Ayesha At Last(28)

Khalid used to attend Fajr almost every day with his father, back in their old neighbourhood. Ever since his dad had died, he hadn’t been so diligent about attending the pre-dawn prayer at the mosque and usually prayed at home.

There were only a dozen people in the congregation that morning. He nodded and smiled at a few familiar faces before sitting down cross-legged at the front of the prayer hall, thinking more about his father, Faheem Mirza.

Faheem had been a gentle, quiet man. He’d worked for the government as an accountant, auditing large companies. He was one of the first openly religious Muslim men in his department in the early 1980s, and Khalid knew that his co-workers had not been kind about his teetotalling and diligence for afternoon prayer. Faheem had missed opportunities to advance while his co-workers ingratiated themselves with superiors over drinks after work.

After Zareena’s scandal had been fully revealed, Faheem retreated from the family, staying later at work and allowing his wife to deal with the situation. When Zareena had left home nearly twelve years ago, Faheem had said nothing at the airport. Khalid thought it was because of the shame he felt, but in the weeks that followed, he had often caught his father weeping silently. He never talked about his daughter, and as the years passed, he spoke less and less to anyone else. Khalid remembered him at the outskirts of conversations, listening with a faint smile on his face. But his curtain of sadness never fully lifted.

A massive heart attack had killed Faheem instantly last fall. The janazah funeral prayer was attended by nearly five hundred people at their old mosque. For a quiet man, he had many friends.

Zareena had not been among the mourners. Khalid had broken the news to her himself, violating their email-and-text-only arrangement to call long distance. He couldn’t stand the thought of his only sister finding out about their father’s death through some gossipy neighbour. She was quiet on the phone and hung up quickly.

Six months later, Khalid still missed his father deeply. His mother made him feel like a young child, but Faheem had never been like that. A man of few words, he’d listened to Khalid and only given advice when asked.

Though in this instance, Khalid wasn’t sure what advice he wanted. What do you do when you can’t get a woman’s face out of your mind? He would be too embarrassed to ask his father such a personal question. And there was only one answer: You do nothing.

Khalid reached for his cell phone and quickly composed an email to his sister.

Salams, Z,

It’s early morning and I was thinking about Abba. Remember when he took us fishing, except he forgot to buy the bait, or ask for instructions? Thank God that nice family took pity on us and shared their worms.

By the way, I wired you the money, as requested. I’m glad to hear you are volunteering at a school.

As for me, I’m busy with the usual—work and mosque events. The imam wants to host a youth conference over the July long weekend, which doesn’t leave us a lot of time. Another woman is working with me to get things organized. I think you’d like her. She’s a poet and I made her angry when we spoke. I’m still not sure why.

I miss you.

K

He pressed Send and lined up as the prayer began.

When Khalid arrived home at six, his mother was still sleeping. He removed some sourdough bread from the fridge and beat three eggs with cream and cinnamon. One at a time, he dunked four slices of bread into the batter and fried the French toast, spreading each slice with a peanut butter and Nutella mixture. His phone pinged with an incoming email just as he was sitting down with breakfast and a large mug of chai.

Salams!

Got the loot, thanks so much. I hate to do this, but I need a bit extra, if you can manage. I have some more gifts and stuff to distribute. I promise to pay you back. In fact, I’m going to start paying you back right now, with some advice: Go for it!

In all the long, tedious years you’ve been writing to me, you have NEVER, not ONCE, talked about a girl. I was starting to wonder what team you played for, not that I’m judging.

I mean, it’s not as if you’re the easiest guy to talk to, not if you still wear those white dresses and refuse to trim your beard. (Seriously, it’s like you WANT to be racially profiled.) Btw, she’s probably mad at something stupid you said.

Take my advice. Keep talking, try to smile (you know how to do that, right?). You’re not completely repulsive when you smile.

And keep me posted! This is better than a Pakistani drama!

—Z

P.S. Hollywood scandals and those sprinkle donuts from Tim Hortons.

Khalid nearly spit out his chai as he read, and then he looked around to make sure his mother was not there. He quickly typed a response.

Z,

I’ll wire the money tonight.

There is nothing going on with me and the woman from the mosque. This is not the way things are arranged. Ammi will find me a suitable wife. Love blossoms after marriage.

—K

His sister’s email had one good effect—if she thought he should pursue Hafsa, then he needed to do the exact opposite.





Chapter Twelve

Ashi Apa, something super important just came up and I can’t go to the conference meeting. Can you pretend to be me for one more night? xox

Hafsa sent the text fifteen minutes before the meeting. Just enough time for Ayesha to either leave for the mosque or call her cousin demanding to know what was going on. Mindful of the promise she had made her uncle, Ayesha grabbed her car keys and vowed to get to the bottom of Hafsa’s well-timed disappearance later.