Chapter 2
Chapter Two
W ith the wedding festivities over, it’s time to get back to work.
A few days later (after I’ve recovered from the ordeal that is a week-long Pakistani wedding), I dress in a pair of cute trousers in the most darling shade of lavender and wear a ruffled white blouse with a dark purple chiffon scarf around my head. Not the most usual attire for an engineer, but I refuse to change my sense of style in accordance with my profession.
My wardrobe mainly consists of whimsical and romantic clothes from places like Zimmerman, Selkie, and LoveShackFancy, most of which are feminine, frilly, and absolutely gorgeous (and of course, a bit expensive, but dressing cute is a basic human right!).
After I’ve spritzed myself with lemon perfume I got from our last trip to Capri (back before Naadia was married, I recall painfully), I pop over to the bathroom for one last glance in the mirror. As I do, my gaze strays to the door at the opposite end of the bathroom, beside the second sink. It’s closed now, but for years it would mainly remain open, as Naadia’s room was on the other side of it. We’d spend our morning routine getting dressed, chatting, and listening to our latest favorite songs or reading funny tweets aloud to each other.
Now, I get dressed in silence.
“Chin up,” I say to myself. It’s much too early to be melancholy. With a nod to myself in the mirror, I grab my Dior book tote (personalized with my name across it), then exit my room. Across the hall, I glance at the master bedroom’s door, which is open, as I can already hear Papa downstairs, but the other door is closed. Phuppo’s.
I brush away the sadness that follows the sight and instead head down one end of the double winding stairs, hand gliding across the wooden bannister. Downstairs, I set my bag down and pass the family room, which is flooded with light, courtesy of the wall full of windows. Our house has a very classic design, filled with symmetry and sophistication, accented with gilded frames, ornate furniture, heavy drapery, and tasteful chandeliers in every other room.
I go to the kitchen, which has clean cream and beige lines with dark wood accents and quartz countertops. I make avocado toast with eggs for Papa and myself, looking out the windows to the sun washing over our backyard.
The green hedges glisten in the sunshine, the marigolds and azaleas a contrast of yellow and pink. Our backyard is a wide field, with a mini pond and waterfall installed in one corner, and a gorgeous gazebo in the other.
It’s the beginning of September, so the weather is neither hot nor cold – it’s perfect weather, really – and I open the kitchen window to let in fresh air and the harmony of birdsong. Suburban Long Island is filled with greenery, and I am glad for the wide backyard surrounded by trees that gives our estate the perfect amount of space and privacy.
Despite the pang I felt coming into a clean kitchen – no sign of the little mess Phuppo would make upon assembling her own breakfast – I am resolved to be optimistic. Phuppo is off galivanting in Europe, and I will be happy for her. This is what I wanted after all, when I decided to set her and Zeeshan Uncle up: for her to be content.
I start up the espresso machine, which is cafe-grade and only cost a couple of thousand dollars. Since it is still warm out, I make myself an iced latte, relishing the first sip of coffee, then call out to Papa to come eat. I bite into my avocado toast and finish my breakfast, but Papa doesn’t make an appearance. As usual.
I place my plate in the sink. It has an adorable Beatrix Potter print, part of a set from Pottery Barn that always reminds me of Mama, since she would serve our breakfast on these plates when we were kids. I make Papa’s cappuccino, making sure it’s extra hot (if it is even one degree colder than scalding, he refuses to drink it) then carry his plate and mug out of the kitchen.
“Papa, breakfast,” I say, walking over to his office, where he is already dressed and sorting through some old papers in his briefcase. When I appear in the door, he looks up at me from his massive reading glasses. As usual, he is dressed in a smart suit, his hair still a little damp from his shower.
“I’ll be there in just a moment,” he says. His attention is barely diverted. I place his breakfast plate on the table before him. “Oh.” He blinks. “Thank you, jaani.”
When he does not give his food attention, I walk over and take the papers from his hand and replace them with his coffee. Papa doesn’t drink chai, which is unheard of and, quite honestly, personally offensive to me. However, he does drink coffee, so I don’t shun him entirely.
“We are going to the office,” I say. “You can look at these there. Now eat.”
He eats as I put the papers back into his briefcase. I pick up his phone from beneath a pile of papers and set it in front of him before he can ask.
“Tch, Papa, why don’t you get a new screen protector?” I ask, seeing the shattered cover.
