by Ayisha Malik
Ladies and gentlemen are reminded to keep clear of the closing doors as it can cause disruption to services. Thank you.
I looked up, and just as the doors were about to close, a very clear bout of logic possessed me.
‘Oi,’ I shouted. ‘Terrorists don’t wear vintage shoes, you ignorant wanker!’
I kind of hoped my usefully loud voice would carry. Of all the things in the world I could be, that was the brush he decided to tar me with. But what was the point in my outburst? The doors had already closed between us and he was long gone. You know who wasn’t gone? Me. Surrounded by a tube full of people who were now casting me sideward glances and inching away tentatively. How is anyone meant to explain reasonably to a train full of people that they are not a terrorist? I mean, I work in publishing for goodness sake! So I did the next best thing and in poised fashion focused on my book (or pretended to focus, as how was such a thing possible?). Unfortunately I didn’t take into account that I was reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist.
I need a fag.
9.35 a.m. Terrorist! T-E-R-R-O-R-I-S-T. The word keeps knocking around in my head, denting and scratching the surface of my, quite frankly, already fragile brain. It’s giving me a headache. My innards declared a state of emergency. I sat on the step in the empty smoking area at the back of the building. Managed to bum a cigarette from Colleen in reception.
‘All right?’
Charlie from the post room, who seems to live in a perpetual state of annoyance, came out with a trolley, his gold bracelet glinting in the sun, as a van pulled in.
‘Do you have a light?’ I asked.
He reached into his pocket and threw it towards me.
‘Haven’t seen you here for a while.’
‘I was fasting.’ I inhaled the smoke and looked at the lovely thin white stick: the embodiment of nicotine and guilt.
‘Oh yeah, you’re Muslim.’ I do wonder why Charlie thinks I walk around with this neon-sign-of-a-cloth on my head. Actually, I suspect he doesn’t think about it at all. I fiddled about with my phone, and had an urge to text Imran to say: Can you believe it? Can you actually believe I was called a terrorist?
Oh, bollocks. Late for meeting!
10.35 a.m. I walked into the conference room for our catch-up meeting and finger-sniffing Brammers had popped out to get her notes.
‘Nice scarf, Sweetu,’ said Katie.
Which was nice of Katie to say, because Mr Racist clearly didn’t think so.
‘Is it from Zara?’ she asked.
‘Huh?’
‘Are you OK?’
So I told her what happened. As soon as I uttered the words, Katie bellowed, ‘Everyone, listen! Guys! Sofe was just called a terrorist on the Northern line!’
Fleur’s head shot up. ‘What?’ Then there was a general outcry of, ‘How ghastly!’ ‘No!’ ‘What an awful thing to say.’
Katie put a plate of biscuits in front of me as Fleur brought me a cup of coffee. I looked around the table at my fellow publicists’ concerned white faces and told them about terrorists not wearing vintage shoes. Everyone exploded with exclamations of, ‘No. You didn’t!’
I bloody well did, and they bloody well don’t. It was like that time Katie and I were at Paddington waiting for a train to Bath for an author event.
‘Do you remember that mad brown man?’ I asked Katie.
She nodded. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not going to hell for being friends with a white person.’
‘He made my chips go cold,’ I mumbled. And my blood, to be quite honest. A person really does get it from everyone sometimes. Every time I think, Hurrah! No one cares about my scarf, some miserable random person calls me a terrorist (or Paki, ninja, bomber – you get the idea). I took out my notepad and pen as Katie patted me on the shoulder.
‘I should just wear a niqab if I’m going to get called a terrorist. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about wearing lipstick,’ I added.
A few of the girls laughed. I don’t know why. It wasn’t a joke. Brammers came in wiping what appeared to be some dried-up vomit on her Armani suit jacket – the juxtaposed lifestyle of publicity director and mother of three.
‘Alex threw up on me just as I was leaving home,’ she explained. ‘Right, everyone. Before we start our catch-up, anyone have ideas for me to take to the editorial meeting? Make them good.’
Every month, Brammers uses catch-up meeting to try and get us to come up with ideas, which she can then take to editorial and bask in the triumph of being more than just publicity. Every month she fails. I was supposed to have thought of ideas on the way to work and I would have done if someone didn’t think I spent my time Googling chemical formulas. I began doodling a house in my notebook, while looking at my phone, briefly wishing Imran would call, the way he used to, just because he wanted to hear the sound of my voice. No one was more aware of Imran’s affectionate stream of consciousness than me and my phone provider. One of the issues about the whole ‘being alone’ stance is not having anyone to share the world’s problems with. A person’s been scooped out of your life and so you speak into a pit of nothingness. Or you don’t speak at all, depending on your tendency towards soliloquy. I’d say my tendency ranges between average to excessive.
Fleur went through her list of points, including potentially writing a book called The Virgin Cyclist, which would’ve been funny – I imagined myself on the book’s cover – under normal circumstances.
‘Sofia? Sofia?’
Brammers looked at my blank face, which nicely complemented my blank brain. I experienced a tie-dye of emotions in the shape of holes-in-the-wall, professionalism and racists as I glanced at my drawing.
