“I’m fine, Mom,” Ayesha assured her. “Rishtas and marriage are the furthest things from my mind.”
Saleha took another sip of her coffee. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in love. Men are selfish, Ayesha. They will not put you first. A woman should always have a backup plan, for when things fall apart. You must know how to support yourself when they leave.”
Ayesha wasn’t in the mood for this. She didn’t want to hear her mother’s unsubtle hints about her parents’ marriage. She knew if she asked specific questions about her father, her mother would just shut down. She said good night and climbed the stairs to her tiny bedroom on the second floor.
While it wasn’t as grand as Hafsa’s, Ayesha’s bedroom was her favourite room in the house. With her twin bed pushed against the wall, she had plenty of space for books, every one of which she had read. Her desk was full of textbooks and resources from teachers’ college, and there were posters of Shakespeare and Jane Austen on the wall. She smiled a greeting to both as she unpinned her hijab and shook out her curly brown hair, which had been tied up in a bun all day.
There was a knock at the door, and Nana peeked in.
“I heard you talking to Saleha,” he said, coming in to sit on her rolling desk chair. Nana had spent so much time sitting in that chair, talking and reading to her, that she couldn’t look at it without thinking of him. Ayesha settled on the bed, folding her arms.
“She told me husbands are a distraction and that I should never rely on a man.”
Nana sighed. “Aren’t you too old to be angry at your mother?” he asked gently. “Saleha has not let go of her anger, and it has made her so unhappy. I don’t want to see that happen to you as well.”
“I don’t think she’ll ever forgive Dad, but she won’t talk about it either. It’s not his fault that he died.”
Nana looked down at his hands. “It was such a shock,” he said quietly. “Such a time of darkness in our family. Your mother was not raised to expect . . . She was not ready to deal with the aftermath of such a tragedy. Your Nani and I—we wanted nothing but the very best for our children. I thought it would break her, but she survived. She wants you to be stronger, ready for any catastrophe.”
Ayesha drew her knees up to her chin, curling her body against the headboard. “It’s like she hates him. She doesn’t have any pictures of him, and she never talks about Dad. I lost something too when he died.”
“‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be,’” Nana quoted. It was not lost on Ayesha that he was quoting Ophelia. “Her anger is so strong because it once fuelled a very great love.”
Nana’s loyalty to Saleha was instinctive. Ayesha only wished he was more forthcoming about her father. Her mother and her grandparents were silent on the circumstances surrounding his death, and she had tried in vain to tease out details in various ways over the years.
“Don’t you miss Hyderabad?” she asked instead.
“My life is here, with you,” Nana said, as he always did. “Sometimes I miss my classes at the university, and my books. My library took over the entire first floor of our house. Nani was jealous of my collection. She said I loved it more than her. She was wrong, of course. I brought her when we moved, not my books.” His tone was wistful, and Ayesha felt a well of sadness for all those orphaned volumes. “Your mother loved the Hardy Boys and Agatha Christie mysteries best of all.”
And now I get to live one, Ayesha thought. Whenever Ayesha and Idris asked questions about their father’s death, they were deflected or ignored. At first she thought it was because the subject was too painful. Lately she had started to wonder if her father had been involved in something illegal, a scandal that justified her mother’s anger.
“What sort of man was my father?” she asked. “Was he a good man?”
Nana was silent once more. “Goodness is for Allah to judge. But I can tell you this, jaanu. I have never met a man of more honour than Syed Ahmad Shamsi.” Nana stood up to leave and Ayesha rose too. She wanted him to continue talking about her father.
“Samira Aunty offered to send Hafsa’s excess rishtas my way,” she said. “Did you arrange Mom and Dad’s marriage?”
Nana hesitated. “No,” he said. He reached for the doorknob.
“I thought all marriages were arranged in India.”
Nana started laughing. “Young people. Do you think you invented love and romance?”
“What do you mean?”
“‘No sooner met but they looked, no sooner looked but they loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason, no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy; and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage,’” Nana recited as he walked out into the hallway.
Ayesha followed him. “Can you please stop quoting Shakespeare for one minute. They fell in love and you let them marry?”
“They were so happy, jaanu,” he said simply. “I could never be a barrier to such happiness. Saleha must remember that and find her peace.”
His words held a note of finality as he wished her good night. Ayesha returned to her room, pensive, and set the alarm. It was already past midnight, and tomorrow would be another long day spent managing students, and then managing Hafsa at the conference meeting. She was too tired to be angry at her mother and her secrets, or at fundy Khalid and his comments.
Besides, it was not as if she would ever see him again.
Chapter Seven
A headache throbbed behind Khalid’s eyes, making it hard for him to concentrate on the code he was troubleshooting for one of his developers. The script kept blurring on his monitor and the office felt stuffy and airless. Sleep had eluded him last night. Now, no matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about Bella’s.
They had been joined there by Amir’s friends Mo and Ethan. The trio had high-fived and cracked jokes, Khalid’s presence a source of great amusement.
“Yo, this a prayer meeting?” Mo asked when Amir had introduced Khalid. Ethan snickered.
