“But it’s enough time to decide to marry them?” Ayesha asked, fixing him with her dark eyes.
Khalid looked away. He didn’t know why he was so shy to admit the truth now: She was right. He wasn’t ready to get married, not to Hafsa. He should never have played along with the engagement, not after he’d discovered the identity mix-up.
“That’s what I thought,” Ayesha said. “Since you’re not together anymore, I don’t think this is any of your concern. I’ll tell Sulaiman Mamu about the note. They might have some ideas. We’ll handle it from here.”
“How are they?” Khalid asked.
“Samira Aunty has taken to her bed. Sulaiman Mamu is trying to stay calm. When I left, he was calling around to hospitals.”
Khalid stood to go. “I’m so sorry, Ayesha—” he began.
“I’ll let you know if we hear anything,” she said. She didn’t look at him. “It’s been a long day.”
She walked him to the door. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her that everything would work out, but there were too many lies between them already. He said salam and closed the door behind him.
Before he could stop himself, he slipped the letter underneath the door jamb. Now it was in Allah’s hands.
AYESHA heard the rustle of paper from the kitchen. She picked up the thick white envelope, weighing its heft. Curiosity wrestled with anger and won. She read the letter upstairs in her room.
Dear Ayesha,
Thank you for accepting this letter. You have made your intentions clear, and this is not a request to reconsider. I respect you too much to assume you do not know your own mind.
However, honour compels me to answer the other charges levelled against me. I have always found it challenging to express my thoughts in person, and I was in some distress during our exchange this afternoon. In truth, I find it difficult to speak coherently in your presence.
Sometimes it is also hard to breathe.
Ayesha’s heart beat fast as she read the line over again before moving on.
Firstly, you accused me of insulting your family and your faithfulness. I apologize for offending you. You are right—I have a tendency toward judgment and have decided from this point forward to suspend all assumptions.
As for the second charge: I do not wish to hide my initial impression of you. When we first met, you were performing in a bar . . . sorry, lounge. The second time we met, you were impersonating your cousin and misrepresenting yourself to an imam. I can add, however, that upon getting to know you I have come to realize you are a loyal, intelligent, outspoken person who has made great sacrifices for the people you love and the principles you live by. That is the definition of faith in my mind.
Next, my reference to your “little poems.” I haven’t known you for very long, but in all that time, you have never displayed any pride in your art. When you were asked to perform at the conference, you were reluctant. Yet when you recited your work at Bella’s, you were extraordinary.You are upset with me for belittling your work, yet you seem to have little regard for it yourself.
Finally, my opinions regarding arranged marriage: I must address these along with the most serious of your accusations—the alleged beating, nearly to death, of my sister, Zareena.
Zareena is almost four years older than me. I have heard that an age difference of this amount usually results in children who are raised independently. Certainly, my sister and I are very different people. She is an extrovert, popular and adventurous. In contrast I am an introvert, preferring my own company to that of most others. Yet we got along quite well, until she started high school. At that point our paths drifted as she began to hang out with friends who preferred to party rather than to attend class. She became more and more extreme in her behaviour, and though I covered for her as much as possible, our parents knew something was not right.
I am not telling you this to condone what came next.
In her junior year, when she was seventeen years old, something happened to Zareena that threw my parents over the edge. I’m not entirely sure what. I suspect she was arrested, or caught in a compromising situation. Regardless, the fallout was terrible. They took her out of school, and within two weeks had sent her to Hyderabad, India, where she was married to a distant cousin.
She was sent to Hyderabad against her will, and married against her will. For this, there is no excuse. But she was never beaten, of that I am certain.
To be honest, I’m not sure if this distinction makes any difference. I am certain her banishment led to my father’s early death. My sister’s absence haunts me still, and though I am in regular contact with her through text and email, I have not seen her in twelve years. Fear of hurting my mother’s feelings has kept me from visiting her in India.
