When the slideshow concluded, Imam Abdul Bari leaned close to Tarek to confer quietly with him for several minutes. Khalid used the opportunity to discreetly slide the purple notebook to Ayesha.
“I apologize for my rudeness in the prayer hall,” he said in a low voice. “I assure you, it is not my habit to watch women sleep inside the mosque. Though to be fair, there usually aren’t any to watch.” Khalid smiled slightly.
“Is that a joke?” Ayesha said, grabbing the notebook. “Someone who looks like you should avoid humour. You’ll only confuse people.”
“And someone who dresses as you do should not frequent a bar,” Khalid said. “Hijab and alcohol don’t mix.”
“It’s a lounge, not a bar, and I could say the same of you. What were you even doing at Bella’s? Designated driver?”
“I was attempting to socialize with my work colleagues. However, the experience was not pleasant. I will not be returning.”
“Bella’s will be lost without you,” Ayesha snapped.
“I suggest you do likewise. You don’t want to attract the wrong type of attention,” Khalid said, thinking of Mo and his comments.
Ayesha was furious now. “Maybe that’s the whole point, Khalid. Maybe I like to stick out. You should know all about that—you’re the one walking around in bedsheets.”
Khalid’s head was lowered, but she could see his lips twitch. Was he laughing at her?
“You are free to do as you please,” Khalid said after a beat. “I was simply trying to look out for a fellow Muslim, Hafsa.”
Ayesha flushed with embarrassment. She’d been trying to have some harmless fun with her “Hafsa” impersonation but now she found herself arguing with Khalid. Why couldn’t she just let him be? It was not as if she cared what he thought of her.
She gathered her bag and notebook and left the room. She had no plans to return to this stupid conference committee with its stupid, judgmental peeping Tom. Sulaiman Mamu could find another babysitter for the Real Hafsa.
KHALID was about to leave when Tarek stopped him.
“Brother Khalid, right?” Tarek smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “You look so familiar.”
“I’m at the mosque a lot,” Khalid said. He wanted to follow Hafsa and apologize again for staring at her in the prayer hall. Though he had limited experience with women, Khalid could tell when he had pissed one off. He didn’t want her to be angry with him, since they would be working so closely on the conference.
Tarek shook his head. “I don’t live in the area, but I feel as if I know you. This is going to bug me.” He scrunched his face, thinking hard. “Wait. Do you have a sister?”
Khalid stopped fiddling with his bag. “What?”
“You’re Zareena Mirza’s brother,” Tarek said, smiling broadly. “You look just like her. How is she doing?”
Khalid picked up his bag and Quran. “I’m sorry, I have to go. My mother is waiting for me.” He rushed out of the room before Tarek could ask anything else.
Chapter Ten
The next day, Nana was on the couch watching a gardening show when Ayesha returned from work. He was holding a sketchbook and drawing carefully. She flopped down beside him.
“Strategizing already?” she asked her grandfather.
“I don’t know how Mr. Chen sleeps at night. His win was clearly fraudulent,” Nana said, not taking his eyes from the screen.
“His roses looked pretty big to me.”
Nana stared at her, indignant. “Size has nothing to do with the quality of the flower. My chrysanthemums were smaller because they were bred that way. Their delicate colours were most attractive. Mr. Chen seduced the gardening board with his tacky pink roses.”
Ayesha smothered a laugh. Mr. Chen, who lived two houses away, was Nana’s frenemy. The men constantly compared the success of their children and grandchildren, and were bitter rivals in the neighbourhood Garden and Beautification Competition. Nana had lost three years running and was determined to win this time.
“What’s inside the Victory Garden this year?” she asked.
“My muse and I are still discussing. ‘The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odour, which doth in it live.’”
“A Winter’s Tale?”
“‘Sonnet 54.’ I think you need a refresher course in Shakespeare, jaanu.”
Her cell phone rang. “Ayesha, come quick! Hafsa said she will not meet him without you,” Samira Aunty’s panicked voice shouted down the line.
“Meet who?” Ayesha asked.
“Whom,” Nana said absently, adding petals to his sketch.
