Ayesha At Last(9)

“It’s Bollywood Night.”

“‘Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting,’” Nana remarked into his mug.

Ayesha ignored his unsubtle jab at Hafsa and gulped the rest of her tea. “I’ll be back soon.”

WHEN they’d first immigrated from India to Canada, Ayesha and her family had moved into the three-bedroom townhouse with Hafsa’s family. It was a tight fit for everyone, but her uncle Sulaiman insisted on hosting them. He had immigrated as a young man almost two decades before, and he was happy to have his family join him in Canada, despite the devastating circumstances.

After two years of living together, Sulaiman, who owned several halal butchers and Indian restaurants in the city, gave the townhouse to Ayesha’s mother, mortgage-free. He constructed a new home on a parcel of land he had bought five blocks away, which he shared with his wife and four daughters.

“This is what family does,” he said. As eldest brother, it was his duty to take care of his widowed sister and their parents. The townhouse was a generous gift, one that Ayesha didn’t know how her family would ever repay. In return, she had looked out for her younger cousins, especially Hafsa.

It was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to her cousin’s house—which Ayesha secretly called the Taj Mahal. Sulaiman Mamu’s new home was large and ostentatious. It had never really appealed to her. He had built it envisioning a villa similar to the ones he had grown up admiring in the wealthy neighbourhoods of Hyderabad, so completely out of reach for the son of an English literature professor. The house was Spanish colonial, set well back from the road. With its adobe roof, sandstone walls and ten-foot-high custom-made door embellished with metal flowers and vines, the construction had initially drawn the ire and envy of neighbours. The building featured a large courtyard, circular driveway with stone fountain, four-car garage, six bedrooms and eight bathrooms. There was even a small guest cottage, kept ready for Nana and Nani whenever they wanted to spend the night. So far, they preferred their cozy basement suite in the townhouse.

The main house was decorated in bright colours, with dark maroon accent walls and warm syrupy-toned paint everywhere else. The floors were covered with red, blue and green wool rugs that had been imported from India. The wall decorations were Islamic prayers filigreed on metal, embroidered on tapestries and painted on canvas, and the large central family room had pictures of famous places of worship, including an oversized one of the Kaaba in Mecca. The furniture was traditional and ornate: overstuffed brocade couches, Queen Anne armchairs and heavy drapes. The light fixtures were all brass, polished weekly by a cleaning lady.

Hafsa’s mother, Samira, answered the door. She was a petite dumpling of a woman, round-faced and excitable, who had married young and birthed four daughters before she was thirty. She spent most of her days taking an avid interest in the goings-on of her neighbours.

“Ayesha jaanu!” she said, using the Urdu term of endearment. “You’re finally here! Hafsa was afraid you were too busy for her, now that you are working.” She enveloped her niece in a massive hug. “Let me fill you in on all the news. The Nalini girl ran away with her boyfriend, and the Patels are about to file for bankruptcy because their daughter is being far too demanding about jewellery and clothes for her wedding. She had her dress made by that fashionable Pakistani designer. So sad when people spend money they don’t have, no? Also, Yusuf bhai down the road is divorcing his second wife! Imagine!”

Ayesha’s eyes twinkled. “Samira Aunty, you’re better than CNN. Do you have a newsfeed I can subscribe to?”

Hafsa’s three younger sisters—Maliha, sixteen; Nisa, fourteen; and baby Hira, eleven—all rushed toward Ayesha.

“How do you like being a substitute teacher?” Maliha asked. “Dad said teaching is a good job for a woman. He refuses to consider enrolling me in the engineering program in New York City because he said it’s too far from home and he would miss me.” Her cousin rolled her eyes. “Can you try to convince him? Please?”

“Are we going for bubble tea this weekend? You promised!” Hira piped up.

“Did Ammi tell you about the rishta proposals that came for Hafsa?” Nisa asked. “Five this week.”

“Nisa, chup!” Samira Aunty reprimanded her daughter, and there was an awkward moment as all three girls looked at the floor, embarrassed.

“Only five?” Ayesha asked lightly. “I’m surprised Hafsa hasn’t received fifty proposals this week alone.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks and Ayesha’s cheeks turned red. Samira shooed her daughters away before turning to her niece.

“Ayesha jaanu,” she began carefully. “Since you brought it up . . . Well, I hope you aren’t comparing your situation to our little Hafsa’s many rishta proposals. Even if you are seven years older and only received a handful of offers. Only consider Sulaiman’s status in the community and Hafsa’s great beauty, her bubbly personality. Well, we are all blessed by Allah in different ways.”

Ayesha knew her aunt was trying to be kind, in her way. “Don’t worry about me. I’m too busy to go husband shopping.”

Samira Aunty smiled, but a look of pity was still fixed on her face. “Just don’t leave it too late. I was married at seventeen, and Hafsa will be married before the end of the summer. A girl’s beauty blooms at twenty, twenty-one. After that, well . . . Finding the right person can be difficult. Perhaps I can send a few proposals your way. The ones that aren’t suitable for Hafsa.”