White Onions

Naima let the oil heat up on her cast-iron skillet slowly. The rustic stovetop grew old with a charred cast but withstood the test of time over the last three decades in their small, ageless apartment. She’d gotten accustomed to it, and was just content that Pintu had remembered to pick up the correct oil this time. Over the last thirty years of their marriage, he always seemed to have misplaced or picked up the wrong item whenever she called during his daily outings. Canola oil instead of mustard oil, white bread instead of brown, and Lipton tea bags when she wanted raw tea leaves. Pintu’s incorrect groceries became one of the smaller debacles she’d learned to reconcile with. In between his wrong grocery runs, night time snoring, and occasionally boisterous behavior— she sacrificed her comfort for peace.

She’d occasionally glance upon old photos of when they first started dating. Old grainy photos of the two sitting in a grassy field overlooking the water— one of many forming Bangladesh’s complex river delta. Simpler times, she’d think to herself. A time before her nine-to-fives as a line cook and his daily rounds as a cab driver. They’d learn to function well as a working team, with settled routines between shifts, cooking dinner, and other duties. Dates eventually became home-cooked dinners with the family— firstly as a means of saving money versus going out. Vacations became long weekends when there was a paid holiday. Anniversaries eventually stopped being marked on the calendar, lost between birthdays, school events, and extra shifts. They stopped holding hands when going out. Soon it turned into droughts of surface-level conversations and sexless nights. Naima recalled her older son once watching a Hallmark movie on the television and asking:

Do you and Abu kiss?

She wasn’t sure how to answer that- until Pintu came and kissed her cheek lightly. Naima was flattered to have felt his lips for the first time in years. His unkept mustache and stubble tickled her cheek, and her heart to turn fickle.

Their love stopped speaking in physical or emotional languages, and eventually simmered to passive acts of service. Whenever they went out, Naima wouldn’t be afraid to wipe away a stain on his blazer in front of everyone. If Pintu saw that Naima liked a fruit he brought home, he’d bring an entire box of it the next day. However, these services soon became dull and redundant. With their children now moved out and away in school- the two find each other with more time than they had in decades, yet avoid each other throughout the day. Pintu went out during the day and returned early evenings, echoing his work shifts from just a few years ago. Naima stayed home and spent her time indoors, filling her time in the kitchen and watching Bangladeshi dramas.

The oil on the skillet began to sizzle, prompting Naima to quickly begin chopping the onions. She reached into the bag Pintu left on the counter, and vexingly pulled out a red onion. Naima had specifically asked for white onions, the ones you can caramelize into a sweet, brown garnish. With Pintu not returning until the evening, she decided to go to the grocery store herself.

She’d picked up two white onions and had just paid for them at the counter when a voice called out her name:

Naima? Is that you?

She turned around to see a familiar face. Faizal, an old classmate during her college years in Dhaka, approached her slowly with a confident grin.

Wow, Naima! It’s been years. How are you?

Naima froze. They haven’t seen each other in decades, since she and Pintu left Dhaka in 1991. Their migration to the states was abrupt and Naima didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to most of her friends. He appeared taller than before. Faizal stood with a handsome grin, strong posture, and his scalp still had his signature thick, wavy hair. He offered a light side hug that Naima awkwardly reciprocated- the first hug she received from a man in a while.

They caught up by the entrance of the Bengali grocery store. Faizal was doing well— an established career as an analyst for a plant biology company, volunteered on weekends, and just ran a half-marathon over the weekend. He didn’t offer any input into having a family, nor did Naima bother to ask. She also managed to slyly avoid bringing up her husband and two sons— dodging it and piling on more questions about his latest endeavors. A few giggles and chuckles elicited from their conversations.

“Naima– this was nice. Would you like to grab some dinner some time and catch up more?” he asked assertively.

Naima grew nervous— this time filling the silence with excuses about her sister’s upcoming birthday and make-believe weddings.

