‘Eye-liner,’ the Maulana said to Noor.
Noor looked blankly at him. Shireen wasn’t lying. She could hear it in her voice. But Longbeard and Shortbeard must be right. In that place where the infirm felt strength return, where the weary of heart felt lightness infuse their spirit, who ever heard of someone losing, rather than gaining, sight? Was it possible to commit a sin of such magnitude it excluded you from Allah’s grace... and not know it?
‘Are you all right? Can I get you some water?’
Water? What could water do! Noor wasn’t always modest, she wasn’t always honest, she didn’t give to the poor, she only prayed during Ramzan, and sometimes during Ramzan she pretended her menstrual cycle was continuing on longer than it really was just in order to have one or two extra days off from fasting. She had always thought these were small sins, but who was she to judge? What was the line that separated the sins that could be erased from the Ledger by a night of prayer from the ones that marked you as beyond redemption? She had always thought that line would be deep and wide and clear to anyone who considered leaping across it. But Shortbeard had asked ‘do you tempt the pious into sin’ as if that was enough on its own to make Allah place a veil over your sight and plan a grievous punishment for you. And Noor sometimes tempted, she knew that. Did she ask if they were pious before she walked past them, her hips swaying just a little, her eyes teasing...? No, never. In fact, she’d even once seen the henna-haired controller look at her in that particular way of tempted men, and it did nothing to stop her from stepping over, instead of around, the car-barrier which the young guard pretended to raise between her legs.
‘Where is your husband? Call your husband to the phone!’
‘Yes, yes. He’s outside, just across the road. Wait – I’ll call him. He’ll tell you I’ve done nothing wrong.’
A minute or so passed, in which time Longbeard and Shortbeard said nothing, but only shook their heads and lifted their hands in prayer, and Noor received a text message from one of her cousins telling her she HAD TO tune in to the Islam channel NOW, while the Maulana sighed exaggeratedly and started to apply lipstick to his own mouth.
Finally a man’s voice came on the phone. ‘Yes?’
‘You are Shireen’s husband?’ Shortbeard’s voice echoed strangely. Shireen must have turned on the television in her house.
‘I am. I’m Haji Ali. She just told me what you’ve said to her. Now listen – I don’t know what happened to her in front of the Ka’aba, but I know she’s a good woman, a good Muslim.’
‘Are you saying you know more than the Almighty does? That He was wrong? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying...’
‘What?’
‘You’re wrong.’
The Maulana let out a high-pitched cackle. Noor glanced at him. He’d applied the lipstick in a manner that made his lips even thinner than normal.
Shortbeard leaned back, his hands folded together. ‘Really? We’ll see.’ He turned to the cameras. ‘Viewers, some one among you may know what crime Shireen, wife of Haji Ali, has committed. Our second phone line is waiting for your call. The number is at the bottom of the screen.’
‘And remember,’ said Longbeard, ‘Use A-One Mobile for the lowest charges.’
Almost immediately, a female caller’s voice was piped into the studio. ‘I know what she’s done.’
‘Khala, what are you doing?’ Haji Ali said. ‘Please don’t listen to her. She’s my mother’s oldest sister. Her mind stopped working some years ago.’
‘Quiet, Haji Ali. Please, caller, continue.’
‘She does black magic.’
Noor shook her head in disbelief. She knew what mother’s older sisters were like. Her own eldest Khala spent all day looking out of her window, just waiting to catch her nieces in some bad behaviour. Fortunately, the nieces knew exactly that area of ground onto which their Khala’s balcony looked out.
‘You’ve seen her perform black magic?’ Longbeard asked.
‘I’ve seen her. That’s enough. My nephew could have married any girl. Why would he choose someone with such dark dark skin if she hadn’t done black magic on him?’
Noor smiled at her own fair-skinned reflection in the mirror.
‘I’m afraid that isn’t proof enough,’ Longbeard said.
‘But if she is doing black magic she’s not going to do it in full view of her family,’ Shortbeard cut in. ‘Such things are done in secret. The only witness is Allah.’
‘But we can’t just . . .’ Longbeard started.
‘There was a veil before her eyes. In front of the Ka’aba.’ Shortbeard turned to Longbeard. ‘Are you saying there is any doubt about her guilt, regardless of whether or not we know what she’s guilty of?’
‘Don’t give in, don’t give in,’ the Maulana urged.
‘Of course I’m not saying that.’
The Maulana sighed. ‘Coward.’
‘Haji Ali,’ Shortbeard said softly. ‘You know what you have to do now.’
‘What does he have to do, Maulana Sahib?’ Noor asked, her voice surprising her with its trembling quality.
‘Improve viewer figures so that A-One Mobile renews its advertising.’
There was no time to respond to this ridiculous remark because Shortbeard pointed his finger in the direction of the camera and said, ‘Haji Ali, divorce her.’
