Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
T here’s a New Year’s dinner at Rameela Auntie’s, one of our family friends.
Papa is excited about it, for some reason, but I am not particularly enthused about going, since Shanzay is sick, so I cannot bring her along, and Rizwan has left to go back to London. I stopped by Phuppo’s yesterday to say goodbye to him under the excuse of wanting to see Phuppo.
It was a strange encounter. I did not feel very sad to see him go; I did not feel much of anything, really.
I do not want to analyze it too deeply, however; not yet at least.
I arrive to the dinner party with Papa, just as Naadia arrives with Asif and Fawad. Emad is already there, having arrived just before us, without either of his parents. I believe he is friends with Rameela Auntie’s son, or something. One can never draw conclusions as to why certain people get invited and why certain people don’t at dawats.
“Here, let me take your coat,” Emad says, while we all crowd in the foyer of Auntie’s large house. She lives a few towns over on the north shore and also has a well-decorated, tasteful home.
“Thank you,” I reply, handing my Loro Piana cape (yes, the one with the fur! These aunties are always dressed to the absolute nines with their gold and designer shoes and purses) to Emad, just as Asif gives me a pointed glance, trying not to laugh. I give him a dirty look, remembering his comment about being encouraging towards Emad.
“Behave yourself,” I warn. He sobers for a moment.
“What’s going on?” Fawad asks, glancing between the two of us. He’s dressed quite smartly in a black suit, though instead of his usual crisp white shirt, he’s wearing a black dress shirt, and no tie, the top button undone and exposing a triangle of skin at the base of his throat that momentarily makes me forget my name.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. I do not want to get Asif’s ridiculous notion into Fawad’s head as well. It will only aggravate things, and I do not want to fight with him (beyond our standard bickering, of course).
“It might snow tonight,” Asif says, looking out the window. Naadia and I gasp at the same time, whipping our heads to Papa to see if he’s heard. Thankfully, he hasn’t. Naadia hits Asif with her gloves.
“Don’t say that,” Naadia warns, glancing at Papa. “You’ll send him into a panic.”
“And when he was so looking forward to this dinner, too,” I add, tsking at Asif.
“You heard the Mirza sisters,” Fawad says, clapping his brother on the back. “We best behave.” He offers me a half-smile.
Emad returns and asks if I would like anything to drink.
“No, I’m alright, thank you,” I respond, distracted as Asif whispers something to Naadia. She glances at Emad and I with a puzzled look. “Emad, I’m afraid to say Shanzay is down with a cold, which is why she couldn’t come tonight.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” he says, not looking it one bit. I furrow my brows. “But I’m sure she’ll be fine. Shall we go get some appetizers?”
Surely he should be more concerned. I resist the urge to frown, especially as Asif raises his eyebrows at me.
“Actually, I think I will sit with Rameela Auntie,” I say, grabbing Naadia’s arm. “Let’s go sit with the ladies. Goodbye, boys!”
I wave at them, then drag Naadia with me to the room full of aunties, all dressed to impress, with their fancy three-thousand dollar shawls and decades old jewels.
“Your husband needs to see a psychiatrist,” I whisper to Naadia, before she can say anything. “He is positively delusional.”
She bites back a laugh. “If you say so,” she sing-songs.
I pinch her side. “Behave. Or I’m telling Phuppo.”
(Phuppo was always playing judge between us, even when we were girls.)
We sit with the aunties, who fawn over us, the young blood. Unfortunately, this is not much better company, for as the only unmarried woman there, I get bombarded by questions. It is a full-on interrogation.
“Has your papa begun looking for a husband for you?” one auntie asks. “It must be so difficult without your mama here to do it herself.”
“But do not fret! We will help you,” another auntie adds. “I have a handful of eligible nephews.”
The eligible nephews in question all have secret girlfriends, drink, or smoke copious amounts of weed, so I’m not particularly interested. Naadia and I exchange a knowing glance.
