Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  “This is a joke, right?”

  Hafsa shook her head. “He said he loves me, and he doesn’t care about Tarek or the pictures. We’re going into business together. We’re going to be rich!”

  “What pictures?”

  Hafsa waved her hand. “The banquet hall is already booked from the other wedding. There’s no sense losing the deposit for the caterers too. Dad actually smiled when I told him, especially because Masood said he’d pay for everything. We only have a month to plan, but I can do it.”

  Ayesha put the chai down. “Hafsa. What pictures?”

  Hafsa shifted uncomfortably. “They were supposed to be just for Tarek. We were going to get married, remember?”

  Ayesha closed her eyes, trying to breathe. “Where are the pictures now?”

  Hafsa shifted her gaze around the room. “He told me he was posting them on his website, unveiledhotties.com. He was going to auction them—me—off. Bastard.”

  “Oh my God,” Ayesha said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It was humiliating.”

  Ayesha started to pace. “What are we going to do? We have to tell the police.”

  Hafsa was shaking her head. “The website’s gone,” she said. “I checked it yesterday. There’s some letter he wrote about having a change of heart. All the pics of those other women are down too.”

  “How? What happened?”

  “Who cares? I’m getting married!”

  Ayesha didn’t know what to say. “Congratulations?”

  “Thank you,” Hafsa said demurely. “It’s at the end of July, so you have lots of time to buy a few dresses and get your eyebrows waxed. They’re, like, out of control.” She stood up. “I have to go. I need to talk to Nadya, my assistant. This wedding is going to be epic!”

  Hafsa let herself out. Once she’d closed the door behind her, Idris peeked down from the railing.

  “She always has to be first in everything.”

  “She’s marrying Masood,” Ayesha said. “Masood! He was texting me only two weeks ago, offering to coach me in wrestling. What happened?”

  “Maybe they bonded over their broken hearts,” Idris said. “Though Runaway Bride doesn’t exactly have a good track record.”

  Ayesha picked up her tea, now cold, and took a sip. “Did you know about the pictures on Tarek’s website? Hafsa said he had a change of heart.” She punched in the URL on her phone and clicked on the “Open Letter to My Subscribers,” reading quickly.

  “This doesn’t even sound like Tarek,” Ayesha said. “Actually, this sounds a bit like . . .” She looked at her brother, who had a half-guilty/half-coy expression on his face. “Idris,” she said sternly. “Tell me what happened, right now.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  When Khalid contacted WomenFirst Design after his confrontation with Sheila, Vanessa and Lorraine tut-tutted through his story.

  “I knew there was something wrong when that cow told us you quit. How soon can you start?”

  He explained about his sister and the impending birth. Vanessa and Lorraine congratulated him. “Work from home for a while. We need you.”

  Khalid was feeling happier than he had in weeks. He drove from the apartment he now shared with the sober-so-far Amir to his sister’s basement unit.

  “I can’t get over your new look,” Zareena said when she opened the door. “Like a secret service agent. All you need is an earpiece and Ray Bans.” Khalid followed her down the hall into the main room. Zareena had decorated. There were pretty purple drapes on the window, photographs in frames on the coffee table and a vase with flowers on a shelf. “Don’t worry, I didn’t cook,” she added.

  They split a frozen pizza and bagged salad while Khalid told Zareena about Livetech, and Tarek’s website.

  “I’d like to think Tarek wasn’t always this horrible,” Zareena said. “At one point, he had excellent taste in women.”

  Khalid hesitated. He wasn’t going to mention the confrontation he’d had with Tarek outside the mosque, but his sister deserved to know the full story. “He told me he did it all for you. He said he loved you, that Ammi pulled you two apart. He was trying to get his revenge or something.”

  Zareena smiled, her hand on her stomach. “He can blame the past if he likes, but we never fit, not like you and Ayesha.”

  “Ayesha hates me.”

  Zareena laughed, a teasing sound. “If you told me she was indifferent, or she had moved on, I’d tell you to give up. I don’t think this is the end of the story for you. You should pray about it and wait for a sign. Isn’t that your thing?”