‘Ya Allah!’ the Maulana bellowed, and Noor texted her cousin to say ‘!!!!!’
‘Say it three times!’ Shortbeard instructed. ‘I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you.’
‘For the sake of your children!’
‘For the sake of your soul!’
There was a long beeping sound. Haji Ali had hung up.
Shortbeard turned to Longbeard. ‘It’s a good thing we have Caller ID.’ He called out to someone in the studio: ‘Phone them back!’
Longbeard tilted his head in a way that Noor recognised as indicating someone was speaking to him through his earpiece.
‘We’re transitioning to a new phone system,’ he said. ‘Caller ID is temporarily disabled.’
Shortbeard made a gesture of disbelief. ‘Viewers, it’s time for an ad break. Please stay tuned.’
Maulana switched off the television. He always switched it off just after Shortbeard instructed the viewers to ‘stay tuned.’
‘But. . . why couldn’t she see the Ka’aba?’ Noor wanted to know. ‘Switch it back on. Maybe she’ll call back.’
The Maulana looked at her as if she was something very small and far from grace.
‘What? I just want to know what she did wrong.’
‘You should worry more about yourself and less about others.’
‘Me? Why? I don’t have anything to worry about?’
The Maulana looked ruefully in the mirror - his incomplete eye make-up, his thin, smeared lips. ‘Do you think Shireen worried until the day she stood in front of the Ka’aba?’
They didn’t say another word to each other as she finished readying him for the camera.
A few minutes later she was on her way to the bus-stop. She hadn’t even glanced at the Pathan guard as she exited the building, and she’d stepped around instead of over the carbarrier. The mid-afternoon sun was hot overhead, and there were no trees for shade on this long road, just one office building after another, and the slightly fishy whiff from the harbour. Cars drove past, full of men. She didn’t look in their direction. Tomorrow she would wear a looser shalwar-kameez with longer sleeves. Perhaps she’d cover her head with a dupata. Yes, why not?
She turned the corner just in time to see her bus pull out from the bus stop. All this thinking had slowed her down. She trudged over to the stop, and waited. So hot. The pavement itself burning through the thin soles of her shoes. And her head was beginning to ache.
She was shifting from one foot to the other when a car rolled to a stop beside her and Miss London-Return rolled down the driver side window.
<
br /> ‘Lift?’
Noor shook her head.
‘No? What’s wrong? You look upset.’
‘Why do you care?’
‘I don’t really. Just curious.’
Something about the answer made Noor get into the passenger seat.
‘They tried to get that woman’s husband to divorce her.’
‘Well, that’s men for you, isn’t it? I swear, it’s impossible around here to work out what you need to do to just be left alone. What’s your secret?’
‘My secret?’
‘You come and go, you’re single, professional, attractive, you talk to all the men without anyone calling you a slut, you hop on and off public transport, don’t cover yourself in a shuttlecock or hide in your own private car with windows up and doors locked - you just. . . you’re just you. Living your life, and being left alone to do it. Like a miracle.’
Like a miracle! Noor was silent for a few moments as this new version of herself sank in. She could feel it expanding her lungs, pulling her back up straight. Then she understood, and it made her feel a little bit sad, but not too much.
‘I manage it by not being noticed a lot. You’ll never have that.’
The two women smiled at each other, both acknowledging the mingled defeat and triumph of their lives.
‘Thanks for the lift. I’ll direct you to my home.’
‘I know where you live, silly,’ Bina said.
Imtiaz Dharker
The Right Word
The right word
The right word
Outside the door,
lurking in the shadows,
is a terrorist.
Is that the wrong description?
Outside that door,
taking shelter in the shadows,
is a freedom-fighter.
I haven’t got this right.
Outside, waiting in the shadows,
is a hostile militant.
Are words no more
than waving, wavering flags?
Outside your door,
watchful in the shadows,
is a guerrilla warrior.
God help me.
Outside, defying every shadow,
stands a martyr.
I saw his face.
No words can help me now.
Just outside the door,
lost in shadows,
is a child who looks like mine.
One word for you.
Outside my door,
his hand too steady,
his eyes too hard
is a boy who looks like your son, too.
I open the door.
Come in, I say.
Come in and eat with us.
The child steps in
and carefully, at my door,
takes off his shoes.
Aixa at the Alhambra
It wasn’t the man. It was the garden
that seduced me. The breeze
glanced off the white mountains
and blew secret messages to me.
I looked at the pomegranate blossoms
and they blushed.
The leaves on all the myrtles
shivered when I passed
and I suspected they felt what I felt.
Out of deep shade, oranges winked at me.
Flowers turned to look. I felt adored.
Then the cypresses began to speak to me.
I came to understand
every lift of leaf and turn of limb
quite intimately.
Birds came to my fingers and nibbled there.
The sun stretched over
groves of lemon trees.
The sun suggested I’d be cooler
if I took off one veil,
then another.
Fountains whispered.
