Hazel eyes & Sunflower lies

“Zulaikha! It’s 8 am. Don’t you have class today? Get up!” My mom shouted from the kitchen. I could tell from her tone of voice that she was tired of my mere existence.

Honestly, she sounded less like a mom and more like the evil villain in a Disney movie who’s tired of their henchman failing.

I groaned, rolled over, and grabbed my phone.

“YA KHUDA(Oh God). NO!”

I’d forgotten to charge it. Which meant no alarm. Which meant I was officially that freshman who can’t even survive one week of college without becoming late. Great start, Zulaikha

I got up and rushed to get ready before my mom could get a chance to barge into my room, yelling at me, which was happening way too often since I graduated high school.

Toothbrush in hand while scanning my closet for something—anything that was not wrinkled. Black hijab: check. No food stains? Shockingly, yes. Mehreen was right. I did eat like a toddler.

As I applied makeup, I recognized my top was sheer; I stole Mom’s oversized trench coat and threw it on.

“This will fix it” I said to myself adjusting my hijab to cover my chest.

the coat looked slightly oversized on me. Part of me felt like a hijabi model, while the other half felt I was detective Mickey Mouse. But it had to do since I didn’t have time to search for another outfit.

I could hear my mom complaining to my dad in the next room.

“She’s not in high school anymore! She doesn’t help around the house, stays up watching movies, wakes late every morning, no job! Sumaiya, Mehreen, Safaa, Zaid...none of them were like this!”

I rolled my eyes in annoyance, deep down knowing my mom was right.

I was the last child and a complete disappointment. My siblings were basically child prodigies. Ivy League. Jobs. Internships. Meanwhile, I had community college and an A+ in vacuuming my own room. I could confirm I had all the negative characteristics of the youngest child syndrome.

As I was cramming pancakes while pinning on my hijab from slipping, my mom entered the kitchen with a sunflower pot the size of a baby.

“Can you drop this off at your sister’s place after class? She has been asking me to bring it to put on her patio, but I never get the time.”

I wondered how I would take a seat on the bus with them. I ate the last bite of my pancakes and placed the plate in the sink. I started to walk to the house’s entrance in a huff, with my mom following.

She followed me with her trademark sarcasm. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll wash your plate. Since I’m obviously a walking, talking dishwasher.”

No one could beat an Indian mother’s sarcasm. It was a package deal from God with the melanin.

My dad was on the couch reciting the Quran like he did most mornings. He stopped reading and turned my way. “Khuda Hafiz, my child. Try your best to get to class on time.”

My mom looked at my dad, frustrated, and shook her head. “YES, of course, and if you can’t make it on time and fail the course, don’t worry about it. Your dad will pay again to have you repeat the course, my child. Hamare pass bahut paisa hai”(we have a lot of money)my mom replied.

Every morning conversation became a argument with my mom. I could not recall what I had done these past few months to get her on edge.

“AMMIII (Mom), this is the third item you have told me to drop off at Sumaiya’s place in the past week. Just because she lives four blocks away from my campus doesn’t mean I will pick up and drop things off for you both. I am not Amazon, where you order and get same-day delivery.”

As I grabbed the nearest pair of shoes from the rack, my mom looked straight at me. She made that face every immigrant mother makes to manipulate their child into doing something for them.

“You were just three when we came to the U.S. in hopes of giving you and your siblings a better life yet—”

Before Ammi could go into her Greatest Hits Lecture about moving from India, sacrificing everything, and how America ruined children, I grabbed my bag, hoisted the giant sunflower pot, and bolted.

“Allah Hafiz... ja rahi hoon mein (Bye..I am leaving)”

Translation:If I don’t take this plant, I’ll be trapped in a two-hour TED Talk on “Why Children Are Ungrateful in the West.”

Being a child of immigrants is... exhausting. You’re supposed to be the straight-A genius, the family therapist, the future breadwinner, and a live-in caretaker. Basically, an overachieving superhero without the cape. And if you dare complain? Boom. Cue the “We gave up everything for you” guilt-trip.

Still... I couldn’t be mad at them for long. My parents really had sacrificed so much. I actually didn’t mind helping them. It was just harder now that my brother left. In our culture, sons are supposed to stick around and take care of parents. Except mine traded all that for a pretty Canadian zip code and quarterly phone calls. To Ammi and Abbu, he’d basically vanished.

