Page 9 of If I Loved You Less
The only exciting bit is when there is a knock on the door and food has arrived.
I suppose I could cook myself something, but I’m too tired to do so, which is why I have ordered from my friend, Zahra Paracha. She’s in culinary school and does personalized catering as well. She makes the most delicious home-cooked desi food.
“Assalaamualaikum, how are you?” I say, opening the door.
“Walaikumassalaam! Here’s your food,” Zahra says, handing me an aluminum tray. She’s a nice girl, originally from California and definitely has that relaxed look going for her. She’s a few inches shorter than me, with dark skin and a full, round face.
“Come in, I’ll make you some chai,” I say, stepping aside to let her enter. I just finished a cup, but I can always have another. It’s always fun to have chai with a friend.
“Oh, no, thank you, I’d love to, but I have more deliveries to make!” Zahra says.
“Aw, boo.” I frown. “I feel like we haven’t hung out in a while! At least tell me how the others are, Haya and Sadaf?”
Haya was Zahra’s best friend, and Sadaf was Haya’s sister. Sadaf was also Naadia’s best friend – they met in college – but I hadn’t seen much of her since Naadia got married, really.
“They’re good, too! Haya’s busy with wedding planning and her pharmacy program, and Sadaf’s being Sadaf!” Zahra replies. I smile.
“Well, we all have to get together soon! Maybe have a movie night or something.”
“Yes, definitely!”
I wave goodbye to Zahra, deflating a bit as I shut the door. It isn’t that I’m exceptionally close with her or Haya, but they are fun to hang out with. It’s nice to meet with friends, to fill the emptiness.
I never really stayed in touch with the friends I made in college. Actually, I’m not close with a lot of people, at least not nearby. I’ve always had Naadia, a built-in best friend, whenever we went anywhere, and then Phuppo, too. My best friend, Areeba, lives in New Jersey, so I don’t see her very often. And my girl cousins are a little older and married, and now even Naadia is married, and Phuppo, too.
Taking a measured breath, I go to the kitchen and set the food down. Then I change again and do a yoga session in the gym in our basement. After I’ve showered, I make myself a plate of food.
I’ve ordered a dish of chicken pulao from Zahra, and it’s such nice comfort food. Mama used to make the very best chicken pulao, and whenever I go to my Nano’s house in Islamabad, she makes it too. I make myself raita to go along with it, and eat the rice with the vegetable yogurt in the quiet kitchen.
After that’s all done with, there’s still a few hours to kill before sleeping. Papa isn’t home yet, so I make him a plate of food, then pack us boxes for lunch tomorrow. Even though of course he can get his own food, as he is a grown man, I don’t mind doing little things for him like this. Everything I have is because of him, and with just us two left in the house, it’s nice to look after someone, to be useful.
Though sometimes I am afraid he is growing dependent on me.
I put the rest of the food away, then head upstairs, leaving most of the lights on.
I have always adored my house. It’s big with lots of wide windows and homey details, and it doesn’t feel cold or distant, but when it is empty like this, I feel as though I am not even there, like I am a ghost, haunting the place.
The walls are steeped with memories, echoes of moments past, and I feel like I am just another one of them. So many of Mama, then infinite more with Naadia, who I basically spent every waking moment with when we were home.
Having a sister is so strange because you spend your whole life as extensions of one another – consuming the same shows, books, and songs; sharing clothes; having the exact same sense of humor; cooking and eating food together – and then one of you moves out and everything becomes an obscure reference to what was.
But what can be done? At the very least, she’s happy.
I settle into bed with a novel, trying to lose myself in nineteenth century England. I am very much into historical romance, but I have to sneakily read them because of the racy covers. Papa would be positively scandalized if he saw them. Even worse if he read inside.
The settings of these novels feel like a different world yet it’s still so familiar. It is amusing how Pakistani culture is so similar to Regency-era England, with all the rules and courting. I also love the way they talk; it is so proper. It reminds me of Mama.
The best part, of course, is the romance. The gentleman is always clever and challenging his heroine while still being fiercely devoted. Plus, they are always so well-dressed!
My cheeks heat as I get to a sex scene, which I flip through (mostly), though I still find it fascinating to see certain parts. Desis are so hush hush about sex education, it is interesting to see how the act is actually done and what is involved.
I have never even been kissed, so there certainly is a lot left to imagine.
Oh, how I dream about being kissed! A lot of Muslim girls are frightened by the concept – even Naadia was so nervous about getting married – because when you spend your whole life not being touched by men, there is a certain terror that comes with someone having complete access to your body in ways you have never experienced.
But I can’t wait for it all: to be touched, to be held, to be kissed, to be loved.
The furthest I've ever gone is holding hands with my crush in the fourth grade. He was a white boy with blonde hair and blue eyes (so cliche, I know) and we were on a field trip looking at birds, and his hand brushed against mine.
