Worlds Apart

by Azi Ahmed

  I’d put my name down for the book at the local library, but there was a long waiting list. It had sold out at most bookshops and others decided not to stock it.

  Scott looked over his shoulder, like he was checking if anyone was behind. ‘Bit over the top to start burning the Union Jack flag, don’t you think?’

  I agreed. He was referring to the imams who’d been on the news lately protesting against the book in central cities in the UK. ‘You can’t stop people from writing what they want … freedom of speech and all that.’

  ‘Well, it’s like porn isn’t it, love?’ Scott wolfed his second bhaji.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you want to read a porn mag you pick it up. It’s up to you.’ He suppressed laughter at my shocked expression.

  ‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it, but that’s not blasphemy. Apparently the book says that Prophet Mohammed’s wives were prostitutes.’

  ‘Who knows?’ he raised his hands in the air dramatically.

  I lowered my eyes, wrapping up his kebab and pizza as Hajji stood behind watching us like a hawk.

  ‘That will be £4.10, please.’

  Scott handed me a fiver. ‘Keep the change, love.’ He winked and picked up the bag.

  As soon as he left, I dashed back in the house. The Longsight guests had gone and Mum was clearing up the pots, humming some tune.

  I wanted to confront Mum on the conversation I had overheard but was too angry to speak. I looked around for Dad but he had disappeared. The topic of marriage was an awkward one with Mum, let alone trying to talk it through with Dad. He was only present on these occasions because he had to be. I compared his personality to the Longsight uncle and realised how lucky I was not to have a bullish, dominating, loud-mouthed dad like a lot of girls had. Though he had stepped in when needed, I still questioned his lack of presence in my life. I wondered if he’d said the same when my sister was getting married. Perhaps he could see a difference between us. Perhaps he knew me better than I thought.

  I tried reaching out to Shazia for sympathy, telling her there was no way I was going to Pakistan to get married and milk a cow every morning. Her response was to reassure me that mothers knew best. This fuelled my anger. How insensitive. Just because it suited her didn’t mean it suited everyone. I began giving her the cold shoulder, even though I was to be maid of honour at her wedding the following weekend.

  However, this was not my biggest concern right now. My GCSE results were coming out next week and even the best correction fluid to change the grades would not convince my dad.

  Shazia’s wedding took place at the local primary school with over 500 guests. Women and children packed into a small changing room with bhangra music blasting from speakers out in the corridor. Paper plates piled high with biryani soaked in ghee were passed around and the fizzy pop served in polystyrene cups was flowing. Shazia looked stunning. She wore a red sari, her face was covered in a gold net dupatta, and she had a big gold ring through her left nostril. I was dressed like a tube of glitter with Hollywood hair and Bollywood eyebrows. As maid of honour, my role was to sit beside her and collect money from the women queuing to examine the dowry gold she wore. Skilfully they scrutinised its intricate detail then lifted it away from her skin to guess its weight. Then, and only then, would they put a hand inside their bras and take out a tenner. That’s when I would jolt to attention and start scribbling their names down on a jotter pad and stuffing the notes inside a big gold purse squeezed between my knees. The money would later be returned to the couple by Shazia’s mum when their children got married.

  The wedding was a success, a joyous occasion for everyone, but I left feeling depressed and couldn’t find it inside me to be happy for her. I handed the money purse back to her mum with the excuse that I had to go home and open the shop. Something was niggling at me and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  To my dismay, my GCSE results came out worse than I had expected. My parents discovered there was never a grade A on the radar. Grades were all they were concerned with so I decided to study easier subjects and took my A levels in art. It was also the convenient option because I had to juggle my studies with working in the shop every evening. The news did not go down well with my parents. Mum was horrified that I would be painting pictures of naked people and Dad couldn’t understand why I wanted to be a painter/decorator.

  I went on to study an art foundation course at Manchester College for one year, which I needed before applying for an art degree. My parents found it strange as they expected me to apply for a degree straight after A levels. They got suspicious that I was re-sitting A levels and using the foundation as an excuse. I, too, wasn’t keen on it. It felt like my life was shortened by a year. However, if I had chosen academic subjects I’m sure my life would have been shortened by many more.

  The institute, based in the city centre, was my first step into the outside world. It introduced me to a tapestry of people I had not experienced at school. The students were made up of many overseas nationalities – Japanese, Cypriot, Swedish and American – that I’d never been exposed to before. The teachers were less rigid and were approachable, making it easier to reach out for a mentor.

  Dave headed the foundation course. The first day I met him, I knew he would be my mentor. He was a man in his fifties who didn’t mince his words; a similar trait to the one I saw in Mum, which I liked.

  On my first few critiques, he asked what my parents thought of me studying art. There weren’t many Asians studying the subject in those days, as it wasn’t seen as an education, hence my parents’ dismay. I stuck out like a sore thumb and he clocked on from my surname that I was Muslim. I enjoyed our friendly banter; the remarks he made about the band of gold I wore on my arm, asking if it was part of my dowry; what my brothers and sisters did and where I was in the pecking order; all the time trying to piece me together. He spotted a Telegraph newspaper in my portfolio once and asked if I was a Tory. I didn’t understand politics much, except that the majority of art students labelled themselves as socialists. I was once asked to join a protest against some Bill going through Parliament but declined. Firstly because I didn’t know enough about the Bill but also because I didn’t want to be associated with a party that students signed up to just because it was seen as ‘trendy’.

