Chapter Eleven
Eleven
The following weekend was Asma’s first PIMPS event, and as soon as she arrived, she realized she was grossly underdressed. Women sporting headwraps and fresh blowouts mingled with each other and men wearing oversized tortoiseshell glasses and pocket squares. Waiters circled the room with trays of shot glasses filled with mango lassi. The DJ was playing music so loud everyone seemed to be yelling. It was a swirl of selfies, mocktails, and hashtags. Asma wavered between amusement and awe.
“Gorgeous Asma!” Lubna swept in from somewhere with a big hug. It was Lubna who looked amazing. Her hair was swept up into a high ponytail, the better to showcase her flawless complexion and perfectly applied makeup. She looked like a makeover after picture. Lubna was one of those people who made you feel, at least for a second, that you were just as cool as her. “Come with me, I want to introduce you to some people!”
Lubna steered Asma through the room, the crowd parting as they came through. Lubna stopped every few feet to shout out a salaam or give someone a hug. It seemed like she knew everyone in the room and everyone knew her. To all, she gave the same greeting: “This is my rock star sister-in-law, Asma. She’s on the panel tonight!” Asma felt proud each time she said it, aware of how rare it was that her professional accomplishments were appreciated so publicly by members of her family.
Lubna guided Asma to a cordoned-off section near the stage. “This is for VIPs—you guys have your own facilities.”
Several leather couches were set up on the other side of the velvet ropes. A big NO PICTURES! sign was displayed prominently near the entrance. A few people were mingling inside, drinks in hand.
“They are all major influencers,” Lubna explained. “We’re giving them their space so people don’t try to take uncompensated pictures.” Lubna scanned the room. “I need to find Farooq, he just got here a few minutes ago too.”
As Lubna wafted away, Asma headed to the bathroom. She was dreading seeing Farooq and had even contemplated canceling on the event altogether to get out of seeing him. They had avoided each other for the rest of Aunty Bushra’s dinner before Asma tapped out entirely, going back to Maryam’s early by claiming residency-related exhaustion.
Asma returned in time to find that two chairs had been set up close together on a small stage at the front of the room. Farooq was already sitting in one of them and Lubna was standing near the mic. Were they the entirety of the panel? She squared her shoulders and approached the stage. If she was going to stay in the Bay after graduation, he would be back in her social orbit whether she liked it or not. She’d have to learn to act as though it didn’t bother her, and she might as well start now.
Farooq stood up and gave his salaams without looking. Asma noticed that he pushed his chair back, widening the distance from where she was to sit.
So that was how it was going to be?
Asma made sure to push her chair back too. By the time she took her seat, they were sitting on opposite sides of Lubna’s mic.
Lubna covered the mic and leaned toward them.
“Hey, guys, we’ll be filming so we need you to scoot closer to one another.”
Neither of them moved.
“Guys!” Lubna repeated, a bit louder. “Please, we have to start. Closer together.”
It was a game of chicken and Asma was definitely not going to lose. Farooq finally broke at Lubna’s increasingly insistent hand waving.
“Asma! You have to move in too.”
Asma moved her chair in as the commotion caught the attention of a few people closest to the stage.
“Look like you’re a couple about to sign your nikkah,” someone joked. “Close enough to be halal but one signature away from being haram.”
Their chairs came to an abrupt standstill.
But they were apparently close enough for Lubna’s liking. She flashed them a magnetic smile and thumbs-up before turning to face the crowd. “Hey, y’all—I’m Lubna Qureishi.”
The crowd clapped and cheered as Lubna spoke, someone yelling “We love you!” from the middle of the room.
“Love you too! So glad to see you all come out. I know we’re all here to have fun, but PIMPS is really all about making sure we have social and professional contacts and networks.” Lubna spoke with big hand gestures, her face open and animated. A small camera crew offstage filmed her, a big furry boom mic hovering above them as the camera rolled. “We’re super excited about today’s panel, featuring two Cal alums who have gone on to do such amazing things. We had a third panelist too, but unfortunately she just wasn’t feeling it tonight. She’s learning self-care and we support her on her journey.”
The crowd snapped their fingers. Why did this ever become a thing, Asma wondered, wishing they would just clap. It was going to be hard to keep a straight face for the duration of the panel.
“We really want this to be a conversation between our panelists and the audience,” said Lubna. “So I’ll kick off the discussion and then we’ll open it up to questions from the crowd. Sound good?”
