Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Hafsa lifted her hand as if waving away her cousin’s objections. “Happiness in marriage is a matter of chance. The less you know about the person, the better. What really matters is family and money.”

  “You can’t believe that,” Ayesha said.

  Hafsa tossed her head. “Khalid will do whatever his mom tells him, and Farzana Aunty and I understand each other. We both get something out of this arrangement. As for Haris, I’ll get rid of him after the wedding.”

  Ayesha stared at her cousin. “That’s disgusting.”

  Hafsa’s lip trembled. “This is hard for me too. Everything comes so easy for you, Ashi Apa. You’ve always done well at school, you have your poems, and you have Clara. Everyone looks up to you. Meanwhile, I’m just spoiled, silly Hafsa, who can’t decide what she wants to study at community college. The family screw-up. Sometimes I think my dad likes you better than me.”

  Ayesha knew Hafsa was being manipulative, but still she wavered. “That’s not true.”

  A single tear streaked down her cousin’s smooth porcelain cheek. “I just want to make my parents happy. Dad is thrilled with the engagement, and Mom is so happy to see me settled. They’ve both done so much for me. I owe them this. You understand—you owe them too.”

  Ayesha was silent. You owe them too. If it hadn’t been for Sulaiman Mamu, she wouldn’t be here right now. She would be in India, along with her mother, Idris, Nana and Nani. She owed her uncle for the very life she led. He had rescued her family, had gifted them with the house they lived in, had taken Ayesha into his confidence and told her his worries for Hafsa. She had promised him she would keep an eye on her young cousin.

  It was meant to be Hafsa all along, she realized with a jolt. Hafsa was supposed to be at all those planning meetings. Hafsa was supposed to meet Khalid and fall for him. Not her. Ayesha had been the placeholder, the understudy who had passed herself off as someone else because she was tired of being the boring, reliable saint.

  It was time to gracefully exit the stage and let the real star shine.

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asked carefully. “Are you sure Khalid is the one?”

  Hafsa looked at her. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “I’M going to kick her skinny ass. That bitch!” Clara stared at her friend in shock.

  Ayesha’s face was puffy from crying. She had driven directly to Clara’s house after her confrontation with Hafsa.

  Ayesha shook her head. Khalid was wrong for her. They didn’t want the same things. A shared love of Twinkies and parathas was no basis for a long-lasting relationship.

  The words were starting to sound convincing. Maybe if she said them out loud, she would actually believe them. “It would never work between us,” she said.

  “That doesn’t mean you should give him to your cousin without a fight!” Clara grabbed Ayesha’s phone and waved it in her face. “Text him. Call him. Ask what’s going on.”

  “And should I tell him that it’s Hafsa or Ayesha on the line?” She covered her face with her hands, voice muffled. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid.” Tears leaked down the sides of her face, pooling beneath her palms.

  Clara gently lifted her friend’s hands and looked at her seriously. “Don’t call my best friend stupid. She’s the smartest girl I know,” she said. “Text him. This is Khalid we’re talking about. He’ll understand.”

  Ayesha wiped her eyes and sat up. “No, he won’t. He hates anything deceitful. He won’t even wear a regular shirt because he doesn’t want to hide his identity. There were so many times I could have told him who I really was. Maybe I knew he wanted someone like Hafsa all along, not me.” She shook her head. “Besides, my uncle has given me so much. I can give him this one small thing.”

  Clara threw up her hands in frustration. “What is wrong with you? Hafsa only wants him for his money. What about what Khalid wants? He likes you. I saw you two sitting outside my house last night.”

  Ayesha wiped her face. “He told me he wanted an arranged marriage, and his mother has made her choice. Farzana probably showed Khalid a picture of Hafsa and he forgot all about me. It’s done. I’ll get over him.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Clara said. “When I met Rob, I wasn’t looking for anything either. I was only eighteen! But I knew, after only a few days, that this was it. When I saw you with Khalid, it was the same thing. You just fit. I’m not sure why, but it works.”

  Ayesha turned her head away and bit down on her lip. She had cried during the entire drive to Clara’s house, and now her head felt swollen, her ears full of cotton.

