Love Comes Later

by Mohanalakshmi Rajakumar

  Hind has never been so thankful for an interfering older sibling. She leaves the table and, pushing aside the swinging door to the bathroom, heads straight to the sink. She splashes water on her face, heedless of her mascara or makeup. India, traveling, a man, so many parts of this are waving red flags, and yet she’s reacting to them as though color blind. Something about his condescending attitude reminds her of all the articles she’s read about the world’s richest country, the unearned paradise she has the nerve to be a citizen of. That and the very real clock ticking away her freedom are propelling her to make the most of her last few months as a single woman, which in perspective of the rest of her soon-to-be married life seem like mere moments.

  The door to the bathroom swings open and in comes Sangita, her hair free from its coil, swaying over her shoulders like that of the goddesses whose photos line her bedroom walls.

  “Don’t let Ravi get to you,” she says. “He’s all heart, and he never understands why everyone isn’t.”

  Hind straightens from the sink and pats her face dry with some paper towels.

  “Oh, no, it’s fine,” she says. “He’s given me a lot to think about.” Hind tries to straighten the quiver out of her voice, hoping her friend won’t hear it.

  “Like what?” Sangita enters a stall.

  “India,” Hind says. “I mean, this stuff in India. It sounds important.” She balls up the paper towels and throws them in the hole in the counter.

  “India?” Sangita flushes the toilet and comes out.

  “For study days. Could be fun.”

  Sangita approaches the sink and holds her hand under the soap sensor.

  “You know, I wasn’t kidding,” she says, scrubbing her hands under the running water. “I can’t take any time to go with you. I need to do revisions – they’ve basically said I won’t pass if I don’t find a better case study.”

  “You don’t need to go,” Hind says.

  Sangita looks up sharply, and their eyes meet in the mirror.

  “You can’t,” she says after a moment. “What if someone finds out?”

  Hind looks at herself. She opens her compact and applies powder down the bridge of her nose.

  “Mabya‘rafoon,” she says. “They won’t know.”

  “Seriously, Hind. What about Abdulla, and the rest of your family?”

  “They’ll never know,” Hind says. “Who’s going to tell them?” She snaps the compact shut and regards her friend. “Ready?”

  Sangita follows her out of the bathroom, reciting the reasons why this is the absolute wrong thing for Hind to be even contemplating. But all Hind can hear is her own heartbeat picking up speed the closer they get to their table, back to Ravi.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cream interior of the Emiri Diwan glows in the ever-present desert daylight as the Trade Ministry delegation sweeps through its corridors. Abdulla trails behind the rest of the men in their ministerial black robes. He is spent from greeting the Emir of Abu Dhabi and his team, an all-day affair. Avoiding the endless “you first”, “no, you first” that diplomatic manners dictate, even amongst their own party, he has chosen to loiter at the back.

  Surely no one will notice if he slips away, back to his office. There is the Spanish delegation to receive at the end of the week, then the trip to Libya to check on any post-civil war assets that might be developing. Entering his office, he goes down the checklist of things he needs to get done before summer. He undoes his cuff links and the top button of his thobe.

  Abdulla is brought up short by the sight of his Uncle Saoud lounging in the office entryway in a burgundy brocade armchair, scanning the pages of Al Raya newspaper.

  “There you are,” Saoud says, standing to his full height, just a few inches taller than Abdulla.

  “Al salaam alaikum, Ammi,” Abdulla responds automatically, hiding his surprise behind the standard formulation. He bumps noses with his uncle in greeting, and Saoud follows him into the inner office, past the male secretary who is drinking tea and reading another of the Arabic dailies.

  “Wa alaikum al salaam,” his uncle replies as he takes the chair in front of Abdulla’s desk. He casts around for something to do and pulls back one of the metallic balls of the Newton’s cradle toy Abdulla keeps on his desk, a silly gift Luluwa gave him as part of her campaign to lighten him up. The ball swings on its thin wire, crashing into the others with a sharp click that breaks the silence, followed by others as the toy plays out a perpetual motion scenario.

