Hijabistan

by Sabyn Javeri

  ‘Buddhi,’ he said, his voice quivering, for watching her like this was stirring strange, long-forgotten emotions within him.

  ‘Yes?’ Buddhi tucked a stray strand of grey behind her ears. There was determination in her eyes, and Premji could feel the sweat gathering at the back of his neck. He was unsure if this paralyzing feeling was desire or simply fear. After all, it had been so long.

  And then, in a last-minute overtake, fear got the best of desire.

  He cleared his throat and announced, ‘I’m going

  to bed.’

  But to his dismay, Buddhi followed him to the bedroom. He wondered if perhaps he had misled her. But it was too late. And as he sat down on the bed, so did she.

  Buddhi kicked off her slippers with a gusto that made him doubt she ever had an arthritic knee. She held the book in one hand and the vibrator in the other.

  ‘Really’, he said, shaking his head, ‘What will become of that Hannah!’

  Buddhi’s face took on a sour expression and she spat out the saunf she had been chewing. Like a camel, Premji thought.

  ‘Today’s generation is not prudish like ours,’ she said in a bitter, harsh tone. Though she had been addressing the wall, Premji felt as if she had called out his manhood. At the same time, he felt a little pang of something close to pity for her. She had been married to him at just twenty and had never known life to be anything but this. Buddhi had spent most of her life caring for others. It was almost surprising to see her do something for herself.

  Premji felt conflicted. He did not want to encourage such behaviour, but didn’t want to appear prudish either.

  As if reading his mind, Buddhi said, ‘You know it is a great massager. Perhaps you should try it.’

  Premji considered the proposal. Then, with the same sour expression that he wore when losing at bridge, he turned to switch off the lamp.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s leave it on.’

  In all these years of marriage, Premji, for one, had never seen Buddhi naked. And he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to now.

  Looking away, he picked up her book. This must be some book.

  Gently, she took the book from him and started kneading his shoulders, rolling the vibrator up and down his near-bent spine.

  Premji winced and she shushed him: ‘Stay still, Mister Grey,’ and it was all Premji could do to stop shuddering.

  He forced himself to stay still as Buddhi’s rough hands grazed his cheeks. Maybe it would be okay, he thought to himself, turning his face towards her in stiff, slow movements. A stifled fart made its way out, the explosion startling them both.

  ‘Buddhi, my stomach …’ he apologized.

  ‘Shush,’ she scolded, ‘there is nothing wrong with your stomach.’

  ‘But Buddhi, at our age…’

  ‘Oh Premji, you are shy as a new bride!’

  The phrase brought to mind images of a young Buddhi in all her finery, packing for their honeymoon. Of course, it hadn’t really been a honeymoon, as Ma had insisted on accompanying them, sleeping in the same room as them.

  Both seemed to take a moment to contemplate the disaster their sex life had been, thanks to Premji’s mother insisting they sleep in the same room as her to save on the AC bill.

  As if on cue, they heard the shrill voice of Ma reverberate through the house. ‘Where is my food,’ they heard the old woman shriek.

  At this, Premji took a deep breath and said, ‘Buddhi, you forgot to feed my mum again?’

  Buddhi threw down the vibrator with such effort that Premji felt the room shake. And then she said something so caustic that not even the bitterest of Buddhi’s burnt rice could leave such an aftertaste in his mouth: ‘And this is why we could never have children.’

  He sat there, holding the vibrator in his hand, its incessant buzzing numbing his palm, as he looked at Buddhi’s receding back, her stiff arthritic walk and her dishevelled grey bun disappearing into the dim kitchen light. Slowly, he too got up and, shuffling back to the sofa, sat down heavily. He had with him the book Buddhi had left on the bed.

  He read till Buddhi had fed and cleaned his mum. Then, when she walked out with the bedpan, he got up and walked towards her with the book in his hand. Then he did something he had not done in a long time: he took the bed pan from her.