  Dave described my kebab shop duties combined with my studies as a 77-hour weekly shift. However, I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a stable routine that gave me time every evening, between serving customers, to work on my art projects. It diverted my attention away from useless pastimes like watching television. The shop opened up a social circle of people from my local area, who provoked discussions and debates with me on matters affecting the local people and topical news issues. Dave devised my projects around my working hours in the shop and took time out to sit with me in the canteen. I was pleased to be getting the support and recognition and so I would try to stretch out our time together by offering him more coffee and cake. It got the students gossiping, but there was nothing flirtatious between us.

  Boys were not on my radar as I was too busy with my work and studies, though I did make friends with one called Mark. He was a gentle giant with spiky blonde hair and a kind smile. We would meet every morning for coffee in the canteen and go to the sandwich shop together at lunchtime. One day Mark suggested we go to another place down near the canal as it served good tea.

  The tea was nice but nothing special. What was more fascinating were the surroundings. There was something about the people both serving and being served at the café that I couldn’t quite put my finger on; nothing odd, just different. More facial piercings, alternative clothing and tattoos.

  ‘Have you guessed yet?’ Mark ran his fingers through his hair, face flushed.

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘You know,’ his eyes flitted over to a group of young men sat at a table close by. ‘I’m gay.’

  A strange feeling set in in the pit of my stomach. The first time I ha
d heard the word ‘homo’ was at school, bantered around like a swearword. The second time was by a Muslim girl whose family friend had died of AIDS and the community refused to attend the funeral, saying it was God’s punishment. Now, here I was; my best friend telling me he was everything forbidden, dirty, and against my beliefs.

  I drank my tea, finding the warm liquid comforting. I could see this was hard for him too, but for some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his personal life.

  I heard a shuffling noise behind me, and then a man pulled a chair up and joined our table. He was over six foot, wore black leather trousers, a matching jacket, had a shiny head and a ring through his nostril.

  ‘Hello, I’m Kev.’ He held his hand out to me. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  I looked at Mark for help. Could this be a test from God, I wondered, pushing the most compromising scene of them together out of my mind? I smiled back politely and shook Kev’s hand. God have mercy on you both, I prayed silently.

  The walk back to college was not full of the usual chatter – it was awkward. I couldn’t come to terms with people who wanted to kiss someone of the same sex. I felt deceived and tricked, as if he had hurt me intentionally.

  Thankfully, when we got back I spotted Vanessa and broke away from Mark. Vanessa was an extremely attractive mixed-race girl. She had been brought up in the most deprived and gun-ridden area of Manchester called Moss Side. Her father had left when she was a baby and she had recently turned to religion.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked, as she walked past. I knew she was on her way to church ‘to get some peace’, as she put it.

  I decided to tag along, which surprised her as much as it surprised me. I had never been in a church before nor did I know any existed in the close vicinity. When we got there, the church was empty. We sat in the middle row of wooden benches, staring ahead at the stained-glass windows and a statue of Jesus hanging on a cross. It felt strange. I was used to the bright lights of a mosque, sitting on the floor with lots of noise around. However, as the minutes passed, I felt the warmth of the place and began to understand what she meant by ‘peace’. It gave me time to think back to Mark. I realised that the issue lay with me and not him. I was the one with the prejudice, the conditioning, and if I let it control me, I would be the one to lose. He was still my best friend, the one I wanted to share my toasted teacake with in the morning, so I had to find a way of getting over it.

  * * *

  ‘Why do they keep coming over?’

  Mum was preparing yet another feast for the Longsight couple’s arrival.

  ‘Because we have things to talk about that unmarried girls should not be asking about.’

  ‘Who’s getting married?’

  Mum was saved by the shop bell.

  I put my pinny on and headed over. The living-room door was open as I walked past. Dad was inside watching the news. Iraq had just invaded Kuwait and America had gone over to help. It had kept him on an adrenalin rush. He hated America and what it stood for; a country that only took action if it benefited them, in this case – oil. The shop customers had mixed views on the situation, but most of them supported America poking its nose in and quoted from what they’d read in the papers. I didn’t feel I understood enough to have a view.

  Tim, one of our regular customers, was stood at the shop counter.

  ‘Hiya, love! Can I have a kebab?’ He pointed at the doner spit. ‘Make it a large one with that garlic stuff and chips.’

  I smiled politely. I was not in the mood for small talk tonight but he was a regular. Luckily, the noise from the electric carving knife as I sliced the doner meat made it impossible to hear what he was saying.

  However, when I switched it off and turned back round, Tim had his elbows sprawled over the counter blowing smoke rings into the greasy air. I couldn’t believe it, there was a ‘no smoking’ sign on the door before you walked in. Everyone was getting on my nerves today.

  ‘That Madras you made the other night nearly blew my bloody head off,’ he pointed the cigarette at me. ‘Tell that beardy to put less chillies in next time.’

