Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I was thirteen when Mama passed away. The grief of losing a loved one always lingers, always remains, but while most days pass by without any bumps, some days come out of nowhere to rattle you straight to your bones.
While most of the autumn flutters away like the falling leaves, without too much overwhelming pain, when Thanksgiving rolls around at the end of November, I find I cannot get out of bed.
I miss her terribly. It is a physical pain, weighing down on me.
I think perhaps I seek out love so ardently because I saw how it nourished her, even in the end, when she was sick. Her and Papa weren’t a perfect couple, but they loved each other, even when they bickered and quarreled. Perhaps they are why I have such high expectations of love, and why I believe in it so fervently.
One sweet anecdote I will share is that Papa used to exclusively call Mama “begham”, and for a long while, we actually thought it was “begum” he was saying, which was the Urdu word for someone’s Mrs., their wife.
“How come you call Mama begum?” I asked Papa once, probably when I was eight and Naadia was ten. He shook his head, misunderstood and heartbroken by my question. He poured more chocolate syrup over his ice-cream, our post-dinner treat that warm summer night.
“I am not saying be- gum ,” he replied with a scoff, as if he could not imagine being found saying something so simple when regarding his wife. “I am saying be- gham .”
It was a slight difference but held a world of meaning. Naadia and I exchanged a glance, drawing out long oooooh’s over our bowls of ice-cream, even though we didn’t fully understand the Urdu word.
“So what does be gham mean?” Naadia asked.
“ Be – without,” he replied, breaking down the word. “ Gham – grief. The one who keeps me without grief.”
“Aww!” I exclaimed. “That’s so sweet!”
Clearly proud of himself, Papa cast a glance at Mama, who had been listening silently while she ate her peanut, chocolate-chip ice-cream. In response, she shook her head at the inappropriate nature of such intimate words in front of the children. It was why Mama exclusively called Papa “suno”, which meant “listen”. There was something too intimate about calling someone directly by their name, particularly in front of the others.
But the face of disgust she made never lasted: I saw her lips pulling into a smile at the last moment.
Some days, like today, I miss her so much I think I won’t ever be okay again.
“Can I borrow your black sweater?” Naadia asks, entering my room through the open bathroom door. It’s nearly noon, and I am still in bed. Asif dropped her off a little while ago, while he went to the Sheikhs’s down the street.
“Which one?” I ask.
“You know, the black one,” she says, vaguely waving a hand as she opens my closet and walks in, searching for the sweater in mention. I have about six black sweaters, but I know my sister well enough to know which one she is referring to.
“Don’t ruin my closet,” I call. “It’s on your left, under the Burberry checked one.”
“Oh, cute!” she calls back, something catching her eye. “When did you get this? I’m gonna borrow it.”
I sink back into my cushions, letting her do her worst. By the time she leaves my closet, her arms are full. I give her a look, and she waves a hand. Or tries to. Her hands are otherwise occupied.
“I’m just gonna try some of this stuff on,” she says. “Just to check.”
She exits as soon as she came, then returns with empty arms. She approaches my bed, and I squirm away, clutching my blanket close before she can snatch it off.
“Get up,” she says, shaking my legs. I groan, trying to kick her from under the blanket. “You have to get ready. Don’t you need to bake your pies? And Phuppo said to get there early.”
“I don’t want to get up,” I whine, pulling my covers over my nose. She cocks her head to the side.
“You don’t?”
I shake my head.
“Fine.” She plops right on top of me, pressing her weight down.
“Ow!” I scream. “How am I supposed to get up now?”
“Oh, you want to get up now?”
“Get off of me!” I free an arm and grab a pillow to smack her with, but she only spreads out on top of me. “God, did you gain weight? You’re so heavy! Get off!”
“What did you just say!” she screams, taking the pillow to smother my face as I shriek. “I’ve been doing Pilates thank you very much so that is all muscle weight!”
We wrestle for a bit, both of us struggling and laughing. Then Naadia gets off of me, dramatically throwing her curly hair over her shoulder.
“Woo, I think I can skip the Pilates for today,” she says, catching her breath. “I’m going to go get ready, and you better be up in five minutes or I’m coming back with a bucket of water.”
I stick my tongue out at her, knowing she would never dare, but I get out of bed all the same and follow her into the bathroom. She exits to go to her room, which is a mess despite her being there hardly a few hours. I shut both bathroom doors, shaking my head at her sink, which is surrounded with my skincare products that she’s no doubt emptied out.
I get washed up, change into some comfortable wool shalwar kameez, then go downstairs to make coffee. Naadia is already in the kitchen with her coffee, and she’s left the machine on for me.
