Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  ‘Come on, Aadam!’ beckoned Salman, a little impatiently.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ he blustered from upstairs. The four boys had decided to go out. There was no particular agenda; just a desire to grab some fresh air and walk around. Pasha’s idea. He stood by the opened front door with Salman and Imtiaz, ready for the off. Aadam, meanwhile, had gone upstairs to change.

  ‘You look fine. Why do you want to take your sherwani off?’ his brother had asked with annoyance as he’d scurried off.

  Aadam descended the stairs taking quick, light steps; Nazneen was close behind.

  ‘Here, put this on,’ she suggested, handing him a scarf. He looked flustered and took it quickly. Pasha looked on with a grin and read the slogan on Aadam’s t-shirt: There are 10 kinds of people in the world: those that understand binary, and those that don’t.

  Frigging geek, said his silent smirk. Aadam turned to his brother who was shaking his head in solemn disapproval. Jeans and a denim jacket. Wah! Salman would never consider changing out of his long robes. He looked like the chief of some International Jihadi Movement, Northolt Branch.

  ‘Right!’ stamped Aadam, shaking off all the negative attention. He returned the compliment by checking out Pasha, who looked every bit the slippery salesman: shiny belt holding up pleated trousers; linen shirt, top bottom undone. His polished shoes were a tan brown and screamed middle-aged! Apart from the shoes, though, it was all just a bit too flash for a man pushing forty. Pasha smiled his salesman’s smile and Aadam was reluctant to smile back, lest his teeth be taken for deposit. Instinctively, the pair play-fought as they staggered out of the front door, soon relaxing into arms around shoulders. Salman followed close behind, sniffing the air and looking like he meant business. Imtiaz brought up the rear. His baseball cap was back on and he was wearing his long, expansive coat under which to hide: he was the Summer Grinch. Nazneen joined Kahina by the door and together they watched their men.

  ‘Isn’t he the most beautiful, ugly man you’ve ever seen?’ Nazneen remarked joyfully.

  There was a definite chill in the air when they left, past four o’clock. 16th November 2004 was, indeed, a bleak day. And the light of the day was dying. Eid would soon be over. They walked briskly to generate warmth as much as anything, and within fifteen minutes they were in the Parade with all humanity teaming around. School kids were everywhere, looking nonchalant in their uniforms. As they passed the entrance to the Tube station they saw a Muslim man entering with a packed rucksack on his back.

  ‘There’s Britain’s first suicide bomber,’ Pasha stated devilishly.

  ‘You what?’ said a blindsided Salman.

  ‘Well, we’re constantly being told that it’s a matter of when and not if, for Al-Qaeda striking Britain, right? The Spanish and Australians have already been punished for siding with the Americans, so presumably it’ll be our turn next. So how would you feel?’ Salman looked thoughtful, like he was mulling over his options. Pasha continued. ‘Imagine seeing a woman on the telly, a woman who was on the same train – the same carriage, even – giving her personal testimony. The train was jam-packed. I nearly got on at the same entrance as him but it was impossible, so I moved along and a few minutes later I heard a scream of Allah-u-Akbar, then there was this huge bang, this explosion. The train came to a shuddering halt. The lights went out. I heard people screaming. There was lots of screaming. I fell down, someone fell on top of me. How would you feel?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’ Salman bristled. ‘That I’d be happy, that I’d be proud?’

  ‘Many would be,’ said Pasha. ‘Many Muslims would have emotions that could be described as “mixed”.’

  ‘No one’s gonna feel good about ordinary people losing their lives. You’re talking rubbish,’ said Aadam.

  ‘Really? 9/11 sparked off all kinds of impromptu street parties across the world, didn’t you know that? I’ve seen pictures of Arabs letting off rounds of ammo in celebration!’

  People were rushing in and out of the various stores and countless grocers, getting stuff for the evening and beyond.

  ‘Hang on,’ announced Salman. ‘I need to get some things. Anyone want to come?’ And with that Aadam joined him in a halal butcher’s whilst Pasha and Imtiaz hung back. Pasha rested up against the railings separating pavement from road, looking down the Parade. The headlights of passing vehicles were now mostly on. He struck a leisurely pose with arms outstretched, and next to him Imtiaz stood to attention. Two sassy young women came into view: all crinkly hair and prominent make-up, big round earrings and fags, handled with style. They stopped a few feet away, reading something in a newsagent’s window. One girl wore tight pink jeans, with the letters CHEEKY emblazoned across her behind.

