I Am Thunder

by Muhammad Khan

  ‘If that’s your bit, I’d hate to see your lot!’ She gave a single derisive cackle. ‘Go wash it all off or I’m not taking you there.’

  ‘But we’re already late! Please, Ami! Don’t be like that!’ I pleaded.

  ‘I’m not about to let my only daughter make her daddy the laughing stock of the community. We are respectable Muslims, Muchi! Izzat is everything.’

  I hated the way ‘Honour’ was always chucked in my face to stop me from having any fun. Dad had a criminal record, for crying out loud, and Ami was an illiterate stay-at-home mum. What was honourable about that? Believing they were good Muslims was the biggest joke of all. The only time they visited the mosque was at Eid, and the only time they remembered Allah was to look down on others. I wanted to tell Ami exactly what I thought of their stupid izzat. But though my confidence was definitely on the rise at school, it wasn’t happening at home.

  I dragged myself upstairs and removed the slap. Not only was I lumbered with being a ‘Plain Zaynab’, but trying to make myself look even half decent was now a crime. Frustration gripped my jaw as I scoured my face with a make-up wipe. All my careful contouring reduced to a rainbow of smears in the mirror in front of me . . .

  An idea popped into my head. Sneaky and dishonest? Probably. But was it my fault if Ami was being so unreasonable? Every go-to cosmetic I owned went straight into my bag. The moment we arrived at the banquet hall, Muzna Saleem would be making an emergency pit stop at the bathroom.

  Rajput Hall was a proper amazing venue, if you ignored the fact that it was opposite a plaza of hardware stores.

  From the moment me and Ami entered beneath the Roman-style portico, with its tall white pillars and floral hanging baskets, I felt like we’d been transported to some magical fantasy land. The air smelt warmly of jasmine and spice, and I could hear a sitar being played in the background. A rich pallet of red, gold and cream pervaded everything. It was the world of the Maharajas and Maharanis; the Mughal emperors and their queens.

  Ushers in matching velvet jackets directed us to the dining hall. Up on the stage, decorative palms grew out of mirror-mosaic pots that sparkled and gleamed. In the centre stood a majestic golden throne.

  ‘Why haven’t the men been separated from the women?’ my mother asked in audible disgust.

  I tried to hush her, but it was too late. One of the other guests had heard.

  ‘I know,’ agreed a plump Sikh woman in a bright orange kurta. ‘Shameless! This is the fashion – copy Bollywood actors. As if those druggies were anything to look up to.’

  Ami broke out in a smile. United in disapproval, she and the lady were soon nattering away like old friends. My cue to go tart myself up.

  Standing before the large mirror in the bathroom, I gazed at my beautiful black-and-blue shalwar suit, bursting with pride. A real steal at £29.99. But everything north of it was a disaster. My face needed some serious TLC.

  Tying my dupatta round my head like a bandana, I lined up my cosmetics, and prepared for battle. Keeping it subtle was key, otherwise Ami would burst a lung, screaming at me in front of the entire British Asian community. Rose-pink lip gloss, eyeliner, and a shimmer of blush – my magic potion for turning Ugly into Acceptable. Finally, I released my hair, letting it spill over my shoulders in a thick black curtain.

  ‘Wow, you look desi-sexy!’

  I spun round in alarm, wondering what a boy was doing in the ladies’ loos. Sarabi grinned at me like a Cheshire cat. Clearly she’d been working on her boy-voice.

  ‘Don’t do that to me!’ I placed a hand on my heart. ‘Oh Sarabi, you look amazing!’

  My mate was dressed in a brocade suit of yellow, purple and cerise. She could have been a bride herself. She hid her smile behind a decorated hand.

  ‘Glitter mehndi?!’ I grabbed her wrist, mesmerized by the intricate micro-designs on her skin. ‘You did this yourself?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Shut. Up.’ I was gobsmacked. ‘Where’d you even get this?’

  ‘I made it. Just add glitter to hair gel, bung it in a cone, and you’re ready to go. Want me to do you some day?’

  ‘A thousand times YES!’

  ‘Look at us!’ she said, gesturing at the mirror. ‘Miss Pakistan and Miss India – together at last!’

