by Ayisha Malik
For a moment Bilal’s heart swelled with affection for his childhood friend – protector from bullies, attacker of his head of hair – for his sheer attempt at politeness. Vaseem, for the sake of propriety, relinquished his ‘innits’ and ‘bros’, even though he couldn’t relinquish his brummie accent.
‘Trouble?’ Copperthwaite barked, frowning at the van.
It was this moment that Auntie Gulfashan had stopped waiting for the men to answer and bundled out of the van, gripping her walking stick, almost slipping in the mud. Copperthwaite’s frown deepened.
‘Ki syaapa pegya?’ she exclaimed.
Bilal felt his face go red. ‘She’s just wondering what the calamity is,’ he explained to Copperthwaite.
Copperthwaite looked at the Pakistani woman in her Russian hat, multi-coloured shalwar kameez peeking from beneath her long winter coat, her eyes buzzing about the place and resting on Copperthwaite.
‘Shagufta! Careful,’ exclaimed Gulfashan.
Auntie Shagufta’s dupatta – a paisley printed chiffon scarf – that was wrapped around her neck, over her brown fur coat, caught in the door as she too attempted to come out.
‘O-ho!’ Shagufta exclaimed as she heard it rip.
‘It might be best if you turned around,’ Bilal said to Copperthwaite.
But Copperthwaite was too busy aunt-gazing.
‘Why didn’t you bring your car, instead of this van?’ Bilal muttered to Vaseem.
‘Got it cheap, innit? Sold the car, got the van to drive around with me bits.’
Copperthwaite shot Vaseem a look. ‘Bits? What bits?’
‘I’m a salesman, sir. Get you a good deal on anything you need.’
Just then, Jenny and James’s door opened, both of them coming out in their wellies and jumpers.
‘A bit of a problem here, Copperthwaite?’ called out Jenny.
‘Shall we call someone?’ asked James.
‘Jenny,’ Bilal nodded.
She pretended she hadn’t seen.
The cold-shoulder hadn’t eluded Vaseem Bhai. ‘Don’t need nobody. Got me muscles. And me bro’ here. But if you … what’s your name, bro?’
‘James.’
‘Jaam-es! Just kidding.’
Oh, God.
‘If you jump in the car and start the engine, we’ll push the van.’ Vaseem thumped Bilal on the arm. ‘Come on, then.’
Before James could do as instructed, a noise, familiar to Bilal, but rather foreign to his neighbours, broke out in the middle of the country lane.
Allah hu Akbar. Allah hu Akbar. Allah hu Akbar. Allah hu Akbar. Ashahadu an la illa ha illa la. Ashadu an illa ha illa la.
Everyone paused. A look of sheer bemusement came over Copperthwaite, Jenny and James. They looked at each other, around them, to the heavens above, wondering where this – little did they know it, Godly – commotion was coming from.
Vaseem got his phone out of his back pocket. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said to the befuddled trio as he switched the azaan off. ‘Time to pray. Mind like a sieve, me. Downloaded it on my phone so it reminds me.’
He put his phone back into his pocket as Bilal watched his village neighbours exchange sideward glances.
‘The call to prayer, that is,’ added Bilal. ‘Not his mind.’
Vaseem looked at him and laughed. ‘Wish I could download me brain. Mind if I pray then?’
This couldn’t be happening.
‘O-ho, Vassu. You’re travelling,’ said Auntie Gulfashan. ‘You can pray when we get to Bilal’s home.’
Vaseem raised his eyebrows at his mum. ‘Say your prayers, before your prayers are said for you.’
Vaseem’s allusion to potential funeral prayers was best left unexplained, Bilal felt. Just when Bilal thought the unfortunate interval was over, Vaseem went into the van, came back out with a bin bag and placed it on the ground, before placing a prayer mat on top of it, presumably to keep it from getting muddied.
‘Vassu, it’s so cold, paagal,’ said Auntie Gulfashan.
‘Nothing like praying in God’s fresh air,’ he exclaimed, smiling.
Vaseem did a three-hundred-and-sixty turn to take in this air as he said: ‘Subhanallah,’ before he raised his hands in prayer and was lost to God.