The audience cheered again. This was an easy group, Asma thought.
“Let’s start off by getting to know our panelists. Asma, did you always want to be a doctor?”
“I did,” Asma said, thinking of the photograph of her and her mother. “In fact, it felt like it was the only thing I can remember I wanted to be. I’ve always felt a calling to help people. Health and medicine struck me as the most fundamental way to do that.” She didn’t mention her mother, but she wondered if Farooq remembered. Ever since her conversation with Rehana, that part of her history had become murky for Asma. The steadfast conviction she’d held for so many years—that her mother had wanted her to be a doctor above all else, above even being someone’s wife—had suddenly been shaken by her aunt’s revisionist qualifications. But still, there was the photograph. Asma dressed as a doctor, her mother smiling. It would have to be enough, even now, with the cost of her unwavering ambition sitting next to her. For his part, Farooq glanced around the room as she spoke, looking everywhere but at her.
“Farooq, how about you—were you always into computers?” Lubna asked. “What went into your decision to drop out of Cal?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been that nerdy computer guy,” Farooq said. “But after my first year, I knew that I didn’t need a degree.”
Asma had been there through that entire deliberation process and knew that dropping out wasn’t a choice that came easy to him. He had agonized over it, turning the decision over and over with Asma. And she had consistently told him the same thing: “I believe in you, whatever you decide.” Asma winced as she remembered his face as he said, “This is how you believe in me?”
“My siblings and I were the first ones in our family to go to college,” Farooq continued, “so it was a big deal when I left the Bay. It was really hard, although my family understood and was supportive. But it took me years to figure things out.”
“Deep, deep,” Lubna said with a nod. There were more snaps from the audience. Asma stared straight ahead, afraid that if she moved, Farooq would see the impact of his words.
“Thanks for those intros. We’re going to take a few questions from the audience and then unleash our panelists into the crowd so y’all can hang and mingle. Just yell out your questions, don’t be shy.”
“Asma, I remember you were all over the news a few years ago during the nurses’ strike at your hospital.” The woman speaking at the front of the crowd had a glittering nose ring. “I, too, really want to make a difference. How can I get on TV?”
“Do you want to make a difference or be on TV?” asked Asma. “Sometimes the people who are doing the most amazing work aren’t necessarily the ones we know about. It was cool to be on TV, but that hasn’t been the highlight of my career.”
The woman nodded like she’d never before heard anything so profound.
“Farooq, what was your first purchase after you sold your company?” The guy asking the question had one of those big beards Asma could never tell whether was motivated by trend or religious orthodoxy.
“A watch.” Farooq held up his arm to show off an ordinary-looking, bling-free black watch.
Typical, practical Farooq, Asma thought. The guy with the beard looked disappointed.
Lubna looked out at the crowd. “Any other questions? Come on, guys, don’t be shy.”
“Okay, not to be that person, but I know we’re all thinking it: How do you two deal with all the pressure from your families to marry?” The woman’s voice came from the back of the room. “I really want to be a lawyer, but my mom is always on my case about finding a man.”
“Right?” yelled out several people at the same time. There were nervous titters across the room.
“Think about what you want—what are your priorities?” Asma said just as Farooq answered, “They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“That’s easy for guys to say,” said Asma, turning to Farooq.
“It can be for women too.”
“Men don’t have the same kinds of pressure that women do.”
“You’re right. We have more,” Farooq said, looking out into the audience as if looking for confirmation that his statement was basic fact.
“ Excuse me?” Asma couldn’t believe what she heard.
“Everyone is on our case to marry and have kids too. But we have the added pressure of career success.”
“Maybe back in the old days, but not anymore.”
“You know that’s not true,” Farooq said. “Women say they’re looking for a good, kind guy—someone to be their partner through all of life’s challenges. But really, that’s not enough. They also want a man who makes money, who can financially take care of them.”
There were boos from several women in the audience mingled with a few yeahs from men.
“That’s sexist. And a complete generalization,” Asma said. She felt the humiliation of her encounter with Farooq slip away, replaced by anger. He had once been her greatest champion and a witness to her ambition. Who had he become?
“Wow, conflict among our panelists!” said Lubna, with a nervous laugh. “I love it!”
“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” Farooq said. “I’m just sharing from my own personal experience. I grew up in a working-class family, so I know what it’s like to suddenly come into money. It’s not the person with money who changes. It’s the people around you.”