“Then how would you buy your new lip gloss?” Papa replies. I shake my head at him in amusement. We clearly have enough money to afford both, but old habits die hard.
Papa is from a small village in Pakistan and immigrated to the US when he was eighteen to go to college. He’s never been in the habit of spending. Back when Mama was alive, she would always handle the finances, and I think Papa truly doesn't know how much money he has in his accounts (which is quite a bit).
I shake my head at him, making a mental note to order him one as I leave his office. I slip on my Loro Piana loafers (a bit casual, I know, but divinely comfortable), then wave goodbye to Papa and head to my car, juggling my tote, latte, phone, and jacket.
I set the things into my midnight blue Mercedes and settle in, reciting the traveling dua before putting on some cheerful music. As I am pulling out of the driveway, Papa leaves the house, the door locking automatically behind him, and heads to his own car, a sleek white Tesla.
We are headed to the same place, our office twenty minutes away, but Papa tends to stay longer hours, while I leave once the clock strikes five. (Sometimes earlier, if I am being honest.) Papa is the CEO and chief consultant of his own company, where he designs commercial buildings. I’m one of the engineers there; I studied civil engineering and have been working with Papa since I graduated (with honors) over a year ago last May.
Papa never pushed me to do one thing, he just wished for me to get educated and get a good job, Mama too. She never went to college and was always entirely dependent on her husband. When she was eighteen, she got married and moved to America, where she knew exactly no one. It was good Papa didn’t end up being a psychopath because she was entirely reliant on him. Which is exactly why she never wanted us to be dependent on any man.
(Honestly, sometimes a girl wants to be dependent on a man for certain things.)
I am Papa’s little heiress, which just sounds right out of a period drama, doesn’t it? So I spend a lot of time learning the ropes from him and managing and going to meetings, rather than strictly drafting up blueprints etc.
It’s good work, and I enjoy it, but on days like today, I feel restless.
When I get to our office building, I park right in front, then head into the five-story building. Our offices are on the fourth floor, and the other floors are rented out by other businesses. I take the elevator up, then smile and say “good morning” to my coworkers as I head toward my desk. There are about twelve of us on site, which makes Papa feel as though he’s running a very quaint Mom-and-Pop store, though our profits are far from it.
I’m not exactly best friends with any of my coworkers; we’re cordial, of course, but I think they all keep their distance from “the boss’s daughter.” So while the work is alright, I can’t say I exactly have fun every day. And today is especially dreary.
I spend the morning on video conferences that surely could have been emails, and our computer system is running terribly slowly, which is driving everyone nuts.
I tap my nails against the keyboard of my Mac, looking around. My desk is decorated with a vase of fresh flowers, a small stack of books, a vintage teacup and saucer, and a little diffuser which emits a sweet sugary scent.
I reach into my drawer of emergency snacks and pull out some chocolate (Lindt chocolate from Switzerland really is superior) and nibble on the edge of a bar while I stare at my screen, not wanting to do any work. It’s nearly twelve, so I take a deep breath and stand. I’ll just go grab some lunch and maybe drive around for a bit.
But even after that is done, I still feel disquieted. Releasing a long breath in my car, I exit and head back into the air-conditioned office building, approaching the elevator. It closes just as I approach, but I make eye-contact with one of the passengers inside as it does. A moment later, the door reopens.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling sweetly. The elevator is filled with a few finance-bros from another business in the building, and in the corner, I spot a familiar face.
One of our new workers pushed to the side. From what I recall, she is a graduate student doing her Masters in Architecture and working part-time at our company as an intern. She clutches her purse to her chest, looking like quite the lost lamb.
Clearing my throat, I enter the elevator and stand towards the middle.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say. The finance-bros move over when I flash them another smile. They get off on the second floor, and the intern releases an audible sigh of relief, as if she has been holding her breath. From what I remember of her resume, we are nearly the same age, and she is from Pakistan.
“You’re Shanzay, right?” I say. It’s just us two in the elevator. She startles, as if not used to being noticed. I wait for her reply, and she nods.
The elevator doors open to the fourth floor, our destination, and she presses the open button.
“After you, Miss Mirza, ma’am,” she says.
“Oh, please don’t call me that,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m Humaira.”
She looks at me with wide brown eyes. Something about her makes me want to take her under my wing.
“After you, Humaira,” she says, holding her arm out to keep the elevator doors from closing. I cock my head to the side.
