Brick Lane

by Monica Ali

  For a little while longer the servant boy tortured the holy man, until a delegation from the crowd separated them and sat on top of him. The boy began to shake his arms and legs and roll his head to and fro.

  The fakir sought access to the boy, in an attempt to exorcise some of his own rather vengeful demons. This prompted much debate.

  'Why do you think he was pretending?'

  'Didn't you, just a few minutes ago, see that the jinni had possessed him?'

  'If he is faking, let us tie him to a tree and thrash him. But don't expect money for exorcism that has failed.'

  It was dangerous ground for the fakir. At stake was this week's only income (and expenses had already been incurred), his pride, his desire to bash the boy's brains out, and his reputation.

  For the boy, who feared he might have gone too far, the situation was also tricky. His chosen strategy was to foam at the mouth.

  Amma lay completely forgotten and out of the way.

  'Look,' said a villager. 'This boy is possessed. See how the bubbles come at his mouth.'

  Abba took a back seat in the proceedings. Although he had to be seen to do the right thing in calling the exorcism, he had an aversion to holy men who took his money and he preferred not to be involved.

  Abba declined to give a verdict one way or the other. There was further discussion and very nearly a fight among the crowd. Eventually, however, a compromise was reached whereby the fakir was permitted to reengage the boy in a headlock in return for a solemn promise to rid him of the evil spirit.

  The fakir was most thorough. Everyone agreed he threw himself into the job with great energy.

  Amma did get better. There were no more days when she did not wash and she restricted herself to attacking her husband with only her sharpest of instruments, her tongue. At the time, Nazneen had been thrilled equally by the spectacular show and by her mother's recovery. Though she had heard later, eavesdropping near the barber's shop, that the servant boy had been boasting how he humiliated the big man, she still believed – of course – that the jinni had been vanquished from Amma. How it happened was a mystery, and it was not a mystery to be solved but merely treasured.

  Now, as she folded away a pile of clean laundry, she began to wonder what had really happened that day, and why it was that Amma believed only in bad jinn and not in the good.

  * * *

  Of Karim she saw very little. He was busy regrouping the Bengal Tigers, planning the March Against the March Against the Mullahs, foreseeing catastrophe for the ummah (local and global), and taking religious instruction from his Spiritual Leader. When they did spend an hour or so together, Karim brought up wedding plans.

  'Just a very small affair. Very small, but very, like, religious.'

  Nazneen smiled. It was so ridiculous.

  'I'm finding out about divorce. How you do it properly.'

  She tightened the muscles of her pelvic floor, afraid all of a sudden that she would wet herself. If she stayed here, then what alternative would she have but to marry Karim? The thought flooded her with so many conflicting emotions it was a wonder she retained control of any of her bodily functions. She tried to single out a thought, any thought, and take charge of it. The children. How could she present the girls with a new father like that? And what would they think? How terribly it would scythe at their young minds, one question repeating itself over and over: by what means did our mother ensnare this boy?

  The worst thing was she did not know what would happen. What was the point in fearing this and that, if only this and not that would happen? If Chanu filled more suitcases and bought the tickets and bid her leave, then would that determine the end? Would Karim, set on his course, prevent her from going? What if going home turned out to be just another one of Chanu's projects? A short while ago it seemed certain, but how could she be sure? She reminded herself: she had only to wait for everything to be revealed.

  Instead of appeasing her as usual, this thought rankled. Why should she wait? She felt as strongly as if someone, standing beside her in the kitchen, had taken a piece of paper, written down the answers and then set light to the page while she watched. She stood at the kitchen worktop making onion bhajis for the children, who would eat them smothered in tomato ketchup. In her frustration, she forgot she was in the middle of chopping chillies and rubbed her eye. Immediately a sensational pain exploded her eyeball. It was enough to make her cry out. She turned on the tap and twisted her head beneath it. To the curative powers of cold running water, the chilli-burn was immune. Nazneen gasped as the water ran up her nose.