  I glanced into the mirror doubtfully. It might have been the lighting or the angle, but we did look pretty together.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Selfie moment!’ she squealed.

  We grinned insanely into the camera lens, heads pressed together like a thousand other best friends wanting to share the moment. Within seconds she’d uploaded it to her Insta and tagged me.

  Back in the hall, I spotted a girl wearing the exact same outfit as Sarabi. A couple of seconds later, I saw another. Had they been on sale?

  ‘Don’t look now, hon,’ I advised. ‘Wannabes at one, two . . . and now ten o’clock!’

  Sarabi glanced round and laughed. ‘We’re all bridesmaids, silly!’

  ‘And here was me thinking Flash Mob.’

  ‘Muzna, I bet you’re going to love the Bhangra dancers,’ she said. ‘There’s a world class dhol player . . .’

  But I’d stopped paying attention. Suddenly the urge to book it back to the bathroom was overwhelming. Had to make sure I hadn’t done something dumb like give myself an eyeliner unibrow or tucked my kameez into the back of my knickers.

  Sarabi followed my gaze.

  ‘Plot twist,’ I whispered. ‘Arif turns up to the exact same wedding as me. What were the odds of that happening?’

  ‘Surprisingly high, actually,’ Sarabi said, looking over her shoulder. ‘Judging by the turnout, looks like the groom went and invited the entire Ether Downs Asian community. My parents are so murdering him.’

  There he stood, my super-Arif, killing it in a princely sherwani. Holding a glass, he chatted animatedly to a shorter man with a slighter build. An uncle or an older brother, maybe.

  ‘Let’s go over and say hello,’ I suggested.

  Sarabi laughed. ‘Forget it. If my parents saw me chatting to a boy, I’d get shipped to India.’

  One of the bridesmaids called to Sarabi in Punjabi.

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she said, tapping my nose playfully, then hurried off to join the other bridesmaids.

  But I’m not you, I thought, a combination of guilt and defiance gnawing at my heart. And I think I’m done pretending.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, squeezing out every last bit of volume I could get. Then placing my dupatta over my breasts in a ‘V’, I shyly drifted over, glancing back once to make sure Ami couldn’t see me. The man with Arif picked me up on his radar almost immediately. His eyes were utterly black, and there was something hawk-like about him. I considered bailing, but it was too late if I didn’t want to end up looking like a psycho chick.

  ‘Hey, Arif,’ I said, trying to keep my voice relaxed. Not easy when your heart is doing an impression of a dhol.

  Arif was turned away, muscular shoulders encased in glistening cream fabric. His brother poked him, then gestured with a tilt of his head.

  Arif spun round and gave me a confused look. ‘Er, do I know you?’

  Oh my God. I needed to abandon this sinking ship before I drowned in my own humiliation.

  ‘It’s me, Muzna,’ I said, my voice becoming high and desperate. ‘We’re both in Mr Dunthorpe’s tutor group . . .’

  He blinked in surprise. ‘Man, I totally did not recognize you! You look different, innit?’ Polar-white teeth appeared in the smile I was obsessed with. Peace was restored to my little universe.

  ‘Assalaamu alaykum, sister,’ his brother said in a deeply serious tone. ‘I am Jameel Malik, Arif’s brother.’

  I responded with the traditional Islamic greeting. The family resemblance was obvious, but it was like I was looking at a photo and its negative. Jameel spoke in an affected London accent, and his eyes never settled on anything for
long. Almost as if everything fell short of his expectations.

  ‘You know, a pretty girl like you should be covering up her beauty with a hijab. This –’ he made a global hand gesture over me – ‘does not please Allah. Look at my idiot brother here, drooling over you.’

  ‘Don’t be calling me idiot, yaar!’ Arif said good-humouredly, fists drawn in a boxer’s stance.

  I flushed deeply. Taking in the simple white thobe, Islamic skullcap and long beard, it was obvious Arif’s brother was the devout type. Should have factored that in before making my move. Trying to make amends now, I flung my dupatta over my head.

  ‘Well . . . see you, Monday,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Nah, man,’ Arif said. ‘I ain’t doing school Monday. Got a conference to go to with this one.’ He flicked his chin at Jameel.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Hey, sister,’ Jameel said, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘Would you, by any chance, like to come? It’s a conference for Muslims. You could bring your brothers too.’

