Ayesha At Last(78)

“I’ll be here to help her pick up the pieces. Though it looks like I might have to get past that guy first. You know he’s putting the moves on your girl, right?” Amir said as Tarek gave Hafsa a hug, taking her by surprise. After a moment’s hesitation, she hugged him back.

“I’m not judging the behaviour or actions of anyone else ever again,” Khalid declared.

Amir’s eyes were still on Hafsa and Tarek. “You better keep an eye on that guy, Khalid. He’s a shady scuzzball.”

Khalid shook his head. “No more judgments. No more assumptions.”

“Trust me on this one. Takes one to know one.” Amir stood beside Khalid and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I know it hurts now, and it will probably hurt tomorrow, but eventually, like maybe after a few years, you’ll get over it.”

“You’re really terrible at this,” Khalid said, but he punched Amir back. He started walking toward Hafsa.

BREAKING up with Hafsa was quick. Khalid found the words flowed from him easily, as if he had been rehearsing them for weeks.

“I have spent a lot of time thinking about our relationship. I’ve prayed about it too, and I now realize we are not compatible. I can’t make you happy. Please forgive me for any pain I’ve caused you.”

Hafsa was shocked. “You’re breaking up with me?” she asked. She put a hand on her hip. “Do you know how many people told me to dump you? Haris, Ayesha, Tarek. I’m dumping you, and don’t you dare try to say anything different!”

Khalid bowed his head. “I would never speak publicly about our private business.”

“I could have had any guy,” Hafsa said. “I settled for you. You will never do better than me. Never!” Her eyes were flashing, her voice raised.

“I never set out to cause you pain.”

“If you think you can get with my cousin now, forget it. She hates your crazy beard, your stupid clothes, your obsession with the mosque. Enjoy being alone for the rest of your life!” Hafsa stalked off.

Khalid looked over and caught the eye of Amir, who gave him a thumbs-up. He waited for some emotion to hit him. Hafsa was his mother’s choice; he should be upset that his perfect arranged marriage had disintegrated. But the only thing he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.

Feeling lighter than a man with a broken heart had any right to be, Khalid wandered into the outdoor tent, where the Singles Mixer was in full swing. He might as well make sure the rest of the conference attendees were having a good time.

Khalid had been surprised to learn that a Singles Mixer did not involve parents. Instead, the young people talked to each other on their own. As he approached the tent, he noted all the seats at the tables were filled. The moderator, a young woman dressed in a colourful abaya robe and hijab, stood at the front, directing young men and women through a round of speed-introductions. The inside of the tent was draped in gauzy red fabric, and gently glowing paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. The room was perfumed with the smell of freshly mowed lawn, and it buzzed with energy and lively conversation.

He wondered how his life would have unfolded if he had been a participant at the Singles Mixer and met Ayesha for the first time today. Maybe they would be talking and smiling at each other, like the couple in front of him.

“There are many paths to love,” Imam Abdul Bari said, surveying the scene before him with a satisfied smile. “The executive board had reservations about this event. I told them, if we do not make space for love in our mosque, the young people will look elsewhere.” He patted Khalid on the shoulder. “Though the more traditional route works as well, of course.”

“Hafsa and I are no longer engaged,” Khalid said.

“Oh, thank God,” Imam Abdul Bari said. “I did not want to say anything earlier, but I have never seen a couple more ill-matched.”

Khalid cracked a smile. “If anyone asks, she dumped me.”

“Now you are free to pursue Ayesha,” the imam continued happily. “A more compatible scenario. September is a good month for weddings, and I happen to have an opening in my schedule. I would very much like to perform the ceremony.”

Khalid looked at the young couple in front of him again. The girl, wearing a bright-green patterned hijab, was writing something down on a piece of paper. She passed it to her partner, a serious-looking young man with glasses and a goatee. He carefully pocketed the note and returned her smile.

“No more rushing into things,” Khalid said out loud.

The imam peered at him. “What do you mean?”

“I was so afraid of losing Ayesha I didn’t think things through. It’s not enough to find someone you love. You have to be ready for that love, and ready to make changes to welcome it into your life.”

A few young women and men at the tables in front nudged their friends. One serious-looking man with a neatly trimmed beard looked up.

“That’s the problem these days. The guys all want perfect Bollywood divas,” one of the young women, a petite girl in a black-and-white striped hijab, offered to Khalid and the imam.

“And the girls have all these high expectations of us,” a young man with square black glasses added. “Like, how much money are you making? How big is your house? What car do you drive?”

“The aunties are the worst,” the girl continued. “We get ranked on skin colour, height, weight, our parents’ social circle . . . If we haven’t settled down by thirty, we’re failures.”