Puranay Rastay ✓

chapter ‣ 22

The waiter hurried to give my mother a plate of naan, from which she broke a morsel for herself and then me. As soon as I took a bite of the haleem, a fire erupted from my esophagus to my stomach. A fire that triggered memories from long ago.

Back in middle school, haleem stalls were a must at Eid Galas and Basant festivals. Once at an Eid ul Adha Gala, Rida had hunted me down near the photocopy shop, where my friends and I sat eating our bought lunches and sipping on coke and fanta. There was a staircase near the shop, which was where the guys in my grade usually hung out.

"I looked for you everywhere!" Rida had exclaimed, red faced and panting as she paused to catch her breath. Her bell bottom pants with tiny bells at the ends, and golden dangly earrings clinked with the movement.

"What's wrong?" I asked, concern rising in my stomach.

We lived in our separate worlds while at school. Having her approach me was never casual.

Her face changed expressions, as if she just remembered what she had came for. "Do you have some money? I want to buy haleem."

I dug a hand in my pants to take out whatever cash I had, not sure how much was leftover after buying russian salad in a cup and a seekh kabab with naan.

Rida peeked at the money and plucked a hundred rupees note. "Thanks!" She ran off to her friends who had been waiting for her.

"I told you, Layla, your Majnun never disappoints," one of her friends teased.

I felt my cheeks grow warm as the words carried over to me.

"Chup karo," Rida rebuked. "He'll hear you." (Be quiet)

"Essi mohabbat hi kiya jis ka ikrar nahi." (What's the use of such a love that you won't confess?)

"You need to stop watching Indian films."

"You need to stop crushi–"

"Rida, Saima, the line for haleem is getting long in your useless fight."

Ten minutes later she appeared again, this time with a styrofoam plate in hand. "It's bought from your money, so you should get a bite," she said, giving me an extra spoon.

"I'm good, thanks," I said, refusing the offer. Her friends were watching her again and exchanging odd smiles. I really didn't want any trouble for her. "Tum khao." (You eat it)

"One bite? Don't embarrass me in front of them, please?"

I looked towards her group and hesitantly reached for the spoon. As soon as I took a bite, my tongue burned and my throat clogged up. I had accidentally bit into a red button chili.

"This is really good," I whispered years later, meeting Mama's gaze. "But it's too spicy."

The catering manager gave us a knowing look, as if our reaction wasn't new.

"There's more," he announced, gesturing for the waiter to walk in with a long tray with steaming plates.

I eyed each one set before us and wondered to myself if I could possibly bend in ruku after tasting each one of them.

But the tasting had to be done, my bride was selective about her food. So we dug in.

"As long as the food is good, nothing else matters," Mama mused on the way back home. I chuckled at her comment. "Haan na, that's what everyone talked about at Rida's Bar–"

My jaw tightened at her slip of tongue, but I let it go. The new mantra of my life was becoming let it go. "The food was good, no doubt," I offered, keeping my tone leveled. The crisp roghni naan, melted palak paneer, lacey reshmi chicken boti, and juicy kulfi falooda had been the subject of conversation for days. I wasn't going to compete with that when I was dealing in rupees, and he had dealt in dollars. "We'll be fine." The tightness of my stomach attested to the fact. Each and every menu item we had selected was mouthwatering.