by Ayisha Malik
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ added Shelley, ready to walk away.
‘Isslow,’ said the woman.
‘Sorry?’
Bilal’s aunt put her hands out. ‘Ispeak isslow.’
Ah, here was the rub. Of all things! To be told to speak slow in her own language.
‘She. Thought. You. Were. Playing.’ Shelley’s voice rose a few decibels.
‘Hau-are-youh?’
Shelley felt her brows contract.
‘Hau. Are. Youh?’
Shelly cleared her throat. ‘Fine. Thank you.’
The aunt smiled. ‘I also fine. Thanking you.’
They both stared at each other before the aunt put her hand out and said: ‘Me, Rukhsana.’
Shelley extended her hand. She wouldn’t have foreign people thinking the English were rude, after all.
‘Shelley.’
Rukhsana squinted into the distance, her face scrunched up in concentration. ‘Pleasing … to meet you.’
Shelley looked at her, from wellies to anorak. What an ensemble. The aunt smiled. Shelley cleared her throat. The aunt still smiled.
‘Well …’ said Shelley.
Smile.
After a minute of this, Shelley decided to say goodbye.
‘Goodbye,’ the aunt replied, taking Shelley by the arms and pulling her into an unprecedented hug.
Shelley was so taken aback that she didn’t have a chance to reach out her hand instead. It felt like a long time until Bilal’s aunt released her and Shelley realised that she’d forgotten her name. Something with a K?
‘Come, Holly,’ Shelley called out as she made her way towards her car.
As she walked away she glanced back. The aunt was still there, waving and smiling. Shelley honestly didn’t know what to make of it.
MARIAM ARRIVED HOME AFTER a yoga class to feelings of agitation and saw her wellingtons, muddied and collapsed on the floor.
‘Khala, I’m home,’ she called out, noticing Bilal’s wet anorak. ‘Khala?’
She knocked on Khala’s door and opened it to see papers scattered on the bed with writing in Urdu. She wished she’d paid attention when her mum tried to teach her to read and write in it. Except what could’ve been more mortifying than identifying with your heritage when growing up? And what could be more karmic than regretting it later in life?
Mariam found Khala in the living room, lying comatose on the sofa, headphones in her ears.
‘How much are the tamatars?’
‘Salamalaikum, Khala,’ Mariam said, raising her voice.
‘Oh, beta. I didn’t hear you.’
‘Did you go out today?’
Khala broke into a smile and nodded. Mariam hadn’t ever noticed what lovely teeth Khala had, and how beautiful her smile was.
‘I saw the cows. And a woman.’
‘What woman?’
‘Oh, beta – I can’t remember. English names confuse me. She had a big kutha.’
‘Everyone has a dog around here, Khala.’
Khala began to describe her: average height, short, curly hair, sharp nose, medium build. Black, brown and white dog.
‘Shelley?’ said Mariam.
‘Haan! Shelley.’
Mariam sat down. ‘That’s the woman who’s after Bilal.’
‘Hain? She was very nice to me.’
‘Well … what did she say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then how do you know she was nice?’
‘Beta, she tried to understand me.’
Mariam sat back.
‘How much are the tamatars?’ said Khala, who’d already put her headphones back in.
‘Tomatoes, Khala.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Tomatoes.’
‘That’s what I said. Tamatar.’
An image came to Mariam: Khala, in her shalwar kameez, wellies and anorak, walking towards Shelley, and she felt a flush of embarrassment. She’d speak to Bilal about going shopping to get Khala some country clothes, so at least she could fit in. Until she left – whenever that might be, wherever she might have to go.
Mariam sighed. Saif would be collecting Haaris for half-term tomorrow.
She went to her room with her laptop and opened up YouTube.
There is nothing to fear, but fear itself. You are sufficient. To live without hope is to not live at all.
Mariam got irritated and paused the video. She’d heard it all before, so why had nothing changed? She wondered why she still felt her life to be too small, as if she was running out of oxygen? The only time she’d felt alive – in months, maybe years – was when she’d written that article for Jenny, and look how that turned out.