  Clara sensed her advantage and pressed. “Just text him. You’ll always regret it if you don’t.”

  That night as Ayesha lay in bed surrounded by sodden tissues, her purple notebook flung to the floor, she took out her cell phone and sent Khalid a single question:

  Are you happy?

  Khalid responded an instant later:

  I am getting exactly what I wanted. I have never been happier.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ayesha had already set up two dozen folding chairs in the Taj Mahal for the engagement ceremony. Now she held two colourful silk saris in her arms, with instructions from Samira Aunty to “hang them on the wall like streamers, jaanu,” before the guests arrived to witness the engagement of (the real) Hafsa and Khalid.

  Ayesha was dressed in a hot-pink shalwar kameez covered in gold embroidery, her ornate dupatta shawl a leaden weight on her shoulder. The outfit was uncomfortable and itchy, but Hafsa had insisted that her sisters and cousin dress the same. Hafsa had settled on the white lengha dress, which was decorated with so much lace and beadwork that it weighed close to ten pounds. It had also cost $2,000, and had the label of a famous designer.

  Sulaiman Mamu walked past Ayesha, his stomach straining against a too-tight white sherwani, a traditional shalwar kameez that resembled a long suit jacket. He was adjusting a stiff brown felt prayer hat on his head.

  “Have the caterers arrived yet?” he asked Samira Aunty, who was taking out plates and cutlery from the hutch. “They’re late. I told you to order from Kamran Khan.”

  Her uncle wandered back into the living room and gave Ayesha a wan smile. “I hope this makes Hafsa happy,” he remarked, looking vaguely at the golden balloon arc and paper lanterns.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Ayesha assured him.

  Her uncle wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Thank you for helping set up. Everyone has been so busy with shopping and buying things. The expenses . . .” he trailed off, looking worried.

  Ayesha reassured him that everything was under control and that Hafsa was ecstatic. Her cousin was a bubbly ball of energy, delighting in every detail and crowing about all the money her engagement had cost, according to her mother and Idris.

  In contrast, Ayesha had spent the days following Hafsa’s engagement alternately crying and writing bad poetry until, disgusted with her swollen-eyed self, she had arrived at the house early this morning to run errands and generally be helpful.

  It was nobody’s fault that Khalid had chosen the real Hafsa instead of the real Ayesha. He had been upfront about his plans to marry the woman his mother chose, just as she had been honest about her disinterest in marriage. This overblown reaction was simple . . . disappointment. Misplaced, ill-advised disappointment. Khalid said he was happy. And once Khalid officially became engaged to Hafsa, Ayesha could continue with her plan to teach high school, write poetry and die alone.

  What about the way he looked at you? What about the pull between you? What about that night you looked up at the stars together, outside Clara’s condo?

  Ayesha pushed these unhelpful thoughts away. Hafsa was the princess, and princesses always got their happily-ever-afters. Ayesha was the one left wearing the itchy, uncomfortable dress and running last-minute errands, watching as everyone around her got exactly what they wanted.

  Except I am getting what I wanted, s
he thought as she unravelled six yards of silk sari and held it up against the wall. I wanted nothing. And in a few short hours, all my dreams will come true.

  Ayesha lifted the sari up to the corner of the wall behind the dining table, as high as she could reach. She was looking around for a stool when an arm reached above her to grasp one end of the sari.

  Ayesha looked up into Khalid’s face. She dropped the sari.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He was dressed in a dark blue robe and white kufi, a red cotton scarf hanging from his neck. He looked so handsome with his curly black hair and soft brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a serious expression on his face. She looked away, biting her lip.

  All Hafsa’s. He belongs to her now.

  “I didn’t think your family would make you decorate by yourself, not today.” He looked at her pink shalwar, his eyes travelling up to her face. “You are so beautiful.”

  Ayesha started, her eyes wide. “What?”

  Khalid dropped his half of the sari and stepped closer. Ayesha could feel the heat from his body, smell the subtle cologne. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “I got you an engagement gift.” He pressed a clumsily wrapped package into her numb hands, and his fingers deliberately brushed against her palm.

