The Mis-Arrangement of Sana Saeed, page 1
THE MIS-ARRANGEMENT OF SANA SAEED
A Novel
NOREEN MUGHEES
For A, H-Z
All I know about Ishq is because of you.
CHAPTER ONE
SANA
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single desi woman, in want of getting her nagging mom off her back, must eventually settle for the most boringly eligible rishta alive.
—Ammi
Okay, my mother didn’t really say that. She has never read Jane Austen, while I have read Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion at least as many times as Ammi has tried to set me up with an arranged suitor.
And that’s a lot.
A click-clack of heels reverberates down the hall.
“Oooh, you brought me laddus. You are a bestie,” Ainee squeals.
I swivel to face her, my chair’s squeak cutting through the drone of the copier next to my cubicle. “Ammi asked me to bring laddus tonight. I spent my whole lunch hour finding them and they cost a fortune, because this place makes them fresh. Now scram.” I wave a dismissive hand at her.
Ainee and I have known each other all our lives, so of course she doesn’t retreat but moves right next to the box and hitches herself up to sit on the long desk. Then she creeps her fingers toward the sweet chickpea mounds flour-fried in ghee.
I smack her hand. “Let me concentrate. I have to finish a few emails, then scramble to Ammi’s before they arrive.” I bite my tongue, but too late.
“They?” Ainee’s expression clicks in understanding. “Got a hot rishta date tonight, habibti?”
A shudder runs up my spine as I recall the last rishta. Junaid. He wanted me to marry him and his twin daughters in a hurry. I was able to overlook the recently deceased wife and the canary-yellow teeth; what I couldn’t ignore was how he hightailed it out of there the second I mentioned Zia. My brother is all things good in the world, encapsulated into an adorable seventeen-year-old boy. So what if he’s on the spectrum? He is perfect to me. To hell with whoever thinks otherwise.
If I have to pick between Zia and marriage, is there really a choice? He and I are a package deal.
However, Ammi often mentions Zia’s impending guardianship trust and my being married in the same sentence. In her mind, marriage and security are interlinked. For so long, my father was the provider for our family, at least while he still had his nine-to-five. Ammi never even learned how to drive because he drove her everywhere. He treated her like a queen—not that she deserved anything less. But now, every time she mentions marriage and Z’s future together, it’s a not-so-thinly veiled hint: if I don’t settle down soon, I won’t be named as Zia’s primary caretaker in the guardianship trust she’s putting together for him now that he’s seventeen.
I know she’s right. But I just can’t let go of the idea that one of these days, my very own Captain Wentworth—someone so perfect he’s practically fictional—will sweep me off my feet.
There are reasons I hide rishta setups from Ainee. One, because she thinks the antiquated matchmaking ritual should have retired with our parents. Two, because she wants hourly updates when she knows about the rishta meetings.
Ainee quirks an eyebrow. “You’re still doing that, are you?” This single eyebrow raise is more impressive than a fresh mango lassi. No matter how many times I’ve tried, I haven’t even come close to the amount of condescension she packs into this single gesture.
But Ainee is good at a lot of things. Dressing impeccably is one—right now she’s wearing a dark-maroon sweater dress and riding boots. She’s ready for a meeting with the new deputy attorney general assigned to my case, or to go to an after-work party. Unlike me, in my mismatched hijab and long, loose shirt over corduroy pants. Ainee is also engaged to a swoon-worthy, successful desi man, while I’m still meeting with arranged suitors at my mother’s house.
I let out a cleansing breath and click on my email. “Yeah, not everyone finds their person in high school. Even though you did give poor Haroon quite the run-around …”
“Haroon needed to grow up from being a coddled mama’s boy before he could convince me to spend eternity with him. And can you blame me? It’s not like my parents had a perfect marriage like yours. Some people settle, and others chase ghosts.” She points her perfectly manicured finger in my direction. “Who’s the poor suitor this time? A green-card hunter fresh off the boat?”
“Gawd, I hope not! The matchmaker from the masjid chased my sister down. And apparently, he’s a good catch.”
