The Garden of My Imaan (13 page)

Thanksgiving

A
fter days of fasting from dawn to dusk, Thanksgiving finally arrived. OCD had settled in comfortably and our house was good and ready for a feast, right in the middle of Ramadan. Zayd said this year Thanksgiving was going to be like the prize in the Happy Meal Ramadan box and for once I agreed with him.

On Thanksgiving Day, I was too excited to go back to sleep after suhur. I lay in the top bunk in Zayd’s room and waited for daylight. OCD was back in my bed already; I could hear her snoring from across the hall.

I must have dozed off because when I woke up again, the wonderful fragrances of Thanksgiving filled the house. I could smell cinnamon from the pies and rosemary and thyme from the stuffing, and over that, the other exotic aromas of Amma’s old family recipes.

Mom and Amma had cooked up a feast. There was lamb
biryani
and chicken
khorma
and baghare baigan along with cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, corn, and peas. The main dishes—the Butterball and kosher turkeys—were ready for
the oven. The countertops were spotless, the sink gleamed like silver, and the whole house was spic and span. A bouquet of fall flowers sat on the table.

My mother fussed around the two birds, each sitting proudly in its own foil pan. “This one is kosher, right?” she asked Amma.

“Hmm … I think so … but it looks exactly like that one.” Amma pondered the turkeys. “Let’s be sure, shall we?”

My genius grandmother wrapped a red twist tie around the leg of Choti Dahdi’s turkey.

“That’s good,” Mom said. “Better to be safe now than sorry later!”

I examined them closely. “It’s good they’re the same size. They’ll look nice and symmetrical on the table.”

Amma started the stuffing on the stove top and Mom opened the cans of cranberry sauce.

“Mom, did you put garlic and ginger in the turkey?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “And loads of
Shaan Charga
spices.”

Amma counted back the hours from iftar by touching the spaces on her fingers with her thumb. “We will put the turkeys in the oven at 12:30,” she declared.

“Is a kosher turkey the same as a halal turkey?” I asked.

“Not technically,” Mom replied. “But it’s close enough.”

“Why didn’t you just get a halal turkey?”

“I told you already,” Mom said. “For one thing, I didn’t want to drive sixty miles.”

“You said it was fifty miles,” I said.

My brother jumped in. “What’s the other thing?” he asked.

“You ask far too many questions!” Mom snapped. “You two run on and straighten up your room! Go!”

The house gradually filled with noisy relatives. Baba’s sister and her husband, who lived in a nearby town, brought their two rowdy boys. Mom’s brother and his wife drove up a bit later, their two kids in tow. Baba’s cousin and her family, who lived the farthest away, arrived last.

Relationships in my family are clearly defined. A
Mamu
is an uncle, but only if he’s your Mom’s brother. A
Phupu
is an aunt but only if she’s your father’s sister. Your mother’s sister is a Khala, never a Phupu. And your father’s brother is your
Chacha
, and cannot be your Mamu.

The air was heavy with Charga spice and soon the real smells of Thanksgiving were completely masked. I helped my grandmother spread our geometric
dusterkhan
cloth on the floor of the family room, where the kids would eat.

When the oven timer buzzed at last, Amma jiggled the drumsticks and said that the turkey twins were done. Mom asked Baba to take care of them while she got dressed.

A short time later, we heard him yell, “Honey, they’re ready!” About two minutes after that, Mom shrieked. Zayd and I came running.

Two identical birds sat side by side on ceramic platters.
Mom was standing in front of them, staring. “Where’s the twisty tie?” she demanded.

Baba looked perplexed. “I threw it out. I thought you’d want me to.”

“Now what am I going to do?” Mom moaned. “Just get out of the kitchen. Leave! I need to figure out this mess on my own!”

Baba beat a hasty retreat with a quizzical look on his face and turkey grease down the front of his shirt.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Mom asked me.

“I was in Badi Amma’s room,” I said. “Honest!”

Mom frowned and poked at the turkey on the left. “Is it this one?

“It could be …,” Amma replied.

“Or is it that one?”

My grandmother held her finger up to her lips and gave my mother a wink. After a moment, Mom nodded, and they both went about their business as if everything was just fine.

OCD wandered in. “Aii! You cooked
two, two
!” she exclaimed, peering closely. “Halal?”

“Kosher,” Amma replied without batting an eyelid.

“Aii, what happened to halal?” OCD asked petulantly. She prodded the turkeys with a bony finger. “
Our
halal turkeys very famous in
Minnipolice
,” she muttered. “So succulent, so flavorful you
vhant
to suck on bone, sinew,
and
gristle.”

The setting sun told us it was time for iftar. First Mom served plump dates so we could ceremoniously break our fast before we moved to our Thanksgiving meal. When we were done, Baba carried the steaming platters into the dining room and my aunts made room for the biryani and khorma and kebabs on our big table.

“Vhait! No dinner until evening prayers are performed!” yelled OCD.

We made our ablutions, spread our prayer mats in the family room, and lined up in neat rows behind Baba. He touched his thumbs to his earlobes and made the call to prayer. Together, we recited verses from the Holy Quran and praises to Allah. Together, we asked for His blessings. Prayer performed and mats folded away, we hurried to our long-awaited Thanksgiving-in-Ramadan dinner.

