Always Be My Bibi, page 9
I shrug. “In my defense, Sohel had it coming.”
“I have no doubt,” Akash concurs with a chuckle. He glances in his cousin’s direction, before adding, “Sohel has always been a bit holier-than-thou. I’m sure you only livened up the place.”
“You’re telling me! Thank God someone understands.” I shoot a victorious smirk toward the boy in question, who sinks into his chair with his arms crossed, as Halima attempts to coax him into tasting desserts with her.
That reminds me to push the tea service tray in Akash’s direction. As he accepts a scone, our fingertips brush, sending an electric thrill through me. His voice is too soft for anyone else to hear. “I’m glad I listened to Sunny.”
His smile makes the butterflies in my belly do somersaults, but I huff, “All right, Romeo, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” I motion toward him, letting him know the floor is his.
Akash shakes his head, gray eyes dancing with amusement. “Well, please don’t think I’m a bad Bangladeshi son, but I just took a gap year to take part in cricket tourneys.”
He pauses, as if bracing for impact, then visibly lets out a breath when I squeal, “Oh my God, I’ve been thinking about taking a gap year too.”
“Really?” he asks. “You’re not just saying that to soothe my bruised ego?”
“No way,” I insist. “It’s just, like, there’s an entire world out there. Why not see a little bit of it while we’re still young and—”
“Exactly! The chance to see more of the world, play while I’m in the prime of my youth, stand on that pitch with the cheers of my fans reverberating into my very bones….” The wistfulness in his voice sends a pang through my chest. I cup my cheek in one hand and sigh at his dreamy expression. “There will be plenty of time later to put on a tie and become the son my parents want, but like you said, we’re young. What’s the harm in having a bit of fun before settling down?”
“The way you talk about it makes me want to watch cricket,” I tell him with a giggle. “It’s not really a thing in the US. Maybe you can bring me to a match one day?” It’s only when Akash’s eyes widen that I realize how bold that was and hurry to add, “I mean, if you want to, of course! I didn’t mean to force your hand or anything—”
“No, please,” he interrupts. “It’s refreshing how candid you are. I don’t have any test matches for a while, but I’d love to make that happen, Bibi.”
I award him a playful grin, even though my heart is thundering in my chest. “That’s okay. I can stomach a few unrelated dates with you first.”
“You can, can you?” he teases.
“You’re not that bad to look at,” I divulge.
He dimples again. “Well, now you’re flattering me.”
We lose track of time. Although I know nothing about cricket, I could listen to Akash talk about his adventures on the pitch for hours. I learn that he used to attend the same boarding school as Sohel in the UK, until Sohel transferred to a school back home. Akash was accepted at Cambridge but recently deferred for a gap year to hone his skills as a bowler.
“I want to be the next Shakib Al Hasan,” he says. “Scandals off the pitch aside, he’s one of the best all-rounders Bangladesh has ever produced, perhaps even one of the best of all time.”
I nod as if I know what the heck he’s talking about. “I bet your family is super proud.”
Akash’s eyes grow dull. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Seriously?” I gape at him. “What more do they want? You’re good-looking, talented, have a backup plan at one of the most prestigious universities in the world…. If they’re not satisfied with you, I’m not sure people like me have a hope in the world.”
“Let’s just say they’re used to making decisions for me,” he admits with a self-effacing smile. “Cricket is the first thing I’ve chosen for myself. I’m sure I sound pathetic.”
I shake my head. “No! I get that. My father is the king of fried chicken—a self-made man living the American dream—which basically means my entire life has to be perfect or it won’t measure up.”
Akash lets out a breath, sounding almost sad. “I don’t meet many girls like you, Bibi Hossain.”
The butterflies in my belly do an encore beneath the intensity of his gaze. I watch his hand creep across the table, stopping just behind the teapot. If I move mine forward an inch or two, they’ll be touching. I can almost feel the electric charge between us.
Then his phone pings.
