Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
T ime passes into spring.
The snow recedes, the ice thaws, and things grow pleasant once more. Naadia gets matched for her residency, and it is in New York after all, and all that fuss was for nothing. We are all relieved, even her, I think.
“I just wanted to have options,” she tells me on FaceTime one day. “So I can choose this, so I can choose you all. It makes me feel like things are in my control.”
I can understand that.
Ramadan comes and goes. It’s our first Ramadan without Phuppo and her daily pakoras, which is a sad sight indeed, but we text each other our daily iftar spreads in our group chat and send each other food videos on Instagram. (We also, of course, do spiritual things, like check in with how much Quran we’ve read, or exchange dua lists.)
On the second day of Eid, Rizwan returns for another visit. It’s the beginning of April, and while the weather is still chilly, the days are longer and the sun is gracing us more and more often with her presence. The birds have returned and the sound of their singing fills me with hope.
Phuppo and Rizwan stop by for chai, and she expressly tells me not to go overboard, so I only make shami kebabs, egg-salad sandwiches, chicken bread, spiced bundt cake, and raspberry jam thumbprint cookies with the chai and spread it out on the Tiffany and Co. tea set, which is decorated with delicate illustrations of birds, butterflies, and flowers.
“Yes, I can see you did very little,” Phuppo laughs, when she sees the spread.
“Only the best for you, dear Phuppo,” I respond, hugging her side. She kisses my cheek, holding me closer.
Papa seems to be confused as to why Phuppo has brought Rizwan along, particularly when Rizwan keeps trying to talk to me.
Papa has unfortunately noticed Rizwan’s interest in me and does not like it one bit.
“Do you find such a haircut makes you appealing?” Papa asks. Rizwan laughs, running a hand through his long hair.
“Yes, I rather do,” he says. “We’ll have to ask Humaira to confirm, however.”
My heart just about stops. He cannot flirt with me in front of my father! Papa is sorely unimpressed.
“Papa, this is how young men style their hair these days,” I tell him. Papa rolls his eyes.
“Do not try so hard to be a CD,” Papa tells Rizwan. I groan.
“Papa,” I whine.
“CD?” Rizwan repeats.
“Cool dude,” Phuppo translates. We exchange a long-suffering glance.
“Ah,” he replies, as if this is a normal thing. I shake my head at Papa.
“Why are you in the US again?” Papa asks.
“I am working with Shani—Zeeshan Chacha on business,” Rizwan replies easily.
“What business?” Papa asks, launching into a full-fledged interrogation. I smile at Rizwan, heading to the kitchen to check on the chai, which is nearly done.
After it is poured and served, I come back to the kitchen, busying myself with this and that. I rearrange the oranges in the fruit bowl, throwing away one that looks to be getting old. I cannot trust Rizwan not to say anything else untoward in front of Papa, who is especially sensitive in such matters.
“Can I have some water please?” Rizwan asks, coming up behind me. I startle, upending the fruit bowl in my hands. Oranges scatter across the floor, bouncing and rolling out of place.
I drop to pick them up, and he does as well.
“Let me help you with that,” he says. I avoid looking at him, nervous.
His fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt through me.
What is he thinking?! Phuppo and Papa are right there, sipping chai!
Clearing my throat, I stand. He sets the bowl of oranges on the table, then notices the trash bag is full.
“I’m gonna go take this out,” he says, oh so casually, but with a glance towards me that says I should follow.
His eyes are full of mischief. My neck heats. I am filled with exclamations and question marks. What on earth is going on?
Without looking at me again, he walks away, heading out. I wait a few seconds, make sure Papa isn’t looking, then head in the direction he’s gone.
I don’t need to make an excuse – I know Papa wouldn’t suspect me of anything. It is my house, anyway. I could be doing anything.
Halfway there, when I’m out of sight, I freeze, my whole body tingling. Bad idea , I decide.
Swearing under my breath, I head back to the living room, picking up the discarded tea time snacks. I bring the tray to the kitchen, shuffling the items, trying not to think of him waiting for me. I feel lightheaded. Too hot.
I open the fridge and take a deep breath of cold air. I press my cold fingers against my hot cheeks.
Wordlessly, he comes up behind me. My heart is beating so fast I can’t hear anything else. We don’t touch, but he stands so close to me, I can feel him; if I shift back even an inch, I’ll be leaning against his chest.
What are you doing ? I want to scream. Papa! I can hear him chatting away in the room adjacent to the kitchen, from where they have a clear view of us. But we’re shielded by the kitchen door, so they can’t see a thing as he reaches over my shoulder, forearm brushing against my cheek, and grabs a piece of chocolate from the top fridge.
I freeze, not trusting myself to breathe, my entire body tingling as his skin brushes against mine. It’s too, too hot. I feel dizzy.
Finally, he steps back, but I still feel faint, and not in an entirely good way. I do not, of course, but the sentiment is enough to put me on edge until they’ve left.
After he’s gone, I think about him, in the manner of someone who wishes to understand.
