Chapter 5
Chapter Five
A s they start chatting, I quietly retreat, pleased with myself. That business taken care of, I go to check on Papa. He is with the older trio of phuppos rather than sitting with the uncles or his nephews. He sits on the sofa between them, two on one side, one on the other, laughing. I smile.
Papa is in his prime when he is with women. By women, I mean his daughters, wife, nieces, and sisters. For Papa, we are simple and easily pleased. We wanted things like pretty desserts or a new sweater or some hot chocolate. This, Papa can handle. All he had to do was swipe the credit card. In return, we offered fun conversation and listened to his jokes and laughed and teased.
But the boys, i.e. his nephews? They were too difficult to figure out. And they didn’t even laugh at his jokes, which was the greatest offense. Papa was too stressed about their futures, even my cousins who were working adults in the real world.
Papa had grown up with five sisters, so it made sense. He didn’t even learn how to walk until he was two because there was always someone carrying him places, can you believe that? Plus, he used to cry if anyone ate even a bite of his paratha, then he’d demand a new one.
I mean, what a brat! (It’s no wonder his kids are brats, too.)
Next, I go to see if Phuppo needs any help, but when I enter the kitchen, Zeeshan Uncle is there with her. They are both speaking in hushed tones over the roast chicken as he bastes it, their cheeks rosy as they laugh.
What a sight of domestic intimacy. It makes me want to cry. (Out of happiness for them of course. Not at all out of loneliness.)
I feel a little pang in my chest. (Because of how sweet it is.)
Not wanting to intrude, I go back to the family room, resolving to spend time with the babies.
“Humaira Phuppo,” my four-year-old niece, Haniya, says approaching me. Her pigtails swing as she walks. “How you sleep?”
“What?” I ask, sitting on the sofa and leaning forward so we are eye level.
“How you sleep?” she asks again. “Like this? Like this?” She demonstrates different positions, then waits for my reply.
“Oh,” I laugh. “I sleep like this.” I demonstrate, and she nods, cataloging the information.
“Baji sleep like this,” she informs me. Then she begins showing me how the rest of her siblings sleep, and Naadia joins in, after spending time with Asif.
“God, Haniya,” Naadia says. “Are you spying on everyone while they sleep? What a little weirdo.”
We laugh. Haniya asks Naadia how she sleeps, and after gaining the information, she is off again, skipping and pigtails swinging, probably to ask more people.
“Noor Phuppo brought meethe chawal,” Naadia tells me. I groan. Noor Phuppo has diabetes, which means she barely adds sugar into the sweet rice dish, but insists we all eat it anyways, which of course we do, or the eldest phuppo would get offended. One never upsets one’s phuppos; it’s a cardinal rule of survival in a Pakistani family.
“At least we have my pies to push it down, later,” I say.
“At least.”
Then Naadia is off as well, going to go chat with our bhabis. I could join her, but I’m not really in the mood. She has always been the loquacious one, so I never got into the habit of being so talkative.
There cannot be two talkative sisters; someone must do the listening. I have always been happy to listen. Even as kids. Most nights, after the lights were off and we were told to sleep by Mama, Naadia would last about thirty seconds before sliding through our connecting bathroom to come to my room.
“Move over,” she’d whisper, elbowing me. I would shift over in my bed, making room for her as she slipped under the covers with me and told me every single little thing about all of her friends and classmates. I always loved listening.
After an hour or so, she’d finally slow down, speech slurring from tiredness, and if I had a comment, she’d tap my mouth with her hand, saying, “Shh, let’s sleep now, I’m tired.”
I didn’t mind. She needed me to listen, so I would.
I miss those days. The simplicity of it.
With a sigh, I go to pick up my baby cousin, Aizah. She’s eight months old, chubby, and so cute I want to mush her cheeks. She doesn’t yet know how to crawl, though, so I resolve to teach her tonight.
