Hani
and
Ishu’s
guide
to
Fake
dating
ADIBA JAIGIRDAR
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To all the Bengali kids who grew up never seeing a reflection of themselves
content warnings:
This book contains instances of racism, homophobia (specifically biphobia and lesbophobia), Islamophobia, toxic friendship, gaslighting, and parental abandonment.
chapter one
ishu
I’M WRAPPED UP IN BIOLOGY HOMEWORK WHEN MY phone buzzes. Once, twice, three times before swiftly buzzing off the corner of my desk and into my bin.
“What the fuck?” I mumble to the air, shutting my biology book with a thud and diving into the bin full of nothing but used makeup wipes and torn-up pieces of paper. I didn’t know that my phone was a) that desperate to be trash and b) that sensitive to receiving texts.
To be fair, getting texts is not really something that I’m accustomed to, so I guess my phone isn’t either. It is, after all, a cheap three-year-old thing that takes at least a whole minute to load anything up anymore.
The phone is still vibrating when I finally find it. This time, with a call, of all things.
I don’t remember the last time I received a call. It was probably from Ammu or Abbu calling to let me know they would be home late or something. This time, though, the phone screen is flashing my older sister’s name: Nikhita.
“Nik?”
“Ishu, thank God!” Nik’s voice sounds so weird over the phone—way higher than I remember it to be. Maybe it’s just been that long since I spoke to her. She left two years ago to study at University College London, of all places. Talk about setting the bar high.
Nik has been back exactly once since she waved goodbye to us at the airport two years ago, for a two-week holiday. She spent the whole time poring over her medical books before swiftly boarding her return flight with bloodshot eyes, looking as if she hadn’t been on a holiday at all. Such is the life of a medical student at UCL. She rarely even calls Ammu and Abbu, but they’re mostly okay with it because Nikhita is making the family proud. She’s making her dreams come true.
“Um, why are you calling?” I only register that it’s kind of a rude question when the words are already out of my mouth. The thing is, Nik never calls me. In all our years of being sisters, I’m pretty sure she has never called me once. She only occasionally texts me on WhatsApp when Ammu and Abbu aren’t available, to ask when they will be available. Never to have a chat with me, or to check up on me.
“God, Ishu, I can’t just call my little sis? Why did it take you so long to pick up?” Her voice comes across as frustrated, but I can sense something else there too. Some kind of nervousness that she’s trying to hide. What does perfect Nikhita have to be nervous about?
“I was studying. Leaving Cert coming up, you know?” She can’t have already forgotten about the state exams that decide what universities we get into.
“Oh, ha. Yeah, the Leaving Cert. Wow, I remember those days. Wish I could go back to that.” She wants to sound biting and sarcastic, I can tell. But it comes across flat. Like her heart is not quite in it. “So, um. Are Ammu and Abbu in yet?”
There it is.
“Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure they are.” I turn in my chair to face the window—it’s already pitch black outside. I was so absorbed in my work I didn’t realize that it’s well into the evening. The clock hanging up on my wall reads 8:33 p.m. “They’re downstairs, watching something on TV, I think.” I can hear the low hum of the television, the words of a Hindi natok floating up through the small crack in my bedroom door.
“Cool, cool. Well, listen. I really need you to do me a favor, okay?”
I sit up straight. A favor is definitely a first. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond to that. Should I demand she tell me what it is before agreeing to it? Should I demand a favor in return? Before I’ve made up my mind, Nik has already launched into what she needs from me.
“Basically, I’m coming back home for a few days to surprise Ammu and Abbu. But I left my keys with them last time I visited, so I just need you to let me into the house tomorrow after school. You can do that, right?”
“You’re surprising Ammu and Abbu?” I can’t wrap my head around the word “surprise.” You don’t “surprise” Bengali parents unless you want a thappor to your face. Not that Ammu and Abbu are the kind of people to go around giving thappors willy nilly—or ever—but still. Surprises and Bengali parents do not go together.
“Don’t say it like that.” Now Nik sounds offended.
“Like what?”
She sighs. “Never mind. Can you just help me, please?”
“You know it’s the middle of the school year, right? Why are you coming tomorrow? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine,” Nik says in a voice that suggests that everything is definitely not fine. I hope when she’s a doctor she’ll be better at reassuring her patients. “I just haven’t seen you guys in so long, and … I have some news. Will you help me or not?”
“Well, I’m hardly going to slam the door in your face.”
I can hear an exasperated breath on the line, as if Nik has been trying really hard to keep her exasperation to herself but I’ve made it impossible. “Okay. Thanks, Ishu. Um. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”
“See you torn—” Nik has already hung up.
I know I should probably worry more about whatever’s going on with Nik, but I figure we’ll deal with it the way we always deal with things—each on our own. My responsibility here is to open the front door and let her in. I can definitely do that.
Plus, I still have an entire chapter of biology I want to make notes on. So, I toss my phone on my bed and flip open my biology book once more, putting Nik out of my mind.