‘Chalo, I will read too then,’ said Auntie Gulfashan, climbing back into the van for the sake of privacy. There was nothing to do but wait until they had finished.
Finally, Vaseem put his hands up in prayer, mumbling something in Arabic and then in English: ‘And give these good people in Babbel’s End health, wealth and happiness.’
Copperthwaite’s brows furrowed so deep they’d merged into one entity.
‘What?’ he barked.
‘Health, wealth and happiness,’ repeated Bilal.
‘Ready, bro?’ Vaseem said to James, who looked towards Jenny for approval.
The aunts stood to the side to save their shalwar kameezes from getting splashed by all this English mud. James revved the engine and Bilal, Jenny and Vaseem managed, after multiple tries, to push the van out of the ditch. Bilal looked up to see Jenny give Copperthwaite a meaningful look. Yes, perhaps the aunts should have considered their colours-of-the-rainbow attire, perhaps Vaseem shouldn’t have prostrated to God in the middle of the English countryside, but didn’t they think about how rude they were being? Couldn’t they have gone home and gossiped behind closed doors like respectable English people?
‘Come on then,’ said Vaseem, getting into the van. ‘Let’s go finally see my bro’s house.’
Bilal dutifully got into his own car, letting Copperthwaite drive past first. Their eyes met as their paths crossed and it was with considerable fortitude that Bilal refused to cower under Copperthwaite’s scowl.
He had been putting if off for a while, though he didn’t know why. The Christmas lights were up in town, festive displays up in Babbel’s Bric-a-Brac and James’s bookshop. The towering tree in The Pig and the Ox, with its yellow fairy lights and red and golden baubles. But why was his family always on the receiving end of looks and accusations when they hadn’t harmed anyone?
Bruce had.
And so had his son.
It hardly seemed fair, and maybe Mariam was right: maybe it was time for Bilal to be more assertive in life.
He arrived home and walked out into the garden. As he looked over his makeshift grave, he took out his phone and finally called the police.
Vaseem had dropped the aunts off and returned home to his family the same day. He was so charmed by Babbel’s End though, so taken at the idea of a Christmas party in a barn that – much to Bilal’s dismay – he decided he’d bring his wife and three children to the village over the Christmas holidays.
The village’s feelings, however, weren’t mutual. It wasn’t long before news of the mass influx to Babbel’s End spread. By the time Shelley found out, Vaseem’s five-minute prayer had turned into a half hour devotional act with the call to prayer’s apocalyptic undertones startling everyone in the village. And when Bilal’s cousin wasn’t praying, he was a swindler, selling things in the back of his van. To add to all this, not only had Bilal fired Bruce – although he’d been quite deserving of it, given the circumstances – but he’d actually called the police and now Bruce would have to pay a fine as well as face unemployment during Christmas and beyond. Poor Bruce, who no-one had ever thought of before, was now at the forefront of their pity.
Was this the Muslim spirit? Whatever happened to things like forgiveness and mercy?
TWO WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS and the day of the party arrived (along with Vaseem, his wife and gaggle of children). The place felt more like a Lahori bazaar during Eid than Christmas in a quiet village. Mariam was in the laundry room, wrapping the presents, and Bilal was bringing in the third load of laundry when he paused outside, hearing her voice within.
‘No, Saif, we’d agreed that he’d spend Christmas and New Year here.’
Bilal leaned closer to the door.
‘It’s not celeb
rating, it’s just a tree and a party. Yes, and lunch. So what? You loved it when we … when you first moved here.’
She paused.
‘You keep mentioning you’ve changed but generally it’s nice when it’s for the better.’
Bilal smiled at Mariam’s refusal to put up with anyone’s nonsense, though rather wished she’d make an exception for him. The following silence lasted so long Bilal wondered whether he should go in. God, Saif was insufferable. This was exactly the reason he’d wanted to move away from Birmingham – everything was subjected to so much scrutiny. For eight years he’d lived peacefully in Babbel’s End, until now, when his life choices were being questioned again. He was beginning to see there was no escape from it.
‘I see.’ Mariam’s voice had softened, quickening the beats of Bilal’s heart. ‘When? I didn’t even … You hadn’t mentioned anything. Nor did Haaris.’
Bilal gripped the laundry basket tighter.
