Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  “Have you heard of Bella’s? They’re having an open mike poetry night on the weekend. I’d love it if you joined me and my friend.”

  Khalid looked uncomfortable. “I do not think that would appropriate—” he began, but Clara cut him off.

  “I’m launching an initiative at Livetech that I hope will be of interest to you. I want to organize a workshop on diversity and religious accommodation. I could really use your input.”

  Still Khalid hesitated.

  “Come on, K-Man,” Amir said. “It will be fun. I’ll bring my boys.”

  “Is Bella’s a bar?” Khalid asked. “Will there be alcohol?”

  Clara shook her head, fingers crossed behind her back. “It’s a lounge, not a bar. I really appreciate this. In return, maybe I can offer you a few suggestions for your meeting with Sheila next week.”

  She left before Khalid could ask how she knew about his meeting, or the difference between a bar and a lounge. Or who her friend was.

  Clara smiled to herself. Khalid Mirza, have I got a girl for you.

  Chapter Five

  Ayesha parked her car in the driveway and slowly removed her key from the ignition. It was six o’clock, and she had survived her first week as a substitute high school teacher. Barely.

  In the bag beside her were two books on classroom management strategies, along with the tenth-grade science curriculum. All of which would eat up her entire weekend.

  But not tonight. Tonight she was going to party like she was still an undergrad. Which meant takeout pizza and old Bollywood movies.

  What time should I come over? Ayesha texted Hafsa.

  Whatever. It’s not like you have time for me anymore, career-lady.

  Ayesha sighed. Hafsa was upset because she hadn’t responded to her texts or phone calls all week. Because I have a job, because I can’t skip work to go for a facial, she thought, and then she felt guilty. Hafsa was like a baby sister, and sometimes baby sisters threw tantrums. The best way to deal with a temper tantrum was to ignore it. She quickly texted Hafsa again:

  I always have time for Bollywood Night! Come on, we are going to have FUN! :) We need to celebrate your husband search! I’ll be there in an hour.

  Ayesha knew she shouldn’t dawdle in the car. The “Bored Aunty Brigade,” as she had nicknamed her gossipy desi neighbours, were likely peering through their windows right now.

  Ayesha Shamsi took her sweet time going inside, she imagined them saying. Up to no good. No husband yet. Who will marry her now? Cluck, cluck, cluck.

  She flung open the car door, fake smile plastered to her face. Let them stare. She was too old to care what the Aunty Brigade thought of her!

  “‘Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,’” a soft voice called from the front lawn. “‘Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows. As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.’”

  “Nana, are you smoking again?” Ayesha’s frozen smile thawed into a more natural one as she surveyed her grandfather on his favourite green plastic lawn chair, hiding behind their lone scraggly maple tree. Ayesha’s grandfather was a retired English professor from Osmania University in Hyderabad, India. He had a soft spot for the Bard, and quoted him often.

  “No,” he said, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully into the emaciated branches, which were just starting to turn green. Spring in the city arrived slowly, a lazy cat stretching after a long winter nap. “This is just an illusion, as is most of reality. This is not a cigarette. I am not hiding from Nani and waiting for you. And you are not working too hard. We are all just cosmic players in the eternal dance of life.”

  “Nana, you talk too much bakwas.” Ayesha carefully removed the cigarette from her grandfather’s unresisting fingers and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You’re not even wearing a jacket. It’s cold.”

  “I am a Canadian. I feel no cold.” But he got up gingerly from the lawn chair and followed her into the house.

  “Smoking is bad for you. It causes lung cancer and emphysema. It is also very unfashionable. You said you quit during Ramadan,” Ayesha scolded as they entered the house and stood in the tiny entranceway to remove their shoes.

  “I always quit during Ramadan. I restart after Eid. And I do not care if it is unfashionable. I am a nonconformist.”

  Ayesha hid her smile and held her hand out. After a slight hesitation, he placed a half-empty pack of cigarettes in her palm.

  “Who’s your supplier?” Ayesha asked as she pocketed the package.

