Dedication
For Imtiaz, who said “when,” not “if”
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Acknowledgements
Shakespeare in Ayesha at Last
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
He wondered if he would see her today.
Khalid Mirza sat at the breakfast bar of his light-filled kitchen, long legs almost reaching the floor. It was seven in the morning, and his eyes were trained on the window, the one with the best view of the townhouse complex across the street.
His patience was rewarded.
A young woman wearing a purple hijab, blue button-down shirt, blazer and black pants ran down the steps of the middle townhouse, balancing a red ceramic travel mug and canvas satchel. She stumbled but caught herself, skidding to a stop in front of an aging sedan. She put the mug on the hood of the car and unlocked the door.
Khalid had seen her several times since he had moved into the neighbourhood two months ago, always with her red ceramic mug, always in a hurry. She was a petite woman with a round face and dreamy smile, skin a golden burnished copper that glowed in the sullen March morning.
It is not appropriate to stare at women, no matter how interesting their purple hijabs, Khalid reminded himself.
Yet his eyes returned for a second, wistful look. She was so beautiful.
The sound of Bollywood music blaring from a car speaker made the young woman freeze. She peered around her Toyota Corolla to see a red Mercedes SLK convertible zoom into her driveway. Khalid watched as the young woman dropped to a crouch behind her car. Who was she hiding from? He leaned forward for a better look.
“What are you looking at, Khalid?” asked his mother, Farzana.
“Nothing, Ammi,” Khalid said, and took a bite of the clammy scrambled eggs Farzana had prepared for breakfast. When he looked up again, the young woman and her canvas satchel were inside the Toyota.
Her red travel mug was not.
It flew off the roof of her car as she sped away, smashing into a hundred pieces and narrowly missing the red Mercedes.
Khalid laughed out loud. When he looked up, he caught his mother’s stern gaze.
“It’s such a lovely day outside,” Farzana said, giving her son a hard look. “I can see why your eyes are drawn to the view.”
Khalid flushed at her words. Ammi had been dropping hints lately. She thought it was time for him to marry. He had a steady job, and twenty-six was a good age to settle down. Their family was wealthy and could easily pay for the large wedding his mother wanted.
“I was going to tell you after I’d made a few choices, but it appears you are ready to hear the news. I have begun the search for your wife,” Farzana announced, and her tone brooked no opposition. “Love comes after marriage, not before. These Western ideas of romantic love are utter nonsense. Just look at the American divorce rate.”
Khalid paused mid-bite, but his mother didn’t notice. Her announcement was surprising, but the news was not unexpected or even unwelcome. He resumed eating.
“I will find you the perfect wife—modest, not too educated. If we can’t find someone local, we will search for a girl back home.”
“Back home” for Farzana was Hyderabad, India, though she had lived in Canada for over thirty years. Khalid had been born in a suburb west of Toronto and lived there for most of his life until his father’s death six months ago, before Farzana and Khalid had moved to the east end of the city. Farzana had insisted on the move, and though Khalid had been sorry to leave his friends and the mosque he had frequented with his father, deep down he thought it might do them both some good.
Their new neighbourhood had felt instantly comfortable. From the moment they’d arrived, Khalid felt as if he had finally come home. There were more cars parked three or four deep on extended driveways, more untamed backyards in need of the maintenance that only time, money and access to professional services could provide. Yet the people were kind, friendly even, and Khalid was at ease among the brown and black faces that reflected his own.
Farzana neatly flipped another paratha flatbread onto her son’s plate, though he had not asked for more. “The wedding will be in July. Everyone will want an invitation, but I will limit the guest list to six hundred people. Any more is showing off.”
Humming to herself, she placed a small pot on the stove, adding water, milk, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom and tea leaves for chai. Khalid’s eyes lingered on the chipped forest-green mug on the counter. His father’s mug. Ammi had used that mug for his Abba’s chai for years. This was the first time he had seen it out of the cupboard since the move. Maybe his mother was finally beginning to make her way through the cloud of grief that had paralyzed her after Abba’s death.
There was so much of the past they did not talk about. Khalid was relieved she was thinking about the future. Or rather, his future.
The idea of an arranged marriage had never bothered Khalid. A partner carefully chosen for him, just as his parents had been chosen for each other and their parents before them, seemed like a tidy practice. He liked the idea of being part of an unbroken chain that honoured tradition and ensured family peace and stability. He knew that some people, even his own sister, thought the practice of arranged marriage was restrictive, but he found it comforting. Romantic relationships and their accompanying perks were for marriage only.
At the thought of romantic perks, Khalid’s attention drifted to the window once more—but he stopped himself. The girl with the (broken) red mug would never be more than a fantasy. Because while it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single Muslim man must be in want of a wife, there’s an even greater truth: To his Indian mother, his own inclinations are of secondary importance.
