Worlds Apart

by Azi Ahmed

  I wasn’t concerned about being financially stable any more. I was drawing a minimum wage from the business and cash flow was tight but it didn’t matter as long as I had enough to keep me afloat during training. I thought back to that first meeting at the barracks and the officer’s comment about having to make a choice sooner or later. In the past, I had balanced much more in my life, but this was something out of the ordinary and most definitely didn’t feel part time. Was it worth the risk of leaving the company now? What were the chances of getting through to the next phase of training? Adding a further complexity, I was still waiting for my security clearance to come through. I made regular visits to the admin department to check, but each time got the silent headshake from Captain Wood. It was strange going back up there and seeing him. Perhaps something unexpected had come up about my family background that was causing the delay. I didn’t know much about my relatives in Pakistan as I hadn’t been over since I was a baby and I couldn’t exactly ask my parents if there was anyone dodgy.

  I imagined Becky and the others out doing a ten-mile run and felt lazy sat on a bus. I would never be as fit as they were, but I needed to keep my fitness up to a level that meant I could survive without getting injured.

  I wished that I could talk to someone about all these dilemmas. I thought about Shazia. She had always been the one I could reach out to no matter how contrasting our lives were and she was also very discreet, which was unique in our community. There was a time when she didn’t pass judgement, but now she nagged me as if she was my mother.

  I wished I could tell Dad but I knew that was impossible. Even if I did tell him, he wouldn’t believe me; nobody around here would – they’d think I was a nutter. Besides, it wasn’t worth risking, especially now my parents were off to Mecca. It would be the biggest journey they would take together, apart from their marriage; a completion of their lives before going to heaven and I was still racking my brains for an excuse not to go with them – they were still under the impression that I would be joining them.

  I jumped off the bus, in a world of my own, and suddenly was stopped by Scott, an old customer who was getting on.

  ‘Hiya,’ he said, folding up a buggy as his girlfriend got on with a baby.

  It was nice to see familiar faces. I wasn’t sure if they looked older or just tired but they weren’t the fresh-faced couple I used to see going to the pub. I wondered how I looked to them and then caught my reflection in the side mirror of the bus. I had no make-up on and my skin looked dry. I looked down at my hands: my nails were broken, and underneath each was a line of deeply embedded dirt that would not come out no matter how much I scrubbed. Quite a contrast to my floral years at college, when I would match my jewellery, butterfly eyeshadow and nail varnish.

  I arrived home and to my dismay could hear Auntie Pataani talking to Mum in the living room. I recognised her loud, screechy laughter as soon as I came in through the front door. I didn’t want to go inside so instead pressed my ear to the living-room door. I could hear her gossiping about someone’s daughter who’d run off with an English boy. This woman never ceased to amaze. There she was, tarnishing families in their difficult times when her own daughter had married someone she’d met at college and had stopped speaking to her.

  I heard Mum trying to interject a few times about the plans for hajj, then it suddenly came to me. Auntie Pataani had been widowed for ages and had always wanted to go on hajj. As a woman, though, she was not allowed to go without the presence of a husband, father, brother or son. If none of these were available, only then could a close male friend, acting as a brother, accompany her. She was a complete pain in the arse but perhaps I could persuade my parents to take her instead of me. This would guarantee them all a place in heaven. Pleased with my brainwave, I entered the living room with confidence.

  Auntie Pataani was sprawled over the settee, head propped up on one of Mum’s plump cushions, eating her way through a bowl of rice pudding. She waved me over, making a big deal about how terrible I looked since leaving home, asking how long I was home for, how I should be looking after my parents now they were getting old, and how she’d heard that I’d be going on hajj with them. It all came out in one breath. I reckon she was long overdue to go home but had waited for me to get here just so that she could stir things up with me and Mum. I’d never forget her efforts to change Mum’s mind about me studying in London. She’d even got as far as bringing a woman over whose son had studied away and had ended up marrying a Chinese woman who, according to her, ate snakes and cats.

