31. Raees
31
Raees
S aturday morning rolls around, and Ammi-ji graces us with her presence, dragging along a confectionery basket roughly the size of a small cypress tree.
Oh, and Ramishah is here, too. Fantastic .
In the living room, Zinneerah sits like the dutiful daughter-in-law she is, nodding and chuckling politely as Ammi-ji recounts the glorious chronicles of my childhood disasters. I don’t need to hear it to know which stories she’s picked. It’s always the same ones: the goat incident on Eid, overdosing on Pepto, the time I got my head stuck in the banister.
Ammi-ji presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, I can’t wait to see my cute little grandkids!” She reaches over to gently pinch my wife’s cheeks. “I’ve already started baby-shopping!”
Zinneerah glances back at me with wide, panic-stricken eyes. Is she serious?
I sigh heavily from my post in the kitchen, where I’m slicing green peppers in what’s rapidly becoming my emotional support activity. “Ammi,” I say, raising my voice over the sound of her cooing, “can we maybe talk about literally anything else?”
She dismisses me with a regal wave, scooting closer to my wife and pulling up her phone to scroll through the digital hall of shame, otherwise known as my baby pictures. The ones where I’m sporting both an inexplicably chubby face and the unruliest mop of hair ever seen on a six-month-old.
Ramishah breezes into the kitchen, dropping tea mugs in the sink. “What?” she says, catching the eyebrow I raise in her direction.
“Are you going to wash those?”
“With this manicure?” She holds up her hands, wiggling her freshly painted nails like they’re priceless artifacts. “You must be joking, Chotu.” She hip-checks me on her way to the counter and then does . . . whatever that is with her face—eyebrows waggling, lips puckered, chin jutting toward the living room like she’s trying to mime a particularly inappropriate joke.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
“Fuck off.” She swats at me, rings flashing, and pretends to aim a punch square at my shoulder. It wouldn’t hurt much, but it’d definitely leave a Gucci logo on my skin. “Don’t dodge the question.”
I reach for my coffee. “What question?”
She leans in close enough to invade my personal space. “Have you guys had sex yet?”
I choke on my coffee, sputtering it back into the mug. The hot splash burns my lip, and I mutter a curse, grabbing the nearest napkin to clean up. “For God’s sake, Ramishah. That’s not a question you ask your little brother.” I dab at the dark stain spreading across my sweater.
“Grow up, Chotu. You’re thirty-five, not five. And I’m pushing forty. Who else are you gonna talk to about this? Ammi?”
I pause mid-swipe, a frown already forming. “No way.”
“Abbu?”
“What—? No, absolutely not.”
“Exactly.” She snatches the napkin from my hand with a flick of her wrist and tosses it in the trash.
“It’s still weird,” I grumble.
“You’re weird,” she shoots back, dumping what’s left of my coffee into the sink with zero remorse. “Look, you don’t have to be ashamed, all right? But you also don’t need to let people pressure you and Zinneerah into anything you’re not ready for.” She pulls out the sugar jar, and pours me a fresh cup. “Also, not to be that person, but you do realize Ammi isn’t getting any younger, right? And you’re the apple of her eye. So, like . . .” She waves the spoon in my general direction. “Plant the seed. Make a little apple that doesn’t fall from the tree.”
I blink at her. “That . . . was an abomination of an analogy.”
She shrugs and dumps a tablespoon of sugar into my coffee. “I don’t do analogies, Raees. You know this.”
“Just one spoon.” I pull the mug away before she can sabotage it further.
She pauses, narrowing her eyes at me. “You used to take three.”
“Used to.”
“Raees.”
“What?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Nothing.”
“Ramishah, spit it out.”
We lock eyes like two kids squaring up at recess, ready to toss in some playground insults. But silence stretches just long enough for both of us to break into grins.
“You’ve grown into such a gentleman.” She reaches out, cupping my face. “I did such a good job raising you.”