Do I love him? Could I? Physical attraction with a handsome man is easy enough, but I want something deeper – something bone-deep. I do not simply want my heart racing from physical contact, but from riveting conversation, from just being in his presence, feeling his gaze on me.
I didn’t really feel that excitement when we were sitting together, eating and drinking chai. I just felt … strange. But maybe it was supposed to be like that, at first? Was I overthinking it?
Rizwan was from a good family, handsome, accomplished, clever … so why did I feel no anguish at his leaving?
“That Rizwan character was interesting,” Papa says, later that evening, though “interesting” is surely meant in a derisive manner. “Can’t say I care much for Europeans, though. Something about their manners.”
I bite back a laugh. Papa says the most ludicrous things sometimes! Disliking Europeans, I mean, honestly? That is a blatant lie. Whenever we visit, he has an excellent time and no such complaints. Papa will really come up with anything.
It only gets worse. In the middle of the week, it’s my birthday. Shanzay bakes me cookies and is in a wonderful mood, which is excellent, for I believe she is truly on the mend, and we spend the morning at the coffee station of the office gossiping about which co-workers must be secretly hooking up.
Things go downhill when I receive a delivery.
“Humaira Mirza?” the delivery boy asks. I cannot see his face because he carries a massive vase of flowers in one arm and a box of chocolates with a teddy bear in the other.
Shanzay and I both squeal. Even Papa is pleased, thinking it was sent by a relative, but he scowls once he finds out it is from Rizwan. Thank god the note is simple:
Happy Birthday! – Rizwan :)
If it was not, Papa would be even more vexed.
“This is a workplace,” he grumbles. “Quite inappropriate. It must be because he’s European.”
“Hey, it’s my birthday,” I pout. “You cannot lecture me.”
Papa sighs, resigned. “Fine, let me call this Rizwan character and lecture him .”
“No,” I say sweetly, kissing his cheek. Mumbling to himself, Papa retreats to his office, leaving Shanzay and I to inspect the flowers. They are beautiful, an arrangement of reds and pinks and whites.
Perhaps it is a bit superfluous, and not what I would have truly wanted, but it is still sweet. I do so love to be spoiled. Maybe I was overthinking my feelings for Rizwan. He is a perfectly adequate suitor. (Right?)
Phuppo and Naadia take me out for afternoon tea, and we have the best time, especially when Phuppo gives me my gift. One part of it is a darling pair of Renee Caovilla heels I’ve been eyeing, and the second part of it is something soft wrapped in white tissue paper.
“What’s this?” I ask, intrigued. Phuppo beams at me, waiting.
“Hurry up! I want to see, too,” Naadia says, reaching to take it from my hands. I swat her away and undo the tissue to see it’s a cashmere scarf.
“How sweet!” I say, unfolding it. But then I see the end and gasp audibly enough for our waitress to give us an alarmed look. For embroidered across the bottom is one word: Aapi , the Urdu word for older sister.
Which can only mean…
“Ohmygod, you’re pregnant?!” I cry, before promptly bursting into a puddle of tears.
“What!” Naadia shrieks, grabbing the scarf from my hand. Phuppo nods, laughing and crying as well, as she hands Naadia her own matching scarf with the same embroidery, though hers says Aapa , another word for older sister.
“Phuppo, this is the very best gift in the world!” I blubber, getting up to crush her with a hug. Naadia joins me, and the three of us squeal and shake, bursting with joy.
“I cannot wait to have a little cousin,” I say. “Tell us everything . How many weeks are you? Do you know the gender yet? Oh, I need to go shopping!”
Phuppo tells us, and we have the best time. I’m still elated when I get home and share the news with Papa, who has already been informed via FaceTime from Phupoo. Papa is just as pleased as I am, and we are both positively buzzing with jubilation.
We spend an entire hour discussing all the fun we’ll have when the baby finally comes, until I catch sight of the clock and realize we need to be getting ready for dinner.
Papa is taking me out to a fancy dinner in the city, where Naadia and Phuppo will be joining us with their husbands. We don’t usually go crazy for birthdays with gifts or parties, just excellent food.
Papa goes up, but I linger downstairs, searching up stuffed animal toys on my phone. Then, before I go to get ready, I’m distracted by a knock on the front door. Papa is already in the shower, so I put on a scarf and go to answer the door.
It’s Fawad.
“Oh, hi!” I say, my heartbeat quickening. Fawad grins when he sees me, holding something in his hands.
“Happy birthday,” he says, coming in. I grin, too.
Birthdays really are so fun. I love to have the attention on me, just on me, and be loved and adored all day long. It does make a girl feel special. And there is nothing expected in return.
“Thank you, thank you,” I say, taking a few steps back to properly let him in.
Then, the smile fades from his face. Confused, I follow his eyes to where they have flicked over my shoulder: the flowers, teddy bear, and chocolates, sitting on the table.
He opens his mouth as if to ask who they are from, then thinks better of it. He crosses his hands behind his back, but I could have sworn he had something in his hands.
“What is that?” I ask, trying to peek. “A gift for me?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice strange. “Just some mail I picked up on my way out.”
It was wrapped in brown paper and twine, so it very well could be a package, but I do not know if I believe him.
