Page 8 of If I Loved You Less
At this she breaks off, cheeks turning even more pink. Goodness. I have not known such shyness in quite some time, not since I was in high school, maybe.
“Who’s Huzaifa?” I ask, and Shanzay gasps a little hearing his name. She looks around as if he will materialize right then. Gracious me.
“Oh, he is the ... eldest,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “He and Fawad Bhai get along really well. Sometimes they even played basketball together.”
This is positively shocking. I did not think Fawad had an athletic bone in his body. It is also interesting because from what I know, the Rajas are a simple, relatively poor family. I have met the daughter, Madiha, before; we are from the same masjid community, and she’s active in the Youth Group for girls there.
“I simply cannot believe you came to New York just as mango season began in Pakistan,” I say, changing the subject. Shanzay laughs.
“I know,” she replies, “but I was a TA for an undergraduate summer class, so I had to come earlier. The Rajas were so kind, letting me stay with them for the summer.”
“They’re family friends of yours?”
She nods. “But now that classes have started, I have my own apartment on campus.”
We continue chatting. She tells me about her program, and we discuss things like Pakistani actors’ love lives, and the newest fashion collections, and the best places to eat in Islamabad, and trips to the northern areas of Pakistan.
Shanzay is a simple girl: she doesn’t go out much and doesn’t know about a lot of the restaurants or designers I talk about, but it’s still nice talking to her. She’s really close with her family, which I can appreciate because I am close with mine.
But while it is just Naadia and I, she has three older brothers who are all married and have kids and are settled in Pakistan. She tells me horror stories about having brothers and I am glad I have none.
“You’re so eloquent,” she tells me. “You sound like a princess.”
I smile. “Courtesy of all the private schools I went to; they insisted upon precision of language.” I consider this further. “And Mama always told us to speak properly. Naadia disagrees—she does not hold propriety in much regard, but I like it.”
I find it soothing: a semblance of control and order. And it reminds me of Mama, of course. She always had such a way of speaking, always so poised and confident.
“The schools here are really impressive,” Shanzay says. “Baba sent me to America to study, but Mama really sent me here to find a husband.” She laughs. “Instead of an MS degree I’m supposed to be getting a MRS. degree. You know how mothers are.”
Pain stabs my chest. “I don’t, anymore,” I say. “But I do remember.” Shanzay’s eyebrows furrow. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen. Even then, Mama was already telling us about the rishta process and marriage and how one must ‘compromise’.” This I put in air quotes. Shanzay laughs.
“Ya khudaya, what is it with desi mothers and the word compromise? I swear it’s the only concept in their minds when they think of marriage.”
“Honestly.” We laugh.
“I am sorry about her passing,” Shanzay says. “Even though my mother drives me absolutely crazy, I miss her loads, and we talk every day.”
“Tell me more about her,” I say.
“This one time, we were driving and…”
Shanzay tells me stories about her mother, and I listen. Some people find it uncool to be friends with one’s mother, but Shanzay talks about her mother like she is her best friend, which I find very sweet.
Mama was my best friend before she died.
Cancer came and took her too quickly, in just a few months. I barely had time to react to the illness before she was gone. It was hard to lose her, particularly because I was just getting into my teenage angst so I hadn’t even properly grown distant from her yet. I was still childishly obsessed with her.
I think if Mama was still alive, she would be my best friend, too.
* * *
The rest of the day after that passes with the business of work, and when I finally come home that evening, an empty house awaits me. I sigh, setting my tote down and kicking off my shoes. I put on a pair of plush slippers, the small movements sounding loud in the quiet house.
It’s strange because the house would be empty even when Phuppo still lived here, since she got off of work at the hospital later than I did, but it was always nice knowing she would be coming soon, so the loneliness would not be lasting. And before that, even though Naadia would be busy studying at the library, I always knew she’d be home eventually. That we’d have dinner together, or at least, convene over late-night brownies and milk.
Now, the evening spreads ahead of me, long and vacant.
I go up the winding staircase to my room, then wash up and pray. I change into more comfortable clothes before making myself some chai for the evening. Then I sit in the family room and slowly sip it, looking out the windows to watch the sun move across the sky, until the clouds are tinged purple and pink.