“Come on Aizah, we can conquer this together,” I say, setting her on the floor in a crawling position. I grab some chocolate and give her a taste, to which her eyes widen with excitement. “Come on!” I sit across from her and goad her with the chocolate, and she reaches for it with her hands but does not move to actually get it. “Come on, don’t be lazy!”
“Torturing babies now, are we?” a deep voice asks. I look up from the floor to see Fawad, his dark eyes glittering with amusement. He’s wearing a black suit with a crisp white shirt and skinny black tie, as if he’s just walked off from an important meeting on Wall Street.
“I am trying to teach her how to crawl,” I say, turning back to the baby. “Look she’s almost got it!”
Aizah makes as if to move her legs, then falls onto her face. She lets out a cry.
“Dear god, stop tormenting the poor child,” Fawad says, crouching down to pick her up. He stands and easily holds her with one arm, using his other hand to bop her nose. I stand up and watch, smiling fondly. I adore babies.
Fawad bops her nose again and she stops crying immediately, instead fascinated by his glasses.
“Oh no you don’t.” Fawad ducks to avoid her grabby little hands, and she giggles, but after another failed attempt, she gets fussy and starts to cry again, trying to launch herself out of Fawad’s arms.
“I know what she needs,” I say, holding out my arms for her. Fawad hands her over, and I go to sit on the sofa, Aizah sitting on my lap, her little head resting against my heart. Fawad sits beside me and watches as I massage Aizah’s legs. After a few moments, she relaxes, sinking against me.
Fawad laughs. “Well done.”
“Thank you, thank you.” I bow my head. “I’ll be here all night.”
I lean back against the pillows, getting comfortable, and Fawad does, too.
“What have you been up to?” Fawad asks. “Have you gotten used to Faiza Baji being gone?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that, but it has gotten better,” I reply. “I’ve been trying more baking recipes, but I think the people in my office are getting sick of all the leftovers.”
“Hello, I’m down the road for a reason!” he says. “Just tell me next time, and I’ll eat them all.”
“That will surely be detrimental to your health.”
“Don’t worry, I work out.” Yes, he rather looks like he does. I find it funny how boys always find a way to work their exercise regimes into conversation, but I would not have expected it from Fawad. Hm.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I smile. “Are Auntie and Uncle coming soon?” I ask. “They usually come in the winter, right?”
Fawad bristles. He always grows a little tense at the mention of his parents, but whenever I mention it to Naadia, she says she hasn’t noticed. I think he is so used to being alone, he finds it difficult when they come.
“Yes, they’re coming in a few weeks,” he says. Before I can inquire further, he changes the subject. “What did you make today?”
“I made two pies.”
“Did you make the crust from scratch? Isn’t that sort of tricky?”
“It is, but…”
Aizah falls asleep in my arms while Fawad and I chat about random, mundane things. I laugh as he tells me about the new tenants he went to visit, and how the auntie who answered the door thought he was an FBI agent, come to collect her husband because he apparently hasn’t paid his taxes for the past few years.
As infuriating as Fawad is sometimes, some days, like today, he is shockingly good company. I am comfortable around him, just the way I am with family members, and I suppose, in a way, he is family, since Asif and Naadia are married.
Not that I think of him as a brother. But on days like today, I do think of him as a friend.
After a little while, Papa approaches us, and the moment he sees Fawad, his face falls. I’m immediately alarmed, until I catch Papa scanning Fawad’s outfit, and I instantly know what his gripe is.
Papa shoots me an accusatory glare. “Why didn’t you let me wear a suit!” He exclaims.
“You can never go wrong with a suit, I always say,” Fawad interjects, adding insult to injury.
“Precisely my opinion,” Papa agrees, giving me a look. I roll my eyes.
“Was there something you wished to discuss with Fawad, Papa?” I ask, standing with Aizah in my arms. Her head rests against my shoulder; my heart squeezes with warmth. I adore babies so much.
