Zara Hossain Is Here

by Sabina Khan

  “Hello, Chloe,” Ammi says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Your mehndi looks gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” Chloe says. “And my parents send their regards. They’re sorry they couldn’t make it.”

  “I’m sorry they couldn’t join us. Okay, now come with me,” she says. “You have to taste all the food.” She goes off into the kitchen, and we follow her. “So, what would you like to try first, Chloe?”

  “It all looks so good I don’t even know where to begin.” Chloe looks at me for help.

  “Try the zarda first,” I say. “Ammi just finished making it, so it’s nice and hot.” I pick up a bowl from the pretty floral set that Ammi brought with her from Pakistan and only uses on special occasions. I put a few spoonfuls of the sweet, cardamom-infused yellow rice in it and hand it to Chloe.

  “Oh my God, it’s delicious,” she says after a taste.

  “Okay, so now try it with this cold kheer.” I put a few spoons of the rice pudding on top of the zarda and watch her closely.

  “Mmm, it’s so good.”

  “Isn’t it the best?” I grab a bowl for myself, and for the next few minutes, we relish the sweetness together.

  “I made shaami kabab and paranthay for lunch,” Ammi says. “I made a few special ones for Chloe,” she adds.

  “She means they’re not spicy,” I whisper to Chloe with a wink.

  “Ah, yes, always worried about the white girl,” Chloe says with a grin.

  “Well, you can try the spicy ones, but don’t come crying to me when your mouth is on fire,” I say.

  “Maybe I can try a bite of yours and if I don’t combust then I can have some more,” she says.

  “And there’s always raita to cool it off.”

  “Is that the yogurt salad I had that one time?”

  “Yes, it helps to quench the fire.”

  We help Ammi set out all the food and dishes in anticipation of the visitors, who should start arriving soon.

  Shireen Khala is the first, followed soon by a few other Pakistani families that we know from the mosque and cultural center.

  When my parents first moved here, they made sure to socialize as much as possible with the local Pakistani community, especially when Abbu worked long hours at the hospital as a new resident. I remember many weekends when Ammi and I would go to some aunty’s house or another on weekends and spend the day. I’d play with the other kids, and the grown-ups would chat and watch old Bollywood movies together. There was always good food and lots of fun and games.

  But things began to change as the other kids my age and I got older. Some families were more conservative and orthodox while others, like mine, were a bit more liberal when it came to parenting. So, while some of us got to do sleepovers and go to parties, others weren’t allowed to do any of that. Resentments grew and things were said, which led to missed invitations to gatherings, and by the time I was around fifteen, my parents’ social circle had grown a lot smaller. But they liked it that way because they preferred the company of like-minded individuals who were part of their friends’ group. I too was relieved not to face the awkwardness of having to explain why I didn’t fast during Ramadan and why I didn’t pray five times a day. My parents taught me to question everything I learned about religion and to explore my relationship with God as I got older, so I developed a healthy curiosity about all organized religion. But sometimes I wondered if my parents didn’t secretly miss having more social interaction with people who shared similar upbringing and roots. Especially now that I know they would both rather move back to Pakistan than fight to remain here, I have to question a lot of the assumptions I’ve made over the years about their lives.

  By the time Abbu is back, most of our guests are here. I’m super excited because Ammi’s made haleem after a long time. It’s a spicy stew made with wheat, barley, and other grains, and it’s one of my favorite foods. That and dahi vada, which is chilling in the fridge. People are still coming in, and I introduce Chloe to a couple of my desi childhood friends. There’s Abbas and Zakia, twins whom I first met during Friday-afternoon Arabic lessons at the mosque. They’re our age, and soon we’re chatting about upcoming college admission woes.

  Nick and his parents come a little later, and so do Priya and her parents.

  Once most of the other guests have left, Abbu breaks out the karaoke machine.

