Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
M ost of December came and went quickly in anticipation of the next holiday break. I went to work and schemed to set Shanzay up with Emad, and I missed Mama, and Papa was mercurial, and Naadia was away, and I was sad, and I thought of Rizwan.
Then, the real fun began.
Winter in New York. It’s romanticized in holiday movies and in novels, but for me, it has always simply been home. The sprinkling snow like stars and the frozen wind howling against our house were the backdrop while I sat by the fire, a steaming cup of hot chocolate in my hands, my toes wrapped in fuzzy socks.
Naadia came home on Christmas Eve. She had the week off and was spending it with us, so Papa was in high spirits, not even protesting as we went out for a girls’ brunch.
“You’re sure Rizwan is coming to dinner?” Naadia asks me, taking a bite of lemon ricotta pancakes. Rizwan is coming to Zeeshan Uncle’s tonight, to stay for a week, and we’re hosting a fancy dinner in a few days, on the weekend.
“Yes,” I say, cutting into my eggs benedict. “Zeeshan Uncle is picking him up tonight, and he’s staying until New Year’s.”
Phuppo called to confirm as much, and I’m jittery with excitement to see him again. Oh, to be in love! Just the idea warms me.
The taste of old dreams is at once bitter and sweet: like too strong coffee with too much sugar. First, you recoil from the flavor, but then it settles, and you remember just how much you love the taste.
“How exciting,” Naadia agrees, waving a waitress over. “Hi, yes, can we have virgin mimosas please?”
The waitress is clearly confused by this request. “So ... orange juice?”
“Yes,” Naadia says. “But in champagne flutes.”
“The champagne flutes are imperative,” I affirm.
“Okaaay.” The waitress gives us strange looks but goes off to get them. Naadia and I giggle.
I miss having her around for stupid little things like this. We have such a specific sense of humor, compiled of random references to movies or things Papa has said or old Tumblr posts, and no one else understands but the other.
Which is why we are laughing at the most insane things throughout the day. Later that day, while I bake peppermint brownie cookies, we’re chatting and laughing and being obnoxious. We only grow more and more delirious as the evening advances, and then we lounge out in front of the fire.
“You know someone was telling me to buy you pepper spray, like he got for his daughter,” Papa tells us in a somber tone, as he listens to us cackle over an Urdu Tweet. He is sitting on the couch in his NYU Medicine sweatshirt. Whenever Naadia visits, he wears it. “But I told him there is no need, for if my daughters are ever robbed, they would surely annoy the poor robbers so much, they would leave of their own accord.”
This, of course, only makes us laugh more.
“Papa!” I scream. Naadia laughs so hard she snorts, which is such an indelicate sound, I reach over to smack her. “Naadia! Stop snorting! Be a lady!” She hits me back.
“As if I can help it!”
“Oh, you girls,” Papa says, smiling to himself.
He enjoys it when we are so hyper. It makes the house feel full again, and our laughter is constant background music. He also dearly loves the attention as he tells us stories from his childhood. Today’s story is from when he was about eight or so.
“I used to visit the village during the summers, when I was off from school,” he tells us. “And I had this little goat I would play with. A baby goat, very cute and fluffy.”
“How sweet!” I comment.
“Aw!” Naadia adds.
“Then, one day, this boy from a neighboring village came and said he wanted my goat!”
“No!” we exclaim.
“Yes!” He shakes his head. “My Ammi said he could have it, but I was very sad. It was my goat! So I told the boy no.”
“As you should have.”
“But one day, I went, and the goat was gone!”
“What!”
“So I had to get my friend’s older brother, and we went to the village, and stole the goat back.”
These are the little stories from rural Pakistan Papa likes to keep us entertained with.
That night, Asif comes for dinner. Fawad does not join us because he is allegedly meeting a friend. I didn’t even think he had friends. I am sure it is one of his tenants, and he just wants to seem social.
I do hope he isn’t avoiding me. I have seen him a handful of times since Thanksgiving, and he was a bit awkward but otherwise his normal, unsavory self.
At dinner, Papa is surly to Asif, more so than usual, which puts Naadia in a bad mood. Papa used to like Asif, until he married Naadia, and she moved out. Now if there is anything going wrong, it is Asif’s fault.
Asif is blamed for everything from the cleaning lady being late (It’s that wretched Asif’s fault. If he hadn’t gone and married Naadia, she would have been here to let the cleaning lady in.); to Papa’s coffee getting cold (Awful Asif. Marrying my dear daughter! Naadia always made my coffee just right – this is also a personal affront to me, because Naadia rarely made him coffee and I make excellent coffee!); to the bathroom sink getting clogged (I am sure this is Asif’s fault! He must have shaved that big, awful beard of his!).
I can go on but you get the point.
Asif is a dear though and tolerates it very well.
Sometimes Naadia gets upset and tries to call Papa out, saying that the blame isn’t Asif’s really, but mine, seeing as I was the one to suggest the match.
To this, of course, Papa blames Asif once again. (Turning you against your own sister! The audacity of the man!) Naadia should have seen that one coming because I am positive that, even at gunpoint, Papa could not find a fault in me.
It helps that I have no faults, but even if I had them, he would deny them. Of course, sometimes I do make little mistakes, as all people do, but even then Papa doesn’t think the blame is mine, not really.