I failed Zareena by keeping silent when I should have defended her. I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself for being such a coward.
My opinions regarding arranged marriage hardened against the backdrop of this experience. I wanted my family involved in my choice of spouse. My mother insisted that she would select my wife, and after I witnessed the way the situation with Zareena blew our family apart, I agreed. This was why I went along with my engagement to your cousin Hafsa even though I knew my heart was claimed by you.
I realize I was wrong. I ended things with Hafsa before she ran off, and I informed my mother that I will find my own wife, and make my own decisions, from this point forward.
Yours always,
Khalid Ahmed Mirza
Ayesha didn’t know what to make of the letter. At first she read it with a rising anger. How dare Khalid think this flimsy piece of paper could excuse everything?
But she read the letter again, and her heart twisted once more on, “Sometimes it is also hard to breathe.”
Don’t be fooled by flattery, she told herself severely. He’s still a judgmental jerk.
She felt another pang when she reread what he had written about his sister: “I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself for being such a coward.”
“My heart was claimed by you.” Ayesha read that line over, shaking her head.
Jerk.
Reformed jerk?
Still a jerk.
She folded the letter carefully and stuck it inside her desk drawer, underneath a pile of receipts. Then she pulled it out again and read it once more.
“Yours always.”
She threw up her hands and put the letter in her bag. For safekeeping.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It was Monday, and Hafsa had been missing for over two days.
Ayesha was in no mood to teach, so she stayed home to help Nana prepare for his gardening competition the next week. When disaster struck, the world kept turning. Nana had ten large bags of bright-red mulch to spread around his carefully pruned plants, and they worked in silence, letting the weak spring light slowly warm them.
“Are you worried about Hafsa?” Ayesha asked.
Nana gently placed a handful of mulch around his herb garden. “I am sure she is in a spa somewhere, or perhaps shopping,” he said.
Ayesha hesitated, wondering whether to tell Nana about the note Khalid had shown her yesterday, but her grandfather beat her to it.
“Your Nani told me that last night was not the first time Khalid had entered our home.” He looked at Ayesha, but she said nothing. “He is an admirable young man, but like Hafsa, he needs to grow up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Every person experiences a moment of reckoning, jaanu. Khalid stands on the threshold of his destiny. It is evident he dumped Hafsa. A young woman as proud as your cousin would crow about her actions, not run away. Perhaps Khalid realized his heart belonged elsewhere,” Nana said, giving Ayesha a significant look. “If that is the case, I am afraid he miscalculated.”
Ayesha’s heart started beating faster. “Why do you think that?”
“He will feel honour-bound to Hafsa, now. If his actions led to her hasty exodus, he will feel responsi
ble for the fallout.”
“It’s not Khalid’s fault Hafsa ran away from home.”
Ayesha was not sure why she was sticking up for Khalid. His proposal, coming so soon after Tarek’s revelation, had only angered her. And his letter last night had left her confused. Even though all evidence pointed to Tarek as the villain, Ayesha could not forget the stricken look on Tarek’s face when he had told her about Zareena and their lost baby. She didn’t know what to think.
Nana picked up a trowel and carefully dug out a weed, lifting it from the ground by its roots. “If I do not weed my garden, my beloved flowers will die, asphyxiated by vicious forces whose only goal is colonization. If you choose to plant the flowers, you make a choice to be responsible over other living things. Khalid is not a man who takes his responsibilities lightly.”
Ayesha’s heart sank as she recognized the truth of her grandfather’s words. If Khalid had dumped Hafsa (likely), throwing her into an irrational tizzy (very likely) and causing her to run off with the unsuitable and possibly criminal Tarek (ditto), then Khalid would feel duty-bound to help in some way. And she had banished him last night.
Which left her exactly where she had been at the start of this whole sorry debacle: stuck. Ayesha laid her trowel down on the ground. The mulch was spread over most of the flower beds. Nana’s garden was ready for the expert panel of judges.
