The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

  ‘This is delicious,’ I said.

  ‘Best-quality dhal,’ replied my birth mother. ‘Our boys do well for us. Is food expensive in England?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, well, I don’t know. I suppose it’s not cheap.’

  ‘Yes, things will seem very cheap to you here. Pound is strong,’ said her husband.

  ‘Do your other sons live quite close?’ I asked.

  I was told they did and that I’d meet them all tomorrow.

  ‘We have twelve grandchildren, mashallah,’ she added. Then gave a list of all their names, mixing up their ages and spending a good five minutes trying to remember their birth dates but forgetting. ‘But no grandchildren in England,’ she said. ‘Farah has waited a very long time to have babies, and now …’ she looked down at her plate.

  I shifted in my seat. It wasn’t exactly my place to tell them about Mustafa and Farah’s personal life. I wanted to give some words of consolation, like: they’ll have them once he’s out of the coma, but knowing what I knew, that would’ve been a lie. I put another mouthful of dhal in my mouth.

  ‘This is what I mean,’ said her husband. ‘Women there are forgetting their values and purpose in life.’

  I paused, about to speak, but then thought better of it. Except what he said just felt all wrong. Farah might not be a mum but she has value and purpose. I tried to think about what it might be. For example, she helps Mum in the kitchen. And I know Mum and Dad go to her whenever they need an appointment fixing with the doctor or something. Also, I can’t remember the last time I did a grocery shop – when Dad doesn’t do it, Farah does. In fact, thinking of it, I began to see just how much Farah did for the family, even though she no longer lives with us. Really thinking about it, I began to see how little I did. Is that because I’m always in my room? Why had I never really noticed this about Farah before?

  I tried to open my mouth, but found the words weren’t coming out. As I finished my food, my birth dad put more chicken curry on my plate and told me to eat more.

  ‘I’m full, thank you.’

  ‘No, no. Are you on a diet?’ he asked.

  I shook my head, feeling my face get hot.

  ‘You can diet when you go back to England.’

  Meanwhile my birth mum had already put more dhal in my small bowl.

  It wasn’t as if they were mean or unwelcoming exactly, but there was this feeling I had that I couldn’t put my finger on. When I went to bed after dinner all that fizz I felt while on the aeroplane had gone flat. I wondered how everyone back home was – what they were doing, whether they’d be at the hospital still or on their way to the house. Replaying the evening in my head, I tried to remember any questions my birth mum and dad had asked me. They talked about Malik, about Mustafa, about England and Bangladesh. And Farah. It occurred to me that they hadn’t asked about my parents or my sisters except in a vague, ‘How is everyone?’ way. And apart from everyone else, weren’t they curious about the life I had, growing up – how Mum and Dad had brought me up, what my likes and dislikes were?

  I hadn’t realised how much I was looking forward to telling them about that; about school and things which always felt so insignificant, but would be made significant by them wanting to know. I went to sleep with a strange emptiness inside me, praying that tomorrow would be better.

  It had to be. Coming out here would make no sense, otherwise.

  *

  ‘You’re telling your parents what they should or shouldn’t do.’

  I hovered at the door when I heard my birth dad, speaking into his iPad. He must’ve sensed me there as he turned around, mumbled a goodbye and hung up.

  ‘Salamalaikum. You missed Malik on Skype,’ he said.

  Which wasn’t exactly correct because he could’ve handed me the iPad.

  ‘How’s my …’ I hesitated. ‘My brother Mustafa?’ I added, with a little more conviction.

  ‘The same,’ he replied, rubbing his eyes.

  Of course my expectations of them had been too great. Their son was not only in a coma but in a foreign country. How would my parents feel if they couldn’t see me if I were in that state? My adoptive parents.

  ‘Malik asked how long you were thinking of staying,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You are welcome for as long as you want,’ he added, as if he were reading from an autocue. ‘Think of this as your home.’

  ‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said.