  As I watch my friends and family singing and laughing together, I feel a pang of regret, because I know that all of this will change soon. But if the events of the last couple of months have shown me anything, it’s that I can withstand a lot, as long as the people I love are by my side. And as I look toward my future, it looks bright and promising once again, filled with all their love and support. I know I will need it as I fight for change. And I know I will never stop fighting.

  First of all, thank you for reading Zara’s story. Like the Hossains, my family spent years waiting for our green cards. But then someone else’s clerical error derailed the entire process and we were asked to go back home. That was when we realized that the United States—the place where my husband and I had started our married lives, where our children were born and had taken their first steps, and where we had dreamed about our future—had never really been our home. With broken hearts, we packed up our lives and moved to Canada to start over.

  The precariousness of the Hossain family’s immigration status is a permanent fixture in the everyday lives of many immigrants in the US today, and Zara struggles to feel what so many others seem to take for granted: a sense of belonging.

  When I sat down to write this book, I knew I wanted it to be about those of us who had the courage to leave behind everything we knew and start new lives in foreign countries. About those of us who keep fighting to make space for ourselves in a country where some will always see us as the “other,” where our hard work and contributions may never be acknowledged, but where, nonetheless, we have managed to carve out lives worthy of respect and pride.

  In today’s political climate, it is crucial that we all come together as allies to stand up against racism and fight injustice when we see it. I hope that Zara’s indomitable spirit and her refusal to give up have inspired you to resist and push back against the intolerance and prejudice that continue to threaten immigrant families and destroy lives.

  Though this past year has been quite challenging, I chose to focus on remembering the many wonderful individuals I met, both virtually and in person, during my debut year and how their kindness and generosity filled me with positivity and confidence as I worked on this book. There are so many people who I’m thankful for.

  First and foremost, my agent, Hillary Jacobson, who tirelessly champions all my work and helps me through the tough times. I am so thankful to have you in my corner. My amazing editor, Jeffrey West, who sees right into the heart of my stories, thank you for your insight and for helping me shape my writing into something I can be very proud of. David Levithan, I’m deeply grateful for your support of my work and for notes and comments that always make me smile.

  My entire Scholastic family: Maeve Norton and Elizabeth Parisi, who create the most beautiful covers for my books; Elisabeth Ferrari, publicist extraordinaire; Josh Berlowitz and Melissa Schirmer, who helped keep this book on schedule; Elizabeth Whiting, Savannah D’Amico, and the rest of the Sales team; Lizette Serrano, Rachel Feld, Emily Heddleson, Danielle Yadao, Shannon Pender, Lauren Donovan, Shelly Romero, and Nikki Mutch, it was an absolute delight to spend time with you all last year. Thank you for making each event so memorable for me.

  My Scholastic Canada family: Nikole Kritikos, Allie Chenoweth, Erin Haggett, Maral Maclagan, and Susan Travis, thank you for all the support and for just being the loveliest people. I can’t wait for karaoke night!

  The sweetest, most talented, and all-around best people, my fellow Scholastic authors who made my debut year so joyful and fun: Bill Konigsberg, Lamar Giles, Jennifer Donnelly, Aida Salazar, and Sayantani DasGupta. Here’s to many more events toget
her.

  Sandhya Menon, Tanaz Bhatena, Robin Stevenson, Mason Deaver, and Julian Winters—thank you for being there through all this. Your friendship means so much!

  I could not have gone through this journey without Adalyn Grace, Astrid Scholte, and Mel Howard. You know what you mean to me.

  My partner in crime, Nafiza Azad, what an amazing journey we’re on. I’m so thankful that I get to share it with you. Thank you for being my confidante and real-life author friend.

  Rob Bittner, what can I say? I cherish our friendship and our coffee dates. So much.

  My heartfelt gratitude to all the teachers and librarians who support our stories and get them into the hands of readers. To all the bloggers and reviewers, thank you for everything you do. And the biggest thanks to all the readers whose support fuels us to write more stories.

  I wouldn’t be living this dream if it weren’t for my husband and my two daughters, whose unwavering love and support makes all this possible.