  Khalid took a bite of his pizza. It was overcooked and tasted like particleboard. Next time he visited, he would pick up groceries and cook a few meals for his sister. His niece deserved the very best.

  His phone rang and he made a face—it was his mother. “Assalamu Alaikum, Ammi,” he said.

  His mother called several times a day. She still couldn’t believe he wasn’t starving and falling apart on his own.

  “Khalid, you must come home immediately,” Farzana said. “We must plan your wedding.”

  Khalid smiled. His mother was a lot easier to deal with now that he no longer lived with her. “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  “I have just learned that Hafsa is getting married! On what was supposed to be your wedding day. It’s an outrage, not to mention totally tactless.”

  Khalid was surprised. He hadn’t expected Hafsa to mourn their engagement, but two weeks seemed a little fast. “I’m happy she found someone,” he said.

  “She had the cheek to send you an invitation but not me. I was going to be her mother-in-law!”

  Zareena looked at him curiously. Everything okay? she mouthed.

  “Hafsa invited me to her wedding?” Khalid said, shocked. His mind focused: Ayesha will be there.

  “Everyone is going, if only to see if the tramp actually makes it to the nikah this time or runs away with the caterer,” said Farzana.

  “Ammi, I have to go. I’ll visit soon.” Khalid hung up.

  Zareena smiled at him. “I think you just got your sign.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Ayesha wasn’t sure what to expect when she walked into the Hollywood Princess banquet hall on the last Saturday in July. Hafsa, Samira Aunty and Nadya, the assistant/new BFF, had been running around with self-important expressions on their faces for weeks, tight-lipped about everything: colour scheme, centrepieces, decor . . . All was shrouded in a cloud of secrecy. Hafsa was going to get her surprise wedding after all.

  Most South Asian weddings were multi-day occasions, with the mehndi henna party, nikah wedding ceremony and walima reception all as separate events, but Hafsa wanted to keep things simple with a one-day extravaganza. From discreet hints dropped by Samira Aunty, Ayesha knew that the decorations alone had cost over six figures, the entire tab covered by Masood.

  Which probably explained the smile on Sulaiman Mamu’s face as he greeted Ayesha and the rest of the family in the banquet hall parking lot.

  All amusing familial observations vanished when Ayesha walked up to the main entrance with her grandparents, Idris and her mother. The Hollywood Princess banquet hall had been completely transformed into a Mughal-era palace.

  Ayesha walked around, marvelling at the intricate details. Hafsa had commissioned a scaffold to extend across the entranceway of the banquet hall, bearing a plasterboard replica of a palace entrance, complete with mosaic tiles arranged in Islamic geometric patterns and two thin pillars that framed a small dome and marble arch. Thick Persian rugs covered the floors, and chandeliers twinkled red and green. The pillars inside the banquet hall were decorated with more multicoloured mosaic tiles, and tabla and sitar players, seated on a gold-fringed rug in the foyer, strummed classical Indian music. Ayesha spotted Hafsa by the grand hall, wearing a headset and a pink-and-cream lengha dress, her makeup dramatic.

  “You should be hiding in the bridal room,” Ayesha said.

  Hafsa placed a
hand on the microphone of her headset, her smile radiant. “I wanted to make sure everything was running smoothly. What do you think?”

  “I’m speechless.”

  “It’s from the movie Mughal-e-Azam, remember? I couldn’t get it out of my head after we watched it. I think it will be great for business.” She gestured toward a table set up at the entrance, where Nadya sat surrounded by flyers and business cards. A large pink sign proclaimed HAPPILY EVER AFTER EVENT PLANNING. Beside it, another table advertised Masood’s Better Life Wholistic wrestling life-coach services.

  “This way we can claim the wedding on our taxes,” Hafsa said. “It was Masood’s idea.”

  A female server in a white-and-red Anarkali dress, with an embroidered prayer cap set at a rakish angle, walked past with a tray of mango lassi.

  “Is that the dress Madhubala was wearing in the movie?” Ayesha asked.

