One
There have been many times in my life when I was confronted with moments that made me think: this is it, this is where I revoke my brown card.
And my Amma trotting a black goat into our home was one of them.
“Is this even legal?” My eyes widened as I glanced up sharply from the kitchen counter, cluttered in baking supplies. My hand darted forward, tucking my poetry notebook behind a bowl of batter.
“Shut up, beta,” Amma said, as if this were a normal practice, bringing furred four-legged things meant to be mutton kebobs into our house.
“I’m frying jalebis! This isn’t hygienic!”
Amma was not having it. “Oho chashm-e-baddoor”—she whacked the back of my head—“who will save us from the evil eye? Did you hear the news?”
Not this again. When Amma fell down a pit of paranoia because of the neighborhood’s rumor mill, she would order a goat from Uncle Mahmoud, the local Syrian butcher, before slaughtering it under the name of charity. As if all the negative energy would suddenly disappear because the world had one less goat.
Amma continued, “Aunty Farooqi told me there’s a new aunty in town. Sister Ayesha who moved down the street. Farooqi said, ‘This Ayesha is opening a catering business’! I think she’s jealous of ours! She’s giving us the evil eye! She’s even going to call it Aunty’s Punjabi Kitchen.”
I gasped in mock horror. “The nerve.”
Amma didn’t register the sarcasm. “Her name is so generic too. Are we calling our business Aunty’s Sindhi Kitchen?” Amma all but sneered. “No, because we’re all Pakistani.”
Before I could reply, the haze of burnt fried dough and sugar syrup hit my senses. As I yanked down on the door of the gas stove, the black goat bellowed and struggled against the frayed rope tied around its neck, its slitted blue eyes peering up like save me! For a wavering second, I empathized with the goat.
Earlier, in the morning, my older sister had warned me that Amma would be up to her usual antics, and it’d be better for me to escape and hang with the poets to make use of the summer before senior year.
My teeth gritted. But nope. Amma spammed me with WhatsApp messages, threatening me into frying jalebis for an emergency client’s order. All morning, the undeniable scent of sticky mithai had the uncles across the street from the Al-Rasheed mosque popping their heads into the doorway with that I know I’m on a diet, don’t tell my wife, but remember to save me a bite look. I’d promised to share leftovers.
Across the counter, Amma began packing a plastic container of unburned jalebis to distribute to the neighbors. Her eyes darted to the bowl of batter. My poetry notebook stuck out like a sore thumb.
“What’s this?” The disapproval hardened her glare.
“Schoolwork?”
“Nice try,” Amma said but left it. My heart fluttered in relief. “I’ll be back by the afternoon and then you can go visit Mamou at the prison.”
I opened and then shut my mouth. Afternoon? I was supposed to meet the poets at the shawarma restaurant for a critique circle. We always met up around a plate of pilaf and döner kebobs. This would be the third time I’d be blowing it off—in a row.
“Can you come earlier?” I asked.
“I’m finalizing a client’s menu for a small wedding and then I have a delivery up north,” she explained. “Why?”
“Well…” I fumbled for an excuse, desperate to see the poets. “What do I do with the goat while you’re gone?”
She whacked me again. “Oho, the goat isn’t bothering you, ignore it. We’ll fatten it up and have the butcher slaughter it in a few days.”
“But—”
She raised a brow, silently urging me to talk back just so she could whack me again. Ridiculous, I know. I decided to change the subject.
“Amma, when you go, can you leave the door unlocked? My friend is coming to drop off my physics textbook,” I said.
Amma nodded and popped a piece of fried dough in her mouth, pecked my forehead, and left. I glanced at my notebook, my heart sinking.
I recalled a time when this wasn’t the case. When Amma didn’t mind if I escaped with the poets. That was before Mamou went to prison. Now she despised our poetry.
Maybe this was a sign. All morning I’d had a bad feeling strangling my chest. It happened on the days I was supposed to visit my uncle. Today after morning prayer, when I sat down to revise my verse, my mind was a blank wall, the well of inspiration all but dried out.
After flicking a match and lighting the stove again to fry another round of desserts, my sister sniffed her way into the kitchen. “You’re still here?”
I wiped my floured hands on my apron. “I burned the dough because of the freaking goat.”
“What about the other poets?”
My stomach lurched as I filled the piping bag. “If I go, who’s going to finish the client’s order?”
Zaynab had the audacity to shrug. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”
“Did Amma even ask you for help?”
“I told her I couldn’t.” Zaynab began stuffing her face with the orange goodness. “I have a law school event that I’m prepping for tonight. Next time, just tell Amma about your plans.”
“Easy for you to say.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. At every turn, Zaynab’s studies were a proffered excuse. Amma ate it up. Zaynab was out there fulfilling brown pedigrees by applying to law schools. But Zaynab was good at that, saying no. As the oldest she’d had more practice with being firm with what she wanted. I was always caught between both extremes.
