Hafsa squinted at her cousin. “I don’t want to be unreasonable. If I’m going to be a kick-ass wedding planner, I need to start now, when I’m young.”
“Yes, launching a business is a great reason to get married,” Ayesha said.
“You know what would be even better?” Hafsa said, ignoring her cousin’s sarcasm. “A storybook romance. Every business needs a good origin story. If I met someone who swept me off my feet, imagine how great that would play for my clients. I could call my company ‘Happily Ever After Event Planning.’”
“Or you could just start a company without the wedding.”
“Don’t be silly, Ashi Apa,” Hafsa said. “I don’t want to turn into one of those women who never gets married. No offence.”
None taken, Ayesha thought as she took another slice of pizza. She pressed Play on a nineties Bollywood classic, Pardes, and the girls settled in to watch the movie together.
It was after midnight when the movie finished, and Hafsa was fast asleep on the couch, curled up under a pink cashmere throw. Ayesha gathered the half-empty pizza box and empty wings container, turned off the TV and closed the bedroom door.
The light was on in the dining room when she crept downstairs, her uncle Sulaiman at the large table with stacks of paper in front of him.
“Ayesha.” He smiled, standing up to embrace her. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Her uncle resembled a kindly shopkeeper rather than the family saviour. He was a portly man a few inches taller than his niece and dressed even at this late hour in a white-collared shirt and dress pants, though he had removed his jacket and tie.
“I wanted to talk to you about something.” He motioned to the chair. “I am so proud of your hard work and choice of profession. We were a little concerned when you started performing those poems, but I told Saleha you would settle down. Teaching is a good job for a woman.”
“Thank you, Mamu,” she said. “I’m going to start paying you back for my tuition as soon as I get my first paycheque.”
Sulaiman Mamu waved his hand magnanimously. “I am worried about Hafsa. She told me she wants to be an event planner now, but I am afraid this is another phase, like all the others.”
“Hafsa has many interests,” Ayesha said diplomatically. So far Hafsa had tried her hand at cosmetology, landscape design and culinary school, and she had yet to complete any of the programs she’d started.
“I have a favour to ask of you. As you know, I am involved in the masjid,” he said, referring to the mosque.
Ayesha smiled. Her uncle was more than just involved. He had spearheaded the mosque building committee and donated generously over the years. Everyone knew he was the reason the Toronto Muslim Assembly could afford to keep the lights on and salaries paid.
Sulaiman Mamu continued. “The masjid is planning a weekend conference in the summer. Since Hafsa is so intent on pursuing event planning, I suggested they make use of her services. I know you are very busy with your new job, but . . .” Sulaiman hesitated. “You have always been so sensible, jaanu. We want to see Hafsa settled, but she thinks these proposals are a game. I worry that these boys might be more interested in my money than in her. I want my girl to be happy. I don’t want her head turned by some rascal, and I don’t want her to waste another chance to graduate with a diploma. Could you go to the planning meeting with her, help her take this seriously? It is time for Hafsa to grow up.”
Ayesha nodded. Her uncle needed her, and after everything he had done for her family, she could not possibly refuse this simple request.
“Leave it to me, Mamu. I’ll keep an eye on her and make sure she sees reason.”
Chapter Six
Virgin Shirley Temple, 9 pm. My treat. You deserve it after your first week of teaching. I’m so proud of you!
Clara’s text arrived late on Sunday afternoon, and Ayesha frowned as she read it. The only thing she was looking forward to tonight was an early bedtime. But loyalty ran deep in the Shamsi clan, and Clara deserved a best friend who could stay up past eight.
Clara was the first friend Ayesha had made when she’d immigrated to Canada. They’d both joined their school mid-year in grade five, both transfers from faraway places—Ayesha from India, Clara from Newfoundland. The girls had bonded over their newcomer status. When kids made fun of Ayesha’s Indian accent or Clara’s “Newfie” lilt, they had each other’s backs.
One time in health class during a lesson on menstruation, the triumvirate of Mean Girls kept giving Ayesha surreptitious looks. At recess Sara, Kimmie and Suzie surrounded Ayesha.
