Ayesha At Last(102)

Rob stared at it, then at Khalid, eyes lingering on his thick beard. He shook his head slowly. “Clara’s crazy, but I can’t imagine my life without her, and I guess this is what she wants.” He sat up, and in a formal voice said, “I accept Clara Taylor’s offer of marriage.”

Khalid smiled. “An excellent decision. Let’s discuss dowry.”

AYESHA read the text message and whooped loudly.

“What does it say?” Clara asked, looking up from her prone position on the floor.

“Mubarak,” Ayesha said, congratulating her friend. “You’re engaged. Khalid said Rob agreed to a dowry too.”

Clara sat up, dazed. “I don’t need a dowry.”

“He offered to pay for a honeymoon in Hawaii.”

Clara beamed. “Did I tell you how much I like Khalid?”

Ayesha thought about the Taj Mahal, and Shah Jahan’s love for his wife Mumtaz Mahal. Then she thought about her father, who had sacrificed his family for his ideals, and Khalid, her future husband, who had rediscovered his ideals when he fell in love.

“Nana would quote Shakespeare or maybe Rumi,” Clara said. “‘All’s well that ends well.’”

Ayesha shook her head. Sometimes there were no words, only sunshine on your heart. Alhamdulilah.





Acknowledgements

Bismillah.

Bringing a book into the world is the work of many hands, and I have a list of people to thank.

Thank you to my wonderful agent, Ann Collette, for joining the Muslim open call, for picking me out of the slush pile and for believing in my Muslim romantic comedy.

Many thanks to the team at HarperCollins Canada and especially my editor, Jennifer Lambert. You are always right, and so gracious when I am wrong. Thank you for sending me the world’s greatest email.

Every writer needs a village, and my village would not be complete without my #SistersOf ThePen:

Sajidah, my writing soul sister: You called me every day to check in (and make sure I was on task). You read my drafts and mentored me through every step. I am in awe of your talent and so thankful to have you in my life.

Ausma, meeting you was written in the stars. You read my first draft overnight and wrote me the kind of critique letter every writer dreams about. Your talent is matched only by your generous heart.

Rukhsana, for wise counsel, blunt honesty and your beautiful books. Khalid jumped, fully formed, into my imagination during a shared meal with you years ago. Thank you.

My first readers: Tricia, Aminah, Nina. This book is better because of your input.

I am grateful to my parents, Mohammed and Azmat. I won the genetic lottery when I was born to the kindest, strongest and best people I know. Thanks also to my mother-in-law, Fouzia, for the hint about leaving space for the perfect paratha, and for your compassion. For my brother, Atif: Your impish sense of humour is surpassed only by your bravery. To the rest of my large, wonderful Indian family: I love you all. Thank you for putting up with me.

To my sons, Mustafa and Ibrahim, whose disinterest in my writing career has always kept me grounded: You are my favourite people in the world.

Thank you to the Toronto Muslim community. I grew up attending study circles, conferences, lectures, picnics, fundraising dinners and sleepovers at mosques around the city. Through them, I found myself.

Many thanks to Mary Vallis, Amber Shortt, Kate Robertson. Writing my column “Samosas and Maple Syrup” for the Toronto Star helped me realize I was a writer.

And finally, to my husband, Imtiaz: You are the sunshine on my heart. Thank you for dreaming with me.