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Authors: Shamim Sarif
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between her grandmother’s age and her own style of dress, but she took the outfit from her mother and looked at it.
“Please,” said Mrs Harjan again, sensing an indecision on Amina’s part.
Amina disliked wearing such clothes mainly because she was not comfortable in them, but as she looked from her mother’s pleading eyes to the suit, she decided that she could put up with discomfort for one evening. To make herself feel better, she thought with relief of her own bed in her own room behind her café, where she would be in a few hours, when this evening was over, and she smiled.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wear it. Go down, I’ll come.”
Her grandmother was pleasantly surprised at the sight of the shalwaar kameez when Amina walked into the room. She was a tall, striking girl, who looked well in whatever she wore, and the old lady looked pointedly and with some pride at the parents of the boy. They, too, looked satisfied and not a little surprised at Amina’s appearance. Her father merely looked relieved that Amina had appeared at last, and without further ceremony told Mrs Harjan to start serving the food. This instruction provided Amina, who had said nothing since entering, with a welcome escape from the eyes in that room, and she followed her mother to the kitchen where she silently helped her to spoon various curries from steaming pots into serving dishes.
“You look nice,” offered Mrs Harjan as she handed Amina a full plate. She spoke nervously for she knew her daughter’s silences and was afraid of them. Amina nodded, but still did not speak, for she was inwardly digesting the information that she had gathered from the one look she had taken around that room. She had entered and greeted her grandmother and had seen her pleasure at the outfit – that had not surprised her. The triumphant look that her grandmother had given their guests had not escaped her either, however, and when she saw their son, a youth of about her age whom she remembered vaguely from some community gathering a few years ago, sitting stiffly in his best suit and tie, regarding her as though she were a piece of porcelain to be evaluated, she realised that she had been set up to meet a suitable boy.
“Amina…” her mother began, but Amina had already gone into the next room with two filled dishes which she placed on the carefully laid table. She was angry – with her grandmother, whose idea this undoubtedly was; with her parents for allowing her to attend this dinner without warning; and with herself for not realising this possibility much earlier. She paused by the table, listening to her grandmother’s voice in the other room, asking the boy a long stream of questions. He answered firmly and with a deep, commanding voice. Amina was not a person who enjoyed anger, nor did she ever hold onto it for very long – she had always had the ability to see a whole series of alternatives to whatever situation she might be in, a quality that made it difficult for her to find anything too upsetting for long. Now as she stood by the table and listened, she knew that nothing fundamental in her life would ever change unless she wanted it to; her financial independence and her own self-confidence had seen to that, so what was the use, she decided, in being angry? Her mother’s collusion bothered her still, but as her glance wandered over the table she noticed that, as careful as her mother had tried to be in her place settings, she had reversed the knives and forks, placing them on the wrong sides of each plate. Amina smiled to herself, and moved around the table, switching each set of cutlery, before she returned to the kitchen to collect more of the food.
By the end of the main course, the boy had still only regarded Amina furtively, but now he was made bolder by her open gaze, and he relaxed enough to venture a few words in her direction. At the start of the meal he had made a move to remove his jacket, and
“Please,” said Mrs Harjan again, sensing an indecision on Amina’s part.
Amina disliked wearing such clothes mainly because she was not comfortable in them, but as she looked from her mother’s pleading eyes to the suit, she decided that she could put up with discomfort for one evening. To make herself feel better, she thought with relief of her own bed in her own room behind her café, where she would be in a few hours, when this evening was over, and she smiled.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll wear it. Go down, I’ll come.”
Her grandmother was pleasantly surprised at the sight of the shalwaar kameez when Amina walked into the room. She was a tall, striking girl, who looked well in whatever she wore, and the old lady looked pointedly and with some pride at the parents of the boy. They, too, looked satisfied and not a little surprised at Amina’s appearance. Her father merely looked relieved that Amina had appeared at last, and without further ceremony told Mrs Harjan to start serving the food. This instruction provided Amina, who had said nothing since entering, with a welcome escape from the eyes in that room, and she followed her mother to the kitchen where she silently helped her to spoon various curries from steaming pots into serving dishes.
“You look nice,” offered Mrs Harjan as she handed Amina a full plate. She spoke nervously for she knew her daughter’s silences and was afraid of them. Amina nodded, but still did not speak, for she was inwardly digesting the information that she had gathered from the one look she had taken around that room. She had entered and greeted her grandmother and had seen her pleasure at the outfit – that had not surprised her. The triumphant look that her grandmother had given their guests had not escaped her either, however, and when she saw their son, a youth of about her age whom she remembered vaguely from some community gathering a few years ago, sitting stiffly in his best suit and tie, regarding her as though she were a piece of porcelain to be evaluated, she realised that she had been set up to meet a suitable boy.
“Amina…” her mother began, but Amina had already gone into the next room with two filled dishes which she placed on the carefully laid table. She was angry – with her grandmother, whose idea this undoubtedly was; with her parents for allowing her to attend this dinner without warning; and with herself for not realising this possibility much earlier. She paused by the table, listening to her grandmother’s voice in the other room, asking the boy a long stream of questions. He answered firmly and with a deep, commanding voice. Amina was not a person who enjoyed anger, nor did she ever hold onto it for very long – she had always had the ability to see a whole series of alternatives to whatever situation she might be in, a quality that made it difficult for her to find anything too upsetting for long. Now as she stood by the table and listened, she knew that nothing fundamental in her life would ever change unless she wanted it to; her financial independence and her own self-confidence had seen to that, so what was the use, she decided, in being angry? Her mother’s collusion bothered her still, but as her glance wandered over the table she noticed that, as careful as her mother had tried to be in her place settings, she had reversed the knives and forks, placing them on the wrong sides of each plate. Amina smiled to herself, and moved around the table, switching each set of cutlery, before she returned to the kitchen to collect more of the food.
By the end of the main course, the boy had still only regarded Amina furtively, but now he was made bolder by her open gaze, and he relaxed enough to venture a few words in her direction. At the start of the meal he had made a move to remove his jacket, and
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