“Does your mom wear a Paki dot?” Sara asked her.
Ayesha had no idea what a “Paki dot” was, or why her Indian mother would wear one. Didn’t these girls know she was from another country entirely? She turned to walk away, but they followed.
“Ever wonder why Paki dots are red?” Kimmie asked Sara, handily blocking Ayesha’s path.
“No, why are Paki dots red?” Sara said, speaking loudly. A small crowd of students had gathered around them.
“Leave me alone,” Ayesha said quietly.
“Leeee-ve meee all-oowwwn,” Kimmie mocked in an exaggerated Indian accent. “Paki dots are red because Pakis use their own period blood to put them on.”
The three girls laughed out loud and the crowd gasped in shock. “Eeeew!” someone said. “Nasty.”
A tear slipped down Ayesha’s cheek, but she kept her head lowered. She would not give them the satisfaction.
Clara pushed through the crowd to stand beside Ayesha, fists balled at her sides. “You Angishore jinkers,” she snarled. Her Newfoundland accent became particularly pronounced when she was incensed. “Everyone knows you use your period blood for lipstick!”
Clara later told her she’d known her words made no sense—or at least, no more sense than the Mean Girls’ Paki dot comments. But Clara had used the girls’ momentary surprise to drag Ayesha out of the circle.
When they were safe, Ayesha thanked her. “But can I ask—what’s a Paki dot?”
The memory made Ayesha smile all these years later, and her hesitation vanished. I’ll see you at 9, she texted back.
Clara responded almost immediately. They have open mike tonight. In case you’re feeling poetic.
WHEN Ayesha arrived at Bella’s at eight forty-five, the place was buzzing, the dance floor covered by stage and sound equipment. Their usual spot had been taken over by a group of guys, so she claimed the table beside them. Settling in, she ordered a Shirley Temple for herself and a white wine for Clara. She took out her purple notebook and looked around for inspiration.
“Hey, beautiful.” A tall man holding a bottle of Heineken smiled seductively. “I’m Mo. I bet your parents don’t know you’re in a place like this, dressed like that.”
A veil-chaser. Ayesha could spot one a mile away.
Veil-chasers thought women in hijab were an exotic challenge. Like the pimply white guy who had asked Ayesha to prom every year in high school, and even offered to wear an “Indian outfit and turban” if she acquiesced. Other veil-chasers had tried to pick her up at bus stops and malls, and on one memorable day, a veil-chaser had administered her driving exam. She’d passed and even given him her (fake) number.
Mostly, they were a pain. They always commented on her headscarf and usually said something ignorant. As if on cue, Mo gave her a smouldering look. “If you’re getting hot in that thing, you can take it off. I won’t tell.”
“Mo, I’m not interested. Why don’t you go smile at those girls?” She waved toward a small group of young women crowded around the stage.
He didn’t look away or even blink. “You’re so mysterious. Can I buy you a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” she said coldly. “And if your name is Mo-short-for-Mohamed, you know why. Now please go away.”
“Not until you let me buy you a drink.”
Ayesha looked around until she caught the eye of Andy the Bouncer. “I’ll take a Hyderabadi Mud-Slam,�
�� she said. “Ask Andy, he knows what I mean.”
When Ayesha had come to Bella’s on a more regular basis for open mike nights, a few of the veil-chasers had been relentless. Any time she used the term “Hyderabad,” Andy knew it was code for “Would you please have a friendly discussion with this gentleman about respecting a woman’s right to say no?”
“Anything for you, my brown princess.” Mo winked and loped off.
Mo’s buddies, who were sitting at the next table, started laughing loudly and she glanced over. Two of the men were true to type—greasy hair, greasy smiles, tight pants, the tabletop in front of them full of shot glasses. The third man gave her pause. He looked bored and aloof, and the clothes he was wearing caught her attention. He was dressed in a long white robe and kufi skullcap, his beard well past acceptable hipster levels. Their eyes met briefly. A tiny spark of electricity passed between them.
Ayesha looked away, and then back again.