  ‘Does that mean you’re a cheeky girl, or that you like cheeky boys?’ He threw the girls a big smile and Imtiaz looked aghast. Pasha ignored him and stayed smiling, cheekily, whilst the girls whispered.

  ‘You what?’ said Cheeky’s mate with a sneer.

  ‘You heard,’ snorted Pasha, undeterred, warming up nicely.

  ‘Give over – you’re old enough to be her dad!’

  And with that the two exchanged derisory looks and moved on. Cheeky said nothing throughout. Pasha was stunned and shot a look at his brother. His mute irrelevance provided some consolation.

  Salman and Aadam reappeared holding bulging plastic bags. They passed the Lahori Kebab House and Pasha insisted they go in even though no one wanted to eat. As a compromise they ordered lassis and made themselves welcome at a table for four, much to the chagrin of the head waiter.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ he asked pointedly on four occasions, receiving the same blunt response each time. Of course, what he was really saying was order something substantial or kindly fuck off, and eventually they took the hint and left.

  Night had ascended her celestial throne. Still people hustled and bustled, streaming in and out of shops, those lighted fronts like beacons.

  ‘Actually, I’d like to get a few things too,’ said a circumspect Pasha, belatedly wanting to spend some money.

  ‘What sort of things?’ asked Salman, business-like.

  ‘Stuff I can’t get up in Cheshire. Could I get a kadhai here? I’m after a proper iron one, no aluminium rubbish. And a tawa?’

  ‘Sure, you’ve come to the right place. You want to impress your missus, eh?’ Salman wore a weak smile and checked his watch. ‘Look, it’s getting late. I’ll come with you – I know where to get what around here. You two coming?’

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ Aadam said grudgingly.

  ‘Actually, I’m a bit tired,’ blurted out Imtiaz. ‘I might go into that café.’ He turned around and pointed. ‘Can you come get me on your way back?’

  ‘Sure,’ remarked Pasha, surprised at his brother taking a firm stance.

  ‘Look, on second thoughts I’ll hang back too,’ said Aadam. ‘Don’t be long – come and get us by six, OK?’

  Imtiaz clasped a mug of tea as if he could die without the immediate transfer of heat. His gaze was steadfastly downwards, deep into his mug. The café furniture reminded Aadam of school: the chairs were plastic and red; kids-toy red. He shuffled backwards and was mildly surprised that it wasn’t bolted to the floor. Two men – Tamils, thought Aadam – took up seats at the next table. Dishes of dhal and meat curry were placed down without ceremony, and soon they were tearing at rotis and dipping pieces into steaming bowls. Aadam felt a pang of hunger. He looked back at Imtiaz, who was still avoiding eye contact. Oh boy. He sugared his tea in consolation, pouring rather than tipping from a spouted jar.

  ‘I’m glad you spoke up back there. I didn’t feel like walking about any more either.’

  ‘Yeah,’ sighed Imtiaz, looking up cautiously. ‘I think we’d exhausted the pleasures of Northolt by then.’ He wore a reluctant smile. Aadam responded in kind and looked around for some cream; his tea was going to have to pack an extra punch.

  ‘You know one thing I regret?�
�� remarked Pasha, inspecting two wok-like utensils. ‘My Urdu is useless now.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Salman quizzically. ‘You’ve spoken well today. It sounded fine to me.’

  ‘Yeah, all right, of course I can still converse but I’m talking about proper Urdu. You know, language can really expand the mind. I’ve lost that “high” Urdu.’ Salman looked at his cousin. Despite himself, he was starting to feel a real connection. This Pasha, this 2004 Pasha, was so familiar and yet so strange. ‘Your father was really into classical Urdu, and poetry.’

  Salman put an arm around his cousin’s shoulder.

  ‘I know, Bhai, I know. I’m surprised you remember.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ remarked Pasha. ‘You should teach some of that to Taimur. We need to keep our culture alive.’

