He stood up in search of the washroom, which was in the hallway near the kitchen. Khalid’s eyes looked wild in the vanity mirror, and he splashed cold water on his face. This is what I wanted, he reminded himself. Love blossoms after marriage.
When Khalid emerged, he was unsure whether to return to the living room or try to make a run for it. As he stood there considering his options, another conversation intruded on his thoughts. Yasmeen Aunty and Ruhi were talking in the kitchen, and Ruhi was not bothering to keep her voice down.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Yasmeen Aunty asked in Urdu. “They will think you’re mute!”
“I don’t want to be here,” Ruhi said, furious. “Farzana Aunty is a control freak, and her son is a boring mama’s boy. Why are you making me do this?”
“Do you have any idea how rich they are? Farzana is always boasting about the condos she owns and their property in India. Be reasonable, Ruhi. If you marry him, you’ll never have to work again. You can buy that BMW you always wanted.”
Ruhi was silent. Then: “Fine. I’ll talk to robot-boy.”
Khalid walked quickly back to the living room, heart thumping.
When Ruhi returned with another tray, she sat closer to Khalid. “Can I pour you some more tea?” she asked. “Milk and sugar?”
Khalid nodded and accepted the small china cup. She smiled shyly at him, then lowered her eyes and blushed becomingly. He gulped his tea and stood up. “Ammi, I have a meeting at the mosque tonight. We have to go.”
Farzana paused mid-sentence, surprised. But Khalid was determined, and they left soon after.
“That’s a good idea, to leave early,” his mother said as they walked to the car. “We must maintain the upper hand.”
Khalid kept his peace until they were in the car. “I don’t want to marry that girl. She only talked to me because her mother forced her to.”
Farzana patted her son’s arm. “Beta, this is all just a game. I have no intention of letting you marry that minx. We are only testing the waters, that’s all.”
His mother’s words made him uncomfortable. “This doesn’t feel right, Ammi. How would you feel if someone spoke like that about Zareena?”
“With your sister, we had to take what we could get,” Farzana said. “I don’t have to worry about that with you. Let me do my job.”
Khalid remained silent on the drive back, his thoughts ricocheting around in his head. Maybe his mother was wrong. Maybe there were other ways to find a wife, methods that didn’t involve awkward conversations and bribing possible brides with BMWs.
He thought about the cooking lesson with Hafsa’s Nani, the one he had been planning to cancel. It might be nice to learn from an experienced cook after all.
Also, grandparents made great chaperones. He had a feeling that where Hafsa was concerned, he needed one. He didn’t trust himself around her.
Chapter Seventeen
Ayesha returned home from school on Monday with her stomach full of butterflies. She couldn’t stop thinking about that night’s cooking lesson. She had spent the entire day waiting for Khalid to cancel, so sure he would back out that she hadn’t even bothered to ask Nani.
As the evening drew near, Ayesha’s nervousness grew and she checked her phone for messages again and again. Finally she could put it off no longer.
Nani was alone in the kitchen drinking chai. “Remember you wanted to teach me how to cook?” Ayesha asked.
Her grandmother looked up briefly. She was reading an Urdu magazine with a picture of a police detective on the cover.
Ayesha shifted her weight, hands clasped behind her. “My friend . . .” she began, then stopped. Was Khalid her friend? A colleague? Her Muslim brother?
“This guy I know . . .” she started, and this time Nani closed her magazine and looked at her granddaughter.
“You’re such a good cook,” Ayesha began again. “I was telling him about your food, and he really wants to learn a few authentic recipes, so I thought maybe you could give him a lesson on how to make your delicious parathas.”
Nani had a good poker face. “Is this the man you met the other night in the parking lot?” she asked. “The one from the mosque meetings?”
How did her Nani know about that? She was sure her grandmother didn’t keep up with mosque happenings, and she had met Khalid far from prying Aunty-Brigade eyes.
Nani was waiting for an answer, her face expressionless.
“Yes,” Ayesha said. “But how did you . . .” she trailed off as her grandmother shrugged.
