What more could she say? She felt a consistent tug to give to him, to give to all of them, sliced apples and time in the sun, a spot in the shade, but something more too, an instruction on how to be in the world. It particularly tugged at her then, watching Amar kneel and pull at another leaf until it tore. The smell of fresh basil. These were their daily battles. And every day there were fallouts, and reparations made by the time Huda asked for salt and Amar was the first to pass it to her.
By the time her girls stumble into her bedroom they have only thirty minutes left to eat. Layla tells them they have twenty, hoping they will eat quickly, then bites her tongue: her roza has not even begun yet and she has lied. But they never care to feed themselves as much as she cares to feed them. They sit cross-legged on the floor, eyes blinking at nothing, wincing and groaning when she switches on the light.
“Hurry and eat,” Rafiq reminds them, and they eat so slowly she cannot believe it.
“You didn’t wake me,” Amar says from the doorway. There is hurt in his voice, he sounds like a little boy, he rubs his eyelids. One leg of his pajamas has gathered up at his knee.
Layla looks to Rafiq. They have not brought up a plate for him. If he is already grumpy from sleep, refusing him will only make him cry. Rafiq looks at him, and then at his watch. Then he taps at the space next to him, grabs another roti and places it folded on his plate, pours some of the fried spinach next to his egg. Yawning, Amar enters, and half asleep he leans against Rafiq as they eat from the same plate.
* * *
HADIA WAKES TO the smell of biryani cooking and the news that Mumma is throwing her an early birthday party. On Wednesday, she will be nine. Mumma presents her with the dress she will wear, an American one that embarrasses Hadia when she sees it dangling from Mumma’s finger. Mustard yellow and not at all fashionable: a giant swoop of a skirt that swallows her up and drags past her ankles, puffy sleeves and a lace collar. Her embarrassment only deepens when she sees Huda wearing the same only in magenta, a fact that makes Huda spin and say, look, we’re like twins now. But when Mumma beams as she lines the three of them up against the wall under their old HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign, Hadia tries to push her disappointment aside and smile for Baba, who twists the camera lens back and forth before photographing them.
“You’re impossible,” Mumma says in the bathroom when Hadia asks if she can wear something else. “You complain if I give you Indian clothes, you complain if I get you a dress after you insist on dresses.”
“I didn’t mean this,” she says, her voice low and head bent, speaking into the folds of the skirt. Mumma brushes her hair roughly, pulls her hair into a too-tight braid. When she finishes the braid Mumma looks up at Hadia’s reflection. The expression on her face softens.
“Your ninth birthday is a very special one,” Mumma says tenderly. “Are you ready to start wearing hijab? It’s your choice. But you know you are nine now, and so you should choose soon.”
Mumma wore a scarf whenever they left their house or whenever a man came to visit. Almost all older girls at mosque wore it. Hadia always thought it was just what would happen to her when she turned nine, never thought that she would not wear it. She considers both her options: what Mumma would think if she wore it and what Mumma would think if she didn’t.
Hadia is quiet, so Mumma continues, “Remember, nine is the year your record of deeds begins to be kept. You’re old enough now to know right from wrong.”
“I know that,” she says, louder than she intended, and she twists out from beneath Mumma’s hand on her shoulder.
The doorbell rings and Mumma leaves to receive the guests. It is a midday party. Hadia tiptoes to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She runs her hand along the ridges of her braid, not a single hair unkempt, and considers untying and untangling it. Mumma would be angry but unable to do anything, because all the aunties and uncles would be watching, and watching her kindly, knowing it was her birthday.
Last night, Mumma had told them the first part of the story of Prophet Joseph, and it is this story she thinks of as she waits for the last possible second before having to go downstairs. It has always been one of her favorite stories, but Amar, who is five, hadn’t heard it before.
“Why did the brothers throw him into the ditch?” he asked.
“Because they were jealous,” Huda said.
“And is jealousy a sin?” Mumma asked.
They all nodded.
“What happens when you sin?” Mumma asked them.
She was always making good stories boring by asking them questions like that after, questions that made the stories feel less like magic and more like lessons. Amar looked at Hadia to offer an answer, but she had none.
“The angel on your left shoulder writes it down in his notebook,” Huda said.
“That is true. But you also get a speck on your heart, a dark, small speck.”
“A dark speck?” Amar asked.
“Yes,” Mumma said, “with every sin. Jealousy is a sin. That’s a speck. Lying is a sin. Another speck. Each of them like stains.”
“A permanent marker stain?” Amar asked. He had recently gotten in trouble for using a permanent marker to draw on the window, a stain that had not gone away completely even after Mumma scrubbed. Now he lifted every marker before he used it and asked, is this a permanent marker?
“Yes,” Mumma said, as she brushed his hair, “a permanent stain. And with every sin, the heart grows harder and darker. Until it is so heavy and black it cannot tell good from evil anymore. It cannot even tell that it wants to be good.”
All three of them were silent and horrified, until Mumma said, “Of course, there is always the opportunity of asking Allah for forgiveness. One must be remorseful.”
“Resourceful?” Hadia asked.
“No, remorse. Deeply regretting it. And resolving never to do it again.” Mumma made her hand into a fist and shook it.
“Are the brothers remorseful?” Amar asked. They had only reached the point of Joseph’s brothers throwing him into the ditch, ripping his coat and covering it with the blood of a sheep, and taking it back to their father. Hadia’s favorite part of that story was when Joseph was reunited with his father, but it would probably take three nights to reach the end.
“They are very ashamed. But it is too late.”
“What’s ashamed?” Amar asked.
Mumma looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if she were wondering how to answer.
“When you do something you know you shouldn’t have. And you are afraid to show your face.”
Amar looked down, as if considering Mumma’s explanation.
“Why is it too late?” Huda asked.
“Nothing can be done. Joseph is gone.”
There is a knock on the bathroom door and Huda calls her name. Hadia tells her she is coming. She looks at her reflection, rubs where she imagines her heart to be, and wonders if there will be dark specks inside her heart if she does not wear a scarf after Wednesday. Last night was the first time she heard of the specks collecting like dust on the heart. And if not wearing a scarf was a speck, would a new one bloom every day she chose not to?