Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Vanessa stopped him at the door with a question.

  “Khalid, is there really any point?” Brown eyes blinked at him behind large electric-blue frames. “She’s setting you up, honey. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t like you. Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Maybe she doesn’t like the way you look, or dress, or that fluff on your face. We know how that goes, don’t we, girls?” The women around the table nodded in understanding. “Same thing happened to us when we worked at a lingerie company we’d rather not name.” She winked at him and he stared back, confused. Khalid couldn’t name a lingerie company if he tried. Whenever he went to the mall, he always averted his gaze from the flashing neon bosoms in the window display.

  “They didn’t like it when we told them you can’t make lingerie for a larger woman by adding more fabric. You’ve got to design with her in mind,” Lorraine said. “So when they showed us the door, Vanessa and I, we started from scratch. Livetech is the seventh company we’ve approached for our online business.” She looked around the table. “What do you say, ladies? We’re a democracy,” she said to Khalid. “We all have to agree on the big business decisions.”

  There was a murmur of voices as eight women huddled at one end of the board table. A few of them glanced at him, scrutinizing his face, lingering on his white robe and beard.

  Finally, the huddle broke and Vanessa said, “We like the look of you. I think we’ll try you on.”

  Khalid was surprised. “You don’t know anything about me. I haven’t designed a website since high school, and I don’t know anything about women’s lingerie.”

  “We like that you’re honest. It’s endearing in a man,” Vanessa said. “Livetech has a great reputation. We’ll get the contract started with HR. And honey, men never notice lingerie. It usually doesn’t stay on long enough.”

  Khalid blushed an even deeper red. “I’ll have to take your word on that. I’m not married.”

  Lorraine and Vanessa started laughing. “You are too much!” Lorraine said, wiping her eyes. “What does your girlfriend say about all this?”

  Khalid shifted uncomfortably. “My mother will find a wife for me. In the meantime, I have many interests to keep me busy.”

  Vanessa smiled slyly. “Are you telling me that a good-looking man like you doesn’t have someone in mind?”

  Copper skin and sharp brown eyes flashed in Khalid’s mind. “No,” he said. “That’s not the way this works for me.”

  “Oh, honey, nobody knows how this thing works. It just happens. Your heart and gut take over, and your mind has to go along with them, because it’s going to happen no matter what. Sometimes you get a sign, and sometimes the sign gets you.”

  Khalid mulled this over while Lorraine and Vanessa discussed inventory and design.

  Sheila strolled into the conference room. “Everything all right here, ladies?”

  Vanessa’s face grew cold. “Khalid is such a godsend, Ms. Watts,” she said. “We’ll be sure to tell Dev how happy we are with his willingness to help us out with our little company. There’s really no reason for you to check up on us. We’ll deal with Khalid exclusively from now on.” The meeting quickly wrapped up and the ladies filed out with promises to be in touch.

  Sheila glared at Khalid once the room had emptied. “They seemed happy.”

  Khalid gathered his laptop and notepad. “I think we understand each other.”

  “I hope so, Khalid,” Sheila said. She circled around to the other side of the conference table. “WomenFirst Design cleared twelve million dollars in profit last year. In fact, they’re so important I’m taking you off e-commerce to work exclusively with them. I hope that’s not a problem?”

  Khalid thought about the existing projects waiting for him, the server upgrade and virtual machine testing he had planned for this week. Sheila expected him to drop everything and design the website for a product he didn’t even understand. His stomach clenched with disappointment and frustration, but he kept his face expressionless.

  “No problem at all,” he said. “I look forward to the challenge.”

  IT was probably the extra-large helping of chicken curry so late at night, but Khalid had trouble sleeping again. His biryani burps kept him staring at the ceiling for hours. When he did drift off, he dreamt of his father. He got out of bed at five, showered and drove to the mosque.

  Khalid used to attend Fajr almost every day with his father, back in their old neighbourhood. Ever since his dad had died, he hadn’t been so diligent about attending the pre-dawn prayer at the mosque and usually prayed at home.