He was a good-looking man, she acknowledged. Large brown eyes in a pale face, sensual mouth pressed into a severe line. His dark beard was thick and long, accentuating a square jaw and sharp cheekbones. The white robe, so stark against the sea of tight jeans and T-shirts, hinted at broad shoulders and a powerful chest. He kept his gaze on the table in front of him, finely sculpted brows furrowed.
He was not the sort of man Ayesha usually looked at. He looked a bit like a priest in a strip club, she thought with a smile. He looked up at her again, eyes dark as they observed her expression. She shivered, though the lounge was warm.
Clara came flying in at that moment. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been feeling rotten about our conversation. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time about school and your first day. I’m just worried you’re giving up on your dreams . . .” Clara was babbling, her eyes roaming the bar, looking for someone.
Ayesha’s eyes were still pinned on the strange man.
Clara followed her gaze. “Khalid,” she said, relieved.
“You know that guy? Is he lost?”
“Said the woman in hijab,” Clara shot back before walking to the neighbouring table.
“You invited me!” Ayesha called. She fished in her pocket for lip gloss, and her fingers closed around a small rectangular box. Nana’s cigarettes. She pulled them out and peered inside the packet.
“HAVING fun, Khalid?” Clara asked.
“Not particularly,” Khalid said. “I don’t feel comfortable here. Clara, you know Amir from work. This is Ethan and Mohamed.” A chastened-looking Mo nodded at Clara, and Ethan smiled brilliantly.
“’Sup, pretty lady,” Ethan said.
Clara ignored him. “You took my advice. It’s so important to invest in our work relationships.”
Amir tried to muscle into the conversation. “I agree, Clara. After all, we probably see our co-workers more often than we see our family . . . husband . . . boyfriend . . .”
Clara ignored him too. “We grow by exposing ourselves to new experiences.”
Khalid sat stiffly at the table. “This is certainly a new experience for me. I had no idea lounges smelled so bad.”
Clara leaned in close. “Maybe it’s not the lounge,” she whispered, nodding at the three other men. “If you’re bored, why don’t you join us?” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry. “I’m here with my best friend. She’s Muslim too. Why don’t you meet her? I’m sure you have a lot in common.”
Khalid glanced at the young woman at the next table, and his expression of disapproval deepened. Ayesha was now holding three cigarettes in her hand and had a colourful cocktail in front of her. The look on his face betrayed his doubts about the Shirley Temple’s virginity. “I do not wish to be introduced to your friend. I stay away from the type of Muslim who frequents bars,” he said.
At the neighbouring table, Ayesha stiffened.
“To be honest, I regret coming here tonight,” Khalid continued. “My companions are only interested in drinking alcohol and accosting women, and it will be impossible to have a serious conversation. I hope I haven’t offended you, Clara. I try not to judge other people’s choices.”
Ayesha was gone before Clara returned to their table. Had her friend heard any of that exchange? It was loud at Bella’s, so probably not. She hoped.
ON her way to the ladies’ room, Ayesha ran into Andy the Bouncer. “I talked to that guy for you,” he said. “I hope he’s behaving.”
Ayesha nodded, her mind spinning. Who did that bearded fundy think he was? I try not to judge people’s choices . . . I stay away from the type of Muslim who frequents bars. Of all the judgmental, sexist jerks she’d ever met, he was the worst!
“You going to perform tonight?” Andy asked. “It’s been a while.”
Ayesha blinked at the smiling bouncer. “Thanks, Andy. All of a sudden, I’m feeling really inspired.”
THE crackle of a microphone caught everyone’s attention.
“Hey everyone, it’s time for our weekly Open Mike Poetry Slam!” Andy the Bouncer (and part-time poet) announced. “We are so excited to have a special guest. She’s been busy teaching, but tonight she is going to school you all with a special performance. Please welcome award-winning poet Grand Master Rhyme-Slam Shamsi!”
The small crowd in front clapped, and Ayesha walked onto the stage, an expression of intense concentration on her face.
“Uh-oh,” Khalid heard Clara mutter at the next table, and he looked up.