“Thank you, but I am alright, at the present,” I reply.
“Yes, but it does take quite some time to find a good rishta,” the auntie replies. “You must start looking early. You are not getting any younger.”
I suppress a sigh. Some aunties can be simple-minded about age, believing women should be married off once they strike eighteen, and that they will expire by the age of twenty-four. Most of our social circle is more refined than that, but some are still of the old, backwards thinking.
“Did you not find anyone in college?” someone asks. “There must have been plenty of boys there.”
“Unfortunately, I did not realize I was there to husband-hunt,” I respond pleasantly. “Sadly, I was instead focusing on my education.”
I throw in an enthused smile so no one gets offended, and the aunties laugh at my mischief, though I am deadly serious.
Besides, boys in college were so stupid , for lack of a better word. Which was precisely why I was steering Shanzay away from Huzaifa.
All college boys are immature, with no idea of the future, or they are simply there to have fun with no intention of commitment. I knew plenty of boys with girlfriends who were actually engaged to their cousins back home, or boys who dated girls, then broke up with them just to date their best friends.
Overall, a terrible mess. Zero out of ten would recommend.
“Are you sure you do not have a secret boy hidden away you are not telling us about?” one auntie teases. “A pretty girl like you, I am sure there must be someone.”
“I wish, Auntie,” I reply. “Would that not make things simpler?”
We laugh, though I am positively mortified by the thought of having a secret boyfriend. Who has the emotional stamina for that? I love to read about forbidden romance, but in real life, the angst would surely kill me.
Besides, I agree with the Islamic ideals of no-dating. It is the most sensible course of action. People should only get involved with one another if they are serious and have intentions of marriage in mind. Of course, I do not judge others, I just know for myself, dating would not work, for I do not have the heart for it.
I am glad for the structure Islam gives my life. It is not just a religion, but a way of life – a mindset, an entire way of being.
When the aunties move on to interrogating Naadia as to when she’ll get pregnant (even married, you can never win with the aunties), I flee, but just as I do, Emad finds me.
He begins conversing with me over the pani puri bar, telling me random stories as I fill the little puffs with chickpeas, boiled potatoes, onions, yogurt, and tamarind chutney. And he does not mention Shanzay once! I bring her up a few times, but he is not interested in speaking about her.
Perhaps he is being shy.
From the amused look Asif gives me as he places another samosa onto his plate, I would say he disagrees.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say to Emad, approaching my brother-in-law instead. I kick his leg with my heels.
“Ow,” he says, though I’ve only just tapped him. “You could kill a man with those.”
“They’re Aquazzura. I wouldn’t dirty them with a man’s blood.”
“Are you having fun with your new bosom buddy?” Asif asks. I make a face.
“Ew, Asif. Don’t say bosom buddy.”
“I regretted it once I said it.” He hangs his head for a moment, then is back to his foolishness. “The sentiment still remains. Are you having fun with your friend ? You have been awfully close all night.”
“Don’t be preposterous,” I say, frowning. “If he is seeking out my company, it is probably to ask news of Shanzay.”
Though even I must admit that Emad has not been very diligent in his duty to ask after Shanzay.
As if sensing my self-doubt, Asif raises his brows. “I do not think so…”
“Where’s Papa?” I ask, looking around. “I’m tired.”
“He already left,” Asif replies.
“He just abandoned me!” I exclaim.
“Don’t worry,” Emad says, joining us just then. “I can drive you home.”
I bite back a groan as Asif bites back a smile.
“No, that’s alright,” I say quickly. “Asif and Naadia can take me, they are going back to the Sheikhs’s, and we live on the same street, after all.”
“No, no, you go with Emad,” Asif replies, giving Emad a wide smile. “I think we’ll stay a little longer, and weren’t you saying you were tired?”
“I am not too tired,” I respond. He is enjoying this entirely too much. I glare at him.
“I’ll take you,” Emad says, looking positively enthused. “Really, it’s not a problem at all.”