  And last but certainly not least, eternal gratitude to my mother, who sat patiently by when I was first learning English and fostered my love for reading and writing in the process.

  Sabina Khan writes about Muslim teens who straddle cultures. Her debut novel, The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali, was an Amazon Best Book of the Month and received a starred review from School Library Journal. Sabina was born in Germany, spent her teens in Bangladesh, and lived in Macao, Illinois, and Texas before settling down in British Columbia with her husband, two daughters, and the best puppy in the world. Visit her online at sabina-khan.com and on Twitter at @Sabina_Writer.

  Also by Sabina Khan

  The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from Sabina Khan’s The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali!

  No parties, no shorts, no boys. These were my parents’ three cardinal rules. But what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them, right? I quickly changed out of my NASA pajamas and into my favorite black crop top and dark blue vintage jeans, liking the way they accentuated my curves. According to Mom no one needed to know that I had boobs, much less a belly button, except for me, Allah, and my future husband. Of course, the whole “no boys” rule was a moot point in my case, but fortunately my parents didn’t know about Ariana.

  “Rukhsana, Mom is never going to let you out of the house wearing that.”

  Startled, I spun around to see my brother, Aamir, leaning lazily against my door frame.

  “Knock much?” I said, quickly pausing the music playing on my phone.

  “I did. It’s not my fault you couldn’t hear me over that screeching you call music.” Aamir smiled as he sauntered into the room and plopped down on my bed.

  Of course, my brother was right. I would never be allowed to go out wearing this. Which was why I was planning to throw on my oversized school hoodie to once again become the shapeless blob my parents preferred to think of me as.

  “Aamir, you know this isn’t my first rodeo.” I ruffled his hair affectionately. “Plus, you always have my back, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, I’ll cover for you,” Aamir said, pushing away my hand. He was very particular about his hair. “But it’s going to cost you,” he added with a grin.

  “What do you want this time?” I pulled the bulky hoodie over my head.

  “Something good. I haven’t thought about it yet.” He surveyed my outfit. “Ariana’s going to run away when she sees you, but at least Mom will be happy.”

  I punched him playfully in the arm before going downstairs. The smell of chai led me into the kitchen, where I found the pot bubbling on the stovetop. I inhaled its spicy aroma deeply, allowing the cinnamon and cardamom to soothe my nerves. It was almost five o’clock, time to head over to Jen’s house to finish getting ready for the party. But first I had to convince Mom to let me go.

  She walked out of the study having just finished with her Asr prayer, absentmindedly rolling up her prayer rug.

  She wore a faded blue shalwar kameez, one of the few old ones she kept for when she cooked. Other than the few grey strands escaping the black bun at the nape of her neck, she looked much younger than she really was.

  I took a long sip of my tea before placing the cup on the kitchen counter. “Mom, don’t forget, I’m going to Jen’s house soon.”

  She removed her head scarf and draped it over the back of a chair.

  “Again?” she asked, deepening the worry lines on her forehead. “Why, Rukhsana? You just went the other day.” She picked up the pot and poured herself a cup of chai, taking a careful sip before returning her gaze to me.

  “Mom, I told you,” I said with a deep sigh. “We have a project due on Monday and tonight is the only night we’re both free to work on it.” I waited, a familiar knot forming in my stomach. I hated how I felt right now, like a child asking for just one more cookie. I could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she decided my fate for the evening.

  “I need your help with dinner first. I’m making murgir jhol and your dad will be home soon. You can make the roti and then go.” That was that. She turned away to pick out jars of spices from the rack and lined them up neatly on the counter next to the stove.

  Great. Now I was going to show up to the party smelling of fried onions and garlic. Just what I needed.

  My phone pinged.

  It was Jen. I knew she’d freak out if I was late.

  I darted a glance at Mom. She was busy chopping onions, her face stoic, as if not even the onions could make her cry. I don’t know how she did it.

  I pressed the mute button and shoved the phone back in my pocket with a groan.

