It was all very pretty to walk toward, all glittery from over the hill, but then you got close, and you noticed hidden nooks with badly painted rusted pipes running along them, and saw people begging for help as the world passed by them, and there were children crying, and tourists lost, all in the fading light of a falling sun.
Kaval felt like that. The closer I’d gotten to her, the more I’d realized that she wasn’t perfect. In fact, she had flaws I hadn’t seen before, and that wasn’t Kaval’s fault. It was mine.
After all, there’s no such thing as a perfect person. It’s naive and unfair to think that just because you’re infatuated with someone, they’re somehow better than everyone, somehow more than human.
The reason Kaval Sabsvari and I couldn’t work wasn’t because she had imperfections, just like everyone else. It was because her imperfections made it impossible for her to accept mine. She needed a different partner, with different failings than the many I had.
Bisma Akram, on the other hand…
I pulled out my phone. The texts from Kaval were still right there on the screen. I cleared them away, and then dialed the only person I wanted to speak with just then.
“Hey,” she said, “aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Danyal Jilani, and I’m not very bright.”
“What’s happening right now?”
“I’m letting you know that I’m not perfect, just so you aren’t disappointed later.”
Bisma laughed on the other end. “Okay. Well, you’ll have to pick a different weakness to share. You already told me you weren’t bright.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. The first time we met. In your van. Remember?”
I smiled, but of course she couldn’t see that.
“Danyal?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s going on?” Bisma asked. “You sound sad.”
“No,” I said. “No. I was just thinking. That always makes me a little sad. It’s why I don’t do it much. Hey, listen, let’s not meet at the library next time. Let’s have dinner instead.”
She hesitated.
“Please?”
“Okay, I guess. Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a young, up-and-coming chef in Fremont that I know. I hear he’s pretty good.…”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A few days later, I was staring into Bisma’s brown eyes, which she quickly cast down. “Danyal?”
“Hmm?”
“We’ve been standing here for a while.”
“We have?”
Bisma nodded.
“And?”
“Maybe you should let me in.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I stepped back, and she walked into Zar’s apartment, nervously tucking a strand of her hair that had escaped her high ponytail behind an ear.
Uncle Inayat was on yet another business trip aboard, and Zar had agreed to be exiled, so we had the place to ourselves. Sohrab, of course, had been kept in the dark. If he knew Bisma and I were alone together outside a public space, he’d… I don’t know what he’d say, but it’d definitely involve the suggestion that I grovel before Allah to ask for forgiveness.
Anyway, I realize that freezing at the very beginning of a date isn’t the smoothest move in the world, but in my defense, there is nothing sexier than a shalwar kameez that fits a woman just right. All the fashion designers in the world can come at me if they want.
Bisma was wearing a plain sunshine-yellow kameez over a white shalwar—she hadn’t bothered with a dupatta—and it was simple and classy and flirty all at the same time. It looked like it had been custom stitched for her, which it probably had.
Even so, I don’t think it would’ve stopped my world from spinning if anyone else had worn it. I was just so used to seeing her in superhero tees and beaten-up jeans that it caught me completely off guard.
“I like your outfit.”
She ducked her head in that awkward, embarrassed way she had of accepting compliments. Then she looked around. Inayat Uncle’s post-separation home was nice enough, but it was really bare. There was a TV and console, a leather couch, and a wicker patio table on which he and Zar ate dinner. There were no pictures or paintings on the walls, no embellishments of any kind.
“It’s… nice.”
“Hopefully,” I said as I made my way back to the kitchen, “the food here is better than the decor.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Bisma said.
“You’re early, though.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s totally fine. I just, you know…” I picked up a chef’s knife and gestured at the ingredients I was still working with. “You want to sit down?”
She shook her head. With her arms crossed behind her back, she peered over the counter. “I’d rather just watch you. Hey, what happened to your finger?”
I waved off her concern and turned my attention to the onion I’d been chopping when she’d knocked. “It’s nothing.”
“Need help?”
I chuckled. “Thanks. But this is my library.”
“That… doesn’t make any sense.”
“Yeah, it sounded cooler in my head. The kitchen is my happy place, is what I meant.”
I started dicing an onion. I wasn’t as fast as usual, because of my finger, but Bisma still seemed impressed. I had to slow down even more when she drifted into the kitchen and stood next to me, and her arm grazed mine. Chef Brodeur’s warning about focus was fresh in my mind, as was the sting from the cut on my finger. “Do you like to cook?”
Bisma shook her head. “No. I mean, you know, I do it when I have to, like an obedient desi girl and all that. It just isn’t fun for me.”
“Really? I think it’s awesome.”
She laughed. “I know.”
“The first thing I remember, ever, is this time we were at a fancy restaurant—must’ve been some special occasion for my parents or something—and this man walked up to a table with a plate of food and whoosh, there was a ball of fire, and everybody started cheering.”
“That’s a great first memory.”
I looked over at her. “What’s yours?”