“No, I don’t think so,” I say, pressing the close button. She pulls her arm back and the doors close.
“Wha—”
The elevator takes us back to the ground floor, and I exit.
“Well, come on, then,” I say, looking over my shoulder at her.
“Bu—” She has a split second to make a decision, and as the elevator doors go to close once more, she jumps out. “Where are we going?” she asks, falling into step with me.
“I could kill for some cake and tea at the moment,” I say.
“Bu—”
I wave a hand. “Oh, don’t worry, you won’t get in trouble. This is an important errand conducive to our work. How can our brains function without dessert?” I grin wickedly.
Shanzay smiles at that. She has a sweet face. She is of medium height and thickly built, and I think she could be rather pretty, with a few key adjustments made to her appearance. She is wearing her hijab in a rather old-fashioned way, the way many Pakistani women do, with an unflattering undercap and too many pins and layers and folds. We’ll need to remedy that.
My scarf is pinned beneath my chin and thrown over my shoulders; it is very easy breezy that way.
“Let’s go,” I say, opening my car door. She blinks, then gets in. We drive to a bakery nearby. The bakery is small, but it isn’t very busy, since it’s a weekday and the middle of the day. There’s a young mother on one table with a little girl, who looks too young to be school-going. My heart warms at the sight. I love seeing mothers on dates with their children.
It reminds me of going out for afternoon tea in the city with Mama after a shopping spree at Bergdorf's. Naadia and I were too little to have proper tea, but we’d have sweet milk and eat loads of pastries and cakes, Mama sitting across from us and teaching us how to properly apply clotted cream and jam to our scones.
While the memory brings a flood of warmth, it also brings an undercurrent of pain. I miss Mama, always, but now I miss Naadia, too. We used to go out to cafes all the time in high school and college.
But no matter. Nothing a good piece (or three) of cake can’t fix.
When our server brings over our orders, I finally get the details from Shanzay.
“So you moved here at the beginning of the summer?” I ask, biting into my slice of tres leches. “Where did you stay? Was campus open?”
“Yes, I came at the beginning of June,” she replies, not touching her slice of carrot cheesecake. She’ll need to be quicker about that before I eat it all. “I stayed with a family friend at their house.”
“Oh, who?” I ask, sipping my Earl Gray tea (which isn’t Fortnum’s, but it passes muster). “Perhaps I know them.”
“The Rajas?”
It is a common last name, but I feel as though I know who it is she speaks of. “How many children do they have?” I ask.
“Four,” Shanzay replies. “Two young boys, a girl in college ... and an older boy.”
Her cheeks turn pink at this. Actually pink! Hmm.
“Is the girl’s name Madiha?” I ask. Shanzay nods.
“Yes!” she replies, seeming to loosen up and talk more freely. “She’s at John Hopkins University for biomedical engineering, but she was home for the summer. She’s so sweet, I love her.”
“Yes, she is,” I say, knowing just the family she’s referencing. “They’re tenants of Fawad – my sister’s brother-in-law.”
The Sheikh family owns a lot of property, and since Uncle retired a few years ago, and Asif is a lawyer, Fawad handles all that business. He does a lot of investing and reinvesting, making more and more money out of money. Sometimes he even advises Papa on his accounts, his eyes positively alight as he explains multiplication and growth rates.
What a terrible nerd. I mean, who seriously likes math that much? If there was any doubt in my mind regarding his peculiarity, this would eliminate it.
“I’ve met Fawad Bhai on a few occasions,” Shanzay says. I nearly laugh at the term of respect she’s used. It’s just Fawad , for God’s sake. “He is very quiet, but kind. He gets along with Huzaifa?—”
At this she breaks off, cheeks turning even more pink. Goodness. I have not known such shyness in quite some time, not since I was in high school, maybe.
“Who’s Huzaifa?” I ask, and Shanzay gasps a little hearing his name. She looks around as if he will materialize right then. Gracious me.
“Oh, he is the ... eldest,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “He and Fawad Bhai get along really well. Sometimes they even played basketball together.”
This is positively shocking. I did not think Fawad had an athletic bone in his body. It is also interesting because from what I know, the Rajas are a simple, relatively poor family. I have met the daughter, Madiha, before; we are from the same masjid community, and she’s active in the Youth Group for girls there.
