by Sabina Khan
So, we were in the same boat. Although my parents were totally unreasonable as far as I was concerned, I did believe that all their rules came from a place of love. They had just been raised with a different set of beliefs.
“Okay,” I said after a while. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you! And I promise I will help you with whatever you need. You saw how much Aunty Meena likes me, didn’t you?”
It occurred to me then that he was on my side. It was nice, having someone in my corner. He hadn’t made the usual crude gay jokes and he didn’t even seem shocked. It was sad that this was a relief. I’d come here half expecting to meet a homophobic misogynist, but instead I found a really nice guy.
“You know, when I saw you that morning I was terrified that you’d seen us and would tell Aunty Meena.”
He smiled at me again, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. I could see how girls might find him attractive. From what I could see, he had a toned body and his skin was just the right shade of brown, dark enough to make white girls swoon and light enough to make him good marriage material. At least, as far as all the matchmaking aunties were concerned.
We sat in mutual silence for a while. Darkness had set in and my parents were likely wondering where I was by now.
“Irfan, I have to get home. It’s getting late.”
“Of course,” he said, pushing back his chair as he got up. “Rukhsana, thanks for doing this. You don’t know how much it means to me.”
“Look, we’ll figure this out,” I said, standing up to leave. “Now, when am I going to meet this girlfriend of yours?”
“We could go for lunch next week if you’re free. I know she’d love to meet you too.”
“I hear we’re in a similar mess.” Sara’s brown eyes shone as she smiled at me. A lavender blouse and dark jeans set off her brunette hair and light complexion.
We were at my favorite sushi restaurant and had just finished ordering.
“I guess you could say that.” I pointed my chin at Irfan. “He isn’t sure how to tell his parents about you two.”
“Can you blame me?” Irfan said. “It’s bad enough that they won’t let up about the whole marriage thing. I don’t want to give them any reason to speed things up.”
“And what do you think about all this?” I tried taking a sip of my green tea but it was still too hot.
“To be honest, I was kind of pissed at first,” Sara said. “I mean, I don’t get why he can’t just tell his parents. He’s not a child.”
“I may as well be,” Irfan said bitterly. “At least when it comes to this.”
“Well, I have an idea, if you’re interested. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s the only thing I can think of right now.”
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Sara said, leaning forward. “Should I be taking notes?”
I grinned. “Not right now, but you might want to at some point.” I took a sip of my tea before I began.
“I thought you could start by coming over to my place a few times and giving my parents a chance to get to know you.”
“Won’t they be suspicious if I start showing up all the time?” Sara asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll tell my mom we met at school when you came to talk about UW and that you’re trying to convince me to go there.”
Sara let out a sigh of relief. “That’s not even a complete lie. I love UW.”
“There you go,” I said. “Mom’s going to love you, and when the time comes we’ll tell her about you guys.”
Irfan and Sara exchanged a glance that made me miss Ariana. She was going to like them, and I couldn’t wait for them all to meet.
Our food came just then and we ate while I told them all about my predicament.
“What can we do to help?” Irfan asked as we were finishing up.
It was hard to believe that less than forty-eight hours ago I thought he was going to spill my secret. But there still wasn’t anything they could do to help me at this point.
Sara came over to hang out the following Tuesday. Mom wasn’t there when she came, so I took the opportunity to show her a few things.
“I’m going to teach you how to make chai,” I said.
“I love chai tea,” she said as she watched me pour milk into a saucepan. While we waited for it to boil, I told her that chai was the Urdu word for tea.
“Gotcha,” she said. “So, I’ve really been asking for tea-tea all this time?”
“Pretty much,” I said with a grin. “Actually, in Bengali we call it cha, but in Hindi and Urdu it’s chai. People here are more familiar with chai, so we just got used to saying that.”
“I have so many questions about that,” Sara said. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me all about the differences. I feel like I don’t know enough about the region.”
“I will, but one thing at a time,” I said with a smile.
I showed her how much ginger, cardamom, cloves, and cinnamon to add to the tea leaves, and when it was ready, we each poured ourselves a cup. Mom had left some singharas on the counter, so I served her those as well.
“I thought these were samosas,” she said, understandably confused.
“That’s what they call them in India, but in Bangladesh these are called singharas. Our samosas are crispy and the outer part is thinner.” She eagerly took a bite and I felt bad for not warning her. She coughed as soon as the morsel went down her throat and her eyes watered. I had a glass of milk handy and she gulped it down gratefully.
After her tongue stopped burning and she could speak again, I thought it was time to introduce her to Bengali people’s favorite obsession when it came to food.
“Here’s the thing, Sara,” I began. “If you want Irfan’s family to like you, there’s only one surefire way to go about it. You must learn all about fish. And rice.”
Sara looked at me in bewilderment. If I hadn’t grown up listening to endless complaining about the lack of varieties of rice and freshwater fish here in the US, I would have thought it was weird too.
Her eyes began to glaze over by the time I was halfway down the list, so I decided she’d had enough for one visit. When my mother came home, she was surprised to find Sara there.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sara,” Mom said after I made the introductions. “I hope you can stay for dinner.”