She wrinkled her nose at me. “Having to throw away one of Suri’s really stinky diapers.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah,” Bisma said. “Speaking of Suraiya, I’m starting to worry she has a crush on you or something. She talks about you all the time. You’ve made quite an impression.”
“Happens to everybody,” I said. “Even I’ve got a crush on me.”
“There’s that confidence again.” Bisma laughed. “So… everybody, huh?” She turned away and studied the video game stickers Zar had on his fridge. Her voice was quiet when she asked, “Do you think I have a crush on you too?”
The knife in my hand stopped for a moment. Then I pressed on. “Well, if you don’t, you will once you’ve had my food.”
“Ah. So all this is an elaborate ruse.”
“Yup. I’m going to seduce you with my grandmother’s khatti daal and keema.”
Bisma, who’d been tracing the N7 logo for Mass Effect with a delicate touch, spun around. “Wait. Seriously? You invited me over for daal and keema?”
I got why she was surprised. It was a staple food in Pakistani households all over the world. It wasn’t for special occasions. It was like going to someone’s house and being served chicken soup or spaghetti.
Hopefully, she wasn’t too disappointed. “I can make something else if you want.”
“No, it’s cool. I was just… I mean, you—”
“You were expecting something fancier. It isn’t too late. I can make something like that for you.” I’d decided to listen to Brodeur’s advice and gone with something simple, because I’d figured out why she’d told me to do things this way. “I just think that if you’re going to cook for a friend, you shouldn’t make something that you’d make for a stranger. It should be personal.”
Bisma smiled as she s
tepped away from me a little, putting some distance between us. “Makes sense.”
We both went quiet for a while.
Leaning against the wall farthest from me, she started examining her fingernails, as if she’d discovered something really interesting about them. “By the way, Suri was asking what happened with that prospect of yours. The one you were asking advice about.”
“That isn’t going to work out.”
Bisma looked up. “You finally realized she isn’t good for you, did you?”
“Told you I was slow.”
“I thought you meant with school and stuff.”
“No. I’m just generally an idiot.”
She tapped her fingers against the wall she was leaning on. “I wish you’d stop saying that. You’re not an idiot, and you’re not slow. You’ve just got other interests. That’s actually really great. How many brown doctors or lawyers or engineers does the world need anyway?”
“You know,” I said, using the edge of my blade to pile diced green chilies into the bowl that held my onions, “we’ve never talked about what you want to do. I mean, I know you’re studying microbiology, but what comes next?”
“A master’s, maybe? I picked microbiology because it’s kind of like the study of how really small things can have really big consequences. I know that sounds like I picked it because of what happened in Portland with the tape. And maybe that’s a little true. But it’s actually awesome. What’s fascinating about microorganisms…”
I’d always thought that nothing was fascinating about microorganisms. Actually, that’s not true. I hadn’t really ever thought about them at all. Bisma, on the other hand, had a lot to say about the life around us that we couldn’t see. I listened to her speak, ignoring for once the sizzle of the ground beef on the stove, searing, turning a rich brown. When the smell of cumin and garlic threatened to overwhelm the cherry blossoms and pears of her perfume, I moved a little closer to her to keep them at bay.
Soon I was done with my keema, and I set rice to boil. The khatti daal I’d already made last night, and according to Zar—who’d been impossible to keep away from it entirely—it had turned out almost perfectly, though he’d thought it wasn’t sour enough. I could’ve gone with more tamarind pulp, I guess, but when it comes to food, I opt for subtlety.
So far, I’d followed Brodeur’s advice and things were going well. There was, however, a second part to what she’d said I should do, and that made me kind of nervous.
“You’re super quiet all of a sudden.”
“Me? No. Really? No. I’m good. Fine. Great, in fact.”
Bisma raised her eyebrows.
“There’s… I think there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Go ahead.”
I took a deep breath and said something I’d never said to anyone before. “Do you want to dance?”
Bisma stared at me like… well, like I’d done something completely unexpected, which I supposed I had.
What had Chef Brodeur said? You will never regret asking that girl to dance.
That was a lie. I’d just realized it about a millisecond too late. Obviously, you’re totally going to regret asking a girl to dance if she says no and then you’ve made everything super awkward.
“What?” Bisma finally asked.
“I’m supposed to ask you to dance.”
“Supposed to?”
Crap. I’d never told her that I’d gotten advice about today from my head chef. It didn’t seem like information I could just break out now.
“Um… yeah, it’s part of the code.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What code?”
“The code of the… kitchen?” I said. “If you invite a girl to watch you cook, you have to ask her to dance.”
“And this code is written down somewhere?”
“Not everything important is written down.”
“Kind of is, though. Danyal, you’re not allowed to touch me, so—”
“Is that your rule or God’s rule?”
Bisma, thankfully, smiled, and the painful tightness in my chest that I hadn’t even realized had come on loosened a little. “You’ll respect it if it’s mine?”
“Of course.”
“But if it’s God’s…”
“He won’t mind if we bend it a little.”
She gave me a skeptical look. “Really?”
