by Hena Khan
“There he is!” Baba points as the doors open. Thaya Jaan emerges in a rumpled shirt, a white kufi pressed over his thick gray-and-white hair.
Baba rushes toward him, and the two brothers thump each other on the back and smile. Then Mama steps forward and bows her head slightly in front of her brother-in-law.
“Assalaamwalaikum, Bhai Jaan. We’re so happy you came,” she says.
I stand back, uncertain whether I’m supposed to hug my uncle or wait for him to pat me on the head, like the older uncles in the community always do.
“Amina, Mustafa.” Baba motions us closer as if we’re strangers needing a formal introduction.
“My sweet Amina,” Thaya Jaan says as he plants a big kiss on my forehead. He throws his arm around Mustafa and kisses him on the cheek too, which Mustafa wipes off a second later.
“What a big boy you are, Mustafa. I’m so happy to be seeing my niece and nephew after so long.” His voice is deep and gruffer than on the telephone, and he speaks slowly in Urdu. I respond with the few polite phrases that my parents have taught me to say to uncles and aunties. But after all the usual things, I run out of things to say. Luckily, Baba carries the conversation.
“Let me help you.” He grabs a rolling suitcase from Thaya Jaan while Mustafa takes his briefcase. I sneak peeks at my uncle, who is slightly taller than Baba and looks a lot more like him in real life than in pictures. They have the same thick eyebrows and strong, straight noses. The main difference is that Baba still has a lot of dark hair, while Thaya Jaan’s is mostly white. His matching white beard is thick and long, which also makes me think of Santa again.
“How was your trip? Were you able to sleep? You must be hungry?” Baba fires off questions as we walk toward baggage claim to get the rest of the luggage.
“It was a long journey, but I’m here now, Alhamdulillah.”
“Yes, Alhamdulillah,” Baba repeats enthusiastically.
Thaya Jaan turns his head, taking in the row of retail shops selling cheap souvenirs, fast food, magazines, and candy. Crowds of travelers, airport staff, and flight crews rush by us in both directions. I wonder what he thinks of America so far and hope he likes what he sees, but his eyes are hard to read.
“Walk faster, Amina,” Mama says. “Let’s hurry up and get Thaya Jaan home. We have a long drive.”
“Come, my dear.” Thaya Jaan puts his arm around me.
I smile up at him. Maybe I was nervous for no reason.
10
“Please, take some more, Bhai Jaan. You’ve hardly eaten.” Mama picks up a silver serving dish that I polished the week before, now filled with spicy spinach-and-lamb stew, and holds it out in front of Thaya Jaan.
My plate is still half-full. Even though I only took a little bit of everything, it ends up being way too much food for me to eat. Not only is there stew, but also curried chicken, lentils, rice with vegetables, naan, salad, and yogurt sauce. The spread looks like what Mama puts out for a full-fledged dinner party, even though the guests are missing. And instead of being stuck eating with the kids in the kitchen or in the basement, Mustafa and I are actually sitting at the dining room table, eating off the gold-rimmed china, and wiping our chins with stiff, starched white cloth napkins.
Thaya Jaan waves away the dish and shakes his head.
“No more. Everything was delicious. But I can’t eat another bite.” Mama spoons more curry onto his plate despite his protests.
“Amina, go put water on for chai, please,” she says. “Mustafa, please clear the table.”
Luckily, she’s too distracted to notice how much food I have left or to say anything about it, so I take my plate with me. Mustafa stacks a few more and follows me into the kitchen.
“That was a ridiculous amount of food.” He shakes his head as he places the plates in the sink. “Ma can’t keep this up for three months.”
“I know. Did you see all those leftovers?”
“Let’s get Thaya Jaan to say he wants nothing but burgers, pizza, and chicken wings from now on.”
“And that he wants to eat on paper plates.” I eye the growing pile of dishes with dread.
I fill the heavy silver kettle with water and take out the worn mugs we normally use, before thinking twice and pulling out the matching gold-rimmed teacups and saucers.
“What’s for dessert?” Mustafa peers into the refrigerator. “Oh yes!” He carefully lifts out a crystal bowl filled with round balls floating in a thick honey-colored syrup.