Akash frowns at whatever message pops up. “Is it this late already? I’m sorry, but I have to go. There’s an appointment I can’t miss.”
“It’s cool, no worries.” Before I can talk myself out of it, I hold out my hand. “Can I see your phone for a sec before you go?”
Akash’s brows rise to meet his hairline, but he unlocks it and sets the device in my palm. Ignoring all the text message notifications on the bottom of the screen—and there are so many that at least a few, statistically, have to be from girls—I diligently open the contacts page, switch the font to English, and tap the details of my own number into it. Abbu still has my phone, but maybe I can sweet-talk him into giving it back because of these dates. He vetted the Biodata Boys, after all.
Sliding his phone back across the table to him, I declare, “There! Now you can text me anytime.”
“That I can.” He grins at me.
After stepping out of the gazebo first, he holds out his hand to help me down the stairs. I accept it without hesitation, and can’t help marveling at how much bigger it is than mine. His warm hand encases mine so carefully that I feel like a princess while descending.
He releases me quickly—probably sensing my chaperones’ disapproving stares boring into his back. I ball my fingers at my side, suddenly bereft, until he plucks a small, trumpet-shaped orange flower from one of the vines growing around the gazebo and presents it to me between his thumb and forefinger.
I cradle it in both hands. “Th-thanks.”
A certain someone makes a retching sound, but I don’t hear it over the good-byes and good nights I exchange with Akash.
My eyes follow him out of the teahouse until he’s no longer in view.
* * *
Back at the guest house, I throw myself onto the bed between Ammu and Abbu, ignoring their synchronized Oomph! to declare, “I have to hand it to you two—I didn’t think you could do it, but Akash is everything I ever imagined and more!”
Nayelli is going to flip out when she hears that my first real date was with a billionaire athlete straight out of the romance novels she loves. Eat your heart out, Enzo Romano!
Abbu sets down the Bangla patrika he’s been reading to inspect me for boy-inflected contagions, before he says, “A good fisherman will release a hundred shorputi before he reels in a single shol.”
“What does that mean?” I exclaim, glancing at Ammu to translate.
“It means,” he answers sternly, “don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched—which is why I’ve arranged a series of other dates for you this coming week.”
I can’t help feeling a stab of disappointment at his lackluster response. It seems like even when I try to do everything by the book, he still takes issue with how I’m proceeding.
“I’m glad you liked him, moyna,” Ammu adds, “but your father is right.”
Grabbing one of their spare pillows, I hug it to my chest and muffle a “Whatever” into the pillowcase, but their apathy can’t dull the twinge of excitement I feel at the prospect of meeting with Akash again.
Who knows?
Maybe they’re right and he’s only the first in a parade of drool-worthy boys?
A girl can dream.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The days between the dates are agonizing.
I keep pestering my parents to ask if Akash has texted, until Abbu gets so fed up that he decides to give me an hour to check my phone every night. But Akash never does, even though he regularly posts story updates on Instagram. I’m mildly embarrassed to cyber-stalk him, since he has more than a hundred thousand followers. I’m as invisible as any one of the thousands of screaming fans in the stands of his cricket matches.
If I spend a bit too long studying the videos of his shirtless workout routines during my pitiful phone time, it’s only because I’m reading the comments to see how many girls are there.
The answer: a lot.
At least today Abbu has given me the day off from the tea gardens to visit Thathu’s village with her. When we arrive, I take some time to greet relatives—and Thathu’s goats and chickens, who bray and squawk at us while running around our legs.
Thathu chuckles as she watches a baby goat chew on my skirt. He’s so cute that I don’t mind him ruining my Akris Punto midi. It’s from three seasons ago, anyway. “What name have you given this little one, Bibi zaan?”
I eye him for a second, scratching under his scraggly chin. “Pine.” I’ve been giving all of Thathu’s farm animals names ever since I found out she never bothered to. The goats seem to like me best. Maybe the chickens can sense how many of their friends I’ve fried.
“Pine?”