  She focused on the pain, rising up to meet it head on, boring into it, challenging it to do its worst. The burn was fierce and it unleashed in her an equal ferocity. Suddenly her entire being lit up with anger. I will decide what to do. I will say what happens to me. I will be the one. A charge ran through her body and she cried out again, this time out of sheer exhilaration.

  The pain subsided slowly. A shadow of pain remained long into the night. The exhilaration also drained away, leaving only its ghosts behind. What would she decide? What did she want?

  Her first thought was that she would go to Dhaka with her husband and her children. It would be the right thing to do, and she would be with Hasina again. Doubts assailed her on all sides. The children would be miserable. Shahana would never adjust. What would happen to Chanu in Dhaka? If his dreams fell apart, what net would catch them all? How would they live? How would they eat? Would it not be better to stay here and send more money to Hasina and help her that way? Maybe even bring her over here. But if Chanu went ahead and left without them, then what? Would she marry Karim? Did she want to marry him? It would be difficult for the girls. And it would be impossible simply to spurn him. Perhaps it would be best to go to Dhaka.

  Unbidden, a memory of Karim came, entering her as he entered her, tearing apart her passive soul.

  In the night, while her family slept, she performed wudu and took down the Qur'an. She read from the sura The Merciful.

  'He has let loose the two oceans: they meet one another.

  Yet between them stands a barrier which they cannot overrun. Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?

  Pearls and corals come from both. Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?'

  She thought of her husband, sitting on the sofa that evening, serenely picking his toenails. When he had come home he had kissed her on the forehead and told her, 'In all these years, I have never – not once – regretted my choice of bride.' She thought of her daughters. What beautiful gifts from God. For once she felt calm. None of her Lord's blessings would she deny. She began to read again.

  'Mankind and jinn, We shall surely find the time to judge you! Which of your Lord's blessings would you deny?'

  The March Against the Mullahs was due to take place on 27 October. Lion Hearts leaflets began fluttering through the letterbox (Nazneen 'used them up' for shopping lists); they littered the courtyard, and drifted over the grassy mound of Altab Ali Park.

  All over the country, our children are being taught that Islam is a great religion. But the truth is clear. Islam burns with hatred. It gives birth to evil mass murders abroad. In our own towns, it spawns vicious rioters.

  Chanu read each leaflet with care. He remained calm.

  Karim became excited. 'Man, they are going to live to regret it. They don't even know what they're saying. Islam lays down clear rules of engagement for war. It ain't permitted to kill women, children, innocent men or the elderly. It ain't permitted to kill other Muslims. How many Muslims died in New York?' He stood by Nazneen's net curtains and worked his legs as if limbering up for a race, or shaking out a cramp. His mobile phone rang. He looked at it and turned it off and Nazneen knew it was his father.

  'They should get their facts straight.' He folded his arms and looked beyond Nazneen. In his panjabi-pyjama, fleece, big boots and skullcap he looked like he could be on his way to a mosque; or to a fight. Islamic terrorists. Islamic terrorists. Tha
t's all you hear. You never hear Catholic terrorist, do you? Or Hindu terrorist? What about Jewish terrorist?' It seemed that just as Chanu had lost an invisible audience, Karim had gained one. He orated to the assembly. 'But let's think about it. . .'

  Nazneen tried to, but she drowned in the sea of his anger. While her husband talked less and less, Karim talked more and more. The more he talked, the less sure he seemed.

  'You know that lad who got stabbed?'

  'Is he out of hospital?' said Nazneen.

  'All these people going around talking about gangs, all they're doing is feeding the racists. The newspapers love it. But the truth is there are no gangs.'

  Nazneen opened her mouth and closed it. Not so long ago, Karim had used the word freely. And what about the boys who came to the meeting, didn't they nearly start a fight there? And every evening they patrolled the estate, 'roaming around like goats', as Chanu said.

  'It's just a bunch of lads, mucking around, playing up. All right, getting in a bit of trouble. But they're good lads. When we march, they'll show. Support us. When the Bengal Tigers march we're all on the same side. And if there's going to be any trouble we won't be the ones starting it, but we'll finish it all right.'