“Pfft … heard that before.” Ainee shakes her head in a manner reminiscent of my mother when she’s eaten anything I’ve cooked.
I glance at the clock, which reads twenty after five, and then at my task list. “Ainee, seriously, I have to finish up and leave. If you want, we can walk out to the parking garage in half an hour, and you can grill me then.”
She lets out a frustrated huff and slips off the desk. “Be ready to dish the deets.”
As she click-clacks away, her comment about chasing ghosts nags at me. Is it true? Am I chasing a ghost?
I have often wondered, if I were to piece together my own Captain Wentworth, how he would look? What he would be like? And every time I close my eyes, all I see is him. His stark gray eyes. His rare but gorgeous smile.
Shahri.
How is it possible that even after eighteen years, I’ve stood where he left me? Watching everyone else around me fall in love, while I can’t move from that one place where only he and I exist. Like that tree in Ainee’s backyard in Scarsdale where Shahri and my names are carved.
Ainee’s my best friend, but she’s never filled that void. Shahri knew things I needed even before I did. He spoke to me without words.
I dislodge these thoughts from my brain and open an email from Marc, my supervisor:
Make sure to have all the ExGen files reviewed by Monday—you’re taking over the case.
What? No! I cover my face with my hands. This just ruined my weekend. I have a caseload of two people already, and Marc just added the most litigious permit to my pile.
I spend the next half hour reviewing the documents on the server, trying to remind myself why I work here. Because you care about disadvantaged communities that are at risk of poor environmental conditions.
I stare at the slogan in my email signature: Department of Environmental Conservation: Clean air and water should be free, because nature intended it that way.
My phone beeps with my little brother’s ringtone: “You Are My Sunshine.” Cheesy, I know … but he really is my reprieve in so many ways. My sunshine on dark days.
When the phone connects, his image fills my screen. He stares at the carpet, a curl dropping on his forehead as he rocks and rubs the hairbrush in a self-soothing rhythm.
My forehead wrinkles. “What’s going on, Z? Did Ammi and Rana baji say something? What’s worrying my little brother?”
Zia rocks more now—clearly, something has him agitated. “Ammi wants me to go to Lata’s house. I don’t want to. I want to stay in my pajamas and play on my iPad. And I was good, Sana baji. I did all my chores and behaved in school today.”
Lata Auntie is a neighborhood auntie who watched Zia when he was younger. Ammi sometimes has him go over there if she has to go to an appointment … or if she wants to avoid having potential rishta proposals families see him.
I fume. But I calm myself so as not to rouse Zia any further. “I’ll talk to Ammi and Rana baji, don’t worry.”
“Okay.” He hangs up.
It’s bad enough I have to fight everyone else outside the house for him; it’s the fights with my own that are the hardest.
I type a text to Rana, knowing well she might not respond. It’s dinner prep time for her and the family.
Please tell Ammi not to send Zia anywhere. I want him to meet the rishta family.
* * *
When Ainee knocks on my cubicle wall, I realize it’s already six. I hit save, grab my bag, laddus, and coat, and walk out with her.
We say good-bye to the security guard and step outside. A chilly breeze hits us like a wave as we turn the corner. Her teeth chatter as she asks, “Why do you agree to this torture?”
I chuckle. “Because I want to get married. If you’d paid attention in Sunday school, you’d know it is half my deen, part of being a Muslim. I mean, you’re on your way to do the same with Haroon.”
Ainee slows down and glares. “Yeah, that’s the answer you give to the rishta auntie who’s interrogating her potential daughter-in-law. But Sana, you could try muslimshaadi.com or something. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know someone without the pressure of the family.”
Her words remind me of a Bollywood movie in which Ranbir Kapoor, tells Deepika, while he’s proposing marriage to her, “I’m not the marrying kind, but for someone as amazing as you, I want to settle down.”
I have struggled with this notion of how much expectation is put on Deepika’s character. Like, now she has to be amazing every day for the rest of her life—the way he wants her to be. Instead of going into marriage with the mindset of ‘I want to marry this person because I want to have an eternity with them, no matter how amazing they are or aren’t.’