‘Right, well, I appreciate that. He’s at that age. Shall I speak to him?’
Speak about what? Another long pause.
‘Saif … now’s not the time.’
Bilal couldn’t listen any longer. He opened the door with his free hand, plastering on a smile as Mariam looked up with worried eyes, which did nothing for his worried mind.
‘Let’s speak about this later, Saif, I have to go. No, I get that, but Bilal and I were in the middle of – yes. Fine. Bye.’
‘What’d he want?’
‘Haaris, over the Christmas holidays.’
‘He had him during half-term.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Mariam sat down on the floor amongst the ribbons and wrapping paper. ‘What was Vaseem Bhai’s youngest one’s name again?’ Her hair was slicked back in a ponytail, her eyes flickering around the scattered objects – two teddy bears, a stationary set, Lego set, three scarves (for the head), another scarf (for the neck), a photo-frame (with a picture in it) and a set of earrings (pierced).
Bilal placed the laundry basket on the washing machine.
‘Saima?’
‘I thought it was Sammia?’
‘Or Samina,’ he replied.
‘For Sam,’ she said, writing the name on a card, which she sellotaped to the Rudolph-themed paper. ‘Shit!’ she exclaimed. ‘The chops.’
She ran out of the laundry room as Bilal watched her go, then closed the door after her. He’d emptied the load into the machine before switching the light off, placing the basket upside down on the floor and perching on it. Saima, Samina or Sammia was crying. Haaris was locked in his room as the aunts were in the throes of deciding what to wear for the party that evening. Bilal put his head in his hands. He’d have slipped into his grave only it was too conspicuous at this time. The presence of so many family members only pronouncing the lack of his mother’s.
What had Saif said to Mariam that caused her to soften her voice? It was, after all, a rarity.
‘All right, bro?’ A flood of light came through the door as Vaseem Bhai’s figure loomed in the doorway. ‘Got some Pepto-Bismol?’
Bilal had to squint. ‘Will Gaviscon do?’
‘It’s for the wife. You know what it’s like.’
Bilal nodded. Vaseem closed the door behind him and looked around before clearing the Christmas paraphernalia and sitting on the floor.
‘You look a bit stressed,’ said Vaseem.
‘I … No, I’m fine.’
‘Sitting in a laundry room in the dark?’ Vaseem looked around the small space. ‘The wife’s going on about having one of these now. Says if she has to iron my shirts, least I could do is give her a room to do it in.’
‘She irons your shirts?’
‘She’s a good one, you know.’
‘Because she irons?’
Vaseem gave a small laugh. ‘Because she looks after me. And I look after her, innit. Works both ways. But someone’s got to put the other first,’ he said, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.
Bilal knew Mariam would have something to say about … what did she call it? Co-dependency. He remembered how she’d spent weeks reading up on attachment theory as he waited patiently for its conclusion. When had Mariam ever put him first? Then he wondered when he’d ever put her first. In the race of life, they always seemed to be neck-and-neck. But her mind was like shifting sand and he never knew which way it would go.
‘That’s why your mum always looked at you so proudly, innit. Taking in a divorced woman with a child.’
‘She wouldn’t be so proud of me now – failing to get this mosque built,’ said Bilal.
Vaseem began puffing on his e-cigarette. Quitting cigarettes was another thing he was doing for his wife.
‘Got to admit,’ mused Vaseem, ‘never thought you’d even try.’
‘No. Nor did I.’
‘It’s mad. Selling your mum’s place to raise the money too. Brave, but mad.’
Of all the adjectives there might be to describe Bilal, ‘brave’ wasn’t one that sprung to mind, although he didn’t mind the attribution.
‘They really hate me now.’
‘What did you expect?’ laughed Vaseem. He opened up his arms and put on a posh accent. ‘Yes, come along – build a mosque on our green land. We invaded and ruled your country for hundreds of years, so it’s the least we could do.’ He shook his head.
‘Well, they never did me any personal harm,’ replied Bilal. He wasn’t fond of this historical blame ideology. ‘You can’t move forward if you hang on to the past,’ he added.
Vaseem thought about it. ‘No, bro. But you can’t move forward without thinking about what went wrong in the past either.’
