by Sabina Khan
I snorted. “Yeah, right. Anyway, hurry up and go downstairs or Mom’s going to start freaking out.”
I showered and dressed in a blue chiffon tunic and loose pants that gathered at my ankles, making the outfit super comfy for sitting on the floor. I knew that’s where I would end up later in the evening when the singing began.
Our guests began arriving soon after I went back downstairs. Dad was back from work, helping Mom put the finishing touches on the sumptuous meal she had prepared. The doorbell rang and as people started filing in, Aamir set up more chairs in the living room. Nasreen arrived with her family and we went to the kitchen to start making chai for everyone.
“Have you told your parents about Salim yet?” I asked as I put a pot of milk on the stove.
“No, I’m waiting for him to tell his parents first.” Nasreen pulled out the cups and saucers from the cabinet and began arranging them on my mom’s silver tray.
“Do you think they’ll agree?” Nasreen’s parents were probably the most liberal among our family friends. And Salim was the right sort of guy. He was Muslim, Bangladeshi, and educated. Everything Bengali parents would want for their daughter.
“I don’t know. He says his parents are really conservative and don’t approve of love marriage,” Nasreen said, putting plates of cumin biscuits and cauliflower pakodas on another tray.
“Don’t you wish everyone had parents like Rashida’s?” I said.
“I know, right? She’s going out with a white boy and her parents are so cool about the whole thing.”
“I met her at the mall the other day and we were talking about it. Apparently her parents told her she could go out with anyone as long as she was treated with respect.”
Nasreen shook her head. “I wish Salim’s parents were more like that.”
“What are you going to do if they say no?” The milk had started to boil, so I added the tea leaves, cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and sugar. A delicious aroma filled the kitchen as we talked.
“Honestly? I’m not sure. Sometimes I don’t think he’s strong enough to stand up to his parents. That’s why I’m not saying anything to my parents yet.”
“I’m sure it will all work out, Nas.” I squeezed her hand gently before pouring the chai and taking it into the living room with Nasreen following close behind.
After dinner, while everyone sat down with more cups of chai, Dad pulled out the harmonium for Mom and the tabla for himself.
“Zuby Apa, I’ve been waiting to hear you play for so long,” Maruf Uncle called out, clapping enthusiastically.
“Meena, you have to accompany me. Otherwise it is not fair.” Mom waved Aunty Meena over to the center of the living room, where they sat on large cushions.
As Mom coaxed beautiful notes out of her instrument, Dad kept the beat with the tabla and Aunty Meena began to sing. A hushed silence came over the room. It was impossible not to feel mesmerized by her rich voice as she sang a popular song by Rabindranath Tagore.
“I can’t believe Aunty Meena can sing like that,” Nasreen whispered in my ear. “She’s usually such a witch.”
I couldn’t stop myself from snorting, which earned me a glare from Mom.
“That has to be why Uncle Maruf stays with her,” I whispered. “She probably sings to him every night.”
Nasreen made a face as the song ended and we all clapped, cheering for more. As the evening wore on and I watched everyone enjoying themselves, I couldn’t help but wonder about the dichotomy of it all. These same friendly people I’d known since childhood would likely turn on me if they ever found out about my relationship with Ariana.
“Ariana, what are you getting?”
We stood in line at Starbucks, and as usual, Ariana was having a hard time deciding what she wanted. It was Saturday morning and the line grew longer by the minute.
“I think I’ll have a venti chai latte with skim milk.”
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe my girlfriend was ordering this whitest of white drink. “Have you learned nothing about chai after being with me all this time?” I said, laughing.
“What’s wrong with my drink? I love a good chai latte.” Ariana pouted.
“OMG, I will make you a proper cup of chai when you come over next time.” I glared at her in mock frustration.
“Okay, but could you just grab me one for now? I’ll find us a table.”
I’d evaded Mom this morning and told Dad I had to meet with my study group. He nodded absentmindedly as he read his daily newspaper. Since Mom didn’t believe in Starbucks, I was safe here.
After ordering our drinks, I found Ariana at a table for two tucked away in the corner. She looked incredibly hot with her glasses on and her nose scrunched up, poring over her English textbook. In jeans and a hoodie, with her hair in a messy ponytail, she looked like the cutest little nerd. Against my better judgment, I leaned over and kissed her quickly on the mouth as I put our coffees down. She looked up at me and smiled, then rose up a little out of her seat to kiss me back.
Slipping into the chair beside her, I took out my book and fished out my pen and highlighter. I was a couple of paragraphs into the short story our teacher had assigned when I looked up to ask Ariana how far she’d gotten. And I froze.
Irfan. Standing in the line. Shit. How long had he been here? Had he seen us?
He stood there looking in our general direction. I moved my body as discreetly as I could, so that my back faced him.
“Ariana, we have to leave.”
“Huh?” She looked up from her work. “What? Why? We just got here.”
“There’s this guy over there. No, don’t look,” I hissed as she turned her head in his direction.
“What guy?” she whispered.