“Please, Ayesha! They will be here any minute and Hafsa is still in her room!” Samira Aunty hung up. Ayesha looked blankly at her grandfather.
“Your Nani is already there. I do not approve of this outmoded mating ritual,” said Nana. “Also, Garden High Life is on the television. If you wish to offer Hafsa moral support, I suggest you hurry.”
Ayesha sighed. She was not sure what was going on exactly, only that Hafsa was dragging her into this ridiculous rishta quest whether she liked it or not.
She walked slowly to the Taj Mahal, smiling at the grandmothers and little kids she met along the way. When she arrived at her cousin’s home, the front door was unlocked and there was a flurry of activity inside. Hafsa’s three sisters were wiping down counters and frying samosas in the kitchen, Samira Aunty pinning her hijab in the hallway. She motioned Ayesha upstairs.
Hafsa was sitting on her bed, staring off into space. She jumped up when she caught sight of her cousin and fell into her arms. “Oh Ayesha, you’re so lucky you never had any rishta proposals. Waiting is the worst part! What if he’s the one? I’ve only had twenty-two proposals so far. He’ll think I’m giving it up too easily.”
“You’ve had seventeen proposals since Friday?” Ayesha asked.
“This is the first one to show up at the door. Mom said they were really insistent. I guess word is starting to spread about my availability.” Hafsa applied pink lip gloss and reached for a floral-printed hijab. It had bright-pink roses on it, Ayesha noted.
“From the way Samira Aunty was talking, I thought there was an emergency,” Ayesha said.
“I told her I wouldn’t see the guy until you came. I need my Ashi Apa to hold my hand.” Hafsa twirled. “How do I look?” She was wearing a white-and-pink shalwar kameez, a long tunic with pants. It was decorated with delicate gold embroidery along the hem and sleeves. Her face was flushed; she looked like a painted porcelain doll.
“Perfect,” Ayesha said simply. “You’re going to break his heart.” Ayesha was still in her work clothes: black straight-cut trousers, a white dress shirt and an unflattering black cardigan, ready to play the unwanted spinster relation.
When they emerged from Hafsa’s bedroom, they heard voices downstairs in the living room. Ayesha and Hafsa tiptoed into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Ayesha asked her younger cousins.
“Not sure. Mom told us to stay here and get the tray ready,” said eleven-year-old Hira.
“Hafsa has to bring in the tea and snacks,” Maliha said. “Don’t drop it.”
“That tray is too heavy for me,” Hafsa said. “I’ll get chai all over my new shalwar.”
“I’ll do it,” Ayesha said. She picked up the treat-laden tray, which held brightly patterned bone china cups, a teapot, milk, sugar, a bowl of spicy Indian chaat mix and a plate overflowing with samosas.
Hafsa stepped daintily into the living room. Ayesha followed close behind and placed the tray on an ornately carved walnut coffee table before taking a seat beside Nani.
Two women were perched on the gold brocade couch across from them, both wearing bright shalwar kameez and hijabs. The prospective groom was nowhere in sight. After a beat of silence, one of the women leaned forward and looked at Ayesha.
“Did you make the samosas yourself?” she asked abruptly. The woman was younger than her companion, in her mid-forties. The shawl draped l
oosely around her neck revealed a colour difference between the lighter foundation on her face and the rest of her body. Her clothes were fashionable, and she wore gold rings on every finger, including her thumb.
Ayesha was confused. “No, we bought them from the grocery store.”
The other lady, older and severe looking despite her bright-blue hijab and orange shalwar kameez, frowned. A massive gold bangle, two inches in diameter and inlaid with red stones, dwarfed her small hand. “My son is so fond of homemade samosas. Tell me, what do you cook at home?”
Still confused, Ayesha answered, eyes on the winking, opulent bangle. “I’m not much of a cook. My Nani is a gourmet. She spoils us rotten.” She smiled at her grandmother. “I’m very busy with work right now.”
Severe Aunty frowned even more, cementing the lines on her face. She looked dissatisfied as she gave Ayesha the once-over, taking in her entire outfit from top to bottom.
