Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  ‘You know one thing I like about halal butchers?’

  Salman braced himself, not knowing how many more cute comments he’d silently absorb.

  ‘You see real meat, real carcasses. There’s no squeamishness.’

  Salman relaxed and laughed. Pasha had riled him constantly today, but he’d also been funny and warm. He didn’t have to come out to him after he’d slapped Taimur – he’d not forget that. He remembered the two of them making their way home from school on buses just like this. It seemed like yesterday. It seemed like another life.

  ‘Aye. Lamb comes from lambs, not some plastics factory in New Zealand,’ said Aadam.

  ‘Wah! Very cute,’ applauded Pasha, and the two high-fived.

  ‘So will you be rustling up some exotic dishes?’ asked Imtiaz of his brother, gesturing at his new utensils.

  ‘Oh, I might well take these babies out for a test drive,’ he remarked lightly, clearly in high spirits. He removed the tawa from its bag and held it up, rotating it by the handle. ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Cast iron. I miss eating rotis. Naan bread is fine, but there’s nothing like rotis. And I can now make my own!’

  ‘So invite us all up once you’ve perfected them. We should be the first to sample your handiwork.’

  Pasha was taken aback by Salman’s suggestion. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Salman’s gentle smile assured him that he hadn’t misunderstood.

  ‘You boys can expect a call from me within a month, then!’ And with that Pasha turned to his brother.

  ‘You’ll come too, right?’

  ‘Sure, Bhai, count me in.’

  27

  I’m bored. Aadam’s not back yet. The boys have been gone for ages. The others are watching telly, the kids are getting ratty and Kahina’s praying. Again. I tried joining them, all of them. But I was no good at reminiscing, playing It or talking about cooking and kids. I’m a damn spare part here. I mean, why bring me along, huh? Did I want to come? Was this my idea? It’s always about him. He pretends to be all modern, that everything’s shared, that we work as a team – but it’s rubbish, really. In the end it’s his call and I have to go along with it.

  I go into the kitchen to see if there’s anything to do, just to pass the time. I was playing racing cars with Taimur five minutes ago. Did Aadam not think to take me along? He didn’t even ask. I’m like some porcelain doll – he takes me out to impress the guests and then stuffs me back in the cupboard. I’m bored. I’m not used to this, being treated like some show piece. I want to be adored. I want to be adored. Oh, Martin.

  The sun is no longer visible up in the Colorado sky, now but a sheer veil on the day, set off by a soft peach glow. But as she gazes up into infinity, it looks as if a wounded sun has been staggering all over the heavens, leaving a blood trail. Several gaping wounds puncture the dim glow, clear evidence of the crime committed. She pays homage to the martyred, anointing herself under a blood-red sky. And the alien landscape lies stretched out below, an unleavened red crust opened up repeatedly by those mighty sandstone eruptions. The sheer expanse. Nothing else. Nothing. She looks up again and the sky seems lower, darker. She snatches her breath, scared. And those stone Centurions, guarding since the dawn of time; and this descending red pall, smothering her, above and below.

  ‘You OK?’

  Nazneen jumps on hearing Martin, a voice outside of the Apocalypse she was witnessing. His hand is on her shoulder and she snaps towards him, confused and frightened. He lays a hand on her cheek, softly. ‘This place is just awesome, no?’

  ‘Yeah – and a little freaky too!’ she adds with a nervous giggle. A few loose strands of hair dance across her face, surfing on a small breeze. He patiently collects them, smoothing them back into place.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he repeats a little louder, staring with concern. She relaxes and smiles, taking hold of his outstretched arm.

  A group nearby relax around a small fire, sipping liquor, listening to soft music and chatting quietly. Some crackling raises hearty cheer and a few raise a friendly hand as Martin and Nazneen pass by. The glow from the fire soon passes and they find themselves staring into a black void – the light in the sky has been snuffed out. Nazneen instinctively stops, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and she turns back to the wicked red flames, now dancing with naked abandon. Sensing her unease, Martin pulls her closer, and with his arm around her they slowly walk away. She looks up at him, open delight on her smiley face. She’s just so happy. She snuggles up, sheltering under him as they meander down a smooth incline, just in from World’s End. Meanwhile, folk rhythms continue, giving the night comfort. Martin starts singing, serenading her, letting the music still nearby dominate, but as they walk away he becomes more animated, clicking fingers to maintain the beat. He stops, abruptly, once the music is out of range. He grabs her face, lit up now only by moonlight. They stand alone and in complete silence, but for Martin’s heavy breathing.