  Tim was referring to Hajji, who did have a rather long beard, come to think of it. Ever since the shop opened, I had dreaded getting one of those random health and safety inspectors coming round and closing us down. If women had to tie their hair up, why didn’t men put their beards in a net or something? But there was no way I could approach Hajji on the topic; he would accuse me of blasphemy.

  ‘I told my boss where to go the other day.’ Tim was off again. ‘He didn’t like it but the tosser had it coming. I’ll go on the dole if I have to, council can pay my rent for a change.’

  I tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. I kept thinking about the Longsight couple. I couldn’t stand them. How dare they come round and try to take over my life! I could feel the stress going to my fingers, and then the kebab suddenly ripped and collapsed in my hand. Thankfully, Tim was looking the other way.

  ‘Off to the pub tonight?’ I asked, quickly wrapping it up.

  ‘Yeah, wanna come?’ He raised a smile.

  I ignored his comment and gave him the silent treatment, which usually worked.

  ‘So, what’ve you been up to, love?’ he asked. It did.

  ‘I went to a wedding.’ Mum knew so many people in our community that she was invited to weddings most weekends and she dragged me along to showcase me in front of women who had eligible sons and nephews.

  ‘One of your lot?’ Tim let out a smoker’s cough, which sounded disgusting mixed with the phlegm at the back of his throat. ‘Is that what you’ll be having?’

  He was pushing all the right buttons, fishing for a big debate on what he’d read in the tabloid papers about forced marriage. I hated the ignorance of some English people round here.

  Tim lit another cigarette and gazed into space. ‘If it was up to my mum I’d end up with some specky, four-eyed librarian.’

  What’s wrong with that? I wanted to say, but instead scurried into the kitchen.

  Beardy reappeared from prayers and started banging the spoons around in the back. Recently we were getting under each other’s feet and it was always I who had to apologise. His response was to tut dramatically and turn his head away.

  I watched him fret over the bubbling pans on the cooker. His eyes were red from peeling a sack of onions earlier and his white coat was stained at the hips from shocking red tandoori paste. This marriage thing was getting me down and I knew this ‘snake’ was fuelling my mother. I wanted to grab his prayer cap off his head and kick him up his bum. Instead, I gave him Tim’s order of chips and headed inside the house.

  This time I didn’t stop at the door to listen, but barged in. I wanted to know what was going on. The room fell silent. All four of them, my parents and the Longsight couple, were huddled around the coffee table staring up at me.

  ‘I just wanted to check if you wanted more tea,’ I said, trying to figure out why the auntie was clutching her handbag so tight.

  Mum shook her head.

  Purposely, I left the door slightly ajar when I walked out so that I could peer inside between the nick.

  They all turned back into one another again.

  ‘So, yes … he’s from the same caste, you have no worries,’ the auntie reassured Mum.

  That surprised me. I hadn’t realised Pakistanis had castes. I’d thought they only existed in India. Now that I thought about it, however, Pakistan was originally part of India.

  ‘When are we going to get to see a picture of him?’ Mum sipped her tea, trying to remain cool and in control by leaning back and crossing her legs.

  ‘You can see him now.’ The auntie put a hand in her handbag and rummaged for what seemed like ages and then finally pulled out a notebook. She flicked through the pages until a passport photo dropped out.

  My heart pounded as I watched Mum take the photo from her, a little too quickly, and study it. The room was so quiet I could hear the cars outside
on the road through the double-glazed window.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ Mum finally said, and passed it onto Dad.

  Dad stared at it for a lot longer, making the uncle light another cigarette straight after finishing one. Dad didn’t comment and passed it back to the auntie.

  ‘What do you think, brother?’ she asked my dad with a nervous laugh.

  ‘He looks a lot younger than twenty,’ Dad replied flatly.

  ‘It was taken a few years ago when he was a student … but he hasn’t changed much.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum agreed quickly. ‘Children don’t change.’

  I didn’t believe any of it. It was one of two things: either he was pretending to be older, or he was much older and they were showing a college photo to hide his age.

  I thought back to my recent critique with Dave at college, when he said I’d probably be staying in Manchester to do my degree. The thought hadn’t occurred to me as we were still a few weeks away from applying for degree places.

  ‘Why do you think that?’ I had asked.

  ‘Well, who’s going to look after the shop?’

  His words turned over and over in my head; the more I thought about it the more I realised this place wasn’t my future. I didn’t want to look back in a few years’ time and wished I’d done something different. However, I was also torn with the dilemma of hurting my parents and going against their will. The struggle became bigger in my head.

  There were two ways to do it; either I leave without saying a word and put my parents through hell or, for the same result, I face the music.

  But first I needed to secure a place somewhere. This was my life and my choice.

  I decided to study at Bristol as it had a good art department and was close to Bath, which I’d heard was beautiful.

  It was only once I had been accepted at Bristol that I realised I was about to make a drastic departure from the world I’d been brought up in. I made my first attempt of breaking the news to Mum, which went down like a lead balloon. I used the excuse that the subject I wanted to study wasn’t available in Manchester. ‘Pick another,’ she replied.