“This guy, my family knows him. I think he just saw us.”
It took a few seconds, but then Ariana’s eyes widened in understanding. “Are you sure he saw us?”
“No. I’m not. But we need to leave. Now.”
I couldn’t focus on anything, going over the morning’s events again and again until my head hurt. I took turns kicking myself for being so cavalier about kissing Ariana and cursing Irfan for choosing my Starbucks to get his coffee.
I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand.
I waited a few seconds.
Finally, a reply.
Was she serious right now?
Easy for her to say. I’m the one who’d be in deep shit if my parents found out.
I eyed the phone in the living room with trepidation. It was Sunday morning and everyone was home. My palms were sweaty as I waited for the call that would signal the end of my life as I knew it. Irfan had probably told Aunty Meena already and she must be plotting the best way to ruin my life. Irfan must have wondered why I hadn’t flirted with him at the wedding like every other female in his vicinity. It wouldn’t be long before he put two and two together. It would all make sense to him now. The only reason a girl wouldn’t be interested in him had to be that she was a lesbian. I had to do something, I couldn’t just sit around waiting for a phone call.
Mom came into the kitchen and began to pull ingredients out of the fridge to cook lunch. I walked away into the living room before she could enlist me to help. I was just about to chew my nails off when the phone rang. I jumped up and ran to the kitchen, almost knocking Mom to the ground as she picked up the phone. She glared as she frantically gestured at me to watch the stove while she stepped into the family room to talk to whoever was on the other end of the line. I tried to think of a way to get out of this. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, so I turned back to the stove just in time to stop the daal from boiling over.
“Rukhsana, that was Aunty Meena,” Mom said, coming back into the kitchen. She pushed me gently out of the way as she checked the pot. “She’s coming over for chai in a little bit.”
So, this was it. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time telling her. I had to think fast to come up with an excuse, anything to explain why I w
as kissing a girl. I could say it wasn’t me he had seen, that he was mistaken, but I didn’t know if Mom would buy that. On the other hand, would she even believe that I was gay? That seemed even more far-fetched, but maybe I could get out of this somehow.
Half an hour later, I sat facing Mom and Aunty Meena, my life flashing before my eyes. If Mom and Dad found out, they would probably ground me for the rest of my life, or worse, make me go to UW.
“Rukhsana, Aunty says Nani is not doing too well.”
The words didn’t make sense right away. Slowly, my brain registered what she was saying. They didn’t know about Ariana and me.
But then it sunk in. My grandmother in Bangladesh was sick. Suddenly, I came back to life.
“Is it serious? Is she in the hospital? I spoke to Shaila last week, she didn’t mention anything.”
“Don’t worry, ammu, it is nothing very serious. Just old age, so we are a little bit worried, you know?” said Aunty Meena. “Don’t think about it too much. She is always asking about you and Aamir.”
I was relieved that my Nani was fine, but as I listened to them talking about her, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that this thing with Irfan wasn’t over yet.
Weekends were always the busiest at my parents’ grocery store where I helped out sometimes, as Bengali families stocked up on hilsa fish, rice, daal, and other food items that they couldn’t find in the local grocery store.
It was Sunday, a week after the near catastrophe with Irfan, and customers milled about the store, while children ran around the big, clear plastic containers that housed pulses of all kinds, as well as bulk dry kidney beans and chickpeas. Gunny bags of rice sat neatly arranged in pyramids, threatening to topple over every time a customer grabbed one. Along one wall, a refrigerated glass display case hummed along while brightly colored sweets soaked blissfully in a sugary syrup. I could see at least twenty different varieties of the sweetmeats that Bengalis were famous for all over the Indian subcontinent. On top of the case were several trays piled high with bright orange jalebis, the deep-fried, syrupy swirls of goodness that I’d been craving all day.
When the checkout clerk went on his break, things slowed down a little, so I busied myself by refilling some of the bulk containers of ground spices while keeping an eye on the checkout counter.
I had just finished topping off the whole red chilies when the bell above the door jingled. I turned to look through the shelves and my heart skipped a beat. It was Irfan. I ducked behind a mound of gourds, grateful that the vegetable I detested was finally doing me some good.
What’s the deal with this guy? Is he stalking me?
It had to be some weird coincidence that he showed up here only a week after he’d seen me with Ariana. No. It couldn’t be. I was sure he had come for me. Or maybe his mom wanted some mustard oil for her fish curry. Debating whether to confront him or continue hiding out among the gourds, I watched as he placed a bag of rice and several packets of lentils in his basket. But then a customer wanted to know where she could find jaggery and I pointed her in the right direction. By the time I resumed my spying position, Irfan was nowhere to be seen.
Great, now where did he go? Could he have left the store already?
I was still crouching behind the gourds, craning my neck to try and see if I could spot him, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned so quickly that I knocked over a few of the gourds on the top of the mound. I stared helplessly as they fell to the ground with a loud thud.
“Umm, are you okay?” Irfan’s eyes twinkled.