“Gulab jamun? When did Mama make those?” I wonder. The sticky, sweet, doughnutlike treats are my favorite Pakistani dessert but take hours to prepare.
Mama comes in, carrying two platters of food from the dining table.
“Can you both clear the rest of the table and load the dishwasher?” She lets out a tired yawn. Mustafa mouths the word “pizza” to me, and I grin back at him, feeling like my old brother is back for a minute.
When the tea is ready, we gather around Thaya Jaan in the family room. Mama fixes a cup for Thaya Jaan, mixing sugar into the steaming milky brew scented with cardamom. I bite into my gulab jamun and am instantly hit by a jolt of sweetness.
“So, Bhai Jaan, tell us. How are things in Pakistan?” Baba asks as he places his empty glass dessert bowl on the coffee table with a satisfied expression.
“It’s getting more and more difficult each day.” Thaya Jaan’s eyes look sad. “Things are getting so expensive—even basics like flour cost so much that it’s hard for poor people to afford simple bread. May Allah have mercy on them.”
My gulab jamun turns into a lead ball in my gut as I think of the uneaten food on my plate that I just scraped into the garbage.
“But our family is doing well, Alhamdulillah,” Thaya Jaan continues. “The business is growing, and the kids are fine. Ahmed was admitted to medical school.”
“Wonderful!” Baba says. “You must be so proud of him.”
Mustafa studies his fingernails closely.
“Everybody was sending you all their love, and, how can I forget? Mustafa, bring me my suitcase, please. Your cousins sent a few things.”
Mustafa jumps up to get the suitcase and drags it over. Thaya Jaan unzips it and pulls out a pile of oddly shaped packages. I think of Santa Thaya again as he distributes the presents.
“This is for you, Amina, from your Thayee Jaan.” He passes me a lumpy gift wrapped in crinkly pink cellophane. “And these are from your cousins.”
The crinkly paper holds a bright blue shalwar kameez with a tiny purple paisley pattern and gold buttons. I also unwrap delicate bangles made out of glass, covered in newspaper with Urdu lettering on it. One of my cousins sent me a small lacquered jewelry box. Another gave me a blue-and-white-beaded wall hanging with a big Arabic “Allah” carved out of wood dangling from it.
“This wasn’t necessary, Bhai Jaan. Everyone’s love and prayers are enough.” Baba seems embarrassed as he touches the collar of the new black shalwar kameez his brother handed him.
“Nonsense. It is just tokens. Everyone misses you and wants you to visit.”
That’s true, at least according to the handwritten note on tissue-thin paper that came with my gifts.
My dearest Amina. I trust you are well. What class are you in now? When will you visit us? It has been a long time. I hope you like these bangles and they fit you. And one day I hope we see each other soon. Please come to Pakistan. Khuda hafiz, Maryam.
I haven’t seen my cousins in six years and hardly remember them apart from a few memories of playing dolls with the girls and stealing mangos and dried dates from the kitchen when the cook wasn’t looking. My cousins are people I don’t really think of until I get an occasional photo or formal letters like this. I wish I knew them better.
“When will you all come to visit Pakistan?” Thaya Jaan asks, as if he’s reading my mind. “It has been too long.”
“Soon, Bhai Jaan, we will visit, insha’Allah,” Baba says. He always says insha’Allah when he talks about the futur
e since it means “God willing.” “We have been talking about it, but it is hard.”
That’s true too. I often hear my parents talk about visiting Pakistan as a family again, but then they add that it isn’t the right time to be away from work, or that we shouldn’t miss school. And lately, we hear more and more frightening stories of people from America getting sick or robbed while visiting. The discussions usually end with “maybe we’ll go next year, when things are better, insha’Allah.”
“Your children need to know where they come from.” Thaya Jaan’s forehead wrinkles, and he frowns. “And why don’t they speak Urdu?”
Baba shifts in his seat.
“They understand it, but we speak both English and Urdu to them, and the kids respond to us in English,” he says. Baba seems ashamed of us. I suddenly wish Urdu didn’t jumble in my head and come out all wrong. It’s just as bad as when I try to read Arabic.