  Because surely they should know that I can’t just call them something they haven’t really been to me. Maybe further down the line I’d be able to – but for now I could only call him Uncle.

  ‘Okay. Mama,’ he said. ‘Whatever you prefer, Babba.’

  I was still standing in the doorway, unsure of whether to sit on the sofa or go through to the dining room for breakfast. I just smiled and nodded as I made my way into the kitchen. My birth mum was at the stove, stirring what looked like tea in a pot.

  ‘Can I help with anything?’ I asked.

  ‘No, Babba. You sit down. Did you sleep okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you,’ I replied, even though I hadn’t managed to sleep properly all night. I kept tossing and turning, trying to shut out the negative thoughts from my mind and having weird dreams. I stood there, looking around the kitchen for something I might be able to help with so I didn’t have to keep thinking of what to say or ask next.

  ‘You must miss your sons,’ I said.

  A faint smile spread on her face. ‘You raise your children, they leave and you wonder if they think about the sacrifices you made for them. But boys are independent – it is their nature.’

  If only she met Bubblee or Mae. The question that came to my mind was inevitable, but how was I to ask it without even more awkwardness? But then what had I come for, if not answers? I suppose I was afraid of hearing ones that I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Do you miss …’ I paused. ‘… not having any girls with you?’

  She looked up from the stove and I searched her face, looking for something that might remind me of myself.

  ‘Girls are good for their mothers. But the worries of getting them married …’ she looked at me and smiled. ‘Doesn’t my sister worry that you’re not married yet?’

  It was a bit like driving a kitchen knife through my stomach. Even though I don’t think she meant it in a rude way – she was just asking – but it left me a little winded anyway.

  ‘Things are different in England,’ she added. ‘Here, look.’ She went and opened one of the kitchen cupboards and pointed inside. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to be looking at.

  ‘New dishes,’ she explained. ‘Mustafa sent them to me two years ago and I still haven’t used them. We’re waiting for special guests.’

  I smiled, something like hope filling my heart as I thought she was about to take them out, but she just closed the cupboard doors and went back to the stove.

  ‘I’m sure my sister has many dishes like this in England.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose she does.’

  I wasn’t quite sure about the importance of this conversation, or where it was going.

  ‘She always liked nice things. You can tell her when you go back that I also have nice things now.’

  She poured the tea out in a teapot and switched the hob off. ‘I just pray my son is better soon. You’re travelling. The prayers of a person who travels are always heard. Have you been praying for him?’

  I nodded. Of course I had been.

  ‘Malik isn’t looking for a wife there, is he?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Oh. No. He’s there for Mustafa,’ I explained.

  She nodded. ‘I don’t mind – he is such a clever boy, he would make more money there, but you’ve seen how your uncle would feel.’

  She started telling me about my other brothers – the word just slipping out of her tongue with such ease – who we’d visit.

  ‘You can tell Farah how nice their children are,’ she said. ‘Then maybe she will have som
e of her own.’

  It was odd – I waited for her to be embarrassed at mentioning women having babies in front of the daughter she gave away, but she just continued stirring the tea, and getting the breakfast ready.

  ‘Mubeen’s wife is nice but the other two are very cunning,’ she said.

  Mubeen was the youngest. Apparently all her daughters-in-law had her sons wrapped around their little fingers.

  ‘None of them will be getting my beautiful dishes when I die,’ she said.

  She got out a plate and filled it with thick biscuits that looked a bit like toast.

  ‘Remember: you can start your diet when you go back home.’

  The whole conversation felt warped; as if it were taking place in a parallel world, or that I’d floated outside my body and was watching it, and myself, thinking: What the hell is going on?

  ‘Do you miss your sister?’ I asked.

  I had this urge where I wanted her to feel bad, guilty, something other than just smiling serenely at me as if I were just another house-guest.

  ‘We each have our separate lives, and we are living them. She moved to England so many years ago now.’

  With which she shrugged.

