“Are you excited about impending daddy-hood?” I asked Fahim.
He clutched the armrest, knuckles white. “If I live that long.” He smiled to show he was joking.
“I’m an excellent driver.” I slammed on the brakes, and Fahim’s head whiplashed forward. “Oops, sorry. The car in front of me stopped.”
“They tend to do that at red lights,” he said.
His smile was shaky now, but still hanging on. I stomped on the accelerator when the light changed, and zoomed past the snail in the blue Porsche.
“Maybe you should slow down a little,” Fahim said.
“Why aren’t you living at my house too, with Fazee?” I asked. “She gets grumpy when you’re not around.”
“That car’s coming up really fast. You see it, right? The one with the brake lights?”
Fahim let go of the armrest and was silent. I looked over. His eyes were wide, staring straight ahead. I spotted the car just in time and pounded on the brakes, screeching to a stop inches from a white BMW convertible. The driver gave me the finger.So rude.
“Hanaan!Are you trying to kill me?” Fahim was breathing hard now. “I didn’t move in because there’s only a single bed. Fazeela started snoring after the first trimester and I can’t sleep.”
I mulled over his words. It was true that Fazeela was a bed hog. When we were kids and had to share a bed on road trips, she’d yank all the blankets.
“Your mom told me a customer came by a few days ago after closing. Some young guy,” Fahim said, once his breathing had steadied. “You should be careful who you let in after hours. And always let me know first, okay?”
Fahim would freak out if I told him about my conversation with Aydin. I had tried to push it from my mind, with limited success.There was no reason to worry my brother-in-law too. “Aydin is harmless,” I assured him. “He wanted some leftover biryani, that was all. We chatted about the neighbourhood, our jobs. He seemed nice.”Up until the moment he didn’t, I thought.
“Is he cute, this Aydin guy?”
I nearly groaned out loud. “Fahim, drop it.”
No wonder my brother-in-law had been so eager to accompany me to the airport. He had been sent on a mission by Fazee to gather intel on my non-existent love life. I wasn’t sure why she was interested. Mom and Baba had never asked me about marriage plans; they understood I was too busy, that things were too precarious for me to consider a romantic entanglement.
I had never had a boyfriend, but I had never felt the lack of romance in my life. I was busy with the restaurant, my studies, my internship. In my family and community it was normal to skip the prolonged dating scene and marry quickly once the right guy had been found. Fazeela and Fahim had known they were headed towards a nikah within months of meeting.
My mind wandered to StanleyP and his increasingly intimate, flirty messages. We had settled on a deadline, more or less. In four weeks we would come to some sort of understanding—whatever that happened to be.
“What about you and Yusuf? I’d be happy to talk to him if you’re feeling shy,” Fahim said.
I nearly slammed on the brakes again. “What? No!”
“Yusuf is practically part of the family, and I can see the two of you together. I could be your love messenger,” he said.
Thomas would laugh so hard if he heard that conversation. I could picture Marisa’s eyebrows rising at the idea of my brother-in-law“talking to” Yusuf on my behalf.But why can’t you talk to him yourself?she would ask, puzzled.In Canada, women are free to pursue their own lovers, darling.
The thought of trying to explain the rishta proposal process to Marisa made me cringe. In traditional South Asian families like mine, sometimes romantic introductions are made through family, a grown-up version of “Do you like my friend? Check this box for yes and this box for no.”
“You know Yusuf and Lily have always been a thing. Why the sudden interest in setting me up?” I asked, suspicious. The fact that my brother-in-law was offering to play matchmaker was laughable. He and Fazeela had figured out things on their own before they informed their respective families about their intention to marry.
“Things are so up in the air right now, with the restaurant and everything else,” Fahim said slowly. “Fazee and I want you to find someone who will be on your side, who can help you get through the hard stuff.”
I mulled that over, acknowledging the truth of his words. Sometimes it was lonely not having someone who was solely on my side. But that didn’t mean I wanted Fahim and Fazeela to interfere in my love life. “Please don’t talk to Yusuf, or any other guy, for me, bhai,” I said, using the Urdu word for “older brother.” I never called himbhai, so he knew I was serious.
Fahim was silent for a moment. “Sure, Hana. Just promise you’ll be careful with your heart, okay? You deserve someone who puts you first.”
THE TERMINAL 1 ARRIVALS LOUNGEat Pearson International Airport was packed. We were surrounded by aunties in saris and salwarkameez trailed by sulky teenagers in ripped jeans and crop tops; young white and Brown and Black men with long beards or goatees or clean-shaven; old men dressed in three-piece suits or lungis; men in turbans, women in hijab; women in long dresses, short skirts, yoga pants, track pants; babies in strollers, children chasing each other through rows of seats—all of the beautiful hues of my city on display. All of us going places and getting stuff done and hauling home souvenirs while we’re at it.
Fahim spotted someone he knew, of course. Fahim knew everyone. He picked up friends the way the post office collected packages—constantly, and in strange locations. “Khalid!” he boomed across the arrivals hall, waving enthusiastically at a bearded man in a long white robe. Khalid was holding hands with a pretty, smiling woman in a purple hijab.
I wandered over to the digital bulletin board to check if my cousin’s plane had arrived on time. If it was running on Indian Standard Time, the answer would be a hard no.