‘I don’t suppose anyone would like to read about my string of God-awful dates?’
I’m still undecided as to whether saying something is better than saying nothing at all. I tried to give my most winning smile, which, I think people would agree, was quite a deal given the state of affairs.
‘Yes, well, intriguing as that might be, we’ve published three dating books in the past year,’ replied Brammers.
She was about to move on when I said, ‘Bet no one else’s boyfriend ever asked them to live with their parents and a hole-in-the wall.’
I was too busy figuring out how one draws a hole-in-the-wall to notice everyone looking at me.
‘Your boyfriend asked you to live with his parents and a hole-in-the-wall?’ asked Brammers.
‘Yes.’
Emma pushed back her fringe. ‘Your boyfriend wanted you to move in with him and his parents, and a what?’
Trust me to get a career in quite possibly the most white-centric, middle-class industry there is. I explained to the confused faces about the conjoined house, living with the in-laws, and, of course, the hole that holds the entire story together. After I’d explained about common Asian practice, not only did I feel like a black sheep, but I would’ve quite liked to be a sheep. Sheep are not judged.
‘But why?’ asked Emma.
God, Emma asks a lot of questions. I find this to be a problem. Not the questions, per se, just the assumption that I have answers. I’m not an anthropologist.
‘Can’t be arsed to hire a removal van?’ I suggested. ‘Problems cutting the cord? Filial sense of obligation to immigrant parents?’
‘And do men move in with their wives’ parents?’ Brammers asked. She was taking notes, I saw with some alarm.
‘No. It’s always the woman,’ I said, agitation rising in me.
‘Gosh,’ said Emma. ‘It’s so difficult for you, isn’t it? Did you read the Metro yesterday? About the Asian girl in Birmingham?’
Fleur put her highlighter down. ‘Awful. Just because she wanted to go to university.’
Don’t know what that had to do with me and the hole-in-the-wall (HITW?).
‘Well, there was no gun to my head,’ I said.
Brammers looked intrigued. ‘Could there have been?’
‘No, no,’ I said, waving my hand. ‘I just me
an, a person can say no. I said no.’
OK, we all know the HITW is a whack situ, but there was no need for everyone to look so uncomfortable: as if Asians were all a bunch of lunatics. There are crazier things that happen. Then Hannah sprang to mind.
‘It’s not like he asked me to be a co-wife.’
‘A co-wife?’ Brammers had her pen at the ready again. I mean, a HITW was one thing, polygamy was another. So I explained my friend’s whole being a second wife scenario.
‘But that’s not even legal!’ Fleur exclaimed, going red in the face.
Err, hello! Neither is murder, but that doesn’t stop people.
‘Is your friend mad?’ asked Emma.
Brammers scratched her head. ‘This is fascinating, Sofia. Just the kind of thing The Times would love.’ Which isn’t particularly helpful as Hannah hates The Times.
‘Yeah,’ I said, laughing, ‘Someone should write a book about it.’ I carried on doodling, but there was a pause.
‘Sofia,’ said Brammers, shaking her head and smiling. ‘This is an amazing idea.’
‘What?’
‘A book about Muslim dating.’
‘Oh, no. No,’ I said, picking up a chocolate digestive. ‘I’ll gag on my biscuit.’
‘It’d give a fascinating insight into modern Muslim dating and marriage.’
I sighed. Who’d have thought my parents and the publishing industry would share such similar interests?
‘What other situations are there, dating-wise?’ she asked.
I shrugged. I’d been through a hole-in-the-wall or two, and Hannah wanted to marry a married man, but conjoined houses and co-wives do not a book make.
Katie then said, ‘Remember that guy you once met? The beardie?’
‘The one who called me a disco hijabi?’ And, by the way, suggested my clothes weren’t that bad – they just needed to be painted black. Gloomy bastard.
‘This is good, Sofia; this is very good.’ I could see the vein in Brammers’s forehead protruding. ‘We could think of all types of things – forced marriages, honour killings.’
Oh my God. You read about that kind of stuff in the papers but no one I ever knew was forced to marry someone. The only reason my dad might brandish a knife would be to make sure a man doesn’t step out of line. Mum would probably offer him a lifetime of chicken biryani.
‘Illicit sex stories . . .’ Brammers added.
‘Sex?’ I asked. ‘What’s that?’
Apparently this wasn’t funny because only Katie let out a stifled laugh, whilst the others weren’t sure whether to laugh or be shocked. Indeed, my friends, indeed.
Brammers nodded passionately. ‘The sexual politics of double standards . . .’
I straightened up in my seat. OK, if you were to do a survey then I’m guessing there would be far more Muslim women that are virgins than men, but talk about limited observation – as if this double standard is just a Muslim phenomenon.
‘It’s all a bit dark, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I couldn’t really say I have much experience with the whole forced marriage, honour killing thing.’
I impersonated the Psycho knife-killing scene to properly demonstrate my point.
‘So a funny Muslim dating book?’ Brammer’s vein was practically doing a jig.
‘Yes, exactly. Something light.’