  “What would you like to drink?” Abdulla asks after a while, picking up the phone to summon water, tea, or coffee from the kitchen boy.

  “It’s Ramadan,” Saoud says and declines the offer with a wave.

  “Of course,” he puts the receiver down and presses all his fingers onto the desktop so he won’t interrupt the clicks of the balls as they swing back and forth at the end of the desk. He had revealed his lack of fasting. Abdulla waits for the recriminations.

  His uncle clears his throat. “I was just here for a meeting about the new procedures for marrying foreigners.”

  Abdulla picks up a pen, wishing someone would barge into his office declaring an emergency.

  “How are things at the council?”

  “More applications than ever,” his uncle replies. “Young men want to marry, but not their family members anymore.”

  Abdulla shakes his head to the contrary but his heart isn’t in it. The idea anyone would voluntarily submit to marriage is beyond him.

  Saoud stands as if to leave, then turns back.

  “We’re going for a late summer trip,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “To London for Eid. Come with us.”

  Abdulla avoids his uncle’s gaze. London in summer. With family. He has been hoping for a quiet Asian getaway after Ramadan, maybe a beach in Thailand for the ten days of the Eid al Fitr holiday before returning to real life.

  “I can’t take off quite yet,” he replies, reaching for the computer mouse to check his email.

  “Ramadan is nearly over,” Saoud says. Idly, he glances down at the Newton’s cradle, now almost at rest. He pulls the ball back and sets the toy in motion again. “This year the family wants to travel instead of paying visits to everyone.”

  Abdulla nods, because of course his uncle is being sensible. The temperature outside is upward of thirty-five degrees Celsius and school is out, two reasons why every Qatari family who can will soon take off for their annual summer respite.

  “It would be good to see Hind before she comes back,” Saoud mutters.

  Abdulla leans forward, despite wanting to sidestep the entire subject. He nods as though he hasn’t been avoiding this topic and his uncle for this very reason.

  “You two should go out, do something fun, before the wedding.” Saoud, dropping his gaze, is gesticulating in Abdulla’s general area.

  “We don’t do that really in our family,” Abdulla says carefully. Neither man has mentioned Fatima.

  “It’s what some young people do now. Get to know each other.”

  Saoud clears his throat again. Apparently his uncle wants to have this talk even less than he does. “You know, visit her with her sister.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Abdulla says, not unkindly. He doesn’t have it in his heart to refuse him outright. He does have to see the lawyers about signing with the medium-size organic farm he’s opted for instead of a bigger chain. They’re in London, so maybe two birds with one stone. But then he would have to entertain Hind, take her out to eat, plan for their life together. Maybe he’d take care of the documents by fax.

  Satisfied, Saoud raps his knuckles on the desk and turns to go up.

  “We’ll be at your dad’s apartment,” he says at the door. “Unless you boys are using it?”

  “No, no, you’re welcome to stay there,” Abdulla says, “There are only three bedrooms, so it will be tight if Khalid and Noor are going as well.”

  Abdulla comes around the desk to give his uncle the series
of farewell kisses customary for close friends and relatives.

  “All right, well, it is the Olympics,” Saoud says, “so if you get stuck let me know. You can always share with Khalid.”

  Abdulla nods as if staying with his teenage cousin and dating his fiancée are two of the things he is most looking forward to in the coming weeks.

  But it is undeniable: his uncle has a point. The wedding is coming up. Hard to imagine nearly a year flying by, but here they are, almost at the beginning of August.

  London, he thinks bleakly, returning to his desk and pressing his head against the top of the chair. Like most of the Qataris on staff, Abdulla has grown up going on family vacations to London, then later sharing rooms with his brothers in the family apartment during his sleep-deprived student days at LSE and, more recently, on numerous diplomatic trips since taking up his government post. England holds very little mystery any more. It certainly is the last place he would choose for a voluntary holiday.

