Present Day

I’m completely dreading this wedding. I enjoy weddings and I’m completely thrilled for Ruqaiya but it’s the people in the gatherings I’m not too keen on. It’s not only the weird stares Isa and I get, which, by the way, make me want to gauge peoples’ eyes out. It’s more specifically who I’m going to meet.

My father has one older brother, an older sister and a younger sister. The sisters hate us. The brother, my uncle, is a good man. At least he approved of my marriage with Isa’s father. The sisters, on the other hand, tried to steal my father’s land only a couple of years after his death. That’s one of the things that brought me to Pakistan.

I’m happy I’m going to see my uncle.  He helped fight the case when my aunts were trying to take over this house I live in and the lands in which I grow a few essentials.

I love gardening; I get it from my dad. Isa hates it like his father. He doesn’t want to get dirty gardening. I’m a little disappointed in his lack of interest in growing anything. I mean, the village is advanced and everything’s available in shops but home grown, organic food tastes so much better. Why waste the opportunity to grow things at home if you have it?

I don’t have fields of crop like some of my neighbours do. I have a few simple things such as onions, garlic, tomatoes, potatoes, peppers and other things growing in the fields behind the house. It’s enough to manage on my own. I knew if I ever decide to grow fields and fields of crops, my neighbours would help me maintain it just liked they help others in the village. I love this closeness everyone has. If only everyone was as accepting as my neighbours are.

“This hijab? Or this hijab?” I ask my four year old son. He just shrugs. “I’ll go with this once then.”

“I done my homework. Can I go play now?” Isa asks.

“Show me.” Isa brings his piece of paper in which he has messily written some of the Urdu alphabet. “Now write the English one as far as you know it.”

“Mama! Can I play first?”

“I just gave you a bath Isa. You’re going to get yourself dirty. We only have,” I check the time “Isa, we’re getting late! Hadia’s going to be here any second! Forget the alphabet,” Isa cheers up for a second before I continue, “Let me wash your face, you’ve got chocolate all over it!” I wash Isa’s face while he scowls at me. Then I change his clothes and wrap my hijab around my head. While I’m securing my niqaab, I hear a knock on my door. I quickly rush to the door. “Asalamu’alaykum.” I say, opening it.

“Wa’alaykumsalaam. Ready?” Hadia asks. Grabbing my bag and Isa’s hand, I walk to Hadia’s car. I sit at the back after I say salaam to her husband, Khalil. Every time I see him, I’m reminded of Isa’s father. They used to be very good friends before… I shake my head, ridding them of any negative thoughts. I’m going to a wedding, a happy occasion. I should think happily.

We set off to the wedding, with me constantly fussing over Isa at the back.

“Mama, I’m thirsty,” He says as I wipe a bit of chocolate I missed when washing his face.

“We’re nearly there.”

“I’m hungry too.”

“I said we’re nearly there.” Only a little while later, Isa says,

“Mama, I need the toilet.”

“Everything has to happen in the car.” I hear brother Khalil chuckling.

“We’re nearly there Isa. Not long to go now,” He says. When we get there, I try to smooth the creases out of Isa’s shirt. As soon as we step out, he says,

“Mama! Toilet!”

“I’ll be back, Hadia. Let me just take him to the toilet.” Feeling slightly annoyed, I pull Isa to the toilet. One he’s finished, I give him a little speech. “Now you listen to me. I don’t want any trouble, okay? You have to be on your best behaviour. When I ask you to do something, you do it.” I ignore the fact that it looks like everything I’m saying is going through one ear and out the other while he nods. “Let’s go.”

As soon as I enter the tent, I see Inayah sitting next to Ruqaiya. I rush to them and give them a hug.

“Congratulations! You look stunning masha’allah!” (God has willed it) Ruqaiya is wearing a red dress with gold and silver embroidery. But that’s not what makes her look beautiful. It’s the look on her face and the joy radiating off her which makes her look beautiful! Isa also compliments her and as usual, they give him a lot of attention. I roll my eyes at the sight of girls cooing over Isa. Then again, my little Isa is very handsome.

After a short conversation, I spot Hadia sitting in the tent towards the left near the other entrance at the back. She waves at us and we say our salaam and go over to the back, sitting beside her as she continues a conversation with the person next to her. Somehow, she drags me into the conversation too.

“Oh, so whose daughter are you?” The woman Hadia was talking to asks me.

“My father’s name is Afzal.” I reply.

“The one who moved to Kuwait and then the UK?” I nod. That’s how everyone remembers him. The man who left home and travelled to Kuwait, earning a lot of money and sending it to his family to make ends meet and to make their lives easier. Then he married an Arab and moved to the UK. It was a long and tough journey before they settled in London.

“That’s your son right?” She looks as if she’s fascinated by Isa.

“Yes.” I reply, feeling happy to show my son off. The woman frowns a bit.