  ‘It’s nice to have you visit. Maybe next time you can bring her too.’

  For a moment, I had to ask myself: did she even remember what she had done thirty years ago?

  ‘I thought I’d stay here. For a while,’ I said.

  She paused and smiled at me.

  ‘It’d be nice to learn about the place where I was born.’ It took all my courage and strength but I gathered my nerves. ‘Before I was given away.’

  ‘Yes, Babba, you must stay as long as you like. With Malik gone, it’d be nice to have someone else here. Can you cook? I can teach you some recipes. But my sister would have done that, no? Babba, you are right – how nice it would’ve been for me to have a daughter.’

  That’s when I had to question whether I was in the right household and she was the right woman.

  ‘You had me,’ I said, watching the tea in the saucepan simmer and bubble. ‘You chose to give me away.’

  She wiped her hands and took three tea cups out of the cupboard, putting them on the tray with the teapot and plate of biscuits.

  ‘You were a very cute baby. And my sister wanted one so badly – what greater thing can a sister do for another but give her a child?’

  But I wanted to ask: didn’t you feel things? Didn’t your heart break when you handed me over for the last time, not knowing when you might see me again? That your sister would be raising a baby that was yours? I looked at the floor because I couldn’t be sure tears wouldn’t surface. And then I thought, who cares if they do? She should see them, since in some ways, she’s been the cause of them.

  She picked up the tray and indicated for me to follow her. ‘But just think – how would we have paid your dowry?’ And she laughed at the idea as she set the tray down where my birth dad was already sitting. He rubbed his hands and put a biscuit on my plate before taking one for himself.

  ‘Dowry?’ he said. ‘Look at our daughters-in-law, what did they bring with them?’

  He bit into the biscuit, taking a sip of the tea and said it needed more sugar. My birth mum went and got some more from the kitchen.

  ‘But still,’ he added when she’d come back, ‘we should be grateful.’

  It was another meal time I managed to lose my appetite.

  After breakfast I said I’d go and rest in my room for a while. As soon as I shut the bedroom door I burst into tears. I sobbed so hard, lying down in my bed, clutching the covers and scrunching them up in my hands, that I gave myself a headache. It was worse than them not caring, it was indifference; as if what happened was the most normal thing in the world. Is this why Malik wanted to come with me? Because he knew what his parents were like? My breath came back in gasps as I thought of my own parents, and realised that since I’d found out about being adopted, it was the first time I’d thought of them as my parents again. Was it just because my birth parents were such a huge disappointment? If they’d been wonderful, and everything I wanted them to be, would Mum and Dad have mattered to me less? I was still angry with them but in that moment I wished Mum was there to give me my stupid cheese and prawns, and Dad was there to say, ‘Now, now. It’s okay.’ Just then there was a knock on the door. I sat up and wiped away the tears that had been streaming down my face. God knows how I must’ve looked.

  ‘Here’s some water for you,’ said Malik’s mum, who came in and stared at my face. ‘Have you been crying?’ she asked. ‘Look at your eyes – so red.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said.

  ‘Why are you upset?’ she asked. ‘Do you feel ill? You foreigners have very sensitive stomachs. Shall I get your uncle to get some medicine for you?’

  How could she be so nice and yet so uncaring at the same time? I didn’t understand.

  ‘No, thank you. I think I just miss home.’

  ‘Oh, yes. A girl is very sad when she’s away from home and her family. Don’t worry, I am here,’ she said, putting her arm around and me and hugging me. ‘Why don’t you get ready and we will go and see your cousins. You will like to see nieces and nephews, won’t you? Since you don’t have any of your own.’

  She poured some water in a glass for me and handed it over.

  ‘Do you know, when Mustafa was little he always wanted to go to England,’ she said. ‘I should’ve known then he would leave us.’