“Egg quesadillas?” Naadia asks, taking out the ingredients before I even nod. She tosses her hair up into a high bun, then starts cracking eggs into a bowl. When Papa hears us in the kitchen, he leaves his office to see what we are getting up to.
“Papa, do you want one?” Naadia asks. He makes a face.
“Who eats breakfast at 12:30?” he asks. “This is lunch.”
“Do you want one?” I repeat.
“You’ll spoil your appetite for all the food your Phuppo is making, and it will go to waste,” he replies.
“But do you want one?” we repeat.
He considers it. “If you’re insisting.”
Naadia and I shake our heads. Papa is so dramatic sometimes.
As Naadia makes the quesadillas, adding in extra spinach because we all have iron deficiency, I make my latte and Papa’s cappuccino and set the table.
We eat together, and I text Phuppo a quick photo letting her know we miss her. I send it in the group chat I have with Naadia and Phuppo, which is called MMESG (Mahmud Mirza’s Emotional Support Girlies). Phuppo sends back a drooling emoji and a picture of her kitchen, where she is wreaking havoc while preparing Thanksgiving early dinner.
After we eat breakfast, talking about random things, Papa sticks around to leisurely drink his coffee while Naadia and I get to work. We have a brief argument over who will load the dishwasher.
“You do it,” Naadia says.
“I always do it,” I reply.
“You live here.”
“As if you loaded it when you did live here.”
But the bickering is good-natured, and I rinse and stick the dishes in. Anything else that needs to be washed can be done by our cleaning lady, who comes every other day.
Then I finish making my pies, which I had started on yesterday, while Naadia makes a potato casserole. All the while, we chat and argue and laugh, Papa ambling around the kitchen, sneaking tastes, keeping us company.
The house is loud and full once more. It’s enough to buoy me for now, and my mood brightens, though I still feel the rock of sadness wedged within me, as I suspect I always will. I do not think it will ever leave, but I have learned to grow flowers through the cracks.
“Will Asif pick you up?” I ask, putting my pies in the oven to bake, the pecan one first, then the mixed-berry one. “Or you’re coming with us?
“Why would Asif pick her up?” Papa asks, confused.
“I don’t know, maybe because he is my husband ?” Naadia replies.
Papa makes a noise of displeasure.
“Just tell him to meet us there,” I say. Naadia opens her mouth as if to say something further, but I make a pleading face with her, and she concedes, though not without dramatically slamming the oven door shut on her casserole.
While the food bakes, we retreat upstairs to get ready. I have my ensemble already ironed and hanging: it’s this gorgeous forest green maxi dress with stockings and Chanel slingback heels. I want to look extra cute in case Rizwan comes tonight. Phuppo said he might.
Naadia is wearing leather pants with a nice sweater (my sweater). She also hasn’t brought any of her own makeup, so we crowd together over my vanity, handing one another bronzer and brushes and highlighter.
“What do you think you are doing?” I ask, as she slips my lipstick into her pant pocket.
“I’ll need a refresh later,” she says innocently.
“You always steal my lipsticks.”
“I’ll put it back! I swear.”
I know I will never see that lipstick again.
When we go downstairs to check on the ovens, I make a detour to check on Papa in the office. He’s sitting at his desk, massive glasses perched on his nose, drafting floor plans on his computer screen.
“Papa!” I cry. “You aren’t ready!”
“What?” he looks up, then sees I am entirely ready, down to my shoes and matching flap-bag. (I considered wearing my Chanel chain, too, but thought it would be overkill, so settled for the Van Cleef necklace.). He furrows his brow. “Where is your sweater? You’ll catch a cold!”
I give him a look.
“Papa! Go get ready!”
“Do not worry, do not worry, I am ready, just give me two minutes to shower and change.” He gets up and exits the office but is back a moment later to continue inspecting me. “And why such high heels? You’ll break your ankles.”
“They look good!”
“What are you trying to prove?”
“ Papa !”
“Okay. Okay.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Now the important question: what should I wear?”
“Hmm, wear the maroon sweater and your tweed blazer.”
He frowns. “No suit today?”
Papa loves wearing suits. “No, Papa.”
As he goes to get ready, I head over to the kitchen to check on my pies. It smells divine, the air thick with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar. Naadia’s put an apple-spiced candle on, too, and the whole house is wrapped in a warm coziness.
I take the pies out of the oven, and they are baked to golden perfection, decorated with perfect lattice-work and pie-crust leaves. The berries bleed through the cracks of the latticework, a gorgeous purple-red, and the pecan pie a perfect golden brown. Naadia is still wrestling with her casserole, so I go to call Shanzay.
