Chapter Forty-Three
Hafsa hadn’t left the house since she’d returned almost one week ago, and Samira Aunty was worried. She called Ayesha on Thursday evening, her voice like honey.
“Beti, why haven’t you visited? Hafsa misses you so much. Maybe when you come to see her, you can talk to her about what happened. I think she might be suffering from post-traumatic stress,” her aunt said confidentially.
Ayesha doubted this, but she agreed to a Bollywood night and a return to some kind of normalcy.
“Maybe you can ask her what happened with Tarek. Maybe they are actually married and just having a little tiff,” Samira Aunty continued.
Oh God, anything but that, Ayesha thought. A quickie marriage might assuage the gossip-wildfire burning in the community, but Ayesha knew it would be better in the long run if Hafsa was not married to a lying, manipulative ass.
She kept this thought to herself, just as she had the confrontation with Tarek at the mosque. Mostly because she couldn’t believe that a decade-old revenge plot was the reason behind their current situation. She also couldn’t forget the look on Farzana’s face as the mosque crowd jeered. Khalid’s mother might be a wannabe-despot, but her schemes brought her no joy, and Ayesha pitied her.
Her thoughts on Khalid were not so easily sorted. As satisfying as it had been to watch Khalid punch Tarek, her mind kept drifting to the way his face had crumpled when Tarek revealed his true motivations. She wondered if Khalid felt as confused as she did. Or maybe he was too busy trying to deal with the buried ghosts of his past, suddenly thrust into the harsh glare of his community’s consciousness.
Or perhaps he was wondering if Tarek’s last, taunting words to her were true: When I told you Khalid and his family almost killed Zareena, you believed me . . . He even looks like a villain . . . In your heart, you don’t trust him, and you never will.
Ayesha shook her head. On that point, at least, Tarek was wrong. She knew Khalid could never be a villain. If anything, he was her hero.
Hafsa was waiting for Ayesha with chicken wings, two pizzas and the 1960 classic Bollywood blockbuster Mughal-e-Azam, the doomed Mughal-era love story of dancer Anarkali and her lover, Prince Saleem, fully remastered in colour.
“I like the black-and-white version better,” Ayesha said as she reached for honey-garlic wings.
“You can see the clothes better in colour,” Hafsa said. She was dressed in pink flannel pajamas, bunny slippers on her feet. She looked like a five-foot-three-inch toddler, but Ayesha didn’t comment. The room was littered with Amazon purchases; Sulaiman Mamu clearly hadn’t told his daughter about their financial difficulties.
“How are you doing?” Ayesha asked, taking a sip of cola. “Your mom is worried about you. She said you haven’t left the house or talked to anyone.”
Hafsa shrugged. “Everyone’s still mad at me.”
Ayesha picked halal pepperoni off her pizza. “Have you apologized?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m an adult!”
“You didn’t behave like an adult. You disappeared without a trace. We were worried you were dead or being held for ransom.”
“My cell phone died. It’s not my fault.”
Ayesha gave her cousin a skeptical look. “Come on, Hafsa. You were mad, and you ran away and made everyone crazy with worry. You’re not a little kid anymore. You put us through hell, and for what?”
Hafsa looked down at her hands. “He said he loved me,” she said.
“Tarek wanted to hurt Khalid and Farzana, and he used you and the mosque to do it.”
“Nobody gets it!” Hafsa’s face was streaked with tears. “He lied to me. He used me.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I was too embarrassed,” she said in a small voice. “I thought running away would be such good fun. You all think I’m stupid.”
“Not stupid. Selfish and careless, maybe.” Ayesha eyed her cousin, exasperated. “Did Khalid break up with you?”
Hafsa nodded.
“And you were angry and ran off with the first pretty boy who looked at you.” Ayesha shook her head. “You’re better than this, Hafs. I know you are. You don’t need to be married to matter, you don’t need a man’s attention to be loved and you don’t need to run away to teach us a lesson. We love you, but you treat us like dirt.” Ayesha held her gaze. “You treat me like dirt.”