“Hello, everyone. I’m so honoured to be here tonight. I’m going to perform a poem I wrote a long time ago. It’s called ‘What do you See?’” Ayesha took a deep, steadying breath and focused her mind. Then, in a different voice, one rich with melody, she began to recite:
What do you see when you think of me,
A figure cloaked in mystery
With eyes downcast and hair covered,
An oppressed woman yet to be discovered?
Do you see backward nations and swirling sand,
Humpbacked camels and the domineering man?
Whirling veils and terrorists
Or maybe fanatic fundamentalists?
Do you see scorn and hatred locked
Within my eyes and soul,
Or perhaps a profound ignorance of all the world as a whole?
The crowd roared. Her body swayed slightly, eyes liquid and focused on a spot at the back of the room. She continued.
Yet . . .
You fail to see
The dignified persona
Of a woman wrapped in maturity.
The scarf on my head
Does not cover my brain.
I think, I speak, but still you refrain
From accepting my ideals, my type of dress,
You refuse to believe
That I am not oppressed.
So the question remains:
What do I see when I think of you?
I see another human being
Who doesn’t have a clue.
Ayesha looked directly at Khalid as she recited the last two lines.
Clara clapped along with the enthusiastic crowd and Ayesha smiled slightly and headed directly for the bar. Khalid’s eyes followed her.
“That girl gets around,” Mo said. “She wanted me to get her a Hyderabadi Mud-Slam. You think that’s a sex thing?”
Khalid shook his head. “Amir, I’m going.”
“No way, K-Man. I have to introduce you to some pretty girls,” Amir said, sloppy-drunk by now. He put an arm around Khalid’s shoulder.
Khalid carefully disentangled himself from Amir’s embrace and placed some money on the table. “Promise you’ll take a cab home,” he said.
He left Bella’s without another look at his drunk friend, or anyone else.
SULAIMAN Mamu texted Ayesha as she pulled up to her house, close to midnight. Her uncle had only recently learned to text, and she smiled at his carefully worded message.
Assalamu Alaikum, Ayesha. This is your uncle, Sulaiman. I am writing this letter to remind you that the fi
rst conference planning meeting will take place tomorrow, 8 pm, at the mosque. Hafsa will meet you there. Best regards, Sulaiman Mamu.
She unlocked the front door quietly. A light was on in the kitchen. Ayesha’s mother was alone at the small breakfast table. Her shoulders were slumped, and she had a ceramic mug in front of her, filled with the nuclear-strength coffee she drank by the litre.
Ayesha greeted her as she walked toward the staircase. Saleha stopped her.
“You were out late,” her mother said.
“I was with Clara.”
Saleha smiled, the expression making her seem younger, the similarity between mother and daughter more apparent. “Remember when she used to sleep over every Friday night after school? I haven’t seen Clara in so long.”
That’s because you’re never home, Ayesha thought. A few months after they’d first immigrated to Canada, her mother had enrolled in nursing school. She had put in years of study to achieve her current position and now worked days and nights at Scarborough General Hospital. For a long time, Saleha had been the only working member of the household, and she routinely took on double shifts, overtime and holidays. The dark circles under her eyes were permanent; she didn’t bother with concealer anymore.
“It was crazy at the hospital. Every time I sat down to eat or drink, I was interrupted.”
Ayesha felt a pang of guilt. “I’m working now, Mom. I can pitch in.”
“You have your own expenses, and you need to pay back bhai,” Saleha said.
“I have some extra money. Maybe you can work fewer shifts,” Ayesha said. So we can see you more often.
“I don’t need your money. I’ve supported us for years without help. I want you to see that a woman doesn’t need anyone to take care of her. This business with Hafsa . . .” Saleha trailed off, looking exhausted once more. She tried for a lighter note. “I hear your cousin has been collecting rishtas.”
“She’s aiming for a hundred,” Ayesha said. “Someone told her there’s a cash prize for frequent-rishta club members.”
Saleha smiled faintly at her daughter. “Sulaiman has old-fashioned ideas about marriage. Marriage is not a bad thing, if you find the right person and your judgment isn’t clouded by emotion. I hope you’re not thinking about marriage too, just yet. You need to focus on your new job and career. A husband can be such a distraction.”
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