It’s a good thing I spent last night studying because Ms. Taylor springs a surprise test on us as soon as we walk into double biology in the afternoon. Surprise tests are her absolute favorite thing, even when she hasn’t actually taught us half the material she’s supposed to have covered. At least once a fortnight we start biology class with a test—if not more often. I have a feeling these are about to become even more frequent the closer we get to our Leaving Certificate.
Somehow, my classmates are still surprised by the test. I just roll my eyes, pick up my pen and dig in.
Most of the questions are on the chapters I was making notes of last night, so I’m feeling pretty confident. On the other side of the aisle, Aisling Mahoney is biting her lip so hard that I’m surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. When she looks up and catches my eye, she gives me a nasty look. I shoot her a wicked grin in return.
It seems to get under her skin, because she scowls and goes back to her test—which is more blank space than anything else
. Maybe if Aisling spent more time paying attention and less time snapchatting in class she would actually know some of these answers.
Humaira comes around to our row at the end of the test, collecting up our papers.
“How’d you do?” she asks Aisling.
“Bad.” Aisling casts me a glare as if it’s my fault she didn’t do well. “I hate these surprise tests. I can never keep up with biology; there’s way too much to study.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll help you out, yeah? We can go over some stuff during lunch,” Humaira offers with a smile. She’s the only other Brown girl in our class—the only other South Asian girl in our year—and because she’s been in this school for longer than me, sometimes I think people expect me to be exactly like her. But Humaira is the most annoyingly helpful person I’ve ever met, so everyone was a bit disappointed to learn that I’m the most annoyingly unhelpful person they’ll probably ever meet.
“Thanks, Maira.” Aisling flashes her a smile, like it isn’t her own fault for not paying attention, for not studying. I notice my fists are clenched on my desk. I unclench them slowly, trying to rid my body of the tension it has built up in the last few minutes, and open up my biology textbook.
Humaira doesn’t need my help or protection, no matter how much I want to shake her and say For God’s sake, stop! She’s way too eager to lend a listening ear, to be the person that everybody goes to for help. She doesn’t see the way they’re leeching her of everything she has and giving back nothing in return. Sometimes I wonder how Humaira has lasted this long. Sometimes I wonder how much longer she’ll be able to last.
But it’s none of my business.
It’s not like Humaira and I are friends.
When I first moved to this school in second year, Humaira was the one tasked to show me around and guide me. I had no doubt it had to do with the fact that we were both Brown girls and everyone assumed that we would get on. But Humaira and I couldn’t be more different, even if we are both Bengali.
Humaira shuffles toward me next, surprising me with a smile. “How’d you do, Ishita?” I don’t know how she can code switch so effortlessly. Because our parents are Bengali, we have two names—I’m Ishu to family and most Bengalis, and Ishita to everyone else. But Humaira has so many names at this stage that it’s difficult to keep them straight.
“Fine, probably.” I shrug. If I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure I aced it. Like I’ve aced every single test since I started at this school—As all around. But Aisling is already glaring daggers at me and she might actually murder me if I don’t show at least some humbleness.
“Nice.” Humaira sweeps my test away into her bundle.
“How’d you do?” I ask.
She gives me a small smile and taps the side of her nose before moving on to the next row of seats.
I roll my eyes. I’m pretty sure if Aisling had asked, Humaira would have been more than happy to share.
But whatever.
chapter two
hani
WATCHING ABBA SPEAK IS KIND OF A SURREAL EXPERIENCE. His voice envelopes the whole room, and even though he’s speaking to everyone at this rally it seems as if he’s speaking only to me. In some ways, he doesn’t seem like my Abba at all. In other ways, he’s all of the wonderful things that make him my Abba.
Beside me, Aisling slips her phone out of her pocket. The glare of her screen is uncomfortably bright. I feel a prick of annoyance, but bite it down.
On the other side of me, Deirdre holds up her own phone to me. The top right reads 6:35 p.m. Dee raises an eyebrow like she’s asking me a question. I shake my head, hoping that answers her, but she’s frowning now.
Before I know it, she’s leaning forward until her shoulders bump against mine. “I thought you said we could leave at six thirty?” She says it like being here is some kind of punishment.
“Just wait a few more minutes …” I mumble, staring straight ahead at Abba. Trying to tune back in to his speech. I have—of course—already heard it many times. I could probably give the speech myself, if I didn’t absolutely hate speaking in front of people.
Still, I can’t ignore the way Dee leans over me to exchange a pointed glance with Aisling. Like being here an extra five minutes is truly painful for the two of them.
I chew on my lip, trying to decide the best course of action. On one hand, I don’t want to leave Abba here mid-speech. On the other hand, I don’t want Aisling and Dee to keep disrupting him.
“Come on,” I find myself whispering as I motion for the two of them to follow. In a few moments, we’ve weaved through the throng of people outside the mosque and are outside the gates. I can still hear the murmur of Abba’s speech here, but it’s not loud enough to decipher the words.