“Salaam! You’re still coming, right?” I ask. I had Phuppo invite her, since she had nowhere else to go. (She did get invited to the Rajas, but that doesn’t count, of course.)
“Yes, yes, I’m leaving right now. The GPS says I should be there by five.”
“Yay!” I squeal. “I hope you’re wearing something cute! We can get pictures together.”
“I’m wearing the corduroy pants and maroon sweater.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “And the suede purse?”
“Mhm.”
We did a shopping spree makeover soon after becoming friends and her appearance has been much improved, especially with a new hijab-tying style. I’ve taken Shanzay under my wing, and she’s all the better for it. I’m quite proud of myself and of her.
“There might be someone at the dinner for you to meet,” I tease. Her gasp makes me laugh.
“Ee, okay, I am excited,” she squeals.
“I’ll see you soon!”
I decided to do some matchmaking for Shanzay; if I couldn’t have love, she sure as hell would. After some time, I settled upon the perfect match: my cousin, Emad. He’s twenty-five, from a good family (of course) and has a good job working in IT (though not too good a job). He is settled, but not too well-off that it would be difficult for Shanzay to adjust.
He and Shanzay will be well-suited.
Even though I am not close with Emad, for the past month and a half, I’ve been giving him gentle hints that he should look to get married, and he has responded quite ardently, which I am glad about.
I especially texted to make sure he was coming to Phuppo’s house for Thanksgiving dinner, and he sent back an enthusiastic three texts to inform me that he was.
Usually the Mirzas hosted Thanksgiving at my house, but that was back when Naadia, Phuppo, and I were a collective force. Now we’re all spread out, and since Phuppo did most of the cooking anyways, she’s taken over.
When we arrive in Phuppo’s street, the sky is darkening, and it’s nearly four o’clock. Zeeshan Uncle used to live in a luxury townhouse, but before getting married to Phuppo, they both chose a new house. It’s a bit smaller than ours, but still adequately big enough for hosting, and is quite quaint and lovely.
The outside door is decorated with a wreath. I ring the doorbell, Naadia huddled close to my side to ward off the chill. She’s wearing a thin suede jacket over her sweater, while I’m wearing my Loro Piana cape (not the one with the chinchilla fur around the collar and sleeves, I save that for more formal occasions), and the cashmere keeps me toasty as a bun in an oven.
A moment after we ring the bell, Phuppo throws open the door with a massive smile on her face. We squeal, hugging each other tight. I inhale her familiar scent of sweet rosemary, and my heart all but sighs from the comfort.
“Come in, come in!” Phuppo says.
“Phuppo! You look amazing !” I scream, taking her in.
“Your hair! And I love the suit!” Naadia chimes in.
“Oh, you girls,” she says, waving a hand, but I can tell she appreciates it. Her hair is cut short in layers and blown out, and she is a total babe in black shalwar kameez with gold details and red lipstick lining her lips.
“Will I be allowed into the house at some point this evening?” Papa asks from behind us, shaking his head at the commotion.
“Yes, sir, please, come in,” Zeeshan Uncle says, appearing at the door. Naadia and I giggle. It is so funny seeing Zeeshan Uncle be so flustered by Papa, who is unimpressed as ever and simply nods in response.
“I’ll take those,” Zeeshan Uncle says, reaching down to grab the bags of food we brought. We go inside, where the house is warm with the smell of cooking and candles. Zeeshan Uncle closes the door behind us, then holds out a hand to take Papa’s blazer, but Papa shakes his head.
“No, no, I’ll keep it on,” he says. Papa puts a hand on Phuppo’s head by greeting, smiling as he says, “Fizzu,” and then we all head further into the house.
No one else is here yet, so Naadia and I busy ourselves chatting Phuppo’s ear off as we all walk to the kitchen. The lights are on in all of the rooms, showing Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle’s artful decorating of their home; the theme is very elegant and modern country, with botanical touches and wooden furniture, all finished with pale pink and sage green accents.
I’m practically buzzing with the excitement of having us all together again. It’s been a few weeks since we last all hung out.
“Ohmygod, everything looks sooo good,” Naadia says, when we enter the kitchen and see all the food set in chafing dishes.
“Truly amazing,” I agree.
“Aw, thank you,” Phuppo replies. “Now hopefully it tastes good, too. I still haven’t lived down that dense banana bread I made two years ago.”
Naadia and I laugh. “Papa literally still brings it up,” Naadia says.
“Everytime I’m making banana bread, he says, ‘And make sure you add baking soda! Not like that time Fizzu made it!’”
“One time!” Phuppo laments. “One time I forget the baking soda, and I have to hear about it forever.”
