Returning to the vat of soup, he considered the effort involved in all this preparation. His mum would have been working on the feast for days whilst his father did a little work, played solitaire on the computer and watched Zee TV. She’s getting too old for this. Stirring once more, his mum continued talking, her rabbiting voice exhibiting excitement plus a few nerves. He noticed that she’d even written a menu, stuck up on the refrigerator: apparently the soup was for starters. He was relieved that he didn’t pick her up on the leek and potato thing.
‘Beta, can you fetch me some saffron?’ Arwa asked. Knowing where everything was, Pasha got a chair to reach for the cupboard above the microwave. It was one of the bigger ones, boasting real depth, width and height. Peering in he saw seven, eight, no nine tall plastic containers, all filled with different kinds of pulses. He was initially bemused. Why is Mum’s kitchen so well stocked? As if she regularly cooked for six. But deep down he knew that she wanted to cook for six; that cooking for six would make her life bright. But he also knew she’d die before any of those containers needed refilling.
‘What was the traffic like, Beta?’ Arwa Walayat absent-mindedly asked again. Pasha said nothing at all.
16
Husband and Wife – till death us do part...
Married couples never unsettled Pasha. On the contrary, they only ever rubberstamped his choices: love one person forever? Commitment? He wasn’t that stupid. But looking at this couple, standing together on his mother’s porch ... He was wearing a sherwani, a long coat-like garment. It was wrapping his slim frame tightly and fell to just below knee-length. She was wearing a turquoise shalwar kameez, one cut to a modern fashion. The shalwar was fitted, falling into a gentle bell-bottom around the ankles, and the kameez hypnotised, delicate fractals bleeding colour. She had a long scarf draped around her neck, one end of which she held gracefully with a bent arm, the length falling before being taken up by her wrist. The effect was so delightfully feminine it made Pasha uncomfortable. But it wasn’t their clothes or their youth, her beauty or the pride in his smile; they just looked so natural together. Jenny flashed in his mind but he shook off the thought. It’s too late now. Pasha caught the woman’s eyes and she smiled. He immediately looked away.
... God, this is awkward. I squeeze Aadam’s hand tight and give Pasha my best, fake smile. Actually, he’s looking quite a bit older than I remember. When was it that we last met? Oh, I don’t know. Pasha looks away quickly, like he’s embarrassed. Good. I can use that. Allah, what are we doing here? We could have had a lovely day together, at home.
Aadam steps into the house and I reluctantly let go. The two of them hug and I feel a bit naked, left on the porch. I tuck away some imaginary stray strands of hair. I’ve never liked Aadam’s family. Actually, no. What I mean is I’ve never been comfortable with them; not truly at home. They’re lovely people, mostly, but ... how can I explain. I love Pakistanis, I love being Pakistani, but I hate Pakis, I guess. One man who is definitely no Paki, though, is Pasha. Now there’s a man who knows what to do. But then I catch his eye for a second time, this time over Aadam’s shoulder, and again he looks away. That old confidence. He’s definitely looking a lot older. Oh boy, this is going to be a long day.
‘You’re looking good, son,’ says Pasha, before playfully slapping Aadam on the cheek. And so he does. And that’s me, that is. That’s my work – my patience, my encouragement and my love. Not that anyone from his damn family has ever acknowledged that. I’ve made a man out of the half-baked boy they gave me. It would be nice if I got some credit for it sometimes. But I won’t hold my breath. Aadam accepts the compliment graciously, without seeming overawed. I must say, my man’s carrying himself well. I feel proud to be with him – despite his mistake earlier with that damn Indian. I should’ve stayed mad at him for longer. I giggle, and finally Pasha acknowledges that I’m still standing in the porch, like some spare part.
‘Come in, come in!’ he beckons with a generous smile, reaching out a hand. ‘Lovely to see you again, Nazneen,’ and he pecks me on the cheek. He holds my eyes for no longer than politeness dictates.
