Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
W hen I arrive home, Naadia is not there.
“She is down the road,” Papa responds when I ask. He is holed up in his office and does not look up from his papers.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
“I’m not hungry,” he grumbles, nibbling on a bowl of nuts. I sigh. So he is in a mood again. I wonder who could possibly be the cause.
Though we are in our twenties, Papa is still recovering from us no longer needing him. Which is why he handles everything car-related, tax-related, shoveling-snow-related. Even if he hires someone to fix it, he still deals with it. It makes him feel useful, like he still has a purpose.
I allow it, but Naadia does not. She wishes to be Independent and Self-Sufficient.
I call Naadia to ask what has happened, but she does not let me get a word in.
“If you’re going to lecture me, I’d prefer you do it with Asif present so he can defend my honor and duel you to the death,” she says. “Come over for dinner. I’m making mac. And brownies.”
Before I respond, she hangs up. She and Papa are both ridiculous. It’s a good thing she’s making brownies to soften my mood; her brownies are to die for.
I change into comfortable shalwar kameez and a cardigan, then drive over, since it is a bit chilly out, and I do not want to put Papa in a further state by walking.
When I get to the Sheikhs’s, Fawad lets me in, taking my coat.
“Humaira,” he says, and his voice is ordinary. Any awkwardness I might have imagined between us is gone. “How are you?”
“I suppose we’re about to find out,” I say, raising my brows. I share a smile with him and head into the house.
The Sheikhs’s house is of similar size and layout to ours and is decorated with a classic interior that mirrors ours, though it isn’t as ornate or thorough. I believe it used to be more so, before Fawad’s parents shifted to Islamabad; I think Fawad prefers minimalism.
I walk to the kitchen, where Naadia is making sauce, and Asif is watching over her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her waist.
I say salaam, and she turns to respond. Her face falls when I give her an unamused look.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Naadia says, waving her spoon at me. Asif looks between us.
“I think I’ll go,” Asif says, moving away from her.
Naadia’s jaw drops. “Asif, you traitor!” She throws a cube of cheese at him, which he catches and promptly eats. Naadia makes a disgusted sound, shaking her head at him.
“I get enough lectures from Fawad!” he calls, exiting swiftly.
“Yes, but he is your older brother,” Naadia grumbles to herself.
“Since when do I lecture you?” I ask, offended. “All I was going to say was stop fighting with Papa. I am the one who has to live with him. You can say whatever you please and retreat here or back to your own apartment, but I’m the one who has to see him upset.”
“That doesn’t sound like a lecture to you?” she asks, though she is chagrined. “There is something seriously wrong with him, he is only getting more unpleasant and it doesn't help that you coddle him like a child.”
“I don't coddle him!” I protest. “I’m simply trying to be nice to him. After all, we do owe him everything ,” I remind her in a pointed tone.
Naadia groans, avoiding my gaze as she strains the boiled pasta. “Anyways, if you weren’t such a kiss up, I wouldn’t look so bad. So really, it’s all your fault.”
I stiffen. She and Papa must really be getting on each other's nerves for her to say such a thing. It’s the gripe she used to have with me years ago, when she was more rebellious and constantly staying out late with friends, or sneaking around driving when she didn't yet have a license, or the one time she went to a hookah bar.
“What are we, in high school?” I ask, tone unpleasant. “This is an old argument, one I thought we were past.”
I am used to being the beloved, but it isn't as though it's entirely unearned. I've worked hard for years for the regard Papa has for me. I am loved because I work for it. Not like Naadia, who is allowed to be prickly and is still adored.
We can’t both worry Papa and Phuppo; they wouldn't be able to handle it. Someone had to be good, and if it wasn’t going to be her, it had to be me.
Did that affect my adolescence? Of course it did! Was it enjoyable? Not always! But what choice did I have?
I release a measured breath. I do not allow myself to go any further down that line of thought because I do not want to get into a proper fight. I do not want to dwell on what has passed.
“Let’s move on,” I say, resigned. “Just come home tomorrow and Papa will be fine.”
She opens her mouth as if to respond, then decides to drop it, too. “Okay. Now go sit, and tell Asif to come help me,” she says instead. “I can’t get this stupid pot out of the drawer. I don't know why Fawad insists on using cast iron skillets.”
“I wonder how he lifts them,” I say.
“Fawad looks lean, but he’s pretty strong,” Naadia replies. “I’ve seen him and Asif wrestling.”
This is not at all interesting to me.
I wave a hand, then go to deliver the news to Asif that he is needed. When I enter the family room, he and Fawad are playing chess.
“I’d offer to take over for you, but Fawad is unbearable when he wins,” I tell Asif, sitting down next to him.
“We’ll continue this later,” Asif tells his brother, before getting up to help his wife in the kitchen. That leaves Fawad and I.