“Well, where is Fawad?” I ask, looking around. “He can take me. I really wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Emad.” I bat my eyelashes at him, succeeding in shutting him up.
“Fawad offered to drive Mahmud Uncle back, since he was so panicked due to the snow,” Asif replies. Traitors, all of them! “Really, I don’t think it’ll be an inconvenience, would it, Emad?”
“None at all,” Emad says, stepping closer to me. “I’d love to drive you home.”
So I am left with no choice.
“Okay,” I concede. Emad dashes off to grab our coats before I can change my mind, and I glare at Asif and Naadia, who’s joined us to snicker with her husband like a child.
“You will pay for this, dear Asif. You will pay.” I tsk at him. “I take cash or check or a week-long vacation to the Maldives.”
Unfortunately, Emad comes back, and I must go with him. With a final pout directed at Asif and Naadia, who simply wave cheerfully, I go with Emad to his car. The air is frigid, and the snow is really coming down, thick white clumps swirling around the air. I quickly get into the car, and Emad puts the heat on blast.
We ride mostly in silence, Emad plays some weird music I do not listen to the lyrics of, and I focus on looking out my window, hoping to get home soon. At least Auntie’s house isn’t too far away.
“Should we stop for dessert?” Emad asks, pulling into a McDonald’s parking lot. Ooh, I could go for a cookie. But this is certainly not the time.
“No, that’s alright,” I say. “I’d rather not. I’m very tired.”
But he pulls into the drive-through anyway, ordering me cookies and himself apple pie. I know I should probably ignore him and not eat, but who am I to resist warm cookies? I do not have that much willpower. Of course, I eat them.
As I do, I focus on the snow falling outside, the flurry of white against the dark sky.
Instead of driving away from the eating establishment, Emad puts the car in park, then shifts to face me in his seat. I prickle, alarmed.
“I’m glad to have a moment alone with you,” he says, voice nervous. “I wanted to talk to you about something – about strong feelings I have for someone.”
I turn to look at him, heart beating fast.
I knew Asif was wrong! Ha!
“I am so glad to hear that!” I exclaim, smiling warmly at him. Perhaps I shouldn’t spoil the surprise, but oh, I cannot hold it in. “And I think you will be pleased to learn that she feels the same way.”
He grins, excited. “Really?”
I nod, squealing.
“Humaira, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that,” he says. “I have been looking for a way to tell you that I love you and?—”
I still, not hearing the rest. “Wait, what? ” I shake my head, thinking I heard him wrong. “You mean you love Shanzay , right?”
I laugh nervously.
“Shanzay?” he repeats, confused. He shakes his head. “ Her ? And me?” He laughs as if I have said the funniest thing. “You must be joking.”
Oh GOD no.
“But you’ve been spending all this time with her,” I say, still hoping he has made a mistake, rather than me. My voice comes out high. “You have a picture of her on your phone case!”
“No, it’s a picture of you and me.” Shaking his head, he pulls out his phone and shows me the polaroid. I am half in it. I make a whimpering sound. Oh no, oh no. No, no, no. “I only spent time with her because you asked me to,” he continues. Ya Allah, this is not good.
“She and I wouldn't work,” he says, “but you and I would be happy together. I love you.”
“You don’t love me,” I say, shaking my head. “You merely think you do.”
“I know what I feel,” he replies, voice patient as if I am being silly. He reaches for my hand, and I snatch it back, appalled.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn.
“Yes, yes, I understand, you wish to wait until we're married,” he says. My god, he is full-on delusional!
“Let me say this slowly, so you understand,” I say, voice even. I harden my face. “We will never be married. I do not like you. At all.”
He blinks, confused. “You’re only saying that to play hard to get, and if that is the case, I will say it is working?—”
“Ew! I am not!” I cry. Ugh, as if! “I am desirable enough without such games! I really do not like you and do not know why you would ever think we could be married.”