‘Thanks Pasha, lovely to see you too,’ I reply, but we both know we’re merely being polite. I don’t think he’s the type to feel offended, though. After all, I’m just his cousin’s wife, and he barely even knows his cousin. Plus, I’m looking damn fine today, even if I do say so myself, and I can see that that’s making things more difficult for him. Not that that would have fazed Pasha from a few years back. You can tell that in a man, you know, just from a look. That confidence, from knowing exactly what buttons to press – it’s either there or it’s not. Most men don’t have it, though most can pretend, especially if they’re drunk. I can’t believe I used to run with that crowd. Seems like a lifetime ago.
Hearing all the commotion, Arwa Aunty and Zakir Uncle make their way to the front door. I watch Aunty effortlessly breeze past Uncle, arms aloft on seeing her sister’s son.
‘Come in, Beta, come in!’ she beckons, before grabbing Aadam by the cheeks and forcibly lowering him to kiss his forehead. Honestly, it’s like me, Uncle and Pasha aren’t even there! Poor Aadam starts to blush but for Aunty it’s all just natural. The others laugh and I laugh along with them. You see, this is what I mean. This is what being Pakistani is about. Love or hate, we do both with more conviction. We don’t do PR or pragmatism – we’re very simple people.
‘Welcome, Aadam,’ says Uncle, and the pair shake hands. I start to feel like I’m being ignored, again, and Aadam draws close as if about to introduce me, but there’s no need. Aunty now grabs me and pulls me down, to plant another kiss of unblemished love.
‘Welcome, Nazneen, welcome Beti.’ She smiles, and as I look in her eyes I see the purest love of all: a mother’s love. I melt and feel humbled. Love – it disarms you like nothing else. God, I better watch myself today. I don’t want to walk out of here a damn Paki ... Aunty’s knowing eyes follow Aadam’s arm, still lingering around my waist.
‘You’re looking good yaar, Aadam!’ Her eyes dance as she comments before turning squarely to me. ‘You’ve put some flesh on my boy’s bones, che na?’ Her observation is matter-of-fact and she’s bemused when everyone starts laughing again. I too can’t help giggling and turn to Aadam, all flushed with embarrassment. Oh Arwa Aunty. Aadam plants a kiss on my cheek before turning back and smiling broadly, like the victor that he is. I give Aunty the dutiful-beautiful-wifey smile that she wants, whilst inwardly remembering how bitterly me and Aadam argued only hours earlier. No one would guess, eh? The thing that had pissed me off was ... Actually there were lots of things, but mainly, I hate to see him being so wet. I mean why put Kishore above me? I know he wouldn’t even have wanted to. It’s such a turn off. Martin would never have done that. Oh, Martin ... I like a man to know what he’s doing. Always. That’s the first rule and Aadam breaks it too often. And for what? To not look bad in front of his Indian mate? I don’t mind Indians but I hate it when some Pakistanis get all dewy-eyed about them. I believe in having good relations with everyone, including that lot, but they shouldn’t have any special place. Maybe things were different for our parents, when all brown people were new over here, but those days are long gone. Indians have worked hard to earn their place in Britain, and good luck to them. But Aadam has to realise not only that our fate has gone the other way, but that if anyone’s enjoying seeing us drown in our own shit, it’s the bloody Indians. He’s invested too much in being Asian, in being brown, and it’s a stupid badge to wear. I can only tell him so much. One day it’s gonna really hurt him.
I breathe deeply, clearing angry thoughts. I turn to my man, whose hand I’m still holding. And there it is, as always – there’s a look in those eyes that some women spend a whole lifetime searching for. He raises my hand and kisses it, with Aunty still looking on approvingly. Picture perfect. I really should be more grateful than I am. Happier than I am. I am happy, but ... happier.
Despite having opened the door, I notice
Pasha is now standing some distance away. He’s got this lost look on his face. He has shuffled backwards and is now watching us like some spectator. He feels ... he feels ... I really don’t know what he feels.
17
Imtiaz pulled the door to his flat firmly shut and turned to go. His long overcoat flared and spiralled as he about-turned, like a Dervish, whirling to a rhythm. But his coat was black and Imtiaz was no Seeker. He moved swiftly, with concerted anonymity and no small pinch of fear, like Count Dracula through the streets of Old London Town, forced out of his chambers to face harsh daylight. The air was sharp and there was frost on the ground, and his warm breath rode briefly on the cold; burnt-out smoke from an extinguished flame.