“Try your hand, you might win,” Fawad says, but I won’t be fooled. I only play chess with Naadia because we are evenly matched in that we play once or twice a year. Fawad plays much more often than that and even reads those boring books about strategy.
“I don’t think I will,” I reply. “Let’s play ping-pong instead.”
“I thought you didn’t want to lose?” he says cockily.
“And I am in no danger of it,” I reply just as arrogantly.
We go down to the basement, where there’s a ping-pong table set up next to a billiards board. We play, and while we are neither of us particularly skilled, something about playing games loosens something inside of me. I get very competitive and high-spirited.
Which makes me lose my good senses and fall prey to delirium.
Fawad dives for a few shots and misses them, or gets struck right in the face by the ball (which is worth losing the point), or slips and nearly falls in his enthusiasm to stretch to the shot, and I cannot stop laughing.
And the more I laugh, the more I laugh.
I try to cover it up, not wanting Fawad to think I am enjoying his company, but I cannot help it. Suddenly, everything is funny, and I am sure Fawad is exaggerating his motions to make me laugh further because it is making me lose.
“No fair!” I say, trying to stomp my feet as I miss another point. “Stop making me laugh!”
But he doesn’t. He only becomes more ridiculous, until I lose. And then he looks at me, just looks, an amused expression on his face as he watches me giggle and giggle. I clutch my stomach, trying to stop, my cheeks aching.
Good God. I must be terribly tired or some other reasonable explanation for such strange behavior.
“E-Excuse me,” I say, disappearing to the bathroom. Once there, I flatten my cheeks, pulling my mouth down to stop the smiling.
When I return, Fawad is sitting on the couch reading some dreadful looking novel. Even the cover is all black and white, and the font is very severe. I sit beside him and turn the book so I can read the synopsis on the back.
“This looks like it does not have a hint of romance in it!” I exclaim, appalled. He closes the book to pay attention to me.
“None whatsoever,” Fawad confirms. I scrunch my face with revulsion, and he laughs, tapping my nose with the book. “Some people enjoy reading realistic fiction, rather than fanciful stories.”
“I don’t see why,” I say. “Is life not bleak enough for you? These books are so gray.”
“Yes, but therein lies the allure,” he replies, eyes animated. “Reading about others’ misery puts things into perspective.” He pauses. “And of course, it is comforting to have company in one’s loneliness.”
“I suppose.” I do understand that. “But I find life distressing enough and believe literature and other forms of amusement should be an escape. I prefer to live life in vibrancy.”
He smiles. “Yes, you would say that,” he says, more to himself than me. But before I can comment on that, he says something else, voice more clear. “Now that we have discussed our tastes, I think we should recommend something to one another.”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaim, sitting up with excitement. “Discussing books is so fun.”
I love recommending books to people. It feels like a game of how well you know that person and their tastes. Actually, it is quite an intimate act, though I do not think of it in such a manner when considering what to recommend Fawad.
With him, I will simply enjoy being right. I am also interested to see what he will recommend to me, and by extension, see how well he knows me. For all that I go on about loving romance, I really am particular in my tastes for novels.
“I recommend The Secret History by Donna Tartt,” he says, after thinking for a moment. I have heard of it but haven’t read it because of the mention of murder. I am very easily spooked by such things. “It is not scary at all,” he adds, as if reading my mind.
“Is there—” I begin.
“Yes, there is a bit of that,” he says. “Not in the way you are used to, but in a manner I think you will appreciate all the same.” His eyes turn mischievous. “I am talking about romance, of course, not sex.”
I balk, cheeks heating. “I knew what you meant!” is all I can manage to say. He gives me a knowing smile, and I look away.
“I will recommend…” I have to think about this for a moment. For a second, I consider recommending a lurid novel, filled with sex scenes, just to unnerve him, but that would surely be crossing dangerous territory, and I want to give him a serious recommendation, like he’s given me.
I need something without too much romance, for I know he will not like it, and I need something sad and lonely but filled with hope and love all the same.
I’ve got it. Oh, this will be perfect for him!
“ The Piper’s Son by Melina Marchetta,” I say. “It’s one of my absolute favorites. I read it every year.”
“Is it—” he begins, but I cut him off. He’ll ask if it’s realistic, not fanciful.
“Yes, it is very raw,” I respond. This time, it’s my turn to be mischievous. “I mean the story, of course, not sex.”
He is shocked by my assertion and assessing glance. I know he does not read romance, but surely I must be allowed to get back at him.
“I do not read those types of books!” he sputters.
“Mmhm,” I drawl. “Sure you don’t.” But I cannot hold the face for long and let out a laugh. He laughs too, realizing I am joking.
A slow smile spreads across his face. I feel a potent flurry of excitement in my chest. I wonder if he will like it! I love discussing books with friends.
