The Garden of My Imaan by Farhana Zia Read Free Book Online

sitting in a hole, without trying to climb out. I don’t see evidence of effort.”
    “Huh?” I asked. “What hole?”
    “It’s just a figure of speech, Aliya,” Mom said. “I don’t think Sister Khan wanted a laundry list of complaints.”
    “Come on, Mom!” I cried. “I’m not complaining. I’m communicating and there’s a lot going on, as you can see for yourself!”
    “So you are saying that Sister Khan wants you to write a diary?”
    “Yes … No! I guess I don’t know what she wants. Why don’t you just help me a little, huh?”
    My grandmother, who had been listening quietly, dried her hands on a kitchen towel. “Let me see those letters,
Meri Jaan.”
    Meri Jaan. My life. That’s what Amma called me. I was as dear to her as her own life. She’d surely approve of my letters. I handed them to her. “Read them,” I urged. “Tell me they’re fine.”
    “Yes, yes. Come, come,” Badi Amma commanded. “Read those letters out to me.”
    Amma got her reading glasses out of her drawer in the little alcove just off the kitchen and put them on her nose. She read the letters, first to herself and then aloud to Badi Amma.
    I drummed my fingers and jiggled my leg a little. Badi Amma had better not be as hard on me as Mom was. It was her idea in the first place.
    My great-grandmother listened with finger on chin, nodding her head from time to time. “Read one more time,”she said, and Amma read the letters over, slowly and loudly.
    “Hmm,” Badi Amma mused. “Putting thoughts down is first step. Action follows soon after.”
    “See?” I turned to Mom, although I didn’t fully understand what Badi Amma had just said.
    When Amma got to the part I had underlined, Badi Amma’s head bobbed faster. “There! Not all talk, action too!” she exclaimed. She turned to Mom. “Read again. Look carefully!”
    Mom re-read the letters. “So there is. I missed those the first time,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.
    “Where?” I said, snatching the letters from Mom’s hand. “What are you talking about?”
    “The Little Veenee part,” Badi Amma said. “It will be very good she comes for iftar, see? She will learn more about you.”
    “That’s action?” I asked.
    “Hanh, hanh.”
Badi Amma smiled. “Big, big action hiding in a little line!”
    “There!” I told Mom triumphantly. “Satisfied now?”
    We finished our dinner and afterwards Mom helped Amma put away the dishes.

    After the kitchen chores were done, we came together in the family room. Mom sank down beside me on the sofa andwe looked through a magazine together. After a while she tossed it aside and turned to me. I knew she wanted to hear about school.
    “So … Marwa invited you to iftar?” she began.
    I winced. Why did she have to make such a big deal about it?
    Zayd lay on the rug watching his favorite cartoons, but I knew he had one ear tuned to our conversation. “And you said no,” he piped up. “That was rude. Right, Mom?”
    “Says who?” I growled at him. “Just butt out of my business.”
    “I’d like to meet her,” Mom said. “How’s she getting on at school? Is she making friends?”
    “I guess. Kids talk about her food, though, and they make fun of her hijab. Actually, I don’t blame them. It’s pretty embarrassing.”
    “Embarrassing for whom?” Mom asked. “Her, or you?”
    “Why doesn’t she just bring something else?” I said. “Like tuna fish, for instance.”
    “Tuna is smelly,” Zayd said.
    “Shut up!” I cried. “This conversation has nothing to do with you!”
    “You should invite her over,” Mom said. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
    “And invite little Veenee too,” Badi Amma added. “Come, come. Time for lessons.” My great-grandmother heaved herself out of her armchair and scuffed toward the door. She wore fancy hotel slippers that Baba had broughther from one of his business trips. They were one size too large, but she loved them because they were a gift from