Ayesha At Last(42)

Khalid hid his confusion by reaching for a notebook in his bag. He titled a blank page and watched Nani assemble ingredients: flour, water, oil, yogourt, salt, baking soda.

“Rani, give your friend an apron. I don’t want him to get any flour on his clothes. His mother will wonder what he has been doing.”

Khalid gave Nani an appreciative glance and followed Ayesha to the pantry.

“Your grandmother is very perceptive,” he whispered as she rummaged in the cupboard, digging under kitchen towels.

“She’s happy to finally teach me a few things,” she said, passing him an ancient blue apron. A current of electricity shot between them as their fingers touched. Khalid leaned in and Ayesha closed her eyes and inhaled his scent: soap and a hint of clean-smelling cologne.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he said, his voice low and warm in her ear.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, keeping her eyes on his hand, only inches from hers. He walked back out to the kitchen and Ayesha followed.

Khalid picked up his pen and made notes in his book as Nani placed two cups of flour in a large glass bowl, then sprinkled in salt and baking soda. She added yogourt, oil and water, and started to mix with her hands. When Khalid asked how much of each ingredient she used, Nani shook her head.

“You need to use andaza,” she said.

Ayesha smiled at her grandmother’s use of the untranslatable concept of andaza. “Nani, you can’t just eyeball the ingredients,” she said.

“Not everything needs to be measured. The most important step is to mix well and give the ingredients time to sit together,” Nani said in Urdu. She kneaded as she talked, hands working until the dough became soft and pliable. She covered the bowl in plastic wrap and put it in the microwave.

“What now?” Khalid asked, pen poised.

“We let it rest and wait for it to rise,” Nani said. She looked at Ayesha and then at Khalid. “I have to pray Asr. I’ll be back,” she said, and she left them alone at the kitchen table.

Khalid fiddled with his notebook. “I met a girl yesterday,” he said. “My first rishta. Ammi ambushed me.”

Ayesha sat up, a wisp of jealousy making her stomach clench. “Did you talk to her or stare at the floor?” she asked lightly.

“It wasn’t just me. Everyone was staring at the floor. They had a really nice carpet.”

Ayesha laughed, strangely relieved. “I told you, rishtas are the worst. So what do you think of your mother’s taste? Do you still trust her?”

“Yes,” Khalid said automatically. Then he added, “Though it was very awkward. Especially when I overheard the girl’s mother reprimanding her in the kitchen. I don’t think she was happy to be there either.”

Either. So he wasn’t happy to be meeting other girls. Ayesha wanted to whoop. Instead she said, “If that’s true, she’s a fool. You’re a catch, Khalid. A single, educated, pious Muslim man. All the mothers must be salivating at the thought of snatching you for their daughters.”

“Not every mother,” he said, looking at her.

Ayesha flushed but said playfully, “I’m the doomed spinster. When I finally have the time to look for a husband, I’ll be thirty-five and all the good men will be taken. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find a second cousin in India who will marry me for my Canadian citizenship.”

Khalid was doodling in his notebook. “Or you could look around right now,” he said slowly, and Ayesha felt her hand tingling from where they had touched.

“Khalid . . .” she began, but Nani was back. She took the dough out of the microwave. It was softer, rising from the bowl. She made six portions and handed them each one small ball.

“There is a secret to the perfect paratha,” Nani said in Urdu. With her thumb, she deftly made a well in the middle of her dough ball. Then she covered it with the sides of the dough, encasing the air pocket inside. “Leave a little space, right in the middle. The paratha needs it to grow and become soft. Without this space, it will be hard and lumpy, just another piece of bread.”

Next they rolled out their portions. Ayesha’s circle was deformed, but Khalid’s came out perfectly round. She stuck out her tongue and he smiled.

Nani fried the paratha on a hot pan with oil. The bread rose against the heat, fluffing up like a dough balloon as Ayesha watched in delight.

“See what a little space can do?” Nani murmured.

Ayesha reached for the first one and split it with Khalid. It was warm and soft, chewy and delicious. She enjoyed every bite. “What do you think?” she asked him.

“Perfect,” he said, eyes on her face. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Behind them, Nani hummed a few bars of a classic Bollywood tune and then called them back to roll out the rest of the dough.

When the parathas were done, Nani got out some canned mango pulp, and they all sat to eat at the kitchen table. She told them she hadn’t known how to cook when she was first married. “We ate a lot of eggs,” she said. “It was the only thing your Nana knew how to make.”

“I didn’t know Nana could cook,” Ayesha said.

“He can’t,” Nani said. “When we were first married, I was in school studying to be a police officer. It was all those Hardy Boys and Agatha Christie mysteries he read to me. I wanted to be a detective, like Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple.”