  There were only a dozen people in the congregation that morning. He nodded and smiled at a few familiar faces before sitting down cross-legged at the front of the prayer hall, thinking more about his father, Faheem Mirza.

  Faheem had been a gentle, quiet man. He’d worked for the government as an accountant, auditing large companies. He was one of the first openly religious Muslim men in his department in the early 1980s, and Khalid knew that his co-workers had not been kind about his teetotalling and diligence for afternoon prayer. Faheem had missed opportunities to advance while his co-workers ingratiated themselves with superiors over drinks after work.

  After Zareena’s scandal had been fully revealed, Faheem retreated from the family, staying later at work and allowing his wife to deal with the situation. When Zareena had left home nearly twelve years ago, Faheem had said nothing at the airport. Khalid thought it was because of the shame he felt, but in the weeks that followed, he had often caught his father weeping silently. He never talked about his daughter, and as the years passed, he spoke less and less to anyone else. Khalid remembered him at the outskirts of conversations, listening with a faint smile on his face. But his curtain of sadness never fully lifted.

  A massive heart attack had killed Faheem instantly last fall. The janazah funeral prayer was attended by nearly five hundred people at their old mosque. For a quiet man, he had many friends.

  Zareena had not been among the mourners. Khalid had broken the news to her himself, violating their email-and-text-only arrangement to call long distance. He couldn’t stand the thought of his only sister finding out about their father’s death through some gossipy neighbour. She was quiet on the phone and hung up quickly.

  Six months later, Khalid still missed his father deeply. His mother made him feel like a young child, but Faheem had never been like that. A man of few words, he’d listened to Khalid and only given advice when asked.

  Though in this instance, Khalid wasn’t sure what advice he wanted. What do you do when you can’t get a woman’s face out of your mind? He would be too embarrassed to ask his father such a personal question. And there was only one answer: You do nothing.

  Khalid reached for his cell phone and quickly composed an email to his sister.

  Salams, Z,

  It’s early morning and I was thinking about Abba. Remember when he took us fishing, except he forgot to buy the bait, or ask for instructions? Thank God that nice family took pity on us and shared their worms.

  By the way, I wired you the money, as requested. I’m glad to hear you are volunteering at a school.

  As for me, I’m busy with the usual—work and mosque events. The imam wants to host a youth conference over the July long weekend, which doesn’t leave us a lot of time. Another woman is working with me to get things organized. I think you’d like her. She’s a poet and I made her angry when we spoke. I’m still not sure why.

  I miss you.

  K

  He pressed Send and lined up as the prayer began.

  When Khalid arrived home at six, his mother was still sleeping. He removed some sourdough bread from the fridge and beat three eggs with cream and cinnamon. One at a time, he dunked four slices of bread into the batter and fried the French toast, spreading each slice with a peanut butter and Nutella mixture. His phone pinged with an incoming email just as he was sitting down with breakfast and a large mug of chai.

  Salams!

>   Got the loot, thanks so much. I hate to do this, but I need a bit extra, if you can manage. I have some more gifts and stuff to distribute. I promise to pay you back. In fact, I’m going to start paying you back right now, with some advice: Go for it!

  In all the long, tedious years you’ve been writing to me, you have NEVER, not ONCE, talked about a girl. I was starting to wonder what team you played for, not that I’m judging.

  I mean, it’s not as if you’re the easiest guy to talk to, not if you still wear those white dresses and refuse to trim your beard. (Seriously, it’s like you WANT to be racially profiled.) Btw, she’s probably mad at something stupid you said.

  Take my advice. Keep talking, try to smile (you know how to do that, right?). You’re not completely repulsive when you smile.

  And keep me posted! This is better than a Pakistani drama!

  —Z

  P.S. Hollywood scandals and those sprinkle donuts from Tim Hortons.

  Khalid nearly spit out his chai as he read, and then he looked around to make sure his mother was not there. He quickly typed a response.