I nod. “After Chris Pine’s salt-and-pepper beard. He’s my favorite Hollywood Chris.”
Thathu gives me a confused look before slapping her knee. “You really are boy-crazy, Bibi, but I can see why they’d like you, too. My happy, funny girl.”
“Well, that’s not true,” I reply, cheeks burning. “The boy from the other day… I thought he liked me, but he hasn’t texted me at all.” My bottom lip juts out. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand boys.”
Thathu’s eyebrow ticks higher. “Hasn’t it only been a few days?”
“I—I guess,” I sputter. The second brow joins the first. “But that’s basically weeks in texting etiquette. Maybe even months!”
She snorts and beckons me inside. “Today you’re with me. Perhaps he could sense you didn’t need a distraction. Let your grandmother make you something to eat.”
Despite my protests that she doesn’t need to bother, she whips up a whole feast of snacks, plenty to sate the aunts, uncles, and cousins who stream in and out to chat with us.
It’s only after they’re gone and we’ve retreated to her bedroom that I tell her everything that went down on my date, flipping through a family album I found on top of her wardrobe. I finish by informing her of what Abbu told me about not getting my hopes up about Akash.
“Your father is one to talk about love at first sight,” she replies with a soft laugh.
Not bothering to correct her that I’m far from in love, I glower down at a photo of Abbu at nineteen or twenty when he first arrived in America, dressed in the white shirt and black pants of a waiter. “Because of Ammu?”
I’ve heard the story before, of course, but tilt closer to Thathu nevertheless. She sets down the shari she’s been folding into an open bag next to me and shakes her head, her smile fond and faraway. “I still remember when he met her. He called me that very night to tell me the woman he wanted to marry had walked into his restaurant that day.”
I knew it all moved fast, but not that fast. “For real? How did you react?”
“The same way he did with you, I suppose,” she reveals, rubbing her chin. “I told him he hadn’t been there very long and was too young to think about marriage while he was getting settled, but he was always like you. Adamant. He said he would regret it if he didn’t at least try to see where things went with her. You won’t believe how long I spent praying that she would only come back to see him if she was good for your father—and Alhamdulillah, she was.”
I flip to the middle of the album. A photo of my first birthday appears. Abbu is holding me aloft with his hands under my fat baby arms like I’m Simba while Ammu stuffs a spoonful of cake into my eager mouth, my chubby cheeks smeared with pink frosting. Halima hovers next to her, sporting a bowl cut and a secretive, smug smile—probably because she blew out my candle. I wonder what she wished for back then?
“We’re nothing alike anymore,” I mutter as I start smoothing out the creased corner of the photo. Something sticks out from behind it, making the plastic sleeve containing the photo lumpy. I really should help Thathu digitize these at some point. “You trusted him to come to America on his own, to be with who he wanted.” The words catch in my throat. “Abbu doesn’t trust me at all. Not like he trusts Halima Afu.”
It hurts a bit whenever I remember how close we used to be. When I was little, we were inseparable. We used to have flour fights while he showed me how to prepare Royal Fried Chicken’s secret seasoning and sauce. He’d tell me stories before bedtime and drive me to school before opening up the restaurant every day. He’d wake me up on Sundays, surprising me with daddy-daughter dates to places like the Paterson waterfall or a little tea shop in town called Chai Ho. We used to talk for hours.
Things are different now. He’s always disappointed in me. And every time he gets disappointed, he adds a new rule to the list of things I’m prohibited from doing, until they pile together like bricks in a wall meant to keep us apart.
Thathu tuts and shakes her head. “He’s proud of you both.” Before I can dispute this, she continues, “But it’s hard for him to forget the baby girl in that photo, I suppose.”
I wrinkle my nose, allergic to the idea of being babied when my seventeenth birthday is, like, a month away. That’s an adult in a bunch of different countries!
In my frustration I peel back the plastic sleeve to try to fix my birthday photo. At least one version of our family should remain blissfully unaware of these troubles, after all. But the creased corner refuses to smooth out again because of whatever is behind it.