“You got any shawarma hidden under that robe?” Ethan asked. “How about a Persian rug?”
Khalid knew they were trying to be funny, but their teasing, combined with the loud noises and unfamiliar smell of alcohol, made him feel irritable and ill at ease.
“You look like you belong in one of those videos Amir likes to watch, with the unveiled girls,” Mo said, but Amir hushed him.
The trio began downing shots and Amir was soon drunk, Khalid bored. A thought drifted into his mind: How would it feel to behave as Amir did, so loose-limbed and free of inhibitions? Would he be happier if he drank alcohol too, instead of just watching from the sidelines? He looked at his friend. No, that was not for him.
Khalid was eyeing the exits when he noticed the woman in hijab. She looked comfortable sitting alone at her table, golden-brown skin shadowed in the dimly lit room, her face arresting and familiar. He made the connection after a few minutes: the girl with the red mug! His disappointment hollowed out his stomach and loosened his tongue.
He had only seen her in their neighbourhood, bathed in early-morning sunshine and filled with purpose. Not sitting comfortably in this seedy lounge. A good Muslim would never frequent such an establishment.
He felt the weight of his white robe at that moment, the skullcap on his head bearing down. He knew he had no right to be upset, but he couldn’t help it. She didn’t belong here.
Or rather, the person he’d thought she was didn’t belong here.
Then the girl with the red mug was onstage. He had tried to keep his eyes modestly lowered, even when her voice moved over him like a silken caress. But when she flung her final lines at the audience—What do I see when I look at you? I see another human being who doesn’t have a clue—Khalid was on his feet and walking toward the exit. He knew he would do something incredibly foolish if he stayed.
Like walk up to her and ask, “What is a good Muslim doing in a place like this?”
&nb
sp; Or worse: “Do you want to leave with me?”
Now Khalid banished his ricocheting thoughts and knocked on Sheila’s half-open office door. His boss motioned for him to take a seat and gave him a discreet once-over, her eyes lingering on his white robe and skullcap.
“Thank you for coming today, Khalid. I’m eager to discuss your performance and future at Livetech,” she said, shuffling papers around until she found a file with his name on it.
The door to the office opened and Clara walked in and smiled warmly at Khalid.
Their familiarity was not lost on Sheila, who fixed cold blue eyes on Khalid. “I met your office mate, Amir, on Friday,” she said, pronouncing his friend’s name Ahhh-mare. “We chatted for a while. I found it interesting that he had no problem shaking my hand. He seems like a good fit at Livetech.”
There was an awkward pause.
Sheila continued. “Khalid, let me start off by saying that according to your employee records, your performance has been consistently acceptable. Clara has talked to many of your co-workers, and everyone said you are an asset to the team. I called this meeting because I wanted to discuss a few matters. I believe in a transparent work relationship between management and employees.”
Clara took a deep breath and seemed to plunge in. “As the regional manager of HR, Khalid, I think it’s important to hear Sheila’s concerns. In particular, she has some thoughts about your emphasis on religion in the workplace.”
“What do you mean?” Khalid asked, taken aback.
“Are you comfortable reporting to a female director?” Clara asked, her eyes conveying a subtle warning.
Khalid was confused. “I have no problem working with women. I have no wish to cause discomfort through my actions or words.”
Clara gave Khalid an encouraging smile before she continued. “Since we are on this topic, I also wanted to bring your attention to the Livetech employee dress code. Sheila is concerned that your . . . cultural clothing stands out in a work environment. We want to ensure that you feel comfortable with your colleagues.”
“As a member of the Livetech executive team, you are required to look professional at all times,” Sheila added, her eyes flicking to Khalid’s white robe and beard. She smiled stiffly at him. “We have to present a united front to our clients.”
Khalid looked down at his clothes, heart sinking. Not this again. “I don’t understand the problem,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “If you can wear a dress to work, why can’t I?”
Both women, momentarily speechless, stared at him. He forced himself to stand, despite his shaking legs.
“Clara, Sheila, thank you for your concern, but I am very happy at Livetech. I must return to my office to attend to urgent matters.” He nearly ran for the door, closing it firmly behind him.
The women exchanged glances: Clara was chagrined and embarrassed, Sheila furious.
“I’m very disappointed with your performance today,” Sheila said. “His co-workers must be covering for him.”
Clara gathered her files and tried to keep the note of impatience from her voice. “I talked to everyone he’s ever worked with. People find him a little odd, but he’s also reliable and hard working. If you get rid of him, he might sue for religious intolerance. My advice would be to leave him alone.”
“What if he’s one of those undercover Islamists? Just this morning I asked him about the empty water bottle he carries to the bathroom. He said that Moslems have to purify themselves with water every time they use the facilities. Who knows what they really keep in there!”
Clara flushed red at Sheila’s words, irritation tipping over into anger. “I think you’ve been watching too much Fox News,” she said evenly. “I also don’t think you should refer to Khalid, or any other Muslim, as ‘they’ or ‘them.’ We have employees from all over the world and from all religious backgrounds at Livetech. Academic studies have consistently demonstrated that diversity among employees leads to greater creativity and higher profits.”