Marriage isn’t just tinkling bells and rose petals; it’s a lifelong commitment to weather the bad days with the good. It’s sometimes being amazing, and sometimes not even being ordinary.
But telling Ainee all that means getting into the whole argument over whethe
I take in a long breath of the cool air. “My family means a lot to me. Plus I want to be in Zia’s life. I can’t do that if Ammi and I are at odds, or if I choose someone she hates.” I envelop Ainee’s cold hand in mine and shiver. “And no, I’m not putting my mug on any website. What’s online dating anyway, if not rishtas matched by algorithms? I trust my family a bit more than artificial intelligence.”
She presses the parking garage elevator button with her free hand. “So you’re expecting love at first sight at this rishta meeting tonight? Fawad Khan and his mother will sweep you off your feet?”
I let go of her hand and shrug. The heater in the elevator feels nice and toasty. “If he’s a decent guy, we can talk and see where it takes us. I’m thirty-three. Ammi is losing her patience with me. When she’s upset with me, that means being away from Zia. I can’t disappoint my little brother. As for Fawad,” I say, referring to the famous movie star, “I heard he’s happily married with kids, and I’m no home-wrecker.”
“Well, he’s allowed four wives, you know,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
I ignore that. “I agree to these meetings because it makes Ammi happy. She’s talking about Z and a plan for his future, and she may not include me in Z’s guardianship trust if I’m still single. But it’s not the only reason. I also want what Rana has, what Ammi and Abba had,” I tell her in a low voice. My older sister Rana’s happy marriage gives me hope in the matchmaking process, no matter how much I dread it.
Ainee smiles. “I get that. And I know my halal/haram ratio is way below yours. I don’t wear a hijab like you. And Haroon and I are a love match.” Ainee shrugs. “But I suppose arranged marriages do work. They can’t all be as bad as my parents’.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad if you and Reema came out of it. And Haroon is great. Count your blessings.”
The door dings open, and we step outside. I wave good-bye to Ainee and rush to my car.
I hope you’re on your way. Ammi’s text pings.
Mirchi, my 1972 Honda Civic, hisses as I turn on the heat. She’s named after the hottest pepper and still has the bite of one, even though she’s old. But she’s my only remnant from our happy days as a family. I touch my father’s prayer beads hanging from the rearview mirror. Mirchi was Abba’s darling. We had some great memories in this car, and I cling to them like I do to her.
Mirchi screeches an expletive as I drag her gears into drive. It’s Friday, and the sounds of tires on concrete are more pronounced as people leave for the weekend.
I puff out my frozen breath; it condenses on my glasses. I wipe my lenses on my woolen hijab, muttering all the supplications I know. “Ya Allah! Please. I don’t want any more delays. Ammi will hurl galiyaan at you and me both, Mirchi.”
Mirchi’s voice replies in my head. I don’t care for your mother’s curses, and I’m half-dead, anyway.
I press the FM radio button. Bollywood music fills the air. It’s a song about lost love. An ache spreads through me. Chasing ghosts … I twist the radio tuner to change the song, but Mirchi rebukes me with static. “Have it your way, saali,” I curse.
* * *
Ammi’s modest townhouse is as cookie-cutter as all the other off-white, vinyl-lined duplexes in Yonkers. This neighborhood is one you’d see in a panoramic shot in a family movie. As I pull into my mother’s driveway and park, the familiar waft of fried onions makes my mouth water.
Most windows are closed to shut out gossip as much as the chilly air, but not Ammi’s. As much as she loves desi food, the smell of spices tends to settle if we don’t air the kitchen. Of course, leaving the windows open also prevents the fire alarms from beeping and announcing to the world we’ll have company later.
From the other side of the duplex, a door opens and a curious gaze burns my back. Mrs. Sharma, our neighbor, waves and approaches. “Back again for the weekend, Sana? I like that you’re here like a good daughter every weekend, even when you have an apartment of your own.”
I nod, taking hurried strides to the front door. Better not to engage with her.
