Page 3

A cool breeze blows through the window cracked over my head, carrying a medley of smells through the city. Sea salt from the Passaic River, the cloying odor of beer tingeing the parking lots of the bars on either side of the road, the mouthwatering aroma of food from restaurants getting ready for the five o’clock dinner rush.

Riding the bus is one of the few times I can daydream about the book I haven’t written since Baba called me to his bedside and asked me to look after everyone. He got diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer so suddenly that Amma completely came apart at the seams. His words still haunt me to this day.

I wish you could be a child, Zahra, but I need you to be strong if your mother can’t.

Giving up writing is something I have to do for him. For Amma.

At least for now.

Even if I could afford starting college in September, writing doesn’t fall into the trifecta of Asian-Parent-Approved careers every kid I know strives for: doctor, lawyer, or engineer. It’s not even a second-tier “respectable enough” career like accountant, teacher, or nurse.

Once upon a time, I had Amma to thank for my love of storytelling, but now she’s become the reason I guard my hopes so deep inside my chest, where a callous comment can’t blow them away like a stolen wish on dandelion fluff.

If she dismisses them—dismisses me—I don’t think I can piece together the broken shards of my heart this time. It’s much easier to play the role she wants, of the obedient daughter who dreams in secret, rather than risking that the only parent I have left will think less of me, after everything I’ve done for her.

But maybe tonight, since I don’t have to help with dinner, I can scribble a few ideas in my notebook.

The screech of tires calls me back to reality at my stop. I exit the bus and hurry to my rickety old building. Champa Khala, the landlady, doesn’t pester me about our overdue rent for once, busy sweeping the porch, so I salaam her and climb the steps to our second-floor apartment.

On the welcome mat, I freeze. Excitable chatter and the thump of my sister’s footsteps float through the door. No one sounds irate or upset, but when I sniff the air, I don’t smell anything cooking. Trepidation fills my belly, replacing any hunger. My sneaking suspicion that Amma has been cooking up something other than the special dinner she promised is all but confirmed. If I don’t tread carefully, I might end up on the menu myself.

Arif lets me in before I can use my key. Past the threshold waits… pandemonium. There’s no better way to describe it. Our apartment looks like a Sabyasachi factory exploded inside. Decorative scarves in every shade of the rainbow, made from any material you can imagine, are draped all over the couch, the coffee table, even the ceiling fan. A single jhumka earring crunches beneath the sole of my sneaker, reminding me to remove my shoes.

“Api, you’re back!”

Resna catapults herself at my legs, nearly knocking me over. Only then do I notice that she’s dressed in a pink frock with poofy sleeves and a tulle skirt, and has ribbons in her pigtails. After I manage to detach her, I get a proper look at my shifty brother. Arif is tugging at the too-short cuffs of the white button-up shirt that poke out of the suit jacket Amma made for his eighth-grade graduation. He’s been growing so fast for the past few years that he’ll be too tall for the whole thing before long.

“Aru, what the hell is going on?” I whisper, covering Resna’s ears.

He shrugs his bony shoulders. “Amma.”

As if summoned, our mother flounces into the living room from her bedroom, bringing with her a whiff of talcum powder and perfume.

Like my siblings, she’s dressed in her best shari, one with a silver brocade on opulent Banarasi silk that Baba had shipped from India for the last anniversary they shared. Plum-colored lipstick to match the shari adorns her smiling lips, a far cry from the more muted “widow” colors she normally wears.

She looks so beautiful, so happy, that I don’t have the heart to spoil it, until I recall my star-crossed plans to write and fold my arms over my chest. “I thought Eid wasn’t for almost a month. Why are you so dressed up tonight?”

“Hmm?” Amma bats her eyelashes. “What do you mean? I told you you’d get a delicious dinner tonight, but I never said I would make it.”

My jaw drops. “You never take us out to eat.” I affect her prim, perfect Bengali as best I can. “?‘Why would we pay for food at a restaurant when we have perfectly good food we already paid for at home?’?”

I look to Arif and Resna to back me up, but my brother won’t meet my gaze, while my traitorous sister snickers behind her hand. Amma, meanwhile, harrumphs as if I’ve insulted the last ten generations of our ancestors.

“So that’s what you think of your poor mother, eh? Here I got a coupon from one of my customers and thought I’d treat us for once, but you think I’m cheap and—and—and unfeeling .” She sniffles, using the hanging pallu of her shari to dry her weepy eyes. “Perhaps we should cancel and call it a night. Your grandmother already said she’s too tired to do anything but watch her natoks. You’re probably tired too. Why did I bother with such a terrible surprise?”

I raise my palms to quell her tears. “Wait! I—I want to go. Really.”

Immediately, every crocodile tear vanishes, leaving not a trace of runny kajol behind, as she begins to shove me toward the bathroom. “Good! Now, hurry and shower! You have to look perfect tonight!”

