Page 50 of The Love Match

Thank God for Nanu, who must have also heard some of the gossip about Nayim’s tragic past, because she changes the subject back to the movie. “This is an old film, older than either of you, but it’s one of the greatest natoks of Nasrin Aktar’s career. Her very last.” She taps her chin. “Most kids these days only watch Bollywood. Your mother must have been a true fan if you know Nasrin’s work on sight alone.”

Nayim’s Adam’s apple bobs. “The biggest.”

Nanu turns back to the film, where an achingly beautiful woman in her twenties sings a heartrending melody about the loss of her lover in war as she dances nimbly through her village. There’s something about her ballerina grace and large eyes that glitter like gold that draws me to her, but I suppose since she’s my grandmother’s favorite actress, we’ve watched Nasrin in other natoks before. Nanu has loads of DVDs and a DVD player to play them.

“What happened to her?” I ask. “Why did she stop acting so young?”

Nanu tuts. “She had a real-life fairy tale of her own. One day, on the set of this very film, she met the heir of the illustrious Shah family. The Shahs are as close as you can come to Bangladeshi royalty. Abdul Rahim Shah was spellbound by Nasrin’s beauty and they were married within a year. She gave up her Dhallywood career to be a wife and run the Shah estate, but she must have children by now.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” Nayim mutters.

I frown at him, worry curdling in my gut. Normally, I might tease him for misquoting Shakespeare, but I feel bad for triggering memories of his parents—or lack thereof.

Before I can move to comfort him, Nanu sets her hand on top of his. Startled, Nayim faces her and seems to soften at the tender expression she wears as she says, “Loss of one’s parents can be a difficult thing, but when you get to be my age, anger and sadness fade to nostalgia and become morebearable. Live a life filled with no regrets until then, won’t you?”

Nayim nods, swallowing again. This time, his irises glitter like coins themselves. My own eyes prickle at the sight of two of my favorite people getting along, but Resna saves us all from drowning the night in our tears by bounding into the room and right into Nayim’s lap.

“Why, hullo?” He tips his head to the side.

“You have a guitar,” she says matter-of-factly.

Nayim reaches for his guitar case as if he’d forgotten its presence, then utters a sheepish chuckle. “You’re quite right, I do. Would you like me to play something for you?”

Resna considers him with healthy skepticism. “Do you know any Cocomelon songs?”

“I’ve only heard a few while babysitting for the imam,” he admits, “but I’m not in the habit of denying requests from such pretty girls, so I’ll do my best.”

My sister giggles.

Only then do I hear my brother whisper, “Psst, Afa.”

Arif is peeking out from Amma’s bedroom, scowling at me. Casting one last look back at Nayim, Resna, and Nanu, who are all singing along to some song about the importance of eating veggies, I sneak into the room beside him and shut the door behind me.

“Is that your boyfriend?” he demands.

The raging blush that claims my face is all the answer he needs, but before he can blow up at me, I say, “Please, Aru, thisis going to be hard enough with Amma. I need the rest of you on my side if I’m going to have any shot at happiness.”

“Happiness?” My brother sags. “It’s that serious with this Nayim dude, then? Like,marriageserious? What about Harun?”

I pointedlydo notthink about Harun or marriage. “What are you, Baba?” I don’t think about how much more Arif resembles our father the older he gets, either. “Nayim… makes me happy. I just want to see where that goes without feeling like I’m bringing shame on our entire family. Is that so wrong?”

He folds his arms across his chest and mulls this over, looking more profound than any fourteen-year-old has a right to, before he nods. “I want you to be happy, Afa.” A well of love bubbles in my chest. I crush him against it and pepper his face with smooches. “Ew, let go.” He shoves me away and fixes his hair. “Ialsofigured if I take your side now, you’ll have to back me up later when I ask Amma to let me try out for the high school basketball team.”

I grin. “Whatever you say, tough guy.”

Amma calls for us to come to dinner.

Arif pats my arm as he passes me, one last wordless vow to have my back. I give myself a few seconds to regain my composure, then trail after him into the living room. Amma’s standing at the kitchen door, watching Nayim show Resna how to play a chord.

At my arrival, she clears her throat and says tersely, “Ithink we’ve wasted enough time on silly instruments. Let’s eat while the food is hot.”

Dinner goes… well, perfectly.

Nayim thanks Amma for going out of her way to feed him and compliments every single bite he eats so profusely that her natural instinct to preen wins out. He answers every question she can think of without so much as a flicker of annoyance, and whenever uncomfortable silences descend, the rest of us tag in to prod the conversation along.

He even plays along patiently when Nanu pulls out our family album and starts gushing about pictures of toddler-age me and present-age Resna in tiny red bridal sharis made by Amma—a time-honored brown girl tradition—until a naked baby Arif with a black string tied around his waist and a big black dot on his temple to ward off the evil eye appears.

At this point, my furiously blushing brother says, “Ugh, that’s enough show-and-tell,” and slams the album shut.

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