“Because you encouraged me,” he says, patience thinning. “You constantly sought me out. You called me, and at parties, you would always come over to talk and spend time with me.”
“For Shanzay!” I cry, exasperated. I can’t believe this is happening.
“I could never be interested in her ,” he snaps. “She’s a FOB. We aren’t suited at all. Doesn’t her father work in a textile factory?” He shakes his head. “No, I was always interested in you . You and I would be well suited. We are both from good families, well-educated, well-off individuals.”
“You are a snob and a half.” I make a disgusted face. “I see now that even Shanzay is way too good for you, so how you could even consider me to be in your league proves just how little your brain really is.”
I say this with as much derision and contempt and cruelty as I can, which is a great deal. His eyes flash with anger.
“Now drive me home,” I snap, “and I won’t mention your egregious behavior to Papa. But if you insist on being a total dickhead, I’ll tell Papa a number of things, and he will surely ruin your life.”
I’m not sure how true this threat really is, but it is enough to have Emad take the car out of park and begin driving me home in absolute silence. People always assume rich people can do anything if they set their minds to it, so I’m sure with ample incentive, Papa really could ruin Emad’s life.
Though he would never do such a thing to his sister’s son. God, this will be a mess with Mahum Phuppo later. But for now, all I think about is getting out of this car and to the safety of home.
We make it to my neighborhood shortly, and Emad stops at the end of the street.
He cannot be serious. I fix him with a glare, waiting for him to drop me off in my driveway, all the way down the street, but he avoids my gaze, staring out the window, where snow is falling even heavier than before.
How rude! Men and their pettiness know no bounds.
This only serves to confirm the fact I already know: he doesn't love me, despite his declaration. If he truly loved me, he would never behave in such a manner.
No, he simply loved the idea of me, as so many others did. He did not see me, not really. All he saw was what I could offer him.
I don’t even care. I get out of the car and slam the door. His car pulls away with record speed. I cannot believe he actually left me here, at the end of the street, at night, while it is snowing! In my heels and cashmere cape! (The cape really is cozy, but my shoes will be utterly ruined! And I love this pair.)
As I trudge through the snow, I walk past the Sheikhs’s. I have half a mind to go up and yell at Asif for not giving me a ride back, but think better of it.
I just want to go home and sleep, and that is exactly what I do.
* * *
The next morning, I am in my pajamas, making myself coffee, when Fawad arrives.
“It’s me,” he calls from the foyer. He’s let himself in with the keycode. “I knocked but I don’t think you heard, so I let myself in.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. One sec!” I call back, grabbing a scarf. “Okay, you can come now.”
I pour foamed milk into my latte, then turn to say salaam to him. He gives me a look, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, and my stomach drops.
Oh, he is going to scold me. He must have heard about the Emad debacle from Asif.
Damn Naadia. I texted her the rundown of events last night, to which she sent a slew of laughing emojis, and I replied with copious knife emojis. I want to yell at them both.
Actually I don't care about Asif knowing, but I know Fawad is going to be patronizing about it.
“I only know because I asked Asif why on earth you were walking home last night in the snow and he told me,” Fawad prefaces, coming round the counter to face me.
I pout, putting my coffee down. He is angry. He has that scrunched look on his severe face, his lips flat in a frown.
A lecture is forthcoming. I know he will say I deserve this for all my meddling, and he will be right, which is worse.
“I know it’s a mess,” I start, “but will you at least hear my piece before you start scolding?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Well I’m going to say it anyway.” I throw my hands up. “I didn’t know he liked me!”
“You pride yourself on how well you perceive people, yet you scarcely see things!” he says, tone condescending and cruel. I frown.
“Why are you yelling at me?” I whine. “I didn’t even do anything!”
I abandon my coffee and exit to the family room, which is much brighter and open. Outside the windows, the backyard is covered in a blanket of white snow. I want to dive in and hide away, but there’s no hiding from Fawad as he follows me, long legs stalking purposefully.
