Chapter 3
Chapter Three
T he week passes just like that.
Papa starts staying at the office later than usual because I don’t think he can bear being home either when it is so empty, so it is just me at home. (We still have dinner together most nights, so at least there’s that, but it just isn’t as fun.)
I don’t particularly enjoy coming home to that great big empty house either, so I resolve to become better friends with Shanzay. It will be good to have a new friend to invite over, and anyway, I think it’ll be good for her to have me as a friend.
Moments with Shanzay in the office are refreshing and nice, and I find myself seeking her out throughout the day, if only for a little commentary or laughter. She is sweet. I rather like her.
I used to be so content with just Phuppo at the house. She was always ready to watch period dramas with me, which involved more of our own commentary than the movie’s dialogues; discuss the latest novel I’d read, in which I would explain the entire plot to her; or bake something together. But now she’s gone, too, just like Naadia before her.
I still talk with both of them all the time. Phuppo sends me loads of photos from her honeymoon (the PG version), and Naadia and I basically spend all day sending each other reels on Instagram (cooking videos neither of us will ever try, travel destinations we need to visit, and makeup tutorials). But it isn’t the same.
Not even the random mornings Naadia texts me:
my stomach hurts.
almost like having coffee and painkillers on an empty stomach ISN’T healthy
hey i had half a granola bar too
Or when I call her up one evening and explain the shocking plot twist of a new show I’m watching on Netflix and try to harass her to watch it, too. I even send her edits of the main ship on Twitter, but she’s not persuaded. If she was still at home, the next room over, I would simply climb into bed with her and force her to watch it with me.
But she isn’t. I make commentary to myself, alone.
I am content with my life, but sometimes I’m so lonely, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Which is why I invite Shanzay over for chai that Sunday. I busy myself with making chicken bread, keema samosas, egg salad sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, almond cake, and cream puffs. I know there are only two of us, but it’s a good distraction, and it’s always better to do more than to do less.
I set the dining table with our Royal Albert set, filling the three-tiered plates with the different foods. I was a little torn between the Old Country Rose set and a Mackenzie Childs tea set we have, but I figure I can’t go wrong with the classic red roses decorating the white china of the Royal Albert set.
I am just filling the cream puffs on Sunday morning when someone knocks on the door. Throwing on a scarf to cover my hair, I go to answer.
It’s Fawad.
He’s dressed in a suit, as usual, and the dark green handkerchief in his pocket matches the precise shade of his tie (and his socks, if I know him at all). Standing in the sunlight, his skin is golden brown, luminous in contrast to his dark eyes. Once again, I am struck by how handsome he is – though thankfully not handsome enough to tempt me.
He holds up a file, a pleasant expression on his face that only causes me irritation. He is always showing up as if this is his chache da ghar and he is free to visit when he pleases!
“You couldn’t have just emailed that to Papa?” I ask.
“It’s good to see you, too, Humaira,” he replies cheerily. “I'm well, thanks for asking.”
Releasing an annoyed sound, I hold out my free hand for the file. He ignores me entirely and steps into the house, walking forward to place it in the office.
“I’m busy,” I say petulantly. “I have guests coming over!”
“You aren’t dressed,” he replies, looking me up and down. I’m wearing an apron over home shalwar-kameez, which I find more comfy than western clothes. “And you have—” He gestures to his cheek. When I wipe my face, powdered sugar streaks across my fingers.
“I’m still cooking.”
“Mm, what did you make?”
Without waiting for a reply, he walks into the kitchen, stealing a cucumber sandwich as he surveys the getup. I grab my piping bag and hold it up threateningly at him, but he’s unfazed.
“You didn’t make those little chicken patties?” he asks, disappointed. I give him a look.
Fawad is often frequenting our house for food. There is usually always home-cooked food at my house (either from Zahra or from me), or at the very least some sweets (I bake whenever I’m feeling Things, which is very often), and he lives alone.
He lives down the street from us, an infuriatingly walkable distance. His parents are retired and have shifted to Islamabad, where the weather is more favorable, but they do come back for a few months in the year.
Surprisingly, Fawad is always in a surly mood during those months – well, more so than usual. I think he prefers being alone.
I’ve actually known him my entire life, but I’d never really noticed him until Naadia and Asif started talking.
How I miss that ignorance, I think to myself, as Fawad steals a cream puff and devours it in one bite.
“You pig!” I say, swatting him with a towel. “You can't eat it in one bite. You’re supposed to savor it.”
“Trust me, there wasn't much to be savored.”