“I simply cannot believe you came to New York just as mango season began in Pakistan,” I say, changing the subject. Shanzay laughs.
“I know,” she replies, “but I was a TA for an undergraduate summer class, so I had to come earlier. The Rajas were so kind, letting me stay with them for the summer.”
“They’re family friends of yours?”
She nods. “But now that classes have started, I have my own apartment on campus.”
We continue chatting. She tells me about her program, and we discuss things like Pakistani actors’ love lives, and the newest fashion collections, and the best places to eat in Islamabad, and trips to the northern areas of Pakistan.
Shanzay is a simple girl: she doesn’t go out much and doesn’t know about a lot of the restaurants or designers I talk about, but it’s still nice talking to her. She’s really close with her family, which I can appreciate because I am close with mine.
But while it is just Naadia and I, she has three older brothers who are all married and have kids and are settled in Pakistan. She tells me horror stories about having brothers and I am glad I have none.
“You’re so eloquent,” she tells me. “You sound like a princess.”
I smile. “Courtesy of all the private schools I went to; they insisted upon precision of language.” I consider this further. “And Mama always told us to speak properly. Naadia disagrees—she does not hold propriety in much regard, but I like it.”
I find it soothing: a semblance of control and order. And it reminds me of Mama, of course. She always had such a way of speaking, always so poised and confident.
“The schools here are really impressive,” Shanzay says. “Baba sent me to America to study, but Mama really sent me here to find a husband.” She laughs. “Instead of an MS degree I’m supposed to be getting a MRS. degree. You know how mothers are.”
Pain stabs my chest. “I don’t, anymore,” I say. “But I do remember.” Shanzay’s eyebrows furrow. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen. Even then, Mama was already telling us about the rishta process and marriage and how one must ‘compromise’.” This I put in air quotes. Shanzay laughs.
“Ya khudaya, what is it with desi mothers and the word compromise? I swear it’s the only concept in their minds when they think of marriage.”
“Honestly.” We laugh.
“I am sorry about her passing,” Shanzay says. “Even though my mother drives me absolutely crazy, I miss her loads, and we talk every day.”
“Tell me more about her,” I say.
“This one time, we were driving and…”
Shanzay tells me stories about her mother, and I listen. Some people find it uncool to be friends with one’s mother, but Shanzay talks about her mother like she is her best friend, which I find very sweet.
Mama was my best friend before she died.
Cancer came and took her too quickly, in just a few months. I barely had time to react to the illness before she was gone. It was hard to lose her, particularly because I was just getting into my teenage angst so I hadn’t even properly grown distant from her yet. I was still childishly obsessed with her.
I think if Mama was still alive, she would be my best friend, too.
* * *
The rest of the day after that passes with the business of work, and when I finally come home that evening, an empty house awaits me. I sigh, setting my tote down and kicking off my shoes. I put on a pair of plush slippers, the small movements sounding loud in the quiet house.
It’s strange because the house would be empty even when Phuppo still lived here, since she got off of work at the hospital later than I did, but it was always nice knowing she would be coming soon, so the loneliness would not be lasting. And before that, even though Naadia would be busy studying at the library, I always knew she’d be home eventually. That we’d have dinner together, or at least, convene over late-night brownies and milk.
Now, the evening spreads ahead of me, long and vacant.
I go up the winding staircase to my room, then wash up and pray. I change into more comfortable clothes before making myself some chai for the evening. Then I sit in the family room and slowly sip it, looking out the windows to watch the sun move across the sky, until the clouds are tinged purple and pink.
The only exciting bit is when there is a knock on the door and food has arrived.
I suppose I could cook myself something, but I’m too tired to do so, which is why I have ordered from my friend, Zahra Paracha. She’s in culinary school and does personalized catering as well. She makes the most delicious home-cooked desi food.
“Assalaamualaikum, how are you?” I say, opening the door.
“Walaikumassalaam! Here’s your food,” Zahra says, handing me an aluminum tray. She’s a nice girl, originally from California and definitely has that relaxed look going for her. She’s a few inches shorter than me, with dark skin and a full, round face.
“Come in, I’ll make you some chai,” I say, stepping aside to let her enter. I just finished a cup, but I can always have another. It’s always fun to have chai with a friend.
“Oh, no, thank you, I’d love to, but I have more deliveries to make!” Zahra says.
“Aw, boo.” I frown. “I feel like we haven’t hung out in a while! At least tell me how the others are, Haya and Sadaf?”
