Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  This is far from ideal. Dad’s sorted with his telly, but what about me? I consider my options: all that comes to mind is going into the kitchen but I’m not convinced. It’s gonna take some serious effort to get out of this seat. Thankfully Pasha provides a welcome distraction as he enters briskly, carrying a stack of plates. But just then Salman’s little boy runs in and tears past him, shrieking all excitedly. He knocks Pasha’s hip and elbow as he screams through, his little arms all over the place. Pasha has to quickly readjust to secure his cargo and in doing so he pretty much saves Eid. I shit you not – I swear by everything that I know about my father that if that crockery had slipped from his hands and fallen, or hit the edge of the coffee table and chipped it, he’d have gone nuts. The fucker would have freaked. Imtiaz, why are there crumbs on my carpet? Pasha, what are these stains? We were pure petrified of him. My abiding memory of growing up in this house is of mum, me and Pasha forever tip-toeing around his moods. We tidied up like possessed people. Now Aadam appears and young Taimur starts running round the coffee table. Aadam’s growling and trying to make like some ogre-type character, and the boy is going pure mental. He takes a step towards Taimur who shrieks again, but whilst the act’s working on the boy, I can’t help but chuckle to myself: he’s just too skinny to make it work. Aadam takes another Frankenstein step and the boy simply cannot contain himself; he jumps up onto the sofa next to my father, grabbing his jumper by the shoulder. I tell you though, it’s good to see the little lad all lively again. I heard what went on just before I got here. Boy, am I glad I missed that. My father sees none of the wider context, though, and flinches, and I know exactly why – ’cause he doesn’t like this sort of play. Play where nice sofas get jumped up and down on, and during which plates and the like could get broken. The barely ten-stone Aadam takes another stiff stride and Taimur pulls more tightly at my father’s jumper as he tries to squeeze in behind. My old man tries to shake him off but the boy is oblivious. Now this is interesting. Poor daddy is now stony faced and his frustrated eyes catch mine for the briefest flicker; I give him another wink. No smile from him this time, though – he just looks straight back down. Not so full of festive cheer now, eh? What’s upset you, Daddy Dear? The little boy jumping up and down on your nice sofa? Him pulling the stitching on your jumper? It looks new, that does. I’ve certainly not seen it before. I allow myself a luxurious stretch before sitting up straight, eager to see how this is going to play out. And look! Yes! There’s a faint smudge where the boy has been pawing at the jumper with his greasy mitts. The little bugger, eh? He must have been eating chocolate and he’s not washed his hands! No son of yours would have been so careless, huh? A brown smudge on your nice new cream jumper. Aadam takes another stride towards the now-delirious Taimur who, in his desperation to squeeze in behind my father, elbows him in the side of the face. Suddenly he grabs the boy firmly and for a second I’m sure he’s gonna whack him. He’s probably sure he’s gonna whack him, too, but he comes to his senses just in time.

  ‘Aadam – stop fooling around!’ my father orders sharply, and he plonks the boy down beside him. And, just like that, it’s over. The boy looks relieved – saved, even – and Aadam acknowledges that his tomfoolery was misplaced. Meanwhile, Pasha places the pile of crockery down and begins whipping Aadam with a tea towel. He yelps and everyone laughs, including my old man. I feel short changed.

  I’m thirsty. It’s my nerves, no doubt, but I feel the need to be holding a cup of something. I’d love some herbal tea right now but I doubt my mum’s got any. Pasha’s gone back to the kitchen and Aadam’s disappeared with the young’un, and so it’s back to just me and the Old Man. God, this is dire. I look around for another distraction, anything, but no one else comes in and nothing happens. I turn back to my father, quietly watching TV. He looks pretty pathetic, I have to say. Actually, most people do, watching telly alone – gormless, at best. He flicks channels for a bit before settling on some American sitcom which he doesn’t seem all that interested in. Crap telly pisses him off more than it does most people. I think he’s forgotten that I’m still in the room. I’m now watching him like some fly on the wall. Despite myself, I feel hurt. I wonder what a fly on my wall would have made of what I was watching last night. God, I hate myself. I get up to get that drink.

  I enter the kitchen and all conversation stops. I mean, it’s just for a second – less than that, even – but everyone has to readjust to my presence. It’s as if I’m some walking contaminant, polluting the space around me. Everyone is in here apart from Salman and his folks, who are upstairs praying, I guess. Aadam is at one end of the kitchen table with the kids and Pasha is at the other, ladling soup into bowls. My mum, Kahina and Nazneen were by the stove, but no sooner had I entered than the girls moved away. I’m a fucking dispersant.