She decided to write more of whatever story she was telling. Could it be a book? Whatever it was at least it was giving her some sense of achievement. She didn’t even feel the need to dust behind the shelves. Then Khala’s voice called out to her.
‘Let’s make the zarda, beta.’
Mariam started, shutting down her laptop before going to the top of the stairs.
‘For the sale bake tomorrow,’ added Khala, looking almost energetic.
‘Bake sale,’ corrected Mariam.
And so they began the process of making the sweet, fragrant, yellow rice, to give everyone in Babbel’s End a taste of what was to come.
Of course, even Mariam couldn’t force zarda down someone’s throat.
‘Maybe people don’t like almonds? Or the raisins?’ said Khala as she, Haaris and Mariam walked past the table with their rice in a dish, untouched.
‘Or us,’ replied Mariam.
Regardless, Mariam walked through the bustling school hall, with its white, blue and red bunting strung across the walls, people chattering around stalls packed with cakes and flapjacks, brownies and cookies. Mariam was resolute, buying a cupcake here, getting Khala a mud cake there, spending a pound every time she noticed Haaris’s shoulders droop, reminding her of Bilal. Sam’s mum saw Mariam and turned her back; Brenda, with whom Mariam had organised the summer fair two years ago, whispered something into Sam’s mum’s ear. Leanne walked past without so much as a hello. Mariam should’ve felt angry at Bilal – this was all his doing, after all – but instead she made a mental note to ask how things were in the office.
If Teddy were alive, Anne would be here today too, to do her bit.
Then she saw Jenny.
‘Oh, God,’ she mumbled as their eyes met.
There was nothing for it but to walk up to her and pretend she didn’t want to shove Jenny’s face into the dish of zarda.
‘Hello,’ said Mariam, painfully aware of Khala by her side, who was looking from one face to the other.
‘Mariam,’ said Jenny, flicking a lick of hair from her forehead, glancing at Khala. She buttoned the collar of her blue and brown chequered dress.
‘Hau are you?’ Khala put her hand out.
Jenny shook it, her mouth clamped together. Then she leaned in and raised her voice. ‘And how do you like Babbel’s End? Rather perfect the way it is, yes?’
Mariam had never partaken in physical fights, despite having lived in the scrappy side of Birmingham, but rugby tackling Jenny on to the school hall lino wasn’t improbable. She caught sight of Haaris, hands in his pockets, kicking at the floor, soon to be collected by his dad.
Just then a lady in a grey polo neck, pearls and bumbag around her waist came up to them, a plate of zarda in her hand. ‘Dear, you must try this.’
Jenny introduced the zarda-eating lady as her mother, visiting from Winchester.
‘Mariam used to work for the paper, Mum. Until recently.’
‘Oh, really? And did you make this?’
‘My aunt did.’
Khala Rukhsana shook Jenny’s mum’s hand, smiling emphatically. ‘Pleasing to meet you.’
‘It’s heavenly,’ said Jenny’s mum, taking a spoonful. ‘So, what are you doing now?’
Mariam hesitated, feeling Jenny’s eyes on her, expectantly.
She noticed Jenny’s shoulders stiffen. Ha! Take that, holier-than-thou, Shelley’s lapdog, Jenny.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ said Jenny’s mum. ‘I do admire you creative types. You must tell me when it’s published. I’ll have my book group read it,’ she said, looking at her daughter.
‘Well,’ said Mariam, waving her hand, a mild panic at raising expectations. ‘It’s early days.’
Mariam’s mild panic came across as modesty, which was probably even more annoying to Jenny.
‘I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. Now,’ added Jenny’s mum. ‘Will it be in English?’
She watched Mariam, awaiting a response, only Mariam didn’t know how to respond.
The pause grew into a protracted silence.
Khala’s gaze shifted from one face to the next.
‘Of course it’ll be in English, Mum,’ said Jenny eventually, trying to smile, before steering her mum away.
By this point Khala had wandered off towards the zarda table with Haaris, and Mariam saw, with more than a pinch of alarm, her trying to give zarda out to people, while speaking to them in Punjabi, Haaris translating. Then he whispered something in Khala’s ear. She cleared her throat as people ambled past and she pushed plates of zarda towards them. ‘For the church bell.’
