“And you’ve had a lot of coffee?”
Bisma laughed and wiped roughly at her eyes. “It never gets that far. They hear my story, and they’re nice—I mean, you know, most of them—but they drive me back. I don’t blame them. This isn’t going to stay a secret. Someday, someone is going to find out, and his family will be the one with a tramp for a daughter-in-law. I’m over it. I’ve made peace with it.”
“Peace is good,” I said, just to have something to say.
“Sure. Yeah. It’s great.”
I didn’t really think much about what I would do next, which wasn’t all that unusual for me. I’d agreed to have coffee with her before she’d told me about her past. All I had to do was ask myself if learning her story had changed my opinion of her at all. If it hadn’t, there was no reason to change our plans.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bisma shrugged.
“Do you like nuts in your brownies?”
“What?”
“Some people like their brownies plain, you know, just pure chocolate batter. And that’s cool, but I think having nuts in there makes for a better experience.”
“Are the brownies a metaphor?” Bisma asked. “Because if so, that’s pretty racist.”
“Two things,” I said. “First, membership has its privileges, okay? Second, no, it isn’t a metaphor. This place has good brownies, but they make them with nuts. They put a little sea salt on top, which I think really… anyway.” I turned off the ignition. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
She stared at the keys as I withdrew them from the car, then she stared at me, and then the entrance to the cafe. “This is a nice gesture, Danyal, but I don’t need your pity.”
“It isn’t pity. My mother told me to have coffee, so that’s what I’m going to do. You in?”
“So,” Mom demanded as soon as the Akrams left, “what did you think?”
“Who cares what he thinks?” my father asked. To a stranger, he would’ve seemed inordinately annoyed by my mother’s question. I knew, of course, that this was his default setting. I’m pretty sure Ahmed Jilani came into this world with a frown, and the odds are good he’ll be frowning when he leaves it. His autobiography would probably be called something like A Series of Continuous Disappointments. I’d have a feature role.
“Should I request your opinion, then?” Mom glared at him. “Are you going to marry her, or will he?”
Ahmed Jilani gave a grunt. He grunted like happy people smiled—that is to say, often. There were different types of grunts, and if you spent enough time with him you learned to tell them apart. This one, drawn out at the beginning, then abruptly cut short, was dismissive.
“He should be grateful anyone even considers giving him their daughter. He’s just a bloody part-time cook. Hasn’t even graduated high school yet. He might never manage it. Why would the Akram girl even consider marrying your son?”
“Acha, he’s my son only now?”
This argument happened every time my future came up. My father had strong opinions about what I was doing—or not doing—with my life, and he wasn’t shy about voicing them.
“Of course,” he said. “Wasn’t it the great-uncle on your mother’s side who had a restaurant? Danyal doesn’t get that nonsense from my side of the family, I’ll tell you that.”
My mother huffed and came back with her stock reply. “On your side also there is art, okay? Wasn’t it your mom’s mom’s brother who was a poet?”
“Poetry is different. Food isn’t art, woman. Besides, there are lots of respectable poets.”
“Like who?”
Before Dad could launch into a long history of the Urdu poets of Lucknow, the city in India where my paternal ancestors lived before 1947, I said, “She was fine.”
My father glowered in my direction. “What?”
“He’s answering my question. About the girl,” Mom explained. “So, Danyal, did she seem interested in you?”
“If she is interested in him,” my father interrupted, “we shouldn’t be interested in her. No woman with good judgment would…” He leaned forward in his chair, then said, “Wait. Aisha, how did you say you came to meet these people?”
Aisha Jilani, who somehow knew everybody, outlined for her husband a complicated chain of friends and acquaintances, none of whom I recognized.
“And how well do all of these people really know the Akrams?”
“What are you trying to say, Ahmed?”
“I’m saying that there is something strange in this daal. Why would they be interested in this one?” He pointed to me. “We should look into it.”
“Or,” I suggested, “we could just not eat the daal. We could get something else entirely.”
I thought that was a perfectly reasonable comment, but it still drew another grunt from my father. It was an “are you sure this idiot is my child, woman, because I’d rather have been cuckolded than believe my blood flows in this fool’s veins” grunt. I’d heard it a lot.
Mom just ignored me. “You never give our son—”
“Your son.”
“Uff. Fine. You never give my son enough credit. Look how handsome he is.”
“Yes. He’s lucky he got my looks.”
“My son,” my mother said, “my looks. The point is that he may not be all that well qualified, or that intelligent, and he probably doesn’t have a very good future—”
“Hey!”
She waved off my objection without even looking at me. “But he’ll make lovely babies. Think of it like an old-school arrangement. When our elders got married, they looked at the boy’s education and the girl’s looks only. Just think of Danyal like that. Like an eighteenth-century girl from a remote Indian village. Then it all makes sense.”
Ahmed Jilani gave his “you make a decent point but I’m not convinced” grunt, which was the closest he’d probably ever come to admitting anyone else might be right. “Those women had skills. They managed their homes, raised families. Will this one do that? He’s just a pretty face.”
“I’m more than just—”
“Anyway,” my father went on, “I still think their interest in Danyal is strange.”
