by Abda Khan
‘Hello, ki bachi, upstairs, now!’ was the reply.
5
Farah was going to meet Nadeem for the second time. Farah’s mother had considered Nadeem an excellent match for her daughter right from the very start, when she had barely heard a whisper about him, let alone met him. He was the eldest of three siblings (so he was probably the most mature and sensible one), said siblings were all boys (which meant there were no evil sisters-in-law to deal with), he was a doctor by profession (obviously right at the top of the list of suitable professions for a potential son-in-law), he had his own house (this was an absolute bonus), he spoke good Urdu (highly impressive) and he was very respectful – in Farah’s mother’s words, ‘What was there not to like?’
The first meeting, two weeks ago, had been one of the worst days of Farah’s life. Her mum had told her in no uncertain terms that she was to ‘dress up and look pretty’, and then gracefully bring in the tray of tea, biscuits and samosas to the lounge where they would all be sat, eagerly waiting: Nadeem, his parents and her parents. Farah had tried to impress on her mum that it was no longer the 1970s; they did not live in a remote village in Pakistan; and that these things probably didn’t even happen in rural Pakistan any more. She told her mum that she may have had to do such a thing when she met her father for the first time, but that was way back then, when their village in Pakistan didn’t even have electricity or running water, and they had to go to the fields to do their business. Now these cultural anachronisms weren’t necessary any more. In fact, Farah had told her mum that it was all very sexist and misogynistic to impose such rituals on young women in this day and age, and as they were a reasonably modern, progressive family (or so Farah liked to think), they should not be part of such a dreadful tradition. However, her protestations fell on deaf ears; her mother did not budge even an inch. Farah knew she couldn’t win against her mum when she really had her mind set on something. She could win against most people – colleagues, fellow lawyers, toffee-nosed judges even – but she always admitted defeat against her mother – eventually.
Farah had found the whole episode demeaning and embarrassing; particularly the part where everyone stared at her when she made her entrance, wearing a bright pink, heavily embroidered salwar kameez, with a matching pink lipstick, and clattering bangles, as though she were some prize peacock at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens that the visitors had come to gawp at. She cringed every time she thought about it. Clink, clonk went her bangles; they had been such a distraction as she tried to make sure she didn’t drop the damn tray.
Today was going to be different though. Nadeem and his parents would not be coming to the house. It had been agreed, at Farah’s request, that as that dreaded first meeting was over, the couple should meet in a more relaxed and informal manner, so they could actually talk and get to know each other. Nadeem and his family had been very agreeable to this proposal. So, it was settled that they would all meet at Touchwood shopping centre, and the parents would go off to shop, or do whatever it was that parents did, and Farah and Nadeem would go for a coffee – to give them some time and privacy together. If things went well today, then there could possibly be a marriage proposal in the near future; at least that was Farah’s mother’s thinking. Farah didn’t want to be so presumptuous; on paper it all looked good, but she was unsure yet as to how their interaction would be without the families around. She was certainly going to go with an open mind, and hope for a positive outcome.
Being an upmarket shopping and leisure venue, in an affluent town like Solihull, Touchwood attracted hordes of brand-name shoppers and coffee drinkers, cinema-goers and pizza lovers from far and wide, and today was as busy as ever. The teenagers wandered around in their little groups, clad in the latest fashion of ripped jeans and impossible-to-lace-up trainers, families walked about casually pushing the modern streamlined pushchairs laden with shopping bags, dragging their toddlers along, and classily clad women came armed and ready with their credit cards with the serious task of clothes and shoe shopping in mind.
The two sets of parents walked off together to have a browse in the department store, whilst Farah and Nadeem went and got coffee. They found a small table right in the middle of the coffee shop, which was brimming with shoppers taking a break. Farah grabbed a black hair bobble out of her jacket pocket and tied her loose hair up into a ponytail. Nadeem was dressed in a smart shirt which was paired with designer jeans. For the first time Farah realised how tall he was. They both sat tentatively waiting for the other to start the conversation.
