Dear Infidel

by Tamim Sadikali

  ‘Do you like Aadam Uncle’s present?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, Dad! It’s the best ever!’ he said, his small voice scaling octaves. ‘When I grow up, Daddy, I want to be a soldier!’ His eyes glistened and his cheeks shone with health.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because they have big muscles and big guns!’

  Salman laughed, his heart instantly filled with joy. But then a question.

  ‘And who will you fight for?’

  Taimur considered it, his little brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand, Daddy.’

  Salman said nothing – he just held his son. He kissed and tickled him and Taimur squealed with delight.

  ‘Daddy?’ asked Taimur after a while, now back on the floor and making adjustments to his battlefield.

  ‘Yes, Beta?’

  ‘Michael from school is having a birthday party on Saturday, round his house. Can I go?’ There was silence as Taimur continued tweaking, now bringing his Action Man into the equation. ‘Daddy?’ persisted Taimur.

  ‘Sure, son. Why not.’

  34

  Imtiaz sat with his mum. They were in the kitchen by the breakfast table and he was trying to comfort her. Arwa was wiping her nose with a scrunched-up tissue, her tears all spent. The evening had unravelled so fast – Pasha, Nazneen and Aadam all leaving abruptly, without any goodbyes. They’d heard raised voices when watching the film and Arwa was ready to go back in but Bilqis had suggested that they stay away.

  ‘They’ll get tired soon,’ she’d assured her sister. ‘Let’s enjoy the film, yes?’

  She had run outside to catch Pasha; to beg her son not to leave like this, but it was too late. By the time she had reached the pavement his car was hurtling down the road. Bilqis and the others had only just begun consoling her when they saw Nazneen leave – without Aadam. Husnain went into the kitchen to find Aadam half-crying and half-fighting with his brother, and before he could establish what had happened, Aadam, too, had left. Arwa’s special day didn’t so much finish as get aborted – it was simply flushed away.

  And here she was, alone with Imtiaz.

  ‘I’ll give Pasha a call tomorrow. It’ll be all right. He’ll be back down before you know it.’ Arwa didn’t answer but continued wiping away the last of her tears and mucus. ‘He wouldn’t have meant to upset you. He’ll be feeling really bad right now.’ His expression jarred with his words, being more diplomatic than emotional.

  ‘You boys have failed us, failed us as parents.’

  ‘Actually, it’s more the other way round. But never mind.’

  Arwa looked at her son, surprised but not hurt. She sniffed back some more.

  ‘You know, your father never supported me. I could see that things were going wrong but I couldn’t do anything by myself.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Imtiaz, sounding a little bored.

  ‘I’ve always loved my boys. I have a lot of love, a lot of pyar to give you both.’ She leant towards him, clearly seeking reciprocity.

  ‘I don’t want your pyar,’ he said, and with that he put his specs on and walked out.

  Before getting on the train, Imtiaz went into a petrol station; one combined with a small supermarket. He was cold and uncomfortable but once inside he relaxed, unbuttoning his coat and unfurling from his hunch. He didn’t particularly want anything but nevertheless he took his time, browsing the various shelves. There was so much in here – nappies, watermelons, fresh spinach and jam. Not that long ago it was novel to pick up a coffee and a paper with your fuel and now you could choose between Galia and Honeydew melons. It truly was fucking amazing. Imtiaz strode leisurely towards the freezer section, where he picked up some luxury ice cream. He was pretty sure he had some at home but it’d been a bloody long day and he deserved a treat. With small tub in hand he began his journey to the tills, making one final stop by the magazine section. A lifetime’s instinct made him look up towards the top shelf, but these days all the adult mags were sheathed in an opaque, plastic covering. His gaze fell to about halfway down, to the lads’ mags. Cover after cover featured openly lustful women. It still seemed so bold, this unleashed, raw, female sexuality. Where do they find them? Are these girls real? They were all striking some sort of pose and dressed in gear that was guaranteed to flick that switch. Imtiaz swallowed hard. There was a blonde girl – a tall, leggy fantasy of a woman. She was half-squatting and wearing nothing except elbow-length black leather gloves, knee-length black leather boots and black tassels over her nipples. And nothing else. She was looking at Imtiaz kind of menacingly, as she held the fingertips of one glove between her teeth, ready to rip it off. Imtiaz shivered. He looked around nervously before picking the magazine up. He held it unopened, reverentially, and could feel his heart smacking into his ribs.

  ‘It’s never too late,’ he remembered Kahina saying. ‘We can help you find someone.’ But this cover girl was looking so mean, so damn dirty. Someone has actually enjoyed this woman, he contemplated. Probably several men, maybe a dozen or more. Imtiaz felt dizzy as the thought scrambled his mind. He opened the magazine. Flicking impatiently from page to page he gorged on the pictures; there was so much flesh but he wanted more. Breasts were good, nipples were great and smooth legs, stomachs and arses were devoured with relish, but his appetite was just increasing. He bought the magazine and walked with haste to the train station. Making sure no one was in sight he went through it a second, third and fourth time, stoking his hunger until there was nothing else – just a meat feast.

  ‘It’s never too late.’ It is too late. What does she know? Go ahead, son. You deserve it.

  Imtiaz got off at Oxford Street before jogging down to Wardour Street, towards Soho. Soho – the word, the promise. Right now he wanted this so much. Despite the cover of night he could see everything clearly, as he still had his specs on. The start of Wardour Street was quiet and dark but West End life soon made its presence known: bustling cafés and swanky bars. He passed a pub and glanced into its warm hearth, catching a sliver of the glow therein. Gentle laughter, glasses clinking, soft conversation – he’d missed out on so much. Still walking briskly, he passed a woman standing outside some office building, having a fag. She was stamping her feet, trying to keep warm. She was clearly not comfortable but she wanted that fag more; Imtiaz knew how she felt.

