Ayesha At Last(90)

Ayesha had heard about this, a long time ago.

“It made everyone so angry,” Saleha said, her voice low. “The Muslims, the Hindus. The entire country was so tense. I was afraid to go outside with you and Idris. You were just children. Then Syed told me he was leaving us in Hyderabad. He was going to Mumbai to cover the story.” Saleha wiped the tears streaming down her cheeks. “We fought. I was so angry at him for even thinking about leaving us alone, but he said he had to go.”

Ayesha remembered this, she realized. She had been nine years old, and her parents were arguing in the other room as she ate breakfast. Her parents never fought, or not so she could hear. Her mother was hysterical, her father’s deep voice placating. She remembered running up to her father after he strode out of the bedroom. He bent down to hug her, and she inhaled the scent of him—cardamom mixed with sweat and the sandalwood powder he used for deodorant. He held on tightly for a few moments before releasing her. “Be a good girl. Take care of your mother and brother,” he had told her.

“The fassaad—” Saleha began.

Ayesha jerked at the word. Hafsa said Sulaiman Mamu had used the word “facade” in connection to her father’s death.

“The fassaad—the riots—they started almost immediately. The worst were in Mumbai,” Saleha continued. “All that rage and hate and fear exploded. Shops were destroyed, houses, entire neighbourhoods burned to the ground. So many people died . . . two thousand people murdered in four weeks.”

Ayesha’s hands began to shake. She did not want to hear any more, but Saleha couldn’t stop now, her words flowing from a newly unsealed faucet.

“The first few days, he filed his story without any trouble. He called me when he got there, and he sounded so excited. I knew he was doing what he loved, chasing a big story. The third day, he didn’t file his story. His editor called me, asking if he had been in touch. That’s when I knew.”

Ayesha put her hand to her mouth.

“Your father was killed during one of the riots. He went to the wrong neighbourhood and got caught up in the fighting. He was beaten to death.”

A sob escaped Ayesha, and Saleha got off the couch and crouched beside her daughter, cradling her.

“I couldn’t tell you before,” Saleha said. “I didn’t have the words. After they found his body, I had to go into hiding. He was the journalist who had reported on the riots, and even dead, he was a threat. I took you and Idris and left everything. We moved from house to house for weeks until Sulaiman could bribe the right official in India, and then we came to Canada as refugees. Nana and Nani came too. They couldn’t bear to stay behind, not after everything.”

Saleha hugged Ayesha again. “You were so brave. You’ve always been so brave.” She smiled through her tears, then straightened, wiping her eyes. “I know Hafsa is all right. I know it in my heart, in my jigar,” she said, using the Urdu word for liver. “If there was anything I could have done to change what happened to your father, I would have done it. I would have crawled on my knees, swallowed my pride, handcuffed him to the door. I would have done anything.”

Ayesha nodded. Sometimes prayers floated up to heaven. Sometimes they hung around here on earth and waited for you.

She would help get her cousin back. And when Hafsa had returned, safe and unharmed, Ayesha would focus on her own life, and begin to chase her own dreams.





Chapter Forty

Hafsa had been missing for a week when Ayesha accompanied Sulaiman Mamu to the police station to make an official Missing Persons report. A young female police officer, Constable Lukie, carefully noted down the details of the disappearance and accepted the small picture of Hafsa.

“In situations like this, most of the time the person shows up. Maybe she was angry and wanted to punish you. Was there some sort of argument? Was she being forced into something?” the young officer asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral. Ayesha noticed her cool appraisal of them, the quick glance at her hijab.

“Hafsa was not being forced into an arranged marriage, if that’s what you think,” Ayesha said, but Sulaiman Mamu motioned for her to calm down.

“Please. Find my daughter,” he said quietly. Sulaiman Mamu’s face was gaunt and grey; there were deep lines etched under his eyes. He looked older than Nana.

Constable Lukie softened. “We’ll do everything we can,” she promised.

Samira Aunty still required around-the-clock attention from her family and help to deal with the steady stream of visitors. The Aunty Brigade were in daily attendance, eager to share increasingly scandalous rumours about Tarek: He was a master in the art of seduction; he was a gambler who owed money to the Punjabi mafia; he was wanted in Saudi Arabia for public indecency; he was the prodigal son of a Pakistani billionaire; he owned a dot-com that specialized in ethnic pornography. With every outlandish story, Hafsa’s actions appeared more and more foolish, her reputation sinking deeper into the mud.

When Nana returned from Friday Jumah prayers at the mosque, he looked despondent. “There is a general body meeting tomorrow. The mosque is bankrupt, and Tarek has absconded with the funds. Sulaiman is too proud to go. Will you accompany me, jaanu?”

She didn’t want to go. She would go. “‘Live like you’re in a comedy, not a tragedy,’ right?” Ayesha said.