  Buddhi stood there, holding the book he had given back to her. When he returned, Buddhi too did something she had not done in a long time. She reached out and hugged him, the vibrator as well as the book forgotten as the two huddled together. With her palm on his chest, Buddhi felt Premji’s heartbeat slow down and he in turn massaged her stiff shoulders till he felt her muscles loosening. They didn’t need adventure, they decided, as they lay down and turned off the lights. What they needed was intimacy.

  Only in London

  The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well.

  I close the book and step off the Tube at Tooting Broadway. Outside the dimly lit station, grey clouds eclipse the sun and, for a moment, the whole street is engulfed in darkness. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, but here in London, it is neither night nor day.

  A squealing of tyres, the grinding chatter of mixed tongues and the rabid odour of waste and pungent spices surrounds me.

  I haven’t been here in ages.

  On the pavement, a shopping trolley stands abandoned. Next to it stands a band of old young boys with flapping Rasputin beards and listless hands. Thin, frenzied children trail behind grim-faced women in dull black chadders, while a halal butcher leans against his counter, listening. Outside his shop, a Somali man is calling upon Allah to come down and teach the pound shop owner a lesson for overcharging. And above all this looms a Primark sign, shadowing the street with its big bold letters. The effect is chaotic.

  I think of Karachi, the city I left behind.

  I walk down the high street towards The MADINA Store. Someone has spray-painted the last three letters with black paint so that the shop front reads ‘The MAD Store’. A large Warhol-type poster of a man in a chequered headscarf aiming a machine gun decorates the door. Right next to it is a banana-yellow poster of Uma Thurman’s Kill Bill. ‘And Blair and Bush too,’ someone has added with a marker.

  Inside, the shelves are crammed with every possible item. Rows of children’s toys sit next to bras and wigs, painting supplies are stacked next to spices and, in the back, a large glass cabinet is stuffed with ‘used’ mobile phones. A SALE sign sits placidly amidst the bustling shelves.

  Behind the counter are rows of Bollywood DVDS and eye-popping film posters. In one of them, Shahrukh Khan’s heart-throb face is twisted with rage while a wide-eyed, almost naked heroine stares up at him. In front of this display stands a bearded man, lazily chewing betel nut.

  Like a desert camel, I think.

  ‘Salaam.’

  ‘Walaikum Salaam,’ he answers.

  ‘A five-pound calling card to Pakistan and a copy of the New Asian Woman.’ Hesitantly I add, ‘And a pack of Marlborough Lights.’

  He grins, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Under his stare, my shirt seems too short and the jeans I am wearing feel too tight. I put on my jacket, though the shop is warm.

  As he hands over the pack, he asks if I’ve seen the new Shahrukh Khan film.

  ‘I’ve got a clean print. Not at all pirated … and for you, only six pounds,’ he smirks.

  The six comes out as sex and I glance at the neon sign flashing above his head. ‘BLUE films sold here’, it reads. I wonder if he is trying to sell me some. I’m about to scold him with the classic desi rebuke of ‘Don’t you have any mother or sisters?’ when I notice the small lettering underneath the BLUE: Bin Laden Undertakes Enemy.

  ‘You can do that?’

  He turns around to see what I’m talking about, and laughs. I see a flash of rot
ting teeth as he says, ‘It’s a free country. People can watch what they want. Yeah?’

  I don’t answer back.

  ‘I wish they’d get the trial done,’ she thought, ‘and hand around the refreshments!’ But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time.

  Outside, the smell of curries and kabobs is overpowering. I feel a mixture of nostalgia and nausea overcome me as my stomach lurches and I glance up the road to the Curry House & Takeaway. It’s buzzing with lunchtime customers. White, Black, Indian and Pakistani all huddle together under its squat roof, savouring Britain’s best recipe for harmony: chicken tikka masala.

  Steam from the food has fogged up the windows and the people inside seem to be drifting in an other-worldly haze. As I get closer, through the glass, I see a bald Asian man bent over his plate. His face is close to the food, slurping the last of his curry like a cat. With deft fingers, he swipes the plate clean, then licks his fingertips and smacks his lips. Next to him, a white woman shifts in her chair. She is glancing nervously at her partner who’s waiting at the counter to be served. In between the furtive glances, as if she were in a thief’s den, she picks at her naan with her fork and knife while taking great, big swigs of water.