“If your dad gets pissed, just tell him that you had plans with us,” Aisling says when she glances at me. Like she can see the tension in my expression, and she’s mistaken it for fear of repercussion from Abba.
“He won’t get angry,” I mutter, following Aisling and Dee toward the bus stop.
“We don’t have to go to all of his speeches, do we?” Aisling asks. There’s a sneer in her voice, though she tries—and fails—to keep it out of her expression.
I have to stifle a sigh. I’m wishing that I had never told Aisling and Dee about this. When they asked me to hang out today, I should have said I was doing anything else—anything other than helping Abba with his political campaign.
Even hearing that it was going to take place outside the mosque hadn’t stopped Aisling and Dee from wanting to tag along. I had even felt a beat of excitement that I could show them our mosque. After all, I’ve spent so much of my time there—Eid, and jummah on the holidays when I don’t have school.
But it was obviously a mistake.
“I thought it was kind of interesting,” Dee says. Aisling turns to her with surprise written all over her face. She obviously doesn’t think anyone is capable of being interested in Abba’s political campaign, in the fact that he might be the first South Asian and the first Muslim to be elected to the county council.
“My dad says he’s so proud of how progressive Irish politics have gotten. That even someone whose English isn’t …”—
Dee glances at me—“… so great has a shot at winning.”
I can only settle Dee with a frown. “My dad’s English is perfect.”
In fact, his English is probably even better than mine. Unlike us, Amma and Abba spent their childhood learning all the mechanics of the English language. Abba sometimes uses so many big, obscure words that I’m sure he’s memorizing a dictionary in his spare time.
“Yeah, but … you know.” Dee raises an eyebrow like this is some kind of inside joke.
“I know …?”
“He has an accent,” Dee says. “Like, kind of a thick one.”
“Everyone has an accent,” I insist. I want to press on about it more. Abba being in the running for the county council elections is a big deal, after all.
But Aisling and Dee don’t get it, and I’m not sure I can make them understand.
“I guess, yeah. It was kind of boring …” I cross my arms and lean against the glass of the bus stop, trying to ignore the uncomfortable gnawing in my stomach.
Moments later, the bus pulls up in front of us, and the three of us pile on. Aisling and Dee slip after each other in the same row, and I slide into a window seat on the other side. My eyes take in the mosque passing by us as the bus begins to pull away. There’s a crowd of people going toward the mosque now. I know Abba planned to join everyone for Maghrib prayer after his speech—even though he rarely prays at home.
I wish for a moment that I had insisted on staying until the rally was finished. But we did make plans to leave at six thirty, and I guess it’s not Dee and Aisling’s fault that Abba’s speech went longer. Or that Maghrib prayer isn’t until much later. I doubt Aisling and Dee even know what Maghrib prayer is—never mind when it takes place.
“So, when we get to m
ine, Dee and I want to catch up on Riverdafe,” Aisling says. She had originally suggested that I go over to watch a movie—like old times, when the three of us spent our days holed up in each other’s rooms. But it feels like we haven’t done that in months.
“I’m not sure I want to watch Riverdafe,” I say, regretting the words immediately as I watch Aisling’s eyebrows furrow.
“Well, it’s two against one, sorry,” Dee chimes in.
I heave a sigh. “You know … it’s getting late. I should probably just get off at my stop and go home.”
“Seriously?” Aisling crosses her arms over her chest, examining me with a glare. “You said you would come over today if we went to your dad’s thing.”
“I said I was going to my dad’s thing, and maybe after I’d come over. You wanted to come to my dad’s thing.”
Aisling just rolls her eyes, like I had somehow forced her into the mosque against her will—like anybody could force Aisling to do anything she didn’t want to do.
“Tell your parents that you want to stay over. I’m staying the night,” Dee says.
“You know I can’t.” I sigh, turning away from the two of them. I don’t know how many times I’ve had this same conversation with Aisling and Dee. They still keep insisting.
“I just don’t understand,” Aisling says. “Your mom knows me. She’s met me. You’re always going to be safe and comfortable in my house. Why can’t you just sleep over?”
“There’s no logical reason for it, Aisling.” I’m tired of having to explain this over and over again. Especially because one day I’m afraid Aisling and Dee are going to be tired too, and their tiredness won’t lead them to accepting me as I am, but to finding someone else who can do all of the “normal” things they want to do. Like sleep over. “It’s just part of being Bengali and Muslim. It’s just … the way things are.”
“So you’re just going to go home?” Aisling doesn’t look happy from the way her lips are pressed into a thin line. I hate it when Aisling looks at me like that. She seems to do it more often than not these days; it feels like I can’t do anything to make her happy. I remember when we were in primary school—before we even knew Dee—and we used to do everything together. Back then Aisling didn’t mind so much that I couldn’t stay out late, or do sleepovers, or go drinking (which of course she didn’t do back then). Now Aisling seems to notice all of the little things that make us different. And she hates them all.
Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating Page 1