Page 60 of The Love Match

It’s not that I can’t stop it myself. That I’m some shrinking violet in an ATN Bangla tragedy where brown girls are forced to bend to others’ wills. I could have ended this farce at any time. But I’ve been desperately waiting for her to finally look at me, see me, andunderstandme. To say, of her own accord, that she has faith in my choices and will support me no matter what.

It would be easy to tell Amma, once and for all, that I’m no longer playing this game with Harun and the Emons, and she would have to live with it.

Would forgive me eventually, and things would return to normal.

But I’m tired of always taking the high road. I want to know what exactly it will take for her to decideI’mworth more to her than the wealthy son-in-law of her dreams.

The fire I’ve been bottling in my chest since she first tricked me into going on that blind date with Harun erupts from my lips like molten lava as I whirl to face her, unable to contain my own words: “Enough is enough, Amma! I can’t do this anymore. Tonight was miserable enough, but I refuse to spend the rest of my life with someone who’s still in love with his secret ex-girlfriend!”

My tirade silences everyone else at once.

Somehow, during the course of it, I’d screwed my eyelids shut without noticing, but open one now to find myself face-to-face with my ashen mother, who whispers, “That can’t be…”

“Harun, is that true?” a still-seated Hanif asks quietly.

“What?” Mansif Khalu booms, while Pushpita Khala shakes her head and says, “Na, na, na, na, my betta would never do that. He wouldn’t keep anything like that from us, nai ni, Harun?”

I bite my lip, pupils flicking to Harun as the realization of what I’ve done sinks in. His lips part in shock, then press together so tightly, it’s obvious they’re trembling. The hurt he wears is blatant, and so is the fact that I’ve majorly messed up.

“Harun, I didn’t mean—”

He ignores me, his sole focus on his livid parents. “Ma, Abba, we’re not—we didn’t—we broke up already. I’m not—”

“So there was a girl?” his father challenges.

His mother’s dark eyes film over with tears. “You hid her from us, betta? For how long?”

“Harun,” I attempt again, reaching for his arm. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

“No.” He cuts me off with a shake of his head, voice growing frigid even as his fists quiver at his sides. “No, go on. Tell them. It means getting what you want, doesn’t it? So do it.”

I peer between him and Amma, who is clearly waiting for an explanation. Harun’s parents and cousin are tense withanticipation too, while the rest of my own family gawks.

Although we never discussed using this particular leverage, we did agree to do whatever was necessary. I guess that makes this okay, but guilt curdles in my belly as I explain, “He had a girlfriend he’d been seeing for years. A girl he knows from school.”

“An American girl?” his father asks, pivoting toward his son again. “Is that what the tuition money I worked seven days a week to afford went toward? For you to fool around with bideshis? To mortify me now?”

Pushpita Khala speaks more gently, but the pain in her words makes Harun flinch. “Is she the reason why you’ve been so withdrawn from us? This whole time, I thought it was something we did, but you… This girl…”

“Lily.” Her name is a weapon on Harun’s tongue. He directs the blow at me, curling his upper lip in disgust. “At leastshe’sstudying to be a doctor. You think I’m supposed to beg to support some freeloading starving artist for the rest of my life?”

I flinch away from him and hiss, “Low blow, Emon.”

“Well, that’s all you know how to take,” he retorts.

Okay, ouch.

Before the situation can escalate further, Mansif Khalu steps in with a brisk, “That’s enough.”

“I think it’s time for our guests to go,” adds Pushpita Khala, coming to stand between me and Harun. “We have some things we need to discuss as a family. Clearly.”

This time, there’s no underlying warmth or understanding in either of their responses, but Amma wriggles her way toward us with her palms up in surrender, nonetheless. “Ji, of course that would be best. We can discuss this more once everyone’s cooled off?”

That infuriating note of hope remains in the query.

Pushpita Khala’s smile grows stiff. “Dekha zaibo.”

It’s not a no, but certainly not a yes. A polite dismissal.

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