Haya was Zahra’s best friend, and Sadaf was Haya’s sister. Sadaf was also Naadia’s best friend – they met in college – but I hadn’t seen much of her since Naadia got married, really.
“They’re good, too! Haya’s busy with wedding planning and her pharmacy program, and Sadaf’s being Sadaf!” Zahra replies. I smile.
“Well, we all have to get together soon! Maybe have a movie night or something.”
“Yes, definitely!”
I wave goodbye to Zahra, deflating a bit as I shut the door. It isn’t that I’m exceptionally close with her or Haya, but they are fun to hang out with. It’s nice to meet with friends, to fill the emptiness.
I never really stayed in touch with the friends I made in college. Actually, I’m not close with a lot of people, at least not nearby. I’ve always had Naadia, a built-in best friend, whenever we went anywhere, and then Phuppo, too. My best friend, Areeba, lives in New Jersey, so I don’t see her very often. And my girl cousins are a little older and married, and now even Naadia is married, and Phuppo, too.
Taking a measured breath, I go to the kitchen and set the food down. Then I change again and do a yoga session in the gym in our basement. After I’ve showered, I make myself a plate of food.
I’ve ordered a dish of chicken pulao from Zahra, and it’s such nice comfort food. Mama used to make the very best chicken pulao, and whenever I go to my Nano’s house in Islamabad, she makes it too. I make myself raita to go along with it, and eat the rice with the vegetable yogurt in the quiet kitchen.
After that’s all done with, there’s still a few hours to kill before sleeping. Papa isn’t home yet, so I make him a plate of food, then pack us boxes for lunch tomorrow. Even though of course he can get his own food, as he is a grown man, I don’t mind doing little things for him like this. Everything I have is because of him, and with just us two left in the house, it’s nice to look after someone, to be useful.
Though sometimes I am afraid he is growing dependent on me.
I put the rest of the food away, then head upstairs, leaving most of the lights on.
I have always adored my house. It’s big with lots of wide windows and homey details, and it doesn’t feel cold or distant, but when it is empty like this, I feel as though I am not even there, like I am a ghost, haunting the place.
The walls are steeped with memories, echoes of moments past, and I feel like I am just another one of them. So many of Mama, then infinite more with Naadia, who I basically spent every waking moment with when we were home.
Having a sister is so strange because you spend your whole life as extensions of one another – consuming the same shows, books, and songs; sharing clothes; having the exact same sense of humor; cooking and eating food together – and then one of you moves out and everything becomes an obscure reference to what was.
But what can be done? At the very least, she’s happy.
I settle into bed with a novel, trying to lose myself in nineteenth century England. I am very much into historical romance, but I have to sneakily read them because of the racy covers. Papa would be positively scandalized if he saw them. Even worse if he read inside.
The settings of these novels feel like a different world yet it’s still so familiar. It is amusing how Pakistani culture is so similar to Regency-era England, with all the rules and courting. I also love the way they talk; it is so proper. It reminds me of Mama.
The best part, of course, is the romance. The gentleman is always clever and challenging his heroine while still being fiercely devoted. Plus, they are always so well-dressed!
My cheeks heat as I get to a sex scene, which I flip through (mostly), though I still find it fascinating to see certain parts. Desis are so hush hush about sex education, it is interesting to see how the act is actually done and what is involved.
I have never even been kissed, so there certainly is a lot left to imagine.
Oh, how I dream about being kissed! A lot of Muslim girls are frightened by the concept – even Naadia was so nervous about getting married – because when you spend your whole life not being touched by men, there is a certain terror that comes with someone having complete access to your body in ways you have never experienced.
But I can’t wait for it all: to be touched, to be held, to be kissed, to be loved.
The furthest I've ever gone is holding hands with my crush in the fourth grade. He was a white boy with blonde hair and blue eyes (so cliche, I know) and we were on a field trip looking at birds, and his hand brushed against mine.
When a girl’s romantic history peaks at the age of ten, there is surely something amiss.
It isn’t that no boys have tried since then, it is just that I was not impressed by any of them. I have even gone as far as to try those Muslim dating apps, which I deleted less than a day later because it merely horrified me beyond belief and made me feel even more hopeless.
And I refuse to be hopeless.
I will find true love. I will! If others can have it, so will I.
I am nothing if not determined.