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We follow the sound of light conversation and end up in the kitchen. It’s a tight space, but there’s enough room for a stove, a makeshift sink, and a small wooden table with four chairs. Salama stands by the stove, frying eggs and toasting bread on a pan. An older man with wrinkles adorning his face and more gray in his hair than black sits at the table, sipping tea. He must be Salama’s husband.
A girl, around fifteen or so, looks over at us from where she’s setting two plates and utensils at the table. “Assalaam-o-alaikum! My name is Aqsa.”
“Walaykum salam,” we say back, still hovering in the doorway.
The father eagerly waves us both in. “Come, come, sit!”
We do so. Sarfaraz pulls my chair out for me, and I give him a shy smile as I sit. As he takes the seat next to me, the father says, “My name is Kenan. My wife says you are Sarfaraz and Maya?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Whereabouts in Pakistan are you from?” Kenan asks.
“My family is from Karachi,” I explain as Salama carries two plates to the table. Four fried eggs cover one plate, while a small stack of toast is piled on the other. My mouth practically salivates as the fresh smell wafts into my nose.
“Mine, as well,” Sarfaraz adds. “That’s where we were headed before we had bus trouble. We just got married, so we’re making a visit to our family.”
“That is unfortunate,” Aqsa says. She places glasses in front of Sarfaraz and me. “To have your travel plans derailed.”
Sarfaraz and I share a secret look. “Oh, it’s nothing we can’t handle,” he says. “Let’s say this trip hasn’t been the easiest.”
“Where are you coming from?” Aqsa wonders.
“We’re from Canada,” I answer. “But we thought it’d be nice to come see everyone after our wedding.”
“Where in Canada?” Aqsa’s eyes are filled with the familiar twinkle of wanderlust; I recognize it, because I grew up seeing that same twinkle every time I looked in a mirror.
Salama sets the plates of food in front of us. “Hush, now, Aqsa,” she says, and the girl deflates as she leans against the counter. Aqsa doesn’t sit, however, and Salama sits down in the last chair instead. She pushes the plates toward us. “Please, eat as much as you’d like, and if you want more, let me know.”
We dig in. I don’t even know if I’m tasting the food; I’m so hungry I’m stuffing my face with as much as I can. Conscious of my table manners, I force myself to calmly bring the fork to my mouth.
After we’ve had our fill, Salama brews chai. She ladles some into a cup. “How do you take your tea, Maya?”
“Milk, and two and a half spoons of sugar.”
Sarfaraz blanches next to me. “I can’t believe your teeth haven’t rotted yet.”
I narrow my eyes at him as Salama places the cup in front of me. I pick up my cup and take a sip, letting the familiarity of the cardamom and clove wash over me.
Salama pours some for Sarfaraz next, then sits down across from us again. “So!” Salama begins. “Was your marriage a love match or arranged?”
“Love,” Sarfaraz answers at the same time as I say, “Arranged.”
Kenan, Salama, and Aqsa all exchange confused looks. Sarfaraz coughs. “Well, uh, it was both,” he adds quickly. “We had mutual friends. We liked each other, so our parents formally arranged a match.”
“Ahhh,” the family choruses.
Aqsa leans forward from her spot by the counter. “Not to be rude, but how does a white guy like you know so much Urdu? And how do you have such a Muslim first name?”
Sarfaraz chokes on his tea while I have to swallow back a laugh at the way the liquid dribbles down his chin. I stay quiet, though, because I want to know this story myself.
“Aqsa!” Salama scolds, her eyes narrowing to slits. Aqsa cowers back, and Salama holds out a tissue to Sarfaraz. “I’m sorry for my daughter.”
“No, it’s okay,” he says. He accepts the tissue and wipes at his face. Then he catches Aqsa’s eye. “I get that a lot.” He leans back in his chair. “I’m half-Pakistani from my mother’s side. My dad is white, and my paternal grandfather converted to Islam when he was in college because he learned about the religion in a class and loved everything about it. So, because both my parents were raised Muslim, I was, too. As for how I know how to speak Urdu, like I said, my mom’s Pakistani, though I didn’t have much contact with her after my parents’ divorce when I was one. But my father remarried my Pakistani stepmother when I was three, so she spoke to me in Urdu. They both thought it would be useful for me to know, given that it’s the primary language of her family.”
I find myself nodding along with the others in understanding before I realize this is something I’m already supposed to know. But now so many of our interactions makes sense. How he knows Urdu so well. How he knows so much about the inner workings of desi families—he’s part of one. Why he’s even in Pakistan in the first place—he must be here to visit his stepmother’s family.
Sarfaraz polishes off his tea. “That was delicious, thank you.” He pushes the cup toward Salama. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to rest. We didn’t get any sleep last night.”