  ‘No dogs allowed.’ ‘Hallal only.’ ‘Bestest Takeaway in Britain.’ Garish stickers greet me at the door and a loud bell jangles my ears as I push open the door. The owner looks up from his till. He takes in my dark skin and tight jeans, and scowls at the cigarette in my hand. A waiter lets out a low whistle, while a brown man in a long, white Arab dress glowers at me. I hold his gaze, even as sweat gathers in my palms. He continues to glare back and my defiance melts to a plea.

  Am I the only one feeling this way?

  In front of me stands a fat woman wearing a tight Punjabi suit, her head covered in a slippery scarf-like dupatta. On each side, a child clings desperately to her, while a baby is cradled on her arm. She is young enough to be my age, yet older than I could ever be.

  Behind me stands another girl, also by herself. Probably a student. She is wearing jeans and sneakers. She pushes back her jacket hood to reveal a skull-tight hijab.

  ‘Sister, it is your turn,’ she says. I step forward in my high-heeled boots and clutching my jacket tightly around myself, order a biryani to go. Despite the protests from my hungry stomach, I do not feel brave enough to eat here alone.

  The man taking my order takes in my accent and asks, ‘Indian?’

  Silently, I shake my head.

  ‘Bangladeshi?’

  I shake my head again.

  ‘You don’t have a British accent.’ He looks up as he packs my food. Imposter, his gaze seems to say.

  ‘I was born in Pakistan.’

  ‘I see.’

  He heaves a heavy sigh and slips in a flyer, not too discreetly, as he hands me my food. I step out in the cold sunshine and take great big gulps of air. My whole body smells of curry and the smell moves with me as

  I walk.

  I come across a dustbin spewing empty cartons, old newspapers and broken beer bottles, and pull out the flyer from the paper bag. I already know what it will be about. I reach out to trash it, but my hand hovers over the bin. A voice rings in my ears. It is my mother’s voice. Words laced with fading yellow edges trace the air around me and I think back to a time when, as a child, I played on the roof of our house in Karachi.

  Ami is bending over me. Her chadder shadows her face, casting a dark glow between us. ‘It is a sin to throw away Allah’s name.’

  In my head, I can see what would happen over the next few days. Having carefully folded the paper and tucked it in my pocket, I would look for flowing water to discard it in. This was the only honourable way to dispose of material with God’s name on it, or so I had been taught: a belief I found hard to let go of, unlike others which I had shed in the first few years of my stay here.

  ‘I’ll think about hell when I get there,’ I say, and reach out to bin the flyer. But some small beliefs are harder to let go of than others. I take a long drag on the dying cigarette and exhale slowly.

  The paper still flutters in my hand.

  She, Alice, was just saying to herself, ‘If one only knew the right way to change…’

  How long have I been standing here? The book I had brought along to read on the Tube feels heavy in my hands and I can feel the scents of Tooting sweeping into its pages. A white shopkeeper, often called a foreigner by locals in this neck of the woods, calls out, ‘You lost, love?’

  ‘Am I?’ I blink back.

  Perhaps thinking I didn’t understand English, he asks again, slowly: ‘Have you lost your way?’

  I glance up the street to where a group of young boys are handing out pamphlets and calling out to the public to fight in Iraq and Syria.

  ‘I’m not the one who’s lost,’ I reply.

  The man spits on the sidewalk and mutters something about immigrants before returning to his pitch.

  I walk towards the cries of ‘Save Iraq’. Not a hint of Arab in them, I think, as I pass the boys.

  ‘Sister, please make a donation for our Palestinian brothers,’ says one.

  He speaks with an East London accent and his sandy complexion, grizzly beard and prayer cap send chills down my spine. He is talking to me with his eyes to the ground.