“Haza-fara, haza-fara!” Resna singsongs, thrilled about playing dress-up.

I spot Arif mouthing an apology at me and get the distinct impression that I’ve been played, but before I can grill him, I’m thrust into the bathroom, then ensnared in the natural disaster that is Hurricane Amma, a whirlwind of outfits, makeup, and curling-iron burns that ends with me dressed in a yellow anarkali suit trimmed with sparkling sunflowers, a billowing urna pinned into my braided hair, my kajol-lined eyes stinging from the perfume she sprayed right into my face.

For no more than a second, Amma strokes my cheek with her thumb, her smile tender. “Just like a princess,” she says in her accented English, but before I can respond, she’s already prodding me toward the door. “Let’s go! We don’t want to be late!”

Although I currently resemble a brown Cinderella with a particularly sassy fairy god-amma, our ride to the restaurant is more pumpkin than carriage. I dodge the stares of the people on the 150 bus as Amma, Arif, Resna, and I squish into an available row of seats, turning everything that’s happened over and over in my mind, to no avail.

What the hell could Amma be plotting? Is there some creep waiting for us at the restaurant? Did she dress up Arif and Resna to throw me off? Am I honestly expected to sit through my first-ever date with my entire family gawking? Or is this a ploy to get into my good graces when she does pull the blind-date card?

I could just ask, but it’s more likely than not that she’ll burst into tears again, wounded that I don’t trust her—not that there’s anything to trust at the moment—and I’d rather spare the rest of the passengers her histrionics.

We transfer from one bus to another until the sign for a restaurant surfaces: GITANJALI . It rings a bell, but Amma has been dragging me to so many wedding venues in the city that they’ve all started blurring into one ostentatious blob. Tonight, I expected a hole-in-the-wall, but the sheer size of this place is jaw-dropping. This is the sort of restaurant where a Kardashian might get proposed to if they wanted some exotic ambiance.

I elbow Amma mid-stride. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“I’m sure.”

“Are you sure it’s not too expensive?”

She scowls. “I’m sure . Now, hurry before the humidity ruins your hair and makeup.”

I click my teeth shut and follow her into Gitanjali. Another bout of déjà vu fills me at the sight of the red velvet carpet and the antique, metal-worked lanterns that suffuse the whole restaurant with a dim golden glow, strummed sitar music echoing off the tapestried walls. The welcoming smile of a pretty white hostess in an elegant black gown sidetracks me.

“You must be the Khans!”

“We are,” answers my mother, and then to me, as we trail behind the blond hostess, “I made a reservation for us tonight.”

She sounds so proud of herself that I smile. Perhaps I misjudged her, after all. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, Amma. It’s too much.”

The elation on her face ebbs. Before I can determine what emotion takes its place—guilt?—someone cries, “Zaynab, is that you?”

My stomach plummets.

Amma waves at a table hosting a familiar figure. I recognize her henna-red coif at once: Pushpita Emon, the woman we sat next to at Anika Afa’s wedding.

This is her restaurant.

“Oh no, Amma, tell me you didn’t…”

“Chup!” she hisses at me, even as a sweet simper greets our audience. “Assalamualaikum, Pushpita Afa!”

“What a surprise to see you here.” Pushpita Khala’s overemphasis on the word “surprise” reveals it wasn’t much of one at all. “Why, you simply must sit with us. Nai ni, Mansif?” The well-dressed man next to her nods, inspecting us above thin, wire-rimmed bifocals.

“Ji na, I couldn’t impose,” Amma replies.

“Nonsense! It’s no imposition at all,” Pushpita Khala says. “Zoey”—this she directs at the hostess, who snaps to attention—“get Nadir to push our tables together, please.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

All too soon, we’re at a long, makeshift table with the Emons, all of us on one end, the two of them on the other. While my brother does his best to keep our hyperactive sister from crawling around under it seeking dropped quarters—a task that normally falls to me when we go anywhere, though tonight, Amma clearly has another mission in mind for me—I stare up at the ceiling.

Et tu, Allah?

As always, there’s no response.

Amma’s query fractures my reverie. “Are you dining alone?”

“No, our son, Harun, will be joining us soon.”

I slump into my chair. Of course their son is joining us.

“There he is now!” Pushpita Khala says with a bright smile.

She and her husband rise from their seats to hustle over to a teenage boy waiting next to the hostess stand, whom I can only assume is the infamous Harun. With his parents in front of him, I can’t get a good look at his face, but I can tell he’s a good half foot taller than me, even while hunching over to speak to them.

After a brief but heated back-and-forth, Pushpita Khala snatches something off her son’s face and manhandles him over to the table, giving me my first proper glimpse of Harun. Tousled black curls that look as if he’s run his fingers through them one time too many do little to hide his dour expression or the firm set of his jawline. Renewed humiliation burns in my cheeks.

