Ayesha At Last(46)

Just like me. Her face flushed with anger, at him and at herself. “Your mother has you on a leash, and you’re happy to be her puppet!” she said, hurling her words at him. “We don’t live in India or Pakistan. You’re allowed to choose your own wife and live your own life.”

“For someone who claims to have no interest in finding a husband, you care an awful lot about who I marry,” he threw back.

They glared at each other, furious and helpless, their faces inches apart.

“Actually, you’re wrong, Khalid,” she said deliberately. “I don’t care about you at all.”

He jerked back, and the hurt on his face made her wince.

“I never expected you to,” he said, more to himself than her. He unlocked his car and drove home.

WHEN Ayesha returned home, her thoughts were churning. She was halfway up the stairs to her room when her mother called from the kitchen, taking her by surprise. It was a rare evening that found her mother home early.

“I heard back from Masood’s mother,” Saleha said. “He is interested in speaking further. I gave him your number.”

Ayesha wanted to throw up her hands in fury. After a lifelong drought, suddenly it was raining men. She turned on her mother. “Masood the wrestler? You didn’t like him. You told me finding a husband is too important to leave to the arranged marriage crapshoot.”

“It turns out wrestling and life coaching pay well. His mother told me Masood is on his way to becoming a wealthy man.”

Ayesha sat down at the kitchen table. “So now you want me to talk to him?”

Saleha took a seat beside her. “I want you to be safe, to keep your expectations reasonable.”

Ayesha was silent, her thoughts lingering on Khalid again. “What about love?” she asked.

Saleha met her daughter’s eye and then looked away. “I fell in love with your father, a long time ago. We were students at university. He was so handsome and charming, so passionate about everything. All the girls had crushes on him, but he chose me,” she said, and there was a trace of pride and wonder in her voice. “Your Nani didn’t approve. His family wasn’t rich, and he wanted to be a journalist. You got your literary skills from him.”

Ayesha traced patterns on the tabletop, listening intently. Her mother never talked about her father, not in this kind of detail.

“Nana gave us his blessing. He knew it would break my heart to let Syed go. Your grandfather has always been a romantic. We married, we had you and then Idris, and we were so happy. When he died, I thought I would die too.” A single tear traced a path down Saleha’s cheek, and she smiled at her daughter. “Love is not enough. I thought it would be once, but after Syed died, I realized how much of myself was wrapped up in the idea of him. Perhaps Masood is not your ideal candidate, but he is a decent man. I don’t think he would ask too much of you. You would be able to keep a part of you for yourself.”

Ayesha paused, thinking about her job offer and the life she had vowed to lead. Her thoughts travelled back to Khalid, to his stricken face when she’d told him she didn’t care. Maybe this was all for the best. Khalid was too conservative, too tied to his mother’s commands. He could never make her happy.

The path was clear. It was time to start walking.

“I’ll talk to Masood,” she said to her mother.

THE smell of onions and garam masala greeted Khalid as he parked his car in the driveway, and his stomach sank. His mother only cooked late at night when she was angry, and he didn’t know if he had the energy to deal with that right now, on top of everything else.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Ammi,” he called cautiously, but his stomach growled, betraying him. He hadn’t eaten at Kamran’s Superior Sweets. Khalid followed the smell of spices to the kitchen, where his mother stood sentry over four pots.

“Brother Tarek called,” Farzana said. “He wanted to thank you for helping to pick out the food at the caterer’s tonight.” She gave the pot in front of a her a violent stirring. “I have to learn what you are doing from strangers now. Who is this Tarek person?”

He leaned against the doorway. “Nobody.”

“Why are you being so secretive? I’m your mother. I have a right to know what you are doing at all times.”

Hafsa’s words rang in his ears—Your mother has you on a leash—and Khalid flushed with shame and anger. “Tarek is from the conference committee. He was helping us pick out the caterer.”

“Yes, Tarek mentioned that you and Hafsa were both there. Is this Brother Sulaiman Shamsi’s daughter?” Farzana took two plates from the cupboard and ladled out a generous serving of rice, chicken and naan.

“No, Hafsa’s father died a long time ago. We all arrived in separate cars. She joined us after work.”

Farzana’s hand stilled over his plate. “Where does this Hafsa work?” she asked carefully.

“She’s a high school teacher, I don’t know where.”

His mother’s eyes were watchful as she passed him the food. “I thought Hafsa’s family lived in a big house nearby. The family is very rich.”

Khalid swallowed the rice, which was too salty, and took a bite of chicken, which was dry and tasted sour from too much lemon. “I don’t think their house is that large. They live across the street from us, in one of those old townhouses. You must be thinking of another family.”