  ‘Why did you leave when we were all chatting earlier? You should have come back down.’ Aadam’s voice was soft, suggesting concern rather than anger, yet Imtiaz shifted with discomfort. ‘OK, look, forget it. I was just asking. I can’t remember when we were last together, that’s all.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’ Imtiaz made speculative eye contact.

  ‘Two years now.’

  ‘That’s ... great. Oh, and I did come back down but you guys looked engrossed in some big talk. Anyway, I went into the living room instead.’ His gaze dropped again and yes, scared. There was just no other word; the guy looked permanently fucking petrified.

  ‘To be honest, I’m more interested in his religious education. Urdu poetry can wait. I’ll enrol Taimur in an Islamic secondary school when the time comes.’

  Pasha bit his tongue as he paid for his kadhai. They left the shop and Salman began marching with unnecessary haste.

  ‘But why? Taimur and Aaliyah are growing up in London – it’s a fantastic opportunity.’

  ‘Really? You sound like a politician.’

  ‘Things are different now. They can be proud Muslims and proud Britishers too.’

  ‘Oh come on, whose glossy brochure have you been reading? You live up there in Cheshire. You have no idea what it’s like for us here.’

  ‘Maybe, but one thing’s for sure – if you build some closed-off world for your kids, they’ll fail in this country.’ Pasha stopped for emphasis but Salman shrugged and continued. He ploughed on silently and Pasha had to canter to catch up. ‘And anyway, what exactly is your issue? Do you want to protect them from others’ prejudice, or do you just not want them mixing with these kafirs?’

  ‘You know, I see Salman and Kahina all the time. Pasha I haven’t seen since my wedding. But I honestly can’t remember when the two of us last met. I still don’t get why you didn’t make more of an effort today.’

  Imtiaz sighed and swallowed hard, his prominent Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down. ‘Kahina’s really nice. Salman and her have two beautiful kids.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, man, join me in conversation!’ Imtiaz jumped. The Tamils turned around but Aadam ignored them. ‘You’re not a fucking cripple, OK? Stop acting like one.’

  ‘Not in a traditional sense, maybe.’

  Aadam waited for him to continue but he didn’t. ‘What’s wrong, for God’s sake? Why can’t you answer a simple frigging question?’

  ‘You know, you’re lucky.’

  ‘How’s that then?’

  ‘I ... I like Nazneen. You have a lovely wife.’

  ‘I know. So why don’t you get yourself a piece of the action?’

  Imtiaz contemplated. ‘What do you do, Aadam? I mean, for a living.’

  ‘I’m a programmer. Banking software. You?’

  ‘I work for the local council. I help run this Communities project.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I live in a one-bedroom flat. I’ve never lived with anyone else since leaving home. I’ve never had a girlfriend.’ His delivery was matter-of-fact and Aadam giggled nervously, waiting for a punchline.

  ‘When you say never...’

  ‘I used to cook: dinners for one. Have you ever done that? I used to make a real effort, just for myself. But I’m a ready-meals convert now.’

  Aadam swallowed hard. ‘Look, dude, just find yourself a wife. There’s someone out there for everyone.’

  ‘But I’m going to be thirty-five soon. I don’t know how ... to satisfy a woman.’ Aadam glanced at the wall clock, cursing its slow progress. ‘So what should I do? I used to lead a good life – a simple life, at least. Everything was in order. But it just got harder.’

  ‘You can’t beat yourself up for losing interest in dinners for one! Why didn’t you look for a wife before? I found Nazneen myself. Well, kind of stumbled across her, really, but Salman’s marriage was arranged, of sorts. Didn’t you have the urge earlier? Even just for sex?’

  ‘No...’ He gagged on the word. ‘No. I knew that everyone around me was pairing off. But I never felt the need. Not back then, anyway. I’d left home, I had a place of my own, a job – it was all fine. And for sex.’ Again he stalled.

  ‘What? You polished the woodwork?’ Aadam tittered before berating himself for the misplaced humour.

  ‘Have you ever ... You’ve watched porn before, right?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. There’s not a man who hasn’t.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what? Please, Imtiaz – no more being cryptic, huh?’

  ‘Did you like it? No, wait. Do you still watch it?’