“You should speak to them in Urdu only. And don’t answer them if they reply in English—that is the only way they will learn.” Thaya Jaan acts like Mustafa and I aren’t in the room hearing his unwelcome advice.
My face grows warmer. If our uncle plans to ignore us unless we speak to him in Urdu, there’s going to be a whole lot of silence around here.
“Well, we have been focusing more on their Arabic study than Urdu,” Mama says. “You should hear them recite the Quran.”
No, you really shouldn’t!
“Mashallah, that’s good.” Thaya Jaan appears somewhat pacified.
“And, Bhai Jaan,” Baba adds. “The kids are going to be in a recitation competition at the Islamic Center. We hoped you would help them prepare.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I will help them.”
My heart sinks as my chances of getting out of the competition shrink more than before. But I don’t get to think about it for long as the sound of the adhan plays from the mosque-shaped clock in the den, filling the air with the call for the day’s last prayer.
We all get up to prepare. I grab my favorite scarf while Mustafa spreads out colorful prayer rugs over the carpet. Thaya Jaan stands in the front to lead us all, taking Baba’s usual spot, since he’s both the eldest and most knowledgeable of the Quran.
I’m completely floored once Thaya Jaan starts to recite the familiar verses and finally understand where I got my musical talent. I’ve always known that it’s definitely not from my parents. Baba’s horribly tone-deaf, and Mama can barely carry a tune. But my uncle has a beautiful voice. As he speaks, he masterfully elongates certain words and varies the pitch of the Arabic phrases, which run together almost like a song. The sound rings through the room, reverberating off the walls, and echoes inside me.
Imam Malik recites really well and I always like listening to him, but hearing Thaya Jaan connects me to these verses in a way I’ve never experienced before. As I listen intently, I wish I could recite Arabic just like him. I imagine producing those melodious notes and pronouncing each letter properly—even with others listening—and the idea makes me happy. I end my prayers with a special wish.
Please, Allah, help the poor people in Pakistan who don’t have enough to eat and protect my cousins in Pakistan. And please help me finally be able to pronounce the big haa.
11
“What’s that?” Emily leans over to sniff in the direction of Soojin’s lunch container. “It smells really good.”
I almost drop my sandwich and stare in disbelief at Emily, who is sitting across from me, next to Soojin. Now Emily likes Korean food all of a sudden?
“It’s my mom’s famous bulgogi,” Soojin replies. “Barbeque beef.” Even though I know it’s impossible, she’s acting like she’s forgotten all about what we always refer to as “the Incident.” That was the day Soojin brought kimchee in her lunch in third grade and Emily and Julie pinched their noses and created a huge scene about how terrible it smelled.
“Can I try some?” Emily asks. She waves her fork near Soojin’s food a little too eagerly. Ever since she’s become part of our wagon trail group, she’s been sitting with us at lunch. I haven’t said anything else about it to Soojin. She already knows what I think about her sudden friendliness toward Emily—I’ve dropped plenty of not-too-subtle hints about it. And either way, she’s been acting like my opinion doesn’t matter a whole lot.
“Sure.” Soojin pushes the container toward Emily.
“Mmmmm. This is sooo good. Amina, you should try this,” Emily gushes between chews.
“I’ve tried it. I have it all the time when I go to Soojin’s house.” I don’t add that it’s one of the only Korean dishes I really like. I don’t touch anything sour or pickled, cabbage, fried eggs, or the spicy red sauce.
Emily pokes her fork into a baked chicken nugget that sits next to wilted green beans and an apple on her lunch tray.
“I wish my parents could cook like that.”
“Doesn’t your mom make those peanut butter cookies that you used to always bring in for class parties?” I can’t help asking. Those cookies are amazing, and I used to always look forward to them in elementary school until they banned any party snacks with peanuts. “I thought she must be a great cook.”
“No, I wish,” Emily repeats. “Those cookies are like one of the only things she knows how to make, so she bakes them all the time. I’m pretty sick of them.”
“What do you guys eat, then? Does your dad cook?” Soojin asks.