  Ayesha ripped open the wrapping and her hands caressed a notebook bound in supple blue leather. It was the sort of notebook she’d always pictured carrying, perfect for writing poetry but too expensive and impractical. The sort of notebook nobody else had ever thought to buy for her.

  When she looked up, his expression was full of want.

  “Open the book,” he commanded softly, moving closer until his scarf brushed against her arm.

  She lifted the front cover, reading the inscription in Khalid’s precise handwriting:

  When I think of you, I see my future.

  “It’s for your poetry,” he explained with a smile. “I like to imagine you writing in a notebook I gave you.” He looked at her intently. “I hope that’s not too corny.”

  Ayesha didn’t know where to look. He doesn’t know, she thought wildly. He still thinks I’m Hafsa. Joy wrestled with rising panic. Joy that he still wanted her, plain Ayesha, and not beautiful Hafsa. Panic at his disappointment when he learned the truth. She wouldn’t be able to stand watching the affection and longing drain from his eyes when his real fiancée walked into the room dressed in white.

  She looked around, hoping for Idris or Nana or even Hafsa to wander by and save her, but they were all alone.

  “I never believed in love before marriage. At least, I didn’t until I met you,” Khalid continued. “I am so happy Ammi picked you to be my wife. I will try very hard to be a good husband.” His breath was warm and sweet on her cheek, and his thumb rubbed the silky material of her sleeve slowly, back and forth.

  Ayesha felt a rising nausea in her stomach. She scrambled back, and his eyes, heavy-lidded, widened slightly in confusion.

  She had to tell him, right now.

  “Khalid, I’m not . . . My name isn’t . . . This is all a big misunderstanding . . .” she began.

  Farzana strode over to them. “What are you doing here?” she asked her son. She looked at Ayesha, and her face shifted, from fear to determination. “Why are you standing here talking to Hafsa’s cousin?” she said.

  Khalid recoiled as if slapped. “This is Hafsa. My fiancée.”

  Farzana shook her head. “This is Ayesha. Hafsa’s much older, unmarried cousin. Hafsa is much prettier than her, with lighter coloured skin too.”

  Khalid’s eyes snapped back to Ayesha and they stared at each other for a long moment before he dropped his gaze. Ayesha said nothing, her helplessness making her fists open and close. She heard the clock tick slowly, but her eyes were riveted to his face. Please don’t hate me. The words remained locked in her throat.

  She watched him struggle to maintain his composure, jaw clenching. She took a step toward him, but he moved back, his body rigid with the effort of keeping silent. When he looked up again, his eyes were blank.

  “Ayesha,” he said. It was a cold, impartial statement.

  She didn’t say anything, and he allowed himself to be led out of the house, where the rest of his family waited for the engagement ceremony to begin.

  “TALA al badru alayna . . .” The voice of Yusuf Islam, a.k.a former 1970s folk singer Cat Stevens, drifted into the house. As the drums began to beat over the speakers, Khalid and his mother walked inside, followed by Aliyah Aunty and a half-dozen distant relatives rounded up to inflate their numbers. Khalid’s family held large platters piled with food, Indian sweets, and gift bags filled with clothes and jewellery for the bride.

  Khalid followed his mother into the living room where Hafsa sat, her face covered by a sheer white dupatta shawl. He took his place beside her, his face carved from granite.

  Ayesha missed the grand entrance. She was in the bathroom, the taps turned on full blast, sobbing.

  SAMIRA Aunty dragged Ayesha to the family room for pictures after the brief engagement ceremony.

  “I have to help in the kitchen,” Ayesha said. “The uncles expect tea.”

  But her aunt insisted Ayesha stand beside a beaming Hafsa and stone-faced Khalid.

  “I’m so happy, Ashi Apa,” Hafsa said, hugging her cousin tight. “This picture will look great for my business, Happily Ever After Event Planning.”

  Ayesha looked over at Khalid, who was staring straight ahead.

  “Have you talked to your . . . fiancé yet?” she whispered to Hafsa.

