Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“W here is your scarf?” Papa asks, just as I open the car door. Heat blasts onto my face as I sit down.
“I must have left it,” I reply, hand on the door handle. “I’ll just go grab it quickly.”
“No!” Papa cries, horrified at the prospect. “Do not go out into the cold again. There is an extra one in the glove compartment.”
I should have known as much. Papa is perpetually catching cold and is always fussing over us to stay properly warm. Even now, with the heat on full blast, he is sitting in his coat and neck scarf tied tight.
“You girls are so thoughtless, sometimes,” Papa huffs, looking at the rearview mirror as we back out of the driveway. “I cannot imagine how a twenty-three-year-old could be so careless. Honestly.”
I give Papa a curious glance. He is frowning as he drives, his face scrunched and crinkled. He must be in a mood. Usually when this occurs, it is best to act as if nothing is amiss.
“Why did you come so early?” I ask, ignoring his little comment. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“Early!” he scoffs. “Ten in the morning is hardly early . Half the day is gone! Early, she says!”
Most definitely in a mood , then . I want to point out the turn he must make, but while he is ordinarily awful at directions, this is one route he has memorized well. Once Phuppo got engaged, he mapped out various ways to reach Zeeshan Uncle’s house and even went as far as to practice driving back and forth.
Zeeshan Uncle would always tell Papa to come in for some coffee or fruit, since Papa had driven all the way, to which Papa would give him a bewildered expression and promptly refuse, as if he could not fathom wanting to spend one-on-one time with his dearest sister’s fiancé.
“Did you eat, then?” I ask. “We can get bagels on the way home.” Bagels always placate him.
“I had a banana,” he says, voice softening. “But if you want a bagel, we can stop.” Papa never says what he wants outright, but I know him enough to understand what I should say next.
“Yes, I desperately want a bagel. We must stop.”
“If you insist.”
When we get to the bagel shop close to our house, we stop to pick up our usuals, which is an everything bagel with light cream cheese for me, and a toasted cinnamon raisin bagel with butter for Papa. When Papa is out of earshot, I instruct the bagel-boy to put less butter on, for Papa’s health.
“Isn’t this nice, beta jaani?” Papa says, when we get home. “Now why would Naadia want to miss out on such fun?”
Ah. So this is about Naadia. I could have guessed as much, had my mind not been replaying every interaction and word I had with Rizwan in the past twelve hours.
It must have been something Naadia said or the way she said it. Or both. I’ll have to interrogate her once my bagel is done.
It used to be easier when Mama was alive because it appeared as though I was Mama’s favorite, and Naadia was Papa’s, so things were very neat and even.
Of course, you cannot say as such to Naadia for she will vehemently deny it. She claims I was Mama and Papa’s favorite, but it’s just not true. Sure, they adored me, but I could never get away with even half of what she does. I was loved because I made myself lovable, it was as simple as that. I was adored because I did not screw up.
I don’t mean to be cocky, and obviously I screwed up sometimes, such as little mistakes, but nothing major enough for Mama to do her dramatic sigh for three days straight while muttering to herself.
But no matter what Naadia did, no matter how upset Mama was, Mama would always make amends, pulling Naadia out of her sullen mood and relenting until Naadia was smiling and happy again.
Papa was easier because he didn’t – and still doesn’t – have any favorites. I mean, truly. Yes, all parents say that, but he is always honest, so I know he is not lying when he says we both have a special place. Naadia because she was the first, and me because I was the last.
“Naadia is coming for lunch, is she not?” I ask gently, as we both eat our bagels in the kitchen. She was to stay over at the Sheikhs’s house last night with Asif, then meet us for lunch today.
“No, she is not.” Papa scowls. “Something about her and Asif getting a reservation at some fancy restaurant. Now, who would choose a restaurant over her own dear old father? Very strange, if you ask me. I’ll be dead soon, dead! And then she’ll be sorry.”
