Ayesha At Last(76)

Alarmed, Ayesha peered at him. “Tarek, what’s going on?”

He wiped his face. “It’s been so long. I thought I was over her.”

Ayesha’s eyes widened at his implication.

“Zareena wasn’t just someone I knew. She was my . . . We met in junior year. We were together for two years before . . .” He covered his face with his hands and fought to regain his composure. “I told you her family forced her into marriage, but I didn’t tell you why. It was my fault.” Tarek’s fists clenched and his eyes were wet. “You know how conservative their family is. When Khalid told his parents about us, about the baby, they flipped out.”

Ayesha gasped. Khalid had told his mother that Zareena had a boyfriend? That Zareena had been pregnant? She knew he was judgmental, but he must have realized how badly his mother would react to this news. Or was Khalid really that naive, that stupid?

Tarek’s fists were clenched, and he spoke now in a low, urgent voice.

“I didn’t know she was pregnant, not until afterwards. Her parents were so angry when they found out. They beat her—” His voice cracked. “She lost the baby. Our baby. They nearly killed her, and when they sent her away, I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye.” Tarek’s eyes were red-rimmed. “You have to save your cousin,” he said.

Ayesha knew with certainty that he was telling the truth. She reached a shaky hand out to steady herself on the rough concrete wall of the mosque. And now Hafsa was engaged to marry into this dangerous, unstable family.

A volunteer peeked his head outside the door. “Sister Ayesha, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the volunteer said. “You’re up next. It’s time to recite your poem.”





Chapter Thirty-Three

Khalid watched Ayesha walk onto the stage, her face pale as she stood in front of almost six hundred people. He watched as her graceful hands straightened her purple hijab and adjusted her blue tunic shirt, her expression calm and resolute. She is so beautiful, he thought. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and after this performance, he would tell her how he felt. How he had felt about her from the first moment he saw her.

Khalid was in love with Ayesha, and every second spent without her was wasted.

Ayesha performed a minute adjustment to her microphone, her eyes roving through the crowd. Khalid moved to the centre of the room, and she seemed to freeze at the sight of him. He was too far away to catch the expression in her eyes.

“Assalamu Alaikum,” she said, her voice tinny in the microphone. “I had another poem prepared for you today, but I changed my mind. In the face of darkness, sometimes the only response is Shakespeare.”

The crowd murmured, looking at each other in confusion. Ayesha took a deep breath and leaned forward. In a different voice, one strong and clear and powerful, her limbs loose and languid, she recited:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

There was silence after she finished, and Ayesha kept her head lowered. When she looked up, there were tears on her face, and she stared across the room at Khalid in abject misery.

Then she walked off the stage without another word.

Khalid followed her to the parking lot. Ayesha stood by her car, fumbling with her keys. They slipped from her hands, and he bent down to pick them up. She looked at him again, and Khalid was lost.

A man less in love, less filled with purpose, might have hesitated at this point. But Khalid could sooner stop Niagara Falls from flowing than stop the words bubbling from his lips.

“I’ve tried so hard to control my feelings for you, to banish them from my heart, but my struggles have been in vain. I must be allowed to speak freely. Ayesha, I’m in love with you.”

Ayesha’s back was to the car, and her hand gripped the door handle tightly.

Emboldened by her silence, Khalid continued. “I know this might come as a shock to you. I don’t believe in love before marriage. I know I have questioned your religious convictions in the past, but you can work on your faith. I’m a good catch for someone of your age and social standing. My family is rich and I have a good job. You can quit teaching and focus on writing your little poems. I will approach your mother to decide on a wedding date as soon as possible.” Khalid smiled at Ayesha, his speech complete.

Ayesha straightened up and put a hand out to stop him from saying anything further. “It is customary to wait for the girl’s response before you start planning the wedding.”

Khalid froze. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“My answer to your proposal is . . . no.”

“I don’t understand,” Khalid said.

“I mean no. No, I will not marry you. No, there is no possible chance that I could ever love you, or want you for my husband.”

Khalid took a step backwards. “You like me. I know you do.”

“If you like me, or love me as you claim, why would you ask me to marry you in the most insulting way possible? You question my faith, insult my family, my job, you belittle my poetry and then tell me that you love me against your will, against your very beliefs.”