Hafsa dropped her eyes, quiet. A look of shame passed across her face as the truth of her actions finally seemed to hit home. When she looked back at Ayesha, her eyes were filled with remorse. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” she said.
“Promise?”
“I swear,” she said, looking around her room. “I swear on the colour pink, I’ll be better.”
She reached for the remote and turned on the movie. “Madhubala is totally hot,” Hafsa said, referring to the female star of Mughal-e-Azam. She was finished with the subject of Tarek, for now. “I don’t get why she went for Dilip Kumar. He looks so old in this movie. He’s no Shah Rukh Khan.”
“Shah Rukh wasn’t even born when this movie was released,” Ayesha said, settling down beside Hafsa.
Hafsa wasn’t listening. “The first wedding I plan will have a Mughal-e-Azam theme. Anarkali dresses and feathered caps and mirrors everywhere. The entrance song will be ‘Pyar Kya To Darna Kya,’” she said, referencing the hit song from the movie. The title meant “Why fear if you are in love?”
Ayesha smiled at her cousin, who was watching the opening credits of the movie closely. “I can’t wait to see it, Hafs,” she said. “I know it will be beautiful.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Are you sure about this?” Khalid was nervous, looking at himself in the bathroom mirror.
“Bro. Trust me.” Amir flicked a piece of fluff from Khalid’s shoulder. “Say bismillah and go.”
“I feel ridiculous.” Khalid tugged on his tie, and Amir slapped his hand away.
“You look great. And remember: You’re still you, no matter how you dress.”
Khalid emerged from the bathroom in the lobby of Livetech and walked to the reception desk, his heart pounding.
He smiled at the receptionist, a grouchy gargoyle named Sandra who hadn’t looked twice at Khalid in the five years he’d worked there. Today, she straightened up when she saw him approach, reaching up to adjust her hair.
“Hello, I’m here to see Sheila Watts,” he said, smiling widely.
Sandra flushed and licked her lips. “Sure thing. What’s your name, honey?”
No one had ever called Khalid “honey” before.
“David McGyver,” he said.
“You can go right up. It’s the third floor, second door on the right. Ms. Watts is expecting you.” Her eyes followed him to the elevator, and he waved at her as the doors closed.
Stick to the plan. Amir had been very insistent. Clara had made the appointment, Amir had equipped Khalid with the audio recording and image upgrade so he looked the part of a client, but the rest was up to him. He resisted the urge to pull off his tie. How did people dress like this every day? He felt so restricted.
Sheila stood up and held out her hand to shake when Khalid entered the office.
“David, so nice to meet you,” she said, smiling.
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then firmly grasped her hand and shook. Sheila didn’t recognize him until she looked into his eyes, and then she froze. Her expression tightened as she took in the familiar-looking stranger.
Khalid was dressed in a crisp white shirt with jet-black cufflinks, a skinny paisley tie with matching pocket square and a brand-new navy blue suit, slim cut to emphasize his tall frame. His hair had been closely cropped, and his beard, untouched since he had started growing it in tenth grade, was neatly trimmed.
“Khalid?” Sheila said, not believing her eyes.
Khalid sat down and looked genially at his former boss. “Hello, Sheila.” He figured he had the upper hand for another few minutes, unt
il the shock of seeing him wore off. After that, she would remember that she had fired him ten days ago and call security.
He took a deep, calming breath and smiled at her, channelling his inner shark, or at least, dolphin. “This is a courtesy visit. I have such happy memories of Livetech. Did you know I worked here as an intern in university? John, the director before you, hired me as soon as I graduated. I would hate to sour my fond memories with anything as ugly as a lawsuit.”
Sheila leaned back, trying to regain control of the situation. “Pornography was found on your workstation, a clear violation of the employee code of conduct. You were terminated as a result. Any lawsuit would be dismissed immediately.”
“Yet when Amir confessed he was the one who paid for the subscription and showed you the network log and receipts, you did nothing.”