  I’d give this whole world,

  just to dream with you, under these stars.

  ‘Cause they’ll be here tomorrow,

  But we will never come back.

  Silence. Just the dull silence of blackness, filling empty space. Nazneen’s head is locked in his hands and his tight grip pulls her up, forcing her onto tiptoes. He holds her eyes, his expression somewhere between pained and disturbed. Suddenly he kisses her, but he devours her face with such haste it’s closer to being licked by a dog. He grabs her by the shoulders and starts driving her backwards, ramming her into a jutting rock face. She screams and he abruptly lets go, panting heavily. She moves back against the support, instinctively lying down across its broad surface.

  ‘What did you scream for?’ he snaps, looking back up the path nervously. He sees no one.

  ‘What...what are you doing, Martin?’

  Her face is barely visible but he can make out a terror etched there.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispers. ‘I want you.’ He takes one step forward and then stops, allowing her to get comfortable with his proximity again. Standing over her now he reaches out, deliberately leaving his arm hovering for her to breach the gap. She sees his quivering hand, opened, waiting for her touch. ‘I need you...’ She takes his hand and places it on her chest, the centre of his palm over her solar plexus. He steps in, his fractured, heavy breathing still the only sound, but despite himself, somehow, he keeps his hand still, pressing down on just the one spot. She props herself up a little, finding easy purchase on the gently sloping rock face; Martin inches forwards to stay connected. She leans in and kisses him and a current shoots through on the circuit completing. He bolts onto the surface and forces her right back, and on all fours considers his prey menacingly. Nazneen touches his face, trying to take some of the heat out of his fever but it’s no good. He descends onto her to make the kill. Ripping her t-shirt upwards he buries his face in her stomach, smothering his mouth, nose, forehead and cheeks over her smooth, soft belly. Securing her centre, he works outwards both ways, biting flesh, pacifying limbs, tearing away clothing. She opens her eyes and looks skywards, a naked innocent splayed out on a sacrificial altar. He touches her, igniting delicate nerve endings, making calm waters stir. She shivers and covers her eyes, not wanting to watch the heavens watching her. Trickles flow and coalesce, each drop longing for the ocean. And the body of water builds, shaping slowly into a vortex. And he throws himself in, wanting only to die in this holy water. And she grips, pulling him; dragging him down, sinking him. He tries to resist but the current takes him instantly. He knows he’s helpless. She gazes up again. The sky has become a black velvet drape, speckled with a billion stars. Again, shame bites her. Those stars, observing everything, and she turns to avoid their censorious stare. But each movement of his – a torrent trapped in a storm, thrashing around in ever decreasing circles. The stars above join in the dance, at first swirling uniformly but then splintering into rival factions, competing for her attention. Nazneen faces the heavens squarely, surety replacing shame: this performance
, this kaleidoscope sky – it’s all for her. The beat becomes faster, faster still and the stars swoosh in a desperate frenzy, individual movements now blurring. She shuts her eyes and the vortex shatters, smashed apart under pressure. Her waters spill, overflow, and wash into his animal release. He collapses onto her, a dead weight. The kaleidoscope stops spinning and she soon feels a breeze, trespassing on her naked limbs. She folds arms around his lifeless body and in silence offers thanks. Today the gods have borne witness, on this, her High Noon.

  Aaliyah was crying. She’d woken up suddenly after drifting off to sleep and Kahina thought the unfamiliar surroundings had frightened her. Nazneen was sitting alone in the kitchen before Kahina had burst in with babe in arms. And the kid’s bawling wasn’t stopping and Kahina kept talking in a rush, despite Nazneen not responding with even a word. And the worried mother touched her daughter’s forehead before announcing that she thought she was getting a temperature. Expressionless, emotionless, wordless, Nazneen watched on. And Kahina came swiftly round and dumped the little girl in Nazneen’s arms before returning with haste to the sink. She blathered on. Warm drinks, warm wraps, swaddles, blankets, hot water bottles. Nazneen gazed at the small child and held her out, as if to inspect. She observed the little girl’s bawling intensify as she writhed in her arms, straining to get away from the stranger and call out to her mum.

