Chapter 15
It’s already been a while since my birthday, but because my family have all been so busy, we decided to celebrate my thirtieth birthday party a few weeks late. My parents offered to host, thankfully—I couldn’t have much of a party in my tiny apartment.
When I wake up, I stretch all my limbs. Aashiq lets me sleep in on the weekends because I get up so early on the weekdays to go on our runs, and thankfully my muscles have finally gotten used to the exercise, so I don’t feel like my legs are made of lead.
I scroll through Instagram for a bit, then finally pull myself out of bed to start the day.
My parents decided the party should start at one o’clock so we can have maximum family time.
With Tasneem Baji and her family settled in Manhattan, Imran Bhai and his family’s recent relocation to the Bronx, and me in Brooklyn, it’s hard for all of us to gather more than a few times a year.
So whenever we do, we make it an all-day excursion.
I step out into the hallway and instinctively, my feet head for the living room, where I expect to see Aashiq.
One of our non-writing activities has been knitting, but he’s not very good at it, so he often sits on the couch and practices while he waits for me to get out of bed.
On days when Emily has the night shift, he’ll spend the whole night in the living room knitting, and on days when she doesn’t, he’ll bring the knitting to work and practice during lunch.
He can’t quite get the hang of the purl stitch, though it’s entertaining to see the frustration on his face while he tries—the only knitting happening is the knitting of his brows as he scrunches them.
It’s funny; whenever I need help with writing, the answers come to him so quickly.
When it comes to knitting, though, it’s like his brain struggles to connect with his hands.
To my surprise, though, Aashiq isn’t on the couch.
I’m sure he’ll be back soon enough, but my stomach churns anyway.
I’ve grown so accustomed to having him with me that it’s strange when he’s not here.
It’s probably not a good thing I’ve become dependent on someone sprung from my own mind, but I can deal with that later.
Now I need to have some breakfast and work on my affirmations before getting ready for the party.
I whip up a breakfast of scrambled eggs, halal chicken strips, and toast. I take my time eating, chewing each bite carefully and mindfully.
When I’m done, I put the dishes in the dishwasher, and then sit back down at the table with a piece of paper and a pen laid out in front of me.
I stare at the blank white, and I swear a mocking tone floats from the page and into my ears.
Truly, why is it so hard to say something nice about myself?
I don’t even have to say it; I just have to write it down.
And it’s not like anyone’s going to see it.
Once Aashiq realized how difficult writing the affirmations was going to be for me, he swore the only person who’d ever lay eyes on them is me, unless I chose to share them with him.
I guess that means I technically don’t have to do it at all, but he asks me about it every now and then, and I can’t bring myself to lie to him.
That just brings more encouragement from him to try again, until I get irritated and tell him I will soon.
But then I don’t. And so continues a cycle I can’t seem to break.
I have to try, though, because I don’t like disappointing Aashiq. Having him around has certainly helped me remain accountable to someone, but man, is it ever annoying. I huff but pick up the pen. I tap the end against the table for a minute, then drop it again.
Maybe I just need a better idea of what a positive affirmation is . I pick up my phone and tap the words into Google. I immediately receive a slew of phrases in a list, so I scroll through the first few.
I am more than my job.
I don’t know how accurate that one is; I attach so much of my self-worth not only to my writing, but also my work at the office.
Writing I can mess up; the trajectory of someone’s case law I can’t.
That has repercussions for more than just me, and I’m not even the person who has to deal with it all directly.
But as the messenger and organizer, if I mess up one thing, even something that seems trivial, it could blow up a whole case.
I am, decidedly, not more than my job. I scrunch my nose and move on to the next affirmation on the list.
Every day is a gift to myself.
Except every day kind of feels the same as the one that came before.
At least, until Aashiq showed up in my kitchen drinking chocolate syrup.
But even then, life is pretty much the same—working at the firm and chipping away at my writing—only now I have a cheerleader who follows me around and makes sure I eat three proper meals a day and encourages me to get some sunlight.
Aashiq said once that he sees each day as a gift.
I didn’t get it then, and I still don’t now.
I bite the inside of my cheek and move on to another affirmation.
I feel at peace.
Do I, though? Do I really feel at peace?
What even is peace? Is it contentment in your work?
Fulfillment from your family? Happiness in your social life?
Because I’m not doing great in any of those fields.
I’m drowning in work, I see my whole family a handful of times throughout the whole year, and I cannot remember the last time I went on a date or hung out with friends who aren’t Emily, who doesn’t even count because I live with her.
My coworkers don’t count, either, because I only see them at outings sponsored by the company.
I start scrolling again. Questioning if I’m at peace or not feels way too existential crisis–like when I’m just trying to get back to writing about people who want to kiss each other.
I go through the whole list, desperation filling my lungs, but they’re all items I can’t relate to.
Maybe this is another reason I didn’t want to write any positive affirmations for myself—there aren’t enough I find myself feeling, and that in turn worries me, because what if it means I’m not living life correctly?
I know there’s no “right” way to live, but there are so many wrong ways, and if I truly feel like I have no control or confidence in anything I do, does that mean I’m living my life the wrong way?
Worry continues to build in my chest like Jenga blocks, but when I reach the final item on the list, the stacking stops.
My hard work will pay off.
Huh. I mull this sentence over in my head a few times, and of all the positive affirmations I’ve come across, this one feels the least discomforting.
Maybe because I might actually be able to believe it.
I’ve always been told to put hard work into everything I do because it’ll accumulate into something wonderful in the end.
