Ayesha At Last(66)

Ayesha stopped, considering. “Well, I think I understand the beard and robes a bit better now. Imagine having Farzana for a mother. What would that do to a person?”

Tarek’s shoulders hunched, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“It’s hard to imagine,” he agreed, his voice thin. Tarek took a deep, steadying breath, and smiled slyly at Ayesha. “You like him.”

“He’s engaged to my cousin.”

“I mean you really like him.”

Ayesha flushed. “No, I don’t.”

Tarek looked at her. “You can do better.”

“I know a Muslim woman’s love life is an open book, but can we please move on to the next chapter?”

Tarek laughed. “You’re funny. I like that.” His smile faded, and his face grew serious. “Actually, I’m glad this happened. I wanted to talk to you about something serious. How long have you known Khalid?”

“Not long. He’s new to the neighbourhood. Why?”

“Did you do a background check on the family before Hafsa’s engagement?”

Ayesha raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure the usual inquiries were made. What’s going on?”

Tarek shifted in his seat, his eyebrows angling down so that he resembled a regretful puppy. “I really don’t like to gossip, but when it comes to marriage, you have to tell the truth. I know Khalid Mirza’s family. We both used to live in the west end of the city.”

Ayesha nodded her head. She had a bad feeling about this.

“You probably remember the way I behaved at the caterer’s.” Tarek looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. I was upset because Khalid has everyone fooled. You see, I knew his sister.”

“Khalid told me about her. She lives in India. Zareena, right?”

Tarek sighed at her name. “There was a big scandal, years ago. Zareena got into some kind of trouble, and her family freaked out. They shipped her to some relatives in India and forced her into an arranged marriage.”

Ayesha’s hand was at her mouth. She had heard stories of girls being forced into marriages against their will, of course. It happened around the world, across different religions and cultures, and the practice disgusted her. The thought of Khalid going along with such a despicable plan made her ill.

“Are you sure?” she asked. Then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Khalid about his sister:

Does she enjoy living in India?

No. I’m pretty sure she hates it.

Tarek’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Hafsa seems like a sweet kid. I just want to make sure she knows what kind of family she’s marrying into.” He reached over and squeezed Ayesha’s arm. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Ayesha’s stomach twisted at his words. Was he telling the truth? Tarek was too smooth, too polished to be entirely trusted. But then, what did he have to gain by lying about Khalid’s family? If what he said was true, then her cousin was about to make a terrible mistake. Sulaiman Mamu and Samira Aunty had agreed to the engagement because they thought Khalid came from a good family. How would they react once they found out Khalid’s parents had forced Zareena into an unwanted marriage? Maybe all his solicitousness, his gentleness, was nothing but an act. Maybe he actually fit the stereotype of the domineering, terrifying man who forced his will upon the vulnerable women in his life.

She recalled Khalid’s face, his gentle eyes, the inscription he wrote inside the notebook he had bought for her back when he thought she would become his wife. Was this the man her cousin was engaged to marry, or was he really some other, darker figure?

What had Hafsa gotten herself into?





Chapter Twenty-Eight

Farzana did all the talking at the caterer’s, speaking over Kamran Khan himself.

“I want butter chicken, vegetable tawa, palak paneer, veal korma and meat biryani. Fresh, now—none of that old mutton you people like to sneak in. We’ll have Amritsar fish pakoras and channa chaat for appetizers.”

“Madam, fish is one dollar extra,” Mr. Khan said, but Farzana waved her hand.

“Don’t forget how many people are coming to this wedding. Good advertising for you. You should be doing it for free, actually. Now for dessert, I want mango kulfi and ras malai.”

“Kulfi is two dollars extra, madam,” Mr. Khan said, but he kept his gaze on his notebook as he spoke, and Farzana ignored him. She continued talking about tasting menus while Khalid wondered what he was doing there.

He watched his mother berate, order and boss around Kamran. She criticized his managerial style, questioned the freshness of his chicken and ridiculed his knowledge of basmati rice. Mr. Khan, usually a gruff and taciturn man, accepted it all so meekly.

“Ammi, don’t talk to him like that,” Khalid said, interrupting her lecture on the right brand of paneer. “He knows what he’s doing, otherwise why would we be here?”

Farzana and Mr. Khan turned to look at him.

“Khalid, chup,” she said, shushing him. She turned back to the caterer. “My son doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Khalid felt the first tendrils of anger warming his feet. “I do know what I’m talking about,” he said evenly. “So does Mr. Khan, and the imam, and Ayesha, and—”