Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating(50)
Still, something feels off. I brush my hair back and pin up the sides of it so it doesn’t get into my eyes. I even apply a little eyeliner—making my usually huge eyes a little smaller—and some pink lipstick to go with my salwar kameez. Ammu peeks into my room while I’m putting on my makeup.
“I didn’t know you wore makeup.” She takes me in slowly, a small frown on her lips. “I didn’t even know you owned makeup.”
“I own makeup,” I say. “I wore it to that wedding we went to.”
“That was a year ago,” Ammu says.
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “This is the biggest dawat we’re having this year. I wanted to look nice.” I’m regretting brushing my hair out of my face, because I’m afraid Ammu can see the flush on my cheeks. Then the bell rings, and she forgets all about me.
“Come downstairs and greet the guests.” She calls as she hurries down the stairs.
“Okay, Ammu.” I take one final look at myself in the mirror. Deciding it’s the best it’s going to get, I slip downstairs.
chapter twenty-nine
hani
GOING TO ISHU’S HOUSE FOR A DAWAT IS THE LAST thing I want to do. But I can’t really skip out on it. For one, it would be pretty rude. But more than that, if I tell Amma I don’t want to go, she’ll know something is wrong and press me for more information. And of course I can’t tell her that I’ve developed real feelings for the girl I’m supposed to be fake dating, or that I think she’s broken my trust.
For the past few days, I haven’t gone onto our guide at all, though there have been times when I’ve thought about deleting it altogether. But what good would it do if Ishu’s sister has already seen everything? What I don’t understand is why. Ishu seemed so sure that day at the cafe that if her sister knew anything she would use it against her. So why would Ishu share this with her?
As Abba, Amma, and I wait outside Ishu’s front door, I notice that Abba is shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His nervous gaze doesn’t settle on one thing for too long. He’s wearing a panjabi again today—one that is pure white with gold accents around the collar and cuffs. He’s even wearing the tupi he brought to the mosque the other day.
I frown. I’m about to ask Abba exactly what’s going on but then the door swings open. Dinesh Uncle stands on the other side, wearing a brilliant blue shirt and an even more brilliant smile.
“Welcome, welcome! Come in!” He waves the three of us inside, and immediately I can hear the buzz of Bengali chatter and smell the aroma of Bengali food. The former a curse, the latter a gift.
“Sajib!” A man approaches us from the sitting room. It takes me a moment to recognize him—after all, I only saw him briefly and from a distance at the mosque. But there’s no mistaking his white-flecked beard and white tupi.
“Assalam Alaikum.” Abba reaches forward to take his hand in his own. Then he turns toward us, an oddly cheerful smile pasted on his lips. “This is my wife, Aditi.” Amma gives salam. “And my daughter, Humaira, though we call her Hani.” Abba smiles at the man. “This is Salim.”
Salim Uncle considers me for a moment. It’s honestly a little creepy, like he’s staring into my soul with his dark brown eyes.
Finally, he says, “Humaira is a beautiful name.”
“Thank—”
“Did you know it was the nickname the Prophet Muhammad gave to his wife, Aisha?”
I exchange a glance with Amma who—thankfully—looks as freaked out as I feel.
“I didn’t,” I say. Before he can say anymore, Amma shoots him a polite smile and excuses us, pulling me away toward the kitchen where most of the women are seated.
“He was intense,” Amma whispers to me. I can only nod in agreement, because I’ve already spotted Ishu standing by herself in one corner of the room. And it’s a little hard to look away from her. She’s wearing this salwar kameez that is white, fading into a soft pink. The colors seem to soften her. All of her hard edges seem to have disappeared and there’s some vulnerability to her standing to one side of the room, twisting the edges of her urna around her fingers.
“Hey.” I step toward her almost instinctively—though I had planned to do my best to avoid her today. Ishu turns to me so fast that her urna floats off her shoulder. She manages to grab it at the last second, haphazardly draping it around her shoulder once more.
“I … like your salwar kameez.”
Ishu looks down at the bottom of her kameez, like she has forgotten what she’s wearing. She tugs at the rose-gold hem. “Thanks … I like yours too.”
She looks up and finally catches my eye. I can’t help the smile that appears on my lips. She returns it. Then we descend into a silence that seems only for the two of us, a quiet pocket within the usual bustling noise of a Bengali dawat.
“It’s a little—” I begin, at the same time that Ishu mumbles, “How was—” We both cut ourselves short, catching each other’s eyes again. I feel a familiar knot in my stomach, and there’s nothing uncomfortable about it. And I know that I have to ask Ishu about the guide. About her sister. No matter how much I don’t want to.
Aparna Aunty calls Ishu away to help with setting the table, and pretty soon all the chatter is interrupted by Aparna Aunty calling us to dinner. She’s laid the table with so many different types of food that there’s no empty spaces on it at all. On one side, there’s a pot of biryani—the aroma coming off of it absolutely divine. Surrounding the biryani is chicken korma, and lamb curry. On the other side of the table, there’s white rice, surrounded by mixed vegetable curry and fish cutlet. In the middle of the table, there’s a plate of shorisha ilish—this has always been Aparna Aunty’s specialty. Amma can definitely make shorisha ilish, but not in the way that Aparna Aunty can. Even the look of the fish sitting in the golden mustard paste is heavenly.