I brush her fake affections away before she can start patting my head like a puppy. “Why don’t you do something useful for once and fill the pot with water?”
“Go to hell.”
“Only if you’re my tour guide.”
“Shut up.” Ramishah chortles as she rifles through my kitchen drawers. “Where the fuck do you keep your pans?”
“Lower cabinets.” I take a sip of my coffee, watching her in bemused disbelief. “What are you trying to make?”
“The only thing I know how to make.” She pulls open the fridge and pulls out an egg, holding it up like a trophy. “Scrambled. Always.”
“Just don’t burn down my kitchen. I need it to prepare food for the dawat later.”
A groan. “How are you feeling about it?”
I roll the mug between my palms, staring into the dark liquid like it might give me answers. “I’m . . . okay. You know Ammi-ji’s going to invite Tariq and Lubna Aunty. I don’t know why she keeps trying to patch things up with his family. It’s not like they ever gave a damn about her before.”
Ramishah doesn’t answer right away, cracking the egg into the bowl, dumping in some salt and pepper before whisking it with a fork. “I’ll tell you why,” she says, setting the pan on the stove with a metallic clang. “She’s been visiting him.”
I freeze, coffee mug halfway to my lips. “Visiting who?” I ask, even though I already know the dreadful answer.
“Who else?” She looks up from the stove, one hand on her hip, the other holding the whisk. “Abbu, obviously. She’s been visiting him for the past few months.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s Ammi.” Ramishah shrugs and turns back to the stove, pouring the beaten egg into the hot pan. “Apparently, they’ve been sorting things out. She’s even helped him look for an apartment.”
“An apartment?” I repeat, my voice rising. “Why the hell is she helping him find an apartment?” Before she can answer, I’m raising another question. “And where is he moving? Here?”
“She didn’t say, Jesus.” Her head shakes at my impatience. “But yeah, probably somewhere close. Says he wants to ‘start fresh.’”
“But—”
“Look,” she cuts me off. “Women—especially mothers—are empathetic creatures. It’s just who they are. Men? Men don’t have the range. But not Harry. He’s way more empathetic than I’ll ever be.”
“Fine, whatever,” I say, shaking my head. “She got him an apartment in the city. Now what? They’re going to ‘start fresh’ by becoming best friends? She’s going to visit him every weekend like it’s some kind of therapy project? What happens when he decides to worm his way back into our lives?”
Ramishah stops scrambling.
“Raees,” she says quietly. “I get it. I really do. I don’t like this either. I hate that she’s going out of her way to help him get back on his feet after everything he’s done. We’ve talked about it—argued, really—and she promised me this is it. She’ll get him settled in the apartment, and if he starts asking for more, she’ll let me know, and I’ll handle him.”
My sister’s the only one of us who ever stood a chance of reasoning with him. Once, when he raised his hand at her, she stood her ground. He couldn’t follow through. Instead, he broke down in tears, apologized over and over, and swore he’d be better. He never cried to me, though. He made sure I never saw him like that. He didn’t want me to learn those emotions. He didn’t want me to think crying was ever an option. Maybe he was scared I’d use it against him.
He didn’t have to worry about that. He would beat any sentimental softness right out of me.
“Are you going to visit him?” Ramishah’s voice pulls me back.
“Alone,” I mutter.
“You don’t want to introduce Zinneerah?”
The idea leaves a bad taste in my mouth. “I don’t want his hand touching my wife’s. I’ll tell him what he needs to know, and that’s it.”
She nods. “When do you want to go?”
“In the evening.”
Her brows shoot up. “Like, today?”
“I just want to get it over with,” I say, setting my mug down.
Ramishah frowns slightly, worrying her bottom lip. “I’ll drive you,” she offers.
“No, you stay here with Ammi-ji and Zinneerah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” I glance toward the living room, where Ammi is laughing wholeheartedly. Her arms are bare for once, the faded scars visible. She always tried to hide them even when I begged her not to. If someone had seen them, maybe they could’ve saved us. “This’ll be the last time I see him.”