Sheila’s eyes were narrowed. “I thought we understood each other. Your job is to help me remove the rotten apples from the orchard, not to attempt rehabilitation. Clara, you don’t know what these people are like. In Saudi Arabia, I wasn’t even allowed to leave the compound by myself!”
“We’re not in Saudi Arabia, Sheila.”
“Someone should tell that to Khalid.”
“Actually, I think his background is South Asian.”
When Clara left the office shortly after, she was sure of two things. One, Khalid needed help, and as the new HR manager at Livetech, it was her job to make sure he wasn’t unfairly dismissed. And two, the only rotten apple in this orchard was sitting in the director’s office, googling “Islamist water bottles.”
Chapter Eight
Khalid sat at his desk, mind spinning after the conversation with Sheila. It was clear that his boss didn’t like him, but why? Was his job in jeopardy because of the way he dressed? He had worn white thawbs to work every day for the last five years, with no complaints. His old boss, John, had even complimented their elegance.
Amir noticed his distraction. “Why did Sheila ask to see you?”
“I don’t know. She had a file folder with my name on it.” Khalid couldn’t keep the note of panic out of his voice. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. “When she requested a meeting, I didn’t think HR would be there. That’s a bad sign, right?” Khalid’s throat felt like it was closing and he forced himself to take deep breaths and calm his racing heart.
Amir shook his head. “I thought there was something going on. That hot chick, the new HR girl, was asking about you. Maybe you should just shake Sheila’s hand and she’ll call off the witch hunt.”
“But it’s forbidden!”
“Forbidden is relative. How about losing the robe and prayer cap? I’ll help you pick out some nice shirts.”
“I like the way I dress.”
“You won’t last ten seconds if she’s out to get you. You know her nickname is ‘Sheila the Shark,’ right?” Amir sounded exasperated. “This political shit is everywhere. The least you can do is stay under the radar. Adopt some camouflage. That’s what I did when I moved here. I learned to blend in.”
“I thought I did blend in. I speak English, I work hard, I do my job well. What is the problem?”
Amir shook his head. “You’re being stubborn. It’s not about what you do. It’s how you look while you’re doing it. Start small: Stop washing your feet in the bathroom sink before prayer.”
“My religion is not something I’m willing to compromise.”
“Brother, don’t be an idiot.”
Khalid hid in the office for the rest of the day, feeling hunted and vulnerable, and when five o’clock rolled around, he hurried toward the subway station. He was so upset he didn’t even read his Quran on the train. Instead he looked around the subway car.
The passengers directly across from him—an old man, a young corporate type, a few students—were all staring into their phones or newspapers. He caught the eye of a man in a business suit across from him, who shifted uncomfortably and looked away.
Are they afraid of me? Khalid wondered. When Sheila looks at me, what does she see?
The assumptions he saw in strangers’ eyes as they took in his beard and skullcap were painful to acknowledge. Khalid had considered shaving or changing his wardrobe many times over the years. It would be easier for the people around him, but it wouldn’t feel right. This is who I am, he thought. This thought was quickly followed by another: If it comes down to my clothes or my job, there’s no contest. I’ll quit.
Except he couldn’t quit. He needed the money. Not so much for himself—Khalid lived simply—but for his sister. He sent Zareena money every month, and he knew she counted on it.
Khalid didn’t feel like going home right away. His mother would ask about his day, and then he would have to lie. If he told her about the conversation with Sheila, she would demand that he go to the Hu
man Rights Commission, or that he be made director of Livetech.
Instead he headed to the only place he felt entirely comfortable: the mosque.
The Toronto Muslim Assembly was located at a busy intersection five minutes away from their new home. It had taken the working-class congregation twenty-five years of fundraising to gather enough money for the land and construction of the building, which included a large prayer hall, a small gym where teenagers played basketball and floor hockey, and a dozen offices and classrooms. With its minaret, large copper dome and white stucco exterior, the mosque was instantly recognizable among the surrounding fast food restaurants and industrial units.
As Khalid entered the building, his shoulders relaxed. His fists, which he hadn’t realized were clenched, loosened and he took a deep breath. He made his way to the large prayer hall, an empty space banked by ten-foot-high windows. The floor where congregants lined up for the five daily prayers was covered in two-foot strips of alternating olive-green and beige carpet. Brass wall sconces cast a warm glow, and an enormous crystal chandelier hung above the oak pulpit where the imam delivered his weekly sermons. According to rumour, the chandelier had cost over $100,000, a gift from a wealthy business owner looking for a tax write-off.
The prayer hall could hold more than two thousand worshippers, and on occasions like the twice-yearly Eid celebrations, the building strained with people packed into hallways, gymnasium and classrooms. But for the five daily prayers, the building sat almost empty.
The prayer hall was enveloped in the hushed quiet of an art gallery. An elderly man sat in the back corner, worrying tasbih prayer beads. A large man in a bright-blue robe sat beside the pulpit bent over a book, forehead furrowed in concentration. The man spotted Khalid’s approach and broke into a broad smile, calling out “Assalamu Alaikum.”
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