She gathers her sari to the side and follows. “Arrey, are special guests coming for dinner? Your mother’s been cooking all day.” She closes her eyes, inhaling a long breath, and continues. “I smell spicy cutlets, rice kheer, and chicken biryani.” With a hand to her chest, she ambles toward me.
That she can recognize all those dishes with a single inhale is not a surprise; that she can tell it’s for special guests is a bit unexpected. Ammi cooks up a storm at the mention of anyone stopping by.
I climb the steps two at a time to Ammi’s front door. “I’m sure she’s cooking for us. Hope everyone in your family is okay. It was nice to catch up—”
She follows me to the doorstep, and we awkwardly stand there for a minute, her mouth opening and closing. I’m not about to volunteer. But if I were to guess, she probably wants to find out who’s invited. I can’t be mean to her because she’s my mother’s regular ride to the grocery store. If only my mother would learn to drive or get an Uber. But she’s too stubborn and technology averse.
As Mrs. Sharma stands there swallowing her saliva, I’m forced to ask, “Would you like to come in?”
She beats me to the doorknob, but as she’s about to step in, a male voice booms from the other half of the duplex. “Arrey, sunti ho? Listen! Where is my evening tea, dear?”
She mutters some galiyaan, or what I think are bad words under her breath and retreats. “Tell your mother to save me a few cutlets and biryani. I’ll stop by later.”
I dig my keys out and unlock the front door. I didn’t grow up in this duplex. We had a nice house once, before the bankruptcy and my father’s death.
Shahri was not only my childhood best friend; he was the son Abba never had. My father was a kind, patient man with a big heart. He and Shahri were so alike. In Abba, Shahri found a father figure, unlike his own uncle, Sibte, who was supposed to be his adoptive father—but adoptive father he was not. Not even close.
When Abba and Sibte went into business together, Ammi warned Abba about Sibte and how he always put money first. But Abba paid no heed. He thought he knew Sibte, but until you deal with money, do you ever really know someone? The signs were there. Sibte was not a chef, and Abba was not good with books. Sibte was a ruthless penny pincher and Abba would let people eat for free. At first, they were the only halal restaurant in town. But after a slew of modern eateries offering halal options opened up, the business went downhill. My father never recovered from that loss. None of us did.
Sibte and his family—including Shahri—left town for California, but the ramifications of the failed business were far from over. The following year was consumed by bankruptcy, legal battles, and more stress than Abba could handle. Even though he’d already had a minor heart attack years prior and his own father had died of heart disease, he gave up his health insurance to save money after the bankruptcy. He didn’t survive the second heart attack.
I was sixteen. Zia was just a few months old. At seventeen, my sister Rana became our babysitter, and to this day she acts like one.
My mother drowned herself in work to make ends meet. Worked in the school cafeteria during the day and as a seamstress, caterer, and cleaner at night. After Abba’s death, I never saw her sleep for more than five hours at a time.
She opens the door. “Salaam alaikum, Ammi.”
The aroma of gravy is pronounced in the small foyer. The crackling of mustard seeds popping in the kitchen leaks into the living room. She waves the big frying spatula and mutters, “Make sure you wear the clothes I laid out.” She swings on her heel and yells over her shoulder before heading into the kitchen, “And try some lipstick, for a change.” Of course picking my clothes wasn’t enough. She has to emphasize the importance of putting on my best face, again.
I put a hand on my chest to calm my racing heart. Something is missing. Usually, Zia greets me with a bear hug as soon as I enter. But not today. I draw a long, cleansing breath as I head to the stairs.
The living room is spotless, as it always is before these rishta meetups. The custard-yellow paint makes the room brighter. The sofas pushed against the wall provide more space. You never know how many family members will attend rishta meetups. The sequin throw pillows that Ammi’s kept for special occasions add some sparkle to the older slip-covered sofas. The Arabic calligraphy framed with La Ilaha Illa lah in beautiful loops and curls decorates the otherwise bare walls. The declaration in Arabic has been engraved in my memory longer than anything else: There is no God but Allah, and Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is His Messenger.