“Yes, of course,” I said hastily. “I was just checking if there were any bad ones in this pile.” I bent to pick up the runaway gourds closest to me, replacing them carefully on top of the mound. Irfan immediately began to help, retrieving a couple that had rolled under the shelves. As I attempted to arrange them in a neat pyramid, my mind was racing.
Why is he here?
“Hey, I was wondering if there’s someplace we could go and talk?” he said after the last of the errant gourds were back in their pile. “After you’re finished here, of course,” he added with a smile.
I scrutinized his face, trying to find a hint of malice or something equally evil. But either he was really good at masking his true feelings or I was totally off base. But then again, this could not be a coincidence. I guess there was only one way to find out.
“Sure. There’s a Starbucks nearby. I could meet you there in an hour.” I would take him back to the scene of the crime and put an end to this.
“That sounds good. I’ll go and get us a table.” He went to the counter. The checkout clerk was back from his break and I watched as Irfan paid for his items, offered one last look at me, and left the store.
I took a deep breath and finished restocking, all the while trying to decide how I would find out what his intentions were. Or if he had even seen us that day.
I spotted Irfan sitting at a corner table by the window, sipping his coffee. I walked over to him and hung my purse on the back of the chair across from him. He jumped up as soon as he saw me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what you like to drink—”
“That’s fine, I’ll just grab a coffee—”
“No, please, just tell me what you’d like. I insist.”
I gave up, knowing there was no point in arguing.
“I’ll just take a latte, then. Thanks.”
He went off to get my drink and I sat down wondering what I’d gotten myself into. He seemed so nice and normal, it was becoming hard to imagine that he was plotting anything evil. But I knew I shouldn’t let my guard down.
He returned a few minutes later and placed a steaming cup in front of me. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then took a sip of his coffee instead.
Finally, I couldn’t take the awkwardness any longer.
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
“I saw you here last Saturday with your”—he cleared his throat again—“girlfriend.”
I didn’t say anything. I struggled to keep my face neutral. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was terrified.
“I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to worry about anything,” he was saying. “I haven’t told anyone. And I’m not going to.”
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. I released it slowly. The knot in my stomach unfurled a little.
“When I saw you at the wedding the other night with Aunty Meena, I didn’t realize you were, umm—”
If he was so uncomfortable with the word, I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. Labels weren’t my thing, which was ironic because in our community, labels were everything. The thinking went: You didn’t really know someone unless you knew where they were born, what village in the motherland their parents and grandparents hailed from, and so on. Watching my relatives meet someone new exhausted me. They only did it to feel some sort of connection to people, but I just never felt comfortable under such scrutiny.
So now I let Irfan squirm for a bit before I answered.
“Gay? Yes, I am. And no, my parents don’t know, but if you think you have something to hold over me, well, you don’t. I’m planning to tell them myself, so—”
I stopped. What was he smiling about?
“Hey, I told you already, I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” he said, holding his hands up in mock self-defense. “If you give me a chance, I can explain.”
“The stage is yours,” I said with a dramatic wave of my hand.
“So,” he began hesitantly, “here’s the thing. I’m kind of in a relationship with someone myself.”
Wait, is he gay too?
Oh, please please please.
I could just see Aunty Meena’s face. It would be priceless.
“So, who is it … Anyone I know?” The Bangladeshi community in Seattle was fairly large, but it wasn’t uncommon to run into the same people at events. Also, my dad was big on socializing with people from the homeland,
so he made it a point to invite any new families over for dinner when they arrived. As a result, we knew most families, if not directly, then at least by association.
“Her name’s Sara. She goes to UW,” he said. “She’s not Bengali,” he added quietly.
There it was. The silver lining in the black cloud that had been hovering over me for the last week.
“Is it serious?” It had to be, for him to go to all this trouble. But I wanted to hear it from him.
“We’ve been together for over a year now. But you know Aunty Meena and my mom have been on me to get married, and I’m running out of excuses.”
A wave of compassion struck me.
“Have you tried to talk to your parents?” They seemed like nice enough people when I’d met them at the wedding. But that didn’t mean anything when it came to a situation like this.
He shook his head. “It’s no use … They wouldn’t agree to a love marriage. Especially not to a white girl.” I knew he was right. If they found out they would probably just force him to get married to a nice Bengali girl, someone they picked out for him.
“What about her family? Maybe they can help?”
“Her family isn’t too keen on it either. They don’t want their daughter marrying a Muslim. I mean, I’ve met them and they’re really decent, but I think deep inside they’re not too sure that I won’t blow something up.”
I gave him a wry smile. “Sadly, I’m familiar with that particular sentiment.”
Irfan shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I love her so much, but I just don’t see a way that it could work.”
“So why did you want to meet with me? I’m happy to help you, but to be quite honest, I’m not sure what I can do.”
“I was hoping maybe if you and Sara could become friends, then you could introduce her to Aunty Meena. And then after some time, I could bring it up with my parents.”
He smiled disarmingly. “I really don’t want to lose her, but I don’t want to hurt my parents either.”