“Imam Abdul Bari’s receptionist mentioned the conference meetings when I saw her at Hakim bhai’s grocery store last week. I assumed it was the same person who’d given you the plastic container of food. It makes sense to meet him somewhere far away from nosy aunties, and I know how fond you are of Bella’s. But you didn’t smell like cigarette smoke, as you usually do when you attend your poetry nights. So, the parking lot.” Nani was perusing the magazine again and didn’t notice Ayesha’s astonishment. Her grandmother looked up and smiled slightly. “His garam masala blend was quite impressive. Is your young man a chef?” she asked.
“He’s not my young man, and he’s not a chef.”
Nani nodded, turning a page of the magazine. “I can give him a lesson, so long as you promise to stay and learn something as well.”
The doorbell rang, and a light sweat broke out on Ayesha’s forehead.
“Can you give him a lesson right now?” she asked.
Nani put away her magazine, nonplussed. “Of course, rani,” she said, pulling out bowls and ingredients from the cupboard.
“Right. Um,” Ayesha floundered. “Can we just keep this between us? Mom will make a big deal, and Idris will take out his video camera. Also . . . he-thinks-I’m-Hafsa-I’ll-explain-later.” Ayesha’s heart was pounding as she walked to the front door.
Khalid was dressed in a black robe, his hair wet from the shower. He thrust flowers, white carnations, into Ayesha’s face. “For your Nani,” he said, and then he stood looking stupidly at her, which made her feel a little better. He was nervous too.
She led him to the kitchen for introductions. Ayesha hadn’t realized how tall Khalid was; he towered over Nani’s diminutive form. Her grandmother looked up at him, coolly assessing.
“It must be nice to get out of the office and work with your hands,” Nani said to Khalid. “Though making parathas is just as hard on your shoulders as sitting in front of a computer screen all day.”
Khalid looked at Ayesha, who only shook her head. “You’re right. I find cooking very relaxing,” he said.
“Maybe you will cook for your wife one day,” Nani said. “After you decide to settle down.”
Khalid nodded, and Ayesha noticed that he didn’t correct her grandmother. “Khalid’s mother will find him a wife,” she said to Nani.
“Then she should hurry up, before he finds a wife for himself,” Nani answered.
Khalid hid his confusion by reaching for a notebook in his bag. He titled a blank page and watched Nani assemble ingredients: flour, water, oil, yogourt, salt, baking soda.
“Rani, give your friend an apron. I don’t want him to get any flour on his clothes. His mother will wonder what he has been doing.”
Khalid gave Nani an appreciative glance and followed Ayesha to the pantry.
“Your grandmother is very perceptive,” he whispered as she rummaged in the cupboard, digging under kitchen towels.
“She’s happy to finally teach me a few things,” she said, passing him an ancient blue apron. A current of electricity shot between them as their fingers touched. Khalid leaned in and Ayesha closed her eyes and inhaled his scent: soap and a hint of clean-smelling cologne.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, his voice low and warm in her ear.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, keeping her eyes on his hand, only inches from hers. He walked back out to the kitchen and Ayesha followed.
Khalid picked up his pen an
d made notes in his book as Nani placed two cups of flour in a large glass bowl, then sprinkled in salt and baking soda. She added yogourt, oil and water, and started to mix with her hands. When Khalid asked how much of each ingredient she used, Nani shook her head.
“You need to use andaza,” she said.
Ayesha smiled at her grandmother’s use of the untranslatable concept of andaza. “Nani, you can’t just eyeball the ingredients,” she said.
“Not everything needs to be measured. The most important step is to mix well and give the ingredients time to sit together,” Nani said in Urdu. She kneaded as she talked, hands working until the dough became soft and pliable. She covered the bowl in plastic wrap and put it in the microwave.
“What now?” Khalid asked, pen poised.
“We let it rest and wait for it to rise,” Nani said. She looked at Ayesha and then at Khalid. “I have to pray Asr. I’ll be back,” she said, and she left them alone at the kitchen table.