“Me, too,” Ramishah replies, shutting off the stove. After a moment, she adds, “I haven’t introduced him to my family, either.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Why’s that?”
She shrugs, but I know her well enough to recognize the way her jaw tightens, or the way she avoids looking at me.
“He’s never been proud of anything I’ve done. Not once.” She scrapes the pan until the scrambled eggs are piled on the plate. “I used to try so hard. Joining every club, every team, just hoping he’d show up for something—a game, a recital, even one of those bullshit parent-teacher meetings.” A dry, bitter laugh leaves her. “And now that I’ve built this little perfect world for myself? My family, my job, my life? I don’t want him to see it. It’s not for him. It’s not because of him. This happiness is mine. Mine and mine alone.” She turns to point the spatula at me. “So don’t even think about cowering in front of a coward. You march in there with your head held high, you say what you’ve always wanted to say, and then you walk out with a goddamn smile.”
I let her speech sink into my skin. “Can’t guarantee the last part. I’m a sensitive guy.”
Ramishah chuckles softly. “I never hated you for it, you know?”
My head tilts. “For crying?”
“No, doofus. All that stuff I used to say about you being the golden child? It was a one-sided competition. I was angry, sure. Angry that he poured all his attention into making you his little shadow and shut me up with Barbies, and dresses. But when you came crying into my room at night, or when I had to put ointment on your back?” Her knuckles whiten on the spatula, her next words coming out like a hiss. “I only ever wanted to kill him.”
My eyes burn as I look at her, remembering all of it. My sister, sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor with a first-aid kit, holding me close while I sobbed quietly; her small hands gently tending to the bruises and welts on my back; the way she never let me see her cry, even though I knew she wanted to.
The first time, I was nine—small, skinny, fearless in the way kids are when they think they can protect their mother. I didn’t feel the pain of the first slap until later, when my ear rang and my cheek swelled so badly, I couldn’t chew on that side for a week.
After that, it became a routine.
By the time I was thirteen, I knew how to position my body to take the brunt of the blows without breaking anything too important. My ribs were fair game, but I’d keep my face out of range; bruises there invited questions I couldn’t answer.
When he was done, he’d storm out of the house.
That was when Ramishah took over, no matter how young she was. She’d sit me down in the bathroom and clean the scrapes on my arms, her small hands quick as she muttered curses under her breath. Then she’d check on Ammi-ji, helping her wash her face, combing her hair, whispering reassurances neither of us believed. She’d cook dinner, slapping together whatever we had in the fridge—dhal, rice, scrambled eggs.
Abbu had been drinking before he even came home, the smell of whiskey polluting the air as soon as he opened the door. He accused Ammi-ji of something ridiculous—talking to a male neighbor, or not folding his clothes properly, or maybe just existing in a way that annoyed him that day. I can’t remember what triggered it.
But I remember the slap.
Ammi-ji crumpled like a rag doll, her head hitting the edge of the coffee table with a sickening thud.
I froze. For the first time, I didn’t know what to do.
Ramishah did, though. She was fifteen, then. She grabbed Abbu’s keys from where he’d left them on the counter, dragged me off the floor, and together we carried Ammi-ji to the car. She was so still, her head lolling to the side, a trickle of blood pooling at her temple. I could barely open the car door with my shaky hands.
My sister didn’t say a word the whole drive. Her knuckles were pale on the steering wheel, her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes locked on the road ahead. She had only driven once before, when a friend had let her try in an empty parking lot. But that night, she drove like her life depended on it—because it did.
Ammi-ji didn’t die, thank God. She had a concussion and needed stitches, but she survived. And when we got home, Ramishah sat in the bathroom with her while I scrubbed the blood off the coffee table before Abbu woke up.
The last time I tried to fight back, I made the mistake of threatening him. I was seventeen, standing in the hallway outside their bedroom, my nails cutting into my palms. I could hear Ammi-ji crying on the other side of the door, her voice cracking as she begged him to stop. Something in me snapped.