  They both give us this stock weak smile and Nazneen says, mouse-like, ‘You all right, Imtiaz?’ but it’s more of a nervous tick than a question. I am the anti-Midas – everything I touch turns to shit.

  ‘Do you want something, Beta?’ says my mum, and she comes up to us and rubs my back. I stand still and let her dispense her affection but frankly I’m more comfortable with the girls’ revulsion.

  ‘Do you have any herbal teas?’ I ask, hoping she’ll now stop touching me.

  ‘I do,’ she says, to my surprise, and moves towards the cupboards. ‘Your father buys this peppermint chai.’ She takes it out and holds it up but I’m not persuaded.

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s OK. I’ll just have some warm water.’

  ‘Isn’t that what old people drink?’ pipes up Aadam. I try and think of some quick riposte but nothing comes to mind. He’s probably right anyway, and that makes me more uneasy. I glance over at Pasha who looks busy counting bowls, but he’s over-doing it; he’s deliberately avoiding me and I don’t know why. I catch Nazneen shoot Aadam a look that says you shouldn’t make fun of the spasmo like that. I just pick up the kettle and start filling it. With my gaze locked onto the pouring water, I think of Nazneen. Now, that’s an attractive girl. Objectively so, but I personally wouldn’t go for her type. Isn’t that weird? I think my buttons only get pressed now by 2D tarts rather than anything or anyone real. Plus she’s Asian. I don’t think I’ve ever been turned on by an Asian girl. Some of these modern Indian actresses are really beautiful; I’ve seen a couple of films. But where is demure Asian beauty compared to English girls’ brazenness? I only go for dirty white chicks, like in last night’s film. Feeding disease on her hands and knees. In this satellite town she takes me down ... Water pours out of the full kettle, the rushing water hitting the sink. I rapidly twist the tap five, six times, until it’s off. I stand for a second, pressing my sweaty palm against my feverish brow. God, how do I stop this? This day is not getting any easier.

  Finally we’re eating. Me Old Man’s seated where he’s been pretty much firmly rooted for the past thirty-five years, and everyone else has found some space dotted around – on the sofas, the chairs and even on the floor. I’m sitting across the coffee table, where I was previously, and Pasha’s next to me. Mum and young Taimur are on the three-seater with my father. I must say, that boy’s got a lovely, bright face – full of joy. I think he must be relishing us all eating together and him not being separated from the adults. Husnain Uncle and Bilqis Aunty are on the two-seater in front of the bay windows, with Aadam and Nazneen on the floor right in front of them. Meanwhile, Salman, Kahina and Aaliyah make up the cutest trio on the floor, pretty much in front of me. Little Aaliyah looks up, still cautiously taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. I catch her staring at Pasha next to me with as grave an expression as a three-year-old can have. I click my fingers and give her a big smile but her sombre little face doesn’t lift. She seems unimpressed by my efforts and soon switches back to simply staring at my brother. Only Husnain Uncle, who now waves and calls out her name, elicits a smile. She happily waves back to her granddad but gives no indication that she’ll go to him. I guess there’s no way she’s
moving from her daddy’s lap right now.

  First up was leek and potato soup. My father had looked at it suspiciously but, to his surprise (and, I have to say, mine too), it turned out to be damn good. A perfect starter for a cold day. Mum’s ears were pricked up for all the satisfied ooohs and aaahs that came generously from all around. She looked really, really happy. And I felt happy for her. Next came a golden-coloured sweet dish made of carrots, followed by samosas and other savouries. After that, stomachs were patted, breaks taken and legs stretched in preparation for the biryani; the main course. Jokes were cracked and laughter rang around the room as tales of old were retold.

  ‘Remember when we went to Leicester for the first time in ’73, and we got lost on the way up?’ recalls my father.

  ‘Acha, and we stopped off at that service station to ask the way,’ Aunty adds. Everyone knows what’s coming next, like when watching a classic comedy.

  ‘Yeah, and we asked the lady, “are we heading the right way for Lesester?” And she looks at us like we’re mad, so we repeat, “Lesester”. It took ages for her to work out that we meant Leicester, and for us to realise that the place was pronounced Lester, and not Lesester!’ Everyone bursts out laughing. Taimur and Aaliyah titter too, on seeing all the grown-ups having so much fun.