“Are you a receptionist of some kind?” she asked Ayesha.
“I teach high school.”
“I suppose that is an acceptable job for a woman. After marriage, you will quit your job.”
Her words dropped like a bomb in the room, and Ayesha couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Severe Aunty and Foundation-Mismatch Aunty both stared at her, highly affronted.
Samira Aunty interjected. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Farzana and Aliyah. This is my eldest daughter,” she said, indicating Hafsa. “Ayesha is my niece. She is seven years older than Hafsa,” she added.
Both women turned to look at Hafsa and examined her with more interest. They began their interrogation without giving Ayesha another glance.
“Did you fry these samosas?” Aliyah, a.k.a Foundation-Mismatch Aunty, asked.
“My sisters did. I made the cookies, though,” Hafsa answered.
Farzana, a.k.a. Severe Aunty, picked up the biscuit—store-bought Chunky Chips Ahoy, Ayesha noted—and took a bite. “My son likes cookies,” she said.
The questions came lightning-fast:
Do you pray five times a day?
What did you study in school?
What are your hobbies?
Do you know how to read the Quran? Can you recite Surah Yaseen by heart?
Hafsa answered as best she could, stammering and blushing prettily. Samira Aunty and Nani were shocked into silence by the interrogation, until finally Ayesha interrupted. She could stand their rudeness no more.
“Where is your mysterious son?” she asked.
Both aunties shifted uncomfortably. “He is very shy. We are here to arrange matters for him,” Farzana said. “If things go well, I will show him a picture of Hafsa and let him decide.”
“I think the girl in question might have some say in the matter,” Ayesha said evenly. “Hafsa, do you have any questions you would like to ask? Maybe the boy’s name?”
Hafsa blushed. She clearly did not appreciate Ayesha’s question, or her lack of rishta game.
“How about his age, his job, his hobbies, whether he prays and if he can recite Surah Yaseen by heart?” Ayesha asked sweetly.
Samira Aunty cut in. “How long have you lived in the neighbourhood, Farzana?” she asked.
“A few months only. Your husband does well, I see,” Farzana said, looking at the ornate furnishings. “How much money does he make every year?”
Ayesha looked sidelong at her Nani, who was sitting ramrod-straight and observing the conversation impassively. Nani squeezed her hand, trying to compel Ayesha to hold her fire before it became a bloodbath.
“How much money does your mysterious son make?” Ayesha asked, undeterred.
Farzana looked at her dismissively. “It is so difficult to find a truly well-trained girl these days. So many modern ideas about education and careers. When I was growing up, a girl knew her role.”
“So true, Farzana,” Aliyah said. “A girl should know how to cook at least three different types of rice, twelve or more meat dishes and at least as many vegetable curries. When I was married, I had sixty-five recipes memorized,” she added.
Farzana nodded. “Finally, she should show a deference and modesty of character. She must not speak when her elders are talking. She must be quiet and refined, never gossip or joke. I find a girl who laughs in public has been raised in a very inferior household. She must never talk back to her mother-in-law, and should spend her days sewing, cooking and reading the Quran.”
Ayesha smothered her laughter. “I never met such a woman,” she said. “Such a young person does not exist outside Pakistani dramas. Besides, any man who would be happy with such a dud is probably not worth marrying.”
The two aunties stood up. “Thank you for the visit,” Aliyah said. They hugged Nani and Samira Aunty, smiled at Hafsa and turned their backs on Ayesha.
Ayesha was clearing the dishes when Samira Aunty returned from walking Farzana and Aliyah to the door. “Jaanu, if it’s all the same to you, next time you should probably just stay at home.”
AYESHA left without saying goodbye to her cousins, anger increasing her pace to a walking run. Nana was right; she wanted no part in this outmoded dating ritual! She was halfway to the townhouse when Hafsa caught up to her.
“You walk fast,” her cousin said, panting.
Ayesha slowed down. “I don’t know how you could just sit there. Those ladies were awful.”
“I’ve read worse on the rishta forums.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The subreddit, Ashi Apa. Compared to what some girls post, those aunties were baby dragons. Though it was a little weird they didn’t bring their son. Maybe he’s really hideous. Or maybe he’s really famous!” Her eyes lit up. “What if he’s a Bollywood movie star?”