Sara looked at me in a panic, probably reliving the burn of the singhara.
“You can stay, right, Sara?” I smiled like the villain that I was. Irfan would thank me later.
“Of course, yes, I’d love to stay. Thank you so much.” She glared at me as soon as Mom turned away to start dinner. “If I die tonight, you’d better have a good place to hide from Irfan,” she whispered coolly, but I saw the twinkle in her eyes.
I grinned. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”
Luckily, Mom made a simple meal of daal, roti, and chicken curry. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy watching Sara tentatively bite a piece of chicken as if it might bite her back. Fortunately, she seemed to make it through the meal with most of her gastric lining intact.
Dad had to work late but Aamir came home just in time for dinner, so it was just the four of us at the table.
“So, Sara, how do you know our Rukhsana?” Mom asked as she put some more chicken curry on Sara’s plate. I’d forgotten to warn her that we Bengalis liked to force-feed our guests.
“I met her in school when I came to talk about my university,” Sara replied, woefully eyeing her plate. “I go to UW. I was just telling her how much I love it there.”
Aamir perked up suddenly. “Mom, weren’t you saying Rukhsana should go there too?”
I glared at my brother.
Mom pounced on this opportunity immediately.
“Yes, that is what I’ve been telling you, Rukhsana.”
She walked over to the stove and began to make fresh rotis.
“And if you go to UW, you can still live at home,” Aamir said helpfully.
Why i
s he still speaking?
I kicked at him under the table, but he moved his leg just in time and grinned at me.
Mom brought the rotis to the table and spooned some more daal and chicken curry onto Sara’s plate. When she went to check on the rice pudding simmering on the stove, Sara frantically gestured at me to do something. But I didn’t know how to stop Mom when she went into supreme hostess mode. I looked to Aamir and surreptitiously spooned the excess food onto his plate. For once, I was glad that my brother was an equal opportunity pig. By the time Mom came back to the table, Aamir had claimed the rest of the rotis.
“See, Rukhsana,” she said to me, jabbing a spoon in my direction. “Sara says UW is great.”
She gave the rice pudding one last stir before she spooned some into small glass bowls.
“And you are living at home?” she asked as she placed some pudding in front of Sara.
“Yes, it’s much easier. My parents thought it would save some money, and to be honest, I’m glad I don’t have to do laundry.” I wanted to kick Sara under the table too, but alas I was cursed with short legs.
“Money, laundry … all good things. Why do you want to go and live in those dirty dorm rooms?” I was pretty sure Mom had never set foot in a dorm room of any kind.
Dad came home then and spent the rest of the evening asking all the important life questions while Sara wondered what she had signed up for. I’d been so busy experimenting with Sara’s ability to handle spicy food, I’d forgotten to give her a heads-up about my parents’ interrogation methods.
My eighteenth birthday was still months away, but it seemed to have triggered some sort of bat signal for potential suitors from the arranged marriage network, which was basically a bunch of Bengali aunties who didn’t know how to mind their own business and had way too much time on their hands. Visitors showed up on random days, most of them unannounced. I received a constant stream of proposals, even from places as far as Bangladesh and New Zealand.
I came home one day to find Aunty Samira in the living room drinking chai with Mom. There was a stack of papers on the coffee table along with an assortment of Bengali sweets. Rasgullahs, sandesh, and gulab jamuns, arranged in tiny pyramids in my grandmother’s silver bowls, all vied for my attention. I gave Aunty Samira a hug before snagging a couple of pieces of sandesh and grabbing a seat across from them.
“Rukhsana, I haven’t seen you for a long time,” Aunty Samira said. “I was just telling your mother about my friend’s nephew in Australia.”
I took a bite of my sandesh, savoring the creamy sweetness, while I waited to hear about the latest prospect.
“Actually, I have known the family for many years. They are looking for a very traditional girl for their son.”
And they think I’m a good candidate? I must be doing a better job at fooling them than I thought.
“He wants someone who can cook Bengali food and will look after the household properly. Of course, it’s a joint family, so you will never be alone.”
Great. A fish-loving, rice-obsessed chauvinist? My dream spouse. And as a bonus I’d get to spend every minute under his parents’ scrutiny.
I shoved the last bit of sandesh in my mouth to avoid answering her. Thankfully, Dad walked in at that very moment.
Aunty Samira repeated her pitch to him and handed him a sheet from the stack on the table. Mom passed me one as well with a glint in her eye. I took it from her and nearly burst out laughing. It was a resume with a grainy black-and-white picture in the bottom right corner. I had to look closely to make out any features through the pixelation. I arranged my face into a blank expression before handing it back to Aunty Samira.
Does she really think this will work?
“Rukhsana is going away to university in the fall,” Dad said. I could have hugged him. “She will get married only after she has completed her education.”
The stunned expression on Aunty Samira’s face was priceless. Since my parents had accepted that I was going to Caltech, they had been lording it over everyone. My standing in the marriage market had gone up overnight, and my parents interpreted that as a legitimate source of pride.