  Z,

  I’ll wire the money tonight.

  There is nothing going on with me and the woman from the mosque. This is not the way things are arranged. Ammi will find me a suitable wife. Love blossoms after marriage.

  —K

  His sister’s email had one good effect—if she thought he should pursue Hafsa, then he needed to do the exact opposite.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ashi Apa, something super important just came up and I can’t go to the conference meeting. Can you pretend to be me for one more night? xox

  Hafsa sent the text fifteen minutes before the meeting. Just enough time for Ayesha to either leave for the mosque or call her cousin demanding to know what was going on. Mindful of the promise she had made her uncle, Ayesha grabbed her car keys and vowed to get to the bottom of Hafsa’s well-timed disappearance later.

  When she entered the conference room, Tarek smiled lazily at her, looking gorgeous in a fitted blue shirt that showed off his broad chest. Khalid didn’t raise his eyes from the table, and Imam Abdul Bari beamed as she settled into her usual spot by the door.

  “Sister Hafsa, we need your expertise for the conference program,” the imam said, pointing at a board filled with agenda items.

  Ayesha felt irritated and grumpy as she looked at the whiteboard, silently fuming at Hafsa for putting her in this situation again. She scowled at the lineup of events and speakers. “I thought this conference was supposed to engage young people. The agenda is full of boring lectures.”

  “Our attendees expect inspiring speeches and big-name speakers, like Sheikh Rafeek. We’re giving them what they want,” Tarek said.

  Ayesha frowned. “You mean you’re giving them what they’re used to.”

  Khalid looked up from his examination of the table.

  “I also see a big problem with the diversity of your speakers,” she continued.

  Tarek was confused. “This is a Muslim conference. The speakers will also be Muslim.”

  Ayesha shook her head. “They’re all men. Where are the women? Why does 50 percent of your demographic have no representation in your speaker lineup?”

  “It’s a question of availability and quality. The more well-known speakers are men,” Tarek explained with a smile. Ayesha looked askance. His Prince Charming good looks seemed less overwhelming today.

  “You said this conference was meant to engage young people. This is the perfect opportunity to try something crazy, like maybe inviting the same number of male and female speakers. You should stand behind your name, Muslims in Action. That means you actually have to act.”

  “There simply aren’t any women—” Tarek continued, the smile on his face slipping.

  “Sister Hafsa is a poet,” Khalid interrupted.

  “I don’t mean me,” Ayesha said.

  “I’ve seen you perform.” Khalid held Ayesha’s gaze. “You would electrify any audience.”

  “An excellent idea!” Imam Abdul Bari said, smiling broadly. “Homegrown talent will be a wonderful addition to our conference. Sister Hafsa is right. We should make gender equity among speakers a priority.”

  Khalid went back to his contemplation of the table. Ayesha turned over his words in her mind. Electrify?

  “Any other suggestions, Sister Hafsa?” the imam asked.

  “You need more of an online presence. I tried googling our conference the other day, and I found no mention of it on your website, not even the date.”

  A look of alarm crossed Tarek’s face. “Our website is under construction,” he said.

  “You said this conference was being put together quickly. How can you get the word out if you don’t post promo videos on YouTube and information about it on social media? If you want to target youth, you have to spread the message where they live. How did you attract people to your last conference?”

  Tarek shrugged and smiled at her. “Word of mouth. News spreads so quickly in our community. Even faster than the internet.”

  Ayesha was not moved by his charm. “If you want to attract over a thousand participants, you need a media campaign. It’s already late to really get the word out in a big way. You need to announce details online immediately.”

  Imam Abdul Bari muttered, “Excellent, excellent,” as he wrote down her suggestions on the whiteboard. He looked up. “Sister Hafsa, since you have a way with words, can you put together something for the bird and the book to say?”

  Ayesha was confused.

  “He means Twitter and Facebook,” Khalid said with a sidelong glance.