“Humaira,” he says, voice exasperated. “You have no idea just how many boys are obsessed with you! And you callously make fools of them all!”
“What do you care, anyways?” I snap, whirling around. He’s right behind me and the motion puts me eye-level with his throat. I lift my chin to glare at him. “Don’t tell me you are one of those fools.”
Emotion floods his eyes – anger, and something else. He stares down at me, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. My heart ricochets against my chest, erratic and unsure.
“No.” He sets his jaw. “I thank God every day that I am not.”
He steps closer, but I do not back down. We are hardly a few inches away now. If I took a deep inhale, we might be touching. A chaotic little voice dares me to do it.
I hold my breath. Even so, I can feel the heat of his skin seeping in the thin gap of space between us. I want to lean into it.
His gaze flicks to my mouth, so quick I think I have imagined it – then with a final glance, he exits the room.
The instant he does, cold air washes over me. I shiver.
He slams the front door shut, and I hear his groan of frustration just outside it.
I grab a cushion and bury my face in it, letting out a scream of my own.
I do not want to break boys’ hearts. I do not pride myself on causing others pain! Why did he have to be so stern?
But the anger dissipates quickly, bubbles full of air popping, and I collapse backward onto the sofa.
With a great sigh, I go to the kitchen to get my coffee and phone, where I see I’ve received a text from Naadia.
sorry about unleashing fawad on you
am making lasagna and will bring some over when done
you owe me brownies and a movie. i get to choose.
done
I am not angry with her, really, nor am I angry with Fawad. I am just sad.
I was wrong, and I hurt Emad, and I’ll hurt Shanzay, and I was wrong. I only wanted to help, to be useful and good, to make others happy, and I’ve made a royal mess of things, just as Fawad said I would.
I hate that everything funnels down to this: sadness.
I get up and go to the kitchen. I take out lemons and a zester and a double boiler. I make lemon curd, and after twenty minutes of whisking, I feel calmer. I stare out the windows at the all white, how fresh and clean it is. Another ten minutes, and I am almost right as rain once more.
The lemon curd is just setting in the fridge when Papa arrives home. He sees the kitchen in the aftermath of baking.
“What did you make?” he asks, looking around in search of a treat.
“Lemon streusel bars,” I reply, as he opens the fridge and spots the lemon curd. “But?—”
The curd is a little tart and the streusel mix will balance it, I am about to say, but he dips a finger in to taste before I can.
He makes a face, lips puckered. “It’s so sour!” he exclaims.
Something in me snaps.
“Sometimes things don’t come out perfect!” I say, raising my voice. Papa is startled. He blinks, then clears his throat.
“One time, when I was in college,” he says, beginning a story, “I was trying to make…”
Usually, I love to listen to his stories, but today, even Papa can’t make me smile – that’s when I know I’m in a really wretched mood. I zone him out until he is done, then muster up a polite smile, but it is of course not what he is used to: Naadia and I making commentary and oohing and aahing at the appropriate moments.
“Do you miss Naadia, is that it?” he asks. I always miss Naadia.
I always miss someone or something.
“No, that isn’t it,” I reply quietly, blinking rapidly at the tears that well in my eyes.
“I knew she should not have gone so soon,” he says, starting up again. He isn’t looking at me. “I told her to stay here – she has no need to stay at the Sheikhs’s when she has her own perfectly good room here – but does she listen to me? No!”
“Papa.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She is coming here in a little while.” But my voice is a whisper, I am so exhausted, and he does not hear.
“You won’t leave me, will you?” he asks, focus shifting back to me. I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose again and instead settle for a prolonged blink. Sometimes, it feels as though he is the child and I am the parent.
“No, I won’t,” I say, smiling enthusiastically. I love him to pieces but he drives me absolutely mad sometimes.
I just want to be alone.
But after Papa has gone back to his office, and I am alone, I do not feel at peace. I wish there was a way to be away from myself, to truly be alone , but I take my bleeding heart with me wherever I go.