“Is this how you want to get married?” Ayesha faced her cousin.
Hafsa shrugged. “It’s actually kind of fun to meet the rishta and his parents. Think about it—all these guys drive to my house to take a look at me. I feel like a princess being courted by suitors. It’s like I’m on The Bachelorette.”
“Well, I’m glad you see it like that.”
Hafsa bit her bottom lip. “Listen, the reason I chased after you is because I need to ask a really huge favour. Imam Abdul Bari told Dad I came to the conference planning meeting yesterday. Dad was so happy he promised to give me money for my event planning business. Could you not mention the mix-up? I’ll be at the next meeting, and I’ll explain everything to the imam myself.”
Ayesha gave her cousin a shrewd look. “Where were you?”
Hafsa waved her hand airily. “Getting my eyebrows threaded. You’re the best!” She gave her a big hug.
Ayesha walked home in a more thoughtful mood. She wasn’t sure where Hafsa had been last night, but she did know one thing: Her cousin’s eyebrows hadn’t been threaded in weeks.
Then again, if it meant skipping all future conference planning meetings guilt-free, she would keep her mouth shut.
AYESHA was too annoyed to go home. Instead she drove to the condo Clara shared with Rob. She smiled at Malik, the security guard sitting at the condo reception desk. She came over so often, he just waved her through.
Rob opened the door, dressed in running shorts. “Clara’s on the can.” He motioned her inside. Their home was still full of Ikea furniture from university days, though they were both working “real” jobs now. “Clara!” he yelled. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He winked at her. “She’s in a mood. I’m heading down to the weight room.”
Ayesha settled into the grey couch and put her feet on the frayed leather bench.
“What are you doing here?” Clara was wearing a bathrobe, her hair wet.
“I’m thinking of divorcing my family,” Ayesha said. “What are you up to?”
Clara laughed. “What happened this time?”
“Hafsa got a rishta proposal. She needed me there to hold her hand.”
“She probably wanted you there so she could show off.”
“The aunties thought I was the bride
until Samira Aunty pointed them in the right direction. You should have seen the way they jumped on Hafsa. They were practically drooling.”
“You hate the bride-viewing thing,” Clara said. “I remember when you had a few rishtas in university, you didn’t even want to meet the guys.”
Ayesha absently etched circles on the couch with her finger. She wasn’t upset at the aunties’ cursory glances or their quick dismissal. Not entirely. “I know I said I don’t want to get married. It’s just . . . I don’t know how this is going to happen for me. You met the guy you wanted to be with forever when you were eighteen. I’m twenty-seven and I’ve never even been on a date or held a guy’s hand.”
“Well, there was Kevin in high school. He asked you to prom three times.” Clara started to laugh. “And don’t forget Mo from Bella’s. He’s cute.”
“I don’t want to date the guys I meet at Bella’s. It’s too much work to explain all of this,” Ayesha said, indicating her hijab. “They wouldn’t get it, and even if they did, that’s not what I want.”
“What about Khalid?” Clara asked, her voice casual.
Ayesha stared at her friend. “The guy from Bella’s? Forget it. He’s the kind of guy who scares people in shopping malls and gets randomly searched at airports. Khalid is a fundamentalist—he’ll stick out wherever he goes. I don’t want any of that.”
Clara looked at her blankly. “He’s not a fundamentalist,” she said. “You’re being judgmental.”
“I know his type,” Ayesha said darkly, thinking about the prayer hall. “The whole rishta proposal was so frustrating, and everyone just sat there like it was normal. Hafsa said she enjoyed the attention. What’s wrong with her? Or is there something wrong with me?”
“What did Nana say?” Clara had a soft spot for Ayesha’s grandfather. Her own grandparents lived in Florida and rarely visited.
“He called it an ‘outmoded mating ritual’ and stayed home to watch the gardening channel.”
Clara laughed again and settled next to Ayesha. “Your family is better than any soap opera. I just don’t get why you have to play the martyr.”
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