Ayesha At Last(21)

Khalid stopped fiddling with his bag. “What?”

“You’re Zareena Mirza’s brother,” Tarek said, smiling broadly. “You look just like her. How is she doing?”

Khalid picked up his bag and Quran. “I’m sorry, I have to go. My mother is waiting for me.” He rushed out of the room before Tarek could ask anything else.





Chapter Ten

The next day, Nana was on the couch watching a gardening show when Ayesha returned from work. He was holding a sketchbook and drawing carefully. She flopped down beside him.

“Strategizing already?” she asked her grandfather.

“I don’t know how Mr. Chen sleeps at night. His win was clearly fraudulent,” Nana said, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“His roses looked pretty big to me.”

Nana stared at her, indignant. “Size has nothing to do with the quality of the flower. My chrysanthemums were smaller because they were bred that way. Their delicate colours were most attractive. Mr. Chen seduced the gardening board with his tacky pink roses.”

Ayesha smothered a laugh. Mr. Chen, who lived two houses away, was Nana’s frenemy. The men constantly compared the success of their children and grandchildren, and were bitter rivals in the neighbourhood Garden and Beautification Competition. Nana had lost three years running and was determined to win this time.

“What’s inside the Victory Garden this year?” she asked.

“My muse and I are still discussing. ‘The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odour, which doth in it live.’”

“A Winter’s Tale?”

“‘Sonnet 54.’ I think you need a refresher course in Shakespeare, jaanu.”

Her cell phone rang. “Ayesha, come quick! Hafsa said she will not meet him without you,” Samira Aunty’s panicked voice shouted down the line.

“Meet who?” Ayesha asked.

“Whom,” Nana said absently, adding petals to his sketch.

“Please, Ayesha! They will be here any minute and Hafsa is still in her room!” Samira Aunty hung up. Ayesha looked blankly at her grandfather.

“Your Nani is already there. I do not approve of this outmoded mating ritual,” said Nana. “Also, Garden High Life is on the television. If you wish to offer Hafsa moral support, I suggest you hurry.”

Ayesha sighed. She was not sure what was going on exactly, only that Hafsa was dragging her into this ridiculous rishta quest whether she liked it or not.

She walked slowly to the Taj Mahal, smiling at the grandmothers and little kids she met along the way. When she arrived at her cousin’s home, the front door was unlocked and there was a flurry of activity inside. Hafsa’s three sisters were wiping down counters and frying samosas in the kitchen, Samira Aunty pinning her hijab in the hallway. She motioned Ayesha upstairs.

Hafsa was sitting on her bed, staring off into space. She jumped up when she caught sight of her cousin and fell into her arms. “Oh Ayesha, you’re so lucky you never had any rishta proposals. Waiting is the worst part! What if he’s the one? I’ve only had twenty-two proposals so far. He’ll think I’m giving it up too easily.”

“You’ve had seventeen proposals since Friday?” Ayesha asked.

“This is the first one to show up at the door. Mom said they were really insistent. I guess word is starting to spread about my availability.” Hafsa applied pink lip gloss and reached for a floral-printed hijab. It had bright-pink roses on it, Ayesha noted.

“From the way Samira Aunty was talking, I thought there was an emergency,” Ayesha said.

“I told her I wouldn’t see the guy until you came. I need my Ashi Apa to hold my hand.” Hafsa twirled. “How do I look?” She was wearing a white-and-pink shalwar kameez, a long tunic with pants. It was decorated with delicate gold embroidery along the hem and sleeves. Her face was flushed; she looked like a painted porcelain doll.

“Perfect,” Ayesha said simply. “You’re going to break his heart.” Ayesha was still in her work clothes: black straight-cut trousers, a white dress shirt and an unflattering black cardigan, ready to play the unwanted spinster relation.

When they emerged from Hafsa’s bedroom, they heard voices downstairs in the living room. Ayesha and Hafsa tiptoed into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” Ayesha asked her younger cousins.

“Not sure. Mom told us to stay here and get the tray ready,” said eleven-year-old Hira.

“Hafsa has to bring in the tea and snacks,” Maliha said. “Don’t drop it.”

“That tray is too heavy for me,” Hafsa said. “I’ll get chai all over my new shalwar.”

“I’ll do it,” Ayesha said. She picked up the treat-laden tray, which held brightly patterned bone china cups, a teapot, milk, sugar, a bowl of spicy Indian chaat mix and a plate overflowing with samosas.

Hafsa stepped daintily into the living room. Ayesha followed close behind and placed the tray on an ornately carved walnut coffee table before taking a seat beside Nani.

Two women were perched on the gold brocade couch across from them, both wearing bright shalwar kameez and hijabs. The prospective groom was nowhere in sight. After a beat of silence, one of the women leaned forward and looked at Ayesha.

“Did you make the samosas yourself?” she asked abruptly. The woman was younger than her companion, in her mid-forties. The shawl draped loosely around her neck revealed a colour difference between the lighter foundation on her face and the rest of her body. Her clothes were fashionable, and she wore gold rings on every finger, including her thumb.