“I’ll call the police!” I shouted. “Do you hear me, asshole? I’ll call them. I’ll—”
The door flew open before I could finish. Abbu stood there, his chest heaving, and veins protruding from his neck. His eyes were wild—bloodshot, red-rimmed, the pupils dark and unfocused like he was possessed. As a child, I used to think he was every time he hit her, but even demons would refuse to possess the body of a man who abused his wife and kid.
For a second, I thought he might hit me. I almost wished he would, just to prove I wasn’t scared.
The next thing I knew, his hands were around my neck, his thumbs digging into my windpipe. I clawed at his wrists, my vision blurring, my legs kicking uselessly against the floor. Ammi-ji was screaming, pulling at him, hitting him, doing everything she could to make him let go. “Bas karo! Leave him alone! Please, Usman! He’s your only son!”
Suddenly, he released me, and I crumpled to the ground, gasping for air.
The next morning, he packed a bag, and left us for good.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
For weeks, I couldn’t swallow without feeling like his hands were still on my throat. I couldn’t look at my own reflection without seeing the purple marks wrapped around my neck, a grotesque necklace of weakness and humiliation. Ammi-ji tried to soothe me, pressing ice packs to the bruises, whispering reassurances I couldn’t hear over the voice that kept asking, Why didn’t you fight harder? Why didn’t you stop him?
Laughter bubbles up from the living room.
Zinneerah is leaning her head on Ammi-ji’s shoulder, the two of them conversing about her music. The sight is a balm to memories that still sting like fresh wounds.
“Do you mind making me some toast, Chotu?” Ramishah asks.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, clearing my throat. I grab the bread from the pantry, toss two slices into the toaster, and take a long, soothing sip of my coffee.
Then my phone buzzes. Pulling it from my pocket, I sweep over a quick glance at the screen—
I choke, spitting the coffee back into the mug because the last man I ever expected to willingly text me is texting me.
Azeer: Hello, Raees. Are you free? Zinneerah isn’t picking up her phone, so I was forced to text you.
Never mind.
My thumbs hover, then move fast.
Me: Of course. Is everything okay?
Azeer: I highly doubt you’d be busy.
That was uncalled for. Everyone says he’s got the kind of personality you tolerate over time—if you’re patient enough. I’m still not sure I am for him.
Me: What do you need?
Azeer: There’s news Alina and I want to share with you and Zinnie.
The toaster pops.
“Rami, I’m stepping out with Zinneerah for a bit. Azeer needs to talk about something.”
Her brow furrows. “Who?”
I blink. “My wife’s cousin. You complimented his ‘buttery smooth skin’ or something the first time you met.”
Recognition dawns on her face. “Oh, the fancy hotel guy?”
“That’s the one.” Walking over to Zinneerah, I catch the way her face softens when she sees me. “Sorry to pull you away. Azeer and Alina want to talk.”
Her brows knit. “Is everything okay?”
“Hopefully.” I turn to my mother. “I’ll bring her back soon.”
She waves a hand, already distracted. “Take your time. I’ll find more baby pictures of you.”
Lovely.
Zinneerah and I step out onto the patio and take our seats at the table. I prop my phone against the umbrella pole and hit FaceTime to call Azeer.
The screen lights up and the call connects.
Alina’s face appears first, beaming, and then she holds up a white and blue stick to the camera. “I’m pregnant!” she squeals.
Zinneerah’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide like she’s just seen a meteor crash.
“Congratulations, you two!” I break into a grin, watching Alina throw her arms around Azeer’s neck, shaking him so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t topple over. “When did you find out?”
“Like, literally, twenty minutes ago!” she blurts out, still grinning ear to ear. “I called my parents first, then Azeer’s, then Nyla and Shahzad, and now you guys! Isn’t it crazy? I mean, me? Pregnant ? I didn’t even think this could happen.”