My parents had invested all their savings to send my only brother to an Ivy league school just for him to pack his bags after graduating and move to Canada. He was visiting us on holidays and calling a few times a year. We sisters weren’t bothered by him settling in another country, but it was not the same for mom and dad. In their mind my brother had abandoned them.

I was so deep in thought I didn’t realize when the bus pulled up to the stop and the doors swung open.

“Are you getting on miss?” the bus driver rudely remarked

As I got on the bus and scanned my MetroCard, I received a text message from my best friend Farah from H.S.

Hey, bestie! I hope you are well. I miss u. Let me know when we could meet up <3

I smiled. Farah had been my ride-or-die since ninth grade. Different colleges made it harder, but we promised weekly hangouts. Honestly, she was the only person who still made me feel like I wasn’t totally failing at life.

The time was 9:15, and I knew I was going to be late for class. I should have just stayed in French 101 in the afternoon, rather than dropping it for Turkish. But I found the Turkish language so beautiful. Turkish dramas had rotted my brain, and now here I was, huffing sunflowers across campus in an oversized trench coat.

“Next stop is Forest Lake Community College”

I got off the bus and looked through my schedule for the building and room number.

“Great” I had to walk 10 minutes to Robinson hall with these massive plants. I was sweating like a pig striding up the hill in a trench coat.

I noticed a group of South Asian guys sitting on the front steps of the building cracking jokes in Punjabi. One of them smelled of a strong Arabic musk cologne. It reminded me of my trip to Egypt sophomore year. I kept my head down, praying I wouldn’t faceplant with my botanical burden.

Finally, I reached class. The professor was already explaining the syllabus, students settled into their seats.

I pushed the door open.

Every head turned.

The room went silent.

It wasn’t just a you’re late look. No. This was worse. This was the “Who is this absolute weirdo carrying a plant like it’s her emotional support animal?” look.

I could tell from the Professor’s face he was not happy. He turned to the class in a displeased manner.

“Attendance is 15% of your grade. Please try to make it to class early, everyone.”

My cheeks burned as I slipped into the back row. I shoved the sunflower pot onto the desk behind me like it was in time-out. Surely, I had to be the last late arrival.

Wrong.

The door opened again.

Just as the Professor started to read off the name on the attendance sheet, a tall, handsome Pakistani/ Indian guy with a sandy beige skin tone and dark brown hair walked in. He held an iced coffee in one hand and a MACbook in another. He was the same guy who was sitting on the steps with his friends.

Before the professor could scold him, Mr. Suave already had his excuse lined up.

“Oh... sorry for being late. I was helping an elderly Professor carry her things to her car.”

He is a genius! DAMMIT! Why didn’t I think of that? Of all the excuses I give my mom for being out late I couldn’t think of one good one for today.

The Professor had a subtle smile on his face. “That’s very kind of you. But please try to be early next time. Can I get your name?”

" Yeah...It’s Yusuf. Yusuf Ali”

He had a black leather jacket on, same as the one I gifted my brother Zaid last Eid. I remember it being expensive and was hurt when I was told by my mom that Zaid lost it at a restaurant a month later. I could tell she was more heartbroken than I was as she knew I saved my one-month allowance and babysitting money to buy it for him.

And now here was this random classmate... wearing the same jacket like he’d stepped out of a music video.

After signing his name on the attendance sheet, Yusuf looked across the room to see if there were any seats available.

And that’s when my imagination betrayed me. TheDDLJtheme started playing in my head, violins swelling, my invisible dupatta catching on his watch in slow motion.

He started walking my way.

Yes, I know I need a mental evaluation. But no one can blame me. Watching Bollywood movies with my mom gave me unrealistic expectations of love and has damaged my brain cells over the past few years.

" Hey, will your mind if I put your flowers on the floor and take this seat?” He was reluctant to touch them.

It was the same smell again coming from him of Musk and Patchouli

For a solid three seconds, I didn’t answer. Why? Because I was busy staring at his eyes. Hazel. Shining. Or maybe it was just the sunlight bouncing off the window, but still—hazel eyes. Beautiful eyes.Kill me now.

“UM. Hey? can you move your flowers so I can sit? all the other seats are taken.” Yusuf repeated like I was slow-witted to understand the first time he asked.

“Yeah, sorry” I blurted, while my eyes were still locked in his

I took the sunflowers and put them on the window sill, avoiding more awkwardness.

Smooth, Zulaikha. Very smooth.