“Yes, about that investment…”
As he and Fawad begin to discuss, I leave to take Aizah back to her mother. As I go back to the family room, another child runs into my legs, nearly knocking me over. Naadia makes eye contact with me during this encounter, and after I’ve dropped the sleeping baby off, I reconvene with my sister.
“What a nightmare,” Naadia says, handing me a glass of apple cider. “Children are absolute menaces.”
“They aren’t so bad,” I protest, grabbing some muenster cheese, raspberry jam, and crackers from the cheese board.
“Asif wants to try soon, but I told him not until I’ve finished residency,” Naadia says. She is in her last year of medical school and getting matched this March.
“Well, if you have one before then, leave the child to me. I’ll be an excellent khala.” I’ve always loved children and cannot wait to have my own. Yet another reason I wish to be married already. If not for the man, then for the babies.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Naadia says with a snort. “But just give me a few years.”
I pout. “I want one sooner.” I shake her arms. If there was a baby, the house wouldn't be so empty.
“You work every day, you crazy lady,” Naadia reminds me, shaking my arms back.
“I could work from home! I am nothing if not a dedicated khala.”
“My unborn child appreciates the enthusiasm. But still no.”
“Oh, come on! You know Papa is dying to be a grandfather. I’m sure it’ll even make him like Asif again.”
We both laugh. “I don’t think anything will make him like Asif again.”
“A baby might,” I sing-song. “Papa always says the best part of his life was when I was a baby and you were a toddler.”
“You mean when we would both be up screaming and crying all night long?” Naadia would always respond when Papa said that. Papa would sigh wistfully.
“How I miss those days.”
He preferred it to our teenage years, which were quite angsty, particularly on the part of Miss Naadia. I mean, she went as far as to get a nose piercing, despite Papa’s express dislike for it. (The piercing is gone now, but it was a wild six-month period.)
“Imagine if the baby looks like Asif, though?” Naadia says, eyes widening. “Papa wouldn’t be able to cope.”
“You’re right about that,” I say, grimacing at the thought. “Best to hold off, then.”
“The man is crazy.”
“That he is,” I agree. But we adore him anyway. “I am going to go find some chocolate,” I tell Naadia, going toward the pantry, but as I approach, I hear hushed voices.
Perhaps I should not eavesdrop, but then I hear a familiar voice and cannot resist.
“She seems like a perfectly nice girl, but I’m afraid the friendship will only play to Humaira’s vanity,” Fawad is saying. I inch closer, brows furrowed.
“Surely a few compliments will not corrupt our dear Humaira,” Phuppo replies, voice light.
“It’s not that,” Fawad argues. “Humaira has always been the most clever and most beautiful girl in the room, but her vanity lies elsewhere. Shanzay will play into that vanity, and I’m worried it’ll cause harm.”
“I disagree,” Phuppo replies. “Even if Shanzay feeds her vanity, I think it is good for Humaira to have a companion close by.” She pauses. “Humaira is lonely, Fawad, more so than she will ever let on, even to me—lonelier than you could imagine.”
There’s a quiet pause. Then Fawad’s voice, soft and sad, “Trust me, I can imagine.”
An emotion I do not wish to identify skims through me, followed by shadowed thoughts I do not wish to see the true shape of.
Not wanting to hear any more, I retreat, back to Naadia.
“No chocolate?” she asks, frowning. I shake my head.
“Tell me about rotations,” I say, forcing my face and voice to brighten. “Wasn’t someone having an affair with the attending? What happened with that?”
“Ohmygod, I didn’t tell you? It’s the wildest thing…” She launches into a story I eagerly lose myself to until a little while later, Phuppo’s voice carries throughout the house.
“Everyone, please come eat!” Phuppo says, calling us to where the food is arranged. As everyone gathers around the buffet, Phuppo comes over to me and puts an arm around my shoulder, pulling me a little to the side.
“He isn't coming,” she whispers.
My heart sinks. I know who she is referring to, and while I had told myself not to get my hopes up, I am still disappointed, more so than I should be.