“Of course, it’s possible,” Azeer says, holding her around the waist. “We’ve talked about this since the second month of our marriage. It’s time we started growing our family. Zoha’s been asking for a sibling, after all.”
Alina leans closer to the screen. “Zinnie, you good? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I turn to my wife, noticing the tears quietly rolling down her cheeks. Without a second thought, I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and pass it to her. She dabs at her face, her hands trembling.
“I’m so happy,” Zinneerah whispers. She takes a deep breath and looks at the screen. “You’ve always wanted a baby.”
Alina’s face softens. “It took a lot to convince myself. You know, with my epilepsy and all the risks. But the process made all those doubts disappear.” She shifts the phone upward, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach. Azeer sits beside her, arms folded, looking as smug as a man who’s about to become a father can be. “Got a little bun in the oven now.”
I smile. “Well, your baby will be as beautiful as you are, Alina. Inside and out.”
Azeer tilts his head. “Just her?”
“Yes,” Zinneerah and I reply in unison.
Alina bursts into laughter, while Azeer mutters, “This call is over—”
But she yanks the phone away. “You two are such honest sweethearts. If I could, I’d give you both forehead kisses right now.” She leans into the camera, blowing smooches toward us.
Zinneerah gasps. “You’re still coming tomorrow, yes?”
“Duh!” Alina then drops her voice a notch. “If you want an insider tip, order food from outside, transfer it into your pots and pans, and pretend you made it yourself. I can send you a list of restaurants—”
I raise a hand to interrupt. “That’s very generous of you, Alina, but I’ll be cooking for the dawat myself.”
“We’ll pack some antacids just in case.” Azeer, who I hadn’t noticed was busy playing Candy Crush, doesn’t even look up from his phone.
Alina smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Ignore him. We’ll be there with four hungry stomachs. Zoha’s so excited to see you both.”
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“At a piano lesson right now,” Alina says proudly.
I raise my eyebrows. “That’s incredible. Is she liking it?”
“Oh, she’s obsessed. Azeer got her the piano a few months back, and now we can’t stop her. I swear, it’s like Beethoven’s ghost decided to haunt her.”
“That’s wonderful. I’d love to hear her play sometime,” I reply. “We’ve got a grand piano in one of the rooms. She’s welcome to use it while she’s here.”
“You play the piano?” Azeer asks, glancing up from his game.
“I used to,” I admit. “Back in high school, I volunteered at a retirement home. One of the residents was a jazz pianist. He taught me basic chords, and how to build on them.” I glance at Zinneerah, who’s listening intently, a smile on her lovely lips. “Funny thing, the piano we have actually came from that same retirement home. They gifted it to me as a parting gift when I graduated.”
Alina grins, shaking her head. “Of course they did. You have a way of leaving people in awe.”
“Hardly,” I reply, brushing off the compliment. The conversation in my head shifts naturally to her. “Oh, and Zinneerah’s been playing the guitar again.” The pride in my voice shines through. “She’s performing on campus in a few weeks with her friends.”
Azeer suddenly snatches the phone. It’s frightening to see him so soft-faced. “You are?”
Zinneerah nods, her eyes locking with his. “I’m going to pursue music again,” she says slowly, as if the words are still new to her. “No singing. Just guitar. Songwriting. With the girls.”
“The Cryptics?”
She chuckles softly, her smile gaining confidence. “Back in business.”
“Have you told Shahzad?”
Her laughter fades. “He only checks in.”
“Is he coming to the dawat tomorrow?” Alina asks, her chin now perched on Azeer’s shoulder. “I know Nyla’s still in China and can’t make it, but Shahzad’s in New York. And you told him in advance, so he has no choice.”
Zinneerah shrugs, her fingers brushing over each other in that way she does when she’s avoiding a conversation. “We’ll see.”
“And Sahara?” Azeer adds, tilting his head slightly.
Another shrug.