“Don’t worry about it. Here’s my card, just text me if you’re around,” he said, handing her a card.

Naima slipped the card into her jacket pocket and let him know she’d follow up soon. She stepped outside and examined his card- marveling at its embossed textures and quality paper. A small flicker in her chest sharpened seeing his phone number.

A few nights later, Naima had agreed to meet Faizal for dinner. He’d already picked out a spot and assured that she’d love it. Throughout the day, she paced around eagerly while Pintu was not home. Her chest rose whenever she saw his text messages, re-reading and overanalyzing them repeatedly. She wore a beautiful floral blouse tucked away in a suitcase she hadn’t worn in years. The last time she wore this was for a parent teacher conference that she hoped would validate her accent when speaking in English. Naima looked at her reflection in her bathroom. She applied a dark, rosy lipstick that she dug out of an old purse buried alongside her blouse. It matched her nails, as she pulled down her blouse an inch to reveal her chest more. She heard Pintu’s keys jingling by the door, quickly jolting her to pull her blouse back up. Naima conspicuously walked towards the door when Pintu caught sight of her.

“Going out?” he asked her, noticing her slightly blushed face and dark red lips.

“Just a friend from school,” she responded flatly. “I won’t be back late.”

Pintu nodded as she left. He scanned the kitchen and found the red onions he bought days ago, untouched, and some leftover peelings from the white onions she used the other night.

Naima met Faizal at the restaurant he recommended— an upscale Bangladeshi restaurant. They sat at a table for two where Faizal ordered some recommended dishes. The waiter brought over a prawn dish bathed in a rich, creamy, golden coconut curry where a layer of vermillion tinted oil rose to the top.

“Do you remember having this together after that one semester?” Faizal reminisced.

“I think this spot probably made it a little nicer, no? It’s so– fancy,” she commented.

“Don’t be fooled,” he regaled. “It’s just the forks and knives.”

Naima examined the pristine, shiny utensils that gleamed a stretched reflection back at her.

“You’re not used to these are you?” Faizal ascertained. “Tell you what- let’s do this old school. Let’s have this with our hands.”

Naima chuckled and resisted, finally giving into his request. They continued having their dinner with their hands, chuckling while the non-Bengali customers looked on curiously.

“This is the best way to eat, honestly,” Faizal entertained.

Their hands met at the ladle when reaching to grab more curry for their plate, sharing a glance and promptly looking away. After dinner, they’d gone for a quiet stroll outside and caught up on their lives.

“Look at this tree. Do you still remember your botany?” he teased.

“Of course. London Planetree. Most common tree in New York City,” Naima affirmed.

“Ah– I should’ve known. The girl who stamped leaves within the pages of her book would know the trees in this city” he chaffed.

Naima blushed and looked away. They continued walking and chattering- their steps synchronous, accidentally finishing each other's lines. Her voice lightened and posture softened.

They reached his car— a sleek, silver Lexus that shined under the street lamp. He stopped in front of his car and faced her- their eyes locked. A glance that stayed, lingering longer than they’re allowed to. Her eyes shifted away, noticing his threaded corduroy jacket didn’t have any curry blotches, and his fingernails that somehow escaped the turmeric stains from the curry dish. Pintu’s jackets still had the same stains even after taking them to the laundry.

“May I offer you a ride, Naima?” he asked in an intentional, deep voice.

She snapped out of it.

“Ah— that’s so sweet. It’s okay, I’m way out of the way for you. I’ll just call a cab,” she said with a tinge of reluctance.

He nodded.

While Naima ordered her cab, Faizal looked at her longingly. He gently moved his hand toward her face and rested her cheek in his palm. Softness poured out of her immediate stiffness, her glossy eyes staring back at him. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel a gentle caress on her skin— a tender, intimate safety.

“Faizal… I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” she said as she pulled his hand away.

She darted away into the cab wiping away a tear, not looking outside the window aware that he was watching her leave.