  ‘Bloody English language,’ splutters Uncle through a coughing fit. He’d been taking a sip of something as the punchline was delivered and some of it had gone down the wrong track. He’s patting his chest and trying to calm down, but the giggles are still bubbling up. ‘Why the hell do they spell it “Leicester”?’

  ‘Too right!’ booms my Old Man in agreement. ‘It’s not as if we didn’t have enough to cope with when we first arrived.’

  ‘You know, I had the same problem,’ Kahina adds, ‘but Salman really helped me.’ The proud husband pecks his wife on the cheek, making sure not to tip the plate resting on his outstretched legs. The others look on adoringly as Aaliyah plays with the food on her mummy’s lap.

  ‘You know, I can remember that trip,’ begins Salman. ‘In fact, it’s just about my first memory. How old was I then, Mum?’

  ‘Oh, you must have been four or five,’ says Aunty, a little unsure.

  ‘No, you were five,’ says Uncle. ‘I remember it well. You had just had your birthday. Pasha, you were there too,’ he adds, drawing a nod but no comment from my brother. ‘And Imtiaz, you were just a baby then. You couldn’t even have had your first birthday.’

  Everyone now flits a look at me. Bugger. I wasn’t expecting that. I can’t think of anything to add to the conversation, so I too just nod. It occurs to me how irrelevant me and Pasha are to this gathering. I wonder if he’s thinking the same.

  ‘Ooh, Imtiaz!’ cooes Bilqis Aunty all of a sudden, her hands clasped for emphasis. ‘You were such a cute baby.’ She looks at me with beaming eyes before seeing the irony in what she’s just said. There’s now total silence and I’m barely able to breathe.

  ‘Hey!’ exclaims Pasha, clapping his hands twice. ‘Let’s get that biryani!’ And he jumps up and ushers Mum to do the same, and the two of them head off to the kitchen. More approvals are aired and the background hum returns. Thank you, Pasha. Thank you, Bhai. I watch Nazneen play with some crusty bits on her plate whilst Aadam pats her stomach. I’m so far away from my dreams.

  Soon we are eating again, all appetites having been restored at the first smell of the royal dish.

  ‘Wah, Aunty, this is magnificent. Really.’ The praise finds echoes once more and Mum accepts it all graciously. Her week-long efforts have all been worthwhile and I can see she’s feeling wonderful. I wish I could have brought her more joy.

  ‘Ramazan was tough this year, though,’ says Salman to the floor, by way of starting a new conversation.

  ‘Too right, bro,’ agrees Aadam. ‘It gets harder every year.’

  ‘Oh come on guys, it’s not that bad,’ says Nazneen. ‘I told my boss, all my workmates knew – it really wasn’t an issue. I missed going to the gym and a few other things, but Ramazan has its own rhythm. You’ve got to get into it.’

  Amazing. I never took that girl as the religious type. Neither Aadam nor Salman comes back with anything and no one else offers up any other Ramazan-related experiences. The thread is prematurely cut.

  ‘You know, I spoke to my sister this morning, in Karachi,’ Uncle mentions cheerily.

  ‘Really?’ asks Salman. ‘When was that?’

  ‘You were still at the masjid, son,’ he explains. ‘You know I haven’t gone back in a long time now. It’s high time. See Karachi again.’

  ‘That’s a great idea, Dad,’ says Aadam.

  ‘It’s amazing, you know,’ pipes up Pasha. ‘I’ve grown up in the shadow of that country and yet I’ve only been once, when I was really young. You should have taken us more often, Dad.’ Pasha looks across to our father, whose head is down with his focus on his food. He’s chewing rapidly and I can hear his signature clomp clomp quite clearly. For some reason the food in his mouth has never reached his back teeth, and so they’ve always just clanked together to produce a dull sound. Clomp clomp clomp. It used to drive me and Pasha mad when we were kids; it was our own little joke. I smile and Pasha turns to me, also smiling. His face lifts and his eyes dance as they hold mine. He pats my knee gently and leaves his hand there. I feel alive.

  Daddy Dear finally speaks without looking up from his plate: ‘I brought you here to become an Englishman, son; not a Pakistani. Not even I’m a Pakistani any more.’ He continues eating. The comment detonates around the room whilst Daddy innocently sucks on a bone. No one is quite sure how to follow that up. Pasha eventually changes tack.