  ‘Porn isn’t damaging, Imtiaz. Not necessarily, anyway. The trouble is you have no checks and balances.’

  Yeah, Yeah. You enjoy yourself. Everyone needs to cut loose every now and again. A couple walked past arm-in-arm, full of the goodness of life. There were lots of people swilling around now, heading in all directions. Everyone looked so young, even those clearly older than him.

  He took a right into Peter Street and finally he was there. Neon lights, winking at him. LOVELY SEXY GIRLS. Blues, pinks, reds and greens spoke their message, leaving him in no doubt – this was truth. He continued on and approached a small entrance. LOVELY YOUNG MODELS. Discreet pieces of cardboard informed him that heaven awaited, on the second and third floors. He stopped, transfixed by those little cardboard signs, and the promise of something lovely and something young. He was seeing frilly things; soft, velvety things. Itsy-bitsy things. He entered. The stairwell was putrid, the stench of urine strong. He continued upwards, past the first floor. And then he was there. The door to the second-floor flat was decorated: lots of glitter, lots of colourful little hearts, lots of promises. SLIM SEXY MODEL HERE TODAY. NO RUSH – GOOD TIME.

  It’s never too late. He hesitated for just a moment before pressing the doorbell. An ample-sized woman wearing bra and knickers opened the door – the advert says “slim”, but ... With hands on hips she gave a little wiggle and smiled generously.

  ‘Twenty for sex, twenty-five for French and sex,’ she stated casually. Bloody hell, that’s cheap. Imtiaz said nothing: he was just standing there, gawping.

  ‘You coming in?’ she prompted. More silence. Her smile quickly faded and she was now looking serious, making Imtiaz
uncomfortable. ‘Wanker!’ she shouted, before slamming the door. He heard her continue to cuss, but now in a language that he didn’t recognise. He turned around and walked back down the stairs. He took a left into Walkers Court and entered a sex shop. Rows and rows of DVDs pulled him close on an invisible string. Forget them all, forget it all. Everywhere he looked, just everywhere ... what a feast. His penis was hard and he put his hand down his trouser pocket to discreetly readjust. He picked a few of the empty covers up and flipped them over. A montage of clips revealed things that he’d seen a thousand times before, but he was just not getting bored. Actually, that wasn’t quite true – it wasn’t as pure as it once was but for sheer intensity, nothing else could compete. Once you are in that zone, pornography is peerless. Sport, work, art, politics – interests come and go and aptitudes vary, but porn is imperious. It’s so simple, it’s egalitarian – porn is for everyone, the poison of poisons. Oddly he found the front covers more alluring than the back – the anticipation of the wrapped up gift. He left the shop without buying anything, though that would come. This, though, was the best part. He’d had the foreplay of the train journey and now this was it – the heat of passion. He’d keep upping the pressure, moving from shop to shop until he could take it no more. And then he’d make his choice. Coming back into Walkers Court, Imtiaz strode purposefully. He was mentally mapping a route, thinking of the various establishments he’d go into. He fully intended on lasting the course tonight – it’d been such a trying day. And then an accident. Two men tore past, one knocking him straight down with his shoulder. He was thrown to the pavement and he banged his forehead hard on the ground. The suddenness of the impact stunned him and for several seconds he was disorientated: I’m all right, I’m all right, he tried to reassure himself. From lying prostrate, he moved to squat before crawling to the side of the walkway. Nobody came to his assistance but he understood – you were on your own here. He checked his possessions. His wallet was still in his back trouser pocket but his glasses had come off. Scanning where he fell, he saw them in the middle of the path and he scurried to fetch them. They were broken. The left lens had been shattered and the frame was bent – they were beyond repair. The shock of the injury was now subsiding, allowing the physical pain to take over. He had scuffed the fleshy part of his left palm badly: the skin there was torn and he was bleeding. There was some grit mixed in with the open wound and even though he tried rubbing it off gently, it burnt like hell. Two doormen standing outside a strip joint up ahead burst out laughing. Self-consciously he looked up but the joke was not on him. With some effort he stood and gingerly continued. Coming to the end, he hit an opening: Brewer Street cutting across with Rupert Street. There was a lot of activity and a real festive feeling hung in the air. Everywhere he looked he was seeing groups of people: twos, threes and fours, making their way here and there. Everyone looked normal. Even here, in what was meant to be a lonely man’s paradise, he was the odd one out. He looked up into the night sky and inhaled. Returning his gaze to street level, he slowly moved on but he was now only interested in going home. His urgency, his earlier appetite had been drained. He walked past another new bar – Latin or Spanish sounds emanated. Soho was becoming gentrified, with the smut being moved out. Approaching the next building along some graffiti caught his eye: Without my depression I’d be a failure – with it, I’m a success on hold. He paused to consider the point ... Die before you die, whispered the wind without notice, picking up around his ears. He sensed death and shuddered. He looked around but, without his glasses, his vision was no longer clear. He checked his cut hand again, though he was now aware of a burning sensation in several other places: his forehead, his left knee, his hip. He continued onwards, though with increasing difficulty – his muscles and joints were tightening up. Towards the apex of his vision he made out another GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS and an XXX, restoring something of the natural order for the area. The two signs were overlapping, though; an illusion brought on not only by the distance, but also by the absence of his glasses. He squinted, trying to get a clearer picture, but tears were now starting in his eyes and it didn’t really help. It was all just one big blur.

  END

  The world is a bridge. Pass over it, but build no houses on it. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity; the world endures but an hour. Spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen.

  JESUS CHRIST (AS)

  Inscribed above the Buland Darwaza,

  the Grand Entrance to Fatepur Sikhri, India