Khalid fiddled with his notebook. “I met a girl yesterday,” he said. “My first rishta. Ammi ambushed me.”
Ayesha sat up, a wisp of jealousy making her stomach clench. “Did you talk to her or stare at the floor?” she asked lightly.
“It wasn’t just me. Everyone was staring at the floor. They had a really nice carpet.”
Ayesha laughed, strangely relieved. “I told you, rishtas are the worst. So what do you think of your mother’s taste? Do you still trust her?”
“Yes,” Khalid said automatically. Then he added, “Though it was very awkward. Especially when I overheard the girl’s mother reprimanding her in the kitchen. I don’t think she was happy to be there either.”
Either. So he wasn’t happy to be meeting other girls. Ayesha wanted to whoop. Instead she said, “If that’s true, she’s a fool. You’re a catch, Khalid. A single, educated, pious Muslim man. All the mothers must be salivating at the thought of snatching you for their daughters.”
“Not every mother,” he said, looking at her.
Ayesha flushed but said playfully, “I’m the doomed spinster. When I finally have the time to look for a husband, I’ll be thirty-five and all the good men will be taken. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find a second cousin in India who will marry me for my Canadian citizenship.”
Khalid was doodling in his notebook. “Or you could look around right now,” he said slowly, and Ayesha felt her hand tingling from where they had touched.
“Khalid . . .” she began, but Nani was back. She took the dough out of the microwave. It was softer, rising from the bowl. She made six portions and handed them each one small ball.
“There is a secret to the perfect paratha,” Nani said in Urdu. With her thumb, she deftly made a well in the middle of her dough ball. Then she covered it with the sides of the dough, encasing the air pocket inside. “Leave a little space, right in the middle. The paratha needs it to grow and become soft. Without this space, it will be hard and lumpy, just another piece of bread.”
Next they rolled out their portions. Ayesha’s circle was deformed, but Khalid’s came out perfectly round. She stuck out her tongue and he smiled.
Nani fried the paratha on a hot pan with oil. The bread rose against the heat, fluffing up like a dough balloon as Ayesha watched in delight.
“See what a little space can do?” Nani murmured.
Ayesha reached for the first one and split it with Khalid. It was warm and soft, chewy and delicious. She enjoyed every bite. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“Perfect,” he said, eyes on her face. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Behind them, Nani hummed a few bars of a classic Bollywood tune and then called them back to roll out the rest of the dough.
When the parathas were done, Nani got out some canned mango pulp, and they all sat to eat at the kitchen table. She told them she hadn’t known how to cook when she was first married. “We ate a lot of eggs,” she said. “It was the only thing your Nana knew how to make.”
“I didn’t know Nana could cook,” Ayesha said.
“He can’t,” Nani said. “When we were first married, I was in school studying to be a police officer. It was all those Hardy Boys and Agatha Christie mysteries he read to me. I wanted to be a detective, like Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple.”
Ayesha burst out laughing at the thought of her grandmother, who didn’t leave the house most days, investigating crimes and running after bad guys.
Nani lifted her chin, offended. “Don’t laugh. I would have been very good at it too, except Allah decided I should be a mother first. A woman plays many roles in her life, and she must learn to accept them as they come. Men are not so flexible,” she said, a half smile on her lips. “That’s why it’s important to find someone who complements you, rani. Someone to dream with you.”
Ayesha walked Khalid to the door, and he took his time putting on his shoes. When he stood up, she noticed he had flour in his beard, and she reached out and absently brushed it away. His beard was soft, like spun cotton, and her hand lingered.
He clasped her wrist to stop her, and their eyes met—hers wide in sudden realization, his steady. Ayesha blushed bright red, embarrassed at violating their unspoken no-touch rule. He looked at her for a long moment, then gently, reluctantly, dropped her hand.
Her face still flaming, she stared at the tile floor, too embarrassed to say anything.