“We have a lot of frozen stuff. My dad grills sometimes. My grandma used to live with us and she made really good Polish food, but . . .” Emily pauses and fumbles with her napkin. “. . . she died a few years ago. My mom and grandma didn’t get along, so my mom never wanted to learn how to cook like her. Now we never get to eat those kinds of things anymore.”
“That’s really sad,” Soojin says. “My granddad lives with us.”
“Yeah, that’s really sad,” I echo. Emily’s life always seemed perfect to me, but now I wonder if maybe it isn’t.
“After my grandma died, my mom went back to work full-time. She works so much now that she doesn’t have time for anything else. . . .” Emily’s shoulders droop slightly.
Soojin’s eyebrows furrow. “What does she do?”
“She’s a lawyer. And she says that she’s so lucky to have her career back that she has to work extra hard.”
“That’s rough,” Soojin sympathizes. “My mom’s a nurse, and we have the restaurant, so she’s really busy too. But I’m lucky both my parents are really good cooks.”
I picture Mr. Park in the kitchen, chopping up huge amounts of vegetables. He always hands me a piece of red pepper or broccoli and asks me to test it for freshness. And then Mrs. Park says something about how he should feed me butter instead to fatten me up.
“You can come over for dinner sometime if you want, Emily,” Soojin adds.
“Really?” Emily brightens instantly, her green eyes sparkling.
“Yeah, sure.” Soojin is nonchalant. “My parents love to cook for people.”
“Thanks, Soojin.”
I feel the spark of jealousy again as Emily and Soojin compare stories about living with grandparents and annoying little sisters. I nibble on a carrot stick as Emily talks about how her dad owns his own construction business and Soojin shares her parents’ challenges running their deli.
It’s happening. They’re really becoming friends. I grip the side of the bench I’m sitting on so hard that my knuckles turn white. When did Soojin decide that Emily was better than “not so bad”? And when was she planning to tell me?
After eating, we’re free to go outside to the courtyard for the last fifteen minutes of the lunch period. We walk together toward the big maple tree, which is Soojin’s and my regular spot. Emily pauses in the shade of the tree.
“Okay, so I guess we’ll see you later,” I finally speak up. I want to be alone with Soojin, to see if it can be normal—like it always is when it’s just the two of us. Things are all mixed up inside me, and I need some time to dig
est more than my lunch.
“Is it okay if I hang out with you guys?” Emily arches her eyebrows.
Soojin quickly glances at me, but either misreads my face or ignores it.
“Sure,” she says.
“Great!” Emily finds a spot to sit down on, pushes away leaves, and settles onto the grass comfortably.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you about . . . ,” she starts to say.
“Yeah?” Soojin asks.
“It’s a little embarrassing.” Emily yanks on some crabgrass and blushes.
“Then you don’t have to ask us,” I mutter.
“Maybe I’ll just talk to you later,” Emily says. She directs her words at Soojin and tilts her head toward me slightly.
“No, no, whatever you can say to me, you can say to Amina. She’s totally cool, and you can trust her.” Soojin looks at me with wide eyes. “Right, Amina?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Okay,” Emily says, looking unsure.
Soojin waits. “Go on,” she prods.
“I . . . um . . . kind of like someone . . . ,” Emily murmurs. She focuses on Soojin as she speaks. I work hard to suppress a groan.
“And?” Soojin prompts.
“And I was wondering if you think he might like me.” Emily’s face turns pink as she speaks, and she giggles nervously. I glance at Soojin to see if she’s as grossed out as me. But no, she seems fascinated!
Not only is Emily taking up important break time, but she’s talking about boys? Soojin and I never waste time talking about stuff like that. Boys are the last thing I need to worry about, especially since most of them are so annoying.
“Who is it?” Soojin asks. She leans in to hear Emily better. I’m a little curious to know who has Emily acting so silly, but I try to act like I’m not.
“Well, he’s in our social studies class . . .” Emily is clearly enjoying the spotlight. “And he’s got blond hair . . .”
“Bradley?” I burst out. “Oh my God, you like Bradley?”
“Eww! No way.” Emily scrunches up one side of her face in disgust.