My eyebrows furrow together in a look that Papa says makes me look like an angry kitten, and I am sure Fawad thinks the same because this only furthers his amusement.
Despite the fact that Asif is twenty-six and younger than Fawad, he is much more reasonable than his older brother. While Fawad is always irritating me, Asif is only ever nice to me. Even when he teases, he has this little smile on his face, so you know to never take him seriously.
But Fawad is – ugh !
“Do not insult my baking,” I say, trying and failing to keep my tone level. “Everyone loves it. Bashira Aunty asked me to start a catering business the other day!”
“Yes, I know.” He laughs, giving me a confused look. “I was just teasing, Humaira.”
I release a short breath and resolve to ignore him, instead working on filling my cream puffs with the delicious vanilla custard I have made. I sense Fawad’s gaze on me, assessing, analyzing.
“Just because your brother is married to my sister doesn’t mean you can waltz over here and eat our food whenever you please,” I say, not looking up at him. I don’t know why I say it; I don’t really mind him coming over.
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I should be in a better mood due to all the baking I’ve done and the fact that Shanzay is coming over. And even if I am in a Mood, I can usually mask it well.
But not in front of Fawad, for some reason.
“You’re actually annoyed,” he states, regarding me closely. He comes to stand beside me, and I risk a glance over at him. The amusement on his face has been replaced with something resembling concern, his brows furrowed. His lips are parted as if to say something. I bristle.
“I’m fine,” I say brightly, but he doesn’t believe me. His dark eyes are shockingly perceptive.
“Why are you in such a grumpy mood?” he asks, stepping closer. I feel the heat of his body beside mine. His voice is soft, like a breeze, or a caress. “You don’t usually mind when I come over.”
The gentle tone unnerves me. I don’t look at him, but in a quick moment, I feel placated, like a candle blown out.
To my horror, my eyes grow misty.
“The house is just so empty.” I whisper so that he won’t hear, but he does anyway.
“But you are not,” he replies, voice sure and clear. I startle, suddenly seen. I stop filling in the cream puffs to look up at him. I meet his warm eyes.
He’s looking at me, just looking. The breath lodges in my throat. Something sharp stirs in my stomach.
I look away, pressing my fingers against the pulse in my throat to calm myself.
He steps back and clears his throat.
“Have fun with your friend,” he says, snagging another cream puff, and is on his way out. I watch him leave, the wide line of his shoulders, his long legs. A moment later, he disappears from sight, and another after, I hear the front door close behind him.
That final shut makes the house seem even emptier, so much so that I nearly wish to call him back.
What did he mean? But that was just it. I knew what he meant, and somehow he knew what I was feeling. Being alone in this great big house made me feel insufferably lonely, but he had disarmed that notion with a few words, telling me that as long as I was content with myself, it did not matter if the house was empty, that I was enough.
How did he know?
I cannot dwell on the matter because there is work to be done. I discard my scarf and go to get ready. I am applying a final layer of mascara just as the doorbell rings.
“Salaam!” I say, opening the door. Shanzay lets out a sigh of relief when she sees me, her wide and frantic eyes relaxing.
“I was afraid I was at the wrong house,” she says, coming in. “These are for you.”
She hands me a tray of cookies that look to be made from premade cookie dough, then goes to take her shoes off, a pair of leather khussas that go with the shalwar kameez suit she has on.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the tray from her. “You can keep your shoes on.”
I’m wearing khussas as well. “Come, this way.”
“Oh … wow.”
Shanzay’s eyes widen as she takes in the house, cataloging the details. I love our house as well, with its clean scent and classic decor that is the perfect cross of lived-in and decadent.
Mama did all the interior design, and most of the furniture and curtains and rugs are imported from Pakistan. Since her death, we haven’t drastically updated anything, but I do try to keep the house spruced up with fresh flowers and new candles.
One of my favorite pieces in the house is a grand jhula, the swing made of intricately hand-carved wood. Mama used to say she wanted to import in an old haveli wooden door as well, but it didn’t work with the exterior of the house.
“Come, come,” I say, leading her to the family room. The formal living room will only make her feel overwhelmed, I am sure. The family room has high ceilings and one wall consists almost entirely of windows, which lets in lovely sunlight and provides a stunning view of the lush backyard. The waterfall glitters in the sunlight, pouring into the little pond.
“Your house is ... amazing,” Shanzay says, still taking in the details.
“Thank you.” I smile.
Her attention turns to me.
“And you look beautiful,” she adds. “Your hair is so nice!”
