The Hijab Boutique by Michelle Khan

Author:Michelle Khan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kube Publishing Ltd

4

DREAMS, AMBITIONS AND THE HIJAB BOUTIQUE

Mom grabs the keys to Dad’s gold convertible. I try to play cool, but my emotions are getting the better of me. I begin to sweat. What she’s about to tell me is big – I can feel it in my stomach. It’s also totally logical because, until today, we’ve NEVER taken Dad’s beloved car out for a spin. Why, you ask? Simple. It’s because our memories of him are so deeply connected to this vehicle. He bought it after scoring a huge business contract. At the time, both Mom and I knew n-o-t-h-i-n-g about his big purchase. One afternoon, Dad surprised us by zooming into our driveway in a shiny convertible. The rooftop of his brand new car was down, and he shouted gleefully to Mom and I that our lives were about to change. He was right: we watched the only man in our lives be transformed from an ordinary businessman into Mr. Textile Mogul, and our lives were transformed right along with him. My heart still bursts with pride over his achievements.

F.Y.I.: Dad’s success didn’t just benefit us; he also improved the lives of poor people. He donated heavily to homeless shelters in particular. Like I said earlier, Dad believed that a man’s home is his castle. He felt that this should apply to temporary housing, too. He worked very hard to make the homeless shelters in our area become beautiful, safe havens. Dad felt this was his duty as a fortunate Muslim, because he knew that his business would never have taken off if it had not been Allah’s will. He used to tell me, “Remember, Farah, that it is the poor people’s right to receive zakat and charity: our wealth can only be purified by sharing it with others.’ His heart was truly made of gold. It’s only fitting that his favourite car was the same colour.

My mind’s eye is flooded with memories, and my body finds it difficult to keep up with its emotionally-fuelled images. I feel like I can’t breathe. Mom and I have long stopped chattering. We exit our home in silence, only stopping when we reach the entrance to our three-door garage. Mom punches in the security code, and just as programmed, the doors rise up slowly to let us in. Under normal circumstances this action is routine for me, but today everything is different. I allow my eyes to glance at the side of our garage where my dad’s convertible is parked. For the first time in the two years since his death, I find the courage to stare at the symbolic fruit of his hard work. A ray of Los Angeles sunshine hits the gold coat and temporarily blinds my vision. I squint, and turn to face Mom.

“Are you ready?” Mom asks, her tender green eyes searching mine. “I arranged for the car to have a complete tune-up yesterday; it’s all set to go.”

Feeling a rush of adrenaline, my head bobs up-and-down, nodding ‘yes’.

We hop into the car.

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