  I wanted to retaliate by asking Auntie Pataani if her daughter was at home looking after her, let alone her son who had long gone. But I would never cross the line with my parents’ friends no matter what they said.

  I stood in the middle of the room between them both and turned to Mum. I opened my mouth to talk about the hajj trip but was prevented from doing so by Auntie Pataani twittering on about something behind me. I turned round, trying to stay focused on what she was saying … something about making sure I looked after my parents when they came down to London next week.

  I nearly had a heart attack. Mum intervened, reiterating what Auntie Pataani had said, confirming that she and Dad were planning to come and visit some friends in Croydon.

  Before I could say anything, Auntie Pataani tugged the hem of my dress and pulled me back. She was now sitting up on her big bum and telling me it was her idea that my parents stay with me, for respect, otherwise people here would gossip that they couldn’t stay with their daughter. I wanted to kill her. The only tongue that would wag was hers, I was sure! She didn’t deserve to go to heaven, I suddenly decided.

  I should have stopped there and waited until she’d gone home to discuss it further with Mum, but the panic had already set in. I told Mum I had to work and perhaps it was best if they went directly to Croydon and stayed there. Mum mulled over it for a moment, pressing a maroon fingernail into the dimple of her cheek, and then agreed. I was relieved. Then stupid Auntie Pataani poked her nose in and suggested that, since the visit to Croydon would be during the day, they could see me in the evening after ‘work’. Mum changed her mind and agreed with Auntie Pataani.

  I didn’t know what to say; they both had me in a corner. But I couldn’t miss the training, not now. Suddenly the hajj story didn’t seem as urgent any more. I needed to thrash out some convincing excuse for them not to come and see me – fast. The thought of their first visit to London had haunted me since the start of female selection. They’d never asked before. I needed to go and see Shazia.

  ‘Who is this Shazia?’ Auntie Pataani asked, surprised she’d never heard of her before.

  ‘You know,’ Mum said, ‘the one who runs the Urdu classes for children at mosque.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Auntie Pataani looked relaxed again. ‘The good girl … your other daughter’s friend.’

  I decided not to waste my time. I was now beginning to think this woman had no idea how tactless she was.

  The evening ended with a visit from yet another family, which meant I couldn’t see Shazia until the morning.

  Dad had made his excuses about some late delivery at the shop, which left Mum to run the show. I got changed into some glitzy outfit Mum had put out for me to wear and entered the living room.

  ‘My daughter’s a manager,’ Mum cooed, and sank into the armchair, patting the empty chair beside her.

  I crossed the room and did as I was told, trying to avoid eye contact with the man sat on the large sofa close to his mother. Too close.

  He watched me with hard brown eyes. Mid-thirties, I guessed, judging by his clean-shaven coffee complexion and perfectly drawn side parting in his hair.

  The smell of rose-scented cream drifted across from the gentle-looking woman wearing a pale yellow headscarf over long grey hair and matching cotton suit. She smiled kindly as she prepared a cup of tea and handed it to her son.

  I smiled back then looked over to the other sofa, which was lined with four sisters,
all wearing brightly coloured silk suits with costume jewellery and gold woolly socks. They cased me up and down.

  ‘My daughter works for a very big company. Just like your son, Nasser.’ Mum reached for the plate of shortbread biscuits on the table and handed it to one of the girls. The girl took one and passed the plate down.

  ‘What do you do?’ Nasser asked with a northern twang.

  I looked at Mum blankly, then back at him. ‘I work for an internet company,’ I replied.

  The room went quiet. All I could hear was the crunching of biscuits coming from the girls’ corner.

  Nasser nodded approvingly, taking a sip of tea, and then handed the cup and saucer back to his mother.

  I watched his mother make the exchange and offer a plate of Indian sweets to him, which he waved a dismissive hand to, his eyes still on me.

  ‘A manager,’ he repeated. ‘Where did you do your degree?’