Ayesha looked around her, trying to find a pattern in his planting of hibiscus, zucchini, violets, lavender, clover and rocket. “I can’t figure out your theme this year.”
Nana stood up, grimacing as he stretched. “I titled it ‘Double Service.’ Every flower is both pleasing to the eye and edible. I wished to explore the theme of usefulness versus appearance. Flowers are so often mistaken as superfluous, yet their purpose is intricate and clever. They attract pollinators, ensuring their survival, and in turn they are consumed for their nutritional value. Never underestimate a flower.”
Ayesha laughed. Hafsa would get a kick out of her grandfather’s garden. She was like a flower herself: beautiful, ornamental, shrewd. Her smile faded. Ayesha hadn’t returned to the Taj Mahal since the night her cousin ran away, but now her purpose was clear. She had to tell them about Hafsa’s note.
SAMIRA Aunty, self-appointed mourner-in-chief, had set up residence in the family room. She was surrounded by half-empty cups of tea and wads of used-up tissues, and had spent the past two days receiving a parade of nosy aunties eager to gawk at the mighty Shamsi family brought so low. Thankfully, the only other people at home when Ayesha entered the house were Sulaiman Mamu, Nani and her younger cousins. She didn’t think she could stand making small talk with the Aunty Brigade. She quickly relayed her information about the Post-It note.
“Why hasn’t she called? How long does it take to get a quick nikah done somewhere? There are plenty of mosques in the city,” Samira Aunty said to Ayesha.
Sulaiman Mamu looked bleak, his face lined and haggard from lack of sleep. Ayesha was filled with guilt. He had asked her to keep an eye on Hafsa, and look what had happened.
“I’m sorry, Mamu,” she said. “This is all my fault.”
Sulaiman Mamu shook his head. “The only people at fault are currently not answering their cell phones,” he said. “Hafsa has been thoughtless and cruel. This note proves it. As for Tarek, I do not know him, but he cannot possibly be a good man. What does he want with Hafsa?”
This question had troubled Ayesha as well. Hafsa’s motivation, she understood. Even as a child she’d been impulsive and had lashed out at others when thwarted.
But what was in it for Tarek? Maybe he was just as thoughtless as her cousin.
Except Ayesha didn’t think so.
Tarek was a dishonest scoundrel, but he wasn’t dumb. Muslims in Action was a well-recognized brand, known for its famous speakers and for running conferences around the country.
So what was his motivation? If he routinely ran off with conference funds and pretty young girls, he would have lost credibility a long time ago. Ayesha was willing to make a sizeable bet that this was the first time Tarek had done something so brazen.
Again: Why?
If he was looking to blackmail Sulaiman Mamu, why hadn’t they heard anything from him yet?
Even Hafsa’s most epic sulks never lasted this long. Ayesha couldn’t help thinking that maybe Hafsa was being held against her will somewhere, bound and gagged, crying for help, begging for mercy.
Ayesha shook her head, dismissing the unhelpful thought.
“How could she do this to me?” Samira Aunty asked Ayesha. “We had so much fun picking out her wedding lengha. It cost five thousand dollars and is being shipped from Pakistan direct! When I think of all the gold jewellery she picked out for the wedding just sitting in the bank deposit box . . .” Her face crumpled.
Her aunt was a silly woman, but Ayesha remembered that when she had first moved to Toronto, Samira Aunty had been so kind to her. She had bought her a new bed to squeeze in beside Hafsa’s princess canopy, and lavender sheets and new red pajamas to make her feel welcome.
“I’ve been hearing such terrible things about Tarek,” Samira Aunty said when she’d calmed down. “Every visitor who arrives has a fresh story of his indecent behaviour.”
“When I called the Muslims in Action office, they said he wasn’t answering his phone. I asked about the money, and they didn’t know about that either,” Ayesha said. “It sounds like he had been keeping them in the dark about our entire conference. They thought I was calling about another conference, the one being held in July.”
