Page 31

Once upon a time, Amma could take one look and diagnose exactly what was the matter with me. She would know I was sick before I did, and tut, with the cool back of her wrist pressed to my forehead, “Na, na, na, na, shuna, you should stay in bed. I’ll bring the Vicks, khisuri, and some rong saa to fix you right up.”

Or she’d ask, “Zahra, shuna, keetha oise?” the instant I came from school, already knowing I’d fought with a friend or someone had been mean to me, which would prompt me to burst into tears and blubber into the material of her kameez while she rubbed my back.

But that was before Baba died, before we acquired so many troubles that it was no longer simple to keep track of them all. She still tries , but I’ve gotten better at hiding things for both our sakes. My siblings, who are younger, need more of her time anyway.

Tonight, however, she seems to sense a disturbance in the force the instant I step into the apartment. She looks me up and down, like kissing Harun has changed something fundamental about me. “Furthi khorso nee?”

“Yes, I had fun. I’m happy!” I plunk down next to her on the couch, almost causing her to drop the needle she’s threading when the cushion bounces. “I have a special surprise for you.”

She sets her sewing equipment aside, like she doesn’t want anything pointy and dangerous in her grasp when she hears this. “A… surprise?”

“A special one,” I emphasize, mimicking what she told me at Chai Ho that first time I met Harun. “All you have to do is make sure everyone’s dressed for a night out Saturday. I’ll take care of everything else. Okay?”

“Saturday?” She tenses up. “I—I can’t this weekend. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

Despite my best efforts, I can’t keep my face from falling. Amma swallows at the sight of my disappointment, casting a glance toward the kitchen, where Nanu is teaching Arif how to roll out and make rutis by hand.

“It’s because I have a surprise for you, too,” she continues.

Before familiar apprehension can flood through me, she sets down her needlework to pick up her phone, scrolling through the Auntie Network WhatsApp group until she finds a picture of a poster bordered in flowers. She holds it up for me to read.

I squint at the text, then remind her, “I can’t read Bengali.”

Her laugh is staccato and unusually nervous. “It’s a free concert tomorrow night at the falls. With Nasrin Shah.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Nanu’s favorite natok actress,” Amma explains. “Shah is her married name.”

My eyebrows disappear into my hairline. “I thought she’d Meghan Markle’d her way out of that song and dance. Literally.”

“Er, yes.” Bemusement clouds Amma’s features, but she doesn’t let that stop her. “That’s why this concert is so special. I promised your nanu I would take her and hoped we could make a family night out of it.”

Hmm. While walking around the fair together after our balloon ride, Harun and I originally planned to Parent Trap our families at Gitanjali, but there’s no reason it can’t be at the falls. Although half the city will be there, there’s a certain anonymity in a teeming crowd where everyone’s attention is on a stage.

Besides, our folks will have to be on their best behavior in public, which will make it more likely that they accept the terms of Harun and me continuing to date.

“Okay,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “Okay? You’ll be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I flash her that Good Bangladeshi Daughter smile she loves so much. Amma drops a kiss on my temple, the last of her caginess draining out of her. I wait until my back is to her to grin.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

The second I’ve shut the door behind me in my blessedly empty bedroom, I shoot Harun a text. Operation Zahrun Part Two is a go.

This is the one where we don’t break up, right? he responds.

I laugh. We’d better not, robot boy, or I’ll sic the twins on you.

Not even those two could scare me away from you, he answers, and my breath hitches.

Leave it to Harun to turn our playful banter into heartfelt, romantic declarations. He’s quick to agree when I inform him about the change in destination for our plans, having already heard about the concert from his own mother.

We can have dinner at the restaurant after, he suggests.

Perfect!

Once we say good night, I crawl into bed. Part of me feels bad for tricking Amma. I’m more than prepared for us to start being honest with each other… but all’s fair in love and war, so honesty can wait till tomorrow night.

Besides, once she learns the truth, I suspect she’ll be in a forgiving mood. For once, both our ideas of a happily-ever-after are aligned.

Either Nasrin Shah is the Bengali Beyoncé, rolling in dough, or both , because it’s astonishing how quickly a Grammy-level comeback concert has been arranged for her.

Even from a block away, I can hear the gathering audience at the falls, their excited voices swelling louder than the ever-present shhhhh of the waterfalls and the Passaic River. The chaotic chorus is accompanied by the deep bass of drums and the sweet whistle of flutes.

Repurposed bedsheets dot every inch of green lawn in front of a newly built stage. A dedicated crew tinkers with the sound system and a spotlight, which offsets the golden glow of the string lights hung from the safety barriers and trees in the vicinity. Instrumentalists surround the stage and audience, dressed in elaborate costumes. A camera crew records the entire production from the fringes of the park.

Everyone is here.

