Ayesha At Last(83)

Ayesha laughed. Hafsa would get a kick out of her grandfather’s garden. She was like a flower herself: beautiful, ornamental, shrewd. Her smile faded. Ayesha hadn’t returned to the Taj Mahal since the night her cousin ran away, but now her purpose was clear. She had to tell them about Hafsa’s note.

SAMIRA Aunty, self-appointed mourner-in-chief, had set up residence in the family room. She was surrounded by half-empty cups of tea and wads of used-up tissues, and had spent the past two days receiving a parade of nosy aunties eager to gawk at the mighty Shamsi family brought so low. Thankfully, the only other people at home when Ayesha entered the house were Sulaiman Mamu, Nani and her younger cousins. She didn’t think she could stand making small talk with the Aunty Brigade. She quickly relayed her information about the Post-It note.

“Why hasn’t she called? How long does it take to get a quick nikah done somewhere? There are plenty of mosques in the city,” Samira Aunty said to Ayesha.

Sulaiman Mamu looked bleak, his face lined and haggard from lack of sleep. Ayesha was filled with guilt. He had asked her to keep an eye on Hafsa, and look what had happened.

“I’m sorry, Mamu,” she said. “This is all my fault.”

Sulaiman Mamu shook his head. “The only people at fault are currently not answering their cell phones,” he said. “Hafsa has been thoughtless and cruel. This note proves it. As for Tarek, I do not know him, but he cannot possibly be a good man. What does he want with Hafsa?”

This question had troubled Ayesha as well. Hafsa’s motivation, she understood. Even as a child she’d been impulsive and had lashed out at others when thwarted.

But what was in it for Tarek? Maybe he was just as thoughtless as her cousin.

Except Ayesha didn’t think so.

Tarek was a dishonest scoundrel, but he wasn’t dumb. Muslims in Action was a well-recognized brand, known for its famous speakers and for running conferences around the country.

So what was his motivation? If he routinely ran off with conference funds and pretty young girls, he would have lost credibility a long time ago. Ayesha was willing to make a sizeable bet that this was the first time Tarek had done something so brazen.

Again: Why?

If he was looking to blackmail Sulaiman Mamu, why hadn’t they heard anything from him yet?

Even Hafsa’s most epic sulks never lasted this long. Ayesha couldn’t help thinking that maybe Hafsa was being held against her will somewhere, bound and gagged, crying for help, begging for mercy.

Ayesha shook her head, dismissing the unhelpful thought.

“How could she do this to me?” Samira Aunty asked Ayesha. “We had so much fun picking out her wedding lengha. It cost five thousand dollars and is being shipped from Pakistan direct! When I think of all the gold jewellery she picked out for the wedding just sitting in the bank deposit box . . .” Her face crumpled.

Her aunt was a silly woman, but Ayesha remembered that when she had first moved to Toronto, Samira Aunty had been so kind to her. She had bought her a new bed to squeeze in beside Hafsa’s princess canopy, and lavender sheets and new red pajamas to make her feel welcome.

“I’ve been hearing such terrible things about Tarek,” Samira Aunty said when she’d calmed down. “Every visitor who arrives has a fresh story of his indecent behaviour.”

“When I called the Muslims in Action office, they said he wasn’t answering his phone. I asked about the money, and they didn’t know about that either,” Ayesha said. “It sounds like he had been keeping them in the dark about our entire conference. They thought I was calling about another conference, the one being held in July.”

“We talked to the police this morning,” her cousin Maliha said. “Witnesses said she got into Tarek’s car willingly. They can’t get involved unless there’s an actual crime.”

Samira sniffed loudly. “My beautiful daughter is lost to me! What will people think?”

Ayesha could imagine what people would think. Hafsa would be branded unmarriageable. Her hasty actions would be a dark cloud over her family for years, affecting their social standing as well as the marital prospects of her younger sisters and even Ayesha herself. A small voice in her mind mocked: Khalid will never want you now. You’re tainted by association.

She hated this, hated the double standard for men and women. But unlike Hafsa, Ayesha had never tried to shape the world in her image. She had always seen the world and the people who inhabited it exactly as they were: flawed, imperfect, eager to think the worst of others while excusing their own misdeeds.

Ayesha recalled the mercurial Tarek, his wolf’s smile at the caterer’s, his smooth dealings with her and Hafsa. Then she thought about Khalid, who couldn’t edit his doubts or conceal his thought process, even when he was asking her to marry him. She felt foolish, and the knowledge settled into her heart like a stone: Tarek was a beautiful liar and Khalid was awkwardly honest. Where did that leave her?

She checked her phone for the hundredth time that day and sent another text: Hafsa. We’re worried sick. Call or text. I’m begging you.

It wasn’t until after she pressed Send that she had a brainwave. If her cousin wouldn’t answer any of her messages, maybe there was someone else who would know something: Hafsa’s mall-rat “friend,” Haris.

She gave her aunt a quick hug and promised to call her later that night, perhaps with good news.