Ayesha At Last(11)

“I have a favour to ask of you. As you know, I am involved in the masjid,” he said, referring to the mosque.

Ayesha smiled. Her uncle was more than just involved. He had spearheaded the mosque building committee and donated generously over the years. Everyone knew he was the reason the Toronto Muslim Assembly could afford to keep the lights on and salaries paid.

Sulaiman Mamu continued. “The masjid is planning a weekend conference in the summer. Since Hafsa is so intent on pursuing event planning, I suggested they make use of her services. I know you are very busy with your new job, but . . .” Sulaiman hesitated. “You have always been so sensible, jaanu. We want to see Hafsa settled, but she thinks these proposals are a game. I worry that these boys might be more interested in my money than in her. I want my girl to be happy. I don’t want her head turned by some rascal, and I don’t want her to waste another chance to graduate with a diploma. Could you go to the planning meeting with her, help her take this seriously? It is time for Hafsa to grow up.”

Ayesha nodded. Her uncle needed her, and after everything he had done for her family, she could not possibly refuse this simple request.

“Leave it to me, Mamu. I’ll keep an eye on her and make sure she sees reason.”





Chapter Six

Virgin Shirley Temple, 9 pm. My treat. You deserve it after your first week of teaching. I’m so proud of you!

Clara’s text arrived late on Sunday afternoon, and Ayesha frowned as she read it. The only thing she was looking forward to tonight was an early bedtime. But loyalty ran deep in the Shamsi clan, and Clara deserved a best friend who could stay up past eight.

Clara was the first friend Ayesha had made when she’d immigrated to Canada. They’d both joined their school mid-year in grade five, both transfers from faraway places—Ayesha from India, Clara from Newfoundland. The girls had bonded over their newcomer status. When kids made fun of Ayesha’s Indian accent or Clara’s “Newfie” lilt, they had each other’s backs.

One time in health class during a lesson on menstruation, the triumvirate of Mean Girls kept giving Ayesha surreptitious looks. At recess Sara, Kimmie and Suzie surrounded Ayesha.

“Does your mom wear a Paki dot?” Sara asked her.

Ayesha had no idea what a “Paki dot” was, or why her Indian mother would wear one. Didn’t these girls know she was from another country entirely? She turned to walk away, but they followed.

“Ever wonder why Paki dots are red?” Kimmie asked Sara, handily blocking Ayesha’s path.

“No, why are Paki dots red?” Sara said, speaking loudly. A small crowd of students had gathered around them.

“Leave me alone,” Ayesha said quietly.

“Leeee-ve meee all-oowwwn,” Kimmie mocked in an exaggerated Indian accent. “Paki dots are red because Pakis use their own period blood to put them on.”

The three girls laughed out loud and the crowd gasped in shock. “Eeeew!” someone said. “Nasty.”

A tear slipped down Ayesha’s cheek, but she kept her head lowered. She would not give them the satisfaction.

Clara pushed through the crowd to stand beside Ayesha, fists balled at her sides. “You Angishore jinkers,” she snarled. Her Newfoundland accent became particularly pronounced when she was incensed. “Everyone knows you use your period blood for lipstick!”

Clara later told her she’d known her words made no sense—or at least, no more sense than the Mean Girls’ Paki dot comments. But Clara had used the girls’ momentary surprise to drag Ayesha out of the circle.

When they were safe, Ayesha thanked her. “But can I ask—what’s a Paki dot?”

The memory made Ayesha smile all these years later, and her hesitation vanished. I’ll see you at 9, she texted back.

Clara responded almost immediately. They have open mike tonight. In case you’re feeling poetic.

WHEN Ayesha arrived at Bella’s at eight forty-five, the place was buzzing, the dance floor covered by stage and sound equipment. Their usual spot had been taken over by a group of guys, so she claimed the table beside them. Settling in, she ordered a Shirley Temple for herself and a white wine for Clara. She took out her purple notebook and looked around for inspiration.

“Hey, beautiful.” A tall man holding a bottle of Heineken smiled seductively. “I’m Mo. I bet your parents don’t know you’re in a place like this, dressed like that.”

A veil-chaser. Ayesha could spot one a mile away.

Veil-chasers thought women in hijab were an exotic challenge. Like the pimply white guy who had asked Ayesha to prom every year in high school, and even offered to wear an “Indian outfit and turban” if she acquiesced. Other veil-chasers had tried to pick her up at bus stops and malls, and on one memorable day, a veil-chaser had administered her driving exam. She’d passed and even given him her (fake) number.

Mostly, they were a pain. They always commented on her headscarf and usually said something ignorant. As if on cue, Mo gave her a smouldering look. “If you’re getting hot in that thing, you can take it off. I won’t tell.”

“Mo, I’m not interested. Why don’t you go smile at those girls?” She waved toward a small group of young women crowded around the stage.

He didn’t look away or even blink. “You’re so mysterious. Can I buy you a drink?”