Ushers clutching antique lanterns walk around, helping people find seats in the pandemonium. As one of them strides up to us, I whisper to Amma, “I thought this was a free concert…. Are there assigned seats? Tickets?”

She ignores me to introduce herself to the man. When he hears we’re the Khans, he nods at another group of ushers conducting the growing crowd. Only when they nod back does he direct us toward the front of the stage. With him leading us, people part to make room, but I squint at his back, mystified.

Must be some Bengali concert etiquette I’m unfamiliar with or something.

Nanu stands on her tiptoes and cranes her neck every few steps to catch a glimpse of her favorite shilpi. Letting her set the pace, I allow Resna to drag me through the teeming bodies, Amma and Arif at our heels. There are vendors holding trays of snacks and drinks weaving past us, the Tahir girls and their father among them.

I even spot Ximena sitting on a boulder, clasping her iPad and a stylus. She’s too far away to wave at, but I know the two of us will be okay. After my heart-to-heart with Dani on Monday, I called Ximena to let her know the two of us would still be friends no matter what. From now on, I’ll even listen more.

No matter where the world takes us, we’ll all be there for each other.

Giddiness wells inside my chest at the prospect of telling my friends about me and Harun, but it’s only when Resna points and exclaims, “There’s the mean boy!” that a true, ear-to-ear smile splits my lips.

“He is not mean,” I correct her, redirecting her to the assorted picnic blankets a mere foot away from the stage where the extended Emon clan sits.

Nanu is still distracted, seeking out Nasrin, wizened hands gripping a tiny notepad and pen tightly in the hopes of getting an autograph, but I can sense the rest of my family watching me in confusion. Harun has noticed us by now, however, and I only have eyes for his brightening face.

But I can’t seem too eager yet, so I wander close enough for him to point out to his mother, “Look, Ma, it’s Zahra.”

She glances away from the two women she’s huddled beside. My own mother winces as if pained, though I can’t fathom why, but manages a strangled, “Assalamualaikum, Afa.”

“Walaikum salaam,” Pushpita Khala says. “Do you need seats? Why don’t you join us? We got here early and commandeered too much space.”

“Pita tells us all the time about your dressmaking,” adds a dark-eyed woman who must be her sister and Hanif’s mother, if his scowl over her shoulder is any indication.

Another woman chimes in, “We’d love to see your work. Perhaps I could hire you to make something for my kids? A matching sherwani and shalwar kameez would look so lovely in new family portraits!”

“Jeez, you make it sound like we’re toddlers,” grumbles Shaad, eyes glued to his phone.

Sammi Afa, snuggled between him and a man who’s presumably her husband, declares, “Um, yes, how adorable would that be?”

I turn to Amma.

The grimace hasn’t left her face, but before she can retort, I couldn’t impose, Nanu tells the others, “Onek dhanyabad. My old bones can’t take any more walking.” She plops down then and there, and when Amma reluctantly joins her, whispers, “They’re the closest to the stage.”

Fighting a smile, I let Sammi Afa corral me and my siblings onto the second blanket, where she and the other “kids” are. I don’t protest my proximity to Harun. Arif frowns at the way our pinkies brush on top of the blanket but doesn’t comment, instead ensuring Resna is affixed to his lap.

When Mansif Khalu returns with two other men, arms laden with Styrofoam dishes of mishti, chaat, and saa, Harun and I exchange a glance and a nod.

It’s time to reveal the truth to everyone, once and for all.

Harun takes a deep breath. “There’s something we have to tell you—”

The sound of drums, accompanied by a woman’s lilting vocals, cuts him off. Spotlights flash across our picnic area, leading to the stage, where they shine above the thick velvet curtains. They part to expose the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, in an elaborate violet-and-gold shari, jewels crowning her long, thick black braid, threaded with silver strands. She’s older than she was in the natok Nanu was watching when Nayim came over, but her more mature features do nothing to diminish her allure.

As soon as she appears, the music ceases to allow room for the deafening applause that fills the night. I doubt even Taylor Swift would get such a welcome. The entire crowd is now on their feet, whooping and cheering. Nanu might be the loudest of them all.

“Ekh asil ekh badsha,” Nasrin croons before pausing to allow for another wave of applause. She’s just uttered famous words that start many Bengali folktales—there once was a king. Her glittering eyes scan the assemblance, her lips upturned into a bright red smile. “I’m sure if you’re here, you must know my story already?”

“Nasrin, Nasrin, Nasrin!” her faithful fans chant, led by Nanu.

Nasrin gives them a pageant wave, solid gold bangles tinkling on her wrists. “It fills my heart with such joy to know my fans continue to remember and celebrate my work almost twenty years after I retired from performing. But I never once stopped thinking of all of you. Now I’m a happy wife and mother. In fact, that’s why I’m here tonight.”