We look at all the food Phuppo has prepared. She’s made typical American food like roast chickens (no Pakistani likes turkey), mashed potatoes, steamed vegetables, stuffed shells, mac & cheese, and then also typical Pakistani food like gosht biryani, chicken karahi, and aloo palak. Dessert has the same treatment: pies for American and ras malai for Pakistani.
We’re fine eating American food, but since Thanksgiving dinner includes all of our family that lives a drivable distance away, Phuppo made Pakistani food too.
Papa is one of six siblings. Starting from the eldest, it’s Papa’s one brother, my taya (who lives in Pakistan), then Shahnaz Phuppo (who also lives in Pakistan), Noor Phuppo, Zaineb Phuppo, Mahum Phuppo, then Papa, and lastly Phuppo, who’s name is really Faiza.
All my phuppos (except one) live on Long Island or in the city, so they’re pretty close by. They’re all grandmothers, their sons married with two to four children a piece, and when we are all together, it quickly becomes a madhouse.
As it does about an hour later, when all the other guests have arrived. (No Rizwan, yet, but I am still holding out hope.) Zeeshan Uncle has invited some of his friends as well, so the house is truly packed.
The little kids run around, screaming, while the uncles (plus Fawad – he really is an honorary uncle) are debating politics and the merits and flaws of Imran Khan (who used to be our neighbor in Islamabad! My Dadi was friends with Jemima). My phuppos are comparing daughters-in-law, while said daughters-in-law are discussing the chaos of their children.
My bhabis are really nice, but I’m not very close with them. Naadia sits and chats with them, now part of the married club, so I amble around, trying to find Emad.
Emad is Mahum Phupo’s youngest, and my only cousin left unmarried – which I am hoping to remedy before the year is done. Two birds, one stone!
Some time ago his mother, my father’s sister, entertained the notion of him marrying me, but that’s a genetic disaster waiting to happen. (I should know – my best friend, Areeba, is a genetic counselor.)
I spot him with a couple of my other cousins, and wave him over. He immediately comes to my side. He has the typical Mirza looks: average height, thick black hair, and a hooked nose. He’s dressed nicely in a sweater and dress shirt and is clean-shaven.
“Salaam!” I say. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long! How’s work going? And the new baby?” His brother just had another kid.
“I’m good! It’s nice to see you, too. It has been a while.” He smiles. “And that baby is definitely a jinn.”
I laugh. “Ohmygod, stop. You can’t say that about your nephew!”
“It’s true!” He laughs. “Whenever I hold him, he doesn’t cry, he just stares at me with these huge eyes. It’s freaky.”
“Well, I am sure he is puzzled at seeing such a strange specimen as yourself.”
We chat a bit, then I get a text from Shanzay, saying she’s here, so it’s showtime. I bite back a grin. This is going to be lovely. Shanzay is going to fall in love and live happily ever after, and I’ll have helped another loved one find their happiness.
“Okay, Emad, I have a mission for you,” I say, tone getting serious. He inches closer, listening intently.
“What can I do?”
“My friend, Shanzay, is new in town, and I’ve invited her over,” I explain. “But I must go help Phuppo in the kitchen, so will you be a darling and keep her company?” I bat my eyelashes. “She really is a sweet girl, and I think you’ll get along very well! Oh, it would be such a favor to me, as she and I are so close. I would appreciate it so much.”
“For you? Of course.” He smiles sweetly.
“Yay!” I clap my hands. “Thank you.”
I go to open the front door, letting Shanzay in. We squeal, hugging one another.
“You look great!” she tells me.
“So do you!” I say, taking in the sight of her. The pants are very flattering on her pear-shaped body. “Just one last thing.” I reach into my pocket and fish out some lipstick. “Put some of this on,” I whisper. She does as she is told, and now she’s ready. (Lipstick truly is a life-saver. Never leave the house without it.) “Come with me.”
I loop my arm through hers and introduce her to Phuppo and Naadia and the rest, then steer her back to the foyer, where Emad is waiting for us.
“That’s him,” I whisper. Shanzay giggles nervously, squeezing my arm.
“He’s so dreamy,” she whispers. What can I say? We’re a family of good genetics. And it definitely helps that Emad has nice muscles that reveal just how much time (too much) he spends in the gym.
“Humaira,” he says, when we grow close, “who’s your friend?”
“Emad, this is Shanzay,” I say, trying not to giggle. Oh, I am too clever! This is going to go splendidly. “Shan, this is my cousin, Emad.”
“It’s nice to meet you Shanzay,” Emad says, smiling sweetly. “I hear you’re new in town?”
“Yes, I’m actually a student…”
And that, dear friends, is the beginning.