Ayesha At Last(34)

Saleha straightened the chairs.

“You have to admit it was funny,” Ayesha said. “Idris caught the entire thing on camera, if you want an instant replay.”

Saleha turned to face her daughter. “I thought this might be the solution, but I was wrong. Marriage is too important to leave to chance.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I met your father, it was because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.”

“‘No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved,’” Ayesha quoted softly.

Saleha was startled. “Why did you say that?” she said. “Who told you about that?”

“It’s from As You Like It, Mom. Shakespeare.”

Saleha turned away from her daughter. “No more rishtas,” she said. “I would rather you stay single for the rest of your life than quote that fool poet and think the world is a comedy when it always turns out to be a tragedy.” She walked upstairs, wiping her eyes.

Ayesha stared after her. What was that all about?

And what kind of desi mother didn’t want her twenty-seven-year-old daughter to get married?

Ayesha checked the time on her cell phone: six twenty. Before she could change her mind, she texted Khalid.

My schedule just cleared up. I can meet you tonight at the mosque after all. If you want.

Ayesha could pretend to be Hafsa for a little longer. She needed to get out of this crazy house.

Khalid replied immediately, almost as if he had been waiting by his phone. I’ll be there in ten minutes.





Chapter Fourteen

Khalid sat in the mosque conference room facing the door, nervously waiting for Hafsa. His tasbih prayer beads clicked in his hands as he repeated, “Subhanallah, Alhamdulilah, Allahu Akbar”—Glory be to God, all praise to God and God is great. The repetition of the familiar chant calmed him.

She entered, face drawn.

Brief and professional, Khalid reminded himself. No random conversation, keep this business only. “I googled Muslims in Action and you’re right, there is very little online about our event. I can set up a website for our conference, and maybe you can do a write-up,” he said.

“Have you ever had a rishta before?” she asked.

Khalid paused. “No,” he said. “I’ve signed us up for a Facebook account. We can prepare a few posts in advance and ask prominent community members to help spread the word.”

“I just had a rishta from a professional wrestler–slash–life coach.”

“Oh, Masood,” Khalid said.

“You know him?” she asked.

“Everybody knows Masood. He sponsors the youth basketball tournament every year. What do you think we should write for our first post?”

“It’s not like I want an arranged marriage. It’s just strange my Indian mother doesn’t care if I stay single for the rest of my life. Don’t you think that’s strange?”

Khalid felt himself wavering. This beautiful girl actually wanted to talk to him, not laugh or scowl at his words. But if he looked up, her eyes would lock him in a tractor-beam trance. So he kept his gaze on the screen and his voice bland. “I think you should always listen to your mother. When the time is right, Ammi will find me a suitable wife. I really have no opinion on the matter. What colour scheme best represents the conference? I was thinking yellow and purple.”

She put her hand out. “Wait. You don’t really believe that.”

“We can do green and orange if you prefer,” Khalid said. When Hafsa didn’t respond, he looked up from the laptop screen. Her wide brown eyes were looking at him intently. She was wearing eyeliner, he noticed, which made her eyes look larger. He moved his gaze lower, to her soft, pink lips. Khalid swallowed.

“You don’t honestly believe that your parents should pick out your spouse?” she asked.

Khalid forced himself to focus on the screen. The conference, he reminded himself severely. Stick to the conference and stop staring at her like a girl-starved teenager. “I suppose ‘Hello, world’ is too obvious for our first post,” he said. “Your expert writer’s eye would be of use here.”

She stood up and started pacing the room.

“Obviously your parents should have some input on your partner,” she said. “We’re South Asian, you really do marry the whole family. But to let your parents choose for you, without any input of your own—I know you’re traditional, but that’s crazy. Even Hafsa wants to talk to one hundred guys before she picks one.”

Khalid looked confused. “Hafsa? You mean you?” he said.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Sometimes I refer to myself in the third person,” she said. “And if you think purple and yellow or green and orange are good colour combinations for a website, your dress sense no longer surprises me.”

Khalid closed his eyes. This conversation was giving him a headache. He opened his eyes—it would be worse if she stopped talking.

“I’ve never been in a relationship before,” Khalid said. He stopped, and the heat rose in his cheeks at this admission. He had been teased often for his lack of relationship status. He continued. “I’ve never had a girlfriend. How could I possibly know what I want in a wife? Ammi knows me better than anyone else, and she wants me to be happy. I trust her opinion and her choice.”