Page 12 of If I Loved You Less
“Have fun with your friend,” he says, snagging another cream puff, and is on his way out. I watch him leave, the wide line of his shoulders, his long legs. A moment later, he disappears from sight, and another after, I hear the front door close behind him.
That final shut makes the house seem even emptier, so much so that I nearly wish to call him back.
What did he mean?But that was just it. I knew what he meant, and somehow he knew what I was feeling. Being alone in this great big house made me feel insufferably lonely, but he had disarmed that notion with a few words, telling me that as long as I was content with myself, it did not matter if the house was empty, that I was enough.
How did he know?
I cannot dwell on the matter because there is work to be done. I discard my scarf and go to get ready. I am applying a final layer of mascara just as the doorbell rings.
“Salaam!” I say, opening the door. Shanzay lets out a sigh of relief when she sees me, her wide and frantic eyes relaxing.
“I was afraid I was at the wrong house,” she says, coming in. “These are for you.”
She hands me a tray of cookies that look to be made from premade cookie dough, then goes to take her shoes off, a pair of leather khussas that go with the shalwar kameez suit she has on.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking the tray from her. “You can keep your shoes on.”
I’m wearing khussas as well. “Come, this way.”
“Oh … wow.”
Shanzay’s eyes widen as she takes in the house, cataloging the details. I love our house as well, with its clean scent and classic decor that is the perfect cross of lived-in and decadent.
Mama did all the interior design, and most of the furniture and curtains and rugs are imported from Pakistan. Since her death, we haven’t drastically updated anything, but I do try to keep the house spruced up with fresh flowers and new candles.
One of my favorite pieces in the house is a grand jhula, the swing made of intricately hand-carved wood. Mama used to say she wanted to import in an old haveli wooden door as well, but it didn’t work with the exterior of the house.
“Come, come,” I say, leading her to the family room. The formal living room will only make her feel overwhelmed, I am sure. The family room has high ceilings and one wall consists almost entirely of windows, which lets in lovely sunlight and provides a stunning view of the lush backyard. The waterfall glitters in the sunlight, pouring into the little pond.
“Your house is ... amazing,” Shanzay says, still taking in the details.
“Thank you.” I smile.
Her attention turns to me.
“And you look beautiful,” she adds. “Your hair is so nice!”
While I am used to people fawning over me, it is still nice to be complimented. I smile, smoothing my hair. It’s waist-length, dark brown, and cut into long layers; I blow-dried it for today. I’m wearing a new shalwar kameez suit from Sania Maskatiya, which one of my phuppos sent from Pakistan, with glass chudiyan and gold jhumkas. The gold earrings are pure and were a gift for my thirteenth birthday, one of the last gifts Mama gave me.
Mama loved dressing up; every day she would wear a freshly pressed shalwar kameez three-piece suit with matching gold jewelry. (Her jewelry collection is truly iconic.) Because I always saw Mama so dressed up, I also really like dressing up in traditional Pakistani clothes; they are more comfortable, and I feel they flatter me. People tell me I have a very classic look, like the actress Mahira Khan.
“How was the drive?” I ask, sitting down on a couch.
“Not too bad,” she replies, sitting beside me. She sits on the edge of the sofa, as if afraid she’ll ruin it. I laugh. “Come, relax,” I tell her. She smiles at me, then gets comfortable.
We make a little bit of small talk, then head to the kitchen, where we continue chatting as I cook the chai on the stove.
“Are you making mixed?” she asks. I nod.
“If it isn’t mixed, it isn’t chai,” I say. “Then it’s just tea.”
She laughs. “I agree entirely. It has to be cooked together.”’
I add in some elaichi, as well, to give it a nice aroma, and once the chai is done, I pour it into the teapot and bring it to the dining table in the adjoining room, which is already set up with all the food in pretty dishes and the matching tea set with gold rims and a red rose design. There are vases of fresh red roses on the table as well, along with gold candles and decorative pieces.
Shanzay gasps, taking it all in.
“Oh, this is so nice!” she exclaims. I am quite pleased with the set-up, as well, and am glad she appreciates it. We make ourselves plates of food and chat as we eat.
