Page 63 of If I Loved You Less
I cry all the time, nearly every day, butIhave the good graces not to subject others to awkwardness by doing it in front of them. But she needs me to be a shoulder for her to cry on, so I will be that for her.
Then the very worst thing happens.
We are sitting at home, drinking the very best of my Fortnum and Mason tea. I’ve even ordered a shipment of Pierre Herme macarons from Paris (Laduree can be a bit overdone) to chew on while we play cards. Papa is in his office going over investment stuff with Fawad when he gets a phone call. I think nothing of it until I hear him exclaim.
“What great news!”
Curious, I go to investigate.
“What is it?” I ask. Fawad is as intrigued as I am, as Papa looks very happy indeed. He sets down the phone and grins at us.
“Emad is engaged! To a girl named Yasmine!” he exclaims. My heart drops straight to the floor. I glance over my shoulder to make sure Shanzay is not there, and thankfully, she isn’t.
Fawad and I exchange a worried glance.
“How wonderful,” I respond quickly. “Papa, would you?—”
But it is too late. I hear crying from the other room. Stifled, but still crying. Papa hears it too.
“You girls are too emotional,” he says. Sliding his reading glasses on, his focus is once again on his papers. I feel like crying myself when I go to see Shanzay.
“I-I’m sorry,” she sobs, covering her face. “I’ll just be a moment.”
“It’s alright to cry,” I say, sitting beside her. I put an arm around her shoulders. “There, there.”
I look for the nearest box of tissues and instead see Fawad entering with one in his hands. Wordlessly, he hands it to Shanzay, who sniffles before taking it.
“Th-Thank you,” she sputters gratefully. He nods, then exits just as quickly as he came.
* * *
I meet the dreadful woman in mention a few weeks later, when Papa, Naadia, and I go to say congratulations to Mahum Phuppo, who greets me without her usual affection and instead pushes her new daughter-in-law forward like a prize.
“This is Yasmeen,” Mahum Phuppo says.
“Jasmine,” the girl in question says. Jasmine smiles at us, then looks us up and down, raising her brows as she takes in our shalwar kameez and hijabs, her gaze amused. Before we can help it, Naadia and I exchange a quick glance.
Jasmine is wearing garish pink lipstick in a shade I know my phuppos would call “loud,” and worse than that, she is wearing tight skinny jeans and a sleeveless blouse. She is most definitely one of those “modern” types.
It’s all well and good to wear what one pleases outside of the house, butinsideof the house, there is a certain dress code. My phuppos are from Pakistan and still uphold a certain level of conservatism, which the rest of the family then upholds out of respect for my phuppos.
There are family-wide rules the other daughters-in-law – and Naadia and I – must abide by, and there is no way Jasmine would not be made aware of them. (One time, my shirt was tucked into my trousers, and my Zaineb Phuppo casually came over and just untucked it!)
I do not know why Yasmine – sorry,Jasmine– would purposefully ignore such mandates unless she simply thinks she is above them.
“It’s nice to meet you, how are you?” I ask, in Urdu, because that is how we always speak to relatives.
“I am doing very well, thanks for asking,” she replies in mangled Urdu. I physically cringe, then stop myself midway. I can see Naadia doing the same. Her Urdu isatrociousin a very purposeful manner I have heard only in Islamabad, from rich girls at Nabila’s Salon in E-7, who think the language is beneath them, and thus make no attempts at speaking it properly.
Jasmine confirms as much herself, when it is just Naadia and I sitting with her.
“English is so much better,” she says. “I don’t get why we even bother with Urdu anymore when we’re in America? But you know the aunties, some of them are too old to learn anything new.”
Naadia and I, versed well in the language of sisters, merely exchange a glance that communicates everything we need to say to one another.
Oh, but it gets better! Just a little while later, she pulls a little tube out of her bra – her bra! – and drinks the clear liquid inside.
Naadia and I cannot stop our jaws from dropping.
