Chapter 1: The Invitation
The notification chimed on Suha’s phone just as she was debating which lip gloss to buy. A flurry of texts from her mother, a rapid-fire summary: a cousin’s wedding in Mumbai, a non-negotiable appearance, tickets already booked. Her parents, swamped with work, couldn’t go. She and Dada would represent the family.
“Guess we’re going to India,” she said aloud, tossing the gloss into her cart.
Her grandfather, Nadeem Khan, looked up from his newspaper. “We?”
“You and me, Dada. Mom’s commandeered us for Faizan Bhai’s wedding.”
A slow smile spread across his weathered face. “A wedding. Good. I will see my brother.” He folded the paper neatly. “And you will wear a proper salwar kameez.”
Suha grinned, a flash of perfect teeth. “I’ll wear something,” she said, her voice a playful promise.
Two days later, they stood in the vast, echoing terminal of Heathrow. Suha was a splash of color against the grey linoleum. Skinny jeans hugged her legs, ripped at the knees. A silky emerald green camisole shimmered under her open jacket, and a delicate gold crescent moon necklace rested against her collarbone. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves, was held back by oversized sunglasses perched on her head. She looked less like a granddaughter on a family trip and more like a fashion blogger between shoots.
Dada, in his pressed tan waistcoat and sensible shoes, wheeled their suitcases with a steady, unhurried pace. His eyes, sharp and missing little, scanned the crowd.
“You look very nice, beti,” he said, his tone neutral.
“Thanks, Dada.” She linked her arm through his, feeling the thin wool of his sleeve. “You don’t think the top is too much?”
He patted her hand. “It is what it is. You are a modern girl. But in Mumbai, you will remember you are also my granddaughter.”
“Obviously,” she laughed, but the squeeze of his hand carried the weight of the unspoken.
At security, the ritual unfolded. Dada passed through the scanner without a beep, a model of uncomplicated travel. Suha’s turn. The machine pinged. A tired-looking agent waved a wand near her hips. It screamed.
“Jeans,” Suha explained, pointing to the silver studs and zippers.
“You’ll need a pat-down.”
She shrugged, catching Dada’s watchful gaze from the other side. She offered the agent a conspiratorial smile. “Go easy on me, yeah?”
The agent, a woman her mother’s age, remained impassive.
Afterward, as she collected her bag, Suha found Dada waiting, his expression unreadable. They walked in silence for a moment before he spoke. “You enjoy it,” he stated, not asked.
“Enjoy what?”
“The looking. The… performance.”
Suha slowed her step. “It’s not a performance, Dada. It’s just me. Should I be invisible?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Never invisible. But there is a difference between being seen and being… examined.” He gestured lightly at her outfit. “This asks for examination.”
She felt a flicker of defensiveness, hot and familiar. “Maybe I like the attention.”
“I know you do,” he said softly. “That is what worries me.”
The comment hung in the recycled airport air as they found their gate. Suha let it lie, deflecting by buying them both bottles of water and teasing him about the paperback mystery novel peeking from his coat pocket.
On the plane, she had the window seat. Dada took the aisle, immediately settling in and closing his eyes, a practiced traveler conserving energy. Suha scrolled through her phone, a montage of posts from friends at clubs, at beaches, living lives of careless freedom. She felt the gentle pressure of the crescent moon against her skin.
As the plane taxied, she looked at her grandfather’s profile, at the deep lines around his eyes that spoke of a life spent between countries, between expectations. He had never said a word when she stopped praying regularly, when she started dating. His disapproval was a quiet thing, a slight tightening around his mouth, a longer pause before he answered her questions. It was worse, in a way, than her parents’ loud arguments. Harder to fight.
Halfway through the flight, he opened his eyes and spoke to the darkened cabin window more than to her. “Your grandmother, when we were first married, she had a sari. A brilliant purple, with silver thread. She wore it once, to a party. My aunties clucked their tongues. ‘Too bold,’ they said. ‘Not suitable.’” He smiled at the memory. “She packed it away. But sometimes, I would catch her opening the trunk, just to look at it. To touch the fabric.”
Suha waited, the hum of the engines filling the silence.
“What happened to it?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know. Lost, I suppose.” He turned to her, his eyes reflecting the dim seatback screen. “I always wished she had worn it again. Just one more time.”
A complex ache bloomed in Suha’s chest. She looked down at her hands, at the shimmer of her nail polish. “I’m not packing myself away, Dada.”
“I am not asking you to,” he said. “I am only asking you to know why you are taking yourself out. Is it for you? Or is it for them?” He nodded vaguely toward the vast, sleeping cabin, a stand-in for a world of watching eyes.
The plane began its descent into Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged, and the cabin lights warmed. Suha peered out the window as the sprawl of Mumbai glittered into view, a thousand points of light in the pre-dawn gloom. A surge of adrenaline cut through her fatigue. A wedding meant parties. Music. A room full of new eyes.
She felt Dada’s hand, dry and warm, cover hers briefly on the armrest. “Ready?”
She flipped her hand over and gave his a squeeze. “Ready.”
They emerged into the arrival hall, a wave of humid air and sound hitting them. The cacophony of honking cars, shouted greetings, and rolling luggage was a familiar chaos. Suha scanned the crowd of drivers holding signs, her eyes bright.
A man in a crisp white shirt stepped forward. “Khan Saheb?”
“Yes,” Dada said, extending a hand.
The driver nodded, reaching for their bags. His eyes flicked to Suha, a quick, appraising glance that traveled from her face down to the v-neck of her camisole and back up again. It was a fraction of a second, there and then gone, professionally polite.
But Suha saw it. And she smiled, a slow, private curve of her lips. She tossed her hair back over one shoulder, letting the emerald silk catch the harsh fluorescent light.
“The car is this way,” the driver said, turning.
Dada followed. Suha fell into step beside him, her carry-on bumping against her leg. She leaned close to her grandfather, her voice a whisper meant only for him amidst the chaos.
“See, Dada?” she said, her tone light, teasing, edged with a challenge she couldn’t quite suppress. “He looked.”