  “Mom, can’t you get Aamir to help out tonight? I really need to go. Jen’s waiting for me.”

  Mom laughed as she ground some coriander in the mortar with a pestle. “Don’t be silly. Aamir has homework, and you know very well that you need to learn how to prepare these dishes by yourself. When you’re married, who will come and cook for you?”

  As if on cue, Aamir strolled into the kitchen and Mom’s face lit up. Typical. Mom could be such a cliché sometimes. Of course, she doted on my brother, but me? I had to learn how to cook so I could impress a potential mother-in-law. Deep breath. I had bigger problems at the moment. Like, how was I going to get out of here, go to Jen’s house to put my makeup on for the party, and make it back home by curfew? All without making my parents suspicious.

  Aamir sauntered to the dining table and plopped himself into a chair. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Murgir jhol, baba. Your favorite.” Mom stirred the spices in the pot. Wisps of coriander, cumin, and cloves wafted around the copper pots that hung on a hook near the stove before settling into my hair and clothes. I recalculated in my head the time I would now need to get ready. Shampooing, drying, and straightening my absurdly curly, long hair added at least another hour to my departure time.

  Jen was going to kill me.

  With a resigned sigh, I gathered my thick hair into a knot, securing it at the nape of my neck with an elastic band from my wrist. I measured out two parts flour to one part water into a large mixing bowl for the roti, casting angry glances at my mother as she kept one eye on the pot.

  At least kneading the dough for the flatbread was cheaper than therapy.

  “Mom, I don’t really have that much homework to do. I can help out,” Aamir said, unfolding his lanky frame from the chair.

  “No, no, abbu, you go and relax,” Mom said. “Rukhsana will help.” I glared furiously at my mother. If I had a dollar for every time I’d been treated like Cinderella in this house, I’d be as rich as Prince Charming by now. Thankfully, I only had to endure this for a few more months. Then I was out of here.

  “Mom, this is ridiculous. He said he wants to help. I really need to go and work on my project with Jen.”

  Mom waved a dismissive hand. “Aamir is a growing boy.” She returned her attention to the simmering murgir jhol on the stove. “He needs to rest so that he can study prop
erly.”

  Aamir picked up the rolling pin, holding it awkwardly, which was not surprising since he’d never used one before.

  “Mom, I can—”

  “I said, go upstairs, Aamir.” Mom’s tone did not invite argument and my brother slowly backed away from the kitchen counter, mouthing a “sorry” to me before he disappeared up the stairs.

  I sighed deeply.

  “I’m graduating this year, Mom. I think my grades are just as important as Aamir’s, even though you don’t seem to think so.” I pounded the ball of dough relentlessly into the counter. “I don’t understand why you always do this.”

  “Rukhsana, I’ve told you before. Daughters and sons are not the same. You have the power to honor our family’s good reputation. But if you’re not careful you could also be the one to stain it. And it is my job to make sure that does not happen.” Mom reduced the heat on the stovetop and readied a pan for the roti.

  I wondered what she would do if I let out the scream that was building inside me. I took several long, deep breaths and recited the mantra I’d been living by lately:

  Just hold on for a little bit longer.

  Having an outburst would be counterproductive at this point. If I antagonized her, I’d never be able to leave the house tonight. I swallowed the lump in my throat and began to roll out the flatbread, allowing the simple, repetitive act to erase my frustration. Soon enough, a layer of perfectly round rotis covered the plate.

  “You’re getting much better.” Mom grabbed the plate, nodding in approval before tossing one onto the pan to cook.

  I held out another plate with the last batch. “Can I go now?”

  “You have to eat first, no?” she said, expertly flipping the roti on the pan just as it puffed up.

  “I’ll just grab something at Jen’s.”

  Mom scooped some rice pudding into a bowl. “Here.” She handed me the bowl. “Take this up to Aamir. No need for him to come down when he’s working so hard. I’ll call him when Daddy gets home.”