  ‘Don’t have any. Brothers, I mean. I’m an only child.’ I glanced back furtively, making sure Ami wasn’t on the prowl.

  ‘Mash’Allah,’ Jameel said, a faint smile forming on his thin lips. ‘Allah gives to whom He will. Some couples remain childless throughout their lives. Your parents are truly blessed to have you.’

  The compliment made me smile. ‘But I would like to come . . . I mean, if that’s OK?’

  ‘You sure?’ Arif asked sceptically. ‘Not gonna lie: these things can be dry.’

  ‘Pay no attention to this foolish sibling of mine,’ Jameel said. ‘If you want to improve your deen, then of course we’ll take you. The pursuit of knowledge is sacred, and in certain cases the rules can be bypassed and whatnot.’ He ruminated for a second, his purple lips disappearing inside his bushy beard. ‘Tell me, sister, are your parents religious Muslims?’

  ‘Not especially,’ I said, torn between loyalty to my parents and being honest. ‘They don’t pray or fast.’

  ‘That is indeed a shame,’ he said, as if I’d just told him one of my relatives had passed away. It made me blush.

  ‘Where is this conference?’ I asked, hoping for somewhere glamorous.

  ‘Not far. Wallingham Islamic Centre. Perhaps I could pick you up from school. Do your parents drop you off in the mornings?’

  ‘Dad does.’

  ‘OK, so when the coast is clear, make a U-turn and come straight back out. We’ll be waiting for you in my white Micra at the top of the road, near the chippy.’

  ‘Sure, OK!’ I said. ‘Um . . . should I give you my number?’ This was directed to Arif.

  ‘One sec . . .’ he said, lifting up his brocade shirt to grab his mobile from an inner pocket. I got a breathtaking glimpse of his happy trail and the V-cut of his lower abs. He stored my number on his gold iPhone. My parents could only afford to buy me a Samsung; the kind Boudicca probably had.

  ‘Well, see you Monday!’ I said, giving a girly wave.

  I floated away on a cloud of joy. All too soon I was sitting opposite my mum again. In the time I’d been gone, Ami had made three new friends. They were chatting away happily like a brood of clucking hens. I wished I could’ve inherited Ami’s ‘social butterfly’ gene. She gave me a nod, letting me know she was glad I’d come back.

  Then suddenly there was a loud bang. Everyone jumped, and at least two girls screamed out.

  A man in a bright pink turban rolled a feral ‘R’ on his tongue. The dhol was struck a second time, sounding like a clap of thunder. In came the Bhangra group, hopping and dancing. Everyone cheered. Even Ami clapped her hands in time with the music, a huge smile on her face. The colourful group made their way along the aisle, encouraging audience participation, and growing in number.

  ‘Don’t they look like fresh flowers in a stream?!’ Ami said, really getting into the spirit of things.

  I was glad she was enjoying herself, but if she got up and started dancing – especially in front of Arif and Jameel – I swore I’d die of shame. Speaking of which . . .

  I extended my neck like an ostrich, hungry for another delicious glimpse. A churning sea of bodies blocked my view, before an opening appeared. Arif was dancing. Not like Malachy, but proper Bhangra moves that got my heart racing. A karate chop struck the back of his neck making me gasp. Jameel glared at his little brother, not looking the least bit amused.

  The rest of the wedding party passed in a blur. There were highlights: dapper groom, beautiful bride, Sarabi doing bridesmaid-y things, delicious grub. But nothing that could break the spell woven over my mind. All I could think about was next Monday and bunking off to go to a conference with Arif (and his brother). It may not have been an ideal first date – or a date of any kind, if you wanted to get technical – but it was a start. Go me!

  CHAPTER 22

  All through the weekend I was bursting to tell someone about my upcoming road trip with Arif. But there was no one. Keeping it from Sarabi was the worst. Totally necessary, though, if I didn’t want to be guilt-tripped out of it. She had Boy-phobia in a way that would impress any conservative Asian parent.

  Every time I thought about Arif’s beautiful smile, those thick eyelashes, or that short flash of his ripped abs, my blood fizzed like a shook-up can of Monster. If only there was some way I could make him fall madly in love with me . . . No pill I could swallow, no app I could download. Love was old school. It only happened if the elements were right.