“Okay, fine, baba, I’ll ask around some more.” My mother masterfully switched over to a placating tone all of a sudden. It was what she did when she realized that reasoning with her husband would get her nowhere. It was something she’d gotten a lot of practice at over the years. “I’m sure people know them. We’ll get plenty of references.”
I grimaced. The last thing Bisma Akram needed was a bunch of desi aunties prying into her life. Someone, somewhere, would have a relative who knew the Akrams before they moved here, and that someone would know a friend, who would know a brother-in-law who’d once mentioned an Akram Sahib’s daughter who made erotic videos and posted them online. By the time Bisma’s story reached my mother, it would be exaggerated all to hell, and it’d spread like wildfire, burning her reputation down in California too.
“No,” I said. “Don’t do that.”
Now it was my mother who frowned at me. “And why not?”
“Bisma seems like a nice girl and everything, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”
“Allahu Akbar.” My father threw his hands up in the air. “Of course it won’t work. Because you have an allergy to work, don’t you? This won’t work. That won’t work. She won’t work. The only thing you’re good for is wasting my money and eating my food, isn’t it? Bloody idiot. Get married to a qualified girl now, so you can live off your woman’s earnings like a shameless—”
“Ahmed!”
“No, Aisha, let me give him a dose of truth, okay? How long are we going to live, haan? When we’re gone, he’ll be cooking in a crappy diner somewhere. Or maybe he’ll be homeless, playing music at the side of the road, guitar case open, begging for scraps. He’ll see then if the Akrams even deign to look at him.”
So… pretty harsh. Not the worst I’d gotten from my father, though. Since I�
�d first told him I wanted to one day open my own restaurant, this kind of blowup had been happening a lot. When he finally stopped speaking, his face red from the exertion of his words, I gave him a small smile, the most I could manage, and said, “Are you done?”
My father snarled and slapped his hands against his thighs before getting up and stalking out of the room. I sat there with my mother in silence for some time.
Finally, she said, “Danyal?”
“It’s fine, Mom.”
“He loves you, jaan, and he worries about you—”
“I said it’s fine.”
Aisha Jilani sighed and came to sit next to me on the sofa. Her autobiography would probably be titled I’m Here to Make Sure You’re Okay. She ran a hand over my hair. “You’re sure I shouldn’t ask around about this Bisma girl? You didn’t like her?”
“I liked her fine, Mom. It’s just…”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me why. Just tell me you’re not saying no to Bisma because of Sohrab’s sister, that Kaval. Just tell me this isn’t about her.”
I smiled at the gentle way my mother spoke, like I was a fragile thing right now. “Her I really like.”
“I know.” My mother chuckled. “I think everyone knows.”
“So why don’t you talk to her parents?”
“Because I also know what they’re going to say.”
That stung a little. Maybe even more than a little. “You agree with Dad, then? That I’m worthless?”
“No, beta, but…” She let out a weary sigh. “For you to have any chance, Kaval would have to fight for you. I’ve seen that girl grow up. And I can tell you that she won’t do it.”
“You’ve never really been that crazy about her.”
“You’ve always been crazy enough about her for the both of us,” she joked. When I didn’t respond, she said, “Have you asked her if she loves you?”
I gave her a cheeky grin. “Everybody loves me.”
“This is true. I’ll tell you what… if Kaval says that she is interested in you, that she’ll stand against her parents’ objections, then I’ll go over to their house myself and beg for her hand.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Yes. Trust me.”
Something about the way my mom said this gave me pause. I’d heard that tone of voice before. On TV. On the news. My mother was making me a politician’s promise. One she didn’t expect to have to keep.
“You really don’t think Kaval will do it. Why?”
My mother paused, as if she didn’t know exactly how to explain this to me. “She wears a lot of makeup.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s the reason?”
“Kaval wears a lot of makeup, Danyal, and it’s Chanel.”
“So?”
“It’s expensive. And the purses she carries? Her newest one, it’s Gucci. More than twenty-seven hundred dollars. Before tax. And don’t get me started on her shoes.”
“Mom, she can care about fashion without having expensive things. I do it. And it’s not like they’re her whole life. She’s fun and smart and really serious about school.”
“People can be more than one thing,” my mother replied carefully. “They always are, in fact. Still, my sense is that she cares about having expensive things. That’s what you’re not getting. Anyway, look, let’s not argue. You ask her if she wants you as you are, and if she says yes, I’ll be happy for you.”
I nodded. “Okay, I’ll ask her. You better get your sales pitch ready for her parents, though.” I started to get up, but Mom grabbed my forearm and held me in place.
“Listen. I can’t believe I never explained this to you before. I should have but I guess I never got around to it.”
“What is it, Mom?”
“You need to know that there are two kinds of beauty in this world. There is beauty that men appreciate, and there is beauty that women appreciate.”
“And Kaval has the kind of beauty that men appreciate.”
“Oodles of it,” Mom said. “It’s a little unfair how much.”
When she didn’t say more, I asked, “What’s your point?”