And all this stuff I’ve been doing with Aashiq—writing exercises, actual exercises, refilling my creative well by indulging in other activities—what is that if not hard work?
And because I’m working toward a goal, maybe that means this will all pay off.
I pick up my pen again, then write My hard work will pay off at the top. “There!” I say, grinning. “I finally have one!”
…except that’s just one , and one item isn’t exactly a list.
Whatever. It’s a good place to start, and after weeks of trying, at least it’s evidence of progress.
I’m folding the list so I can put it away in my desk and come back to it later when I hear the front door opening.
I lift my head in time to see Aashiq walking in.
A couple of shopping bags dangle from his wrists, though I have no idea what he could have bought, because I didn’t send him out for anything.
Considering the one and only time I sent him to the grocery store with an actual list he came back with a houseplant, a cat’s collar, and a plunger, there could be anything in those bags.
He scrunches his face as he closes the door behind him. “I’m not fond of the cold,” he decrees.
I fold the paper the rest of the way and tuck it into my sweater pocket. “Then it’s unfortunate you showed up so close to winter. And this isn’t even the worst it’ll get.”
A shudder racks through his body in response, and I have to swallow back my laughter.
He pulls his hat off, and the tips of his ears are bright red. He shakes his head, as if that could brush off the cold, then removes his shoes and stumbles over to me. “It’s never cold where I am,” he explains. “It’s such a strange feeling, like everything is going numb.”
I furrow my brows. “Maybe we should go over appropriate winter attire, then, because that’s not supposed to happen.” My gaze drops to the bags hanging from his wrists. “What’d you get?”
Aashiq’s eyes brighten. “Oh!” He digs in, and to my surprise, he pulls out a bouquet of white lilies. “Aren’t they pretty?”
“Very,” I acknowledge. “But why did you buy them?”
“They’re for your mother,” he responds. He sets the bouquet down on the table. “I can’t exactly show up to your house for the first time empty-handed.”
“They’re for who, now?” My stomach drops. “You can’t come to my house.”
He pauses. “But it’s your birthday party today.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re coming with me,” I say, but I immediately regret it because of the way his shoulders deflate and disappointment flashes in his eyes.
“Aww, I have to stay home?” he pouts.
Guilt floods my stomach, but I still can’t bring him.
In Pakistani culture, you don’t really bring partners around to meet your family unless you’re engaged to them or planning to become engaged to them.
I’m sure not all Pakistani families are like that, but mine is.
I didn’t even meet Tasneem Baji’s husband for the first time until their Baat Pakki, which was their formal engagement.
I guess I could lie and say Aashiq and I have been dating for a while, but I told my parents on my birthday that I wasn’t seeing anybody.
Not only that, but I can’t exactly marry Aashiq, so I can’t even introduce him as “This is my serious boyfriend who I’m expecting a proposal from any day now.
No, I don’t know why he doesn’t have an ID. ”
But how do you explain to the physical manifestation of your writing muse that you can’t bring him to your birthday party because your parents aren’t used to being introduced to boyfriends?
Still, the woe lining Aashiq’s face is enough to wear me down. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll ask, but don’t be disappointed if my mom says you can’t come.”
Aashiq nods eagerly. I grit my teeth, but I pick up my phone and click Ammi’s name. I raise the phone to my ear as it rings.
“Assalam-o-alaikum,” she greets.
“Walaykum salam,” I reply. “How are the party preparations coming along?”
“Very well,” she says. “Food’s almost all ready, and Abbu has even decorated the place.”
I frown. “All this work for a party of a few people?”
“Well, it is your thirtieth birthday, after all,” she answers. “We thought it’d be fun. Are you sure Emily and Daniel can’t make it?”
“They both have to work,” I say. “But Emily promised to visit with me some weekend soon to spend time with you guys.” My parents love having Emily around.
They were very grateful to her for taking care of me when I moved out, and because Emily’s own parents live in Malaysia and she rarely has time to visit them, my parents took her in as one of their own.
I peek up at Aashiq, who stares back at me expectantly. I inhale deeply through my nose. “Actually, Ammi, I’m calling because I was wondering if I could bring someone else.”
She immediately perks up. “Hein? Who?” A tiny gasp huffs into the receiver. “Are you bringing a man ?”
I grit my teeth but glance at Aashiq again.
“I guess…technically,” I allow. I shake my head even though she can’t see me.
“I started seeing someone recently, and well, he wants to come. I told him I’d ask, but I figured you wouldn’t want me bringing a man home to meet the family, right?
After all, we haven’t been dating long—”
“Of course you can bring him!” Ammi cuts me off. The enthusiasm radiating off her voice is almost embarrassing, at least for me. “It’d be very nice!”
“But…” I try weakly. “Girls don’t bring home boyfriends in our culture.”
“They do when they’re already thirty years old.
You’re not getting any younger, and if you’ve finally snatched up a man, we need to seal the deal,” she says sternly.
It’s kind of scary how calm and even her voice is.
It quickly switches up, though, when she adds, “You need to be here by one, so you should start getting ready now. See you soon, beta!” And then she hangs up.
I can only stare blankly at the phone for a hot second before slowly lifting my gaze to Aashiq, who has just heard how desperate my mother is to see her last child married.
His shoulders are tense, like he’s trying to hold in laughter.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Have something to say? Because I can disinvite you very quickly.”
“No, no.” He quickly schools his features. A wide grin stretches on his cheeks. “Let’s get ready for this party!”