Page 15 of Writing Mr. Right

It has just enough space for a TV drilled into the wall, a coffee table, one large plant, a fireplace, and one long sofa, upon which Bubbles, the ragdoll cat my parents adopted when they officially became empty nesters, lounges. She stretches her limbsout as her attention remains solely on the television, and closer inspection reveals she’s watchingDil Awais, a Pakistani drama. I can’t count the number of times I’ve called Ammi only for her to tell me she has to call me back because she and Bubbles are too busy watching a drama.

I pick up Bubbles and settle myself into her place on the couch, slouching. She curls up against my abdomen, and I let her soft purrs soothe me. I scratch the top of her head while she continues to stare at the screen, and I watch for a couple of minutes, too, but eventually my gaze wanders. The mantel above the fireplace holds photos of our whole family, including my brother, Imran, and his two children, Wajiha and Rizwan; and my sister, Tasneem, and her three children, Zeeshan, Rida, and Khirad. I’m not super close to my siblings given that they’re both quite a bit older than me—Imran Bhai is five years older, and Tasneem Baji is eight years older than me. Because of that, we were never in the same age bracket as kids where we had things in common, and then all of us being in different stages of life meant we never really had the chance to get close. Now we only see each other every once in a while because we’re all busy with our adult lives.

Like it always does, being back home makes me feel like a child again. I can see myself at different ages in my life sitting on this very couch, usually reading a book. This was, after all, the place where my love for reading—and eventually writing—was fostered.

Because I wasn’t close to my siblings growing up, I often had to make my own fun. For me, it meant afternoons where Abbu would hold my little hand and walk with me to the library a few blocks away. We went every other day because I would always finish my books so fast and want to get more. Eventually he outright refused to take me more than once a week because the frequent visits were starting to become too draining even for him, so I started making up my own stories to keep myself entertained.

I found inspiration in everything. The dusty fireplace led to a parallel world where I met a world of people like us but also different (clearly a rip-offCoraline). Our burly neighbor who mowed his lawn every Sunday morning precisely at 9 a.m. was secretly an FBI agent who patrolled to watch out for little kids as they played outside in the early hours of the morning. The goldfish we had for only a few weeks before it died was actually alive and needed to be rescued from the sewage system after my parents held a mini janazah prayer in the bathroom because I’d cried so earnestly. Stories came from everywhere.

I jolt out of my thoughts when the front door opens, and I sit up when Ammi walks in. She’s bundled in a thick coat even though it’s notsupercold outside yet, and her graying hair is tied in a knot at the base of her head. A grin bursts on her face when she sees me, her green eyes sparkling, and she comes over to drop a kiss to my forehead. “Assalam-o-alaikum, Ziya,” she greets. “Happy birthday!”

“Walaykum salam, Ammi,” I reply. “And thank you.” I pick up Bubbles and set her down on the couch before I stand and take the heavy bag of flour from my mother. “I got this.”

I bring the bag to Abbu, who places the finishing touches on the nihari with it. Once it’s all done, I set the table, and then the three of us sit to eat. I put a little bit of everything on my plate, but not as much as I normally would, because I had lunch today.

I say Bismillah, and I’ve barely scooped biryani onto my spoon when Ammi says, “Oh, you should have invited someone to dinner!”

I know what she’s implying, but I still play dumb. “Well, Emily’s at work, but our plan is to go for karaoke after I’m done here.”

Ammi tsks, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t mean Emily. I meant aman.”

My cheeks warm, and my gaze flickers over to Abbu briefly,who pretends to be very interested in scooping up a piece of beef with his naan. I give my mother an admonishing stare, which is ironic, because as a brown mother that should beherjob. “Ammi.”

“What?” She stares at me, completely oblivious. “You turned thirty today, beta. You’re not getting any younger.”

“I know, but it’s notmyfault the dating pool is full of pee,” I insist.

Ammi frowns. “Come on. There are no cute guys you’ve met lately?”

My mind immediately flashes to Aashiq, and I have to shake my head to clear the images. Okay, sure, my mind has conjured up an objectively attractive man to be the personification of my writing muse, with his blue-green eyes and the hot slit in his brow and his soft cheekbones. But it’s absolutely ridiculous of me to think of him as cute, because he’s technically not even real.

“I’m trying,” I say instead. “But in case you haven’t noticed, the pool of available Pakistani guys in New York who aren’t either married already or complete f—effboys is pretty small.”

“Don’t stress too much, Sajidah,” Abbu placates Ammi, patting her shoulder. “Ziya will find someone when God brings him to her.”

I nod, trying to keep the triumphant grin off my face when Abbu discreetly winks at me. I offer him a grateful nod and turn back to my own food.

Dinner passes quickly, and once we’re done and the leftovers are packed away and the chai has been brewed, we move to the living room. Bubbles is still living her best life relaxing on the couch. I go to the bathroom, and when I get back, I frown when I see my parents sitting on the floor, an old box between them. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Abbu had a great idea to go through the photo albums,” Ammi responds as she digs through the box. She produces a large binder and places it in front of her. She lovingly runs herfingers along the faded design. “Thirty years is a long time,” she muses. “And now our smallest baby has reached that milestone.”

I grab my cup of chai from the coffee table, then sit next to Abbu. Ammi opens the book, and the first few photos are of me in the hospital, from my first day in the world. I’m in a pink-and-blue-striped hat and wrapped in a white blanket, with one tiny fist freed. Ammi keeps flipping, and it’s like a timeline of my life: from my infancy to toddlerdom to childhood. When she flips to the next page, I frown when I spot a photo of me holding a stapled paper book. I touch her hand before she can turn the page again, then point to the picture. “What’s that?”

“Hmm?” Ammi frees the photo from the book. “Oh, it’s the very first story you ever wrote!”

“Really?” I peer at it. The lettering is all over the place and it’s done in pencil crayon, but I can make out the title—The Lost Kite.

Abbu takes the photo and smiles fondly at it. “You were eight years old. You drew all the pictures and wrote in your very best writing and then had me staple it all together so it looked like a book.” He holds the photo out to me. “You were always telling stories, but this was the first one you ever wrote down.”

I take it from his hand, then stare down at it. I have no memory of this book; I began writing when I was little, but I assumed my first real story was the one I wrote for the library contest. But I guess I was writing way before then.

“Oh, wait a second.” Abbu gets up from the floor and disappears up the stairs. A few minutes later, he returns, an old yellow file folder in his hands. He opens the flap, reaches inside, and then pulls something out. “I still have it.”

“You what?” I sputter, but I watch as Abbu frees a very old, very faded booklet and holds it out to me. I choke out a noise of disbelief as I accept it. I move through the pages, and it’s a very basic story about a lost kite trying to find its way back home toits owner. I shake my head, then stare back up at Abbu. “Why did you hold on to this for so many years?”

“It was your very first book,” Abbu states plainly. “You were so proud of it. How could I get rid of it?”

I return my attention to the pages. Despite the drawings being my very best, they were pretty bad; my area of expertise was always the words. But it’s not the poorly made kites or the lollipop trees that draws my attention; it’s the human protagonist of the story. Her name is Sally Miller, and I drew her with long blond hair and blue eyes. I didn’t color in her skin, but the fact that I left it blank gives me the impression that Sally is supposed to be white. My very first book, my childhood achievement, the thing my parents kept for over twenty years, and it was about someone who didn’t look like me. Someone I’d never be.

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