  I watched her as she stared at the floor, probably thinking of Mustafa and what would happen to him, and I thought, maybe she doesn’t get it. Maybe she doesn’t understand that you’re not meant to tell someone they should forget about dieting while they’re staying with you, right after commenting on how well fed they look; or talk about the dishes you’ve been sent by your son when your daughter is standing in your kitchen waiting for an explanation about why you gave her away; or keep making digs at your guest’s sister for not yet having children.

  ‘He’ll be okay,’ I said, taking her hand.

  ‘Yes, and then I’ll tell him that he must look for a husband for you. Why have your parents left it so late?’

  I shrugged. ‘Our town is small. Not a lot of Bangladeshis.’

  ‘Maybe someone here?’ she suggested. ‘You know how many men want to go to England? They will be lining up for you.’

  The idea of men lining up to marry me was nice, but the reason why they’d be lining up wasn’t. I wasn’t sure why that’d be a good prospect for me. We sat there for a while, talking about nothing very significant, but as I carried on listening to her I began to make mental notes of the differences between Mum and her. I could see the similarities – straightforward, maybe a bit too blunt at times, kind to guests. And then there were the differences. The main difference, really – and I’d never be entirely certain of it – but I did think, if this woman couldn’t have had babies, I wonder if she’d have raised someone else’s with as much care and love as Mum had raised me.

  *

  It took a while to get my head around it. Every day I’d wake up and think maybe today it’ll be different, but it never really was. After a few days I got used to the routine of having breakfast with them after the call to prayer in the morning, resting for a bit, reading, then having a second breakfast and going to visit their friends and family. Everywhere we went I was introduced as the ‘niece’ from England, but I realised that this word was interchangeable with ‘daughter’. I watched people’s gaze and wondered what they were thinking; did they think it odd? Normal? It didn’t seem to be a secret and yet it wasn’t really talked about.

  When I visited my brothers I didn’t know what to expect. Before I got to Bangladesh I thought maybe they’d be like Malik, but having met his parents, I had to wonder. I could imagine Bubblee being horrified at the way everyone came in and out of each other’s homes. The children who’d be passed around for babysitting when another brother needed to do an urgent job. The wives
of these brothers all kind of merging into one.

  ‘As if we were just made to reproduce and play maidservant to husbands,’ I could imagine her saying. It made me smile and almost reach for my phone to text her. I didn’t. But I wanted to.

  ‘Ah, Fatima,’ said one brother, looking me up and down. ‘Look how big you are.’

  It was the common phrase for me whenever someone met me for the first time. I was told so often not to worry about dieting that I realised it seemed like it was exactly the thing I should be worrying about. Remembering Mum and the way she never once would mention anything like it, I just smiled, answered questions and took hold of a baby when I could to keep myself distracted from all these people. What was weird was how little each person seemed to think about Mustafa lying in a hospital bed in a coma. I’d have to be dead to not worry about any of my sisters if they were in the same situation – no matter where in the world I was. Even though my conversations with the family didn’t go beyond the small talk of How are you? and What’s England like?, they loved having photos taken: family photos, individual photos, selfies, one with me and all the children, me with one sister-in-law and then all the sisters-in-law, me with all the brothers. I tried to tell them I wasn’t very good in photos but that didn’t seem to matter. And for all the excitement these photos brought on, I couldn’t help but want my own bedroom to escape to, even if it was just for ten minutes.

  It was one day, when I came down the stairs and overheard the two of them talking.

  ‘Maybe there is no-one in England who wants to marry her,’ I heard my birth dad say.

  I stepped back, my heart beating fast, a knot of nerves forming in my stomach. It wasn’t right to listen in to people’s conversations and yet I knew who he was talking about. I leaned in again.

  ‘It’s the parents’ duty to find someone,’ my birth mum replied. ‘There is always someone to marry.’

  ‘It’s laziness. Farah hasn’t even had a baby. Everything is upside down in that country.’

  It didn’t make me cry. People talk about being crushed, and it was something like that, but it wasn’t me that was crushed, it was an idea I had in my head. A feeling I had in my heart.