What a waste of a good outfit.
“Who?” Naadia asks, confused. She was standing right beside me and heard.
“Rizwan,” Phuppo whispers. I blink rapidly, swallowing the lump in my throat. I know it is silly, but there’s another chance at love struck down.
Perhaps I am being punished for all the hearts I have broken. I never meant it, of course, but I know I have been callous with boys’ feelings. In my defense, I didn’t lead them on intentionally, I genuinely did think I might grow to like them, and then I never did.
And I am not proud of all the boys’ hearts I’ve broken. I could never be proud of hurting anyone.
Plenty of boys have confessed their feelings for me through the years, plenty of perfectly reasonable boys I am sure Phuppo and Papa would have been content to marry me off to. But I just didn’t love them, not as I should.
I did not wish to marry someone merely tolerable ; I wanted true love. The grand, sweeping, all-consuming love.
Sometimes I feel like my heart is broken, not hurt, but in function, as if I am incapable of love. As if it will never happen.
But I cannot let my thoughts wander down that road, cannot let myself think that, or I will stop believing, and I believe in love with the whole of my heart. I believe in it as surely as I believe in God.
It is an extension, you see. There is love because there is God. So if I cease to believe in love, it means I no longer believe in God, and I will not allow that to happen. What would be the point of living without faith?
And I know plenty of people go through life without love, that it does not work out for most – I am not so naive as to not know this. But I believe there is love written specifically for me, because of the way I am wired.
It might not be written for everyone else, but I know that I have to have it, or I will not survive. Perhaps that is arrogant of me, to assume that I deserve it – but I just know I cannot do without it. I cannot.
I will not.
“Are you alright?” Phuppo asks me. I’ve lost myself in this train of thought, staring off into the distance. I shake the thoughts away, coming back to the clatter and clamor of the kitchen as people fill their plates with food from the buffet. I smile enthusiastically at Phuppo.
“Yes, of course,” I respond. Phuppo kisses my cheek.
“That’s my girl. Now, come and eat,” she says.
“In a moment. You go on.”
Phuppo goes to make sure everyone is properly taking food. I expect Naadia to go with her, but she lingers with me, frowning at the consternation on my countenance.
“You shouldn’t be so disappointed,” she says. “You don’t even know him.”
“I’m not,” I reply, voice indignant. I don’t like her tone. “Really, it’s fine.”
But Naadia keeps going, voice low as people pass us to grab plates. I don’t look at her. Instead, I smile at one of my cousin's kids, waving eagerly.
“You have to stop holding out hope for some magic mystery man who doesn’t exist,” Naadia says. “Real life and love are not like that. You make the best out of what is around you. Respect and companionship are much more important than whatever ridiculous notions you have of some great romantic love story.”
I am once again reminded of the astronomical levels of hatred I can feel for my sister. I turn toward her, eyes sharp.
“Don’t condescend,” I say, tone biting. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Well, I am married and you are not, so I know about these things.”
I scoff. “The marriage card is getting old now.”
“It will never get old,” she says. “Besides, I knew more about these things than you did even before I was married.”
Because you were careless with your heart! I want to scream, but I hold my tongue, releasing a long, long breath instead. I have always been careful with my heart, which is why I have avoided such distasteful situations and never been as heartbroken as she had.
“You’re so pessimistic,” I complain.
“No, Humaira,” my sister argues, “I’m just realistic .”
I’m about to respond when Fawad passes by with a plate of food. Seeing our pinched expressions, he stops.
“Are the sisters in need of a referee?” he asks pleasantly, dark eyes sparkling behind his glasses. I try to keep my eye from twitching. Just what I need!
“No, go away,” I say, not wanting to involve him. He steps closer, joining our little conference. “Really, it’s?—”
“Humaira is upset because Rizwan could not come,” Naadia interjects. I whip toward her.
“Naadia!”
“You have to tell her she should lower her expectations of love,” Naadia continues, “to save her the disappointment.”