  September 2001

  Allah have release her from suffering. Give thanks to Him the Most Merciful the Most Kind.

  Sister I tell you how nice is this Lovely? She have prove her name. I went to her say how is plan for start Charity? She show me fingernails have paint little star on each say do they look all right? I know it meaning the Charity is not yet start. I say what this place have need is Charity for helping childrens catch by acid attack. Name is come to mind Acid Innocents. No hesitate whatsoever she asking name of Monjus boy. Within two three minute she ring newspaper give all details to newsman. Main important detail is Lovely her own self is pay for Khurshed operation.

  I tell to Monju. Even face is melt still you see how it change her. She close good eye and rest for while. Almost is too much. Is like give feast to starving man.

  When she open eye she say something I cannot hear. I must put ear against mouth. Before I go I must confess. She say this. Something so wrong I done and I never tell to anyone. This is what she say. I look inside the good eye and see she must speak or have no peace.

  What she tell me when Khurshed two years old baby is scream and scream many hour and one time she losing all presence of mind and slap hard on legs. She say only week before was operation to leg region. Maybe is she who make leg damage need more further operating. She say this.

  Have you ask doctor? I tell her. Have you ask doctor? I shout for her to hear me. No. She did not tell to anyone.

  Then I go away and walk around hospital. I come back I put my face to hers and I shout. The doctor has say No. It is not for you but the acid has damage him.

  The trouble go out of her eye. I see a bit like the old Monju. She whisper from very small mouth hole nearly close up now. These secret things will kill us. Do you have any secret? You want to tell to me? I keep it safe for you! I think she try for smiling.

  Next day I go for telling her newspaper man come make photograph with Lovely. But that day sister my friend is gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Bengal Tigers meeting was called for Friday, one week and one day before the march. Chanu said, 'I think we will go to that meeting.'

  Nazneen dropped her scissors.

  'Yes,' said Chanu, 'I think it will be interesting.'

  Nazneen retrieved her scissors and continued unpicking the stitching on a botched jacket lining. 'You go. I have to work.'

  'Very well. But I think you'll find it interesting,' said Chanu. He hid himself behind a newspaper.

  All night, Nazneen imagined what he could mean. What did her husband intend to do at the meeting? If he knew about Karim (how many times had she willed him to know? He would not yield to her and yet he must know) had he chosen this venue to confront him? But surely he would not do anything in front of all those people? Did he intend to try to humiliate him in some way, challenge him to a public duel of intellects? Did he mean to take her along to humiliate her as well? Perhaps even to stone her, as was his right? What was Chanu going to do? She could think of no plausible answer.

  The girls went off to school and Nazneen went with Chanu to the meeting. The preparations compelled her. Chanu donned his suit. It had a little white mark on the jacket collar which he rubbed with a flannel and turned into a bigger mark. The suit, dark blue serge, double-breasted, was old and the fabric had become a touch uncertain around the knees and the elbows. But Chanu had lost weight since the return of his ulcer and the fit was not bad. He could get all of the buttons on the jacket done up, which had never before been possible. He put on a salmon-coloured tie belonging to his council days and slipped a packet of Rennies into his trouser pocket. From a folder marked 'Speech', he took an A4 Premier Collection refill pad and flicked open the cover. Holding the pad in one hand he made a sweeping gesture with the other and rocked on his heels. His lips moved but no words came out. After a while, he made a slight bow and closed the notebook. He cleared his throat. 'I think we're ready.'

  She followed a step behind him across the estate and into the concrete valley that cradled the meeting hall. Chanu was eager to get there. To keep up, Nazneen had to trot. By the time they entered the building her heart had overpowered all other internal organs. It beat in her chest, in her stomach, in her ears and in her head.

  The Secretary hung around by the doors. A boy in a dark purple tracksuit called to him. 'Hey, get on the train of repentance, brother.'

  The Secretary grinned. 'It's already passed your station, brother.'