Khalid fiddled with the lock on the door. “Hafsa,” he said in a low voice. “Have you ever wondered—”
His phone pinged and he frowned at it. When he looked up, the spell was broken. “Are you free tomorrow night?” he asked. “The imam wants us to check out the caterers for the conference.”
They made plans to meet and Ayesha watched him turn and cross the street. She hadn’t known he lived so close to her.
She shouldn’t have touched him; she couldn’t believe that she had. Yet her hands on his face felt natural and right. She could still feel the gentle pressure on her wrist from his warm hand, the heat in his eyes.
Whatever he was about to say, it could wait. A bit of space would help his words expand and grow soft. Ayesha could admit it now: Khalid wasn’t like any other man she’d ever known.
Chapter Eighteen
Ayesha was late for work again. The reality of teaching was beginning to hit her now. She had been excited to start a new career when she had first graduated from teachers’ college. That feeling had quickly been replaced—first, by the difficulty of securing a position, and then by the demands of substitute teaching. She had settled into a sort of routine and understood how exhausting it was just to teach, day in and day out. She was always “on,” always responding to students, parents, other teachers. By the end of the day, she was so tired, she didn’t have the energy to talk to her family. Her more seasoned teacher colleagues assured her that it would not always be like this. Give it five years, they said. Once you have your own class and have found your rhythm, teaching will be easier.
The thought of another five years made her even more tired.
Today Ayesha was substitute teaching two eleventh-grade English classes and one ninth-grade boys’ gym class. The English students had an essay due tomorrow, and they were bent over laptops and papers, diligent and quiet. Gym class was something else altogether. The teacher had left convoluted, fussy instructions: The boys had seven minutes to change, three minutes to warm up, then fifteen minutes of basketball drills, followed by four rotations of games at ten minutes each. Ayesha’s head spun trying to make it all out, and the end of the class found her standing on a chair in the middle of the gymnasium, keeping an eye on four simultaneous games of basketball and trying to make sure the boys didn’t kill each other.
The principal, Mr. Evorem, poked his head into the main door. He drew back, perhaps at the pungent odour of teenage boy, and gave her a discreet thumbs-up. She jumped off the chair and smiled weakly.
“Come see me later,” he called out to her.
“Miss, you’re in trouble!” N
athan, one of the students, yelled as he threw a perfect three-pointer.
She dismissed the class and went in search of the principal.
Mr. Evorem was in his office, dusting sports trophies.
“How are you enjoying our school, Miss Shamsi?” he asked. He continued before she answered. “Teaching is a challenging career, and the first few years can be quite tough. Stick with it, and it will reward you. I remember my first years in the classroom. There’s nothing more satisfying than a happy, productive class.” Ayesha recognized his wistful tone. She sounded like that too—when she talked about poetry.
“What subjects did you teach before you became a principal?” she asked.
“Math, science, gym. I still coach a few teams, but the admin work has to come first.”
Ayesha knew he was being modest—Mr. Evorem organized half a dozen sports teams and tournaments, and he tried to attend every game played on school grounds.
“You’re lucky to have a job that encourages your passion,” she said.
“That’s the thing about teaching. There are a lot of options. You just have to see where it takes you.” He turned back to her, suddenly businesslike. “Miss Shamsi, I wanted to give you a heads-up. There might be an opening for a permanent teacher on our faculty in September.”
Ayesha had waited for this moment for so long, she didn’t know how to react.
“Your students like you, and you work well with your fellow teachers. You’ve probably noticed that our student body is quite diverse. Our school board wants to see that diversity reflected in our new hires.”
So they were looking for a token ethnic. Ayesha was familiar with the role; she had played it often enough. She heard Clara’s scoffing voice in her head: Who cares? It’s a job, and you’ll be good at it. Everyone needs an in, and if yours is hijab and brown skin, go for it!
Ayesha knew she had potential. She could grow into a good teacher. Her thoughts travelled to Khalid and the way he spoke about his principles, about what he wanted. He was so sure of himself, so sure of the life he wanted to lead. She wanted to be that sure about something too.
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