I look to Jen. ‘I guess the Divas are playing a few matches. And we’re going to be in it to win it.’
‘I don’t understand why Ma has her heart set on going to this thing,’ I find myself grumbling on Saturday afternoon. I’m hovering in the hallway of her house, dressed in one of my best salwar kameezes.
Deen glances at himself in the mirror, running his fingersthrough his black hair, until it looks just tousled enough to not be picture perfect.
‘You’re the one who’s always telling her she needs more of a social life,’ he says.
I roll my eyes, because it feels like maybe Deen is the one who needs a social life, considering he spends so much of his time holed up in the family restaurant, still dreaming about making it his own.
‘Besides, it’ll be nice for you to stop overworking yourself with your new football team. Take a break or you’ll wear yourself out before you even get to the match with Maya.’
I guess Deen is right about that. Since agreeing to the match with Westbrook, the Divas have been on overdrive. I’ve already started setting up matches for them, but to actually dowellin them we have to practise. Even on days when we don’t have practice, I’ve been suddenly looking through different plays and searching for teams who might match the Divas on their level – to give them a little confidence boost as they get started in competing. I have a feeling, too, that some of them have been making time to practise on their own. There have been a couple of times passing through Victoria Park that I’ve seen Sophie and Sara kicking a ball around between them. I feel a tingle of satisfaction at the thought of them falling in love with football, just like I did at their age.
I shrug now, because Deen is right. I don’t want to wear myself out, and I don’t want the team to be worn out either. The match isn’t until the end of the month, which isn’t a ton of time, but it’senoughtime. Or at least it has to be.
‘Ma, we’re going to be late!’ I call up to her, just as she starts descending down the stairs. She’s wearing a black-and-white sharee, and she gives me a frown as she takes me in.
‘You couldn’t have worn something nicer? The girls your age that come to these things wear nice sharees,’ Ma complains.
I sigh. Sharees have never exactly been my cup of tea. Ma has had to drape mine the few times I’ve worn one because I can never quite get it right. Besides, the other ‘girls my age’ are newly-weds with wardrobes full of gifted sharees. I only have a couple of Ma’s old ones, collecting dust in the back of my wardrobe.
‘Look at your brother, so handsome!’ Ma says, reaching up to pinch his cheeks like he’s still a kid and not a grown man.
I roll my eyes. I’ve just had to accept the fact that Ma and Deen are closer than ever since Deen moved in with Ma after Baba’s passing. It’s not like Deen wasn’t already a bit of a mama’s boy to begin with.
Thankfully, Ma doesn’t dilly-dally for long, and soon the three of us are piled into the beaten-up Toyota that used to belong to Baba.
Deen weaves us through the busy streets and in just an hour we arrive outside Isra Auntie’s house. We’re clearly late because there’s already a pile of cars in and around her driveway, and we can hear the sound of music, talk and laughter drifting out through the window.
Deen parks the car on the kerb and we climb out, Ma complaining the entire time about how we’re late.
‘If we miss those shomuchas that Isra serves as nasta …’ Ma says in a threatening voice, like it’s anyone’s fault but hers that we’re late.
‘I’m sure she’ll have saved some for you, Ma. She knows you’re crazy about them,’ Deen reassures her.
We follow her to the front door, the noise getting louderand louder as we approach. It’s a wonder that anybody hears the sound of Ma ringing the doorbell, but only seconds later, the front door flies open. Isra Auntie stands on the threshold, her eyes lighting up as she takes the three of us in.
‘Aminah bhabi!’ she says, throwing an arm around Ma. She smiles brightly at Deen and me before ushering us in.
The dawat is already in full swing. I spot a few uncles in the sitting room loudly discussing the state of Bangladeshi politics. They smile and wave as we pass by, mumbling friendly greetings before going back to their discussion. I can’t help but feel a little twinge of pain. If Baba were alive, he would be here with these uncles, discussing the restaurant, this country’s economy, the upcoming Bangladeshi election and everything in-between.
I try to shake those thoughts off me as Deen and I follow Isra Auntie and Ma to the kitchen. Several aunties are standing around in groups, discussing kids’ exam results, new jobs, promotions and wedding prospects. They barely even notice when we walk in, which is probably good because Ma seems less interested in them and more interested in the snacks laid out on the table. She immediately dives for the shomuchas. I smile at her antics, but there’s a thread of worry there too. I wonder if she’s so preoccupied with the shomuchas and the food because she can’t exactly engage the aunties in boasting about me and Deen. Unlike their kids, Deen and I aren’t succeeding at life, and unfortunately everybody knows it.
Determined not to seem antisocial, though, Deen and I mingle with some of the ‘kids’ our age – the few that still show up to these dawats and aren’t too busy living their fabulous adult lives. Lina tells me about her recent engagementand invites me to her wedding in a few months’ time, while Inam informs me about the new promotion at work, and how she and her husband are looking to buy a house, now that they can finally afford the down payment on a place. I smile through both conversations, trying to feign the appropriate amount of enthusiasm while feeling my insides contort a little with despair.
But it’s not until I turn to speak to Zulaykha that I really start feeling despondent.
‘Hey, Zulaykha, long time no see,’ I say, approaching her after Inam dashes off to say hello to some of her friends.
Zulaykha turns to me, a smile crinkling her eyes.
‘Dina, hey,’ she greets me. And then the person next to her turns too – no trace of a smile in her eyes at all. Maya.
‘Dina.’ Maya’s voice is clipped and terse.
I stop mid-approach, unsure of whether I should keep trying to make small talk with Zulaykha or if I should cut my losses and run, though it would be a pretty odd thing to do at this stage.
It doesn’t help either that the sight of Maya makes my breath hitch, and my throat dry up completely. Because while I’ve seen Maya since she left for America, I haven’t quite seen her likethis. She’s dressed in a lavender sharee that seems to cling to her just perfectly. The almost translucent material bares just a hint of skin where it skims across her midriff and rests over her shoulders; her long black hair hiding the rest. In all the years that I’ve known Maya, I’veneverseen her like this. She looks grown up, mature. She looks …