“You have no proof of that,” Sheila said quickly.
“Admit it, Sheila. You don’t like me because I’m Muslim.”
Sheila pasted a wounded look on her face. “I find that highly insulting. Amir still works here.”
“Amir is a light-skinned Persian man who does not identify as Muslim. My appearance makes you uncomfortable.”
“Employee dress code—” Sheila started, but Khalid interrupted her by pulling out a printed copy of Livetech’s code of conduct. He took his time riffling through the pages before reading aloud:
“‘Livetech recognizes the rights of all employees to express their religious beliefs through dress and behaviour. Livetech encourages all such religious freedoms and supports a diverse and respectful work environment.’”
Sheila blanched. “Well, in your case . . .” she said, stumbling over her words.
“I’m a peaceful man,” Khalid said. He realized he was enjoying himself. “But when the NCCM—a Muslim advocacy group, perhaps you have heard of them?—approached me looking for a test case on workplace Islamophobia, I considered it my duty to speak up.”
Sheila straightened. “You can’t prove anything.”
Khalid leaned forward and placed his iPhone on the table. He pressed Play and Sheila’s voice was clear: “I can’t stand men like Khalid. They come to our country and expect us to change everything for them. He’s probably got some sixteen-year-old virgin waiting for him in the desert.”
Khalid pressed pause. “There’s video too,” he said.
For a moment, Sheila said nothing. “What do you want?” she asked.
“I’m a reasonable man. I know you probably don’t hate an entire religious group, not all 1.8 billion of us. I know this all boils down to money. You presented the website I made to WomenFirst Design and took all the credit. I’m going to call them today and explain the situation. And when they offer me a job, Livetech will not sue me for non-competition. Because if they do, I’ll come straight back here to your office. With my lawyer.”
“Khalid, be reasonable. It’s a twelve-million-dollar account!”
Khalid stood up, looking down at Sheila. From this vantage point, she looked so small. “Then consider this a very expensive lesson on the dangers of workplace discrimination. The choice is yours.”
Sheila didn’t look at him as he left her office. Outside, he texted Amir:
It’s done. Thanks for the audio file and the makeover.
Clara emerged from the side entrance where she had been waiting and stood beside Khalid.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“She crumpled like a used tissue.”
“Gross.” Clara eyed the suit. “Somehow, the makeover just isn’t . . . you.”
Khalid loosened his tie and ran a hand through his neatly combed hair, messing it up. “What about now?”
“I miss the white dress.”
“I think I held on to the robe for too long. Just like I held on to some other things. But I’m learning to let go and ‘edit,’ as Amir would say.”
They smiled at each other.
“Thank you,” Khalid said. “For everything. Please let me know if I can return the favour.”
Clara was thoughtful. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about what you said before. About your Prophet Muhammad and his wife Khadijah.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Love Comes from Below
The words fall from above, dust in an old house
Coating everything, blurring lines, softening forms, covering up
Love rises, a well filled for the first time,
Drop by drop
Transparent and clean, giver of hope and life
I see you now.
I see myself.
I see us.
I’m ready
For something new.
Ayesha sat back, frowning at the words. She was sitting on a bench near the baseball diamond outside Brookridge High, enjoying a moment of quiet after school. The poem was rough, but it felt like a distilled truth. She flipped through the pages of her blue notebook, reading over the half-dozen poems she had written in the past two weeks, since Hafsa’s return. One way or another, they all said the same thing: She was ready for change, ready for something different.
In reality, not much had changed since the general body meeting. Though Tarek had returned the money as promised, the mosque’s financial future remained uncertain, and her family was still tainted. Samira Aunty’s story (Hafsa had been kidnapped by a con man and held for ransom) didn’t hold much water with the Aunty Brigade, who were busy feeding off the entrails of the biggest scandal to rock their community in years. But her aunt was an old hand at the rumour mill; she knew things would settle down, eventually.