‘So, are you busy at work these days?’ was Nadeem’s rather uninspired attempt. Perhaps he was nervous, thought Farah.
‘Yes, I am, as it happens. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day. We were very quiet not so long ago, but things have really picked up in the last year or so. I’m getting more new instructions than I know what to do with. So, yes, I am very busy. How about you?’
Nadeem gave out a short, sharp cough to clear his throat before he answered. Farah waited. He scratched an imaginary mark on the table.
‘Same,’ he said, and took a sip of his coffee.
Same? What kind of an answer was that? Farah asked herself. She put her flat white down and took a good long look at him. He seemed distracted, edgy even; he was looking all around him, and then down at his coffee, and then scratching the mark on the table that didn’t exist. He most definitely seemed to be avoiding Farah’s gaze. And then he looked at his watch! The cardinal sin. The guy was clearly not into her, that much was easy for her to conclude. She wasn’t in the least bit upset, however, for there wasn’t an iota of chemistry between them. In fact, she was relieved.
Nadeem started to clear his throat again, and then took a big gulp of coffee. His rather shiny face, with its neat, chiselled features, was now beginning to tense and screw up. After that, his colour started to change, and become paler. Farah was no doctor, but she sensed he might not be feeling too good.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, a little concerned that he might keel over any second. She didn’t fancy trying to pick up such a big, tall guy off the floor.
‘Yes,’ he replied blandly.
‘It’s just that you look a bit peaky. Shall I get you a bottle of water?’ she asked, now more worried that he might throw up all over her. She preferred the fainting option.
‘No, no, I’m fine, really.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I mean, yes, I am fine, only … I’m not.’
Farah blew out a little sigh, and tapped her fingers on the table.
‘Make up your mind, which is it?’ Farah now knew for certain that he was not the man for her, for she could never be married to anyone so indecisive.
‘The thing is …’ He looked down, unable to finish his sentence.
‘Y-e-s?’ asked Farah, trying to speak softly, in an effort to disguise her ever-increasing sense of impatience.
‘The thing is … I can’t marry you. There. I’ve said it.’
‘Well, congratulations on that. But can I ask why, after just our second meeting, you have decided that I’m not good enough for you?’
He now looked up at her.
‘Oh no, please, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that you’re not good enough for me.’
‘Are you seeing someone else? Like, do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly? What does that mean? Either you do or you don’t,’ responded Farah, a little more loudly than she had meant to, prompting a few unwanted glares from the other customers.
‘Shush! Keep your voice down,’ Nadeem urged her, and he clung on to either side of the table as he spoke.
‘I will keep my voice down, if you tell me what the flamin’ heck you’re talking about. Not that I’m complaining, but just out of interest, and courtesy, can you explain exactly why you not are prepared to consider me for marriage, huh? After all, I am a successful, beautiful young woman. Well?’
‘Because …
’
‘Because, what?’
‘Because … I’m engaged to someone else,’ Nadeem whispered.
‘You’re what?’ she shrieked, prompting even more stares. ‘Oh my goodness! This just gets better and better. OK, so if you are already engaged to someone else, then why in the dickens are you seeing prospective young women, in other words me, with a view to marriage?’
‘Duh? Because I haven’t told my parents about her.’
Farah just stared at him in disbelief for a few seconds, open mouthed.
‘Why on earth not? I mean, don’t you think you should tell them, instead of messing girls like me around. How many girls have you seen before me exactly?’
‘Erm … about five.’
‘Five! That’s ridiculous. Surely you should just tell them?’
‘It’s difficult,’ he replied awkwardly.
‘Why? What’s so difficult about it?’ Farah asked, her palms outstretched.
‘It’s difficult, because she’s not Pakistani. She’s not even Asian. Or Muslim. She’s not even the same colour as us.’