I dredge my memory for details about Sahara Khan—Zinneerah’s childhood best friend, and Azeer’s adopted sister. Ammi-ji had mentioned Sahara recently, something about a real estate collaboration involving cottages in Europe. That’s where Sahara lives now, juggling her impressive lineup of titles: realtor, Chief of Marketing at Sun Tower Hotel’s European headquarters, and an investor whose business instincts rake in profits.
“I can’t wait for all of us to be together!” Alina chirps. “It’s going to be so much fun. Zinnie, you have to help me come up with baby names.”
“I’d love to.”
“And let us know if you need help with anything,” she offers. “Throwing your first dawat is always daunting.”
Azeer leans back and kisses her cheek. “We did excellent with ours.”
“Plagiarism isn’t excellent,” I say, smirking at him. “But who am I to judge?”
Zinneerah rubs a soothing hand across my back. “No, we will always judge Azeer.”
“I’m with her,” Alina chimes in, sticking her tongue out at her husband.
He groans at the combined attack. “Yeah, no. This call has officially gone on too long.”
Alina starts blowing kisses. “Bye, I love you both, and I can’t wait to see—”
The call cuts out.
“You were right about what you said in the car the night of Alex’s concert.” I exhale hard, shaking my head. “How are those two still married?”
“And now . . . they’re having a baby.”
“Fire married fire. They’re dangerous to a couple like us.”
“Very.”
We share a chuckle at that.
Her hand stays on my back, tracing slow circles over the fabric of my shirt. Then, it slips away to sign, and she turns her attention to the pool shimmering under the sunlight. Is it for decoration?
I glance at the pool, blinking at it like I forgot it was even there. “Now that I think about it, I haven’t used it since you started waking up earlier than me.”
Her gaze slides back to mine, eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity. You swim?
“Very well. You?”
I’m jealous. I can’t swim. My siblings swim. I am too scared to try. “I thought ‘Ursula’ might kidnap me and steal my voice so I’d stop singing in the shower.”
I throw my head back laughing, my stomach aching from the absurdity of her childhood fear. “That’s . . . you know, fair enough. I used to be terrified of heights after I watched The Lion King as a kid. You know the scene . The one where Scar drops Mufasa from the cliff.”
Abbu decided he’d ‘man me up’ or whatever, so he took me hiking once. We stopped at this cliff’s edge—it looked almost exactly like the one from the movie. I swear to God, I froze. Then I looked down, and realized I’d peed my pants. Abbu yanked me back just before I could fall, then slapped me twice.
“I’m meeting him tonight,” I whisper.
“Who?”
“My father.”
Her brows lift. Do you want me to come with you?
I shake my head. “Forgive me, Zinneerah. I can’t let you meet him. I’ll explain everything about him once I’m back. I believe it’s time you know why he isn’t in my life anymore, though I’m sure you’ve already pieced together some of it.”
She sniffles sharply, lowering her gaze to the patio floor. Your sister told me a little.
Ramishah would’ve skimmed the surface. Thankfully, she’s always known where to draw the line. Zinneerah’s knowledge likely ends at the edges of what’s safe. Enough to understand, but not enough to hurt.
I have no interest in unpacking the worst of it tonight, not the way it fractured me as a boy. That’s for later. I’ve got enough to deal with just seeing him again. The memories are going to come crashing in. The sound of his voice, the way my bedroom walls compressed in when he was angry, how small and cornered I felt when he looked at me like I was the problem.
It’s going to wreck me. It always does. And when it’s over, I’ll need someone.
I’ll need her. Just her. Just my wife.
Zinneerah’s dark eyes lighten as the sunlight kisses her golden skin. She shifts closer and gently hooks her thumb at the corner of my mouth, tugging upward. “Much better.”
I smile on cue, despite the churn in my chest. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” Her hands drop as she straightens, and the softness of her touch fades as she stands, heading toward the patio doors. But stops in the threshold, glancing back. Her hands lift again.
Let’s go swimming tonight.