  But if it means permanent freedom from the nearly year-old bargain his father has forced him into – now that the respite afforded by Hind’s desire to study is over, they will soon have to set up as happy newlyweds – well then, perhaps it is time to pay his cousin an incognito visit.

  His phone buzzes, an SMS from Luluwa reminding him of the promised driving lesson that day. After nearly a week of dodging, there is no more avoiding it or her. He wraps up at his desk, jotting notes for tomorrow. Most of the staff has gone anyway, because of the shortened hours during Ramadan. The roads are clear on his way home, the sun at its height, even more punishing when you can’t eat or drink. He pulls into the compound expecting to see Luluwa hovering in the courtyard, but the heat has kept her inside as well.

  Still, she must have been lurking somewhere near the window because she comes bounding out of the side door as he puts the car into park. As she comes around to the driver’s side, he puts the window down.

  “Are we going now?”

  He opens his door without answering, because her dancing eyes remind him too much of another pair that lit up in mischief throughout his childhood. They trade places and she slides into the driver’s seat with only a minimal adjustment to the mirrors.

  “Around the houses first,” he says, not keen to take her out onto the roads even though they are virtually empty. “Slowly.”

  She leans forward with excitement and noses the car into motion, the engine purring as they crawl around the shared grounds their grandfather built for his three sons. Inside their respective houses, the rest of the family sleep the afternoon away, waiting for sunset so they can break their fast.

  “Reverse,” he says when they are misaligned with the front gate, “or we’re never getting out of here.”

  She complies, her eyes going to the mirror as he taught her before backing up. Her skinny arm comes around the back of his seat as she swivels half-around and looks back to make sure no one is behind them.

  As they move slowly through the compound gate, the front of a white Mercedes edges in next to them, closing distance until the passenger side is even with Luluwa, the tinted window lowered. It’s Narin, the family driver.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” says a voice from the back seat. It is Abdulla’s mother. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “Driving, Ameti,” Luluwa answers her aunt, whose lips flatten into a thin line.

  “You’re too young for a license,” Maryam shouts. “And who knows if your uncles will agree?”

  “Khalid drives,” Luluwa replies. It is true that her cousin, almost the same age as her, is often seen driving around the neighborhood with one of his brothers.

  “He can drive at sixteen,” Maryam retorted. “You have to wait until eighteen.”

  “With someone in the car,” Luluwa said. “He should be practicing with someone.”

  “In this heat – aren’t you tired from fasting?”

  “On my period, Ameti,” Luluwa smiles at her. “Not fasting this week.”

  The breach of conduct gives Abdulla and his mother pause. He looks at Luluwa’s profile. He wasn’t the only rebel in the family. Luluwa fidgets, having used what he guesses is her strongest weapon, shock value. Abdulla regroups.

  “Won’t be a moment,” he says, waving through the window. “What if she’s stuck at home and has an emergency?”

  “What if her driving causes an accident?” Maryam calls after them as Luluwa pulls through the gates and past her car. “Don’t let the neighbors see you.”

  They both pretend they haven’t heard and, at a safe distance, break into giggles.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tap, tap, tap...

  Sangita groans, only half awake, but the empty apartment offers no sympathy.

  Tap, tap, tap...

  The invasive sound goes on, despite her best efforts to pull a pillow right into her ears. It’s Hind’s latest phase, Nature Conservationist, inspiring a bird feeder directly outside the only window in their London flat, the pane of glass mere inches from the cotton canopy draped over Sangita’s bed. In the week of Hind’s absence Sangita hasn’t bothered to take it down, but now she’s regretting the oversight, certain every hungry pigeon in central London knows exactly where to get a good meal. Sangita throws back the covers and stretches, because this morning a particularly persistent bird is making enough noise for a gaggle of Thanksgiving turkeys.

  Photos of her life in America are propped along the ledge of her bureau and scattered across the lilac walls of the un-airconditioned room. She misses the climate-controlled summer on the East Coast of the U.S. – cool even indoors. Well into her first summer here across the pond, she still isn’t used to it: she would die of heatstroke if the bedroom door weren’t flung open to the living room, where the apartment’s only wall unit whirs away.