  “I’ll never talk.” He smiled rakishly at her. “If it truly disturbs you, I promise to stop. Just as soon as you promise to quit your job. Nice girls from good families shouldn’t work outside the home.” He twinkled at her.

  “Nana, you’re so sexist,” Ayesha said. “Who said I’m a nice girl?”

  “Beti, you are the nicest.”

  When Ayesha, her mother Saleha, her brother Idris and her grandparents had first immigrated to Canada seventeen years ago, they had felt unmoored in their adopted home and by her father’s sudden, violent death in India. Saleha was in mourning, Idris was an infant. Her grandparents had stepped in, caring for Ayesha and Idris while their mother grieved. Ayesha grew especially close to Nana, who had read to her every night. She joked that she had learned to speak “Shakespearean” English before “Canadian” English.

  Ayesha and Nana walked into the kitchen of the three-storey townhouse. Ayesha’s mother had use of the third-floor loft, while the two bedrooms on the second floor were occupied by Ayesha and her seventeen-year-old brother. The small kitchen and family room were shared, and her grandparents had the basement suite.

  Their home was located in the east end of the city, in a suburb named Scarborough. The neighbourhood consisted of mixed housing, their aging townhouse-condominium complex set among single homes with large backyards and double-car garages, as well as smaller semi-detached units. Driveways modified to accommodate three or four vehicles were common, with luxury brands like Mercedes and BMW sprinkled among older, more affordable types. Minivans dotted most driveways, and many garages were furnished with sofas and TV screens and used as additional gathering spaces for family and friends. Homes had side entrances used by extended family, or for rental basement suites.

  Ayesha’s townhouse complex was old but well maintained, part of a larger neighbourhood made up of a high concentration of immigrants from Asia, the Caribbean and the West Indies. Their community also boasted the best kebabs, chicken tikka, dosa, sushi, pho and roti in the city, most of which were made in the kitchens of residents.

  Nani was at the stove, stirring a fragrant curry and sprinkling minced coriander on top, when Ayesha and Nana walked into the kitchen. Her grandmother screwed up her nose at the smell of tobacco but otherwise kept silent.

  “Challo, ghar agay, rani?” Nani said in Urdu. You’re home, princess? She added curry leaves to the pot before warming oil for mustard seed and black cumin in a separate frying pan, the final touch in every dal. She placed another pot on the stove and deftly filled it with milk, dropping in whole black peppercorns, cardamom pods, cinnamon sticks, cloves and three heaping teaspoons of loose-leaf black tea.

  “Where’s Idris and Mom?” Ayesha asked her grandmother.

  “Idris is in his room pretending to complete math homework. Saleha is on a double shift at the hospital until midnight,” Nani answered. Her grandmother spoke to her family in Urdu, though Ayesha knew she understood English perfectly.

  Ayesha made her way upstairs, picking up socks, scattered mail and a jacket as she went. She opened her brother’s door without knocking. Idris was at his desk, hunched over the keyboard. The lights were off, and he whirled around when she flicked them on.

  “Jesus! Can you knock?”

  Idris was tall and had the lankiness of a teenager unused to his growing body. He was wiry and stubbly, but when Ayesha looked at him, she saw the little boy who used to beg her to play. His thick, black hair was standing on
end from frequent finger-raking, and his glasses were smudged, obscuring his light brown eyes.

  “I hear you’re hard at work. I had to see for myself,” she said.

  Idris turned back to the screen. “Nani was nagging me again. I had to get her off my back.”

  “You’re not watching porn, are you?”

  Idris didn’t respond, and Ayesha peered over his shoulder.

  “I emailed your math teacher. She said you didn’t do that great on your last test. Don’t forget your English essay on Hamlet is due next week. Nana said he’d help you annotate the play and think of a thesis.”

  Idris hunched lower and typed faster.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes! I heard you! Can you leave me alone?”

  Ayesha sighed and placed her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Are you writing code again?”

  “Somebody’s gotta make it big in this family. It’s certainly not going to be you, Little Miss Poet.”

  Ayesha was stung, but she squeezed her brother’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous.”