The crowd cheers again, tossing flowers up to the stage. They land at Nasrin’s bare, nupur-adorned feet, bells chiming as she spins and holds her palms up toward the curtain. “It gives me great pleasure to perform tonight with my beloved son. I hope you, my fans, my family away from family, will welcome him with the same warmth you did me.”

With that, she takes a breath and begins the song again: “Ekh asil ekh badsha—”

The drummers play in tandem with the melody, the heady beat pulsing like a heartbeat through the falls. With each echoing thump of their instruments, accentuated by the building tempo of the flutists, the curtains inch apart again. Several disembodied voices rise together in song, telling the story of two barren queens and their heirless king.

Even as they do, a giant pomegranate flower descends from the top of the stage, paper petals pressed together around a glowing pistil. The singers, women and girls in bright green and red shalwar kameezes with orange flowers in their hair, dance nimbly out of the curtains on either side of the stage and twirl beneath the bud, telling the tale of how the younger queen struck a bargain with a traveling magician for a child.

“Dalim Kumar, blessed by the stars,” sings a pixie-like little girl Resna’s age in English, joined by other costumed children. “Matchless near and far, Dalim Kumar!”

Nasrin’s voice rises above the rest. “A prince like no other, treasure of me, his mother!”

She claps her hands—once, twice, thrice, each clap summoning the thunderous pounding of the drums. The pomegranate flower begins to tremble. By the third clap, the petals tear and scatter when a tall man in a golden mask bursts forth from it, waving a prop sword—presumably the famed Prince Dalim Kumar, played by Nasrin’s son.

“Dalim Kumar, zeh naam amaar,” he sings in a crisp, carrying tenor, introducing himself.

Although his face isn’t visible, he certainly appears matchless, floating over the rest of the actors on a rising platform that escaped the pomegranate bud, wearing an opalescent pagri and a fanjabi beaded with pearls and gold thread.

“Nanu told me this kiccha,” a round-eyed Resna stage-whispers from Arif’s lap.

Nanu somehow hears her over the queen and prince’s duet and nods. “It’s a famous story from Thakurmar Jhuli . They took a few liberties, but I watched every week on NTV. Nasrin played the role of Dalim’s princess then, but she looks so regal as the queen now.”

“They’re seriously going all out, huh?” Harun mumbles next to me.

Hanif narrows his eyes at the theatrics. “How do they have the production values for this? And how did they get a permit so fast?”

I shrug wordlessly, watching with bated breath as Nasrin’s gaze passes over the gathering until stopping, almost eerily, on me. Conversationally, she asks, “Shouldn’t a prince so handsome, so majestic, have a princess?”

The spectators scream their agreement.

Although his face is hidden, the smile in the prince’s voice is apparent when he speaks. “What if I told you all… she’s already here?”

Spotlights shine across the blankets where we sit.

A gasp rips out of me when I turn to find dancers flitting through the audience, stopping to gaze dramatically into the faces of girls in the throng, shaking their heads each time, until they finally convene in front of the stage and pirouette around to face—

Me.

I work my jaw as they open their bangled arms in my direction, not quite believing it even when they croon, “Zahra, tumare sara zara zai tho nai!”

Can’t bear to… be without me?

I know that melody. But the last time I heard it was… my stomach drops.

I’m too stunned to stop the two dancers who reach for my arms and hoist me to my feet, though I feel someone attempting to grasp my skirt—perhaps Harun.

Twirling around me, they lead me up the steps to the stage. The crowd is practically feral, cheering so loudly that they drown out the singers’ voices and the booming of the drums.

My feet move of their own accord toward the raised dais, where the masked prince lowers a hand to me. I can feel my pulse thrumming in every vein, my breath coming in short spurts, but the sooner I let this play out, the sooner I hope I can go back to Harun and my family. I steal a glance at the blanket where I was just seated and see my mother’s beaming face. I look ahead once more and see the stage right before us. The prince reaches down toward me.

I take his hand.

The prince tugs me up so fast, I stumble into his chest, then glance up to meet his gaze at last. Familiar honey-gold eyes twinkle back at me.

A shaky breath wrenches out as I whisper, “How in the…”

Elegant fingers entwine around my own as the prince kneels in front of me. Gripping my hand in his, he uses his other hand to remove his mask and the pagri, baring his handsome face to the world.

A murmur begins to ripple through the audience as the onlookers in the front relay their discovery of the prince’s identity to the others. I don’t need to hear them to know what they’re saying. The dishwasher… orphan… Nasrin Shah’s son?… That means…

Louder than the rest, Mr. Tahir exclaims, “Nayim?!”

No longer singing, Nayim says, “Zahra, you were the first person to like me, to believe in me, for who I am, rather than because of my family’s wealth or title. I missed you every breath we were apart. Without you, I was a total mess.”

The mic taped to his cheek carries his speech throughout the entire park, to deafening gasps, cheers, and applause.