“Won’t you open it?” I ask.
“No, I’ll open it later. It’s just ... socks.” With some difficulty, he gives me a nonchalant smile.
Hm, he is serious.
I want to see what it is, almost sure it is meant for me, but something in his eyes stops me. A pinched quality to them.
He does not look to be in the mood for games. He looks rather … distressed.
“Oh, okay,” I say. He puts the package on the front table, then follows me inside, where I offer to make him tea. He shakes his head.
“I just came to wish you happy birthday and give you your book back,” he says, handing me The Piper’s Son. I didn’t notice he was holding it before.
“Thank you.” I take it, holding it to my chest. I hate loaning people my books and always feel much better once they have securely made their way home in one piece. Casually, I inspect the book to check its condition, and Fawad laughs.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I haven’t harmed it. No dog-eared pages, no stains, no cracked spine.”
I let out a laugh. “I appreciate it.”
He stands a bit awkwardly, waiting a moment before asking, “Did you ... Did you read The Secret History, yet?”
Guilt needles through me.
“No, I haven’t,” I reply, tone apologetic. “I’m sorry.”
I haven’t gotten to it. It’s been sitting on my side-table, right there, but I just haven’t given it my attention.
“No, it’s okay, take your time,” he says, but disappointment flickers across his face, though he masks it so quickly I wonder if I saw it there at all. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Did you like it?” I ask, holding up The Piper’s Son .
“I did, yes.”
“Come, sit, and let’s discuss.” I love discussing favorite books, analyzing scenes and foreshadowing and symbols and moments. I head toward the living room, so we can sit, but his gaze goes to the flowers on the table again.
“No, I better get going,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, making it a little messy.
“Oh. Okay.” I bite my lip. “Well, tell me one thing at least.”
“What is it?”
“Did you cry?” I ask enthusiastically. “I always sob through most of it.”
“Isn’t it one of your favorite books?” he asks, bemused.
“Yes, and that’s precisely why,” I reply. “I’ll do anything to feel something.” My tone is light, and it's perhaps only partly a joke.
“It did make me cry,” he admits. “Which is rare.”
“I am glad it made you cry, as strange as that sounds,” I respond. If he didn’t cry, I might have had to reconsider our friendship. I circle back to what he said. “Is it rare for you to cry because of a book or in general?”
“Both.”
“Oh gosh. I’m always crying.” I pause. “Though that does not make it mean any less.” I feel it fully each time.
“Perhaps I am an emotionless person,” he says, tone cavalier, but it does not do well to mask the echoing emptiness beneath the statement. I frown.
“I don’t believe that,” I say truthfully. “I used to hate crying as well, especially after Mama died. It hurt so much, and it seemed to be all I could do. So for a while, I stopped. But then one day I cried out of happiness, and it changed from this horrible act, only occurring at life’s most terrible moments, to something beautiful. It was quite liberating.”
“What made you cry out of happiness?”
I consider this. “I’m not sure.” I really don’t remember what it was exactly. “I think it was an ordinary day, filled with ordinary things, like laughing with my sister, and spending time with Papa, and it was a day filled with happiness, after being sad for so long.”
I do not even realize what I am saying until it is said, and then it strikes me just how true the words are. Strange. I didn’t know that about myself. Sometimes other people can excavate things buried deep within us we did not even know existed: sentiments, emotions, thoughts.
I look at him as if I have not seen him before. There is a lock of hair curving across his forehead, resting just between his brows, and for some reason I find this quite devastating. I’m enthralled by the curve of it, its silky sheen. I get the impulse to reach out and touch it.
Instead, I fiddle with the end of my scarf.
“Anyways,” I say brightly, “since then, I haven’t really shied away from crying, though I still don’t cry in front of people, as a general rule.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “I’ve seen you cry.”
“That’s only because you’re always around,” I respond. “You don’t give me any time at all to put up my pretenses and pretty facades. I can never hide from you.”
I am struck by how true this is, too. A peculiar sensation spreads through me. I startle a bit but recover quickly.
“It’s very rude,” I add, trying to keep the conversation light-hearted. “What if I was an ugly crier? My reputation could be ruined by you witnessing such a sight.”
Fawad laughs. “You are an ugly crier.”
“I am not!” I smack his arm with the book. “How dare you!” But I’m laughing as well.
Then, something in the air changes. He stops laughing, but the amusement lingers in his half-lidded eyes, in the turn of his smile. His eyelashes flutter as he blinks, looking at me, as if he sees me, truly sees me.
At first, I look away, suddenly shy, but I want to have the courage to seize this moment, whatever it is. I stare back, matching his perceptive gaze.
A jolt of electricity shocks through me as our eyes meet. My breath catches.
“Humaira,” he says, voice low as he takes a step closer. A delicious shiver runs through me, urging me toward him.
His lips part, and there is something in his face that tells me whatever he says next will be momentous, will be life-changing, and just as he is about to speak?—
“ Humaira !” Papa calls.
The moment breaks.
I startle back, feeling unsteady.
“I have to go,” I blurt. I run up the stairs.