Ayesha At Last(10)

Ayesha’s mouth twitched, but she kept a straight face. “Thank you. I promise I will think seriously about your offer.”

In truth, the only thing Ayesha envied her cousin was her massive bedroom suite. Hafsa had a separate seating area, with a large bay window and cozy reading nook. Her walk-in closet was the size of Ayesha’s bedroom, and best of all, one entire wall contained a built-in bookcase filled with books that her cousin, never a great reader, kept for decoration. The room was painted a screaming hot pink, Hafsa’s favourite colour.

Hafsa was in her room, sprawled on the reclining leather sofa in front of a sixty-five-inch flat screen TV so thin it resembled a painting. Two boxes of pizza and chicken wings and a bowl of halal gummy bears were in front of her.

“Apa!” Hafsa squealed. Apa meant “big sister” in Urdu, an honorary title. “What took you so long?”

“I was talking to your mom.”

“They didn’t tell you about my proposals, did they?” Hafsa’s mouth pursed in a pout. “I wanted to tell you first. Here, check out the pictures. They’re hilarious.”

Her cousin was wearing yoga pants and a furry pink hoodie that exposed her flat stomach when she reached for her cell phone. Samira Aunty was not idly boasting—her twenty-year-old daughter was lovely. With large eyes framed by dark lashes, the high cheekbones of a Hollywood starlet and a sweet smile, Hafsa was easily the most beautiful girl in the neighbourhood. She was always laughing and joking, the incandescent centre of every social gathering. In contrast, Ayesha was the calm, steady, responsible cousin. The boring one, she thought wryly.

Hafsa passed Ayesha her cell phone, to examine the pictures of her suitors. “I missed you so much!”

“It’s only been a week. I saw you on Monday when you told me your news. Haven’t you been busy with school?”

“I’m not really sure interior design is the right fit for me,” Hafsa said. “I told Abba that I’m super interested in event planning. I could start by planning my wedding and then launch my business.”

Ayesha reached for a slice of pepperoni and pineapple pizza and a handful of honey-garlic chicken wings. “So you’ve already picked one of the five proposals?” she asked, scrolling through the pictures.

Traditional arranged marriages were a bit like horse trading, Ayesha had always thought. Photographs and marriage resumés detailing age, height, weight, skin colour, job title and salary were sent to the families of prospective brides and grooms before the first visit was even arranged, a sort of vetting process for both parties. Details about family were often sent through a trusted intermediary, usually a mutual friend and sometimes a semi-professional matchmaking aunty.

Hafsa looked over Ayesha’s shoulder, supplying details—this one was a doctor, that one lived in India and was obviously looking for a visa-bride. This one had a pushy mother.

“All rejects. I’m not going to pick a husband until I get a hundred proposals.”

Ayesha laughed. “Why not hold out for a thousand?”

Hafsa squinted at her cousin. “I don’t want to be unreasonable. If I’m going to be a kick-ass wedding planner, I need to start now, when I’m young.”

“Yes, launching a business is a great reason to get married,” Ayesha said.

“You know what would be even better?” Hafsa said, ignoring her cousin’s sarcasm. “A storybook romance. Every business needs a good origin story. If I met someone who swept me off my feet, imagine how great that would play for my clients. I could call my company ‘Happily Ever After Event Planning.’”

“Or you could just start a company without the wedding.”

“Don’t be silly, Ashi Apa,” Hafsa said. “I don’t want to turn into one of those women who never gets married. No offence.”

None taken, Ayesha thought as she took another slice of pizza. She pressed Play on a nineties Bollywood classic, Pardes, and the girls settled in to watch the movie together.

It was after midnight when the movie finished, and Hafsa was fast asleep on the couch, curled up under a pink cashmere throw. Ayesha gathered the half-empty pizza box and empty wings container, turned off the TV and closed the bedroom door.

The light was on in the dining room when she crept downstairs, her uncle Sulaiman at the large table with stacks of paper in front of him.

“Ayesha.” He smiled, standing up to embrace her. “I didn’t know you were here.”

Her uncle resembled a kindly shopkeeper rather than the family saviour. He was a portly man a few inches taller than his niece and dressed even at this late hour in a white-collared shirt and dress pants, though he had removed his jacket and tie.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.” He motioned to the chair. “I am so proud of your hard work and choice of profession. We were a little concerned when you started performing those poems, but I told Saleha you would settle down. Teaching is a good job for a woman.”

“Thank you, Mamu,” she said. “I’m going to start paying you back for my tuition as soon as I get my first paycheque.”

Sulaiman Mamu waved his hand magnanimously. “I am worried about Hafsa. She told me she wants to be an event planner now, but I am afraid this is another phase, like all the others.”

“Hafsa has many interests,” Ayesha said diplomatically. So far Hafsa had tried her hand at cosmetology, landscape design and culinary school, and she had yet to complete any of the programs she’d started.