Ayesha At Last(13)

The small crowd in front clapped, and Ayesha walked onto the stage, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

“Uh-oh,” Khalid heard Clara mutter at the next table, and he looked up.

“Hello, everyone. I’m so honoured to be here tonight. I’m going to perform a poem I wrote a long time ago. It’s called ‘What do you See?’” Ayesha took a deep, steadying breath and focused her mind. Then, in a different voice, one rich with melody, she began to recite:

What do you see when you think of me,

A figure cloaked in mystery

With eyes downcast and hair covered,

An oppressed woman yet to be discovered?

Do you see backward nations and swirling sand,

Humpbacked camels and the domineering man?

Whirling veils and terrorists

Or maybe fanatic fundamentalists?

Do you see scorn and hatred locked

Within my eyes and soul,

Or perhaps a profound ignorance of all the world as a whole?

The crowd roared. Her body swayed slightly, eyes liquid and focused on a spot at the back of the room. She continued.

Yet . . .

You fail to see

The dignified persona

Of a woman wrapped in maturity.

The scarf on my head

Does not cover my brain.

I think, I speak, but still you refrain

From accepting my ideals, my type of dress,

You refuse to believe

That I am not oppressed.

So the question remains:

What do I see when I think of you?

I see another human being

Who doesn’t have a clue.

Ayesha looked directly at Khalid as she recited the last two lines.

Clara clapped along with the enthusiastic crowd and Ayesha smiled slightly and headed directly for the bar. Khalid’s eyes followed her.

“That girl gets around,” Mo said. “She wanted me to get her a Hyderabadi Mud-Slam. You think that’s a sex thing?”

Khalid shook his head. “Amir, I’m going.”

“No way, K-Man. I have to introduce you to some pretty girls,” Amir said, sloppy-drunk by now. He put an arm around Khalid’s shoulder.

Khalid carefully disentangled himself from Amir’s embrace and placed some money on the table. “Promise you’ll take a cab home,” he said.

He left Bella’s without another look at his drunk friend, or anyone else.

SULAIMAN Mamu texted Ayesha as she pulled up to her house, close to midnight. Her uncle had only recently learned to text, and she smiled at his carefully worded message.

Assalamu Alaikum, Ayesha. This is your uncle, Sulaiman. I am writing this letter to remind you that the first conference planning meeting will take place tomorrow, 8 pm, at the mosque. Hafsa will meet you there. Best regards, Sulaiman Mamu.

She unlocked the front door quietly. A light was on in the kitchen. Ayesha’s mother was alone at the small breakfast table. Her shoulders were slumped, and she had a ceramic mug in front of her, filled with the nuclear-strength coffee she drank by the litre.

Ayesha greeted her as she walked toward the staircase. Saleha stopped her.

“You were out late,” her mother said.

“I was with Clara.”

Saleha smiled, the expression making her seem younger, the similarity between mother and daughter more apparent. “Remember when she used to sleep over every Friday night after school? I haven’t seen Clara in so long.”

That’s because you’re never home, Ayesha thought. A few months after they’d first immigrated to Canada, her mother had enrolled in nursing school. She had put in years of study to achieve her current position and now worked days and nights at Scarborough General Hospital. For a long time, Saleha had been the only working member of the household, and she routinely took on double shifts, overtime and holidays. The dark circles under her eyes were permanent; she didn’t bother with concealer anymore.

“It was crazy at the hospital. Every time I sat down to eat or drink, I was interrupted.”

Ayesha felt a pang of guilt. “I’m working now, Mom. I can pitch in.”

“You have your own expenses, and you need to pay back bhai,” Saleha said.

“I have some extra money. Maybe you can work fewer shifts,” Ayesha said. So we can see you more often.

“I don’t need your money. I’ve supported us for years without help. I want you to see that a woman doesn’t need anyone to take care of her. This business with Hafsa . . .” Saleha trailed off, looking exhausted once more. She tried for a lighter note. “I hear your cousin has been collecting rishtas.”

“She’s aiming for a hundred,” Ayesha said. “Someone told her there’s a cash prize for frequent-rishta club members.”

Saleha smiled faintly at her daughter. “Sulaiman has old-fashioned ideas about marriage. Marriage is not a bad thing, if you find the right person and your judgment isn’t clouded by emotion. I hope you’re not thinking about marriage too, just yet. You need to focus on your new job and career. A husband can be such a distraction.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Ayesha assured her. “Rishtas and marriage are the furthest things from my mind.”

Saleha took another sip of her coffee. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in love. Men are selfish, Ayesha. They will not put you first. A woman should always have a backup plan, for when things fall apart. You must know how to support yourself when they leave.”