  That didn’t mean there weren’t things I could do to help the process along. Like ditching the conference was a no-brainer. Who ever heard of two people falling in love at a religious gathering? Major mood killer. OK, what next? I drew a blank. I tried to remember what books had taught me. Characters found some common ground . . . said or did something incredibly touching . . . stared longingly into each other’s eyes, then . . . kissed?

  Me kiss Arif Malik?!

  I giggled like a tickled lunatic before a horrible idea struck me.

  What if I’m crap at it?

  In a flash I had my trusty laptop open, surfing the YouTubian waters for a kissing tutorial. Steamy preview images cluttered the entire left side of the screen. My eyes darted nervously back and forth between the screen and my bedroom door. If my parents caught me . . .

  I hit PLAY.

  Watching the demonstration, I tried to convince myself that kissing was no big deal. Sure, it was kind of cringe when people puckered up in public places, and you totally wished they’d get a room already, so why was guilt twisting round my throat? Was it because I was afraid of God or my parents? Suddenly the actors on the screen transformed into me and Arif, kissing up a storm. My head started to spin faster and faster and faster. I needed air. Now.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ami asked, looking up from the glossy aubergines she was chopping up.

  ‘Thought I’d take the washing in,’ I lied, palms stickier than a snail’s belly.

  ‘You are a good girl, Muchi. And when you come back, you would definitely be my favourite child if you also help me chop up the baingan.’

  Hate to break it to you, Ami, I thought, but your daughter is actually Slutty McSketington . . .

  Outside in the garden, I inhaled deeply, tilting my face up to the sky. The fresh scent of fabric conditioner drifted towards me as the clothes stirred on the rotary airer. A bird sang high in the apple tree, drawing my attention. Would Uncle Tanveer let me pick apples in the summer? Would we even be here by then? I didn’t think anyone let their brother and his family live above their two-star restaurant forever. The thought was depressing. Everything in the apartment was shiny and new. The thought of going back to our junk-shop way of living filled me with sadness.

  If only I could have Arif over . . .

  Ridiculous. My parents were never going to allow me to have a boyfriend, or even a friend who was a boy. But sooner or later they’d find out I wasn’t the daughter they thought they had. Then what? A shiver ran d
own my spine remembering how they’d treated Salma.

  As I began to take the clothes down, tossing them into the old laundry basket, my discursive essay floated to the front of my mind. Using high school to figure out who you are instead of rolling with the cool crowd. Shouldn’t that message apply at home too? Like, why was becoming the person my parents wanted me to be more important than finding my own place in the world?

  I frowned, frustration burning in my gut. It was cruel to bring me up in Britain, make me go to school with British kids, then expect me to act like a girl from back home. Outside of having brown skin, speaking the language, and half-heartedly cheering the cricket team on with Dad, I had no real idea of what it meant to be Pakistani. I mean, how could I?

  Maybe going to the conference was a bad idea.

  Or maybe it was the best idea?

  Either way, getting closer to Arif was worth every risk.

  ‘Muchi, you’re very quiet tonight,’ Dad said with a note of concern.

  My family sat in front of the TV watching an incredibly corny Pakistani drama serial. Uncle Tanveer’s place had Sky Digital, and my parents were maxing out with a vengeance.

  ‘I’m just tired,’ I said, faking a yawn.

  Thx 4 da invite Me n Ami had a BLAST!!!

  No worries hon. Thx 4 comin!

  Next to her words Sarabi had put every wedding/party emoji known to Teenage Girl.

  I smiled.

  ‘Have you finished all your homework?’ Dad asked. ‘I’ve been so busy with my job, I haven’t really had a chance to ask you how you’re getting on with your studies.’

  ‘That’s OK, Dad,’ I said, stuffing my phone in a pocket. ‘Yes, I’ve finished my homework. And you were right – everything’s so much better here than it was at Rigsby. My English teacher thinks I’m brilliant. He said I could become a professional writer if—’

  ‘What about maths and science?’ He cut me off, his eyes somehow managing to look both threatening and worried at the same time.

  ‘Doing well in those too, of course,’ I muttered gloomily.