He approached a newsagent’s and, removing his glasses, forcibly kept his head down. Even before adulthood he was alive to the top shelf: shooting a look, stealing a moment; a micro-second’s indulgence in the greatest pleasure made known to him. But something inside was now speaking and Imtiaz understood – this simply couldn’t go on. But this battle – God, please. How could he keep on fighting, every damn moment? There is just no respite. Amongst the small cards in the newsagent’s window advertising plumbers, cleaners and rooms to let, there were ones selling other services: Massage, LOCAL – different girls everyday. And another, bright pink and decorated with glitter and coloured hearts. Massage – Come relax with our girls. Young hands for your body. He fondled his mobile in his coat pocket, dreaming of young hands tending to his needs. And in front of the personal ads stood all the day’s papers, including ... She looked about nineteen: wet, wavy brunette hair, falling onto bare shoulders. A low-cut white halter-top, a smooth white belly. And next to her, another. Bee-stung lips being bitten nervously, coyly, as a living doll made to pull her knickers down, her thumbs hooked under black lace. Some man somewhere would get to tug at that bow, undo that wrapping, play with that doll. The thought clouded his mind, disconnecting him from himself – from Eid, from where he had to go today, from where even he stood. Absentmindedly he fiddled with his penis through his coat pocket. A few people passed by and, feeling self-conscious, he swiftly moved on.
Eid. Family get-togethers. So many people checking him out, judging him. He’d been there before but it only got harder. He was trying to remember the last time he saw Aadam or Salman. What the hell was he going to say? ‘As-salaam-u alaiykum, Salman Bhai. Are you well? And the Good Lady, and the kids? Who, me? No I’m not married. No, I have no one in mind. Work? Actually my job’s a dead-end, but that’s OK ‘cause I’m a dead-end. No, no hobbies. No, no friends. Sport? Hahaha! Actually, I don’t mind working up a bit of a sweat on my own, if ya knowhatimean. Rubbing myself whilst watching dirty women doing filthy things – know you of any greater pleasure, Salman Bhai?’
He was nearing the train station but first he had to get past the public phone booth with its interior covered in tart cards. Keep your head down, Imtiaz. Don’t look up, don’t look – he looked. It was such a sight. Behold, Original Man – Original Sin. A platter of lovelies, all serving themselves up. How the hell is he not to look? He entered the Tardis and was instantly transported. There was no world beyond.
‘Now is the winter of my discontent’, he cried in silence, his voice echoing in his head. ‘Discontent, Imtiaz?’ winked the brunette. ‘Taste my apple – it’ll change your life.’ Imtiaz dithered, unable to look, unable to not look.
‘Stop dithering!’ commanded the blonde, before purring: ‘Take me – I’ll open your eyes.’ She hissed; her lithe, long body ready to wrap itself around him, the very thought liquefying him with lust.
‘No!’ he beseeched suddenly, crumpling up a tart card in each hand. He staggered out, just desperate to make it onto the train and out of harm’s way. Fight, God Damn You, fight. He saw a girl. She was crossing the road and heading towards him. She reached the pavement and was only a few feet in front, and Imtiaz was pulled into her slipstream. It was a cold November day and she was not scantily dressed, wearing a flowing, loose skirt, falling just below the knees. Imtiaz locked onto her petite, toned calf muscles, rippling gently under bronzed skin. She walked into the station and joined the queue for tickets, allowing him to nestle up behind. Her hair was tied back, simply, efficiently, and Imtiaz gloried in blonde streaks, meshed in with darker strands. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder top, light blue and fluffy, and a clear bra strap made the smallest of indents into her young flesh. He stood perfectly still, filling his lungs with her scent – notes of lavender, a hint of rose, and he wanted to rip her apart and feast. A loose cable dangled within, thrashing around violently, shocking him at random points. Waiting on the platform, he stood near her but not too close – his expertise judging a safe distance. He planned to get on the same carriage but as the train pulled in, something inside – some shame – made him walk along and embark elsewhere. Before taking his seat he checked his immediate surroundings – a man with a young boy and an old couple, comfortably of pensionable age. Relieved, he sat down.