“Shall we—” he begins, but my focus is diverted when my phone rings.
It’s Shanzay.
“Sorry, I should take this,” I say. He nods.
“I’ll meet you back upstairs.” He exits, and after he’s gone, I pick up the phone.
“Shan, what is it?” I ask.
“Humaira!” Her voice is an octave higher than usual. “Thank goodness you picked up. There’s been an emergency ! I’m at your house, and Uncle says you’re not home. I hate to pull you away from your plans, but can you please come? I need to speak with you urgently!”
“Woah, slow down,” I say, alarmed. “What’s happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Please, can you just come?” she pleads.
I’m already heading up the stairs. “Yes, I’m coming. Give me five minutes.”
I say goodbye to Naadia, Asif, and Fawad, who are all disappointed I’m going, then head home, where Shanzay is being interrogated in the foyer by Papa about her lack of a scarf when it is so cold out.
“Thank God you’re here,” Shanzay says, breathless. Her eyes are wide with excitement and nerves.
“Come,” I say, leading her up the stairs to my room. I have her sit on the chaise, then sit beside her. “What happened?”
“Huzaifa called me!” she squeals. I blink.
“Huzaifa?” I repeat. How dreadful. I thought that entire ordeal was done with.
She nods, standing up. “He called to say that he wanted to grab coffee together, so we did, and it was really nice, and then at the end, he said that he has very strong feelings for me, and if I could ever feel the same, he would like to begin courting me! Get our parents involved, send a formal rishta, and everything.” She lets out a long breath, then collapses backwards onto my bed. “Isn’t that so straightforward and honest? I find it commendable.”
“Almost too commendable,” I say, unimpressed. “I’m sure his sister told him exactly what to say.”
“Oh, yes ... well…” She swallows. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What did you say?” I ask. “In response to him.”
“I said I would give him a response soon.” She clutches a pillow to her chest.
I hate to see my dear friend so unnerved, it is very unbecoming. Especially when she can do so much better than Huzaifa, and I do not see why she should tie herself down to the first boy who has paid her any interest.
Besides, what about Emad, my choice for her? I am sure he’s the right fit for Shanzay, and I’m never wrong.
“You should not keep him waiting,” I say, voice calm and sure. “You must give him an answer straight away.”
She sits up, the pillow in her lap. “Yes, I knew you would know what to do. That’s why I came to discuss it with you first.”
“That is what friends are for.” I smile reassuringly. “Now, in your response, you must be sure to be conscious of the pain you will inflict on him.”
Shanzay hesitates. “Pain?” She fiddles with the tassels on the pillow. “So you think I should say no?”
Now it is my turn to hesitate. “Oh, I’m sorry. I did not realize ... you wish to accept? I thought you liked Emad.”
“I do! But…” Her voice wavers. “I don’t ... I – I don’t know!” She lets out an exasperated sigh. “I did not know Huzaifa liked me so much.” She looks at me with desperation. “Please, tell me what to do.”
“I can’t do that,” I say. “You must decide this for yourself.”
She bites her lip, looking here and there, confused and clearly distressed. Perhaps a nudge is in order.
“As a general rule,” I say, tone gentle, “if someone is so filled with doubt, I think they ought not to accept. It is best to trust your doubt, rather than ignore it, and live to regret it.”
Shanzay nods, understanding this.
“It is up to you, of course,” I say. “But is he not still studying? How would that work?” I pause. “I don’t think a man should be thinking of marriage until he can provide for his wife. Unless, of course, he has the financial support of his family.”
“Yes, he is still studying,” she replies, voice low.
“Shan, you seem so disheveled,” I say. “So not like yourself. Are you quite sure this is the type of relationship you want? Something that makes you feel erratic?” I pause, letting the words soak in. “In the end, of course, it is up to you to accept or reject. I do not wish to influence you, for it is your decision to make, but as your friend, I do want whatever is best for you.”
“Yes,” she says, finally looking at me. “I think I have ... I have almost made up my mind ... I decide, well – I have decided to…” She takes in a big breath, looking at me from the corner of her eye. “Reject him?”
She waits for my reaction. I hesitate a moment, then sigh with relief.
“Thank God,” I say, taking her hand. “I was hoping you would say that, and I am so glad you came to the conclusion on your own.” I smile. “I agree with your decision entirely.”
Shanzay releases a sigh of relief as well. “Alright, good.” She nods. “Okay.” She bites her lip. “So I will call to refuse.”
“Do so now,” I say. “There’s no use in delaying.”
She nods, dialing his number, setting things right once more.
Really, this is what’s best for her. I only want her to be happy, and I believe she will be happiest with Emad. Besides, I have such a good track record with these things. Just look at Naadia, and Phuppo. Shanzay will not be led astray so long as I am her friend.