Roses, in the Mouth of a Lion by Bushra Rehman

Author:Bushra Rehman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flatiron Books

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When I finished, I noticed the aunties were starting to get fidgety. They stretched their legs, cleared their throats, and fixed their dupattas. Saima and Hafiz Saab’s wife were the only ones who stayed focused in their bubbles of light. Their headscarves were pinned, while our dupattas were draped loosely around our heads. We had to fix them continuously.

I looked over the room. Taslima was mouthing the words as she read and Aliza was staring out the window. Shahnaaz was bent over her saparah. She was still on the first page. I wasn’t sure she could even read Quran. She caught me staring and I quickly looked away.

My mother saw I was done with my first saparah. “Razia, go to the kitchen and get the chawal started.”

“Chawal started?” I got scared. My mother had never given me such a big cooking task. What was she thinking?

The Aunty laughed. “She doesn’t know anything about making chawal.”

The other aunties all chuckled. I filled up with anger, but I couldn’t show it.

“Just wash the chawal,” my mother said, “and someone will come help you.”

Taslima looked up hopefully, but her mother said, “Finish your saparah first and then you can help.”

Hafiz Saab’s wife said politely, “I’m done. I can help.”

“No,” my mother insisted. “You’re our special guest.”

The Aunty scowled. She probably wanted to be the only special guest.

I went to the kitchen, grumbling to myself, wishing my mother and the Aunty hadn’t embarrassed me like that. I did know how to wash rice. That’s all my mother had to say. Wash the rice, not make chawal!

I prayed the Aunty would go back to Pakistan to live with her sister. Maybe there was extra magic at a Quran khani and my prayer would come true.

I measured the rice into the bowl and began to think about Saima. How had she gotten so close to Hafiz Saab’s wife? Who was Hafiz Saab’s wife anyway? Why had she married an old man like Hafiz Saab? Had she had a choice?

My thoughts were interrupted by a noise behind me. “Can I warm up this formula?” It was Bahar, carrying Mittoo on her hip and a bottle in her hand.

“Okay. The pots are there.” I gestured and almost dropped the rice.

Bahar laughed at my nearly disastrous mistake. “Can you do it for me? I have Mittoo.” She motioned to him, as if trying to explain something to someone who was too slow to get it.

I wanted to say, “Um, I’m washing chawal,” and motion to the bowl as if she was too slow to get it, but I couldn’t talk to Bahar that way.

For one thing, she would probably slap me.

I washed my hands and warmed up a pot of water and put the bottle in it. Finally, after what felt like forever, with Bahar watching my every move, she said, “That’s enough.” I handed her the bottle. She squeezed formula on her wrist to test the temperature. Satisfied, she put the bottle in Mittoo’s mouth. He drank it hungrily.

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