The train trundled through drab suburbia, dominated by a seemingly unending chain of terraced houses. The little boy, though, was more vocal in his appreciation and was constantly tearing his dad away from his newspaper.
‘Daddy what’s on top of that house?’
‘It’s a chimney.’
‘What’s a chimney for, Daddy?’
‘It’s to let smoke out.’
‘Where does the smoke come from, Daddy?’
And so it went on, with almost no respite. And at no point did the man look tired or annoyed with his son, or shout at him, or tell him to be quiet. Holding his son gently, the father readjusted the boy’s glasses as he pointed to something else. Imtiaz wanted to cry. He was never the boy in such a scene, and he knew he’d never be the father either. He looked away, feeling like he was violating the beauty of it all, merely by watching. I’m not a freak, I know I’m not – I’m just in need of some company.
18
Everyone’s adjourned to the living room, apart from Aunty, who has returned to what I guess is her spiritual home in the kitchen. Uncle is by himself on a three-seater sofa, which rests up against the length of the room. Pasha is opposite by the TV in the corner and me and Aadam are on a two-seater, just in front of the bay windows. A large coffee table dominates the centre – No Man’s Land. Uncle, Aadam and Pasha start chatting.
‘It’s been a long time. What are you doing these days? Is the money good?’
It’s a set-piece affair and pretty boring stuff but I still want to join in, only I can’t think of anything to say. Aadam pats my knee. Somehow we’re sitting right up against each other. It’s like the sides of our thighs, arms and shoulders have been super-glued together, no doubt ‘cause I’ve shuffled up closer and closer. Why am I feeling so vulnerable? I don’t like this. I really don’t like being this needy; not even with Aadam. Especially with Aadam. His love, it’s ... I just need room to breathe. I don’t like being disarmed.
I’m starting to resent having to make an effort, on today of all days. I mean, it’s just wrong. And there’s more to come – Aadam’s parents, his brother Salman and his own family will all be on their way. And Pasha has a brother, too, I think. Aadam did tell me his name but I can’t remember. He came to our wedding, apparently. Bit of a weirdo, so they say. Happy families, eh?
Ebb and flow, ebb and flow. I wish I was by the seaside, right now. Nadi ki nare. I could watch waves lapping a shoreline forever. Sometimes you see God when you least expect it. I said that to Martin once and he gave me the strangest look, like he suddenly didn’t know who I was. And he was right. We’d gone to Bournemouth after our finals; a week of sun, sea and ... yeah ... But in truth, the end for us had been building for a year, since I went home the summer before and my granny died. I hadn’t seen her since I was a little girl and in truth she didn’t even exist for me, but through her death we reconnected.
Me and Martin got together midway through our first year and stayed together until right at the end – u
ntil I saw God on Bournemouth beach. I didn’t go looking for Him, honest. But I couldn’t deny Him any longer. Don’t get me wrong – I didn’t go ‘hallelujah!’ or some Muslim equivalent and pick up a tambourine. I can’t stomach religious people. Virtually all of them: dry, sterile, joyless drones going through the motions of some superstitious ritual. Ask any of them ‘why?’ and they’ll look at you like you’re disadvantaged, or just plain evil. At uni there were only two groups who I avoided – the Muslims and the Asians, especially the Indians. I loved the British. I loved their attitude, their joie de vivre. I found them so open, so free. It was easy to leave all that Asian crap behind. God, it’s like it was just yesterday. Twenty was just the best age to be. It was so intoxicating, having your whole life stretched out in front. I remember everything: being in a club and surrounded by sound, lights, glow and sweat; your head spinning, your body spinning, your heart spinning. Wine, and being horny. I loved getting ready for a night out and feeling like I could crush the world. For a time, no stranger looked me straight in the eye: women turned away in envy and men were scrambled by lust. They say that a woman has nine-tenths of desire. I’ve never found a man who could keep up, least of all Aadam...
Dear Infidel Page 10