Chapter 8: six

It was one of those quiet Saturday afternoons, where Kiara was already done with her practice with Mrs. Jones but continued with random plinks and plonks on the ivory keys. Her thick black hair was tied in a messy bun down her back while her gold rimmed round glasses sat on the edge of her nose as she busily scribbled on what looked like music sheet paper. Moussa stood by the door as he carefully studied his daughter who was lost in her own world, faint yellow marks marring her knuckles and released a deep sigh quietly.

Being the only child of immigrant parents was a huge burden to bear in any ethnicity, but he always felt the pressure to succeed was worse for Asians of any kind. He knew and saw firsthand the sacrifices that his parents had made for him as he grew up. The moment he had started working as a mechanic while in high school was the moment he knew that was where his passion was. With childlike innocence he had wanted to design the sleekest, the fastest, the sexiest of all cars. He'd saved up enough all through high school and university to be able to create a company that made spare parts for cars. They were doing relatively well. But his parents insisted on him marrying Salima to create better opportunities for him and his company, they said.

Not wanting to defy his parents and a selfish need for more success, he agreed to an arranged marriage. He had only met Salima on their nikaah day, after their vows were completed. He was blown away by her beauty; incredibly fair skin, copper coloured hair, hazel-green eyes. And slowly he found out - there was no warmth in Salima. As much as he tried to love her, to have her love him in return, he always fell short. And he tried, he really tried. He'd tried to thaw her iciness with his warmth, with the heat of his touches and gentle kisses; she melted just a little, but it became worse after they had Kiara.

He supposed it didn't help that Salima was hounded with questions of when she was having a boy from the others. When would she birth an heir for Moussa. Moussa didn't care really, and he tried to reassure her over and over again with sweet words and gentle touches, but Salima kept harping that he didn't really care about her, he didn't love her; that all he had ever wanted was a child out of her and that's it. Her words cut him so deep that he stopped trying. He never judged Salima nor punished her for her coldness, he didn't know how to. He had always found it ironic that his unrequited love was his own wife. He stopped thinking about other children and poured all his love into raising Kiara.

He remembered how they discovered Kiara's talents by chance. She had always responded to him singing with. Her soft coos, those great big eyes, and fluttery lashes. As she grew, even her babbles had a melodious lilt to it. Anytime, anywhere she heard music, it seemed as though her whole body would perk up, and her eyes would practically glow from enjoyment. It never mattered to that child what type of music it was, as long as it was simply music.

He remembered how excited he was when he finally purchased a keyboard for Kiara when she was three. Her excitement as she pressed each key and how she mimicked each note. It was then he saw how much she had loved the keyboard, how attached she was to it that he had decided to send her to piano classes. It was supposed to be something fun that Kiara could do as a hobby, not turn her into a mechanical machine that absolutely had to have the right posture and play all the right notes.

The moment Salima had gotten the call, where the instructor had gushed about Kiara's natural talent with the piano, everything had changed. The child that had been craving her mother's attention had finally gotten it but at a price. She had been put in camps, recitals, programs, anything and everything that Salima could think of to polish Kiara's gift. So much so, that Moussa often times wondered if Salima ever really saw their daughter Kiara behind the pianist. He would never say it out loud, but he knew that Salima viewed Kiara as an asset. Never as a member of the family but rather polished trophy set out for display. Sure, it gleamed and shined under the right lights without ever uttering a word in defiance, but the cracks were starting to form.

Kiara would hesitate playing in social gatherings, but after receiving an ill-concealed glare from her mother she would sit at the bench and play begrudgingly. Moussa could see the fire that was in her soul that made her eyes glow bright, dim as she continued to play the piano under strict instruction. Sometimes, in moments of solitude, when all he could hear resonating in their home was the sound of the piano, he had made a mistake. That he should have never allowed for Kiara to be used in this way. Like a showpiece. Like a –

"Ya Allah, Baba! Your thoughts are so loud!" Kiara exclaimed, jolting Moussa out of his reverie. He watched as Kiara shook her hands out in front of her, her back to him. He didn't say anything as he watched her stretch, cracking her neck as and sighed at the relief.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked as he slowly walked up to her and sat next to her on the bench.

"Your chappals (slippers) are getting squeaky," she said offhandedly, her eyes on the notes in front of her.

"And what is this?" Moussa frowned as he studied the piece of paper in front of him filled with scribbles and crossed out notes. "Are you writing a song beta-ji?"

Kiara hummed noncommittally, as she sat up straight. Her hands and wrists in a straight line, fingertips hovering above the ivory keys as she inhaled deeply.

Closing her eyes and exhaling, her fingers started moving on the keyboard a breath later. It was a slow melody, a touch lazy, a touch cheeky; it reminded Moussa of those times when he was younger. How his breath would hitch when Salima would smile at him with even a sliver of affection. How his heart would race when he was allowed to run his fingers through her copper coloured hair. How falling in love had felt like once upon a time.

He frowned and cleared his throat, blinking furiously as if trying to clear the fog of memories in his mind. He felt someone bump into him and realised that Kiara was still next to him.

"Well, how was it?" she asked, a touch excited, a touch apprehensive.

"That was...I mean...I don't know what to say," Moussa fumbled, looking away. He didn't see Kiara's face drop as he continued. "It...I...started thinking about how it was to be young again...," Moussa said with a faraway look in his eyes, "It made me remember...and that is a beautiful thing, to be able to stir emotions within a person with just music."

Moussa looked at his daughter, who was beaming with happiness at his words.

"Really, Baba? You're not just saying it?"

"Really," Moussa swallowed heavily. Swallowing the lump in his throat he nudged his daughter playfully as she fiddled with her pencil, "Who's the boy?"