  28

  ‘Pasha, Imtiaz, guess what? It’s an Eid Special on Zee TV tonight – they’re showing Pakeezah!’ The four boys were in the kitchen, sipping tea and warming up. It was just past seven o’clock when Zakir burst in, heralding the good news. Pakeezah – Pure of Heart. The word lingered in the air, like dried dandelion on a summer breeze. The film was a masterpiece, a story about a tragedienne, a courtesan in Muslim Lucknow at the turn of the last century. Instantly they recalled: the swirling romanticism, the intoxicating songs and dance. Happier, simpler days.

  ‘Wow,’ whimpered Pasha. ‘I loved that film.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said Imtiaz, finally sounding like he was home. ‘The music though, Bhai, the music – some of those songs will live forever.’

  ‘Yaar,’ continued Zakir to his boys. ‘Your mother has a CD of the songs. It’s right here, I think.’ And he slid open a drawer underneath the worktop, picking up a batch of discs. And there it was: Pakeezah – Songs from the Movie. He handed it to Imtiaz who took it reverentially.

  ‘Do you remember that song, Chalte Chalte?’ asked Aadam, joining in.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Pasha. ‘Look at the cover. Look ... She’s about to sing that very song.’ And there she was, Meena Kumari, dressed in pink. A sheer veil was covering her face and she was dancing. And the song? An ode to her mysterious lover: Chalte Chalte.

  ‘I can’t watch that film,’ declared Salman.

  ‘What? Why not? It was one of our favourites!’ said Pasha.

  ‘Come on, bro,’ encouraged Aadam. ‘I reckon Mum and Dad still have a tape of it somewhere. We all loved that one.’

  ‘Look, I’m not interested, OK? You all go ahead.’ He walked away, taking a seat by the breakfast table.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Nazneen. ‘It’s just some old film.’

  ‘Yeah, a dumb, glossy story about a prostitute. Pretty Woman for Indians. It’s hardly inspiring, is it? And besides, I’m not stopping you all from watching. Go ahead!’ He sat alone and in relative darkness, frozen like prey in the predator’s range.

  Imtiaz broke the rising tension.

  ‘Please, Salman. Why don’t we all just go and watch it, eh? Tastes change. Maybe it’ll be showing its age now. But it was part of our youth, right? What do you say?’

  Salman looked up, convinced that the hub around Imtiaz had clustered a little tighter. Five pairs of eyes were on him. Don’t spoil this, please, implored one. What’s wrong with you, you cunt? swore another. A third just wore a look of mild contempt. He found that the most offensive.

  ‘You know, you all surprise me. You talk big about Islam and politics, and yet you carry on in the same ways.’

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’ said Pasha. A giggle, however, crept into his blast, taking the edge off his indignation. Aadam, too, began to smirk.

  Sensing the temperature getting too hot, Zakir did what he always did and got out. Imtiaz, though, went for one last throw of the dice.

  ‘Look, we’ve had a lovely day. I’ve had a lovely day. Let’s not spoil it now, eh? It doesn’t matter about Pakeezah – it’s only a film.’

  ‘Oh no,’ snorted Salman. ‘It’s much more than that.’

  ‘Actually, he’s right.’ Pasha’s heavy voice was pregnant with intent and the two exchanged looks of unguarded malevolence. Imtiaz walked out.

  ‘You know, Pasha, you’re a hypocrite.’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Well, you talk about possible bombings on the Underground and you question Islam because of Bin Laden, but why not the other way round?’

  ‘Bhai, we were talking about watching a Bollywood flick, that was all,’ said Aadam, his face heavy with disappointment. Standing behind Nazneen he held her tightly across the shoulders.

  ‘Bollywood Flick! How can you enjoy Indian culture? Don’t you watch the news? Haven’t you seen what those Hindus have done to our brothers and sisters in Gujarat?’

  Looks of bewilderment were exchanged as Salman’s question hung in the air.

  ‘You’re talking about Muslim pogroms in India, right?’ asked Aadam.

  Salman nodded weakly, his face turned away. Pasha began laughing – a mocking, bellicose, sinister laugh.

