Read Online Marrying Ameera by Rosanne Hawke - Free Book Online Page A

do that too, but I couldn’t read Urdu. Some cards were in English and I scanned as many as I could as I walked. Then I noticed a man who looked like Papa. He had a grey beard and his card was held high. ‘Welcome Ameera Hassan’ was written in English capitals. I was so relieved I could have hugged him.
    ‘Uncle Rasheed?’
    His eyes widened. ‘Ameera? But you’ve grown so…so…’ Then he remembered his manners and smiled. ‘Photos never tell the full story, beti.’ He called me ‘daughter’, as Papa did, and I felt a calmness steal over me.
    He took my backpack, slung it over his shoulder and led me to his car. Porters asked to help and beggars thrust their hands in my face, but Uncle waved them away.
    When we got to the car, it looked like a wreck; the Australian police would have ordered it off the road. I wasn’t sure whether it was safe to get in, and hovered by the front door, but an old beggar kept pestering me formoney. ‘Muaf karo, forgive me,’ I said. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t have any local currency yet.
    Uncle Rasheed slipped the beggar some money. The man called down Allah’s blessings on us and melted into the night.
    ‘Get into the back, beti,’ Uncle said, and opened the door for me. Just as well, for it stuck and he had to thump it to release the catch. Just as I slipped into the lumpy back seat, a young man hurried over, yanked open the front door, jumped in and slammed it shut. The little car rocked. My uncle stared at him as if he was counting to ten. I thought he’d tell him off, but all he said was, ‘Haider, this is your cousin. Say hello.’
    Haider barely turned his head, only enough for me to see his beardless features, a hooked nose like Papa’s, and his skin just a shade darker than mine. I heard a grunt.
    I hoped my other cousins were friendlier.

11
    When we arrived at my uncle’s house, Haider slunk away. I was tired but Aunty Khushida had stayed awake to welcome me. I had to drink chai and eat cake that she’d bought especially. I don’t like cakes, even though I make them, but politeness decreed I had to eat it. She looked gratified at my every bite. Then she brought out a jumper and a shawl.
    ‘I made this sweater for you, Ameera. It is very cold here this time of year.’
    The jumper was lilac and tight-fitting, not unlike what was available at home in winter.
    ‘Thank you, Aunty ji.’
    ‘The shawl comes from our shop in the bazaar. You will never find such a warm one in Australia.’
    I fingered the wool. Papa had told me he’d sent gifts already to Uncle and Aunty for having me but I still wished I’d had time to buy something for them from Australia.
    It was 3 a.m. before I crawled into bed in the same room as my cousin Jamila, but the Azan, the call toprayer, woke me early. Allahu Akbar, God is Great. That was my cue to get up and pray but I was never good at the pre-dawn prayer. The voice droned on and I must have dozed off, for the next sound I heard was the thump of spices being pounded. The aroma of freshly ground coriander and cumin wafted into my room.
    There were other sounds too: a giggling voice outside my door, an annoyed whisper, a knock, more giggling, more telling off. It was so warm under the heavy cotton quilt but I thought it was time I got up and put my younger cousins out of their misery. There was a door from my bedroom into the bathroom. There was a second door inside the bathroom and I guessed it was between the bedrooms. I negotiated the squat toilet, quickly washed and dressed, put on my new jumper and shawl, and braved the cold outside. A veranda with blinds opened into a courtyard and a high wall enclosed the whole area. No one was there. I hugged the shawl around me. There had been damage to the cement work of the house: huge cracks snaked across the tops of the walls.
    Then I heard a squeal, which was abruptly cut off, and I saw a girl of about nine peeking at me, her hand over the bottom part of her face.