‘Oh … I see,’ said Farah, dragging her words a little. ‘So what? Just come clean,’ she said more decisively, although a part of her knew that this wasn’t an easy thing to do.
‘Have you seen my dad? I mean, just look at the size of his beard. He’s so strict. He’s a five times a day namazi, and he even prays Tahajjud. Do you know anyone else who prays Tahajjud?’
Farah rolled her eyes up a little, thought about it for a few seconds, then shook her head.
‘He’s performed Hajj like ten times. He’s the leader of our local mosque. He’s about as strict and traditional a Muslim as you can get. He’ll never agree to it.’
‘That still doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him, and your mum.’
‘You don’t understand how difficult it is!’ responded Nadeem.
Farah finally let go of the patient façade.
‘Well, you can carry on seeing as many more girls as you like, but this one is just about to walk!’ Farah grabbed her bag and turned to go, but twisted back around for a final word. ‘For goodness’ sake, grow a backbone, man, and tell your parents. They may take it better than you think.’
6
Later that evening, Farah and her parents spent some time together in the lounge. Her father got comfortable in his high-backed red armchair and eagerly watched the evening news bulletin, just as he did every evening on the same channel at the same time. Farah sat on the floor in front of her mum who was perched on the double seater sofa. She turned her back to her mum, who started to massage Farah’s head and her long black hair with their favourite brand of almond oil; this was a ritual that her mother had performed since Farah was a little girl. And even now, aged thirty, every time Farah visited home, she pestered her mother into giving her the tel malish, although she didn’t really need to pester her much, as her mum enjoyed the activity and the time they shared together just as much as Farah did. Farah’s mother started with gentle strokes at the crown of her head, slowly building up the pressure, and then went on to massage the entire scalp with her fingertips, in sweeping, circular motions. The massage enveloped Farah’s mind, and she fell into a complete trance of weightless relaxation, until the circular motions in her head ceased, and her mother moved on to tenderly stroke trickles of the oil into every strand of Farah’s thick long hair.
The conversation after her head massage revolved around one subject, and one subject alone.
Farah walked in with a tray of tea and biscuits. There were three types of biscuit on the plate: plain digestives for her father, bourbon creams for Farah and ginger nuts for her mum. Evening tea and biscuits was another ritual that Farah remembered from whenever it was that her memory began. She had not been allowed to drink tea until she was a teenager; her mother had always told her that if she drank tea as a child she wouldn’t grow and would remain a tiddler all her life, and so when she was younger her cup had always contained milk. Farah never knew if her mum had really believed this, or if it had been something she had said just to delay Farah getting a taste for tea, and consequently, caffeine, for as long as possible. Whatever the motivation, it had worked until she was thirteen years old.
As soon as Farah sat on the sofa next to her mother, the questions started to come thick and fast.
‘But why aren’t you interested in him?’ asked Farah’s mother. ‘He seems like the ideal young man for you. What is wrong with you, girl?’
‘Give the girl a break, will you?’ intervened her dad. Her mum shot a sharp look towards him. Farah gave her father a warm smile. He always had her back when mother and daughter clashed, or at least he tried to, but on this occasion, as with most, his interruption was short-lived, as her mother responded with a razor-sharp reply.
‘Aap chup karein ji!’
‘Mum, don’t tell Dad to be quiet, that’s so rude!’ Farah said.
‘Me? Rude? You’re saying I’m the rude one when it’s you who doesn’t have the decency to tell that me why you won’t consider that poor boy—’
‘Because that “poor boy” is already engaged!’ Farah shouted back.
Both her parents just stared at her. Farah’s mother put her mug of tea down. She asked in a hushed tone:
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m certain, he told me so himself. Only he’s too scared to tell his parents because he is engaged to marry a gori. Or at least I think she is white. He said she was a different colour, but come to think of it, he didn’t actually mention what colour she was, so I suppose she could be kali. Or yellow or green; I don’t know. The point is that he doesn’t think his parents will accept her.’