From the pool in the courtyard,
the water invited me in.
Don’t be afraid, the water said,
it won’t hurt a bit,
and gently, gently slipped over my body,
water fingers, water tongues.
Then I ate a pomegranate.
The juice stained my skin.
This garden is out of control now.
A garden rampant.
It grew and grew and grew right into me.
Today a bee stung my mouth.
I know you think it was him.
But it was just the garden, all along.
Never trust the daffodils
He distrusts daffodils
and is especially wary of crocuses.
Traitors of hope, he says,
they promise spring
and callously deceive you
into optimism.
He has learned to question
the ordinariness of things,
never to stroll in
with his hands in his pockets,
whistling.
He has learned the hard way
to be pleasantly surprised
when the frost forgets
to come up from behind and bite.
He turns his back, moves on.
Green shoots break through
the winter clods of earth.
Against his better judgement,
his shoulders feel
the touch of spring.
I need
I need sarson da saag,
nothing else will satisfy me,
and hot makki di roti
with butter melting over it.
I need to eat bacon and eggs
and the petals off a rose, one by one.
My greed has no nationality.
I need my mother’s chicken salan.
I want her to break the roti
scoop up the gravy
and keep putting it in my mouth
until my hunger’s done.
I need to run
out to my father’s land
and sit in the ganna field
where I can hear the sugar growing,
juice rushing up through the stem
to reach my waiting mouth.
I need to tear the outer skin
and crunch the sugar-veins.
I am hungry to be the woman
watching the young man
bathing at the well,
water running down his back,
streaming down the length
of his black, black hair.
I need to crack walnuts with my teeth
and eat their brains.
I need to take a train
to somewhere, and get off
at platforms I don’t know
to drink sweet milky tea
steaming in the early morning
out of earthen khullars.
I need to go to Crawford Market
through the piles of fruit
and buy a whole sack
of ripe mangoes
to suck and suck
till nothing is left but dry seeds.
I need you to come back.
Triska Hamid
Islamic Tinder
A civil servant, an international lawyer and an entrepreneur walk into a café. All three of these individuals are attractive young Muslim women from London. The only joke is the state of their love lives.
Like many other successful Muslim women in the West, they’re single, struggling to find a man to marry and increasingly treated as failures by their communities as they creep over into their thirties.
‘Muslim men are a disappointment,’ says Amira, the lawyer. ‘They’re not as accomplished and there tend to be fewer men of the same academic level and career success. I’ve yet to meet someone from my community who has been better than me.’
This may seem like an arrogant statement to make, but it’s a sentiment shared by many. Muslim men, these women claim, want a submissive wife, one who will not compete with them and make them feel emasculated.
‘We’ve evolved into this new genre of women that our communities haven’t adapted to,’ says Noura, the civ
il servant.
Those belonging to this genre are mostly Oxbridge or Ivy League-educated (or both), independent (too independent for arranged marriages), financially stable and well-travelled, but also religious. The delicate balance they’ve cultivated between their Muslim and Western identities is a source of personal pride, but in reality they’re pariahs – far too outspoken for their ethnic side and too prudish and traditional for the West.
They’re minorities within a minority, shunned by most of the men in their own communities ‘who fall under two categories: losers who want their mums to find them a wife, or idiots who spend their time sleeping with white women before marrying someone from a village in the mother country’, says Ayesha, the entrepreneur. ‘A few years ago I fell in love with a guy I thought was perfect for me. He ended up marrying his cousin from back home. Now, most of the decent Muslim guys I meet are either married or still in the closet. It’s hopeless.’
Arranged marriages are archaic and offensive to these women and those like them. Matrimonial websites such as singlemuslim.com or shaadi.com are seen as a last resort, or, more commonly, a sign of utter desperation.
‘I don’t want a husband for the sake of being married; I want someone who I can connect with and then marry,’ says Noura.
Dating is increasingly regarded as the one viable solution, but these women are amateurs. Despite their successes in education and work, their love life isn’t quite as developed. They’re virgins, abstaining from the world of dating and boyfriends in their teenage years and early twenties and shunning ‘inappropriate relations’ with men so as to avoid any scandal or gossip that would tarnish their reputation. They’ve kept life halal.
‘I would date, to a degree,’ says Amira. ‘It is the chance to exercise agency and autonomy and choice, but only within the religious boundaries of abstinence and modesty.’
Unfortunately, finding compatible men to date is still an issue. Segregation is customary, particularly among Muslims of Asian heritage, limiting the amount of interaction between the two sexes.
But a few tech-savvy Muslim entrepreneurs have recently stepped up to offer a solution – Muslim-centric versions of Tinder.
Instead of casual dates and one-night stands, the imaginatively named Minder, Muzmatch and Salaam Swipe focus on marriage. All three apps were launched back in 2015 and have steadily gained traction across the UK and the US.
The Things I Would Tell You Page 6