‘Oh, we’re certainly going to that pub quiz now,’ Mariam told Bilal.
Who’d have thought that a bake sale could ignite such passion in his wife? Or maybe it was that ex-husband of hers who’d picked Haaris up afterwards that had unnerved her again.
‘“Will it be in English?”’ she repeated. ‘What else? Mandarin?’
‘It’s funny, if you think about it,’ Bilal said, smiling.
Mariam gave him a look and he promptly fixed his face.
She took a deep breath. ‘Just because something might be funny doesn’t make it right. Treating us like we’re … we’re … fundos.’
‘That’s a bit extreme,’ said Bilal. ‘Pun intended.’
Bilal caught the flicker of a smile from his wife. It all boiled down to everyone ignoring the zarda. More importantly, though, why hadn’t Mariam told him she was writing a book? Mariam had been in a bad mood for a while – several years, maybe – but this zarda business, along with Haaris leaving with his dad, seemed to have tipped her snappiness over the edge. And Mariam wasn’t the type to snap and have sex, so there was still that problem.
‘Maybe we should ask Khala?’ said Mariam later as they got ready for it.
‘What’s she going to do in a pub?’
‘It’d be rude not to,’ said Mariam. ‘It’s not as if she’ll come. And you know you’re going to have to tell her about selling her home before one of the aunts do.’
‘Mum’s home. And I’ve told Vaseem Bhai to make sure they keep quiet until we have a plan.’
Mariam raised her eyebrows. Bilal sighed and went into Khala’s room. She was on the sewing machine, having borrowed it from Mariam, stitching together two pieces of material. A sense of guilt came over him – he should have at least spoken to her about selling her sister’s house.
‘Khala,’ he said, attempting a warm smile. ‘We’re going out. For a quiz. Do you want to come?’
She looked up from the machine, contemplating his question. He’d expected her to say: ‘what will I do there, beta? You young people enjoy’. Instead she pushed herself off the stool, holding on to her hip, and said: ‘I will get my coat.’
Bilal watched in semi-horror as Khala put on her clunky, black sandals, revealing her white socks.
‘Do you want to borrow a pair of Mariam’s shoes?’ he asked.
Khala said something about her big toenail and was already making her way out of the room.
‘Oh, Khala,’ said Mariam. ‘You’re coming?’
‘I can practise my English,’ she replied, going into the kitchen, as Bilal and Mariam watched her in wonder.
She emerged again, this time with a plastic bag full of containers.
‘Zarda. For your friends. There’s so much leftover, na? Wasting food is a very big sin.’
Bilal had never seen his khala move with such speed nor heard so much about zarda in his life. Nothing could be done. So the three of them got into Bilal’s Lexus and drove towards The Pig and the Ox.
Bilal steadied himself in the pub car park, only to catch sight of Khala’s shoe and socks combo again, which did nothing for his anxiety. He felt the weight of her, leaning on him, Mariam on his other side, carrying the plastic bag.
‘I wish she’d put on some other shoes,’ she whispered.
He took a deep breath and opened the door. It slammed against the wall and everyone turned towards the trio; an unfortunate time for a gust of wind to sweep the room, filling it with what felt like winter’s first chill. A hush fell across the room. Bilal nodded vaguely to everyone.
‘Smug,’ he thought he heard someone say, and it melted any steeliness Bilal managed to conjure.
‘Bill!’
Richard’s hand was in the air, beckoning him. The murmurings got louder as they made their way towards Richard, past the log fire that had now been lit. Khala walked past everyone, smiling and nodding, people pretending they hadn’t seen her. Mariam walked behind her, head held high – the shape of her square, erect shoulders prompting Bilal to stand taller.
There was Mr Pankhurst, sitting with Copperthwaite, Jenny and Shelley, surrounded by her slew of supporters. Tom was sitting at the bar nursing a glass, which he raised to Bilal. On another table was Bruce with his wife, who gave Bilal what could’ve been a smile, but it wasn’t a certainty.
Bilal turned around to see Khala waving at someone. His eyes travelled and rested on Shelley with some confusion. At first, Shelley didn’t seem to know what to do. Now everyone was staring at her as well – their eyes darting between the two women. Her face was unmoved as she nodded towards Khala.
