A part-time chef: maybe this meant he was responsible where he was, maybe he was unafraid of hard work, maybe it was part-time so he could attend school as well.
“You must cook for us, then,” Tariq said.
“Remember when—” she began.
“I think of it every time I cook,” Amar interrupted before she could finish, as if he were excited they were grasping for the exact same memory.
“Hadia’s cooking show,” he explained to Tariq, caring to not leave him out.
He was in high spirits. She had been right to invite him. Amar told Tariq about the way Hadia had narrated each step, even mimicked the accent she had spoken in. It surprised her, how happy it made her to hear Amar share information that he or Huda alone had access to. She remembered those weekend mornings fondly, when Mumma and Baba slept in but she and her siblings rose early to watch the best cartoons. The three of them in their pajamas, so short they needed chairs pushed against the counter to see the countertop. She made them breakfast and garnished her sentences with phrases she picked up from cooking shows on television: “Like so,” she said after each step. “Lovely,” and “Voilà!” She theatrically cracked eggs into glass bowls and fished out fragments of the white eggshells when the two looked away. Amar waited patiently for his food, rested his cheek against the cold counter, looked up at her with an expression she now knew was admiration and respect, a look she never found again in anyone’s eyes in quite the same way afterward. All was going well. Tariq laughed whenever Amar intended laughter. If there was an image of other “harmonious” families, this could be as close as they came and she would be happy.
“Are you enjoying your wedding?” Amar asked as soon as there was a lull.
Tariq made a sound of indifference. Then said, “Not much for us to enjoy. We sit, we smile, we talk for too long with guests.”
“And you?” Hadia asked, putting her hand on Amar’s knee. “How are you finding it, seeing all these familiar faces?”
She searched his dark eyes for a hint to how he was really doing. Tariq, as if sensing she wanted a moment with him, looked out across the hall and waved back at someone.
“To be honest, it is nicer to see familiar faces than I expected.”
“Not too overwhelming, then?”
He thought for a moment.
“That it feels unexpectedly comforting is, in and of itself, difficult.”
“Still a poet,” she said, smiling and shaking her head.
The emcee took the stage and announced it was time for the nikkah. The two moulanas representing her and Tariq walked to the stage, and though she knew this was what their night was for, a hundred tiny flutters flared up in her stomach and she felt light-headed.
“Good luck,” Amar whispered and he kissed the corner of her forehead, then stood.
Suddenly she did not want him to leave. She wanted to hold on to his arm, thank him for coming, make him promise to tell them more about cooking soon, about anything, but he was already stepping forward to shake Tariq’s hand. Amar moved in for a hug, one arm around Tariq’s back. After you ran away I began to sleep with the window open, she wanted to say to him. Even now, when it rains, I hesitate for a moment before shutting it. But there was no time. Amar stepped from the stage. She watched him become another suit in the crowd. The emcee asked everyone to please be quiet. Hadia looked down at her palms, not because she wanted to appear as shy as Mumma wanted her to, but because she suddenly felt it: this was the moment, the ten minutes that would solidify her decision, and she wanted to be absolutely present to it. She felt dizzy. Everyone shifting in their chairs. The light of the chandelier casting shapes and shadows and making her squint when she glanced up. Soon the space between her and Tariq would be closed a bit more. Photographs would be taken and she would be allowed to touch him openly, laugh loudly. Mumma Baba would no longer feel upset she was with him without being married. She would be a wife. What a strange and archaic word. She would move into her new apartment with Tariq in the Midwest, where they would both begin their new jobs. The moulanas began to recite verses she did not understand. An aunty handed her the Quran and whispered to her to read it. Her friends held the red cloth above her and the light changed beneath it. Hadia glanced up at Huda and at Dani, who had flown across the country to attend, and saw how their eyes were filled with tears. Married women from the community began to grate sweet misri into flakes that fell onto the red net. Her hands shook. Tariq looked as he did during his exams. How had she made a leap so drastic, stuck to her decision with such stubbornness, with such relentless resolve. Once she had been a girl dyeing a section of her hair blue and what a thrill it had been—to take her life in her own hands even in so small a way. She glanced out at the crowd. Mumma’s lips were moving quickly; she was praying for her. Hadia calmed. Hadia should pray for something too. Mumma would always tell them to be completely silent during the nikkah, to put all their energy into prayer, that it was a holy time when something unseen in the universe was torn open and angels descended to bear witness to the momentous occasion. Please God, she prayed, let ours be a successful and happy marriage. Let us maintain what we have. Let us create a loving family. And let me always feel that this life is mine, experience it proudly, fully, and ever alive.
* * *
TARIQ HAD A strong handshake, sharp features, and a calm presence; he seemed relaxed even onstage in front of everyone. He would be good for Hadia. Hadia was prone to anxiety, an obsessive planner; she was not one to easily change plans at the last minute or know how to relax. Tariq had gone out of his way to be nice to Amar. He was the one who waved at him when he saw him approaching, said to him: you must be Amar. Tariq asked him questions that came from a place of genuine curiosity and interest, and he did not avoid questions in an obvious way. Amar looked back now at them on the stage, Hadia with the red cloth held up like a canopy above her.