“Money isn’t what makes a relationship.”
“I know that. But it seems to make all the difference for some people.” Farooq turned and looked straight at Asma. “Some people who didn’t want anything to do with me before suddenly wanting me back in their lives.”
They sat for a minute staring at each other, the look on Farooq’s face the same as on the day they broke up. He was angry—so very angry. It was what Asma had suspected all along—Farooq was furious with her, because he truly believed she’d ended their engagement over his lack of wealth.
But at least anger was a step up from the total indifference he’d claimed the other night.
Farooq looked away. Asma felt out of breath. She turned to see the crowd staring at them, unsure how to react to their discussion.
“Wow,” Lubna finally said. “It’s like a Twitter fight—but in real life.”
—
Asma was halfway down the stairs the next morning when she overheard Maryam talking in the kitchen.
“I’m happy that Lubna likes him,” said Maryam. “But I hope she doesn’t do anything dumb like post a picture of them on Instagram until they’re officially engaged. Your mom would freak.”
Asma slipped quietly down a few more steps so she could hear better, curious about what Lubna had said to Maryam after the PIMPS event.
“I think Ammi would just be happy that all her influencer activities actually resulted in finding someone,” said Hassan.
“PIMPS is so dumb, but Saba really should make an effort to go so she can meet someone too.”
“What are you talking about?” Hassan asked this question so frequently of Maryam that Asma could picture his face without even seeing it: scrunched-up nose, furrowed brows, and lips twisted in amusement. It was precisely the things Asma found so annoying about Maryam that Hassan thought were charming. “She’s with Tariq.”
“I mean with a professional,” said Maryam. “Someone who doesn’t work at Walmart.”
“Part time!” said Hassan. “It’s not his life dream, it’s a college job.”
“Oh right, while he becomes an actor .” Maryam pronounced the word with an affected accent. “Hard to believe there’s a job out there that makes working at Walmart seem like a stable career.”
“Saba’s right, you are a hater.”
“I don’t hate anyone. I just think she could do better.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“That’s what people always say about men without money. It’s like saying a girl has a good personality. That means she’s ugly.”
“Jeez, Maryam,” said Hassan. “Don’t be a snob.”
“I’m just saying that when it comes to marriage, you have to stay in your lane. Everyone knows out-of-league marriages don’t work.”
“You’re mixing metaphors,” said Hassan. “And you sound like your father.”
Hassan was right on that account. Maryam’s criticism of Tariq sounded exactly like her father’s and Rehana’s past objections to Farooq. That he didn’t have money or an education or come from the right family. Asma bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, her anger rising once more.
And now history was repeating itself with Saba and Tariq.
“Saba’s a good girl and I think she knows she can find someone better for her and for our family,” Maryam said. “If only we could find another Farooq.”
“Well,” said Hassan, “maybe Farooq can marry them both!”
“Guys love talking about having more than one wife. As if you could handle it,” said Maryam.
“He does have enough money,” Hassan continued.
“Having a wife isn’t just about having enough money.”
“True, it’s also about patience.” Hassan cleared his throat with exaggeration.
“And respect and responsibility,” said Maryam.
“Which, you’re right, is a lot to handle.”
“Ha,” Maryam deadpanned. “Maybe Farooq has some friends he could introduce Saba to. She’s so young. She doesn’t have to settle for Tariq when she could do better.”
“Instead of worrying about Saba, why don’t you worry about Asma?” Hassan’s voice dropped. Asma had to slip down a few more steps and lean in closer to hear him. “I feel bad for her; my mom is trying to set her up with some old guy again .”
Asma was surprised to hear Hassan talking about her. He usually kept his opinions on Asma’s life to himself during family discussions—and Asma assumed it was because she’d turned down his family’s rishta and left him open for Maryam to swoop in and catch his attention. So it was jarring that, six years later, here they were discussing her marriage prospects at the breakfast table.
“I told your mom not to bother,” said Maryam. “She’s not looking.”
“Because of her job?”
“Because she’s Asma. You know how she is.”
Asma wondered what Maryam meant—how was she?
“She doesn’t want to get married,” Maryam said. “She never has.”
So her younger sister clearly knew nothing about Farooq. Not even a sense that there had been a prospect, once. While Asma always wondered how much Iman knew about their broken engagement, Asma realized now that, if she knew anything, she wasn’t sharing the information with Maryam.
