Page 49 of The Love Match

Dalia and Dani exile me and Nayim with a box of ribbon-wrapped treats to go, stressing that they’re on the house, while their father watches on in consternation. On the walk home, I become a rambling wreck—reminding Nayim of all the best ways to get into my family’s good graces.

“At least you’re bringing her mishti,” I finally finish, trying to find a bright spot in my chaotic chasm of angst. Bangladeshis don’t visit anywhere without bringing some sort of gift, typically in the form of sweets like cookies—which everyone calls biscoot even in the US—or mishti or boxes of mangoes.

Nayim frowns. “If you’re that worried, we don’t have to do this tonight. We can do something more fun like—”

“No!” I exclaim. He shuffles back a step at my shout, but our eyes remain locked. “We’re doing this tonight. I won’t back out. Just—”

“Just?”

Stay with me.

“Do to my mom that thing you do to all the other old ladies of the world, okay?”

A jaunty smile draws my gaze to his mouth. “I promise, Zahra.”

Chapter18

It feels like an answerto the silent hope in my heart I haven’t been able to give voice to yet. Although I know getting caught would ruin everything, Nayim’s assuredness emboldens me to grab his swinging hand in mine. We run the rest of the short distance to my house, the world blurring in our periphery, then release each other a step away from it.

Amma greets me at the door already talking: “I made shorishar ilish and bhuna murug with moong dhal tharkari, so hurry before it gets cold—”

The instant her gaze lands on Nayim, who hovers behind me, her mouth snaps shut with an audible click of her teeth. Her pupils dart between us. With the flicker of the television light behind her, an eerie shadow is cast over her face.

Swallowing a shiver, I try to remember that she’s sprung a few surprise dinner guests onmein recent memory. Turnabout is fair play, right?

Nayim breaks the silence. “Assalamualaikum, Fufu.”

“Who’s this?” Amma asks at last, directing the question to me.

I feign a nonchalant smile. “This is my coworker, Nayim Aktar. You’ve probably heard about him from Meera Khala? The boy staying with the imam’s family?”

Amma nods.

“Well, he told me he was about to go home and have instant noodles for dinner for like the third time this week,” I continue, imbuing outrage into my tone so her mother-compelled-to-feed-skinny-kids instinct will kick in. It is a truth universally acknowledged among Bangladeshis that a guest on one’s doorstep must be in want of at least two helpings of curry. “Can you believe that?”

Amma eyes Nayim from head to toe, taking in the present he holds and his outfit. He does his best to appear waifish and pathetic in spite of his lanky, towering frame. I, meanwhile, hold my breath. After a minute of this standoff, it’s Nanu who declares, “Let them in already, Zaynab.”

Score: Zahra.

I may have to listen to Amma, butshehas to listen to Nanu.

A tense, smiling mask shrouds my mother’s face as she greets Nayim properly and opens the door wider for us to enter, accepting the mishti with a dispassionate, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” that sounds more literal than ever before.

She bolts into the kitchen, leaving us standing awkwardlyin the living room, scattered with incomplete pieces for the bride-zolad, until Nanu pats the space next to her on the old plaid couch for Nayim to join her.

Shaken out of his trance, he salaams her the extra-formal way and frowns at the table while setting his guitar case down on it, careful not to disrupt any sewing equipment. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything for you, Dadi. Should I go get some mishti?”

Nanu tugs him onto the cushion. “Don’t do that, betta. You’re a guest. Sit.”

As he moves to comply, he takes in the movie playing on the TV and his eyes grow round. “Is thatAmar Jaaneh Tumake Dhake?”

Nanu and I trade a bemused glance, before I ask, “You watch classic natoks?”

“Uh, not much,” he replies, but there’s a waver in his voice and his knuckles have gone bone-pale on his lap. “My… mother loved them.”

Crap!

When will I learn to keep my big fat mouth shut?

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