“Tch, Papa, don’t say that,” I scold, squeezing his arm. I know he is only being dramatic, as Pakistani parents love to be cavalier about their deaths, but the prospect is something I don't even want to consider, let alone grapple with.
And on the topic of Naadia: She’s going with her husband, I want to say, but I know it’s still a sensitive topic for Papa that Naadia is no longer only his. It does not help that Naadia does not handle Papa with the delicacy required, which is quite a bit, for he is a very sensitive man.
Too sensitive at times, if you ask me, but he is my Papa, after all.
Even when Asif’s rishta for Naadia came, Papa was in quite a state. After the Sheikh family had left from a lovely dinner, Naadia, Phuppo, and I sat discussing the events of the night with Papa, asking what our next move should be regarding the proposal.
“Proposal?” Papa repeated, confused. “This was merely a social call.”
We laughed, thinking he was joking, for the dinner could not in any sense be mistaken for a simple social call. Then we dispersed to pray. Afterwards, Papa was found staring at the wall, a worried expression on his face.
“I feel lightheaded,” he said. “Fizzu, get me some water.”
Naadia and I exchanged an amused glance.
“Papa, don’t be so dramatic,” Naadia said, laughing and thinking him silly.
“You think this is a joke?” he snapped. “This could be serious! What if they truly did come with ulterior motives?”
He was upset. He would need to be handled delicately. I turned to Phuppo, but before either of us could interject in a gentle manner, Naadia made an impatient sound.
“Asif explicitly said he wants to court me, Papa!” she said.
“I do not recall him saying such a thing,” Papa cried, shocked.
“Well, he did, and I am going to let him,” Naadia replied. “I have to get married sometime, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”
This, of course, only made him more upset. So I had to do damage control then just as I do today.
“Papa, Naadia doesn’t mean to be harsh,” I say to him. “I remember her telling me about that restaurant, and I think it’s really difficult to get a reservation.”
He huffs and puffs, upset that I’m taking Naadia’s side. Of course, I’m not pleased she’s missing lunch, either, but I wouldn’t be very helpful if I exacerbated the situation by saying so.
“She can come over afterwards,” I suggest. “Maybe for chai?”
“No, no,” Papa says. “It doesn't matter to me. She is a grown woman, of course, and will do as she pleases. Why she would take the feelings of an old man into consideration is beyond me!”
Uffo! Papa is so melodramatic.
“Why don’t you and I watch a movie later?” I offer. He softens at this idea. Then shakes his head.
“No, no, I am sure you, too, are busy,” he says, self-pitying.
“No, I’m not! I want to.”
“Well. If you are insisting.”
“I am.”
A little while later, after I’ve changed and freshened up, I have a free moment away from Papa to call Naadia, but right then the doorbell rings. I think it is her for a moment, stopping by before they leave for lunch, but when Papa opens the door, it’s someone else entirely.
“Fawad!” Papa says. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Yes, I heard Naadia could not make it to lunch,” he replies. I tie up my hair and slip on a scarf, then head downstairs. Fawad is standing by the door with Papa. “As there is now an empty seat at your table, do you mind if I join you?”
“No, of course not, do join us,” Papa replies. “You do not even have to ask.” Papa is already in better spirits as he takes Fawad’s coat and neck scarf. Fawad is wearing a sweater, dress-shirt, and slacks—no suit—and I am glad for it, or Papa would be in a fuss once more.
I go to the foyer to greet him, then pause mid-way as I recall the angry comment I had thrown at him last night. Oopsies. I hope it isn’t awkward. Fawad is not one to hold a grudge, but I was terribly uncouth with him yesterday, I can admit as much now.
Unsure of what to do, I fiddle with the ends of my scarf. Ultimately, I decide to greet him by the door, or things will escalate further.
“So good of you to come and join us,” Papa is saying. “It’s so nice to have friends in the neighborhood.”
“It’s a good walk, and I enjoy it,” Fawad replies, just as I join them.
“Papa, I think we’re merely a part of Fawad’s exercise regime,” I say, teasing. “Though I cannot say what walking four houses down will do for your overall health. Especially in this cold.”