  Hafsa nodded. “All the male servers are in white sherwanis with turbans and fake swords.”

  Ayesha shook her head. “I can’t believe you did all this in one month. I’m so proud of you.”

  Hafsa looked down. “I had a lot of time to think. Ayesha, I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I was competitive and jealous. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Ayesha hugged her cousin, holding her close. “Just tell me you’re happy.”

  “Masood is solid,” Hafsa said. “I know we’ll do well together.”

  Ayesha nodded, relieved and impressed that Hafsa was capable of making decisions devoid of drama and lies.

  Hafsa fiddled with the heavy gold-and-crystal embroidery on her tunic. “I was jealous because I knew Khalid liked you, not me.”

  Ayesha didn’t know where to look. “Nothing happened.”

  Hafsa burst out laughing. “I know that! Duh. But in his heart, he was in love with you all along. He was marrying me for his crazy mother. You can’t blame me for being angry about that.”

  Ayesha gripped her cousin’s hand. “I don’t blame you for anything.”

  Hafsa shook her head impatiently. “I know you don’t.” She took a deep breath. “If you’re still interested, I think you should go for it. Khalid is a good guy. He might even be good enough for you.”

  Hafsa wiped her eyes, smearing some of her mascara. She looked ruefully at her henna-covered finger. “There goes my makeup. I should fix it before the video rolls. Masood will be here any minute on his white horse. There isn’t an elephant to be had for love or money in Toronto.” She turned toward the bridal room, then turned back. “Don’t be mad, but I invited Khalid to the wedding.” She smiled mischievously. “Just promise me one thing: If you’re going to make a scene, do it after the cake cutting. You wouldn’t believe how much I paid for the Taj Mahal cake.”

  KHALID was wearing the navy blue suit, paisley tie and pocket square again, hair slicked back and beard trimmed close to his face.

  As he walked into the hall, the groups of young women gathered by the entrance paused in their chatter to stare at him, but he didn’t notice. His hands were clammy on the wedding present Zareena had picked out, some sort of crystal bowl and gift card. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Ayesha.

  There were over eight hundred people admiring the decorations while they waited in line for appetizers. He paced the hall, looking closely at all the young women who might be Ayesha but weren’t. A few smiled back at the handsome, intense stranger in the navy blue suit.

  He made his way to the head table where Hafsa, dressed as a Mughal princess in an empire-waist cream-and-pink lengha, sat on a rented throne made of inlaid tile, mirror and gold paint. An oversized pearl maang tika adorned her forehead, and her hands were covered with henna and diamonds. Painted red lips curved in a smile at Khalid’s approach. He shook hands with Masood, who was dressed in a cream-and-gold suit that looked like it had been removed from a museum, before turning to the bride.

  “Mubarak, Hafsa,” Khalid said, offering his congratulations.

  She looked at his outfit with approval. “I don’t know if I should be irritated you never dressed like that when we were together, or happy for Ayesha,” she said. “No drama until after the cake, okay?”

  The irony of the Queen of Drama asking him to cool it was not lost on him. “I promise.”

  “I got you both in the same room. What you do next is up to you.”

  Dinner was a sit-down affair. The servers, in their Mughal-e-Azam finery, paraded to the centre of the hall with steel dome–covered dishes of mutton biryani, haleem and Mughlai chicken. They uncovered the platters in a flourish and Hafsa clapped. The rest of the servers began dishing out the food while the guests, revelling in their luck, dug into the meal. Khalid chatted with the people seated at his table, his eyes continually scanning the room for Ayesha, but she was nowhere to be found.

  Musicians entertained the crowd with Urdu poetry after dinner, ghazals on love and loss that made the older aunties cry. Then the Hyderabadi comic poets took over, and soon the Urdu-speaking guests were rollicking with laughter and translating mother-in-law jokes to their non-Urdu-speaking table partners.

  Khalid wandered outside the main hall to the tea and coffee station. He spotted Nana in a starched black sherwani with silver buttons, standing beside Nani, resplendent in a light green sari. The older woman smiled at Khalid and motioned him closer.