  Was this some kind of interview?

  ‘London,’ I replied flatly, dropping the polite expression for a hard stare back.

  He nodded again, leaning back and resting an ankle on his knee, revealing stripy brown socks and black shiny shoes. ‘Does it pay well?’

  Who was this man?

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Does it pay well?’ he repeated.

  I didn’t answer his question but instead smiled sweetly and asked, ‘What do you do?’

  The room fell quiet. The girls’ jaws dropped, his mother looked fearful for her son, and Mum burst into nervous giggles.

  ‘I’m a banker,’ he said, and cleared his throat.

  More like a wanker, I thought. ‘Which bank?’

  ‘High street.’

  My mouth curled up at the ends. Not quite an investment banker then…

  He shuffled around in his seat and looked at his mother.

  ‘Times have changed, sister.’ Mum gave me one of those glares I got as a kid that meant I should shut up.

  ‘My son is very Western,’ Nasser’s mother said glowingly, trying to rescue the conversation. ‘He will only marry a girl who has a university degree and a good job. His father would be very proud if he was alive today.’

  ‘God willing,’ Mum dramatically raised her hands up to the ceiling in prayer position, ‘both our children will be married soon.’

  I looked at Nasser’s mother. He doesn’t want a wife, I thought, he just wants a replacement for you.

  The next morning I headed to Shazia’s. The walk from the bus stop was agonising on my feet. I had spent ages in the bathroom covering them with Vaseline and plasters before coming out. I’d been recommended all sorts of ointments to soothe bruising and blisters at the barracks, but Vaseline was the only thing I relied on.

  I didn’t bother ringing her before coming over and hoped she would be in. After I’d knocked on the painted blue door of her house, I looked down the street while I waited for her to answer. This place hadn’t changed in the years I’d been gone. I still recognised the same plastic flowers in some of the windows, including those in Shazia’s old house, which I’d just walked past. I wanted to go in and say hello to her mum but felt it best to make peace with Shazia first, just in case I heard something I didn’t like and arrived at Shazia’s in the wrong mood. I couldn’t be doing with another nagging.

  I heard some noisy kids come out of the mosque across the street. I saw a five-year-old girl hurriedly putting her shoes on and running to her mum, who was stood outside with the rest of the mothers.

  Childhood memories flooded back of my mum coming to pick me up when I was that age. The hostile welcome she got from the Bangladeshi women, all huddled together in a sea of colourful saris. Mum didn’t care; she’d walk straight up to them in her Pakistani shalwar kameez and start talking.

  A man then came out of the mosque after the kids and, to my surprise, it was my old imam from all those years ago. He looked different; his beard was now parted in two and curled up at the ends; was coloured with henna to make it orange. He looked vulnerable; his back was hunched forward and he moved slowly with the aid of a stick, using the other frail hand to thumb through a tasbih. His eyes still watered and his clothes still hadn’t seen an iron. I wondered if his caning skills were still as good.

  I had not read Arabic since leaving mosque and wondered how quickly it would come back if I decided to attempt it now, though my pronunciation would still be like that of a child. It suddenly occurred to me how Christians finish their prayers with ‘Amen’ and at mosque we finish our prayers with ‘Ameen’. Was this the same? Also, the headscarves worn in mosque were the same as the ones worn by Christian women during Lent.

  What would life be like if I hadn’t had that confrontation with Mum about wanting to study away? Perhaps I’d be one of these women picking up my kids. What if I hadn’t made that spontaneous visit to London? Bristol would not have given me the Chelsea Barracks…

  My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the latch sliding off the hook from inside the door, and then Shazia’s face appeared. She was wearing a scarf wrapped tightly around her head and was holding a wooden spoon. Her face dropped for a split second when she saw me.

  ‘Hiya,’ I said as I stepped inside and embraced her stiff shoulders, grabbing her loosely fitted purple dress. I could smell cooking turmeric coming from the back of the house.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked, trying to pull away.