“One should not venture out in this cold, to be sure, to be sure,” Papa says, voice solemn. “But Fawad is a reasonable sort, he did not forget his scarf.”
“One should never forget their scarf,” Fawad agrees. I seek out his gaze, a bit worried. We usually laugh about Papa’s antics, and today I am hoping we can do the same.
He looks at me, and I still. His dark brown eyes are indecipherable for a moment – but then I catch the hesitation in the way he stands. Finally, he raises his brows in Papa’s direction.
All is forgiven.
At the same time, we both smile. Tension leaves my body, and I feel lighter. I had not realized it before, but I could not bear it if he was truly angry with me.
“It’s good to have you joining us, besides,” I add, “because I need a sous chef.”
Fawad laughs. “Of course you do. What are you making?”
Papa leaves us to retreat to his office, while Fawad and I walk toward the kitchen. I lower my voice.
“We’re making drunken noodles,” I whisper, drawing near to him. He smells like rich leather and amber, a deliciously heady scent. I wonder which brand it is. (For scientific purposes, of course.)
I inch toward him and take a deep breath in. God, it smells good. What is that?
“Why are you whispering?” he asks, stepping closer as his own voice lowers to match mine. I inhale another deep breath of his cologne, deducing it is probably Tom Ford.
“We can’t say ‘drunken noodles’ in front of Papa,” I explain, when I remember he’s asked me a question. “He’s positively scandalized just by the name.”
“I can’t say I am surprised,” Fawad says. “What should we call it instead? I think the Thai name is pad kee mao.”
I laugh at his accent, though I do not think any of us rightly knows how to pronounce the names of Thai food dishes, and we all horribly butcher them.
“Yes, or we will simply say Thai noodles so he is not alarmed,” I reply. “Papa is very easily alarmed.”
“That he is. Don’t you remember when you said you were going for cocktail hour sushi?”
I groan, recalling the instance. “God, I was lectured for a half hour about the perils of such speech, even though I was not going for cocktails , merely sushi .”
“He is a particular man.”
We make it to the kitchen, where I take out all the ingredients. Fawad helps with chopping up the vegetables, while I make the noodles’ sauce.
“That was not as bad as the time Naadia made naked cake for my birthday,” I say, stirring by the stove, while he cuts on the countertop beside me. We fall into an easy rhythm. “We were lectured about it for days . Papa’s still triggered if we ever mention the incident.”
We exchange such stories, and though I’m technically grumbling about Papa’s dramatics, I don’t feel I need to say I do not mind them. Fawad would not mistake my teasing for complaining, as others might.
While I finish making the food, Fawad sets the table with our Michael Aram dinner set, the porcelain plates decorated with black orchids. Papa joins us, chatting with Fawad while Fawad returns to the kitchen to whip up Thai iced tea for us all.
“What is this exactly?” Papa asks, when everything is done and we sit down to eat at the table. Fawad is sitting across from me with Papa at the head; he and I exchange a glance.
“Dru—” I begin, eyes mischievous.
“Thai noodles,” Fawad cuts in.
“Delicious. Well done.”
We eat together, and chat about random things. Fawad is over often, since I suppose he rather enjoys Papa’s company and probably gets bored being all alone. I can’t possibly think of any other reason why he might be over so often.
It’s nice when he’s here. The house feels more full. Since he’s over quite a bit, it doesn’t feel like a guest is here, so we can all be casual and comfortable together, and it’s enjoyable.
After we finish eating, Papa retreats to his office. I look at Fawad, expecting he’ll follow Papa, but he sticks around and helps me clear the table. He brings our empty glasses to the sink as I stack the plates.
I’m just going to take them to the dishwasher when he comes back for them. He holds out a hand to take them from me. I hand them to him, and as I do, his hand brushes against mine under the porcelain, his slender fingers soft yet steady.
