began to pool at the corners of my eyes, “I made it through the whole
month, besides this one day!”
“It’s okay, Aisha.” Mariya wrapped her arms around my head as I
shook. Tears fell hot and thick from my eyes, one by one, “It’s okay, you’re
still a baby. You have next year. You have the rest of your life. Who knows
how many Ramadans I have left?”
I pushed her away, resisting the itch in my palms to slap her
again, to pull at her silky brown hair. I wanted to scream that I was not
a baby, that I was almost as old as she was, but by now my throat had
closed and I was crying too hard to say a word. Mariya pushed the rotis to
my lips.
“Eat,” she said, “you’ll feel better, I promise.”
Helpless and weak with anger, I allowed her to press the wraps
into my already wet mouth. They tasted like sand, travelled down my
throat in slimy lumps.
“I love you Aisha,” she said as we walked to the bus stop that
morning. I folded my arms and stared straight ahead. “Don’t hate me, I’m
sorry.”
I stopped cold and snapped my head towards her. I remembered
Naani’s solemn words about nazr, and for an infinite moment I gathered
all of my concentration, all of my anger into my stare, knit my eyebrows
so close together I could feel the strain, puckered my mouth, and felt my
gaze pierce Mariya’s sharp, fair, angled face. Her eyes widened and her lips
parted; she rippled like a frightened cat.
I broke my stare, shooting my eyes to the ground. Immediately, I
felt overcome by guilt, felt its sourness rise up my esophagus and almost
into my mouth. Mariya looked away and walked forward.
On the bus, and after school, I looked for signs of sickness in
Mariya. I searched her skin for pallor and jaundice, her movements for
fatigue, her face for loss of vibrancy, but I found none. At the dinner
table, she smiled at me sweetly, forlornly, when my parents congratulated
her on her first completed Ramadan, when they turned to me with equal
warmth to say, “And you almost finished too, Aisha, we are very proud.”
I allowed Mariya to feed me a piece of carrot halwa in celebration,
and that night, I let her draw peacock feathers and flowers on my hands
with henna. I tried to maintain my reserve towards her, my appearance of
cold anger for what she had done. But it melted at her touch. I had
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