Let's Start Here

“Where are we going?” Nusrat questioned, her voice groggy with sleep and curiosity. “Just a few more steps,” Rafiq reassured while covering her eyes from behind. He guided her slowly through their narrow kitchen, barefoot across the linoleum kitchen floor until they stopped by the window perched behind the sink. A sudden, wintery breeze slipped in as he cracked it open. The cold wind slapped her face, she flinched. “Surprise,” Rafiq said, parting the blinds. Nusrat peered into the silvery night. Snow blanketed the window guard in powdery layers.

She leaned in slightly, lips parted, and unsure what to say. She stood still. Snow was something she had only seen in Home Alone 2 and other American Christmas films Rafiq showed her. She stood in awe— an element of nature that never crossed her in the past twenty-eight years she’s spent in Bangladesh. That is, until she arrived here in New York just this year.

“It’s snowing,” Rafiq grinned, proud of the moment.

“Yes, Rafiq, it’s very pretty. But also very cold,” Nusrat murmured.

“Yes baby, it’s so beautiful isn’t it? No, look!” He leaned out, scooping a handful and presenting the clump to her like a gift. She stared at the lumpy mound melting in his palm, the water dripping down his fingers.

“Rafiqur. Close it,” Nusrat said, firm this time.

Rafiq’s grin faded. He knew when to listen, especially when Nusrat called him by his whole name. He turned and quietly shut the window, muting the whistles of the winter breeze. He lingered for a moment, eyes caught on her reflection in the frosted windowpane.

“Can I make you some tea?” he offered, turning back toward her. His brow furrowed slightly.

“No, love. It’s already late. It’ll keep you up.” She gave a soft smile and began heading upstairs. Her footsteps creaked up the wooden staircase until they disappeared. Rafiq stood in the quiet kitchen, glancing at the two empty teacups he had set out earlier, hoping they’d sit together under the candlelight. He sat down at the table, the waxy glow of the bodega candles flickering across the dishes. Her voice rang in his ears. He used to laugh when she’d call him “Rafiqur” like she was scolding him. But tonight, it carried weight. A seriousness laced her words.

Their courtship, prior to their official marriage, had been brief but sweet. He remembered the brightness in her voice back then, the sparkle in her body language. She was always surrounded by friends, teasing him even after they warmed to him. Her eyes–large, brown, vulnerable–were his weakness. She wore deep reds and maroons often, and he thought they suited her best. When she blushed, her eyes squinted into crescents. He has chased that expression ever since.

But lately, that warmth has faded.

Rafiq had spent the last six years working relentlessly towards his electrical engineering degree, tucked in a studio apartment in Queens. He was bold and pragmatic— traits that helped him survive— but with Nusrat, those traits didn’t always serve him. He knew when she was upset: she’d cross her arms, sit slightly apart, and avert her eyes. She rarely said it aloud. He sighed and set down the empty teacup. He turned off the kitchen lights and began to head upstairs.

Nusrat slid beneath the blanket and quietly turned on her phone. It was an old Bangladeshi model she brought from Dhaka. Rafiq had offered her a new iPhone several times, but she always refused. There was one reason.

Saved deep in the phone’s memory card was a voicemail from her mother, no longer retrievable on WhatsApp. She pressed the phone to her ear and listened.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem. Nusrat, Amma, I tried calling before your plane left. Did you forget to message me? I’ll miss you, shona. Do you remember how you used to fight with your teacher in second grade? Always quiet, but so stubborn. You try to hide your feelings, but your face always gave it away. Eat well. Drink water. I hear it’s cold in America. Bhalo thako. Stay safe.

Her mother’s raspy voice cracked under the warm, static fuzz of the old phone. She knew it was the last time she’d hear from her for a while– as the prepaid phones they relied on in her remote village either lost service or ran out of minutes. Nusrat clutched the phone to her chest, holding the sound close. When Rafiq entered the room, she quickly shut it off and hid it beneath her pillow, feigning sleep.

The next evening brought a slight thaw— 38 degrees, just warm enough for the snow to slush. Upstairs, Nusrat sat at her vanity brushing her hair with the green plastic comb her mother had given her. It still smelled faintly of the Amla oil she would coat her hair with every morning. Rafiq insisted on making her favorite dish tonight: Ilish Korma. It was her favorite fish curry growing up, he recalled from their earliest date nights. She couldn’t help but feel guilty and anxious, wondering if Rafiq knew that she was awake last night. She hated hiding things from her husband, but she knew how much her happiness meant to him. A few months ago Rafiq threw a welcome dinner for his friends to meet his new wife. It sounded fun, she thought, as she anxiously hid in her bedroom under the guise of just “finishing getting dressed.” Nusrat came down in her maroon embroidered salwar kameez- a beautiful piece she’d kept over the years. She came downstairs to greet everyone only to be met with a sea of Bengali people in slacks, polos, and sundresses. It wasn’t what she expected, and wished Rafiq had warned her of any semblance of a dress code. She kept this to herself.

Her eyes wandered to the closet, scanning the two halves of her wardrobe. Tucked away on the right: salwar kameezes, sarees folded neatly in an old suitcase, and her mother’s checkered shawl draped along the rack.

I hear it’s cold in America. Wear this, Amma.

Nusrat recalled her mother giving her the checkered scarf before she left Dhaka, affectionately wrapping it around her head like a loosely fitted hijab.

She scanned to the left side of the closet where she found her small, but slowly growing collection of more American clothes. She reluctantly pulled a black knitted sweater that Rafiq bought her from Macy’s. She had yet to wear it, but thought this dinner would be a nice occasion to please him. She wasn’t used to the turtle neck or how tight it felt around her arms and waist, but she was willing to deal with it.