  ‘So that’s what this is about? You don’t like Hindus because of Hindu-Muslim violence and so you don’t want to watch a Hindi film? Jesus Christ.’ He spat the Lord’s name in vain, not knowing what else to say. Nazneen stepped in.

  ‘But Salman, don’t you get it? Hindi cinema, it’s part of this amazing synthesis. It flourished once – still does over there, in part. Some of India’s biggest stars are Muslim. At least they’re clinging onto being secular; we gave it up after five minutes.’

  ‘You’re right, honey,’ said Aadam, ‘but he’s got a point – that Gujarat violence wasn’t the work of fringe lunatics. Those Hindu mobs were led by the rich and educated: doctors roamed the streets with government-supplied printouts of Muslim addresses. No wonder it’s left such a bad taste in his mouth.’ Nazneen prised herself out of Aadam’s arms and walked over to the sink. An emboldened Salman continued.

  ‘Our people are being humiliated over there. During the pogroms when they captured a Muslim, they’d taunt him by chanting Babur ki aulad or Aurangzeb ki aulad, before shoving tyres over him, dowsing him in petrol and setting him alight. And you want me to ignore all that and happily sit through a Bollywood flick?’

  ‘Aurangzeb was a cunt,’ said Aadam bluntly. ‘He humiliated Hindus. And anyway, whose shoes would you rather be in? An Indian Muslim’s or a Pakistani Hindu’s?’

  Pasha and Nazneen looked askance, clearly wondering just whose side of the debate Aadam was on.

  ‘You kids all right?’

  Everyone turned sharply. Bilqis and Arwa were standing by the door, Bilqis looking concerned and Arwa smiling mutely.

  ‘Zakir told us you kids were squabbling.’ She looked around firmly, demanding an answer. Awkward gazes fell to the floor.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum. We’re just talking,’ assured Aadam.

  ‘Well can’t it wait? The film’s started. Come over when you get bored of all this rubbish.’

  ‘OK Mum, we’ll be over soon,’ promised Nazneen. Bilqis didn’t look convinced but said no more, and the two of them returned.

  The kitchen door closed and Aadam began to giggle. ‘What were you saying?’

  No reply came until the silence caught Pasha’s attention. ‘Sorry, what’s that?’

  Nazneen, too, was now smirking. ‘You were about to make a point – sounded big...’

  ‘Oh, fuck it,’ interrupted Aadam. ‘Mum’s right. None of
this crap matters. It’s Eid, remember? Let’s go watch the film and stuff ourselves with chocolates. Salman?’ He stared with wide eyes, just daring his brother to let him down again.

  ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ said Pasha.

  ‘No, you’re pathetic,’ retorted Salman moronically, the insult clearly rattling him.

  Aadam closed his eyes, disappointment assaulting his soul. ‘Nothing is ever straightforward. But if we can’t even enjoy a Bollywood flick, then it really is all over.’

  ‘But why should I be understanding? All this talk about bombs going off in London. The day that happens we’ll all be ... everyone’ll hate us.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ said Pasha. ‘All the chiefs will go out of their way to differentiate between normal Muslims and the lunatics.’

  ‘Oh come on, please,’ cursed Aadam. ‘Forget the official line, huh? This ain’t Candid Camera. We can speak honestly. The day some mad, maverick Muslim walks onto a Tube with a bomb, we’re all fucked.’

  Nazneen scoffed derisively, blindsiding him.

  ‘Really? A lot of our friends are non-Muslim. None of them rejected you after 9/11. Aren’t you just being paranoid?’ A stung Aadam searched his wife’s face for clues but she just gazed back coldly.

  ‘It’s...it’s not that simple. Sure, no-one just blanked me, but all of a sudden they had questions – questions which weren’t there before.’

  ‘Well you can’t blame them for that. The men who took control of those planes and killed all those people, did so in the name of Islam. According to themselves at least. And all those trapped in the Twin Towers? They were just ordinary people – like you and me. They didn’t deserve to get caught up in all this stuff and lose their lives. It’s bloody disgusting.’

  ‘Of course it is. No one’s saying anything different. But why should I be made to feel guilty?’

  ‘Because you’re Muslim, that’s why. If a part of our house isn’t in order, it’s up to us to sort it out!’ She again held his gaze, her expressionless face jarring with her words. Alarm seeped into Aadam’s confusion. Why is she acting like this? She was fine just before we left home.