Bilal’s thoughts kept coming back to Mariam. Had he ignored her past for too long? Did it stop him from understanding her? What made him think that just because he loved her, he had a right to be loved back in the same way? He let the question he’d kept from asking himself surface in his mind, sitting there in the laundry room with Vaseem Bhai.
Did his wife actually love him?
Bilal was lost in this reverie when his phone beeped. It was an email from the agent for the land. Please, God, let this be the hope that I need. Bilal clicked on the email, hands trembling.
From: Adam, James
To: Hasham, Bilal
Subject: Land
Dear Mr Hasham,
Mrs Gardiner has come back to me about your query. I’m afraid she’s already in the middle of talking to two parties interested in the land and doesn’t wish to complicate matters.
Sorry not to have been able to help.
Best wishes,
James Adam
Bilal re-read the email, heart sinking.
‘What’s wrong, bro?’ asked Vaseem.
Then he scrolled down and realised James Adam had pressed ‘forward’ instead of ‘reply’.
From: Gardiner, Agatha
To: Adam, James
Subject: Land
James, are you mad? Grant someone permission to build a mosque?? On my land! You’ve quite rattled me while I wait to catch sight of some whales (the season’s almost over). You can tell him I’d sell my soul before selling him my land.
Now, I’ve misplaced my binoculars. Honestly! Mosque!
‘Right,’ said Vaseem. ‘Let’s get that Gaviscon.’
Never had Rukhsana’s wardrobe evoked such conflict. She looked longingly at her shalwar kameez. It was a gora occasion and so she should wear her new gora clothes. But then there were her friends. She noticed how Shagufta looked at her up and down. Sakeena never got those looks when she wore gora clothes. Why were some people’s characters bound by certain expectations more than others?
‘Do you have any … news?’ asked Gulfashan when she and Shagufta went to see her room.
Rukhsana paused, confused. How could she express how much news she had! Bilal’s mosque, the mystery donation, the Nativity, her new friend, Shelley, who everyone called Bilal’s enemy. (It wasn’t as clear-cut as that.)
‘
Why are you friends with her?’ Shagufta laughed.
‘Oh, Rukhsana. You are still the same!’ added Gulfashan. ‘Even still wearing that whistle around your neck.’
Rukhsana wondered why she’d brought her friends and their opinions into her village life.
‘She is not a bad person,’ replied Rukhsana. ‘These are nice people.’
‘Are they nice, or do you just not understand them?’
Rukhsana knew she’d always been measured against the quickness of Sakeena, but she hadn’t realised that her friends thought she was actually stupid.
Gulfashan paused. ‘So, you are happy here?’
Shagufta adjusted the lace of her shalwar kameez as she continued to take in the clean, vanilla-scented room.
‘Yes,’ replied Rukhsana.
‘Bilal hasn’t said anything about … you coming back?’ asked Shagufta.
‘No.’
She must not be such a hindrance, and it pleased her more than she’d realised. It was a great consolation in the face of knowing that she would be seeing Shelley with the whole village present. Was she to say hello, or were they to ignore each other? Their companionship seemed to only exist in the context of their walks – outside that Rukhsana wasn’t sure what the etiquette was. So much etiquette! A new anxiety to go with each new rule. There were people in the world who managed whole companies and she could barely manage her feelings.
The Christmas tree hadn’t helped. Sakeena used to put a small plastic one up every year because it was a reason to use tinsel. It wasn’t anything like the towering tree that Bilal and Mariam had – the gold and silver ornaments that were taken out of the storage box and placed on the tree with care, next to the fireplace that now roared every evening. Sakeena’s tree was a novelty; this was a celebration. Jesus had his place in Islam – a very important one! Wasn’t that enough? Rukhsana took out her trousers and a sequinned jumper, hesitated for a moment, but knew it was the only thing that would do for the occasion.
Mariam hated that the idea of fitting in played on her mind. She saw the way the aunts looked at the Christmas tree and Khala’s attire, her life reduced to tinsel and clothing. She began to see it the way they must. It was all a façade. A beautifully packaged gift with nothing inside. The simplicity of the realisation diffused her sense of self, as if she wasn’t an individual at all – just another person who’d lived a life of self-deceit.