Ayesha At Last(7)

There had to be a way out of this.

An idea popped into her head. Perhaps there was a way she could help Khalid, and Ayesha too. Her friend needed to have some fun, and her co-worker needed to loosen up and learn how to talk to women. Besides, Sheila had asked her to investigate Khalid, not fire him. As the new regional manager of Human Resources, she had the responsibility of seeing both sides of any workplace issue.

Clara took the elevator to the basement. Standing on the threshold of Khalid’s shared office, she tried to see him the way Sheila did, as a dangerous, sexist outsider. But he looked like the other Muslim men in the neighbourhood where she’d grown up, like Ayesha’s grandfather dressed for Friday prayers. She knocked on the door and entered the office.

“It was so nice bumping into you in the hall today, Khalid,” she said.

He looked up from the screen, surprised. “How was your meeting with Sheila?”

The less said about that, the better. “Do you enjoy listening to poetry?” Clara asked instead.

Khalid considered this, puzzled. “I read the Quran. It is a very poetic book.”

Amir snickered. Khalid’s obnoxious office mate stared at her, eyes on her breasts. She ignored him.

“Have you heard of Bella’s? They’re having an open mike poetry night on the weekend. I’d love it if you joined me and my friend.”

Khalid looked uncomfortable. “I do not think that would appropriate—” he began, but Clara cut him off.

“I’m launching an initiative at Livetech that I hope will be of interest to you. I want to organize a workshop on diversity and religious accommodation. I could really use your input.”

Still Khalid hesitated.

“Come on, K-Man,” Amir said. “It will be fun. I’ll bring my boys.”

“Is Bella’s a bar?” Khalid asked. “Will there be alcohol?”

Clara shook her head, fingers crossed behind her back. “It’s a lounge, not a bar. I really appreciate this. In return, maybe I can offer you a few suggestions for your meeting with Sheila next week.”

She left before Khalid could ask how she knew about his meeting, or the difference between a bar and a lounge. Or who her friend was.

Clara smiled to herself. Khalid Mirza, have I got a girl for you.





Chapter Five

Ayesha parked her car in the driveway and slowly removed her key from the ignition. It was six o’clock, and she had survived her first week as a substitute high school teacher. Barely.

In the bag beside her were two books on classroom management strategies, along with the tenth-grade science curriculum. All of which would eat up her entire weekend.

But not tonight. Tonight she was going to party like she was still an undergrad. Which meant takeout pizza and old Bollywood movies.

What time should I come over? Ayesha texted Hafsa.

Whatever. It’s not like you have time for me anymore, career-lady.

Ayesha sighed. Hafsa was upset because she hadn’t responded to her texts or phone calls all week. Because I have a job, because I can’t skip work to go for a facial, she thought, and then she felt guilty. Hafsa was like a baby sister, and sometimes baby sisters threw tantrums. The best way to deal with a temper tantrum was to ignore it. She quickly texted Hafsa again:

I always have time for Bollywood Night! Come on, we are going to have FUN! :) We need to celebrate your husband search! I’ll be there in an hour.

Ayesha knew she shouldn’t dawdle in the car. The “Bored Aunty Brigade,” as she had nicknamed her gossipy desi neighbours, were likely peering through their windows right now.

Ayesha Shamsi took her sweet time going inside, she imagined them saying. Up to no good. No husband yet. Who will marry her now? Cluck, cluck, cluck.

She flung open the car door, fake smile plastered to her face. Let them stare. She was too old to care what the Aunty Brigade thought of her!

“‘Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright,’” a soft voice called from the front lawn. “‘Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows. As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.’”

“Nana, are you smoking again?” Ayesha’s frozen smile thawed into a more natural one as she surveyed her grandfather on his favourite green plastic lawn chair, hiding behind their lone scraggly maple tree. Ayesha’s grandfather was a retired English professor from Osmania University in Hyderabad, India. He had a soft spot for the Bard, and quoted him often.

“No,” he said, blowing cigarette smoke thoughtfully into the emaciated branches, which were just starting to turn green. Spring in the city arrived slowly, a lazy cat stretching after a long winter nap. “This is just an illusion, as is most of reality. This is not a cigarette. I am not hiding from Nani and waiting for you. And you are not working too hard. We are all just cosmic players in the eternal dance of life.”

“Nana, you talk too much bakwas.” Ayesha carefully removed the cigarette from her grandfather’s unresisting fingers and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You’re not even wearing a jacket. It’s cold.”

“I am a Canadian. I feel no cold.” But he got up gingerly from the lawn chair and followed her into the house.

“Smoking is bad for you. It causes lung cancer and emphysema. It is also very unfashionable. You said you quit during Ramadan,” Ayesha scolded as they entered the house and stood in the tiny entranceway to remove their shoes.