Hafsa was quieter now, her old playful fire subdued. Ayesha suspected she was suffering from a slightly bruised ego but would make a full recovery in time. Besides, the sun was shining, and June had arrived. Everything was sane and hopeful in June, even irreversible life decisions.
Ayesha looked up and spotted Mr. Evorem on the baseball diamond, watching the junior boys’ team practise. She squared her shoulders, put the notebook away and walked over to him.
“How are your classes?” he asked her, his eyes on the boys. He winced as the outfielder missed the catch. “Any plans for the summer?”
Ayesha chatted for a few minutes before growing silent. When she didn’t leave, Mr. Evorem turned to look at her. “Was there something else, Miss Shamsi?” he asked politely.
Ayesha shifted. She had practised her speech in the staff bathroom, but now she didn’t know how to begin.
His eyes were kind, the laugh lines that bracketed his mouth deeply etched, his crow’s feet a permanent notation from too many seasons watching school teams go to bat, or run after a black-and-white ball, or throw the perfect spiral. Mr. Evorem belonged here. She didn’t.
“I won’t be returning next year,” she said.
Mr. Evorem took a moment to absorb the news. A good poker face was essential for a high school principal. “I thought you wanted to be a teacher.”
Ayesha shrugged helplessly, unsure how to turn her churning thoughts into words. “I did too. There was so much pressure to take the road more travelled. I didn’t want to disappoint my family. But now I think I’m ready to chase a dream.”
Mr. Evorem looked back at the field, smiling at the firm thwack as the bat made contact with the ball, watching it sail past second base. “I admire your bravery. Where will you go? Dreamers need to eat too.”
“I was thinking overseas. See the world, write.”
Mr. Evorem nodded. “Just remember to pack light. Dreams tend to shatter if you’re carrying other people’s hopes around with you.” He shook Ayesha’s hand and wished her good luck. “A good teacher grows, they’re not born. If you ever change your mind, let me know. I think you have potential.”
Ayesha promised to keep in touch and left him staring after his team.
HFSA’S red Mercedes SLK was in the driveway when Ayesha returned from school. All Ayesha wanted to do was change into her yoga pants, crawl into bed and try not to think about the perfectly good job sh
e had thrown away because of something a man she had decided never to talk to again had written in a letter she couldn’t forget.
Hafsa was waiting for her on the porch steps, and she had that look on her face, the one that said she wouldn’t be easy to dismiss. Still, Ayesha tried.
“Hafs, I have a splitting headache,” she said.
“So take an Advil. I need to talk to you.”
Ayesha had been secretly enjoying the new, quieter, less needy Hafsa. The one who didn’t whine or complain when Ayesha wanted time to write, and think.
And also quit her job.
Maybe there were advantages to constantly getting sucked into Hafsa’s vortex of trouble.
Her cousin followed her into the house as she dropped her purse by the door and kicked off her shoes. Hafsa plopped down on the couch. “Make me a tea too,” she said. “Where is everyone?”
Ayesha looked around, noticing the stillness. She busied herself with the chai and soon carried out two steaming mugs.
“Not even a cookie?” Hafsa pouted. “Though I shouldn’t. I have to watch my weight.”
“Why bother?” Ayesha said, sighing. “It’s not like you’re getting married.”
“Actually,” Hafsa said, smiling. “I am.”
Ayesha froze, her tea halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“I’m getting married!” Hafsa said. “It’s someone you know.”
“I think you’ve exhausted the list of men we have in common,” Ayesha said.
“Remember Masood?” Hafsa asked.
“What?” Life-coach-wrestler Masood?
“Don’t be mad. We sort of bonded on that car ride to the airport, before I ran off with Tarek. He texted me when I came back and it sort of fell into place.”
“This can’t be happening,” Ayesha said. “I thought you were swearing off men for a while.”
“Masood said you’d say that. He thinks you’re closed-minded,” Hafsa said. “You really need to open yourself up to the possibility of loss and gain. The world of wrestling is full of psychological complexity. Masood said if people understood it better, they would have a better understanding of themselves.”
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