In less than twenty minutes he would sneak out to the courtyard. He scanned the hall for Amira. Did she feel as restless and nervous as he did? She was sitting at a middle table by her mother; she had draped the dupatta over her head and only her bangs peeked through, out of respect for the nikkah recitation. Seema Aunty had aged. Everyone in the hall was completely silent for the nikkah. If he looked down at his hands, if he cupped them in prayer, would he want to pray? If it was Hadia and Tariq’s life they were meant to pray for could he bring himself to do it? Amar recognized Moulana Baqir. For years Amar had stood in prayers led by him, sat in his speeches. It had become clear, by the time Amar was sixteen, that he would not be like the other community boys who helped bring out food and served everyone, who cleaned once the speeches were done, who sat attentive in the first row and whose hands shot in the air with questions. But Moulana Baqir had never changed in his attitude toward Amar, had continued to greet Amar with kindness, as though he were one of those boys.
Even the children who sat by their parents were instructed to sit still and cup their hands together, as if they were waiting to catch invisible water, and he did not want to. He looked around until he saw where his parents stood, side by side, both of them facing the stage. Mumma’s hand covered her mouth the way she would hold it when she was afraid she would cry. His father held his hands together behind his back. The nikkah came to a close. Moulana Baqir invited them to pray. The hall was utterly hushed. He could sense everyone in the room honoring the moment. Amar looked down at his own hands, his one thumb kneading the knuckle of the other. He closed his mouth until he felt the line of his jaw tighten and teeth clench but still the thought escaped him: God, if you’re there, if you’re listening, let Hadia have a happy life, let hers be a fulfilling love. Let him be respectful of her, in awe of her, and tender toward her.
* * *
IT WAS DONE. Her daughter was married. Layla was surprised to find herself crying. She held tight to her mouth but let her tears fall freely; soon she would force herself to stop, but
for now, she welcomed the rush of emotion. Hadia was looking down at the Quran in her lap and at once Layla saw the girl she had been, petite for her age and so bright that people at grocery stores would see something in her that Layla, being with her all the time and having no other children to compare her to, could not see. Now her first child was married and she felt grateful to God. Rafiq placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and she turned to him and his eyes were also glistening. When he nodded at her, she knew: they had arrived at this moment together.
“Mubarak,” he said to her, and she said the same—congratulations.
Before either of them could congratulate their daughter and son-in-law, the swarm of guests approached them, and Layla and Rafiq stepped away from each other, Layla to hug woman after woman and Rafiq to shake hands with every man. Layla’s body became automatic as she hugged them, her mouth moved to say thank you but her mind was quiet. Each time there was a break between people she looked up at her daughter, who had begun glowing—just like that—as though what she had been told by her mother as a girl really had been true: that the heavens opened up during the nikkah recitation unlike any other time in one’s life, and angels descended to shower their blessings.
Then Seema Ali approached her and Layla could not help but look for Amira beside her, but Amira was not there. Amar stood at the side of the stage speaking with Huda. Layla turned to Seema and smiled.
“We are so happy for you and Brother Rafiq,” Seema said.
“The next wedding we celebrate will be for your children, Inshallah,” Layla said, and Seema smiled. It was a strange time in their lives: the children like paper boats they were releasing into the water and watching float away.
“Hadia looks noorani today,” Seema told her. “I’ve always had a soft spot for your Hadia.”
Layla knew this. The small pinch that occasionally announced itself in Seema’s presence throbbed again. Hadia also had maintained a reverence for Seema that Layla never understood. She would be on her best behavior when Seema was around. Seema had watched her children for her when Layla was in the hospital and it might have been this time that had made an impression, though her children had likely forgotten those few days. Seeing Seema now, on this day, with both Amar and Amira in the same room, opened in Layla access to that secret they shared. They held each other’s gaze a moment longer as if to acknowledge this, and then smiled in a way that Layla knew they were communicating that they had moved on, that the past was in the past.
“Yes,” Layla said finally, “Hadia does look beautiful.”
It was her first time voicing the thought. Seema had complimented her daughter often as Hadia grew, and Layla had braced against the comments. When alone with her daughter, she reminded Hadia that it was cultivating humility and an internal beauty that truly mattered. And Hadia, a girl still, would twist from Layla’s grip, and if she looked at Layla in that moment then she looked at her darkly, as though Layla had snatched her compliments from her, or worse, had denied them.
But maybe it would have been all right, maybe it would have eased the space between Layla and Hadia, if once in a while Layla had also shared how she felt about her daughter: that Hadia was beautiful and thoughtful, that she was a natural leader, that she could do anything she put her mind to, that she was smart in a way that pleased Layla but also frightened her, not knowing what life would be like for a woman like her daughter, or if she would know how to help her navigate it.
