Chapter 6 #2
My mind immediately flashes to Aashiq, and I have to shake my head to clear the images.
Okay, sure, my mind has conjured up an objectively attractive man to be the personification of my writing muse, with his blue-green eyes and the hot slit in his brow and his soft cheekbones.
But it’s absolutely ridiculous of me to think of him as cute, because he’s technically not even real.
“I’m trying,” I say instead. “But in case you haven’t noticed, the pool of available Pakistani guys in New York who aren’t either married already or complete f— eff boys is pretty small.”
“Don’t stress too much, Sajidah,” Abbu placates Ammi, patting her shoulder. “Ziya will find someone when God brings him to her.”
I nod, trying to keep the triumphant grin off my face when Abbu discreetly winks at me. I offer him a grateful nod and turn back to my own food.
Dinner passes quickly, and once we’re done and the leftovers are packed away and the chai has been brewed, we move to the living room.
Bubbles is still living her best life relaxing on the couch.
I go to the bathroom, and when I get back, I frown when I see my parents sitting on the floor, an old box between them. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Abbu had a great idea to go through the photo albums,” Ammi responds as she digs through the box.
She produces a large binder and places it in front of her.
She lovingly runs her fingers along the faded design.
“Thirty years is a long time,” she muses.
“And now our smallest baby has reached that milestone.”
I grab my cup of chai from the coffee table, then sit next to Abbu.
Ammi opens the book, and the first few photos are of me in the hospital, from my first day in the world.
I’m in a pink-and-blue-striped hat and wrapped in a white blanket, with one tiny fist freed.
Ammi keeps flipping, and it’s like a timeline of my life: from my infancy to toddlerdom to childhood.
When she flips to the next page, I frown when I spot a photo of me holding a stapled paper book.
I touch her hand before she can turn the page again, then point to the picture. “What’s that?”
“Hmm?” Ammi frees the photo from the book. “Oh, it’s the very first story you ever wrote!”
“Really?” I peer at it. The lettering is all over the place and it’s done in pencil crayon, but I can make out the title— The Lost Kite .
Abbu takes the photo and smiles fondly at it.
“You were eight years old. You drew all the pictures and wrote in your very best writing and then had me staple it all together so it looked like a book.” He holds the photo out to me.
“You were always telling stories, but this was the first one you ever wrote down.”
I take it from his hand, then stare down at it. I have no memory of this book; I began writing when I was little, but I assumed my first real story was the one I wrote for the library contest. But I guess I was writing way before then.
“Oh, wait a second.” Abbu gets up from the floor and disappears up the stairs. A few minutes later, he returns, an old yellow file folder in his hands. He opens the flap, reaches inside, and then pulls something out. “I still have it.”
“You what?” I sputter, but I watch as Abbu frees a very old, very faded booklet and holds it out to me.
I choke out a noise of disbelief as I accept it.
I move through the pages, and it’s a very basic story about a lost kite trying to find its way back home to its owner.
I shake my head, then stare back up at Abbu.
“Why did you hold on to this for so many years?”
“It was your very first book,” Abbu states plainly. “You were so proud of it. How could I get rid of it?”
I return my attention to the pages. Despite the drawings being my very best, they were pretty bad; my area of expertise was always the words.
But it’s not the poorly made kites or the lollipop trees that draws my attention; it’s the human protagonist of the story.
Her name is Sally Miller, and I drew her with long blond hair and blue eyes.
I didn’t color in her skin, but the fact that I left it blank gives me the impression that Sally is supposed to be white.
My very first book, my childhood achievement, the thing my parents kept for over twenty years, and it was about someone who didn’t look like me. Someone I’d never be.
It’s as I stare down at this book that a tiny inkling tugs at the back of my head.
Maybe…maybe Aashiq is right. Can I truly give up on writing, even when it seems like every door is shut in my face?
Can I give up on the eight-year-old girl who had no idea she could write about people who looked like her?
I turn back to the photo of me, and my fingers skim along my face.
My mind swirls with so many complicated thoughts, so I set aside the photo and keep going through the others, but even as I do, I can’t stop thinking of the proud expression plastered on my young face as I posed with that paper book.