“Assalamualaikum,” he mutters.

Did you get ambushed into this too? I wonder, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and I suddenly feel dizzy under the intensity of the lantern lights.

Not that my silence matters.

As if God is punishing me for my ungrateful whining, Resna barges out from under the table like a possessed Whack-a-Mole and asks, “Are you gonna marry my sister?”

“Resu!” I squeak, face red as a tomato.

Arif scrambles out of his seat to catch her, but she’s too slippery, chanting, “Zahra and Harun sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G—” while zipping between everyone’s legs.

By the time he gets ahold of her, the damage is already done. Harun ducks his head, refusing to make eye contact with me or anyone else. The adults, meanwhile, are guffawing at Resna’s antics. The conversation soon shifts to other topics without me. Without us . My unhappy date barely speaks unless spoken to, but no one else pays his reticence any mind, especially when platters overflowing with the menu’s specialties arrive.

They talk about— boast about—all manner of things while stuffing their faces. Amma recounts the princess story for Harun’s father, who explains how he went from waiting at an Indian restaurant after first immigrating to the US to opening up Gitanjali with his brother.

“This is that very restaurant.” He smacks the table, a gold watch peeking out of his sleeve. “Now we’re planning to open another in Paterson itself.”

“Mashallah!” Amma gushes. “This is the most delicious meal I’ve had in ages.”

I almost choke on a bland bite of chicken marinated in a watery tomato-butter gravy. It’s not the worst tikka masala I’ve ever eaten, but it’s under-seasoned, probably to appeal to the palates of the white customers sitting around us.

Oblivious, my mother continues, almost wistfully, “You’ve done well for yourself, Mansif Bhai.”

Pushpita Khala pinches Harun’s cheek, ignoring the way his bronze complexion tints faintly crimson. “All for our darling son. Did I tell you he’s going to Columbia in the fall?”

What, like it’s hard? snarks my inner Elle Woods.

After all, I got in too. I may not be going, but it’s not because I don’t belong. I wonder what the Emons would think if they knew. Would it make them excited that Harun and I have Columbia in common, or would they prefer a pretty girl with no other aspirations in life than being a perfect wife and daughter-in-law?

“He graduated at the top of his class from the Hillam Academy in the city and received a perfect score for math on the SAT and ACT,” Mansif Khalu adds, puffed up with pride. “Most of the Ivies accepted him, but he wanted to stay close to home. Isn’t that right, betta?”

Harun’s face darkens further as he mutters, “I guess.”

Amma sneaks a glimpse at me, and I know she’s debating whether she should mention that I also got into Columbia. I can hear the cogs turning in her head. She looks sorely tempted. But if she does, she’ll have to confess that we couldn’t afford for me to attend, and that would be a crack in my princess armor.

“Ah, Zahra loves math too!” she ultimately blurts.

This time, I actually choke. There are a dozen different things my mother could have bragged about. Although I wasn’t valedictorian, I graduated in the top three of my year and won several essay competitions while in high school. The local paper even did a piece on my acceptance to Columbia.

Math, though? It might defy every Asian stereotype, but I loathe math. Of course, that’s all she can come up with. A lie, because the truth isn’t enough for her.

I’m not enough for her.

Harun’s eyes flick toward me for the first time, pinning me in place until I stop hacking my lungs into my fist. They’re a brown so deep and dark, fringed by such an enviably thick fan of lashes, they look almost black. Even with smudges of dark circles beneath them, they’re the kind of eyes a weak-willed girl could get lost in—if he weren’t glaring with them.

Before I can snap, I don’t want to be here either, asshole , Pushpita Khala chimes in with an exuberant, “Harun wants to be a biomedical engineer someday and make prosthetics for amputees! It’s like being a doctor and an engineer all at once, isn’t it, betta?”

The doctor-engineer in question grunts.

I blink, begrudgingly impressed. “That’s cool. You must be supersmart.”

His inscrutable gaze returns to me, but he only says, “Thanks,” once his mother elbows him. I almost give up right then and there, until Amma kicks me under the table, forcing me to disguise my grimace with a smile.

“Are you excited to start studying engineering?”

Because of course , this paragon of a brown boy would choose one of the Holy Trinity of Bengali careers, as if to personally spite me with his perfection. Wait, scratch that, two of the three , if his mother’s bragging is anything to go by.

“I guess,” he replies again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

What the hell? Am I giving him a headache ?

Gnashing my teeth at his audacity, I wring the napkin on my lap into twists, pretending it’s his neck. Neither of us wants to be here, but at least I’m not acting like a brat about it.

This is what parents like ours do . Although it’s nosy and intrusive and often exhausting, it comes from a place of love. I remind myself of that all the time.

But Harun Emon thinks he’s too good for all this? Too good for me?

Even Amma must realize by now that this is a match made in hell.