A young man stood on the other side of the board, head bent over his cellphone. My gaze followed the line of dark stubble on his well-defined jawline, the black hair curling under his collar. Silver sunglasses dangled from his shirt pocket. He lifted dark eyes to mine, and we both froze.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Aydin.
Aydin blinked rapidly before recovering. “I heard one of the airport restaurants has a two-for-one deal on biryani poutine. You know, to scare off the Americans.”
I snort-laughed but quickly recovered. “I meant who are you here to pick up?”
Aydin shrugged, the movement casual. “Anyone who will have me.”
I gave him a hard look and he smiled, the expression momentarily transforming his handsome face. “I’m here to pick up a friend,” he said.
I was confused by his familiarity after our last, heated conversation. Looking for a distraction, I scanned the arrivals board. Rashid’s flight was on time, and I made my way to the doors where a small crowd waited for passengers beyond opaque security gates. Aydin fell into step beside me as I unrolled the sign I had scrawled in the parking lot, after I realized I had no idea what my eighteen-year-old cousin looked like. The last time we met, he had been six years old.
Aydin read my sign, eyebrows raised. “Mail-order groom arriving today?” he asked, lips twitching.
“You should take your show on the road,” I said.
“Sadly, I’m only this amusing around you.”
“You weren’t very amusing the last time we met,” I said. A strange expression crossed his face, too quickly for me to catch. Regret? Surprise? Irritation? Either Aydin was the moodiest man I knew or there was something else going on behind his hot-and-cold behaviour.
“My restaurant advice was well-meant. You overreacted,” he said.
Definitely moody. How could someone so attractive be so dumb? I shook my head. “Nope. Try again.”
He pulled a hand through his hair. “I was confused by your smile and your mother’s excellent biryani, and I didn’t know what I was saying?” A tiny flirtatious gleam in his eye coaxed a smile to my lips, which I immediately suppressed.
“Better, but still not good enough. Let me know when you’ve figured out the rest of your story,” I said. We smiled at each other, and for a moment the air filled with tiny electric sparks.
A tall lady in elegant cigarette pants and flowing black silk salwar top paused and studied my sign. Her dark eyes were coolly assessing,her thin lips painted red and pursed in disapproval. A white dupatta shawl was wrapped tightly around her hair like a 1920s film star.
“Surely you cannot be Ghufran Khan’s daughter,” the lady drawled in a well-educated Indian accent that denoted an excellent convent education. I blinked, and Aydin took the opportunity to disappear into the crowd.
“Hana Apa!” A burst of motion and I was picked up by a lanky teenage boy. Cousin Rashid, I presumed. His enormous smile engulfed a triangular face similar to mine. His skin was a deep mahogany and his black hair cut close to his head; he wore a red shirt and black dress pants. With skinny wrists he strained to grip two shoulder bags and a carry-on suitcase. Behind him a luggage cart groaned with half a dozen suitcases. I was glad now that Mom had forced me to bring Fahim the Luggage Wrangler.
Rashid whipped out his cellphone and leaned in close. “Smile, Hana Apa!” he said, using the Urdu word for “big sister,” and took a selfie. “I have promised Mummy Daddy to send pictures and videos of my experiences in Canada.”
He showed me the photo. I looked constipated, but before I could ask him to erase it, he had already sent the offending image to his family. He straightened and began filming the arrivals lounge. I turned to find the older lady still examining me.
“Aunty, I don’t know how you know my mother’s name, but I don’t know you,” I said, my voice firm but polite.
Rashid whipped his camera in our direction and started laughing. “This is Kawkab Khala!”
That didn’t clear anything up for me.Khalameant “mother’s sister” according to the specific Urdu accounting of family relationships. But my mom only had one sister, Ghazala, and she lived in India.
“I’m the third sister,beta.” Kawkab Khala smiled at me, revealing uneven teeth. “Your mother’s favourite cousin. I’ve come to visit my long-lost family in Canada. Surprise!” She sailed past me, Rashid scampering after her like a well-trained puppy, leaving me with his two shoulder bags, the carry-on, and the leaning luggage cart.
What had just happened? I looked around for Fahim, who was still chatting with his friend.
My eyes froze on Mr. Silver Shades. He was in the middle of the lounge, standing close to a raven-haired beauty in a flowing ankle-length red dress gathered at her tiny waist. They were speaking urgently. The young woman shook her head and, with an impatient gesture, stalked ahead of him on stiletto heels. He squared his shoulders and marched after the girl in the red dress.
Anyone who would have him, indeed.
I GRABBED RASHID’S BAGS. Icouldn’t think about Aydin and his... girlfriend? random beautiful stranger? airport hookup? I had to stay focused on one turn of events at a time. Such as Kawkab Khala, my alleged aunt.
She would need a bedroom, and South Asian rules of hospitality were clear. There was no way my mother’s older “sister” could be expected to sleep on the couch while there was a bedroom left in the house. As the youngest member of the household, that meant I would be on the couch for as long as Kawkab Khala decided to grace us with her unexpected presence. I eyed her immaculately ironed silk salwar top, the heavy gold chain around her neck, and her discreet gold jhumka ear bobs. She would probably take over my dresser and remaining closet too.
I headed towards Fahim, my cousin and Kawkab Khala trailing behind, and performed the introductions. My brother-in-law nervously raked his fingers through his hair as he looked from Kawkab Khala to Rashid and then back to me, unsure what to do.
