had agreed to the engagement because they thought Khalid came from a good family. How would they react once they found out Khalid’s parents had forced Zareena into an unwanted marriage? Maybe all his solicitousness, his gentleness, was nothing but an act. Maybe he actually fit the stereotype of the domineering, terrifying man who forced his will upon the vulnerable women in his life.
She recalled Khalid’s face, his gentle eyes, the inscription he wrote inside the notebook he had bought for her back when he thought she would become his wife. Was this the man her cousin was engaged to marry, or was he really some other, darker figure?
What had Hafsa gotten herself into?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Farzana did all the talking at the caterer’s, speaking over Kamran Khan himself.
“I want butter chicken, vegetable tawa, palak paneer, veal korma and meat biryani. Fresh, now—none of that old mutton you people like to sneak in. We’ll have Amritsar fish pakoras and channa chaat for appetizers.”
“Madam, fish is one dollar extra,” Mr. Khan said, but Farzana waved her hand.
“Don’t forget how many people are coming to this wedding. Good advertising for you. You should be doing it for free, actually. Now for dessert, I want mango kulfi and ras malai.”
“Kulfi is two dollars extra, madam,” Mr. Khan said, but he kept his gaze on his notebook as he spoke, and Farzana ignored him. She continued talking about tasting menus while Khalid wondered what he was doing there.
He watched his mother berate, order and boss around Kamran. She criticized his managerial style, questioned the freshness of his chicken and ridiculed his knowledge of basmati rice. Mr. Khan, usually a gruff and taciturn man, accepted it all so meekly.
“Ammi, don’t talk to him like that,” Khalid said, interrupting her lecture on the right brand of paneer. “He knows what he’s doing, otherwise why would we be here?”
Farzana and Mr. Khan turned to look at him.
“Khalid, chup,” she said, shushing him. She turned back to the caterer. “My son doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Khalid felt the first tendrils of anger warming his feet. “I do know what I’m talking about,” he said evenly. “So does Mr. Khan, and the imam, and Ayesha, and—”
“Ayesha, Ayesha, Ayesha!” Farzana said. “Two weeks back I never heard of this girl, and now all I hear is her name! Khalid, I forbid you to speak to her again! In fact, we will never speak of her at all!”
“That might be difficult, since I’m marrying her cousin,” Khalid said. The anger was licking at his shins now, travelling up his legs and warming his fingertips. “You were out of line at the conference meeting, Ammi.”
“Ayesha disrespected me, and now you? Your father would be so ashamed.”
“I thought you said you were never going to speak her name again,” Khalid said.
Mr. Khan leaned back, clearly enjoying the exchange. “Would madam like some chai?” he asked genially. They both ignored him.
“Ammi, you are the one who is being disrespectful. The way you behaved at the conference meeting was wrong. You tried to take over everything, you didn’t listen to anyone and you picked a fight with Ayesha for no reason! You drag me here, and you don’t even ask what I want to eat at my own wedding reception!” Khalid’s face was flushed.
“What do you want, then, Khalid?” Farzana shouted. “I do everything for you, and this is the thanks I get. Tell him, then, if you know everything. Tell Mr. Khan what it is you want!”
“I don’t know what I want!” Khalid yelled. “But I do know one thing—I don’t want butter chicken! It’s too sweet, and everyone serves it all the time. It’s boring!”
Farzana nodded at the caterer. “You heard my son. No butter chicken on the menu.”
Kamran Khan carefully made a notation in his black notebook. “Would sahib like chicken tikka instead?” he asked Khalid.
Farzana sniffed loudly and made a big production of wiping her eyes.
Khalid nodded, defl
ated and too tired to argue.
Avoiding eye contact, they continued with the order.
KHALID met up with Amir, Ethan and Mo at Bella’s, after dropping his mother home.
“Damn, Khalid, how did a guy like you score a girl like that?” Ethan asked. He stared at the Facebook picture of Hafsa on Amir’s phone. Khalid reached over the table and put his hand over the screen.
“Please do not ogle my fiancée,” he said calmly.
“Well, then tell your fiancée to put on one of those face-mask niqab things. Sister is fiiiiine!” Ethan high-fived Amir, and Khalid wondered what he was doing there.
“I think I should go,” he said.
“Wait, wait. Cool it, brother,” Amir said. “Ethan is just having some fun with you. This is what yo’ boys do, all right? Now before the Wise Men’s Council begins, we need to have our opening ceremony.”
Mo, Amir and Ethan quickly downed shots. “Okay. The Wise Men’s Council will now decide whether the hottie with the body—”
Khalid moved to walk away.
“—I mean, the good Muslim girl,” Amir said hastily, “is the one for K-Man here, or whether he should dump her and go after her cousin Ayesha.”
“Wasn’t that the poet chick from last time?” Ethan asked. “Dude, you need to expand your social circle.”
Khalid only frowned. He wouldn’t be here if Zareena would just email him back, or text, or even call.
Mo slapped the table. “I got it. You should marry the hottie and fool around with the cousin on the side.” He high-fived Ethan and Amir.
“That is disgusting. I’m going to the mosque,” Khalid said, but Amir grabbed his arm.
“Joke-shhh,” he slurred. “’Member? We’re jush joking with you.”
“You’re drunk,” Khalid said. “You only had one shot.”
“Had five more outside,” Amir said proudly.
Khalid passed him his club soda. “Drink this, please. I don’t want you to pass out before you get home.”
Ayesha At Last Page 20
