A Girl Like That(75)
And, on seeing Zarin’s uncle, I’d known he was right. Shadows lurked in each corner of the dimly lit room, trapezoids on the floor from cardboard boxes in various stages of packing. A hard nudge to my side had me turning to face Layla and someone else—a woman wearing red and gold bangles and a flowered nightgown. From the dazed look in her eyes, I guessed that she might have wandered into the room by accident.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was Zarin’s aunt. The woman’s face was longer and bonier, but they shared the same nose and mouth, the same petite frame. It was like seeing Zarin again through a slightly distorted lens. She squinted at the both of us from behind gold round-framed glasses and tilted her head to the side.
“Zarin’s friends?” she asked, and for a second I thought Zarin herself was speaking to us, with that cool, mocking lilt to her voice.
“No,” Layla replied, her voice strained with politeness. “We’re her classmates. Here for the sale.”
Mrs. Wadia muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like “Scavengers,” and looked up at the ceiling. “That would be a first,” she said, addressing the ceiling. “For her to have had girls for friends. Right, Dina?”
Dina? Layla mouthed, but I shook my head. The silence that filled our responses was nearly as thick as the scent of the food from the kitchen.
As if sensing our presence in her living room again, she turned back to us. “Where are my manners? You must be hungry.”
“No, Mrs. Wadia, we’re—”
“Stay right there.”
When she disappeared into the kitchen again, Layla stood up. “I’ve had enough, Mishal. Let’s go. It’s taking too long and this is too weird. You can get a lamp from anywhere else.”
Years later, I wished that I’d moved faster. That I’d stood up then and there and left the apartment without a backward glance. As it was, I remained indecisive, creeped-out the way Layla was, but perversely, undeniably fascinated the way most people were while watching another person unravel. I was thinking of a way to convince Layla to stay when Zarin’s aunt returned, holding two plates filled with rice and the orange-yellow dal we’d been smelling ever since we’d entered the apartment.
She eyed Layla, who sat back down, her face flushing, and then handed one plate to each of us. There were no spoons or forks, but neither Layla nor I asked for any.
Mrs. Wadia’s hands rose and quavered in the air. “On the fourth day after death, tradition requires that I cook dhansak. With three different types of lentils, mutton, pumpkin puree, and brown rice. Why are you looking at me like that, girls? Eat. Eat.”
Layla did not touch her plate. But when Mrs. Wadia focused her gaze on me, I hastily dipped three fingers into the mound of rice and took a small bite. The soft, gravy-laden morsel, delicious as it was, stuck to the inside of my throat like phlegm.
“‘Chew, child,’ they told me when my grandfather died,” Mrs. Wadia said, her voice growing soft, reminiscent. “‘It will not do if you forget to eat.’ But tell me, girls. Can you eat when the only person you loved had passed away and left you to live this life with the older sister you hated?”
Layla shifted next to me, her discomfort palpable even though we weren’t touching.
“Girls, you are in luck, I…” Zarin’s uncle appeared in the living room, his voice trailing off when he saw his wife perched on the sofa arm, the barely touched plates of dhansak on our laps.
“Khorshed.” His fingers tightened around the base of the small lamp he was holding. “What are you doing, dear?”
“They must eat.” Her laughter crept up my back, made the fine hairs on my neck rise. “There is too much of it. Who else will eat this food?”
Layla and I put aside the plates and rose as one. “I think we should go. We’re very sorry,” I said. I could feel Layla glaring at me, and I knew she was angry with me for bringing her here, for making her stay. I didn’t blame her. I was angry with myself.
Mr. Wadia thrust the lamp he was holding in my direction. It wasn’t even in a box. “Here. For you. Have it as a gift.”
For free. I swallowed hard even though there was nothing in my mouth and for a moment, I didn’t even want to take it, as pretty as it was with the crystal glass shade and thin gold base.
But my hands made the decision for me, reaching out, curving around the cool fixture. “Thank you,” I managed to say.
“Good day, girls,” Zarin’s uncle told us, but I barely heard him.
“Dhansak was her favorite!” Mrs. Wadia cried out. “Her favorite! So why is she not here, Rusi? Why does she not come back?”
*
“I can’t believe you didn’t take me with you!” Alisha whined when she found out about the lamp. “I wanted to come as well!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to sound sorry about it even though I wasn’t. “I … forgot.”
The old Mishal would have made up a lie and then added more to get the other girl off her back. She would have talked about the apartment and pretended that she’d actually stepped into Zarin’s old room. She would have made fun of Zarin’s unhinged aunt, her helpless uncle. She would have inserted a punch line about the dhansak. A good funeral dinner, she would have called it.