“There are single Desi men in Sacramento,” continued Maryam. “She can find someone if she really wants to.”
“Doesn’t seem like it’s really her scene,” said Hassan.
“What is her scene besides work?”
It was strange to hear herself spoken about. She didn’t like it. Asma crept up the stairs and crawled back into bed.
Did Maryam really think she didn’t ever want to marry? Asma had always been clear that her plan was to marry after she became a doctor. It seemed like one of the few decisions her family actually respected—or, at least, Asma assumed they did, because apart from the occasional conversation with Rehana, they had largely left her alone during med school. And she’d justified it to herself that, if she’d broken up with Farooq because becoming a doctor was more important to her than love, it made no sense to consider any other romantic possibilities until she’d achieved her goal.
But still, Asma was a doctor. She had been a doctor for three years, and she’d never seriously considered trying to find a husband in that time. She was exhausted, she worked too much, the potential suitors were never what she wanted. She had plenty of excuses. But beneath that justification there was the truth. There was only one person she had ever considered marrying. And she’d broken his heart eight years ago. Did she even deserve another chance?
She thought about her organic chem test in college, Farooq’s arms around her as he told her he was proud of her. And she wondered if any success would ever feel as sweet as that, if she had nobody to share it with.
—
Asma drummed her fingers on her desk and waited for the page to load. She was terribly behind on her charting. She’d come in early for her shift because the remote connection to the hospital’s server was loading too slowly at home. But the computer software wasn’t any quicker at the hospital, and now it kept freezing.
When the spinning wheel appeared onscreen for the fifth time, Asma opened up a browser window. She had once been a news junkie, but no more. Staying up-to-date on breaking news—immigration raids and hate crimes and police shootings on the regular—made her feel helpless. She was only able to function in her job, with her family, and as a sane citizen, by focusing on work and her local community and staying only marginally informed through limited doses of news consumption. Headlines read, she was about to close the browser when an ad in the corner of the screen caught her eye—it was for a dating app. These ads had become unnervingly accurate. How did this news website know she was single?
Asma thought back to the conversation she’d overheard between Hassan and Maryam and the comments Farooq had made during the PIMPS panel. Farooq had changed. And, based on what he said, not necessarily for the better. Maybe it was time for her to change too—let go of the past and imagine a future for herself beyond Farooq.
Asma googled Love & Salaam on her phone, one of the Muslim dating apps Lubna had recently plugged on her Instagram page. She was curious to see what type of men she’d find online. Maybe this was where she could start her effort to meet someone. She could prove to her family—and herself—that she wasn’t committed to a life of solitude and celibacy.
Asma hunched a bit in her chair and glanced around to make sure nobody was behind her as the app downloaded—she would die if any of her colleagues saw what was on her phone screen.
So many questions, she thought, as the app prompted her to enter pithy answers to profile prompts, informing her that better profiles mean more matches! and make sure to show your whole face in your photos! It was like a computer-generated aunty. Paranoid that the account could somehow be linked to her personally, she entered a fake name, birthday, and location and uploaded an old, somewhat blurry photograph of Iman from Asma’s birthday a few years back.
She leaned back and examined her profile—it was generic, uninformative, and untraceable, complete with a new user! banner welcoming her to the app. She started swiping through the seemingly endless stream of profiles the app presented to her.
Was this man her father’s age seriously looking for a woman in her twenties?
People who say they don’t want drama are usually the ones with the most drama.
Wow, look at this guy’s stomach! But why wasn’t he wearing a shirt?
The profiles were overwhelming. Iman was right. Anyone could—and apparently did—go online. Perhaps she should ask Aunty Uzma for a spot in her matchmaking book.
“Ooh, he’s fine. Nice abs.”
Asma swiveled around to find Jackson, peering over her shoulder at her phone, a big shit-eating grin on his face.
“Oh my God,” Asma said, mortified.
“Now, this is what I’m talking about! Get back on that horse, Asma!” Jackson laughed, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “But don’t look at porn in here, the nurses are really nosy!”
“I’m going to kill you.”
Asma shoved Jackson away from her, then held her finger down on the app to delete it. She cleared her browser history and logged out of the computer. She’d finish her charting in the privacy of her home tonight—which was where she should’ve ventured into the dating pool in the first place.
—
“Asma, this would look great on you—try it on.”
Fatima pulled a top from the rack she’d been searching through and tossed it at Asma. The two of them had spent the afternoon shopping, Fatima trying to find a dress to wear for a high school friend’s wedding the next weekend.