  They slapped each other on the arms.

  The hall was about half full. There was none of the family atmosphere of the previous meeting. Most of those gathered were young men. A handful of girls of similar age clustered at the back of the room and several more in burkha gelled together at the front. The boys on the right-hand side of the aisle had broken the ranks of chairs to form a circle. Within the circle, some were sitting on their chairs, others were standing, and a few had perched with their feet on the seats and their bottoms on the chairbacks. At the outer perimeter the boys stood on their chairs. They were listening to someone at the centre. Above the general hubbub, Nazneen discerned a speech already in progress. She tried to interpret the voice, to hear Karim's tones within it, but the voice was unfamiliar and it slid away from her.

  On the left-hand side, where Nazneen and Chanu took their places, the boys kept glancing over to the other side of the room and shaking their heads. One lad smashed a fist into his other palm and ground it round. Then he flicked his hand like a wet rag and the fingers made a snapping noise. His friends laughed and a finger-flicking tournament began. The boys wore jeans, or tracksuits with big ticks on them as if their clothing had been marked by a teacher who valued, above all else, conformity. A few were in traditional Bengali garb with a twist. Panjabi-pyjama customized with denim on the leg and sleeve cuffs, or worn with a black leather jacket, or with the trousers tucked into buckled knee-length boots. Only Chanu wore a suit. The elbows were really quite worn. He touched the knot of his tie over and over as if he were afraid it would choke him.

  He took his pad out of the folder and turned to the front page. 'I'll give you a taste,' he said to Nazneen. 'This is the title: "Race and Class in UK, A Short Thesis on the White Working Class, Race Hate, and Ways to Tackle the Issue".'

  So that was it. He would challenge Karim with words. And prove himself his equal. His better. During these past weeks, in which he had hardly spoken, he had been storing his words, stockpiling them for this battle, honing them for this: the fight to reclaim his wife.

  The circle broke up and chairs were scraped back into position. The people on the left looked at the people on the right. Some people got to their feet to get a better look. Then the doors at the back of the hall closed and Karim bounded onto the stage. The Secretary skipped on after him
carrying what seemed to be an old mango packing crate. He put the upturned crate on the stage and stood on it. 'Order, order, order. I call the meeting to order.'

  Conversation was extinguished at a leisurely pace.

  'Brothers and sisters,' said Karim. 'It's good to see so many of us – united in our stand against those scummy people who dare to come round here and slander our religion.'

  'Kick them out,' yelled someone from the back.

  'Send them back where they came from,' shouted another.

  Karim folded his arms. 'Leave the cheap insults to the racists.' He paused and looked over the whole audience, taking his time, making everyone feel his power to do this, to make them wait. 'When we march, we'll show them how wrong they are about Islam. They'll see we are strong. And we will show them we are peaceful. That Islam is peace.

  'What we need to discuss today is how we are going to spend every hour, minute and second between now and the twenty-seventh getting people to pledge their support.'

  A hand shot up in the front row.

  'Yes?' said the Secretary. From his elevated position on the crate he no longer bounced on his toes. 'State your question.'

  'Can we get a flat-bed truck there? Hire one?'

  'For people without legs?' said the Secretary. 'Or the very sick?'

  'For a sound system, brother. Or if you like I could set up a keyboard and play live.'

  'Live music is un-Islamic,' said the Secretary, raking his beard.

  'What?' said the musician. 'What about devotional bands? What about all the Sufis? They're always, like, singing and dancing.'

  'Un-Islamic,' said the official quickly. 'Move on.'

  Someone else spoke up from the audience. 'That's why the Taliban banned it.'

  'What about recorded music?' said the musician.

  'That's banned as well.'

  'Don't we have a Spiritual Leader here? Let's ask him what the Qur'an has to say.'

  The Spiritual Leader was located. The Secretary stepped down to confer with him. The Spiritual Leader had put on a considerable amount of weight in a few months. The little conference on sharia did not interfere with his consumption of a very large, lavishly glazed pastry.