“We talked to the police this morning,” her cousin Maliha said. “Witnesses said she got into Tarek’s car willingly. They can’t get involved unless there’s an actual crime.”
Samira sniffed loudly. “My beautiful daughter is lost to me! What will people think?”
Ayesha could imagine what people would think. Hafsa would be branded unmarriageable. Her hasty actions would be a dark cloud over her family for years, affecting their social standing as well as the marital prospects of her younger sisters and even Ayesha herself. A small voice in her mind mocked: Khalid will never want you now. You’re tainted by association.
She hated this, hated the double standard for men and women. But unlike Hafsa, Ayesha had never tried to shape the world in her image. She had always seen the world and the people who inhabited it exactly as they were: flawed, imperfect, eager to think the worst of others while excusing their own misdeeds.
Ayesha recalled the mercurial Tarek, his wolf’s smile at the caterer’s, his smooth dealings with her and Hafsa. Then she thought about Khalid, who couldn’t edit his doubts or conceal his thought process, even when he was asking her to marry him. She felt foolish, and the knowledge settled into her heart like a stone: Tarek was a beautiful liar and Khalid was awkwardly honest. Where did that leave her?
She checked her phone for the hundredth time that day and sent another text: Hafsa. We’re worried sick. Call or text. I’m begging you.
It wasn’t until after she pressed Send that she had a brainwave. If her cousin wouldn’t answer any of her messages, maybe there was someone else who would know something: Hafsa’s mall-rat “friend,” Haris.
She gave her aunt a quick hug and promised to call her later that night, perhaps with good news.
HARIS was in the food court eating chili-cheese fries. The moment Ayesha spotted him, she wanted to hug him for being so predictable. She plopped down in the seat across from him and gave him her most severe teacher look.
“Where’s Hafsa?”
Haris leaned back in his seat, a smear of liquid cheddar at the corner of his mouth. “Who?”
Ayesha grabbed the chili fries and dumped them into a garbage can.
“Hey!” Haris said, his eyes widening in surprise. “What the hell!”
She slammed her hand down, hard. People at nearby tables glanced over uneasily, and Haris looked ready to bolt.
“Where. Is. Hafsa,” Ayesha asked. She was
enjoying the tough girl act. If the mall food court was his preferred hangout, he wouldn’t want to chance being thrown out by security. Ayesha on the other hand had no such qualms. She hated malls.
“Relax, aiiight?” Haris said, motioning for her to calm down. “I don’t know where she is. I haven’t seen her in a few days.”
Ayesha reached out to grab him, but he leaned away, waving his hands in the air. She noticed how young he was. His facial hair hadn’t even really come in yet, and his efforts at shaving were clumsy.
“It’s the truth, I swear.”
“She ran off with someone else,” Ayesha said. “Tarek Khan. Do you know him?”
Harris looked around as if bored, his bravado back. “We weren’t going steady, you know? She could do whatever. We only hanging out.”
“Did she say anything to you about where she wanted to go or what she wanted to do?”
Haris shrugged. “She complained about her family a lot. Kept talking about her big business plans, how her dad wouldn’t give her enough money. She was a whiny little bitch. I was going to dump her ass anyway.”
Ayesha’s hand flew of its own accord, and she slapped him, hard, across the face. They both look stunned.
“What you do that for?” he asked, holding his cheek. “I told you what you wanted.”
Ayesha spied the security guard heading toward them, and stood. “You’re disgusting,” she said. She turned and ran for the exit.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Khalid called in sick on Monday. He emailed Amir to reschedule the meeting with WomenFirst Design. If anything counted as a genuine family emergency, it was the current chaos that was his life.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling. How had he arrived here? The plan was for him to marry the pious, modest woman his mother picked out. Not to fall in love with someone like Ayesha, agree to marry someone like Hafsa, and then help a scoundrel like Tarek bankrupt the mosque, all in the span of a few weeks.
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