  When she returned downstairs, her grandparents were drinking chai in silence. A large mug of milky tea was waiting for her, and she sipped the fragrant brew gratefully. Chai was so much more than a caffeine kick for her. She knew how every member of her family liked to drink their tea, how much sugar or honey to put in each cup. Chai was love, distilled and warming. She drank and relished the silence.

  “Are you going to Hafsa’s house?” Nani asked after a few moments.

  “It’s Bollywood Night.”

  “‘Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting,’” Nana remarked into his mug.

  Ayesha ignored his unsubtle jab at Hafsa and gulped the rest of her tea. “I’ll be back soon.”

  WHEN they’d first immigrated from India to Canada, Ayesha and her family had moved into the three-bedroom townhouse with Hafsa’s family. It was a tight fit for everyone, but her uncle Sulaiman insisted on hosting them. He had immigrated as a young man almost two decades before, and he was happy to have his family join him in Canada, despite the devastating circumstances.

  After two years of living together, Sulaiman, who owned several halal butchers and Indian restaurants in the city, gave the townhouse to Ayesha’s mother, mortgage-free. He constructed a new home on a parcel of land he had bought five blocks away, which he shared with his wife and four daughters.

  “This is what family does,” he said. As eldest brother, it was his duty to take care of his widowed sister and their parents. The townhouse was a generous gift, one that Ayesha didn’t know how her family would ever repay. In return, she had looked out for her younger cousins, especially Hafsa.

  It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to her cousin’s house—which Ayesha secretly called the Taj Mahal. Sulaiman Mamu’s new home was large and ostentatious. It had never really appealed to her. He had built it envisioning a villa similar to the ones he had grown up admiring in the wealthy neighbourhoods of Hyderabad, so completely out of reach for the son of an English literature professor. The house was Spanish colonial, set well back from the road. With its adobe roof, sandstone walls and ten-foot-high custom-made door embellished with metal flowers and vines, the construction had initially drawn the ire and envy of neighbours. The building featured a large courtyard, circular driveway with stone fountain, four-car garage, six bedrooms and eight bathrooms. There was even a small guest cottage, kept ready for Nana and Nani whenever they wanted to spend the night. So far, they preferred their cozy basement suite in the townhouse.

  The main house was decorated in bright colours, with dark maroon accent walls and warm syrupy-toned paint everywhere else. The floors were covered with red, blue and green wool rugs that had been imported from India. The wall decorations were Islamic prayers filigreed on metal, embroidered on tapestries and painted on canvas, and the large central family room had pictures of famous places of worship, including an oversized one of the Kaaba in Mecca. The furniture was traditional and ornate: overstuffed brocade couches, Queen Anne armchairs and heavy drapes. The light fixtures were all brass, polished weekly by a cleaning lady.

  Hafsa’s mother, Samira, answered the door. She was a petite dumpling of a woman, round-faced and excitable, who had married young and birthed four daughters before she was thirty. She spent most of her days taking an avid interest in the goings-on of her neighbours.

  “Ayesha jaanu!” she said, using the Urdu term of endearment. “You’re finally here! Hafsa was afraid you were too busy for her, now that you are working.” She enveloped her niece in a massive hug. “Let me fill you in on all the news. The Nalini girl ran away with her boyfriend, and the Patels are about to file for bankruptcy because their daughter is being far too demanding about jewellery and clothes for her wedding. She had her dress made by that fashionable Pakistani designer. So sad when people spend money they don’t have, no? Also, Yusuf bhai down the road is divorcing his second wife! Imagine!”

  Ayesha’s eyes twinkled. “Samira Aunty, you’re better than CNN. Do you have a newsfeed I can subscribe to?”

  Hafsa’s three younger sisters—Maliha, sixteen; Nisa, fourteen; and baby Hira, eleven—all rushed toward Ayesha.

  “How do you like being a substitute teacher?” Maliha asked. “Dad said teaching is a good job for a woman. He refuses to consider enrolling me in the engineering program in New York City because he said it’s too far from home and he would miss me.” Her cousin rolled her eyes. “Can you try to convince him? Please?”

  “Are we going for bubble tea this weekend? You promised!” Hira piped up.