Suddenly Zaynab paused mid-bite. “Oho, Nida.”
“What?”
“Is that your notebook?”
I whirled around and—
The goat nudged my notebook off the kitchen counter, nibbling on the edge. I snatched it away before more damage was done, wiping the wet, ruined pages against my sweatshirt.
My poetry letters were damp, the same ones I was supposed to work on for my performance next week at the Poet’s Block.
“I guess that’s a sign from God,” Zaynab said.
“Of what?”
My sister nodded her chin at the half-chewed notebook. “You blew off the poets. I guess the evil eye was the goat all along.”
Her words were meant as a joke, but it stung. I swallowed uneasily.
“Which evil eye?”
I turned and saw my friend Alexis poke her head into the kitchen.
“Your mom let me in,” she explained. “I’m dropping off the textbook you let me borrow—is that a goat?” Her eyes became blue saucers.
“Yes … that is a goat,” I said nonchalantly.
“It’s chewing on paper!”
“Yes … it’s chewing on paper from my journal.”
“Why are you acting like this is normal?”
“We sacrifice goats for charity. But according to Zaynab, the goat is cursing me with the evil eye.”
I met Alexis last year, in the eleventh grade. She was the first white friend approved and vetted by my Amma’s paranoid standards. A gori of our block, Amma decided, which was as welcoming as she gets.
Alexis skirted a wide berth around the furry creature. “Why would you have the evil eye on you?”
Zaynab interjected, “Nida was supposed to write a piece her spoken word performance, but she flaked because she was too scared to ask Amma. Now she’s stuck frying desserts. So, I think God’s trying to show that she shouldn’t blow off her commitments.”
“I can speak for myself,” I cut back in, an edge to my voice.
My friend glanced between us. “And I think your sister has a point. Summer vacation is almost over. You can go after you’re done here.”
“I can’t.” I gestured miserably at the kitchen. “After finishing this order, I have to visit my Mamou.”
“But if you don’t practice, you can’t perform. You even said no to that poetry contest that I showed you last week!” Alexis put out her arm to stop me from grabbing the piping bag.
“Because I didn’t have time to submit a piece. And I hate contests.” I pointed between Zaynab and Alexis. “I don’t like when you gang up on me. It’s weird.”
“You’re weird for self-sabotaging your own opportunities.” Zaynab snatched another plate of fried desserts before, thankfully, retreating down the hall to our shared bedroom.
Alexis began rolling up her sleeves. “I need your apron.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll fry the desserts while you practice your spoken word letter.”
“Don’t you have to go home?”
She shrugged, grabbing the spatula. “My parents were fighting again. I’d rather be here, frying…”
“Jalebis.”
“Frying jalebis.” She smiled.
Just like the first day I had met her, Alexis defied my expectations. “Do you know how?”
“How hard can it be? It’s like funnel cakes, right?”
“Sure,” I said before trying to snatch back the spatula.
Alexis was taller so she held it up over her head. “Let people help you, Nida.” For a moment I was silent. Then she added, “But I have a condition.”
“Condition?”
“Just promise me that you’ll consider entering that contest I showed you.”
My smile dropped. “My poetry letters are private. I don’t like contests.” I looked away and picked up the piping bag.
Ever since my old English teacher had sent an email about the National Students Poet League (NSPL), encouraging me to enter, Alexis and the other poets rammed the idea down my throat, telling me it’d be a good way to gain some national recognition. Like in their eyes, being good at something without recognition didn’t make it a legitimate hobby.
Alexis gently removed the piping bag from my hands. “But you perform at the Poet’s Block. What’s so different about a competition? You could even win money.”
My stomach squirmed. NSPL’s prize for first place was a $5,000 check, publication in a renowned national magazine, and a spoken word performance on the news. The competition was the paragon of talent, and I had no intention of playing in the big leagues. But a wave of guilt coursed through me.
Technically—just technically—Alexis was right. She knew about Amma’s debt and our small catering business. She knew that if I placed in a competition, with this recognition, I’d be booked for all kinds of public performances. But I wanted to say, I didn’t tell you all this for it to be thrown right back at me.
“The Poet’s Block is different because it’s designed for only Muslims from our city. Besides, everyone knows me as Abdul-Hafeedh’s niece, that’s why my poetry is meaningful to the neighborhood. It reminds the families of my uncle’s work. A national competition is different, it’s risky.”
Alexis began piping swirling designs of batter onto the hot oil and wow—it really was like funnel cake. She glanced up from the frying pan. “But you’ve performed at other competitions. Didn’t you win last year at that tournament, MIST nationals?”
“MIST is an all-Muslim tournament. The judges are less likely to misjudge my words.”
What I didn’t say was that years ago, when my Mamou went viral performing online and across the country, his words were twisted against him. The public saw my Mamou as radical—which is exactly what my Amma feared would happen to me.
Alexis seemed to read my mind. “What would your Mamou say?”
Copyright © 2024 by Sarah Mughal Rana