Suddenly OCD held up her hand. “Aii!” she cried, staring pointedly at Baba. “Forgetting again, hanh?”

My father cleared his throat and rapped on the table with his fork.

OCD jumped in to help. “No talking, no talking!” she shouted.

“O Allah, we thank you for the gift of food, faith, and family,” Baba said.

Happily, this was a much shorter prayer.
“Ameen,”
we answered loudly.

After that, it was a free-for-all. The kids piled mountains of food on their plates and sat cross-legged around the dusterkhan, eating the stuffing with forks and the biryani
with their fingers. The grown-ups crowded around the table; hands and elbows bumped as the food was passed.

“Choti Dahdi, you must use a knife to cut the meat,” Zayd called.

“Aii!” OCD curved a finger under her nostril to express her puzzlement. “Allah gave us fingers and teeth and, Masha’ Allah, we still have all of ours, see?” She bared her teeth at my brother and then returned to gnawing at her turkey.

Who got the Butterball and who ate the kosher turkey that day was anybody’s guess. Allah knew, of course, because He is all knowing. But He is also all forgiving … that is what Badi Amma says.

Nafees called the following day. “I’m reeeally bored,” she drawled. “Tell your mom to call mine up and invite me over?”

“I can’t,” I said. “Winnie’s coming over so we can catch up on our independent study project.”

“Didn’t anybody tell you? You’re not supposed to do schoolwork during Thanksgiving break.”

“Ha ha, very funny. And I’m also behind on Sister Khan’s project.”

“Don’t remind me!” Nafees groaned. “I haven’t even started mine yet.”

I heard the doorbell. “Oops, sorry,” I said. “Winnie’s here. Gotta go.”

Winnie went straight to my great-grandmother’s room. “Hi, Buddy Ma,” she called from the door.

Badi Amma was in bed, propped up by two pillows. The TV was blaring and she was watching the screen intently.

“BUDDY MA, HI!” Winnie called again at the top of her voice.

My great-grandmother turned. “Little Veenee,
tum kub aye
?”

“What?” Winnie looked at me. “What did she just say?”

“She asked when you came,” I explained.

“How do I answer in Urdu?” Winnie asked, and I told her.

“BUDDY MA
, MAI ABHI AYEE
!”

“Oh, just now? Good, very good. Glad to see you. Go in kitchen and eat something. Eat a lot. Don’t mind the rest. They are fasting. It is Ramadan, you know, Little Vinnee?”

“Okay, Buddy Ma,” Winnie said with a grin. “Bye.”

We took a detour through the kitchen and Winnie grabbed a samosa. “Aren’t you going to eat one?” she asked. “They’re delicious.”

“I’m fasting today,” I reminded her.

“Sorry. I can’t keep track anymore. Isn’t the torture over yet?”

“Shhh, OCD will hear you,” I said.

“I thought she didn’t speak much English.”

“She understands more than she lets on,” I said.

We almost collided with my great-aunt in the hallway upstairs. She had just awakened from her afternoon nap in my bed and there was a big scowl on her face. Her prayer beads dangled from her hand.

“What’s the matter, Choti Dahdi?” I asked.

“Uff! That ujjad mattress gave us a horrid backache again,” she moaned with one hand on the small of her back. She looked at Winnie. “Hello?”

“Um, this is my friend and she’s helping me with my project.” I spoke hurriedly. I didn’t want OCD to embarrass me further.

“What you name?”

“Excuse me?” asked Winnie. “Oh, sorry. MY NAME IS WINNIE!”

“Aii!” OCD turned to me. “Why this mad girl shouting?”

“Winnie,” I muttered under my breath. “Choti Dadhi isn’t deaf!”

“Oops,” Winnie said. “I was thinking about Buddy Ma.” She pointed to my great-grandaunt’s hand. “Cool beads! Are they real?”

“What this girl say?” OCD asked me and I translated for her.

She smiled broadly at Winnie, swinging her luminous crystal beads. “Yes, yes, very
gooood
. Pay a
laaat
money.”

A Walking-Talking Tent

F
asting?” I asked, sitting down across from Marwa on the picnic bench.

“Al humdu lillah,” she said. “And you?”

“Al humdu lillah,” I replied, smiling at our little ritual. “Only one more day to go.” It was hard to believe that the whole month of Ramadan had gone by. Somewhere along the way I had begun to feel stronger inside. It had happened very quietly and smoothly, but I could tell. Each new fast day seemed less burdensome, and pretty soon even the campaign jitters had faded. “You fasted a lot. It seemed every time I turned around, you weren’t eating.”

“Al humdu lillah,” she repeated. “I did as many as I could.”

I smiled. I had a feeling that Marwa, unlike me, must have already started her period. Women and girls were excused from fasting during their time of the month but I wondered if she’d skipped some days because she hadn’t felt well.

“We did it, and it feels good, right?” she added.

I didn’t have to think too long about that. Yes, it felt very, very good. “I guess a person can do pretty much anything once she puts her mind to it.”