  “Did Ammi tell you about the rishta proposals that came for Hafsa?” Nisa asked. “Five this week.”

  “Nisa, chup!” Samira Aunty reprimanded her daughter, and there was an awkward moment as all three girls looked at the floor, embarrassed.

  “Only five?” Ayesha asked lightly. “I’m surprised Hafsa hasn’t received fifty proposals this week alone.”

  The girls exchanged knowing looks and Ayesha’s cheeks turned red. Samira shooed her daughters away before turning to her niece.

  “Ayesha jaanu,” she began carefully. “Since you brought it up . . . Well, I hope you aren’t comparing your situation to our little Hafsa’s many rishta proposals. Even if you are seven years older and only received a handful of offers. Only consider Sulaiman’s status in the community and Hafsa’s great beauty, her bubbly personality. Well, we are all blessed by Allah in different ways.”

  Ayesha knew her aunt was trying to be kind, in her way. “Don’t worry about me. I’m too busy to go husband shopping.”

  Samira Aunty smiled, but a look of pity was still fixed on her face. “Just don’t leave it too late. I was married at seventeen, and Hafsa will be married before the end of the summer. A girl’s beauty blooms at twenty, twenty-one. After that, well . . . Finding the right person can be difficult. Perhaps I can send a few proposals your way. The ones that aren’t suitable for Hafsa.”

  Ayesha’s mouth twitched, but she kept a straight face. “Thank you. I promise I will think seriously about your offer.”

  In truth, the only thing Ayesha envied her cousin was her massive bedroom suite. Hafsa had a separate seating area, with a large bay window and cozy reading nook. Her walk-in closet was the size of Ayesha’s bedroom, and best of all, one entire wall contained a built-in bookcase filled with books that her cousin, never a great reader, kept for decoration. The room was painted a screaming hot pink, Hafsa’s favourite colour.

  Hafsa was in her room, sprawled on the reclining leather sofa in front of a sixty-five-inch flat screen TV so thin it resembled a painting. Two boxes of pizza and chicken wings and a bowl of halal gummy bears were in front of her.

  “Apa!” Hafsa squealed. Apa meant “big sister” in Urdu, an honorary title. “What took you so long?”

  “I was talking to your mom.”

  “They didn’t tell you about my proposals, did they?” Hafsa’s mouth purs
ed in a pout. “I wanted to tell you first. Here, check out the pictures. They’re hilarious.”

  Her cousin was wearing yoga pants and a furry pink hoodie that exposed her flat stomach when she reached for her cell phone. Samira Aunty was not idly boasting—her twenty-year-old daughter was lovely. With large eyes framed by dark lashes, the high cheekbones of a Hollywood starlet and a sweet smile, Hafsa was easily the most beautiful girl in the neighbourhood. She was always laughing and joking, the incandescent centre of every social gathering. In contrast, Ayesha was the calm, steady, responsible cousin. The boring one, she thought wryly.

  Hafsa passed Ayesha her cell phone, to examine the pictures of her suitors. “I missed you so much!”

  “It’s only been a week. I saw you on Monday when you told me your news. Haven’t you been busy with school?”

  “I’m not really sure interior design is the right fit for me,” Hafsa said. “I told Abba that I’m super interested in event planning. I could start by planning my wedding and then launch my business.”

  Ayesha reached for a slice of pepperoni and pineapple pizza and a handful of honey-garlic chicken wings. “So you’ve already picked one of the five proposals?” she asked, scrolling through the pictures.

  Traditional arranged marriages were a bit like horse trading, Ayesha had always thought. Photographs and marriage resumés detailing age, height, weight, skin colour, job title and salary were sent to the families of prospective brides and grooms before the first visit was even arranged, a sort of vetting process for both parties. Details about family were often sent through a trusted intermediary, usually a mutual friend and sometimes a semi-professional matchmaking aunty.

  Hafsa looked over Ayesha’s shoulder, supplying details—this one was a doctor, that one lived in India and was obviously looking for a visa-bride. This one had a pushy mother.

  “All rejects. I’m not going to pick a husband until I get a hundred proposals.”

  Ayesha laughed. “Why not hold out for a thousand?”