“I heard fresh lemon juice can make skin lighter. Try it.” Did she just insult my son’s skin colour? I bite my tongue to stop any angry comments from leaving my mouth. Think before you speak, Esha, I say to myself.

“His skin is beautiful and healthy; I never want to change it.” I say, stroking Isa’s cheek. The words come out with a little venom and the woman looks offended.

“Can I go play?” Isa asks.

“Of course you can.” Hadia says for me. Isa happily skips away to where the children are playing outside. There are many people I know standing there so I’m at peace that he’s safe. Hadia puts a hand on my arm. “They’re not trying to be mean or anything. It’s just how they are.” She tries to assure me but it doesn’t help. Isa begins to run back and forth from the children to me. When the food starts being served, I stop Isa from going outside again.

I break up pieces of chicken for Isa to eat when my eyes fall upon the people entering the tent. They look joyous until they spot Isa. They look between Hadia, who’s also wearing a niqaab, and me wondering which one is their niece. I feel angry seeing them. I’m annoyed that they resemble my father in appearance. If only they resembled my father in character.

“Hello Isa. Where’s your mummy?” They ask in English.

“He can speak Punjabi. And some Urdu. Some Arabic too.” I was teaching my son four languages. At the moment he spoke mostly a mixture of Punjabi and English but he was young so it was easier for him to learn more than one language. He was my little genius and he was catching onto a little bit of Urdu and Arabic too. Even if it was only the alphabet and saying ‘how are you’ so far. Maybe I just exaggerated a little saying he knew four languages. But he would know four languages soon.

“That’s nice. It was pleasant to see you Esha. Bye Isa,” They say, turning around. “I don’t know what these Arabs think of themselves. First they think Pakistanis are too good for them,” That’s a clear hint to my marriage with Isa’s father. “And now showing off like this. It’s in their nature.” They mumbled amongst themselves while walking away. Don’t speak instinctively. Don’t get angry. Keep your cool. I try to calm the rage building inside of me. I probably wasn’t supposed to hear half of that.

“Before anything, I am Muslim.” I tell Hadia and she just nods nervously. “I want my son to grow up knowledgeable knowing several languages for his own benefit. Anything wrong with that?” Hadia shakes her head. “I don’t think being half Palestinian could possibly mean I think I’m better than Pakistanis seeing that I’m living in Pakistan!” I say and Hadia nods.

“It’s okay. They’re gone now.”

“Where are they? I should say that to their face!”

“Esha, don’t. They’re not worth it. This is Ruqaiya’s day. Don’t cause a scene.” Hadia’s right. Sighing, I tell Isa to finish his food.

When we’re about to leave, I spot my uncle. I tell Isa to run to him and he does, crashing into uncle Ijaz with a hug. He picks Isa up and walks over to me. He pats my head and Isa does the same making uncle Ijaz laugh.

“You look older. Aren’t you taking care of yourself properly?”

“I am but you know, I’m getting old now. The grandchildren are growing up so fast, how do you expect me to stay young?” I smile and we continue a short conversation and invite him around my house. He promises he will come later, maybe in a few days or so. Hadia calls me and I have to leave uncle Ijaz.

“It was lovely to see you, Asalamu’alaykum.”

“Wa’alaykumsalaam.” I pick Isa up and wave as I walk to brother Khalil’s car. Meeting him made me feel tons better. He looks nothing like my dad but his personality and his manner of speaking is so much like his.

When we get home, I say goodbye to Hadia and enter my house, pulling my niqaab off sit on the sofa. Isa seems quieter than usual.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“People don’t like me, do they? It’s because I look different. It’s because of daddy, isn’t it?” He asks, touching his cheek. I knew this day was to come, I had tried to prepare for it but it still took me by surprise.

“Isa, don’t be silly!” I say, pulling him into an embrace while my heart shatters. I'm not so sure as how to answer his question. “Everyone looks different," I begin. "Look at me and Hadia, we look so different. Does anyone treat us differently?”

“You both wear a niqaab.”

“Bad example. What about… Brother Khalil and Shayaan?” I ask, knowing that Hadia’s husband and the boy who lived opposite both meant a lot to Isa. “Do they look alike?” Isa shook his head. “See. Everyone’s different. Allah made us all differently. Remember that nasheed, Allah made us all a different shade and colour…” Isa lips twitched upwards.

“Nations and tribes recognize one another,” Isa continued.

“Cause every single Muslim is your sister and brother. So many different colours of Islam!” Isa and I both sing. It cheers Isa up and his mood is turned around. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said for me. I’m left with an aching in my heart at the harsh truth that my son was beginning to be exposed to the cruel realities of the world. Many, many people love Isa but there’s a few who will make life hard. And there is no escape for these types of people will be found everywhere.

Oh Allah, please make life easy for Isa. Please protect him from hardships. At such a young age, he’s beginning to realize he is seen as 'different.'

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A/N: Nasheed to the side -->