“He’s super forgiving and stuff. I’ve heard He wrote a few books about it. They did pretty well.”
She laughed.
“Trust me,” I said.
Bisma bit her lip and looked at me for a long time. It was the same look she’d given me in the library a while back, the day she’d kissed me on the cheek. “I do,” she told me in a tentative voice and, very slowly, held out her hand.
Bisma was ridiculously hot.
I don’t mean… what I mean is that she was literally hot. When she stepped close to me, her body almost touching mine, and looked up at me, it felt like I’d gotten close to a gentle star. I placed a hand on her waist, and she put an arm around my shoulder.
Heat came off her small frame in waves. I’d never been this close to a girl before. Warmth radiated from her, like she was the world’s prettiest piece of magnesium. No. Wait. Plutonium?
As I looked down at her I noticed things I’d somehow managed to never notice about her before. She had a few light freckles around her nose, but they were really hard to see because they were almost the same color as her skin.
I could see a vein in her neck pulsing a little, betraying the secrets of her beating heart.
There was a slight upturn to the corner of her mouth that somehow made her lips very kissable. I wished she’d smile at me, because her smile was everything, but she wasn’t smiling. She was just staring back at me, studying my face, and her breath had lost its natural rhythm. Maybe she was finding air as difficult to draw in as I was.
The same stubborn lock of her wavy hair that she’d tucked behind her ear freed itself again. It swayed gently beside her cheek, and I couldn’t help but reach for it. My fingers trembled a little as I carefully pushed those soft strands back. She closed her eyes when my hand touched her cheek.
She stepped closer to me, and if there was anything left of the world aside from the feel of her and the smell of her and the pull of her, I didn’t know and didn’t care.
Bisma buried her face in the space between my shoulder and my neck, and we gathered each other up and just stood there. We didn’t move and there was no music that anyone else could’ve heard.
Then, suddenly, she pulled away. “I’m sorry.”
“What? No, Bisma, it wasn’t just you. I—”
“No, Danyal. I’m sorry, but your rice is boiling over.”
I managed to salvage the rice. There was no harm done, except to my pride, I guess. As I sat down across from Bisma at the wicker table, I realized I’d forgotten to give her any cutlery. Apologizing, I started back for it, but she stopped me.
“Are you kidding? We’re not eating daal and rice with spoons.”
I didn’t usually eat with my hands. I had to admit, though, that there was something… I don’t know, true about eating my grandmother’s food the way she would’ve eaten it.
Bisma took a bite and let out a happy whimper-sigh-moan, her left hand going to her chest. “Uff. This is so good, Danyal.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just everyday food.”
“Everyday food? Oh my God, you have to marry me.”
I choked on some daal. It wasn’t graceful.
She gasped, and her face flooded with color. “Oh… sorry, that totally isn’t… I didn’t mean… It’s just so good that I meant—”
“It’s cool,” I said. “I know what you meant.”
“Thanks. I don’t know why I’m so awkward.”
“And I don’t know why I’m so smooth. Can’t be helped either way.”
Bisma rolled her eyes, but she seemed to relax, which was exactly what I’d been going for. She at
e in silence for a while after that, and I’m not sure if it was because she was afraid of saying something embarrassing again, or if she was just enjoying her food.
“I’m surprised you didn’t make lassi to go with this and gulab jamun for dessert,” she finally said.
“Lassi isn’t hard. I just like to elevate it with saffron and crushed pistachios, and I don’t have those right now. Still, I can—”
Bisma laughed. “No. I was kidding.”
“Dessert, unfortunately, is not desi. Our people never really mastered sweets like the French did.”
Bisma’s response was dripping with disbelief. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I mean, it’s true.”
“Whatever, Danyal Jilani. Gajjar ka halva. Kheer. Anday kay lauz. Badam ki jalee. And double ka meetha?”
I gave her my best unimpressed face at the list of dishes.
“I’ll fight you,” she warned.
I held up my hands. “I’m just saying that if you keep making—and your people keep buying—chum chum, no one is going to take you seriously about desserts.”
She sighed. “Yeah. Chum chum I can’t explain. So what did you make?”
“You told me chocolate was your favorite.”
“When?”
“At Zareen’s.”
“That was months ago.”
I grinned. “Well, I hope you haven’t changed your mind, because I made you a Scharffen Berger chocolate torte, with a very light dusting of paprika, caramelized hazelnuts, and Chantilly cream.”
She stared at me like I’d just parted the Red Sea.
I took a little bow, which was hard to do gracefully since I was sitting down.
“I can’t believe you.”
“I’m pretty unbelievable.”
“How many girls have you done this for?”
“What? I mean… just you.”
Bisma shook her head. “Then you’ve missed out. Your life could’ve been the story of a lot of very satisfied women.”
“What do you mean ‘missed out’? It’s not too late.”
Bisma looked away from me and smiled a little, in a way that told me that even though she wasn’t going to say it, she was pretty sure that I was wrong.
More Than Just a Pretty Face Page 20