A few more seconds passed, and once it had sunk in, Farah’s mother blew.
‘Hai Allah! Engaged to a gori! Tauba tauba! And his parents were going around saying he’s desperate to settle down with a nice desi girl, and have kids. And he even said to me that you are lovely and he’s looking forward to getting to know you. What a deception, why the little pehnch—’
‘No swearing, Mum!’ Farah implored her.
‘OK. OK … the lying toerag, then,’ she said, grimacing.
‘That’s a bit mean, Mum. I actually felt a little sorry for him, even if I didn’t give him that impression at the time. He’s obviously petrified of telling his mum and dad. But he must really want to marry this woman. He’s so unhappy as things stand for him.’
Farah’s mother grimaced for a little while longer, but before long her mood softened.
‘Come here, my baby,’ she said to Farah, and she gave her daughter a warm embrace.
‘I love you, Mum; and you too, Dad.’
‘We love you too,’ said her father.
‘We love you more than you could ever know,’ added her mum. ‘So, what now?’ she asked her daughter.
‘Well … if you will insist on my marrying, then you must keep hunting!’ replied Farah cheekily.
‘You know what, my darling daughter, it would be much easier if you found somebody yourself,’ declared her mother.
‘Well, I’ve tried, Mum, but to no avail! That’s why I’m handing the baton to you.’
‘I live in hope, beti, I live in hope, that one day you will say to me yourself, “Mum, I’ve found myself a nice Pakistani boy!”’
Farah laughed out loud at her mother’s words.
‘Well, as long as he isn’t actually from Pakistan, I guess it’s a possibility. He has to be British; born and bred. I don’t want no mangethar or pindu!’ Farah said.
‘What? You mean like your father was?’ Farah’s mother responded, with a cheeky wink.
‘What was that about me?’ Farah’s father asked, looking searchingly over at mother and daughter, who both let out a giggle.
7
Monday mornings were always a mad rush, but today was worse than a regular Monday morning as Farah was running unusually late. She had wasted yet more time looking for the stray earring, having turned
her bedroom upside down. She’d then freaked out when she looked at her watch, and left her apartment looking like it had been burgled. In the midst of all that, the young girl she had seen at Zaheer’s apartment had been uppermost in her thoughts. The image of her trembling in the corner of that kitchen – something that her colleagues had been fortunate enough not to witness – had continued to trouble Farah.
When she got to work she was cornered by the receptionist as soon as she entered the building, with a message for her from Tahir; he needed to see Farah as a matter of urgency, and could she go to his office as soon as she got in.
Great, she thought to herself, and tutted out loud. This was all she needed.
Farah considered ignoring his request and walking straight past his office and on to her own, but then thought better of the idea. It wouldn’t be very professional for starters, and perhaps it really was important. So she headed to his office, although she did so with a continuing sense of irritation: she was already behind schedule, she had a pile of stuff to see to, and she really didn’t need this, whatever ‘this’ was.
Tahir was sat behind his desk, dressed in one of his favourite dark blue suits, with a crisp white shirt, and a red and blue geometric-pattern silk tie. His dark brown hair was swept back off his forehead, and the intense colour of his piercing green eyes was vivid against his pale skin, which was fairly typical of people of the Peshawar region of Pakistan, where his family originated.
‘Right then. Here I am, as requested. What’s up?’ asked Farah abruptly, as she closed the door.
Tahir paused for a few seconds. He placed his black and gold Montblanc pen down on the desk and closed the file he had been looking at.
‘Thanks for coming. Why don’t you sit down, Farah? Can I get you a coffee?’
She shifted from one foot to the other, but stayed standing in the same spot, not far from the door.
‘No thanks. I’ve got to leave for court in a few minutes, and I need to look over some papers beforehand. The message at reception was that you needed to see me urgently.’