  Her cousin looked dismissively at Khalid. “I think he’s shy. Come look at the gold jewellery his mom bought me!” She dragged Ayesha to a large tray holding three gold jewellery sets. “I don’t really like the design, but I can sell them and buy new ones. And look at all the shalwar kameez!” She pointed to five large platters heaped with clothing. “Last year’s fashion, but I can sell them on eBay and buy better ones. I’m the luckiest girl in the world!”

  Ayesha looked over at Khalid again. He stared at his hands as the guests piled their plates with biryani, butter chicken and aloo gobi.

  A hand wrapped around her waist and squeezed. Samira Aunty’s face was flushed with excitement. “One down, three daughters to go. It is such a relief to have Hafsa settled. You can’t imagine the strain. Khalid is such a handsome man, don’t you think?”

  Ayesha glanced over at Khalid, but he was gone. Had he run away?

  “Mom has a crush on him,” eleven-year-old Hira said. “She keeps talking about his regal nose.”

  The girls giggled, and Ayesha used the opportunity to slip away. She had to find Khalid; she had to explain herself. She had to wipe that blank look from his face.

  He was not in the kitchen, or the foyer. She didn’t find him in the living room, dining room, servery or family room. She checked inside the walk-in hall closet, just in case, but he wasn’t there either. A quick peek outside confirmed his car was still parked in the driveway.

  “Looking for someone in particular, Ayesha?” Farzana said.

  Khalid’s mother was dressed in a peacock-blue shalwar kameez with a black abaya on top like an overcoat. She was wearing a matching blue hijab, her face bare of makeup.

  “Assalamu Alaikum, Aunty,” Ayesha said politely. “Would you like tea? I’m making some right now.”

  Farzana drew closer to Ayesha, an unkind smile hovering at the edge of her mouth. “I know you went to the caterer’s with my Khalid.”

  “How about coffee?” Ayesha asked, backing away.

  “I should be thanking you, actually. So should Hafsa.”

  Ayesha’s heart started to pound. What was Farzana talking about? “You know how cranky the uncles get without their chai,” Ayesha said, but Farzana grabbed her arm and pulled her close.

  “You’re a schoolteacher, but you know nothing about people,” she said.

  Ayesha tried to twist out of Farzana’s grip, but the older woman held her fast. />
  “When Khalid spoke about the teacher who was helping him plan the conference, I knew it was time for him to get married. Before he was duped by a pathetic spinster pretending to be more than she was.” Farzana’s sharp eyes travelled over Ayesha’s tight pink suit.

  Ayesha was confused. “You knew he thought I was Hafsa?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Farzana said. “I had no idea about your duplicity. Besides, the rishta to your cousin had already been sent. When your cousin spoke with me on the phone, I realized she would be the perfect daughter-in-law.”

  “What about Khalid? Do you think she will be the perfect wife for him?” Ayesha asked, her mind working furiously.

  “He doesn’t know what he wants,” Farzana said. “That’s why he has me, to protect him from people who wish to take advantage of his innocence.” She paused, staring at Ayesha. “I think I will take that tea after all. Extra-hot, two sugars, served in a china cup.”

  KHALID was in the garage. It was the only quiet place in the house, and he needed to think.

  I’m engaged to a stranger. Not the Hafsa I thought I knew, but a child more excited by new toys than by the person in front of her. Hafs-Ayesha was probably laughing at him right now. Awkward, gullible Khalid, too dumb to know when he was being played. He angrily wiped his eyes.

  He thought about the casual banter between Hafs-Ayesha and Tarek at the caterer’s. Tarek probably knew all about this farce too; he was probably laughing at him the entire time. He closed his eyes and saw Hafs-Ayesha sitting beside him in Clara’s condo parking lot. He pictured her onstage at Bella’s, reciting her poem—that stupid poem! Then he saw her smile, dark eyes laughing up at him, and he shivered.

  Zareena had been a liar too. She had lied about where she was going and who she was with. She had asked Khalid to lie for her again and again. Every time she lied, Khalid felt used, and he promised himself he would stop covering for her. Then every time, he would give in and make new excuses for his sister, the one who knew him best in the world. The only one who had ever had his back.