  ‘You know, Uncle, if you decide to go, let me know. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Sure, Beta. Sure, son,’ he assures with a sage nod.

  ‘I’d just like to say,’ begins our father, finally making eye contact. ‘It’s wonderful to be surrounded by my family today.’ Briefly, he turns to everyone as he completes his little speech. ‘Eid Mubarak, all. Eid Mubarak.’ We all reciprocate in chorus and I see Dad kiss Mum in what is an unexpected show of affection. Clearly surprised too, Mum nevertheless responds positively to her husband’s advance. Affection is infectious and soon Uncle and Aunty and Aadam and Nazneen, are also exchanging hugs and kisses. Knowing that we are somewhat out of the loop here, Pasha and I exchange pained, forced smiles. He removes his hand from my knee. Salman looks towards his son and pats his lap, at which point Taimur springs up from the sofa and darts towards his father. Husnain Uncle looks on contentedly as his firstborn and his family reaffirm their love for each other. These sorts of riches you just cannot buy.

  23

  That was a really nice dinner. Dear Arwa Aunty looks across and smiles and I smile back. Bless her. She looks so thrilled. She’s a lovely, simple woman – a homemaker. Homemaker. You don’t hear that word so often any more.

  Aadam’s rifling through some scraps on my plate, seeing if there’s anything worth pilfering. I tap his hand to gently berate but he ploughs on with his explorations. Watching on, Aunty beams more widely still and I know what she’s thinking. Aah, such a lovely couple, but I’m getting tired of this show now. I know Aadam’s loving it – all this, this validation – but if it was just me and him, at home, I wouldn’t be getting the same attention. He’s not even doing it deliberately, but there’s a performance going on here and I’m not sure I want to continue acting. I need attention, affection and passion. And Aadam needs to know that we’re on the best Gas Payment Plan. No. I’m being unfair. I glance across. My hubby’s so happy, chatting animatedly to his dad and uncle. I feel all warm, seeing him like this. He’s not boring. He used to have a lot more to give but he expends so much just staying afloat.

  I should be like Aunty: a homemaker, making lots of nice food for everyone to enjoy. Like my friend, Nikki, with her chubby little Charlie and a happy hubby to make a home for. I have half of that already and Aadam would love it if I fell pregnant. I could b
ecome like my grandma: a matriarch. Like Mary, daughter of Imran, wife of Yousuf and mother of Jesus Christ. That’s half the problem in this country: men have forgotten how to be men and women have forgotten how to be women. I should be more satisfied. What’s wrong with me? But inside, deep inside, I want someone to spill blood, just for my pleasure.

  ‘I am not a number, I am a free man!’ screams Martin, with arms aloft and head thrown skyward. The sun beats down, bleached-white and unimpressed; the parched red Colorado earth continues to bake. He collapses in mock exhaustion, prompting Nazneen to rush in, clapping excitedly.

  ‘That was great, Martin! You should try out for Drama Soc. next year.’

  ‘Thank you, Number Two,’ he replies tersely, still in character.

  ‘OK, OK Number Six,’ she obliges with a sigh. She holds out a hand, encouraging him to stand. He takes it but pulls her down instead, making her yelp as she tumbles onto his chest.

  ‘Come on, let’s go. We can rest at the top,’ she suggests, playing with the buttons on his polo shirt. Martin surveys the remainder of their route: a winding path snaking around this pancake basin, taking them up to the Trading Post – the crest of a colossal sandstone fissure, demarcating nothing less than World’s End.

  Winding up an increasingly steep grade, the approach becomes ever more stark. To the right the vista is beautiful and familiar: valleys and meadows, low shrubbery and tall evergreens; the occasional bird flying to or fro its nest. But to the left: an endless barren crust, interrupted only by red sandstone boils. Layered in variegated shades, the pillars point with crooked fingers, accusing the intense blue Colorado sky of some unknown crime. Nazneen looks down with relief, glad to be out of the basin. A deafening silence hung in that amphitheatre, challenged only by echoes from the Ancients – along the trails carved out by the Pioneers, at the sacred boulders around which Native Americans once prayed, and inside cliff dwellings where prehistoric man sought shelter. She stands on a precipice, with nothing separating her from a two-hundred-foot fall. Intermittently, a jutting rock-face or a solitary tree guards the path’s edge, but mostly there is nothing. Just a vertical drop into an alien oblivion.