  Aadam stared hard. He wondered what on earth had possessed him to hang back with this lunatic and not stay with the others. ‘Er, no,’ he stamped. ‘I’m happily married, thank you. But yeah, it was kind of fun. Guilty pleasure.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘No! Look, what is this? Why are you talking about porn now?’

  ‘It’s ... it’s all I think about.’

  Silence.

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’

  Imtiaz drained the last of his tea, like he wished the action would last a thousand years.

  ‘The others will be back soon – this is your chance. Say what you want. I’ll not judge you.’

  ‘What to say, Aadam? Please. There’s nothing else. Work, eating, sleeping – I just go through the motions. But porn ... it takes me to another place. I hate it. I hate myself, but there’s just nothing else.’

  Aadam was lost. There was just no point of reference. But this was nothing less than a confession; he couldn’t reject him now.

  ‘Porn isn’t damaging, Imtiaz. Not necessarily, anyway. The thing is you have no checks and balances. Look at you, man. You’ve got to turn this around.’

  ‘But that’s the thing. By the time I realised there was more than what I could see...’ He just couldn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘It’s never too late, Imtiaz. Never. No one expects you to go to a pub and start chatting up birds. We can help. The community can help.’

  ‘Aadam, I’m terrified. I know nothing about women, real women. I know nothing about real sex.’

  ‘You have to take a leap of faith. You don’t have the luxury of time now.’

  ‘You say others can help, but if the marriage is “arranged” it’s kind of a business transaction, right? I have to bring something to the table. I don’t know what I can offer.’

  ‘Oh Imtiaz, Bhai, tu kyaho gaya?’ Aadam rubbed his face, sadness spilling over confusion. ‘Do you know how amazing being with someone can be? Even afterwards, couples talk. Nothing fancy – just checking-in with each other, really. Often I’ll drift off to sleep like that. So tell me, how do you feel after a session on the Internet?’

  For a moment Imtiaz looked livid, ready to launch a tirade. But then he started crying. He tried to regain composure but failed and quickly buried his head in his arms. Strangely, he wasn’t even making any noise. Aadam looked on, nothing but a spectator. He looked around – those Tamils were gone and there was no one on the other side. Not that it mattered. Should he say something, hold him, offer him some water? He’d never seen a man cry like this before.
The seconds passed. Imtiaz stayed slumped, cradled in his own arms.

  ‘There they are,’ pointed out Salman, on entering the cafe. Imtiaz was smiling and gestured them over.

  ‘Did you get what you want?’

  ‘Yeah, sure did. This dude really knows his stuff!’ Pasha flashed a congratulatory smile and Salman acknowledged the compliment mutely.

  ‘Come, let’s go.’

  They began walking when Pasha saw a bus: an old-style red double-decker. It was slowing down, pulling up at a stop about thirty yards in front.

  ‘I thought they only have those in Central London now. For the tourists, and that.’

  ‘True,’ replied Aadam. ‘Maybe their main fleet is getting a wash or something,’ he added unconvincingly. Pasha knocked his shoulder and the pair tittered.

  ‘110. I think this one passes Arwa Masi’s.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah – you’re right.’

  And with that the four of them pelted towards the bus and scrambled on-board just in time. Imtiaz was last on and looked putout and out of breath.

  ‘Come on, Imtiaz, this is fun! When did you last ride an old-style Routemaster?’ chided his brother lightly. The four of them were bunched up by the entrance, waiting for those in front to take up seats.

  ‘Oh leave it out, Pasha, you don’t have to sell me a ride on a bus. It’s a very small thing.’ He was still catching his breath and was bent double, hands resting on knees.

  ‘Look, bro, if you can’t enjoy the little things then it really is all over.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked the West Indian conductor, his voice deep and gravelly.

  ‘Erm, same as him,’ said Pasha with a smile, pointing at Aadam in front. He was still holding the pole by the entrance and the conductor was using a manual machine to dispense tickets. The man wore a uniform, he had a hat on and there was a bag of change strapped to his waist. Tripping on the nostalgia, Pasha took his ticket and followed the others up the stairwell. It wasn’t that packed on the top deck – just one group of lads right at the back and a sprinkling of individuals here and there. Pasha gazed out of the window and watched the Parade ease out of sight. He turned around. Salman was inspecting a packet of diced lamb.