“Wh-what?” I manage to whisper, eyes darting between his radiant face and the congregation watching our every move. The lights are too bright for me to find my family or Harun. I sweat beneath them, my throat parched, hyperaware of the cameras broadcasting every second far beyond the city. “What are you doing back? You left! You—”

Lied to me.

Asked me to run away.

Left the scattered pieces of your life for me to clean up.

“Made a terrible mistake,” he replies plaintively. “I needed that time away because I didn’t know if I could be the man you needed me to be. I returned to Bangladesh to confront my parents. Told them about you and how you make me a better person. Told them everything.”

“Of course,” chimes Nasrin, sweeping over to stand beside us with a magnanimous smile, “I told my son, tumar dil eh dakher. Follow your heart. How could I deny my child a fairy-tale romance when I had one of my own?”

The audience crows in approval, but Nayim’s hopeful smile is only for me. “When I kept getting signs that we should be together, I knew I had to return to Paterson, so I could ask you…”

“Ask me?” I repeat numbly.

The crowd clamors again, as if they know exactly what’s coming.

“Zahra, I can’t lose you again,” he confesses. “Will you marry me?”

I stare down at his gorgeous face. Even with perspiration beading his brow and his hair mussed up from the pagri, Nayim looks every bit a prince straight out of a natok or a novel or one of Nanu’s bedtime stories. Out of all the things I’ve always loved.

Because he is.

He’s an honest-to-God, literal prince—the son of one of the wealthiest men in Bangladesh—and he’s here to win me back.

In front of everyone.

My heart clenches. My lips part, but I can’t speak.

The crowd is chanting, “Say yes!” “Hurry!” “Oi kho!” “Zolji!” in English and Bengali.

I want my mom. I want Harun. My friends. I want someone to talk this through with me, because I have no idea how to process what’s going on, and I somehow feel more alone than ever, despite the dozens of musicians and dancers around me.

Does my head bob of its own volition? Because the next thing I know, he flings his arms around me and the audience is chanting our names, clapping, cheering.

I reach up, but suddenly I have no clue what to do with my own arms—whether to pull Nayim closer or push him away—so I just stand there, too stupefied to move, closing my eyes in an effort to escape the dizzying lights. The music swells in a jubilant chorus, and I can hear movement all around me.

When I open my eyes again, I see that dancers are twirling all around us once more and someone has spirited my family onto the stage. Arif is gaping at us. Resna, in his arms, glances around every which way, the apples of her cheeks flushed feverishly as the actors swarm around them both to invite them to dance.

Nanu is hugging her notepad to her chest, peering through dewy eyes at Nasrin, who puts an arm around her shoulder.

And Amma…

No surprise graces her face at this unpredictable turn of events. She stands with her hands linked together in front of her chest, beaming at me and Nayim, seemingly unaware of the growing crowd of well-wishers who flock to the stage to congratulate her on a job well done.

“Khubi bhalo kham khorso!”

A job.

As if an engagement is some sort of promotion or a business arrangement. The fact that the performance was only a ruse for Nayim’s proposal doesn’t bother her or anyone else.

Sometime during the flurry, Nayim slips a ring from his finger onto mine. Cameras flash as news crews and random people snap pictures and record. The whole time, I stand there unable to speak, unable to move, like some sort of doe-eyed doll. Not even the clamor of our entire city’s congratulations can quell the deafening roar growing in my ears.

There’s only one face in the crowd I seek, and yet it’s nowhere in sight.

I feel numb. Shell-shocked.

Everyone in the town is here. Everyone approaches the stage and offers their congratulations.

“Thank you,” I murmur, time and again, while Nayim shakes their hands wholeheartedly.

Is this really what he wants? To be his father’s son? The heir to a princely estate? My husband ?

I swallow the hard lump in my throat and my mouth goes dry.

But eventually, the crowd below the stage thins enough from people clambering on top of it that I can slip away with a muttered, “I need to go to the bathroom,” while Nayim shakes his hundredth hand of the night, beaming so wide that his face must hurt.

I elbow through the crowd, ignoring any congratulations lobbed at me or jealous smiles that undoubtedly wonder how I, a poor girl from Paterson, managed to win a prince’s affections.

My heart pounding, I make my way back to the picnic blanket. To Harun.

Pushpita Khala and Mansif Khalu are having such a heated discussion about something—me?—that they don’t even notice me approaching. Sammi Afa has a phone up to her ear, looking worried. She sighs, presses a button, and lifts it back to her ear, trying again. Hanif glares at me, more disgusted than ever. Shaad immediately looks down and won’t meet my gaze.

My eyes scan the blanket, but Harun is gone.

Not bothering to waste another second, I kick off my heels and run barefoot through the park, trying to find him.

Tears begins to blur my vision, but I keep running, wondering what the hell just happened.

And wondering how this fairy tale has gone so very wrong.