Chapter Two
The Toyota lurched down the street, wheezing and anemic. Ayesha reached for her travel mug, but her hand closed on empty air. In the rear-view mirror she spotted the red shards on the asphalt. Blast.
She had been in such a hurry to get away from Hafsa. Now she would have to face her first day as a substitute high school teacher with
out the comforting armour of chai.
No matter, it was worth it. The moment she had spotted the red Mercedes convertible pulling onto the street, Ayesha had known why her cousin was visiting so early in the morning, and she didn’t want to hear it.
Besides, there was one rule repeatedly drilled into her at teachers’ college: A teacher can never, under any circumstances, be late.
Ayesha had graduated from teachers’ college last June. It had taken nearly seven months of papering local schools with her resumé to secure a substitute teaching position. Now her stomach flipped over as she parked in the staff lot of Brookridge High School, a squat, two-storey brown brick building constructed in the 1970s, ugly and functional.
The building was similar in layout and atmosphere to her old high school. It had the same well-tended shabbiness of a public building, the same blue-tinted fluorescent lighting, and waxed and speckled linoleum floors. The same mostly white staff dressed in business-formal slacks and skirts, the same mostly brown and black students slouching in jeans, track pants and too-short dresses. Ayesha tugged self-consciously at her carefully chosen teacher clothes: blue button-down shirt and serviceable black pants. Her hands nervously smoothed the top of her purple hijab.
Part of both worlds, yet part of neither, she thought.
Such existential thoughts were really not helping to settle the butterflies in her stomach.
She entered the large, open foyer, its concrete walls painted a dull green and smelling faintly of industrial cleaning solvent. The familiar scent calmed her, and she smiled slightly at a female student in black leggings and a blue hoodie, carrying an overloaded backpack. The girl gave her a dubious look before shifting her bag and walking purposely down the hall, reminding Ayesha to hurry. A teacher must never be late.
The secretary, Mary, was waiting for her in the main office with forms to sign. The principal, Mr. Evorem, was absent today, Mary explained. “He’ll want to meet you tomorrow to welcome you properly.”
A white man in his early thirties with a short black beard walked into the office just as she was finishing the paperwork, and Mary asked him to take Ayesha to her class. He peered over her shoulder at her schedule.
“Grade ten science?” His eyes were wide. “You’re covering for Rudy?”
“Who’s Rudy?” Ayesha asked as they walked toward the stairs.
“He’s the last teacher those little shits scared off. I think he chose early retirement over that class.”
Ayesha looked at him, waiting for the punchline. There wasn’t one. “Nobody told me that.”
“I hope you’re light on your feet. The bastards like to throw things.”
FORTY minutes later, Ayesha crouched on the toilet in the staff bathroom, bookended by feelings of self-pity and guilt. Instead of teaching, she was hiding from her class. Even worse, she was writing a poem in her purple spiral notebook.
I can’t do this.
This thing that I should do.
I can do this.
This thing I don’t want to do.
I want to be away, weaving words of truth.
Not here, trapped between desk and freedom and family.
She should be teaching, not writing. She had vowed to leave this part of her behind when she’d left for work that morning. Instead, she hadn’t been able to resist placing the purple spiral notebook in her bag, like a child’s security blanket. She gripped her pen tightly and tried not to stare at her cell phone.
“Come on, Clara,” she said out loud. Then she held her breath, hoping no one had heard. But of course they hadn’t. This was the staff bathroom, and it was the middle of the school day. The other teachers were teaching, not hiding and writing poetry.
She squinted at the page, rereading her words. Correction: writing bad poetry.
Her phone beeped: a text message from her best friend, Clara.
What do you mean you can’t do this? You just got there.
Ayesha texted back.
My class hates me. They were throwing things at each other, and they didn’t listen to a word I said. Can you call the school and tell them there’s an emergency at home?
Her phone rang.
“You picked the wrong profession.” Clara’s voice was low.
“I’ll come back to teach tomorrow, when I’m ready,” Ayesha said.
“Babe, you are never going to be ready to teach. You know what you’re ready for? Writing poems. Exploring the world. Falling in love. Remember?” Ayesha pictured Clara in front of her—blue eyes wide with concern, fingers fiddling with strawberry blond hair. “I bet you’re writing a poem about this right now. Aren’t you?” Her friend’s voice was accusing and impatient. They had had variations of this same conversation so many times, Ayesha couldn’t blame Clara for being sick of it. She was sick of it herself.
Her eyes flicked to the notebook, and she shut it firmly. No more. “Poetry is for paupers. I’m not Hafsa. I don’t have a rich father to pay my bills, and I promised Sulaiman Mamu I would pay him back for tuition.”
