Chapter 10
10
‘They’re heading our way,’ Farhan bhai whispered urgently.
My heart hammered in my chest as I noticed the Maliks were only two tables away.
Morowa waved to grab my attention. ‘Make sure the information cards on that side match the right desserts.’
I’d already checked the left side of our set-up multiple times, but I obliged.
Our table was currently filled with a colourful array of puddings and confections. On the side I was examining, there was rose rasmalai, apple kheer, pistachio milk cake, carrot halwa trifle and saffron kulfi served with miniature gulab jamuns. Morowa’s side included even more mouth-watering options.
Kiran walked over to us first.
A sharp voice came from behind her. ‘ Where has Karim wandered off to?’
Kiran turned to face the glamorous, glowering middle-aged woman in a stunning gown. Having come across ‘The Malik Family’ Instagram page, I instantly knew she was her mother – Fouzia Faris. Many aunties from the local community, including Mum, wanted to purchase her designer kurtas and sarees, but none of us could afford them. I always imagined that maybe I’d save enough to buy my bridal gown from there in the future though. Off the rack, of course.
‘He’ll be back soon,’ Kiran replied.
Fouzia’s nostrils flared. ‘We need to show a united family front to the Qureshis! I told him to be on his best behaviour today. And why do you keep wandering away from me as well?’
Kiran huffed loudly. ‘Relax, Mum. I’m just ensuring our schedule goes to plan.’
Ignoring what her daughter had just said, Fouzia took a step towards her. ‘I need you to stay at my side, to speak up whenever Sana attempts to make all the decisions. I can’t be the one to step in every time. I don’t need the label of monster-in-law just yet.’
‘Just yet?’ Kiran exclaimed. ‘Don’t you mean ever ? Please just calm down!’
Farhan bhai and I exchanged a wide-eyed look. Did they not realize we could hear them?
‘Look, Mum,’ Kiran said in a falsely bright tone, steering Fouzia towards our desserts, probably to distract her. ‘This is exactly what we need. Such a unique, elegant presentation. Visibly grease-free. They have vegan and gluten-free options as well.’
Fouzia surveyed us first, and then looked down her nose at our display. She seemed to have instantly decided she didn’t like what we had to offer.
‘It’s certainly … different. Some of our guests will be coming from India and Pakistan, and I don’t think they’ll appreciate something so unfamiliar.’
‘But the wedding is both British and South Asian, as are you ,’ I blurted defensively.
Suddenly everyone fixed their gaze on me. Fouzia’s eyes were wide, and I could tell she wasn’t used to being challenged. But there was no backing down now: my blabbering mouth had got me into this mess, and it was the only thing that could get me out …
‘What I meant to say is that I think this is exactly the aesthetic that will represent your family well,’ I continued. ‘It’s a Malik wedding – people will expect something extraordinary. You can’t be typical and just plonk down gulab jamun or laddoos in front of your guests when it comes to dessert.’
Kiran laughed loudly, but her mother didn’t seem the least bit amused.
Fouzia grimaced at me, making me shrink, and then her eyes found our name card. ‘I haven’t come across Jashan before. When were you established?’
Morowa gulped. ‘Last year.’
She scoffed. ‘There’s no way. I cannot take a risk at my son’s wedding with such an inexperienced team.’
Farhan bhai flinched next to me. The glow on Morowa’s face vanished.
‘Why are we starting our dessert tasting with them ?’ Fouzia asked Kiran incredulously. ‘I want to begin with the most well-established patissiers. If you’re going to do the job of our assistants, arrange that.’
Fouzia linked her arm around her daughter’s and began leading her away. ‘You need to be more realistic, Kiran,’ she told her. ‘Newer, smaller businesses won’t understand the logistics of catering for a big wedding. That company’s inexperience was obvious enough from their lack of proper uniform and their amateur appearance. As I always tell you, first impressions matter.’
Kiran turned to give us an apologetic look before she was whisked away completely.
Farhan bhai released a long, disappointed sigh and turned to me. ‘What was that tone, Zara? That is not the way to get new customers on board.’
‘But she was being so dismissive about our display,’ I argued.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he scolded. ‘You must always be patient with customers.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered, knowing he was right. ‘I was only trying to help.’
Farhan bhai put an arm around Morowa and they took a deep breath together. ‘We still have the food tasting,’ he said hopefully. ‘They can’t send us away before they’ve even tried our desserts. And even if this doesn’t work out, we’ll have other opportunities in the future, right?’
Morowa nodded but her eyes were a little glassy, and that made mine fill instantly. It was my fault – I’d ruined this for them.
So much effort had gone into preparing for this opportunity: the limited funds that had been spent on buying the best-quality ingredients, on paying for a babysitter, fuel, and much, much more. Farhan bhai and Morowa’s hard work – years and years of testing and tasting recipes, of late nights and animated chats about their dreams, of spending their hard-earned savings on this business – had been rejected so carelessly.
Money meant nothing to these people. I hated it – the way they had so much in comparison to us, the way we were under their thumb, literally scrambling for this one opportunity.
I needed some air, otherwise I’d either scream or burst into tears.
‘Be right back,’ I murmured as I left, not knowing where on earth I was going.
Everything was a blur of stoic waiters, sleek dresses and sparkling laughter. It almost felt as though I was moving in slow motion and couldn’t get away from it all fast enough.
In the corridor, I took deep breaths and wiped my tears away.
No one else was here, and I was glad for the space.
I began to pace.
Both my siblings were struggling in their own ways, and I was powerless. I loved them so much and wanted to help them, but I never knew the right thing to say or do. I wished my parents would step in to support them, to fix our family, but they refused to do anything, and we were all just becoming more distant from each other.
Everything was falling apart.
My heel wobbled. My stupid cheap shoes. My knees felt weak, and I leaned on the closest thing to me – the side of a grand piano. Focusing on my breathing, I looked straight ahead.
The Quran.
My heart stopped.
The holy book was encased in an acrylic glass cube. It was displayed open, and the ancient pages seemed to hold the weight of the entire universe, the answer to every question I’d ever had, the secret behind every emotion I’d ever felt.
Mum had always taught us that the Quran held the literal words of God, that it was our root to connecting with Him, to understanding everything about our existence and purpose.
I wiped my eyes and began making out the Arabic text. Some lessons at my local mosque had taught me to read Arabic, but I didn’t understand it well. I stared at the curve of the letters, the smooth lines, the symbolic dots.
It had been a while since I’d prayed.
Perhaps I was angry at God. It was hard to believe in a God who was all-powerful and yet let bad things happen to good people. I couldn’t help but feel that God had brought me into this messy, heart-breaking world and then left me all alone.
Still, I found myself whispering in my heart.
Please, Allah. Just fix everything. Not for me. But for my sister. For my brother.
I began to feel lighter.
Let my sister find happiness and be safe from all harm. Let my brother’s business do well so that his family has enough income. Please open my parents’ hearts and minds so that this family has a chance at being one again. Bring us all under your divine goodness and protection.
‘What are you doing here?’
I jumped and looked up in the direction the voice had come from.
None other than Karim Malik was walking down the grand staircase, fixing his cufflinks as he descended. Everything from his sleek black suit to his slick hair held the perfect image of refinement that I was so used to seeing online. If it hadn’t been for the look on his face, he’d have had the air of a perfect gentleman. But his brows were knitted with disdain at the sight of me.
He was looking at me as though I was a thief, when all I’d been doing was praying for my family.
Every other emotion zapped out of me.
I was left with only rage.