Ariana came over a few hours later so we could study for our calculus test together. When Mom came into the kitchen to start dinner, we went up to my room. I closed the door and turned to Ariana.
We’d been super careful not to give anything away while we were at my house, but she looked at me with such tenderness, I couldn’t help it. I leaned over and kissed her gently. My lips traveled to her earlobe and she gasped with pleasure when I nibbled gently. She took my face in her hands and pressed her lips to mine, kissing me fervently. I was so engrossed in the kiss that I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t notice anything until I heard my mother’s voice.
“Rukhsana,” she said sharply. “Eita ki hocche?” Ariana and I jumped apart and then froze. Both of us. My body was incapable of movement. I couldn’t speak. But that didn’t stop the avalanche of thoughts in my head.
STUPID. How could I be so stupid? So reckless that I didn’t even lock the door like I usually do. My blood ran cold. How long had she been standing there?
Slowly, feeling returned to my body and I grabbed her hand.
“Mom, please. Sit down. Please don’t be angry. I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.” Two fat tears dropped onto my forearm. Where did they come from? I touched my face and it was wet. She looked at the two teardrops and then to me.
She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out. She glared at Ariana, who sat as still as a statue, her eyes wide, her hand trembling.
The slap came so fast I didn’t even realize my mom had moved. The sharp sound of her hand connecting with Ariana’s cheek brought me back to my senses. I looked at her in horror, the imprint of my mother’s hand blooming red on Ariana’s cheek almost instantly.
“Mom. Don’t. She didn’t do anything wrong.” My head throbbed with anger and fear.
Mom looked just as shocked as I was, but she regained her composure almost instantly.
“Get out.” Each word was like a punch in the gut. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, so cold and filled with rage. “Get out of my house right now. And don’t you dare come near my daughter again.”
Ariana stood and before I could stop her, she hurried down the stairs and out of our house. I had to stop myself from running after her. But I knew without a doubt that I had to stay here and face my mom.
“Mom, please.” Fifteen minutes of begging and she wouldn’t even look at me. Searching for something on her face, a flicker of understanding, I found nothing.
In a few minutes, my father would come up the stairs, wondering where we were. Maybe he had seen Ariana running out of the house in tears. No. He couldn’t have, otherwise he’d be up here already.
“Mom. Please, you have to talk to me.” Nothing.
When she finally looked at me my heart went cold. Her look was empty, detached, as if I was a stranger. I had to make this right.
“Mom, I love you. Please …” I touched her arm.
She flicked it away and stood. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” Her voice was hard and cold.
I stared at her, not knowing what to do or say. “Mom, I—”
“You disgust me.” She spat out the words, her teeth clenched. “You’re sick.” And then she turned away and walked out of my room.
I could feel my heart wrenching inside my chest. It hurt so much that I couldn’t breathe.
I had imagined this scene, this exact moment, over and over in my mind. The look of hurt on my parents’ faces, and the yelling, telling me I was too young, that I couldn’t possibly know what I wanted. But not this. I had never pictured this.
My mind went back to the summer before high school. I had just turned thirteen and Mom made me sit down for the talk. Not the talk about the birds and the bees. In our culture, the birds and the bees did not get together. Neither did boys and girls until they got married.
“Rukhsana, now you
are no longer a little girl,” Mom had said. “You are a young woman, so you have to be aware of many things. Most importantly, you are a young Muslim woman. Everyone in our community will be watching to see if you do something bad. Do you remember Aunty Nargis? Her daughter ran off with a white boy. Her parents had to sell their house and move to Toronto where no one knows them.”
“But what’s so bad about marrying a white boy? Nowadays, it’s not such a big deal.”
“Rukhsana,” Mom said sharply, “I’m warning you. Don’t get any ideas like that, okay? We are giving you a lot of freedom, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t take it away. Remember, boys want only one thing. It is up to you to protect it.”
Her threat had been very effective. I was careful not to cross the lines. Until I started feeling things. Until Ariana came into my life.
Is she telling my dad right now?
My dad, who was usually all hugs and affection, would look at me and feel sickened by who I was. A wave of nausea hit me and I grabbed the trash can just in time to release the contents of my stomach. My hands shook uncontrollably as I wiped my mouth with a tissue.
What should I do now?
I had to talk to them and try to explain. I stood up and waited for the trembling to subside. Then I took a deep breath and walked downstairs into the living room. Mom and Dad’s hushed voices carried over to me as I stood on the last step, contemplating what I should say.
They turned when I walked into the room. Their faces were ravaged. I had done this to them. Mom’s cheeks were wet with tears. Dad looked at me and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe it was better I didn’t know.
I tried to speak but my throat was closing and I had to force the words out.
“Mom, Dad, can we please talk about this?” For a second, I thought maybe they would smile and tell me that everything was going to be alright, that we would get through this and that they loved me, no matter what. But it was just a trick of my mind, the memories of another time when they said that to make all the hurt go away. Not today. Today, I only saw two people I had disappointed so much that maybe there was no coming back from this.