She remained silent about the other two items—exploring the world, falling in love—the first as impossible as the second. She had no money, and falling in love would be difficult when she had never even held someone’s hand before. “Hafsa is getting married this summer,” Ayesha said instead. “She came over this morning to tell me, but I already knew. Nani and Samira Aunty have been talking about her rishtas for weeks.”
Clara, an only child, loved hearing about Ayesha’s large extended family. She was particularly intrigued by the traditional rishta proposal process, which Ayesha had explained in hilarious detail. Prospective partners were introduced to each other after being carefully vetted by parents and family. Ayesha had received a few rishta proposals herself, years ago, though they had never led to a wedding. She hadn’t really connected with any of the potential suitors, and they must have felt likewise because she’d never heard from them after the initial meetings.
“Hafsa can’t get married! She’s a baby!” Clara exclaimed.
Ayesha started laughing. “She’s got the entire wedding planned already. All she needs is the groom.”
“Your cousin is crazy. You’re the one who should be getting married. Or me. Rob still flinches whenever I mention weddings, after ten years together.”
Ayesha was starting to regret this topic of conversation. “If Hafsa wants to get married, I’m happy for her,” she said. She imagined twenty-year-old Hafsa reclining on an ornate chaise as she surveyed a parade of handsome, wealthy men. She pictured her cousin languidly pointing to one man at random, and just like that, the marriage would be arranged.
So easy, so simple, to find the one person who would cherish and protect your heart forever. Everything came easy for Hafsa.
Clara pressed her point. “When do you get to be happy? When was the last time you went on a date, or finished and performed a poem?” Clara thought Ayesha was afraid of love because of what had happened to her father and afraid to dream because of her family’s expectations.
Ayesha disagreed. “My family is counting on me to set a good example for Hafsa. I’m the eldest kid in the family. I want to set the bar high for everyone else. I can’t let Mom, Sulaiman Mamu or Nana down, not after everything they’ve done for me. All that other stuff can wait.”
Clara sighed. “Why don’t you come to Bella’s tonight?”
A long time ago, a different Ayesha had performed poetry at Bella’s lounge. Another reminder of the road not taken. She smothered a laugh that sounded like a sob.
“Ash, you got this,” Clara said, her voice softening. “Do all that teacher stuff. Send the troublemakers to the office. Make a seating chart. Stop hiding in the bathroom.”
There was a discreet knock on the stall door, and Ayesha ended the call with Clara.
“Miss Shamsi?” Mary said, sounding awkward. “Your class said you might be in here.”
They’re not my class, Ayesha thought. They need a circus trainer, not a teacher. S
he flushed, wiped sweaty palms on her pants and tucked the purple notebook back inside her bag. Mary stood outside, a look of pity on her face.
“There was an emergency, but I’m better now,” Ayesha said with dignity. “When does the class end?”
“You still have another forty minutes, honey.” Mary patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll send an assistant to help with your first class. She’ll keep an eye on them when your back is turned. Oh, and I forgot to give this to you earlier.”
Mary handed Ayesha an ID badge with STAFF written in bold letters at the top.
Ayesha stared at the official-looking badge. This was why she had attended teachers’ college, why she had worked so hard at her in-school placements. Her mother and grandparents had left behind so much when they immigrated to Canada. She wanted their sacrifice to mean something.
There was no turning back, not now.
Her thoughts drifted to the purple notebook in her bag. Maybe if she worked on the poem tonight, she could perform it at Bella’s sometime . . .
But no. All of that lay behind her. It was time to focus on the road in front.
“Everyone starts out right here. You’ll get the hang of it,” Mary said.
Mary meant to be kind, but Ayesha knew that not everyone started from the same place. Some people were always a little ahead. Or in her case, constantly playing catch-up.
The rest of the day was not as dramatic as the morning, yet Ayesha felt deflated when she drove home after school. Teaching was not what she’d expected and nothing like her training, where she’d had the comforting guidance of a mentor teacher. The entire experience had been nerve-racking, and she had felt perpetually caught in the bored tractor-beam stares of twenty-eight teenagers.
All she wanted now was to go home, drink a cup of very strong chai and reconsider her life choices.
She turned onto her street and spied a red Mercedes parked in the driveway.
Hafsa was back, and this time there was no escape.
Chapter Three
Khalid kept his head down as he walked through the narrow back hallway of Livetech Solutions, his employer for the past five years. He was dressed in his usual work attire—full sleeved white robe that skimmed his ankles, black dress pants, white skullcap jammed over dark brown hair that curled over his ears. His beard was long and luxuriously thick, contrasting sharply with his pale olive complexion.
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