“But who can convince her the glasses she sees through are rose-tinted?” he replies, speaking as if I am not there. I do not appreciate his cavalier tone. He says it as if I am a rosy-eyed fool, as if I am nonsensical and cannot be made to see sense.
“I don’t mind being a romantic fool,” I say, voice icy, “if it means putting my heart on the line. Unlike someone who is resolved to be cold and unfeeling.”
He releases a mirthless laugh. My heartbeat quickens violently. I consider upending his plate all over his pristine white shirt and stupid tie.
“Yes,” he says, “and how glad I am for it, if it keeps me from making a fool of myself.”
He steps back, shaking his head. I curl my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. I want to yell at him, but he seems to have already dismissed me, about to walk away.
“Just when I was beginning to think you were tolerable,” I say. “Thank you for the reminder of what a total ass you are.”
Something about Fawad makes me drop all facades and deal simply with truths and raw emotion. I detest being so out of control.
It’s as if the remark does not reach him. He does not even turn. He leaves without another word, as if what I said meant nothing.
I hate that! And he knows as much.
“Humaira!” Naadia scolds, grabbing my elbow. “You can’t talk to him like that!”
“Leave me alone,” I say, throwing her off me. I glare at her. “I’ll talk to him however I please.”
Naadia always did this, acted like the older sister when it suited her, not when it really mattered. But I don't let myself think further on that, or I will get really upset.
Instead, I walk away and go to the bathroom, focusing on the sound of my heels clicking on the tiles until I’ve reached my destination and shut the door. In the silence, I hear the sound of my own heavy breathing and look up in the mirror.
When I do, I am shocked by my appearance. My cheeks are flushed and there is a scowl curling my lips.
I flatten out my expression, doing breathing exercises to calm myself down. Running my hands under cold water, I let the sound of rushing water relax me. I undo my hijab and then my hair, shaking out the strands and massaging my scalp. When the pounding in my head has quieted, I redo my hair, then refasten my hijab.
There, everything is in place once more. I touch up my lipstick, then examine my reflection to find that my cheeks are no longer red, just lightly rosy from my makeup, and my expression is calm.
I am good-natured enough for company once more.
After a reassuring smile in the mirror, I go to check on Shanzay. She and Emad are sitting at the dining table together, eating and talking and laughing. Shanzay giggles often, and she keeps looking away, shy.
Aw. There’s something so magical about love: even witnessing others experience it fills me with joy.
“Shanzay,” I call. She looks up as if in a daze, then smiles at me.
“Oh, Humaira!” she says, waving.
“Come join us,” Emad says.
“Yes, I believe I will,” I reply. “I was just going to grab some food first.”
“You want me to get you something?” Emad asks, already pushing his chair back.
“No, no, thank you,” I say. “But, Shan, will you join me?”
She nods, then comes with me. Emad sends a dazzling smile our way, and Shanzay blushes.
“It’s already going so well!” I say to Shanzay, once we are out of Emad’s sight. I squeeze her arm, feeling buoyant. “He’s being most attentive … and the way he looks at you!”
“No – do you really think so?” Shanzay asks with a little gasp. I nod, and she covers her face with her hands. “He’s so smart and nice,” Shanzay says. “You’re so kind to introduce me to him. Really, Humaira. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Oh, think nothing of it,” I say, putting mashed potatoes onto my plate, then a piece of chicken, and some roasted vegetables. “And a quick note: when you take dinner, it’s prudent not to mix cuisines. It looks distasteful.”
“I didn’t realize,” Shanzay says, growing serious. “I’ve never been to such a fancy dinner before.”
“Don’t worry, it’s hardly a damning mistake, just something to be mindful of,” I advise. “It’s also best to take small amounts, then replenish your plate later. That way you don’t have a gigantic mound of food sitting before you.”
“Got it, got it.” Shanzay nods, making mental notes.