  I caught the undercurrent in her voice. ‘Good, thanks. I thought I’d come and see you.’

  She led me down the long narrow hallway lit by a single bulb at the top of the stairs. It was dark and cold but then got brighter and warm as we entered the kitchen. A couple of pans bubbled away on the stove, steaming up a window above. The sink looked chaotic, covered in half-cut vegetables and packets of spices scrunched up. I couldn’t stand untidiness growing up, and the army had taught me to be minimal and compact.

  The soles of my shoes stuck to the lino as I walked over to the small wobbly table and sat down. I watched her putting a pan of water on to make chai. She threw sugar, full-fat milk and spices into it then served it up to me in a Smarties mug. I didn’t like chai, even when I lived at home. She knew that.

  After the initial awkwardness, to my relief, the conversation finally began to flow between us like we were old friends again. She told me about how her husband’s business was ‘booming’ and about the new car they were planning to buy (which I wasn’t interested in at all but nodded every so often anyway). All the time I was thinking of how to approach the subject of the army, hajj, my delayed security clearance, my parents’ visit to London and my sanity.

  ‘Your mother’s been through enough as it is,’ Shazia cooed. ‘You’re not helping matters by being so … picky.’

  I looked the other way, feeling helpless.

  ‘Kashif sounds like a nice boy.’ Shazia tried to look serious. ‘When are you next seeing him?’

  You probably know more than I do, I wanted to say, but resisted. Kashif was another potential suitor my mother had lined up. Admittedly he looked like golden boy compared to that idiot from last night.

  I decided to stop wasting time.

  ‘Shazia,’ I cut in. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She smiled at me, her eyes softened. ‘I was waiting for you to ask. I’ve noticed you’re not looking yourself these days.’

  I studied her carefully. For a split second I got worried. Was she going to tell me something I didn’t want to hear? I brushed the negative thoughts to one side and decided to trust in her.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, reaching out and touching the silk sleeve of her dress. I felt terrible for all those resentful thoughts I’d had about her. I should have picked up the phone and shared the burden as soon as it became too much to bear alone.

  ‘I was also nervous on my wedding night.’ She broke into a cheesy grin. ‘Men are like bears…’

  It shouldn’t have surprised me. I decided to change tactics and talk about London and my company. She loo
ked pleased for me so I carried on and mentioned my spare time and taking up a hobby.

  ‘Another college course?’ she assisted.

  I laughed nervously, half expecting her to come out with something so obvious. I shook my head and started jabbering on about something more ‘physical’.

  She looked round, bemused, then pointed a finger at me and started to laugh aloud. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit old for that?’

  The resentment came back. I felt hurt by her belittling comment. No, I wanted to shout back, I don’t feel old, no matter what stage in life people expected me to fit into. I realised her attack on me last time wasn’t a one-off. This was who she’d become since being married. She thought she knew better than I did. She didn’t care what I did any more, but then again, I didn’t care about her life either, I realised guiltily.

  ‘Mum and Dad want me to go to hajj with them.’

  ‘Yes, I heard … me and my husband are hoping to go when the business picks up,’ she prattled.

  She had told me the business was booming before, but I let it go. It wasn’t the first time she had exaggerated and most definitely wouldn’t be the last.

  ‘I can’t go,’ I blurted. ‘I don’t have time with the business.’

  ‘Of course you can, my father-in-law got my husband to look after the shop when he went.’

  ‘It’s not a shop.’

  ‘Think of all the respect you’ll get around here if you go. All the bad things people have been saying about you will be forgotten.’

  Most of them coming from you, I was tempted to add, but kept my mouth shut. ‘I don’t care what people think.’

  ‘Your parents do.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. I could see this going into lecture mode like last time and decided to retreat from the whole discussion. It had been a wasted journey coming here today.

  I stood up to leave, then stopped as I tuned to the noise coming from the neighbouring wall. It was chanting mixed with wailing.