While I am used to people fawning over me, it is still nice to be complimented. I smile, smoothing my hair. It’s waist-length, dark brown, and cut into long layers; I blow-dried it for today. I’m wearing a new shalwar kameez suit from Sania Maskatiya, which one of my phuppos sent from Pakistan, with glass chudiyan and gold jhumkas. The gold earrings are pure and were a gift for my thirteenth birthday, one of the last gifts Mama gave me.
Mama loved dressing up; every day she would wear a freshly pressed shalwar kameez three-piece suit with matching gold jewelry. (Her jewelry collection is truly iconic.) Because I always saw Mama so dressed up, I also really like dressing up in traditional Pakistani clothes; they are more comfortable, and I feel they flatter me. People tell me I have a very classic look, like the actress Mahira Khan.
“How was the drive?” I ask, sitting down on a couch.
“Not too bad,” she replies, sitting beside me. She sits on the edge of the sofa, as if afraid she’ll ruin it. I laugh. “Come, relax,” I tell her. She smiles at me, then gets comfortable.
We make a little bit of small talk, then head to the kitchen, where we continue chatting as I cook the chai on the stove.
“Are you making mixed?” she asks. I nod.
“If it isn’t mixed, it isn’t chai,” I say. “Then it’s just tea.”
She laughs. “I agree entirely. It has to be cooked together.”’
I add in some elaichi, as well, to give it a nice aroma, and once the chai is done, I pour it into the teapot and bring it to the dining table in the adjoining room, which is already set up with all the food in pretty dishes and the matching tea set with gold rims and a red rose design. There are vases of fresh red roses on the table as well, along with gold candles and decorative pieces.
Shanzay gasps, taking it all in.
“Oh, this is so nice!” she exclaims. I am quite pleased with the set-up, as well, and am glad she appreciates it. We make ourselves plates of food and chat as we eat.
Despite being the same age, I feel Shanzay is so much younger than I am, like the youth group girls I often interact with. She is so simple. She’s from a middle-class background, and most of her world was confined to her family.
I must protect her , I think to myself. I’ve taken quite a liking to her. I think she’ll be a dear friend to me.
“Now, to more important matters,” I say. “Do you have any boy drama in your life? If so, you must tell me at once. I’m a slut for a good romance.”
“No, not really,” she says. Shanzay looks away, fiddling with the ends of her dupatta. I narrow my eyes, staring, and she only grows more shy.
“I knew it!” I say. “You do. Tell me everything!”
“Oh, alright,” she says, giggling. “Remember how I mentioned—” she lowers her voice, though the house is empty save for us, “—Huzaifa earlier? The Rajas’ eldest?”
I nod, motioning for her to continue.
“Well ... he is very kind.” Her eyes fill with light. “He’s in graduate school to become an English teacher, and his reading tastes match mine quite well. He lent me some of his books to read over the summer, and we would sit and discuss them together…”
I furrow my brows, instinctively worried.
“Isn’t he younger than you?” I say.
“Well ... only a year,” she replies.
“Hm.”
“Wh-What?”
“Perhaps this is just my experience, but I feel like young guys are immature,” I say, tone gentle.
“Oh ... um, maybe.” She bites her lip. “I don’t have much experience, to be honest with you.”
“I unfortunately have too much experience.” I sigh. “Particularly with immature, stupid boys. It’s a horrible waste of time, not to mention a headache.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you think you might be better off with someone more settled?” I say, after thinking for a moment. “Only because you are an immigrant, and you’ll be starting from the ground up, so it might be better to be matched with someone with a more solid foundation.”
Her face falls. I’m afraid I’ve hurt her, but it is the simple reality. People may pretend that money does not matter, but it does. It is best to set yourself up for success rather than failure.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” she says slowly, understanding what I mean. Her forehead creases with worry.
“Of course, it is up to you to decide.”
“Thank you for your advice,” Shanzay says, releasing a breath. “I do think you are right.”
But her voice has lost all its earlier excitement. Her lips look suspiciously frown-y. Oh, that won’t do! I am determined to help her as much as I can. I’ll be useful to her just as I have been with the others.
“Aw, don’t be disheartened!” I say, taking her hand. A splendid idea pops into my head. “I can help you find someone more suitable. I am a bit of a matchmaker, you know.”
“Are you really?” Shanzay asks, a smile appearing on her face. “You look nothing like the rishta aunties I know.”
I laugh. “No, nothing like those aunties, especially since I have a much higher success rate.” I flip my hair.
“I trust you, then,” Shanzay says, eyes wide and accepting. “I’m a bit new to all this.”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I will find you your perfect match.”