Asma held up the top, a long-sleeved emerald green silk blouse, and admired it until she saw the number on the price tag. It nearly made her choke.
“I don’t need it,” she said, putting the blouse back on the rack.
“What about for your residency graduation?”
“I’m going to just borrow something from Maryam,” Asma said. “Where will I ever wear this again?”
“Maybe on a date with a hot guy you meet online.” Fatima smiled slyly.
“I should never have told you about that.”
Fatima laughed. “Well, it’s a better idea than whoever the aunties try to set you up with.”
“That remains to be seen,” Asma said dryly.
Asma took a stack of dresses from Fatima, then went in search of the fitting rooms. They were all locked and of course the salesclerk, who had been flitting relentlessly all around them earlier, was nowhere in sight. Asma walked up and down the aisles, looking for her in vain—and ran directly into the infamous Aunty Uzma, whom she had managed to avoid since her father’s party.
Asma cursed her luck.
“Asma! I saw you earlier looking at shoes but I wasn’t sure it was you. You’ve gained some weight.”
Asma contemplated tossing the dresses at Uzma and bolting but knew that she would never be able to outrun Uzma’s penchant for gossip.
“Salaam, Aunty, I’m doing well, thanks. How are you?”
Asma’s passive-aggressive reply sailed over Aunty Uzma’s orange, henna-dyed hair.
“Fine, fine,” Uzma said. “Good I ran into you. We haven’t heard from you about the wedding.”
“Which wedding?”
“My nephew.”
Her nephew? The one she kept trying to set Asma up with? Asma’s confusion must have been evident on her face.
“The one you never contacted,” Uzma said helpfully. “Alhamdulillah, it was for the best.” Uzma nodded, relieved. “He met a nice young lady, MashAllah. She’s very fair. She’s a doctor. So is her father. And her two brothers.”
“Aunty, you know I’m also a—”
“He’s starting a fellowship next month. In Omaha. At a very good hospital. It’s the third best in Nebraska. MashAllah.”
“Omaha, huh?” Too bad it didn’t work out, thought Asma, trying not to giggle. She had missed her chance of leaving the Bay for a flyover state.
“Your father still hasn’t responded to the invitation.”
“Did you send it to our Palo Alto address?” Asma asked. “Abu left for Sacramento last month and I’m staying with Maryam.”
“Acha. Right. Right.” Uzma waggled her head. “You must come at least. Bring your sister.”
Oh hell no , Asma thought. “I’ll try, Aunty,” she said with a fake smile. “I’ve just been so busy, with work and everything.”
Uzma’s eyes narrowed, Asma’s mention of work making Uzma momentarily forget all about the wedding.
“You girls and work. Put that on hold. You’ll have time for work later, now you must find someone and settle down.”
Asma spotted the salesclerk walking to the women’s section. She subtly lifted the clothes in her arms and nodded toward the fitting room, wondering if her strained smile conveyed that she was being held hostage by an aunty.
“I said the same thing to your sister Iman,” Uzma continued. “I thought she was serious about looking. I don’t know why she asked me to take her picture out of my book.”
“She did?” Asma had barely spoken to her sister since her visit to Sacramento, other than to text her reminders about overdue bills and their father’s medication. She wondered why Iman would have asked such a thing—she’d seemed to have such high hopes for Uzma’s matchmaking skills. Unless…could it have something to do with Omar Khan’s sudden reappearance in their lives? “When was that?” Asma asked.
“Last week. I told her, Iman beti, you can’t be picky, you’ll be thirty next year!”
Uzma’s comment actually made Asma feel sorry for her sister. To be sure, Iman was generally a snob when it came to looking for a life partner—she had previously turned down suitors based on what Asma thought were shallow reasons, such as height below six feet and an income in the low six figures. And yet Asma resented Uzma’s implication that Iman couldn’t be selective about who and what she was looking for in a husband just because she was almost thirty.
“Ma’am, can I help you with those?” A salesclerk appeared from around the corner, motioning to the stack of dresses Asma carried.
“Yes, please!” Asma lunged at the woman as though she were a first responder. “Excuse me, Aunty, I have to get a room for my friend. It was nice seeing you.”
“Give my salaams to your father,” Uzma called out as Asma rushed off without a backward glance. “And let me know about the wedding!”
“I will!” Asma lied, slamming the fitting room door behind her.