I pull out the glossy wedge enough to realize it’s a second photo, a date and something in Bengali scrawled in Thathu’s neat script in one corner: 1971 is all I can read. That was before she was married, before Abbu was born.
My grandmother’s hands fall still when she notices what I’ve found, but she doesn’t ask me to stop. My pupils flick between the album and her nostalgic expression. Suddenly I’m reminded of what she told me when we were getting fitted at the boutique.
“The other day you said it’s normal for a girl to have a few great loves, isn’t it?” I decide to carefully approach the topic I’ve been dying to ask her about. “Was Thatha… No… Thatha wasn’t your first love, was he?”
To my surprise, a sad smile alights across her face. “Can you pass me that album, Bibi zaan?”
I slide it over to her at once. My heart begins to pound in anticipation as Thathu peels open the plastic and removes my birthday photo entirely. A Polaroid sticks to the page beneath. She sets aside the first and gently extricates the Polaroid. It’s a sepia photo of a young man—handsome, even with rust-colored stains on the gloss, dressed in a simple pale button-up and darker pants. He holds a musket in his arms, but it’s the young woman standing beside him who shocks me.
“Th-Thathu, is that you?” I ask, even though I intrinsically know it is.
The girl has the same mischievous smile, the same clever dark eyes, and parts her braided hair the same way Thathu does to this day, a plait she taught me. She’s wearing a white shari and has a musket strapped to her own back, looking like a certified badass, but a deep crinkle has formed on the photo between her and the boy.
Thathu nods. “This was taken in Dhaka during the Liberation War, when Bangladesh was still East Pakistan. We were both juniors at the university. Students were often at the forefront of the conflict, fighting for the right to speak Bangla, fighting for our nation’s independence.”
Emotion clogs her voice, but her eyes are latched to his face.
I don’t know what to think.
Ammu and Abbu were born after the war, so they rarely talk about it. I never thought about how my grandmother is older than the country she calls home.
“You loved him,” I whisper, without even meaning to.
Thathu meets my gaze at last, something like shame in hers. “I did. Perhaps a part of me never stopped.”
“What happened? Did he…?” I can’t bear to finish the sentence.
Thathu swallows. “I don’t know. When the war began to pick up, it became dangerous to remain in Dhaka, especially as a young woman. Pakistani soldiers were doing unspeakable things to captured girls back then. My family decided it would be safer for us to relocate to Sylhet. I didn’t want to leave before graduation, leave my friends, to leave my… to leave him.”
I can fill in the blanks thanks to the tender way she traces a finger over the photograph. I set my own hand on top of hers.
“In the end, he was the one who begged me to go,” she confides. “I asked him to come with me, to marry me, but he said he wanted to protect the country for me. Of course, war pursued us even into Sylhet eventually. Soldiers razed the very gardens we’re staying at, and his letters stopped coming.”
I pull her hand against my chest between both of mine, tears springing into my eyes. “Thathu, I’m so sorry.”
Here I was, whining about Akash not texting for a few days, when Thathu has been pining after the one that got away for more than fifty years.
She gives a melancholy shake of her head. “So many died then that there isn’t even a national record. They didn’t always get formal burials. Because of that, I might never know what happened to him… but I like to think he’s out there somewhere, still writing the beautiful poems that made me fall for him in the first place.”
I squeeze her hand and nod. “I’m sure he is. What was his name?”
“Mohammed Ahmed,” she answers with a sigh. “And before you start—I’m afraid even your Google can’t help me.” She winks at me, and we both pretend not to notice the teardrop that slips out. Even now, she can read my mind. “That’s why I can’t quite fault you for your adventures, moyna. Falling in love with Mohammed may not have been proper. When I told my parents about him, they urged me to let him go. But I never regretted my time with him either. That is the only photo of the two of us together, but I still kept his letters. Even when love ends in heartache, it’s a blessing to briefly know it when so many people never do.”