‘Hau-are-you?’
‘Fine. Thank you.’
Another low murmur spread as people exchanged looks, peering at Khala’s clothing. Bilal had never wanted to bury his head in his grave faster. They joined Richard, Margaret and Mrs Pankhurst, who was dutifully ignoring her husband.
‘Good to see you again,’ said Richard.
Khala paused. ‘Yes,’ she finally responded.
It came out as more of a question than an answer.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Margaret. ‘Your English is coming along wonderfully. Though, honestly, if I were you I wouldn’t bother with it – I’d rather you teach us your language, Khala.’
Margaret winked at a bemused-looking Khala.
‘It’s Rukhsana,’ corrected Bilal.
‘What did I say?’
‘Her name’s Rukhsana. Khala means aunt.’
‘Splendid,’ said Margaret, looking Khala up and down. ‘I shall say it all the time, even when you’re not around.’
‘Mariam. Glad you made it too,’ said Richard. ‘I heard the bake sale was a bit, let’s say, trying.’
‘Well …’ said Mariam. ‘Is this all of us?’
Mrs Pankhurst paused. ‘A few people moved.’
Bilal felt a rush of gratitude towards Mrs Pankhurst and Margaret. He concentrated on the act of taking off his coat, each movement concealing the anxiety in his stomach, his chest.
‘They’re all buggers,’ said Margaret, loud enough for people to turn their heads.
Richard cleared his throat.
‘Should we ask Tom to join our team?’ said Bilal.
Mariam told Khala that he was the one who’d lost his grandchild, whose daughter had been her friend.
Khala put her hand to her necklace. ‘Allah give them patience. Why haven’t I met your friend?’
‘Leave the old codger alone,’ replied Margaret, whose face flushed.
‘Quite. And your aunt’s a welcome addition,’ said Mrs Pankhurst, nodding curtly as if that was the end of the matter.
Khala Rukhsana lean
ed in at the mention of ‘aunt’. She and Mrs Pankhurst looked at each other, unable to speak anything other than the language of uncertain smiles.
Mariam had brought them three Cokes as Mrs Pankhurst sipped her red wine. ‘You people must have exceptionally clean livers.’
Bilal felt that now would’ve been a good time to have something a bit stronger, but there was Mariam and now Khala to think of. He sighed inwardly, taking a sip of the watered-down Coke.
‘I didn’t know this was a sharaab-khaana,’ said Khala Rukhsana, eyes widening at realising she was in a pub. She shifted on her wooden chair.
It wasn’t the done thing for good Muslims. Bilal knew she was thinking this was just another link to their religion broken. The very thing that Sakeena had complained about when he’d decided to move.
‘Right, teams. We ready?’ called out Mick, standing stout and proud. ‘You’ve all put in your five-pound participants’ fee?’
Everyone assented.
‘Let’s make our target to get that bell fixed then!’
Cheers came from around the pub as they began.
‘Who said: “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind”?’
‘Neil Armstrong.’
‘Hitler.’
Jenny and Guppy called out at the same time.
Laughter erupted as people said: ‘Good, old Guppy.’
The next hour saw the escalation of spirits and deescalation of mosque-centric angst as they came closer to the end.
‘Which two body parts continue to grow in a person’s lifetime?’
There was a pause.
‘Nose and ears,’ whispered Bilal to the table. ‘Trust me. Haaris is always coming at me with odd facts.’
Khala Rukhsana nodded in a way that suggested she understood.
‘Surely not,’ said Mrs Pankhurst.
Richard put his hands in the air and Mariam folded her arms.
‘Nose and ears,’ called out Bilal.
‘And that is … correct! Which earns The Babbling Brooks a whopping seventy-eight points, putting them in a two-point lead ahead of The Quail Eggs …’ The implications of this seemed to dawn on Mick as his voice slowed down. ‘Which means … they are the winners tonight.’
Everyone turned to their table as Margaret raised her skinny arms and clapped. A scattering of applause came from various corners of the pub, but none outlasted Margaret’s, who only stopped at Richard’s request.