It is a small act, lasting just for a moment. It should be something that goes unnoticed – but time slows, and I get this strange feeling, tightening and unspooling all at once in the pit of my stomach.
After having cooked together in the kitchen, eating together at the table, now cleaning together … it is as if I glimpse into the future.
I withdraw my hand quickly, alarmed by the thought.
Fawad is unperturbed and turns to carry the dirty dishes to the sink. My pulse quickens.
How strange. Perhaps I was really thinking of Rizwan and our future together, and my mind got confused because Fawad is here.
Fawad is always here, so it is an easy mix-up to occur.
Later, after he’s gone, I lie down on the couch and call Naadia. She’s back from her lunch and details how spectacular it was, and I listen before going into Lecture Mode. As the younger sister, you would assume I am usually on the receiving end of such lectures, but Naadia and I love to subvert cliches in such a manner.
“I’m glad your lunch was amazing,” I say, “but please be gentle with Papa. You know he takes things personally.”
“I didn’t even do anything,” she says, automatically defensive. I make a face she can’t see, but know from the pause I take before replying that she’ll understand.
“Miss Ma’am,” I reply in a warning tone. She groans.
“Papa is just dramatic,” she says. “I just said I couldn’t come for lunch, that was it! You know Asif and I have been trying to get a reservation there for weeks! Besides, I spent all day with you guys yesterday.”
“I knoooow,” I respond. In a way, what she is saying is right, too. “But you know Papa misses you, and he was looking forward to Thanksgiving break, and all that. Come over for dinner at least.”
“Ugh, whatever, fine, I’ll come for dinner,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”
Of course he would. I would manage him, as I always did. But she still ought to be considerate.
I don’t say any of that because I’m tired of the subject, and when I’m right all the time, Naadia gets irritated with me.
Instead, my voice brightens and I gear up to tell her something much, much better.
“ Anyways, do you want to hear a saucy story?”
“Always,” she says. “But what could have happened in the past twenty-four hours?”
“You will not believe this.” I giggle. “Guess who showed up to Zeeshan Uncle’s house last night, soaking wet and beautiful?”
“ No ,” she gasps. “No. Way.”
“Yes!” I give her a brief rundown of last night’s events, ending with breakfast this morning, and when I am finished, Naadia screams.
“WHAT?”
“I KNOW!”
“ What is it, what’s wrong ?” I hear Asif ask in the background, concerned. Naadia squeals. I hear her shaking him and his responding groans.
“Can I tell him?” she asks me, returning to the phone.
“Yes.”
“Basically, Rizwan, AKA Zeeshan Uncle’s nephew, AKA London’s most eligible bachelor, AKA the man Humaira thinks is her match, AKA?—”
“Naadia, you suck at telling stories,” I say. She draws things out so much, and not in a good way.
“Hey! Asif loves the way I tell stories, don’t you, Asif?”
“ Yes, angel, of course ,” he replies in the background.
“Tell him the abbreviated version!” I say. “The one in which I seem least like a hoe.”
“I gotchu, sis,” Naadia says to me, then turns back to Asif. “Basically Rizwan is here, and spoiler alert he is a major hottie, whose accent is, and I quote, ‘like butter melting in the pan of Humaira’s heart,’ whatever the hell that means? You know how poetic she can get.”
Asif says something in response to this, but I don’t catch it.
“I can’t hear him!” I cry into the phone.
“One sec.” Naadia puts her phone on speaker.
“I said, is he as charming and dreamy as you thought he would be?” Asif asks in a dramatic tone. I giggle. Asif is such a great team player.
“Yes!” I squeal. “He is! Also very amiable and clever.”
“Who is?” I hear Fawad ask.
“Rizwan,” Asif replies. I can almost see Fawad roll his eyes.
“God help us,” Fawad mutters.
I make an indignant sound at his scornful tone and am about to say something when Naadia says, “Don’t bother, he left.”
“Whatever,” I reply. “Anyway…”
I continue telling her and Asif more, feeling excited. Even Fawad cannot ruin my good mood.
Rizwan is here!