* * *
When Rizwan arrives in New York, I plan to visit “Phuppo” (as I tell Papa). The day of the planned social call, it begins snowing in the morning, and I find this divine intervention excellent. I pack an overnight bag in case I get stranded at Zeeshan Uncle’s house (just like Jane Bennet at Mr. Bingley’s!), but at the last minute, the plans are derailed by Papa, who panics very easily when it comes to the snow.
“Either I drive you there and back,” he says, “or you go tomorrow, when the roads are clear.”
I elect to go the next day because a girl simply cannot romance a handsome man when her father is just in the next room.
When I drive over, everything is covered in white, a perfect snowglobe. The bare branches of the trees sparkle in the sunlight, the evergreens covered in snow like powdered sugar. Everything is pure and clean and perfect. I love it! The magic of snow never ceases to amaze me.
“Humaira, how lovely to see you again,” Rizwan says, opening the door. He lets me into the house and takes my coat from me, smiling brightly all the way. He is happy to see me, and I am excited as well, which is a relief.
“It is good to see you, too,” I respond. “Look at all this snow! Isn’t it wonderful!”
“Yes, it is.” He smiles. “Though I cannot enjoy it much, Shani Chacha has me working like a dog.”
We walk over to the living room and sit down, where he explains that the company Zeeshan Uncle runs was founded by Rizwan’s grandfather. When Rizwan’s father, Zeeshan Uncle’s older brother, moved to England, Zeeshan Uncle took over, and now he is teaching Rizwan the ropes to take over one day.
Another heir, just like me! Fateful.
“I am here for business, but of course, I have some time for fun, as well.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I giggle.
“There must always be time for fun,” I agree. “Can you see yourself living in America, then?” I ask.
“It is a possibility. The more time I spend here, the more I like it,” he says. “Certain people could surely persuade me to stay.” He gives me a warm smile. “I certainly would not be the first to move continents because of love, either.”
I bite back a smile of my own, not responding.
“My mother, of course, has been badgering me to get married,” he continues. “Do you feel the same pressure? I know a lot of desi girls do.”
Excellent steering of conversation. It’s always a good thing to let girls know one has marriage on their mind.
“Not at all,” I say. “Papa is quite the opposite where he doesn't want me to marry. And I have a pretty good life, alhamdulillah, so I understand his perspective that I should be in no hurry to leave it. I suppose I will only marry for love.”
“Reasonable,” he agrees.
“I do not think someone should marry simply because ‘it’s the right time’ or whatever else people say,” I continue. “Look at Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle. They waited for their right person, and now they are so happy.”
He listens attentively as I speak. “It is good to believe,” he says.
I sigh-laugh. “It is not always easy, but yes having faith is good.”
I wait a moment to see if he will deepen the conversation.
If people have the courage to ask, I’d like to think I have the courage to answer.
But he does not ask. I wish he would, though I must say a part of me is secretly relieved when he does not. Perhaps I enjoy being the martyr. Naadia would say so, at least.
We continue conversing, and I find that we get along well. It must mean something .
This is the part where my best friend, Areeba, would say I am making leaps and bounds, and I should take it slow, but I just can’t. I am so sure of my heart, and I am rarely wrong, so I trust this feeling.
“Let’s go out and see the snow,” I say, after we have drunk coffee. Phuppo and Zeeshan Uncle have been nowhere to be seen; as my designated cool aunt, she does make an excellent wing-woman.
“Let’s,” he agrees, grabbing our coats.
We head outside, and I take in a deep breath of the brisk air, shivering. Rizwan watches me as I do, an amused expression on his face.
“What?” I ask, when his staring continues.
“Your nose is red,” he says. “Like Rudolph. Very endearing.” He teases.
I let out a mock gasp of insult. While his back is turned, I pick up some snow and pack it tight into a little ball.
“Rizwan!” I say. The instant he turns, he receives a face full of snow to the face. “Hah!”
I laugh, triumphant.
“How rude! And here I thought you a delicate lady!” he exclaims, stooping down to pack snow into his own hands. When he rises with a sizable snowball, I give him a warning glance.
“You wouldn’t,” I dare. He comes closer, eyes gleaming, and I squeal, making a run for it.
“Oh no you don’t!” He reaches out and grabs me. It’s really not inappropriate, given the approximate seventeen layers of clothing and gloves between us, but my stomach lurches all the same. I swat his arm away, but I know I cannot outrun him. I stop.
“No, no,” I say, covering my face with my hands. I peek out to see Rizwan grinning.
“I’ll be very gentle,” he says, the snowball hovering over my face. There’s no escaping it. I nod slightly, and he mushes the snowball against my nose. It spreads across my cheeks, my lips, melting instantly upon contact, and I giggle as the icy water enters my mouth.
“The debt is settled,” he says dramatically. I slip off my glove to brush the snow aside from my face, my skin frozen. He does too and our fingers brush, ice-cold but warming quickly.
When I finally go inside, I press my fingers to my cheeks, catching my breath.
“Oh, you’re flushed!” Phuppo exclaims when she sees me. “Is it windy outside? Your cheeks are positively red.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” I say, heart beating fast. “Excuse me.”
I rush to the guest room and close the door, leaning against it. Across the room, I catch sight of myself in the mirror: my cheeks are rosy.
I meet my eyes and grin.