* * *
IT WAS TIME for the food to be served. Her wedding, which had seemed to be going so slowly, had just sped up. Waiters lifted tops from silver dishes and suddenly the hall filled with the aroma of spices, and guests stood to flock to the food line. Huda recited the dishes she would bring her and Tariq: Hyderabadi biryani, chicken tikka masala, paneer and spinach. Then Baba took the stage and Hadia realized she had been waiting to greet him more than anyone. Mumma, surprisingly, had warmed quickly to Tariq, even asked after him on the phone and had not minded them spending time together before they were married. But Baba had avoided any discussion of him, even as the wedding approached. She felt the hopeful thud of her heart as he climbed the steps and she stepped away from Tariq to go to him, abandoning the decorum of the bride who sits still and waits for others to come to her. She knew that she had, over the years, hurt them. She consistently dashed any hope they had of finding a man to their liking for her, as her mother liked to point out, the way every other girl in the community had done for their parents.
She hoped Baba would look at her with love and pride, the same look as when she rushed inside after speaking with the admissions dean of the medical school. Even now, anything she accomplished that made her feel remotely proud was not done for her alone, but in hope that it would give her parents the thought—that is my daughter, Hadia. Baba took her face in his hands and he kissed her forehead.
“Are you happy?” she found she was asking him.
“Are you?” He watched her.
She nodded, as if she were a little girl still.
“Then I am happy. How could I not be? I have gained a son.”
He had never expressed to her that her independent happiness was tied to his. Nor had he hinted that he would one day refer to Tariq as his son. Baba turned from Hadia and stepped forward to embrace him.
* * *
ANY MINUTE NOW he would leave to find her. The hall filled with chatter. A courtyard, she had said. He had looked up at her then. Just to be certain she was suggesting what he thought she was. He had never forgotten her eyes—their shape, their dark lashes, how their color changed in the sunlight and when she cried, appeared brown when she wore brown and a vibrant emerald green when she wore green, how in the summer when her skin tanned he was even more disturbed by their effect. But he had forgotten that particular disturbance: how he would need to look away to gather his thoughts again. Tonight she had looked at him with eyes as earnest as ever. And he knew it was safe to agree to meet.
Five minutes now. He looked at the face of his watch so long he thought he could hear its tick. The tables emptied around him, almost everyone stood in line for the buffet, and though he was hungry he couldn’t even think of eating now. In four minutes, he would make his way. If he could smoke to calm his nerves. If he could drop by the bar for just a shot. An old man looking at him waved him over. Amar turned to see if there was someone else he could be calling, but the man smiled and pointed at him, as if to say yes, you. He rested his hands on a cane and nodded as Amar approached him, then gestured to the empty seat. Amar pretended to not notice and stayed standing, waiting for the old man to speak.
“You are Rafiq’s boy. I have not seen you for years—do you remember me?”
Amar had never seen him before.
“You were this much when I visited.” He indicated with his hand a foot off the floor and he said, wagging a finger, “You were a badmash boy—you would tease and tease your Mumma Baba and if they even looked at you like they were about to scold you, you would cry. I am an old friend of your dada’s. You look like your grandfather. You stand like him too. The way you twist your wrist to look at your watch—your dada did just that. I called you over to look closely. Remarkable. Your father has a shadow of his father’s features, but you are a copy. Has he ever told you that?”
Amar shook his head. Four minutes, but he took a seat. He had never met his dada, or anyone who knew him, other than his father. As a child, Amar thought of his father orphaned young and could not imagine how he had managed to move through the world alone that early. Amar listened as the old man explained how he had flown in from Arizona with his young grandson Jawad, just to attend the wedding of his oldest friend’s granddaughter.
“It’s a hard blow, losing a friend. You are too young to know it. And your grandfather was very young when he died. Your father still a boy. Not only do you lose a friend, but you realize, for the first time, that you too are close to
death.”
Amar thought of Abbas, stepping forward to bear the brunt of Seema Aunty’s anger at a window Amar had broken, even after Seema Aunty had threatened Abbas that he would have to pay for it from the little he had saved.
“What was it like for my father after my grandfather died?”
He did not know he wanted to know until he asked.
“It was difficult for him. Just him and his mother after that. Every time I visited them it seemed he had aged. Trying to be responsible. Trying to care for his mother. Very hardworking boy. But you know your father. He is a man who does not show on his face what he is going through. His father was like that. Maybe you are like that? But he would visit me many times. Always brought me sweets on Eid. Hand-delivered me his wedding invitation. Came to my house before he moved here. I felt like I was saying good-bye to a son. Then my own son, years later, moved us all to Arizona. And your father visited us anytime his work brought him there, even if he had to rent a car and drive two hours to do it. And why would he? Just because I had been friends with his father. Me—an old man to him. A rare man, your father. Not many men like that anymore.”
Listening to this man praise his father, Amar felt as if a balloon were growing in his chest and he was afraid if it popped he would cry. He had been cheated out of knowing the best of his father; his father had reserved his kindness for others. Amar looked around, preparing to excuse himself, but he wanted to do something for the old man.
“Can I bring you something, some food or drink?” he asked.
The old man refused. His grandson was waiting in the food line for him.
“Anything?” Amar insisted, and he wondered for a moment if he wanted the old man to think that what he appreciated in his father had also been passed on to him. The man smiled.
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