“No matter how big or small that thing is,” Marwa said.

Our breath steamed in the cold December air.

“Where’s Winnie?” Marwa asked.

“She’s probably hanging out with Leah, Madison, and Carly.”

“You two have known each other for a long time, right?”

“Since kindergarten,” I said.

“Yeah, it shows.”

“It does? How?”

“Well … you seem happy to be with her and she is happy to be with you.”

“Yeah. She’s my best friend,” I said.

The sound of kids at play surrounded us. I heard the swings creak and balls bounce.

“I haven’t found a best friend yet,” Marwa said quietly.

She was staring into space. I wanted to say something— something that sounded like an apology. I could have been the person to make her feel the way Winnie and I felt about each other. I could have made her feel more welcome.

I took a deep breath. “You’ve only just got here. It seems like you’re pretty good friends with Sarah and Maggie.”

Marwa nodded. “They’re nice.”

I threw my head back and let my hair hang behind me. It was past my shoulders now, and getting longer. I looked
up at the winter sky, silent and pale blue with puffy white clouds.

“I miss the birds in the winter,” I said. “Sometimes, you get lucky and see a whole flock of geese fly by, honking their heads off.”

“It’s great being outside like this, even when it’s so cold,” Marwa said. “I like to go hiking, especially near the water. I like lakes and rivers and oceans, but mostly I like lakes.”

“There’s a lake near our house. With lots of walking trails.”

Some boys ran by, whooping and laughing. I could see Austin across the playground, standing by himself.

“What was it like in Morocco?” I asked.

“Morocco? I was seven when we left. We go back now and then. Sometimes I think about the courtyards and the
souks
—those are the marketplaces, always crowded and very noisy. But my favorite memories are the sound of the
adan
, the call to prayer from the minarets, and the smell of mint tea.”

“Is it colorful?”

“Colorful?”

“My grandmother says India is colorful. I wouldn’t know since I’ve been there only once, when I was very little.”

“I don’t remember a whole lot of color in Morocco. I’d like to go to India some day, though,” Marwa said.

“And I’d like to visit Morocco.”

Across the yard Mr. Gallagher was checking his watch. Recess was probably ending soon.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said.

“Oh?”

“How come you’re not … um … I mean, you never seem to be … um … embarrassed, you know …”

“Are you talking about my hijab?”

I nodded. “What else?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You could be talking about anything, about my grades or my smelly lunch …?”

I laughed. “Well, it sure couldn’t be your grades,” I said. “You’re waaay too smart.”

“Why should I be embarrassed about the hijab? I mean, it’s who I am, and I’m pretty okay with myself. It’s a part of me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s a feeling.”

“I think I get it. Sort of like a zebra?”

“A zebra?” she asked.

“You know, the way a zebra feels with his stripes?”

“Exactly!” Marwa grinned. “I feel natural in it. My parents say I look really good. I like wearing it. I really do.”

“It’s your special stripe,” I said.

“Yes, I guess that’s what it is.”

“You always seem so … so sure,” I sighed. “I wish I could think like you.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

I didn’t have an answer to her question so I didn’t reply.

Austin tossed small twigs in the air and whacked them with a long stick. “Just look at that jerk,” I said.

Marwa turned to look. “He called my mother a walking,
talking tent this morning. He even laughed at his own stupid joke.”

My heart sank.
This is exactly why I didn’t want a hijab at Glen Meadow in the first place
, I thought
. It screams out, “Look how different I am!”

“That’s not a joke,” I told Marwa. “It’s mean and hurtful and he’s not going to get away with it. My dad’s going to see to it.”

She gave a little nod, staring straight ahead.

I couldn’t see her eyes, but I knew what she was feeling. I thought about the woman who’d yelled at my mom. My eyes teared a little. Maybe it was just the cold air.

“I’ve been here forever and he still can’t say my name right,” I said, trying to cheer her up.

She laughed. “He says I should go home to I-ran and I
-raq
with the rest of the terrorists.”

“That’s not funny!” I said. “I don’t see how you can laugh.”

“It’s not that,” Marwa said. “It’s just that I am from Morocco and Morocco is so far away from Iran and Iraq.”

“So he doesn’t know his geography either. You should still tell on him!”

Marwa shook her head. “Sometimes things like this will go away if we don’t make a big fuss.”

“Who told you that?” I asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“My dad,” she said.

I couldn’t understand how she could be so calm. But I did understand the hurt.

“You know, this is the first time we’ve really talked since I came,” Marwa said.

“You’re wrong,” I corrected her. “It’s actually the second time.”

“And it always seems to be about him,” she said, waving a thumb in Austin’s direction.

“Yeah!” I said. “We do have that moron in common.”

“We have a lot more in common than that,” Marwa said with a smile. “Eid too. Eid’s the day after tomorrow.”

“I know,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

“We’ll be wishing each other
Eid Mubrook
pretty soon,” she said.

I nodded. “And you wished me Ramadan Mubrook not too long ago, do you remember?”

“Of course, I do!” she said. “You weren’t as talkative back then.”

The bell sounded and we took our time walking back. I was sorry that recess had ended.