  “I know who you are looking for,” she said quietly, in English. “You’ve been looking for her all your life. When you find her, I hope you will remember my words: Always dream together, raja. Always leave space in your life to grow and soften.”

  Khalid inclined his head, before turning to greet Nana. “Assalamu Alaikum,” he said politely. “Are you enjoying the Urdu poetry?”

  “I’m more of a Shakespeare man,” Nana said. “My favourite are the comedies. Weddings are such a cheerful way to end a story, don’t you think? So full of hope and promise. And love.”

  Khalid nodded in agreement. He handed a cup of tea to Nana.

  “‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’” Nana quoted, his voice a deep rumble. “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’” He twinkled at Khalid. “I believe they are cutting the cake. A Taj Mahal, commissioned at great expense by the bride. Completely tacky, of course.” Nana nodded at Khalid. “Perhaps you will be good enough to inform my granddaughter, Ayesha. She enjoys wedding cake.”

  Khalid turned around slowly.

  Ayesha was dressed in a white sari flecked with silver. Her white hijab was tied away from her face, a sparkly crystal maang tika on her forehead. Her bangles were silver and diamond, and flashed cold fire at her wrists. Khalid’s breath caught at the sight of her, and her eyes widened in shock at his altered appearance.

  The strains of the song “Pyar Kya To Darna Kya” floated out of the main hall as Khalid walked to her. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he said.

  “Hafsa said no drama before cake,” she said, her voice warm and low. “Did someone take you shopping?”

  “My friend Amir. Do you like it?”

  Ayesha didn’t answer, but her eyes lingered on his broad shoulders, neatly combed hair and trimmed beard.

  They drifted down the hallway together, drawing curious looks from cranky toddlers and the parents stuck entertaining them. They left the hall, and stood outside in the humid night.

  “Idris told me what you did to Tarek’s website,” Ayesha said. “I wanted to thank you, on behalf of my family. It would have destroyed my aunt and uncle if those pictures of Hafsa had remained online.” Ayesha didn’t look at him. “What Tarek said that day . . . He was wrong. I trust you. It took me a while, but I know who you really are.”

  Khalid forced himself to focus on the conversation, despite his racing heart. The urge to gather her in his arms was overpowering.

  “Tarek hurt my sister too,” he said. “He had to be stopped. I
’m happy to spare your family any pain, but I confess I wasn’t thinking about them. I thought only of you.”

  Ayesha turned to face him. “Your mother doesn’t like me, and I don’t want to come between you and your family when you’ve already lost so much. I know how it feels to lose someone important.” She looked at her hands, covered in henna for the wedding, and traced the design of a vine from index finger to wrist. Khalid watched, mesmerized, wanting to press his mouth to her delicate palms.

  “When my father died, my mother fell apart,” Ayesha said. “She cried for weeks, and when we moved to Canada, she didn’t get out of bed for a long time. If that was love, I wanted no part. Love takes your heart and leaves you with nothing. It makes you forget your children, your family. It steals your very self. So I closed off my heart, telling myself I was better without it. Nothing could be worth such pain. That’s why I fought so hard when I realized I was falling for you.” Ayesha looked up, and they stared at each other.

  “We’re so different, Khalid. You accused me once of not knowing what I wanted in life, and you were right. I was lost for so long, but you helped me see myself. I know what I want now: I want to travel the world. I want to paint pictures with my words. But most of all, I want you.”

  Khalid gathered his courage. The time to speak was now.

  “I asked you a question, at the wrong time and the wrong place and in the worst possible way. I was devastated when you refused me, but you were right. My mother taught me there was only one way to be a good Muslim, that any other way was misguided. You showed me that faith was a wide road. I was harsh; you taught me compassion. I was judgmental; you taught me to be brave and open. Please, tell me we still have a chance. I need you in my life, Ayesha. My heart is yours to take.” He closed his eyes, and prayed.

  When he opened them, she was smiling at him.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I have changed my mind. I will marry you, Khalid.”