Page 90 of The Love Match

Ushers clutching antique lanterns walk around, helping people find seats in the pandemonium. As one of them strides up to us, I whisper to Amma, “I thought this was a free concert…. Are there assigned seats? Tickets?”

She ignores me to introduce herself to the man. When he hears we’re the Khans, he nods at another group of ushers conducting the growing crowd. Only when they nod back does he direct us toward the front of the stage. With him leading us, people part to make room, but I squint at his back, mystified.

Must be some Bengali concert etiquette I’m unfamiliar with or something.

Nanu stands on her tiptoes and cranes her neck every few steps to catch a glimpse of her favorite shilpi. Letting her set the pace, I allow Resna to drag me through the teeming bodies, Amma and Arif at our heels. There are vendors holding trays of snacks and drinks weaving past us, the Tahir girls and their father among them.

I even spot Ximena sitting on a boulder, clasping her iPad and a stylus. She’s too far away to wave at, but I know the two of us will be okay. After my heart-to-heart with Dani on Monday, I called Ximena to let her know the two of us would still be friends no matter what. From now on, I’ll even listen more.

No matter where the world takes us, we’ll all be there for each other.

Giddiness wells inside my chest at the prospect of telling my friends about me and Harun, but it’s only when Resna points and exclaims, “There’s the mean boy!” that a true, ear-to-ear smile splits my lips.

“He isnotmean,” I correct her, redirecting her to the assorted picnic blankets a mere foot away from the stage where the extended Emon clan sits.

Nanu is still distracted, seeking out Nasrin, wizened hands gripping a tiny notepad and pen tightly in the hopes of getting an autograph, but I can sense the rest of my family watchingme in confusion. Harun has noticed us by now, however, and I only have eyes for his brightening face.

But I can’t seem too eager yet, so I wander close enough for him to point out to his mother, “Look, Ma, it’s Zahra.”

She glances away from the two women she’s huddled beside. My own mother winces as if pained, though I can’t fathom why, but manages a strangled, “Assalamualaikum, Afa.”

“Walaikum salaam,” Pushpita Khala says. “Do you need seats? Why don’t you join us? We got here early and commandeered too much space.”

“Pita tells us all the time about your dressmaking,” adds a dark-eyed woman who must be her sister and Hanif’s mother, if his scowl over her shoulder is any indication.

Another woman chimes in, “We’d love to see your work. Perhaps I could hire you to make something for my kids? A matching sherwani and shalwar kameez would look so lovely in new family portraits!”

“Jeez, you make it sound like we’re toddlers,” grumbles Shaad, eyes glued to his phone.

Sammi Afa, snuggled between him and a man who’s presumably her husband, declares, “Um, yes, how adorable would that be?”

I turn to Amma.

The grimace hasn’t left her face, but before she can retort,I couldn’t impose,Nanu tells the others, “Onek dhanyabad. My old bones can’t take any more walking.” She plops down thenand there, and when Amma reluctantly joins her, whispers, “They’re the closest to the stage.”

Fighting a smile, I let Sammi Afa corral me and my siblings onto the second blanket, where she and the other “kids” are. I don’t protest my proximity to Harun. Arif frowns at the way our pinkies brush on top of the blanket but doesn’t comment, instead ensuring Resna is affixed to his lap.

When Mansif Khalu returns with two other men, arms laden with Styrofoam dishes of mishti, chaat, and saa, Harun and I exchange a glance and a nod.

It’s time to reveal the truth to everyone, once and for all.

Harun takes a deep breath. “There’s something we have to tell you—”

The sound of drums, accompanied by a woman’s lilting vocals, cuts him off. Spotlights flash across our picnic area, leading to the stage, where they shine above the thick velvet curtains. They part to expose the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, in an elaborate violet-and-gold shari, jewels crowning her long, thick black braid, threaded with silver strands. She’s older than she was in the natok Nanu was watching when Nayim came over, but her more mature features do nothing to diminish her allure.

As soon as she appears, the music ceases to allow room for the deafening applause that fills the night. I doubt even Taylor Swift would get such a welcome. The entire crowd is now on their feet, whooping and cheering. Nanu might be the loudest of them all.

“Ekh asil ekh badsha,” Nasrin croons before pausing to allow for another wave of applause. She’s just uttered famous words that start many Bengali folktales—there once was a king. Her glittering eyes scan the assemblance, her lips upturned into a bright red smile. “I’m sure if you’re here, you must know my story already?”

“Nasrin, Nasrin, Nasrin!” her faithful fans chant, led by Nanu.

Nasrin gives them a pageant wave, solid gold bangles tinkling on her wrists. “It fills my heart with such joy to know my fans continue to remember and celebrate my work almost twenty years after I retired from performing. But I never once stopped thinking of all of you. Now I’m a happy wife and mother. In fact, that’s why I’m here tonight.”

The crowd cheers again, tossing flowers up to the stage. They land at Nasrin’s bare, nupur-adorned feet, bells chiming as she spins and holds her palms up toward the curtain. “It gives me great pleasure to perform tonight with my beloved son. I hope you, my fans, my family away from family, will welcome him with the same warmth you did me.”

With that, she takes a breath and begins the song again: “Ekh asil ekh badsha—”

The drummers play in tandem with the melody, the heady beat pulsing like a heartbeat through the falls. With each echoing thump of their instruments, accentuated by the building tempo of the flutists, the curtains inch apart again. Several disembodied voices rise together in song, telling thestory of two barren queens and their heirless king.

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