“Oh! Most important of all: never pour raita over your biryani.” I shudder. “It is the highest offense in this family. You are lucky none of the elder phuppos saw you or they surely would have blanched.”
“God,” Shanzay whispers, mortified. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s alright, don’t be embarrassed,” I reassure her with a laugh.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Shanzay says. “Thank you, for everything.”
“Of course!” I say happily. We head to the drinks table, where I grab a soda.
“Humaira, I wonder…” Shanzay breaks off, looking away. “It’s silly.”
“What is it?” I ask, curious. “You must say so now that you have piqued my interest.”
“Well, it’s only that.” She pauses, biting her lip. “I wonder that you’re not married yet. You’re so accomplished and beautiful and clever; I imagine every eligible bachelor in a hundred mile radius would ask for your hand.”
“Oh, that.” I laugh, waving a hand. “No one has yet caught my eye,” I say, tone nonchalant. I consider it further. “And why should I hurry to marry when I live in the utmost comfort? I believe a marriage should improve one’s life, and luckily, I already have a near perfect life. So I won’t marry unless it’s to the great love of my life, really.”
“That makes sense,” Shanzay says. “You don’t need a husband at all.”
“Precisely.” Though need and want were two very different things.
We make it back to the table, where Emad instantly grows animated upon seeing us.
“I tried your pies,” Emad tells me. “They’re so good. I need, like, a hundred of them in my freezer.”
“It’s nothing really,” I say quickly. “You should try Shanzay’s cookies one day! They are simply heavenly.”
“I guess I’ll just have to,” Emad agrees.
We continue talking, and I wait until Emad is in the middle of an animated story to slip away on excuse of getting dessert. Instead, I go to Phuppo, who is sitting with the bhabis, but she is not listening to their conversation.
Rather, her gaze is upon the babies sleeping in their little bundles. There is a wistful expression on her face.
I sit with her on the sofa, and she shifts over to make room for me. I squeeze in beside her and lean my head on her shoulder. She places a hand on my cheek, holding me close. (What did I say earlier? Phuppo can always be counted on for a cuddle.)
“Tell me about work,” she says, pulling back to look at me. “What projects are you working on? Mahmud Bhai mentioned something earlier about a new donut shop?”
“Yes! It’s a new franchise, and they sent us some donuts to sample. They’re so yummy,” I say. “Next time, I’ll bring you some, there’s this one lemon-raspberry one…”
I fall into the easy rhythm of speaking with Phuppo, and a little while later, Naadia joins us as well. Naadia, who went away to college while I commuted, was never as close to Phuppo as I am, but the three of us are still a happy trio when we are together nevertheless.
Any tension between Naadia and I from earlier is gone; it’s the way of sisters. I was ready to rip her hair out a little over thirty minutes ago, but with a quick shared glance, we’re back to normal. We bounce back with alacrity. Not before long, we are all laughing together, just like old times.
But then, eventually, as the night grows darker, the guests begin to leave. I do not see Fawad before he leaves. He slips away, and something in me hurts when I find he is gone.
I hate to leave things unresolved and unpleasant. Why is he so grouchy when it comes to the matter of Rizwan, anyway? It’s one thing for Naadia to be concerned on my behalf, to be upset at seeing me constantly disappointed, but what does he care?
I suppose I’ll never know.
Papa and I are the last guests to leave, Papa sitting in front of the fire, Zeeshan Uncle awkwardly trying (and failing) to make conversation with him while Phuppo and I put all the food away.
“Come, now, we should get going,” Papa finally says to me and Phuppo. “Fizzu, Humaira, get your coats.”
“Papa,” I say gently. “This is Phuppo’s house, now.”
He startles, as if forgetting that Phuppo is in fact married. He frowns once the realization strikes him. “Well, then, you get your coat. It is getting late.”
“Mahmud Bhai, let Humaira stay the night,” Phuppo says, putting an arm around me. I lean into her, mirroring the act. “You can pick her up in the morning.”