  The Brits may have built an empire, but they have one of the worst possible climates for home base, she thinks for the hundredth time. Along with bad teeth and an aversion to deodorant, this is their worst failing as a people.

  She sits up, knocking over a photo of her mother hoisting up their hands in a victorious grip, as though Sangita were a prize-winning pugilist and her mother the coach. It’s graduation, of course, the black sleeve of Sangita’s gown unfolding on her elbow. Those university days date back nearly six years now, but she treasures that photo as one of the rare moments when her mother broke out of the characteristic South Indian pose she usually uses for photos, reminding Sangita of the black and white snapshots from India where people stand in a line, rarely smiling, and assume the fig leaf position. Placed in a clear magnetic frame in the middle of the window, the 8 x 10 inch photo helps keep the sun from streaming in. She lays it aside and pushes the window open to confront the noisy bird offender, only to find the feeder swinging tranquilly with one quiet visitor ignoring her in the warming air and encroaching daylight. But the tapping?

  Tap, tap, tap...

  Now she identifies it. It’s not a tap, but a rap. And it’s coming from the apartment door. Someone is knocking, no bird after all but a human.

  “I’m coming,” Sangita calls out.

  Hind isn’t in her room to answer the door, of course, even though in all likelihood it’s for her – an early morning delivery of Eid cards from one of her parents’ contacts, or else the embassy. Even though the end of Ramadan is still a few days away, maybe this sender wants to be prepared, like Sangita’s auntie who always sends birthday cards from India a month in advance to make double-sure they won’t be late. Not that either of the roommates cares at all for the formalities their families observe. An Eid or birthday card is more likely to be used as a placeholder in a book they are reading than displayed on the refrigerator.

  “Wait one second,” Sangita shouts, getting irritated as the pounding on the door increases in intensity. If the delivery guy would only stop pounding for one minute he would be able to hear her.

  She pulls her arms through the slip-robe her brother Ravi brought back from his
last trip to China – embroidered petals unfurled in black silk across her shoulders and down her arms, to the edge of where the fabric swirls around her ankles. It’s a long garment – Hind often compares it to the black abaya Qatari women wear in public. Except for one thing…

  “Of course, that bit would be covered up,” Hind gestures to the plunging neckline.

  So here is Sangita heaving herself out of bed on a Friday morning, with no lectures or any other obligations, to answer the door for a delivery man with Hind’s latest order of Tariq Ramadan books or Cat Stevens, a.k.a. Yusuf Islam, for some project on Muslim modernity that is months away. Sangita ignores the clasp that won’t close on the front, leaving some cleavage exposed, cut off by the edge of the sheer tank top she wears on top of spandex boy shorts. Who cares, she thinks. It will only take a second to sign for the package.

  “Here,” she says, pulling open the door, expecting to see Andrew, the regular DHL guy, and his wolfish smile. Andrew is one of a growing number of English boys with a thing for the Arab fashionista, not that any of them could have Hind. And don’t think they haven’t taken note of Nigel downstairs, the two hundred pounds of muscle who guards the front door in lieu of a call button.

  Sangita opens the door and stops cold. Instead of the expected blue eyes and dimpled grin, brown irises so dark they rival Sangita’s stare back at her out of a face so stern he might be an angry god. The man immaculately dressed and nearly six feet tall, looms in the apartment’s entrance. “You answer the door in this way?”

  Abdulla draws in his breath at the sight of the flesh this petite woman has spilling over the opening in her robe.

  Sangita steps back as if it were her father, and not an impeccably-dressed young Arab man with furrowed eyebrows. Her hand clutches at the robe’s open neck – but the fabric has been cut to reveal her flesh, not conceal it.

  “Who are you?” she asks, tucking her chin to her chest, her stance unconsciously widening as she’s learned in those self-defense classes Hind insisted they take. She grips the knob, ready to swing the door shut in his face if he tries to force an entry. Even on this side of Hyde Park you hear stories.