  “And Brother Khalid, you work with computers. Can I ask you and Sister Hafsa to set up things on the worldly computer system?” Abdul Bari asked.

  Khalid looked blank.

  “I think he means a website,” Ayesha said.

  The imam beamed at them both. “You are both so talented. May Allah reward you. Brother Tarek, I have some ideas for female speakers. Would you come with me to my office?” He stood up and motioned for Tarek to follow him outside.

  “You don’t look like someone who listens to poetry,” Ayesha said to Khalid when the other men had left.

  “I enjoy a well-written turn of phrase. There are many methods of self-expression, Hafsa,” Khalid said carefully. “Or do you prefer to go by Grand Master Shamsi?”

  Ayesha flushed. “Why does my name matter? You’re so quick to put a label on my identity. Does an outspoken woman offend you that much?”

  “Clearly you have never met my mother,” Khalid said. “I can understand why you use a stage name. It is easier to say some things from behind a mask.”

  Ayesha frowned. Was Khalid trying to be funny again? His eyes were lowered so she couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was hitting too close to home. He hadn’t wanted to be introduced to her when he thought she was a boozy Bella’s patron. It was none of his business if she wanted to pretend to be someone else at the mosque too.

  Besides, a man who grew a beard that thick knew a thing or two about hiding.

  “The last line of your poem was very powerful,” Khalid said. “‘What do I see when I look at you? I see another human being who doesn’t have a clue.’ People are so quick to judge others based on appearance and first impressions.”

  That sealed it. Khalid did not deserve to know her real name. He just wanted to put her in a box he could label; she wasn’t in the mood to be so easily defined.

  “You mean the way you did, at the bar when you first saw me,” Ayesha said. She smiled thinly at him. “And you can call me Hafsa.”

  “As you did in the mosque when you first recognized me, Hafsa,” Khalid said. “And I believe Bella’s is a lounge, not a bar.”

  Definitely trying to be funny. Ayesha’s lips twitched despite her best effort. She wanted to continue feeling angry but found it difficult to maintain her irritation. Khalid was surprisingly easy to talk to.

  “So you admit you misjudge
d me. Yet you think others misjudge you. That makes you a hypocrite,” Ayesha said.

  Khalid shrugged. “My hypocrisy or lack thereof is for Allah to judge. Nobody is perfect. Everyone has a tendency to some particular evil that not even the most fervent prayers and education can overcome.”

  “Your defect is a tendency to judge everyone,” Ayesha said.

  “And yours,” he said with a smile, “is to willfully misunderstand them.”

  Khalid’s smile transformed his face, like a cold room warmed by a portable heater. She felt it warm her, and her heart began to beat faster. Oh no, she thought. Not him. Anyone but him.

  Khalid continued. “While I don’t think women should perform onstage, if you were dressed modestly in a long robe, it would be all right. Or you could stand behind a screen, as they do in blind music auditions.”

  Ayesha’s momentary flare of attraction vanished. “Stand behind a screen? Wear a long robe? Are you serious?”

  Khalid was mystified. “I’m simply suggesting a few ideas.”

  Ayesha sat back in her chair, contemplating the bearded man before her. She knew she should take him to task for his ridiculous ideas, but he looked so confused, she couldn’t help but smile.

  “What is so funny?” Khalid asked.

  “You are, and you don’t even know it.”

  Khalid patted his head and shoulders. He wiped his mouth. “Is there something on my face?” he asked, bewildered.

  Ayesha laughed out loud, a throaty chuckle. He blushed a deep red and dropped his eyes to the ground.

  “You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Ayesha asked. She was still smiling at him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  “There is a mirror in my bathroom I use on occasion,” he said.

  Ayesha laughed again, and Khalid’s face changed.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said abruptly, and he walked out of the room.

  Which was just as well, Ayesha thought. They had no real business speaking to each other; after all, she wasn’t supposed to be here. In fact, she wasn’t really here at all—Hafsa was.