Naima returned home later than usual that night. She gently opened the door to avoid awaking Pintu, whose snores had already confirmed her cautions. She undressed and slipped into bed, facing away from Pintu. Her heart sank rereading the last text message from Faizal:

See you soon!

She scrolled up further.

Dinner sounds like a nice time.

How does tomorrow evening sound?

Sounds fun.

She deleted his contact and clutched her body pillow to her chest, curling into it. Pintu continued snoring, unbeknownst to Naima, he was mildly aware she had come home.

Naima spent the next afternoon in the living room alone. Pintu had already left that morning for his daily outings by the time she had awoken. The silent, forlorn apartment felt familiar— the desolate stillness was commonplace. She’d occasionally rub the side of her face, in an effort to wipe away the guilt of enjoying Faizal’s hand there. Bangla dramas ran in the background as she tidied up– letting time pass by and noise fill the gaps while she idly dusted shelves.

An old notebook peeked between the shelves. Naima pulled it out to find her old notebook from college. Inside were diligent notes on tree anatomy, different species, and sketches of leaves. Between the pages, she found her old, dried, and preserved leaves collected on Dhaka University’s campus. She skimmed throughout the pages when an old photo slipped out from the last few pages of the notebook. A grainy polaroid of Pintu & Naima, smiling next to a tree under the sun, holding a branch. She recalled the story in great detail:

“Do you know what tree this is?” she’d asked Pintu.

Pintu shook his head. Naima revealed a leaf, still fresh, between the pages of her notebook.

“Mahogany. Swietenia mahogoni,” she said, twiddling the leaf by its stem to Pintu.

“Hmm,” he confirmed. He looked up at the tree. “This one right here?” he said, pointing at the tree standing before them.

“Yes. It's a common, but beautiful tree in Dhaka,” Naima stated.

“Great at absorbing pollutants, and–”

Pintu immediately walked toward the tree and started climbing it. He sat atop a thick branch and shook it- letting the leaves shower Naima underneath. She looked up at him in awe. He eventually climbed down with a branch of leaves and presented it to her, leaves still intact.

“Pintu, I–” Naima stuttered, her face blushed.

“You said you liked these leaves. I went and brought you the whole thing,” he said campily.

Naima grazed her finger over the polaroid. She reminisced on their early dates, before dropping everything to go to the states. A foreign land in the distance that told tales of opportunity which never came to fruition. Their first few dates at the carnival in Dhaka when he only had a few dollars in his pocket. Rushing over to pick her up after class from his morning shift. Attending her graduation when he couldn’t afford tuition and finish his education. The way he reassured her when they decided to elope because her family didn’t think a dark-skinned, broke Bengali man from the village merited marrying a young, bright, educated woman from Dhaka.

“Are you scared, Naima?” Pintu asked her while they packed their suitcase a few nights prior to leaving for the states.

“Pintu, I’m terrified. This is a gamble. We pushed the rest of our savings last week on these plane tickets. We have nothing and our English is awful,” she confided. “How will they know who we are? Where we come from? You want to have kids in such a scary place?”

He pushed the suitcase aside and held his hands under each side of her jaw. Her face rested in his hands.

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” he said looking into her eyes. “Come, let’s get this suitcase to shut.”

He pushed down on the suitcase while Naima slowly pulled the zipper to a close.

“Look at that. We make a pretty good team, huh?” he said sheepishly.

A sudden knock at the door. Pintu usually comes home later than this, she thought. Naima placed the photo into a drawer and slipped the book back into the shelf. She opened the door to see Pintu standing outside the door with a cheesy grin- he looked different. He didn’t shave but his jacket looked more neat. The stains on his jacket were wiped off but there were discolored blotches that remained. His shirt was tucked in but she can see the wrinkles above his waist. His shoes were polished but she can tell the sole was falling apart. Sporting a bright smile, he held up a large bag of white onions. Naima’s posture softened, shoulders loosened, and eyebrows relaxed.

“You remembered,” she uttered lightly.