Page 14 of Writing Mr. Right

Well, you know what? I’m not the main character of a story. I’m just a woman at the beginning of a new decade trying to figure out what to do next in her life. And it’s hard to do that when other people are messing up your plans.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, as Aashiq slides his card back into his jacket and rejoins me. He grins. “Back to work?”

I give him a death glare, then turn on my heel and head for the exit. I ignore him calling my name as he runs after me, and it’s not until we’re back outside that he catches up to me. He pivots so he’s in front of me, which finally brings me to a stop. “What?” I seethe.

“What’s wrong?” Aashiq asks, genuine confusion scrunching his face. “I think lunch went rather well, don’t you? Your coworkers seem like nice people, and they even appear to have things in common with you.”

“Why did you tell them I’m a writer?” I demand.

He raises a brow. “Because you are?”

“I don’t go around telling people!” I argue. “And I’mnota writer anymore, like I keep trying to tell you.”

“Are you really not, though?” he retorts. “I saw the way you lit up discussing the genre you love to write. Being a writer isn’t just something you can decide not to be anymore. Your mind is always going to operate like it is, no matter how hard you train it not to.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You are a writer, Ziya. Can you truly give up who you are at your core, without a fight?”

My eyes burn, and I blink fast before he can see the tears building up. I clasp my hands together. “Listen, I think it’s nice what you’re trying to do, but I keep telling you I don’t need you, because I’m not going back to writing. And nothing you can do or say will change that.”

I brush past him and head back to the office. Thankfully, I don’t hear his footsteps follow me.

6

Aashiq leaves me alone for the rest of the day. I make an excuse to the others that he’s only supposed to shadow me for half the day, and thankfully they buy it. They also don’t ask me any more questions about my writing, which is a blessing. I don’t feel like talking about the process or my ideas when I’ve given up on it and have no plans to return.

He still doesn’t reappear when I finish work and head down to the subway, which I’m relieved about. I don’t know exactly where he is, but if I get a breather, I don’t particularly care where he is.

I head over to my parents’ place. They live in Queens, close to the Bronx, and the firm is closer to Staten Island—the reason I don’t live at home is because the commute would have actually killed me. To my relief, my parents had no problem with letting me move out on my own, so I’ve been in Brooklyn ever since, but I do try to visit them whenever I can.

I walk along the familiar sidewalk leading to the house. A few leaves cling to the tall trees for dear life, though it won’t be long before a slight breeze comes along and they join their brethren on the ground. They are soft yellow and burnt orange,blazing red and aging brown. My feet practically swim in the piles that haven’t been raked up yet, but it’s a nice splash of color to the otherwise green grass (which is a surprise, given that it’s early November, and usually by this point the grass has dried up into a straw brown). It’s like a reminder to people that even as the days end sooner and the sky grows dark faster, it doesn’t mean we can’t still find brilliant hues of life.

I climb up the front steps of my parents’ porch. I still have my own key to the place, so when I reach the front door, I let myself in. Even though I don’t live here anymore, it is still very much my house.

As soon as I enter, I’m hit with the delicious aroma of my dad’s homemade channay, one of my favorite dishes. The powerful scent of nihari also lingers in the front hallway, and I can hear chopping coming from the kitchen. I eagerly slip off my shoes. I peel off my coat and dump both it and my purse in the living room before scurrying over to the kitchen.

“Assalam-o-alaikum!” I greet as I enter.

I briefly catch the side of my Abbu’s face as he peeks over his shoulder at me from his spot at the stove. His salt-and-pepper beard is longer than the last time I saw it, but it’s still well-kept. The wrinkles in his forehead are also more pronounced, crinkling the skin. His soft brown eyes brighten when he sees me. “Walaykum salam, Ziya,” he replies. I sidle over to him and press a kiss to his scratchy cheek, then turn my cheek so he can return the gesture. “Happy birthday, my baby,” he says.

“Thanks,” I reply. I peer down at what he’s stirring, and my stomach growls at the sight of the thick shorba and the pieces of mutton bubbling in the pot. “Oh, may Allah bless you with a long life.” I sigh as I inhale deeper, waving the food smell closer to my nose.

Abbu rolls his eyes, then gestures for me to move back. “It’s not done quite yet,” he says. “Stay back or you’ll get hurt.”

“Abbu, you know I’ve been using the stove for like, over ten years, right?”

“Yes, and we all know how disastrous it can be,” he points out.

He’s got me there. I take a step back, eyeing the other dishes. Apart from the nihari he’s finishing up, there’s the channay, and my mother’s biryani. I have no idea why they cooked so much food when it’s just the three of us tonight, but at least there’ll be plenty of leftovers for me to take home, so I won’t have to worry about cooking for a few days. Emily also loves my parents’ cooking, so between the two of us, we should be able to finish it all. I turn to Abbu. “Where’s Ammi?”

“She’s run out to the grocery store,” he replies. “She’s picking up some atta because I forgot to grab some while I was out shopping. I just have to add it to the nihari to thicken it and it’ll be done.” He wipes his hands on the little towel hanging off the oven handle. “Do you want a cup of chai while we wait for Mom?”

“Nah,” I say. I gesture to all the food. “I’m going to need the room in my stomach for dinner. Is there anything I can do to help, though?”

“Absolutely not,” Abbu refuses. He picks up a wooden spoon and waves it toward the living room. “It’s your birthday, so go sit down.”

“Alright,” I say. “But don’t say I never offer to help out when I’m home.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says distractedly.

I go to the family room. It’s not a very big area, but only two people live here, and they don’t need much room. Ammi, a former teacher, and Abbu, a former paramedic, are happily enjoying the retired life in their small house.

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