I slide my arm through Ma’s elbow, presenting a united front, as we step across the threshold of the house. The scent of HiraAuntie’s cooking instantly hits my nostrils, the combination of cumin and turmeric floating through the air and reminding me of all the times we came here for Friday dinner.
‘Is that my parcel? I’ve been waiting all day for it –’ Hira Auntie stops talking as soon as she sees us standing in the hallway. She’s got a tea towel in her hands, yellow stains on it from wiping her hands clean of spices. ‘Bilkis.’
Ma clears her throat and straightens. ‘Hira, hello.’
Salman and I watch with bated breath. This could go one of two ways: Hira Auntie could either accept us into her home or she could kick us out. It feels like an eternity as we all stand there, Ma and Hira Auntie engaging in a staring competition, a silent battle we’re not part of.
‘I suppose we are due a conversation,’ Hira Auntie says simply before turning away and into the kitchen.
I think that’s as much of an invitation as we’re going to receive.
‘Let’s sit in the lounge,’ Salman says, guiding us through even though we know the layout of this house as well as we know our own. Then he disappears into the kitchen.
We take a seat on their sofa, the same sofa I have spent countless afternoons watching television on. Everywhere I look, there are memories of my childhood. In the corner stands the lamp that I’ve knocked over multiple times, the bulb somehow still intact. On the curtain there’s a minor tear from when I got my earring caught in the fabric and thought I would be stuck there, part of the décor, until I died. There are parts of me in every nook and cranny of this house.
Salman returns and sits with us as we wait, taking a seat on the sofa next to me. ‘She’ll be right through. She’s just making some chai.’
Auntie is making chai? I don’t want to read too much into it, but surely that’s a good sign. She wouldn’t make us tea unlessshe thought we’d stay for a while.
Or maybe she’s just making it to throw in our faces for daring to disrupt her evening.
‘If it’s not a pain, could I have a splash of milk –’ Ma asks.
‘And two sugars,’ Hira Auntie finishes as she walks through with a tray of cups. ‘I remember your sweet tooth, Bilkis.’
‘Thank you,’ Ma says.
Hira Auntie settles into the armchair furthest away from Ma, near the window overlooking the front of the house. When I saw Hira Auntie on the night of the fire, I was too stunned by the sight of her to really take her in. Now, I’m unable to tear my gaze away from her. Even though it’s only been half a year, her hair is greyer than it used to be. But I notice it’s held up with the claw clip I gave her a few years ago for her birthday. At the time, it was all I could afford, but she acted as if it was the most precious gift she could have received. I don’t know what it means that she’s still using it, if she ever thinks of me when she wears it or if she simply picks it up out of convenience, but I choose to believe it’s a sign – that some part of her still wants us in her life.
‘Hira, is tea ready?’ Azad Uncle asks from the top of the stairs.
‘It is, and we have company. Come join us in the lounge, my dear.’ Her words sound sweet but from her strained expression it feels as if they are anything but.
When Azad Uncle walks into the living room, he locks eyes with Ma, and looks shocked. Like Hira Auntie, time has changed him. He’s got less hair than he used to and the definition in his shoulder muscles is gone, like he’s been too tired to go to the gym as frequently as he used to.
‘Bilkis, it’s been a long time,’ he says as he slides into an armchair.
‘It has.’ Ma smiles thinly.
‘How have you been?’ Hira Auntie asks stiffly, her hands fidgeting in her lap. ‘Or maybe that’s not the right question toask .?.?.’ Auntie looks at Uncle, pleading for help with her eyes.
‘I think what my wife is trying to ask, Bilkis, is to what do we owe this pleasure?’
‘Well, I think we have some things to discuss.’ Ma clears her throat before turning to me and Salman, awaiting our next move.
So I do the first thing that comes to mind and take Salman’s hand.
Which, judging from the way Auntie gasps, may have been the wrong move entirely. Meanwhile, Uncle is frozen, his lips parted with surprise.
‘What does this mean?’ Auntie asks, gesturing at our interlocked hands.
‘We’re dating,’ Salman answers, his leg bouncing up and down, the vibration of the act making me more anxious.
‘You are?’ Auntie asks the question with a slight breathlessness.
Salman nods. ‘We are.’
‘Oh.’ Auntie frowns, like she doesn’t know how she feels, before staring at Ma. ‘Bilkis, how do you feel about this?’
