A Few Hundred Poppies

3. Aunts & Guns

The brass nameplate beside the iron-wrought gate had lost its lustre and was scratched in several places, the words 'Professors Afsar & Saroor Rashid, 15 Taylor Avenue, Edelweiss' embossed in Times New Roman on its surface. Taylor Avenue wasn't really an avenue because there weren't any trees lining it, but nobody seemed to care.

The pebble muttered a tiny curse as I kicked it away from the sidewalk, swinging the chest-high iron gate open. As I crossed the small but well-kept lawn with heavy steps, the savoury scent of cooking beef made a roar stir up in my stomach.

Maybe I'd earned Allah's pity. It was pretty rare for Ma and Bapi to arrive home before me on weekdays, and I could definitely use not having to stick rice from the fridge in the microwave for lunch. Finding the front door open, I trudged across the foyer and gingerly peered into the kitchen, mentally groaning when I realised who it was.

It took Poppy Khan exactly 3.78 seconds to notice me, and the first thing I received from her wasn't an embrace or doting words or even a half-assed greeting. Pausing her vigorous stirring, my beloved (not) aunt sized me up with scrutinising eyes. "You've gotten fat," she bluntly stated.

 Khammi rarely called me by my name, she often remarked that it was 'too Hindu', which made zero sense. On top of her massive neck, her head was perched uncomfortably, as if it were slowly sinking into a puddle of slime. Dyed blonde to look fashionable (the colour looked amazingly horrible on her), her hair had twinges of a dirty black where the colour had faded. She wore a set of thoroughly beaded hot-pink georgette shalwar-kameez and her entire collection of ruby jewellery.

I forced a small, tight-lipped smile to keep myself from swearing under my breath. "I know Khammi. I solely blame Ma for that, she makes me eat mountains of bhaat, rice, everyday." 

In an attempt to avoid looking at her directly (a childhood superstition that eye contact with her would turn me to stone), I wavered my gaze to a figure standing near the window with swishy waist-length hair dyed a murky brown, puckering its lips and clicking away selfies from different angles. I wouldn't say that I hated Fariah, Khammi's younger daughter, per se, but I definitely didn't like my cousin and the feeling was reciprocated. She'd blocked me on all social media, except her google account - angelfariahh@gmail.com.

"Didn't Uncle come, Khammi?" I played at curiousity even though I was well versed in the answer. Khammi suddenly seemed to lose her appetite for body-shaming. It was a trick I'd mastered over the years to shut her up, but I've been using it so frequently nowadays that I'm afraid she might catch on.

"He's busy." Khammi's husband, Luthfar Uncle (the 'Uncle' comes after the name and not before for brown people, it's a thing) was always busy. When I was younger, I used to imagine him getting on his knees and begging the bossman for more work just to stall going home - it was the sort of thing I'd do if I were married to Khammi.

"Oh. What're you cooking?" I stepped nearer to the stove and whiffed at the blissful smell wafting from the pressure cooker, resisting the temptation to reach into the cooker.

"Kachchi," she stated, her back straightening with pride. An important aspect of Khammi was that she was an efficient briber. She deliberately cooked incredibly delicious food to deceive and guilt you into liking her - until, of course, her superiority complex struck again.

"Ooh, cool. Um- I'll just go freshen up," I babbled, disconcerted at myself for being pleased at her. I trotted up the stairs and threw myself onto the bed, curling my arms around my beloved kolbalish*, wallowing in self-pity at having been cursed with such demotivating family.