Layla sighed. She had asked Rafiq to stop pressuring him and Rafiq, tired of Amar’s batamizi and the hostility between them, had reminded Layla that he only spoke to Amar when it was absolutely necessary.
Layla held a Quran above his head as he stepped out the front door, for luck and extra confidence. She shielded the sun from her eyes and watched him leave before preparing to drive to Seema’s house. He would be affected for a week, a few months, but he would recover. What was the heartache one felt in youth? Nothing but a dream. By the time he was an adult he would hardly remember it. And what was heartache when compared with public humiliation? Heartache was the quick touch of a flame. But for one’s inner life to be gossiped about and judged by the entire community—it was like holding one’s hand above fire until it left a scar.
She had been stunned and sickened by the contents of Amar’s keepsake box. For months she knew he had been hiding something: smiling to himself whenever his phone buzzed, guarding his phone and barking about privacy if anyone came near him. It was difficult enough to see her son step so willingly toward sin; she imagined it would have been unbearable if her daughters had done the same. How had she failed to pass on to one child what was so instilled in the others? This was the question that haunted her. They had all heard the same speeches, listened to the same stories and lessons, and yet.
Layla lifts her fist and knocks. Seema appears before she can exhale. Seema smells faintly of perfume when they embrace and Layla follows her inside. Instead of the family photos that Layla has hung in her home, the Ali family has decorated their walls with ornate mirrors, purposeless tables, paintings Layla does not find beautiful. Canvases painted blocks of red, stripes of light yellow and black. Layla glimpses her reflection in a mirror as she passes and for a second it alarms her.
Biscuits have been placed on little plates in the living room. Colorful napkins stacked. Seema asks Layla if she would like tea or coffee and then disappears to prepare it. The house is very quiet. Soon she can hear the faint gurgle of the water boiling, then the whistle. Layla’s heart thuds in her chest and she twists her orni around her finger. Their secret—Amar and Amira’s—would come out eventually. If only the surface were considered, it was Amira who would be chastised. It was her innocence that would be compromised. But Layla knew that when the shock of a woman’s begharti subsided, the root of the scandal, the reason why the parents did not just rush to make it a halal match, would be because Amar was not the kind of man worthy of marrying the Ali girl. Once they were bored with the questions of how could she, the more sinister question would rise up to sting Layla: What had she seen in Rafiq and Layla’s boy?
Seema and Brother Ali would laugh at the proposal if it were to be sent. They would nip it in the bud before word of it even reached their daughter. They had wealth and they had beauty, they had noble lineage and the respect of the entire community. So often someone from their mosque, including Brother Ali, would report to Rafiq that they had seen Amar smoking in the parking lot, or that he had stepped away as soon as the adhaan began, as though the call to prayer called everyone else but repelled him. One man from the community even had the gall to tell her husband that red eyes were the sign of a man who took drugs. They thought they were doing Rafiq a favor, and Rafiq would solemnly thank them, but at night he would be unable to sleep, and Layla would have to prod him just for him to speak about it. What can I do, Layla? Rafiq would ask her helplessly. Layla would be unable to comfort him. Her own spirit had been broken by not being able to deny the rumors. She too was disheartened when her son came home with a sway to his step, smelling strongly of stale cigarette smoke and cheap body spray. If this is what reached Layla and Rafiq, she could only imagine what people whispered among themselves.
But what did it matter what momins of the community said when they picked apart the behavior of her son? What was a believer meant to be like when all their rituals and practices were stripped away? Amar was kind. If one of his sisters came home carrying heavy textbooks, he rose to help them before they even asked. He was generous. He had very little of his own money but still he would bring home the coffee drinks Huda or Hadia liked, or a bag of cherries for Layla come cherry season, or a candle with a floral scent. Layla gossiped sometimes, everyone did, but she had never heard her son speak ill of anyone. Once when she spoke of someone from their community, he said to her, “You don’t know that, Mumma, don’t say that if you don’t fully know it.”
Her heart had swelled. How her son was good in a way that she wasn’t, in a way that could instruct her. Layla had begun to think lately that there was no real way to quantify the goodness of a person—that religion gave templates and guidelines but there were ways it missed the mark entirely. And everything a momin should be in his heart, Amar was.
Seema sets down the tea for her and Layla notices she has chosen a mug of coffee for herself.
“Are your boys home?” Layla asks. She dips a biscuit in her tea. The crumbs break off and float on the tea’s surface.
“No. They’ve gone out for the afternoon. You know how kids are these days, always going out. Everywhere but their own home is a magnet to them.”
Layla removes her scarf. Seema sits across from her on her plush couch, her legs tucked beneath her. She cradles her mug in her hands. Not a single hair on her head is white and Layla knows she dyes it often. Seema is one of the few women of Layla’s generation who chooses not to wear a headscarf. Layla untangles her own unruly strands with her fingers.
“And Amira? Is she home?”
“She is at the library,” Seema says. “The bug of going out has bitten her too. Any excuse they’ll give me—Mumma, I have to go to get a book from the library. Mumma, I have to go and get a haircut. Mumma, the haircut lady was closed and so I walked to the cupcake place.”
Layla sits back in her seat. She can speak without fear of being overheard. She knew when she glimpsed the contents of Amar’s box that she would meet Seema in person, her words disappearing into the air once they were spoken, untraceable.
“Are you sure?” Layla asks. She traces the rim of the cup with her finger. She knows what she wants: to put an end to what has been brewing between the two. For the end to be swift. The last thing Amar needs is a young girl tempting him, distracting him from his studies, only to break his heart when a stronger proposal comes.
“What do you mean to say, Layla? Are you accusing me of not knowing where my daughter is?”
The tone of Seema’s voice has sharpened, but she still smiles in a pained way. Both of them notice the shift in the air, the room suddenly hostile.
“I only mean that you should keep a closer eye on her.”
Seema sets down her coffee mug, its steam still drifting up, and places her feet firmly on the ground.
“I found letters and photographs of Amira that she has been sending to my son,” Layla begins, keeping her voice steady. “For months, maybe even years.”
It is clear from the photographs that Amar has taken them, but she wants to conceal his part. The thought of a young girl sending photographs of herself to a young man is irrefutably inappropriate.
“You should read them—I’ve never known a girl to have such little sharam.”