The Love and Lies of Rukhsana Ali by Sabina Khan

Author:Sabina Khan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.

I slept listlessly that night and woke up with a pounding headache. I went to look for Shaila and found her putting coconut oil in her hair.

“You look like you could use a good oil massage,” she said when she saw me skulking by her door. “Come here and sit. I’ll put some in your hair.”

My mom used to put coconut oil in my hair when I was little, but once I started school, kids would make fun of the smell. It had been years and I hadn’t realized what I’d been missing.

“This feels amazing,” I said as Shaila massaged the cool oil into my scalp. I felt the tension draining away immediately.

“Don’t you put coconut oil in your hair regularly?” Shaila said with a laugh.

“Are you kidding? I barely have time to wash my hair, dry it, and straighten it before school. It takes too long.” Shaila had twisted my hair into a neat, thick braid and I turned to look at her with envy. “Your hair is so pretty and silky. Mine’s like jute.”

“That’s because you don’t use oil. If you do, yours will be soft and silky too,” Shaila said, gently pushing me to move.

“You should have asked me to do your hair.”

“You can do it next time,” Shaila said. “Oh, hey, there’s an art show at the Alliance Française tonight that I thought would be interesting. What do you think?”

“Sure, that sounds like fun.”

We went to our respective bathrooms to wash the oil out of our hair. I’d forgotten how much time and shampoo it took, but I had to admit my hair had never felt softer. After a quick lunch of khichuri, aloor bhorta, and shrimp dopiaza, we took a rickshaw to the art exhibit. My hair dried quickly in the blazing midday sun and I was relieved when we entered the air-conditioned building.

“I used to take French lessons here, while I was waiting for my A Level results,” Shaila said. “I came to events here all the time back then but haven’t been back since. I forgot how beautiful it was.” I snagged a pamphlet as she led me down a hallway to a large room where the exhibit was being held.

This exhibit was by a local artist, Khurram Aziz, who painted scenes from the Mughal palaces of the twelfth century. I was stunned by the sheer beauty of each piece, the bold colors, and the feeling of being transported to another place and time. There were scenes of the king holding darbaar for his subjects and another where the ladies of the harem were bathing in a secluded spot. There was one in particular that mesmerized me. It was of a man and woman sitting on a grass-covered hilltop, gazing into each other’s eyes, their bejeweled garb indicating that they were royalty. But it was the look of utter devotion that the artist had managed to capture that drew me in.

“Isn’t this breathtaking?” Shaila whispered beside me.

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