“Oh. Just that you should always remember that men, almost entirely without exception, are complete idiots.”
“Not me, though,” I said. “Right?”
“Sure, jaan. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Sabsvari had one of the most amazing home kitchens I’d ever seen, but according to Sohrab and Kaval, she never used it. They said their mother wanted to be known as a terrific cook but had no desire to actually make food.
This was great for me. Whenever it was Mrs. Sabsvari’s turn to host the almost weekly get-togethers that society uncles and aunties held at their homes—get-togethers that their children were forced to attend—Mrs. Sabsvari paid me to cook for her and not tell anyone about it.
Honestly, the kitchen, with its massive gas range and loaded pantry, was so awesome that I would’ve worked there for free, but I liked getting paid just fine.
The fact that Kaval dropped by every once in a while was a bonus. Sohrab came to hang out with me too, but that was a lot less exciting. In fact, it was a little annoying. Any edible ingredients close to him were always in danger of disappearing. The amount of cardamom he’d swallowed over the years had to be toxic.
The menu Mrs. Sabsvari had downloaded from an #auntylife blog for this particular event was pretty standard for a desi party, or dawat. There was a ton of food—because otherwise what would people say—but the level of difficulty was low. I was grinding masalas with a pestle for Bombay biryani, the cheering fragrance of cinnamon and the dark bite of black pepper blossoming in the air, when Kaval bounded in.
She was wearing a pink T-shirt with a Louis Vuitton symbol on it and sweatpants. Her hair and makeup were, as always, perfect.
“Sorry I’m still in my pj’s. I know it’s noon already.” She arched her back and stretched. “I’m having such a lazy day.”
I missed the mortar and stoneware clinked against the countertop. “It’s cool,” I said, perfectly casually, I’m sure.
“Sohrab isn’t down either?”
I shook my head.
“I hope he got some sleep. He’s obsessed.”
“With what?”
“With being Muslim.”
“He’s definitely been getting serious about it. I haven’t seen him much lately.”
“He’s always been serious,” she said. “Now he’s getting… I don’t know… it’s becoming the only thing he does. If he doesn’t stop making comments soon about what I wear or how I don’t pray enough, I’m going to slap him.”
“He’s been irritating Zar too.”
“Yeah, well, Intezar doesn’t have to live with him.”
Kaval stepped toward me, moving a little closer than was necessary to get a look at what was going on with the food. When she saw the chunks of lamb I’d just finished cleaning the fat off of to reduce their gamey smell, she made a face. “I don’t know why you keep letting Mom take credit for your cooking. I’d have told everyone it was my food ages ago. People rave about it, you know?”
“I don’t really mind. Besides, I need the money.”
“Your parents won’t give you some?”
No. I mean, I could ask, but I wouldn’t. I knew things weren’t easy for them—I’d overheard them stressing about bills and stuff—though they’d never admit it. They were probably regretting ever sending me to Aligheri Prep. I think my father had hoped that going to a fancy private school would somehow make me smarter.
“Also”—I decided to step around Kaval’s question—“I love being here.”
“I know. It’s super cute, actually. I like the way you smile when you’re cooking.”
I tried to smile like I was cooking, but she didn’t comment. Maybe I didn’t do it right.
“I’d help but I just got a manicure the other day and I really don’t want to ruin it. Oh, I meant to show you!
” She suddenly reached down into the front of her shirt, and my mind exploded with question and exclamation marks until she pulled out a pendant and held it up.
It was a key shaped like a fleur-de-lis, sparkling with what looked like a lot of really intense diamonds and one deep red ruby. “I thought you’d like it because you’re all Frenchy.”
I wouldn’t have called myself “Frenchy,” though the restaurant I worked at, Remarquable, certainly was. It didn’t matter enough for me to bother correcting her.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, because it was true, and also because she was beautiful, and it struck me that that was what I should say right then.
“I’d better go start getting ready.”
What? Oh, the party. I frowned. “People won’t be here for another six hours.”
“What’s your point?” Kaval asked. She gestured up at her face and then down to the rest of her body. “This doesn’t just happen, Danyal Jilani.”
“Yeah?” I pointed to myself. “This does, though.”
She laughed, extended a certain rude finger toward me, and walked away. It had been a chance to talk to her about “us,” I guess, but the moment hadn’t felt right. Hopefully soon an opportunity to speak to Kaval in private would present itself in a setting where dead animals featured less prominently. When that moment came, I promised myself, I would seize it.
I’ve always loved making simple food. I guess that’s weird for someone who wants to be a chef and works at a fancy restaurant, but… I don’t know, there’s like… truth in a beautifully made omelet, and easily recognizable perfection in mousse that sets and feels just right. Sure, complex dishes are fun, and everyone goes nutty bananas for them, but only the basics ever really feel like home. I guess that’s why le pâté en croûte isn’t anyone’s idea of comfort food.
So I was actually enjoying boiling basmati rice in milk to prepare kheer for dessert when Sohrab ambled in and made a beeline for a canister of cardamom, shoving three pods into his face before I could stop him.
“Dude,” I said by way of reprimand.
More Than Just a Pretty Face Page 3