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He stares at me. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?”
His teasing tone cools some of the anger in my chest. I lower my hand. “Don’t tempt me,” I fire back, earning a smirk from him. “I just walked away from a conversation that was about to become really ugly, and after the way you treated me when we first met, you’d deserve the punches.”
Sarfaraz doesn’t respond to my teasing threat. He leans against the open doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. “What’d the aunties say to make you so mad?”
I try not to stare too long at the muscles in his arms flexing. “Some...stuff. I don’t want to talk about it, not until my anger’s cooled down.” I gesture to the hall in front of us. “I was about to go get a snack from the convenience store around the corner.”
Sarfaraz’s jaw slackens. “You were going to go alone?”
I shrug. “It’s not that far from here.”
“Do you have any idea how late it is?” He peers at his watch. “It’s nearly ten thirty. It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
I know he has no way of knowing the conversation I just had, but his words reignite the fire in my chest. “And why not? Women aren’t incapable of defending themselves. I am perfectly capable of walking ten minutes to the convenience store and getting myself a frozen treat.”
“I know you are,” he agrees. “But you have to remember these aren’t the streets of Toronto. I’ve heard too many stories of women being attacked while alone, especially at night. And remember what happened to us? I can’t let you go alone.”
“I told you—”
“Yes, you can protect yourself,” he interrupts, his tone growing aggravated with each word. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. When he opens them again, most of the frustration is gone, replaced by genuine worry. “Please, Maya. Let me go with you. If not for your peace of mind, then for mine.”
I stare at him for a good long moment. It’s risky; we could easily get caught, and while we can play it off as the “brother-in-law” thing, that might not stop people from whispering. If those whispers get back to Imtiaz, it wouldn’t be good. Plus, I’m still upset with Sarfaraz for keeping so much from me.
But at the pleading look in his face, I cave. “Fine. But you’re paying.”
30
Maya’s Law #30:
You have to fight for your identity.
We’re quiet as we walk along the dirt road. I cross my arms over my chest and keep my gaze forward. The walk is a lot longer than I thought it’d be; I should have taken a rickshaw. But because I was so insistent that it was an easy walk, I have to keep my mouth shut or I’ll never hear the end of it from Sarfaraz.
“So,” he starts, swinging his hands, “do you want to talk about it yet?”
“Not until I have kulfi goodness in my system.”
He pipes down again, and we reach the convenience store in record time. We go in, grab a couple of kulfis, and Sarfaraz pays while I step out. Once he’s done, he joins me, and we wordlessly begin our walk back to the house.
“Okay,” he says. He licks the end of his almond kulfi. “Are you ready to talk now?”
I huff, nibble on my mango kulfi for a second longer, then slide it out of my mouth. “Why are girls always required to sacrifice things?”
“What? Sacrifice how?”
“Like, why are we always the ones expected to give things up?” I clarify. “Why do we have to give up our jobs to raise kids? Why are we expected to raise kids all on our own, while the only expectation from the father is that he provides money for the family? Money isn’t the only important thing in life.”
“That’s true,” Sarfaraz agrees. “Did one of your aunties tell you to stop working after you get married?”
I grit my teeth. “My Amira Khala was appalled when she found out that not only do I plan on working after marriage, but I plan on working even when we have kids,” I reply, my mouth souring despite the sweet flavor of mango on my tongue. “I know the mentality is different because they grew up here, and that’s not to say that because I was born in Canada I know better, but it irritates me so much.”
“Some people have a hard time differentiating between culture and religion,” he offers. “Like, they think some of the things that are cultural come from religion, and if we push back against the culture, then we’re disrespecting our religion. And those mentalities are passed on to women because we live in a patriarchal society.”
“That’s a good point,” I say. “But that doesn’t excuse it. Women all over the world have been gaining power, and my family can’t exactly ignore that. So many Pakistani dramas are about female empowerment and doing more than what other people expect. It’s not just something that belongs in fiction.”
“You’re right, it’s messed up,” Sarfaraz agrees. “That must be the hardest part of living in a diaspora. I’ve seen how hard it is for the girls on my stepmom’s side to reconcile the teachings of their family and the teachings of society where they live.”
“It is hard,” I insist. “It’s so hard because if you’re a woman, you can never do anything without being criticized. You’re either too Western or you’re not progressive enough. You’re too docile or you run your mouth too much. You’re too independent or you’re too needy.” I slump. “It sucks, and it’s something I try so hard to get my mother to see. Most of the time she’s good, but some things...some things she’s just too hardwired to change.”