  I don’t want to support a war that is not my own war, I think to myself. I don’t want to see the bigger picture. I don’t want to be responsible for the entire Muslim Ummah. I don’t want to be the saviour. I want to stay aloof.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say as I walk past without reaching into my purse. In a shop glass, I look at my reflection and think, uninvolved. I want to think of myself as me – immigrant to the First World, holder of a newly printed British passport and then as a Muslim and much later as a woman.

  But could I really?

  Here in Tooting, surrounded by Punjabi and Urdu voices, the black hijabs, the aroma of curries, the cries of ‘stop the war’ mingling with the pungent call to prayer, I question myself.

  I waver.

  To steady myself, I clutch the inside left pocket of my coat. This is where I keep my new passport. I run my fingers over its smooth texture and feel a strange sense of abandonment. Like the flying carpet from the Arabian Nights, this magical booklet could take me wherever I want to go. I was far away from the poverty, the humiliation and the struggles of the old country. The fight for democracy wasn’t my fight any more. The flies, the gutters, the overflowing stench of poverty was not my headache. Let the ones who got left behind fight the honour killings. I had other things to worry about. Like how to say house without the ‘h’.

  I feel a thrill race up my spine. It’s laced with guilt. Above me, the grey sky hovers unsteadily. It runs into tall brick buildings and races above tunnels decorated with graffiti, litter and dead rats.

  ‘Paki go home,’ says a wall.

  I look the other way and walk on. I am not a Paki. Not any more.

  I hug the passport closer.

  ‘Nor are we,’ echo the grey faces of the Asian boys in hoods and baseball caps, leaning against the graffitied walls.

  I shudder and walk on. Carefully folding the coarse paper of the flyer, I keep it next to the passport. I can write ‘British’ on the forms now, I think as my fingers caress the little booklet. I’m lost in my thoughts and miss the turn I am looking for. True, they still ask me, ‘Where have you come from?’ And their accent still baffles me, just as my pronunciation causes them to say ‘pardon’ again and again. I don’t know how to eat a scone, don’t care much for Marmite, or enjoy a game of footie. But I also don’t care much for cooking aloo gobi, frying onions or following the latest score in cricket.

  I retrace my steps to the high street and standing at the Broadway crossing, the intersection seems like a prophecy. East, West, Pakistan, Britain. Paki, Paki British, British Pakistani, British? Maybe that’s why the kids on the university campus used to call themselv
es Muslims instead of choosing one or the other, or both, like me.

  ‘Sailing in two boats, trying to be both,’ my mother would have said. Curious, open, refusing to choose, I would like to think.

  Why shouldn’t I be both?

  ‘Be what you would seem to be,’ said the Duchess, ‘or if you’d like it put more simply – never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise.’

  At the crossing, waiting for the green man to replace the red, I stub out the cigarette with my heel. A group of girls in black headscarves pass by. They look at me sideways and whisper. One of them turns back to smile. Envy or pity, I wonder.

  A sudden gust of cold wind makes my skin shiver.

  ‘The sun here has no warmth,’ says a nearby shopkeeper. He is stroking his long thin beard. He seems to be talking to no one in particular, his creased face bearing that timeless quality of someone for whom time has ceased to be a measure. He could have been a young boy waiting for time to pass or an old man unaware that time had already passed him by.

  There are many like him here, I think. Disillusioned shopkeepers who sit outside their shops on solitary stools, stroking their beards and calling out their wares by making hopeless small talk to passers-by. Unlike the busy bazaars of the old country, they don’t shout out the prices here. The price will be based on the customer. A pound each for the poor and filthy asylum seekers. Pound fifty for the blacks, because of whom almost-whites like them have to suffer. ‘No bargaining, only fixed price’ for the infidel Indians. For the old masters of the game, the goras, who venture into the ghetto for the occasional curry, the price is irrelevant. But not so for the ‘white trash’ who are here to make life hell for the ‘Paki’.

  ‘They prowl the streets looking for a Paki to look them in the eye,’ the lady at the threading parlour had told me. ‘And that spells trouble. Later, you could bleat racism all you want, but can you bring your son back to life?’