I nod. I want to stay. I don’t want to go home. Naadia will be at the Sheikhs’s with Asif, since she dislikes leaving him for even one night. (Yes, they are one of those couples.)
“I suppose. Alright,” Papa says, drawing out the word, hoping I will change my mind. I do feel bad leaving Papa alone, but perhaps the change in scenery for one night will help settle this ache in me.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I say, putting his cashmere scarf around his neck. I kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Papa.”
“Goodnight, jaani.”
After he’s gone, Phuppo and I make qahwa and sit sipping and talking for a while in the living room while Zeeshan Uncle retires upstairs. The house is quiet without all the guests but still warm and cozy.
“I am so happy,” Phuppo tells me, smiling into her hand. “I could have never imagined it. He is such a great man.”
“That makes me so glad for you,” I say, heart warming from her happiness.
“I was so nervous because even though we were compatible and got along well before the wedding, I wasn’t sure about the ... chemistry,” she says. We both giggle. “It is an important thing and cannot be manufactured.”
“You guys have excellent chemistry,” I inform her. “I saw you two earlier.”
“Yes, we rather do, don't we?” Her eyes have a dreamy quality to them. “I know you don't believe it, but sometimes these things do develop after marriage.”
“It isn’t that I don’t believe it, for I am sure they do,” I say, “it’s just that I don't believe it will work that way for me.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Phuppo says. We continue chatting, but a little while later I see Zeeshan Uncle peek his head in, then duck out the moment I notice him. I laugh.
“I think your husband is looking for you,” I whisper.
Phuppo giggles. “He can wait.”
But I can tell she is keen to go to him, too, so I tell her to go.
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’m sleepy, too.”
As she exits and meets Zeeshan Uncle in the hall, he reaches out for her hand. She hesitates, glancing at me, all shy, and it makes me smile. I look away, heart pinching.
It reminds me of this one time we were in the city walking around after a fancy dinner out, Naadia and I in the front, Mama and Papa behind us. I turned back to make sure Mama and Papa were still close behind and found them holding hands.
But the instant I registered the sight, Papa quickly retracted his hand from Mama’s, not wanting me to see. Mama made an elaborate show of rolling her eyes, and I laughed, knowing she wanted to yell, “Kya hai! We’re married !”
They were always alternating between who was the affectionate one and who was the abashed one. But there was never any doubt that they both loved each other very dearly.
Releasing a long breath, I head up to the guest room, where I change into a new set of pajamas Phuppo has kept in the closet for me for impromptu sleepovers such as this. The guest bathroom has my usual La Mer skincare stuff and my favorite papaya hand lotion, too. Oh, how Phuppo spoils me.
I get into bed, but after some time, find that I cannot sleep.
Rain begins to fall outside as I toss and turn, thinking I should have had Papa go back with Naadia and leave the car for me so I could have gone home, but Papa wouldn’t have agreed. He does not like me driving so late at night.
Sensing that sleep will not come so easily, I get out of bed and head downstairs to make some chamomile tea. The sound of raindrops against the windows mingles with the sound of the kettle.
When my tea is ready, I sit, pressing my palms against the cold countertops. Then, I warm them against my mug, holding the mug up my cheeks, to my chest.
I close my eyes and listen to the rain, the pitter-patter, the drop ... drop ... drop.
I hear a rattling.
My eyes open. I wonder if I’m hearing things.
Then I hear it again, and it’s the front door – not a rattling, but knocking.
I look at the clock in the kitchen. The blue numbers glow to inform me it’s nearly two in the morning.
Who could it be? I do not think Zeeshan Uncle will stir; I can hear him snoring.
Grabbing a scarf and wrapping it to cover my hair, I head to the foyer. I hesitate for a moment; what if it’s a burglar or something? But surely a burglar wouldn’t knock. With a shrug, I open the door.
And see a gorgeous man completely soaked through with rain. I know immediately who it is.
Rizwan Ali.