Nusrat eventually made her way downstairs to a beautiful, humble dinner set up. Rafiq had just set the plates & silverware, with four pots of prepared dishes. Her favorite Ilish Korma, stir fried vegetables, stewed lentils, and of course, a pot of parboiled basmati rice.

She smiled lightly. “Thank you. It smells really good.”

“May I serve you?”

She nodded.

He quickly dashed over to pull her chair for her, and lit a candle in between their seats. They were the cheap, unscented waxes from the bodega, but still enough to flatter Nusrat just a little bit.

They talked easily over dinner. He spoke about work, she listened. Her laugh made brief appearances, echoing their earliest dates.

“I loved this, Rafiq. Everything tastes amazing,” Nusrat opened up. Rafiq held his right palm open, inviting her hand. She rested her hand gently in his. She felt his eyes beaming at her, and she cannot avert hers any longer. Their eyes met and fixed their gaze at one another, with nothing but the warm light from the candlelight slightly flickering a warm glow beneath their faces.

“I’d move a mountain for you, Nusrat,” he revealed to her. She didn’t know what to say, but couldn’t help but cover her face and squint her eyes the way she used to. Her hand slipped deeper into his palm and interlocked between his fingers. They held it as their grip grew tighter. Rafiq held a confident, subtle smile while Nusrat grew shy and flattered, melting inside.

“Nushie, I have a gift for you.” She loved that nickname, blushing and her eyes dropping. From under the table, he pulled a gift wrapped in green paper. She unwrapped it slowly to find a box holding the latest iPhone model, slowly nodding her head. Nusrat knew she’d never use it, but wanted to show Rafiq she appreciated it.

“Thank you Rafiq, this is nice,” she muttered.

“Yes baby, anything for you. I already started setting it up for you, I moved your SIM card in—” he immediately froze upon seeing her face. Shocked, appalled, a slight panic rose.

“You w-what?” she stammered hesitantly, taking her hand back away from him.

“Where is it, Rafiq? Where’d you put the phone?” she anxiously rose from her seat with panic trembling in her voice.

“What, uh, baby. It’s right upstairs in your drawer. I don’t see what the big deal is. I just—”

But she was already gone. Running up the stairs, throwing open drawers until she found the old phone. She turned it on—her breath stopped until the voicemail loaded. It was still there. She clutched the phone to her chest and fell to the floor, tears streaming down her face. Rafiq appeared in the doorway. He didn’t speak. He simply sat beside her on the floor, quiet.

By the next night, the temperature dropped again. The snow had frozen over, now a thick grey crust. Words were scarce between them throughout the day. Rafiq did dishes in silence while Nusrat sat alone on the couch, her phone charging nearby. He looked outside and saw the snow pile outside their apartment, then looked back at Nusrat. His thoughts grew rampant:

What is she thinking? Does she hate me? What’s on her phone that she needs so badly?

He finally decided to break the ice.

“Nusrat, can I make you some tea?”

She shook her head gently.

He swallowed, slightly defeated. However, he wasn’t one to give up.

He thought about one of their earliest dates, particularly, their first mild disagreement. They were having chai at a local shop, a lovely sunny afternoon filled with chuckles and banter. Rafiq was sharing his adventures over the last couple of years as a bachelor in New York pursuing his degree in engineering. He raved of the diverse restaurants, night life, and his favorite museums in the city. Nusrat humbly shared the last few years of her life as a teacher in Dhaka.

Rafiq insisted on living in America - where not only would he make an income, but have access to solid healthcare, and of course, live in New York City. Nusrat was internally opposed to this. Her life was in Dhaka and never left it unlike Rafiq. Her friends, family, and job were there. As charming as he was, it wasn’t worth dropping her whole life over. She reckoned there had to be a kind Bangladeshi gentleman somewhere out there in Dhaka, a city of 30 million people. But time was moving fast- at 28 she’s already being bombarded with questions on when she’ll be getting married. That her biological clock was ticking faster than she had further acknowledged. At least Rafiq had a job, was kind, & good looking. Sacrifices were to be made, she thought. Rafiq stood firm and enthusiastically offered his hand in marriage, reaffirming their life in America would be secure. But for her, it felt like wearing a seatbelt in a car going in the wrong direction.

Rafiq recalled this conversation and sat with it. Nusrat gave up so much for me, he thought to himself with a knot in his throat. He anxiously leaned over the kitchen counter holding himself up, blankly staring out the kitchen windowsill. He noticed the snow began to freeze over on their staircase. He looked back at Nusrat, sitting alone on the couch. He imagined falling to his knees beside her thanking her for everything she’s done. He wanted to apologize for being insensitive about her phone, for not making her feel safe when meeting new people, and adjusting to life in America. Rafiq began taking his first steps toward her, and froze in his tracks. He thought for a moment and rushed upstairs. Nusrat noticed her husband exiting the kitchen without saying anything, a harrowing guilt weighed on her chest for how she acted last night. She decided to stand up, when Rafiq darted back downstairs.

“Wait, Nusrat.” They briefly pause and look at each other. “Please, sit down.” She abided by his request. Rafiq knelt down in front of her, and wrapped the shawl her mother gave her loosely around her head. He pulled it over her shoulders, gently wrapping it around her neck.

“I’m sorry, baby. For you, I’ll push a mountain.” He didn’t understand everything Nusrat was going through, but she understood that he would do everything in his power to be there for her. However blindly, nor oblivious.

He rose back to his feet and walked back to the kitchen. Rafique slipped on his boots, grabbed his shovel, and stepped outside to begin shoveling the front of their apartment.

Nusrat walked over to the kitchen a few moments after he left. She barely saw his silhouette past the frosted window panes from the frozen snow. She opened the window sill and watched her husband shovel the snow off their yard.

Move a mountain, huh? Let’s start here, she thought to herself.