"Boy? What boy? I don't know any boy," she said nervously, avoiding looking at Moussa.

"It must be that History project-walla (fellow), am I right?" he quirked his eyebrow as he continued watching Kiara.

"What makes you think so?" she asked, her voice an octave higher.

"Well, Maria said that he was pretty sweet. And she also mentioned that he was looker. Her words not mine," Moussa added quickly when Kiara looked at him with a sideways glare.

"That he is," she breathed quietly.

"And so are you, meri pari (my angel)," he nudged her shoulder once again.

"Baba," Kiara started quietly, as she turned her body to fully face Moussa, "Isn't it weird that we, you and I; father and daughter, are talking about things like boys. Isn't that something that I should be doing with Mama?"

"Ajeeb nahi lagta (Doesn't it feel weird?)" Kiara said fumbling slightly with her heavily accentuated Urdu.

Moussa felt another pang in his heart, at his daughter's words. Sure, she might have said it casually, but he knew how much Salima's lack of a real relationship with Kiara has affected her.

"No. Not weird," Moussa said with a large grin, shoving the grief aside to only focus on his daughter. "Besides, who better to give you advice about boys than a man himself," he winked.

"He's not Pakistani you know," Kiara said slowly, cautiously as though trying to gauge her father's reaction.

"I guessed as much. You want to know what is ajeeb (weird), his name. Yeh kis tare ka naam hai (what kind of a name is this)? Emray? Emruy?" Moussa said with a chuckle.

"It's pronounced as EM-RUY, Baba. He's Turkish," she said smilingly, rolling her eyes at Moussa.

"So, the song...it's for him? Or inspired by him"

"No...not really," Kiara looked away again. "Mila said that I hear music in everything. That was a couple of weeks ago, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I thought that I'd give composing a go," she said quietly, unsure of herself.

"And, how are you finding it?" Moussa asked cautiously.

"Challenging," she said with an unsteady breath, "But honestly, it was magical seeing how you reacted to that little bit of unpolished notes."

"Beta-ji, if that was unpolished – I can't imagine how the completed, polished piece would be like," Moussa smiled proudly at his daughter.

"What were you thinking about, when you pieced it together?"

Moussa watched silently as his daughter nervously wrung her hands together, as though gathering both her thoughts and her courage before she could answer his question.

"Eyes...How sometimes you can't see anything in them, and other times it feels like diving off a cliff into the deep end of the blue-green ocean. There's so much depth in them yet sometimes they're just flat," she breathed out.

Moussa stared at his daughter dumbfounded, her words were so mature for someone soon to be only turning seventeen. He didn't expect this answer from her. Really, he didn't.

Moussa nodded slowly, as he attempted to gather his thoughts. Kiara's phone beeped as it sat on top of the baby grand piano. He watched as Kiara unlocked the phone and thumbed through the text messages. He watched the myriad of emotions play on his daughter's face, going from happy to anxious in a span of seconds.

"What's wrong? Who's texting you?" Moussa asked softly.

He waited patiently as Kiara sighed dramatically, and thought to himself with a small smile, that's the teenager I am familiar with.

"Mila just texted. There's a gig tonight; Emre's band is playing. She says we should go...but, I don't know...he didn't invite me...," Kiara said, her fingers drumming nervously on her thighs. "What if he doesn't want me there?" she wondered out loud, pushing her glasses up her nose.

"Do you want to go?" Moussa asked gently. "Don't do things or put yourself in uncomfortable situations just to get attention. Be genuine. Show real interest," Moussa said with a faraway look in his eyes. If only Salima had just tried even a little, he thought to himself.

"I think...I do...I heard that they are really good. And they compose their own music. Maybe I could get some tips," Kiara said, ending with high spirits.

"I'll sort the driver. He'll stay with you throughout the gig," Moussa said as he fished his phone out from the pocket of his white kurta.

"Baba...can I please go with Mila? We'll have a sleepover after at her place. Please Baba?" Kiara looked at Moussa imploringly. Her eyes trying to convince her father without words.

"You text me anytime you reach a place. And if you need me, call me. Even if it's four in the morning you call me," his tone strict.

Kiara nodded happily and paused, "Baba...how are you okay with this. Any of this?" Kiara's face was full of curiosity. "Aren't you supposed to oppose everything I want?" she asked, chuckling awkwardly.

"I don't want you to live your life the way I have. Full of missed opportunities and regrets. I knew that when we had you, I will never have you make any compromises on your happiness, because that is yours and yours alone. I will never try to live my dreams through you, because you deserve to see your dreams through. I never want you to have any of the regrets that I am living with – "

Both Kiara and Moussa jumped in shock as the door to the piano room suddenly slammed against the wall with Salima standing at the doorway. Her face flushed with anger, evident that she had heard the last bits of their conversation. It was as though she was chiseled from ice, the bite in her eyes, the sharpness of her features. She looked between the two of them before she stalked off. Her footsteps echoing in the caverns of his heart. And knowing Salima, Moussa was sure that she would twist it in a way that made her a victim of his decisions.

He took a deep breath and placed his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his fisted hands, brows furrowed.

"Baba, why are you still together?" Kiara asked quietly, eyes downcast; but her words rang loudly in his ears.

"Abhi aapko dil ki bataon ko samajhne mein waqt lagega (You still need time to understand the matters of the heart)," Moussa said wearily. He stood with a deep sigh, dusted off his shirt as he mentally prepared to face an irate Salima.

"Just please, come home before your piano practice tomorrow with Mrs. Jones," Moussa said as he walked out of the room with determined steps.

"Okay Baba," Kiara sighed in the empty room as she collected her things quietly.