As everyone filed out of the meeting, I asked Katie if people at work secretly thought I looked like a terrorist, but were too middle class to say so. ‘Don’t be so utterly ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Should I do a poll?’ We sat down. ‘Might look a bit desperate. But better to look desperate than like a terrorist.’
‘People are just curious. Fleur once asked me about your scarf and the whole Muslim thing. At the Heyworth launch. You were Rammer-ing and couldn’t find a place to pray.’
I looked over at Fleur who was inducting the new work experience guy.
‘Bad praying space, good canapés. Thanks for saving those for me, by the way,’ I said.
‘Standard. To be honest I think she just admires your dedication. She found it very interesting when I told her no one in your family wears a scarf.’
‘That’s like saying, I find it very interesting, given no one in your family is gay.’
‘You don’t have to tell me.’ Katie began plaiting her blonde hair.
I considered it. ‘Some people like shopping, some people like therapy, I happen to like praying.’
‘The other day I went to church with my granny and lit a candle, and I don’t even know what I believe. Religion has a bad name.’
‘Hmmm. Maybe I need to swap campaigning for books about hippos and start a PR campaign for Muslims,’ I said.
‘You’ll never please everyone. Anyway,’ Katie added, her hair shining in the stark office light, ‘Most of us know that terrorism is all relative.’
I bought Katie (and myself) some chocolate to celebrate my non-terrorist-looking accomplishment. I’m also going to start celebrating the small things in life – they are, after all, the things that matter.
3 p.m. I had five missed calls from Fozia. I think it says something about the dedication of our friendship that we’re able to make time for these calls in the middle of our respective professional endeavours (often crises). Apparently Kamran’s in ‘talks’ with his parents about their relationship. The Geneva Conference of marriage. His parents aren’t happy about him wanting to marry someone who’s dye-vorced (as our parents would say). I tried to explain to her it was a typical case of the ball-less men, but no one ever listens to me. There are far too many holes (in walls, of course), and not enough balls, if you ask me.
4.30 p.m. What length of time is appropriate to text an ex and see how they are? Especially when your parting words to them were, ‘I don’t need to be adored.’ Which in and of itself is a fair point, but having had a month of reflection, perhaps even valid points need to be delivered with sensitivity.
To Imran: Hello. Hope Ramadan went well and you had a good Eid. Just wanted to see how you were. Take care, and remember: never tie your shoelaces in revolving doors. Sofia. X
See. I can be caring too.
7 p.m. Bloody hell. Tattooed neighbour was out front, leaning under the bonnet of his car. Katie’s long-term advice has always been to kill things with kindness. I wasn’t going to bother, but just as I walked past him he stood up, resting his hands on his hips and frowning at his handiwork. Given what happened today, I thought I might be doing my community a favour by being friendly and gracious in the face of prejudice.
‘Car trouble?’ I asked.
‘The oil’s gone,’ he replied without looking my way.
‘Hmmm, yes. Oil is important.’
I mean, what else is a person to say?
He looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Keeps things smooth. Running smooth-ly.’
Unlike this conversation. What was I saying? He slammed the bonnet shut, his look loosely translating into, What the hell are you talking about? Which was fair enough. A person should know when to quit while they’re behind so I smiled my best fake smile and left him to it.
10.30 p.m. I prayed and checked my phone to see if Imran had replied. Perhaps he’s changed his number? Dad was smoking in the garden while listening to old melancholy Indian songs. I hung my head outside my bedroom window in an attempt to inhale as much second-hand nicotine as possible. Got a bit bored, so decided to go and sit with him. For company and not just close proximity to nicotine.
I looked at his cigarette – the only relief for living on the edge of anxiety. (But not as good as praying. Obviously.)
‘You know smoking kills?’ I said. Yes, I know – hypocrisy. But what I mean is smoking ten-a-day kills, not smoking once when you’re feeling especially stressed, or have just been called a terrorist.
‘Soffoo, you will learn that a person should be allowed some vices.’
I propped my feet up on the chair.
‘I don’t know how I feel abou
t gender discrimination with these vices.’ Because I mean, it’s all right for a man to light up and puff away, imagine if I decided to join in?
Horror!
Scandal!
Bullshit.
The politics of double standards. Dad patted down his flyaway grey hair. He seemed to contemplate something, giving me a sideward glance. For a minute I wondered if he knew about my ocaasional smoking . . . but in that eventuality I’d kindly point to his packet of cigarettes and hypocrisy. It’s good to have pre-prepared comebacks.
‘I can’t argue,’ he said, nodding. ‘Acha, shh. This is a beautiful song. Wah!’
He sat back and closed his eyes. Mum walked into the garden and looked around at the flowerbeds.
‘When will you put on my solo lights?’
Had an image of Dad wearing a blanket of solar lights. Dad opened an eye and closed it again.
‘Who wants tea?’ shouted Maria from the kitchen.
Everyone. Obviously.
We sat around quietly (shockingly enough), drinking tea, the music still playing in the background. It won’t be long until Maria leaves and it’ll be just me, Mum and Dad. There are talks of converting the attic after the wedding’s over . . . (Will I be the Mad Woman in the Attic?)
‘Oh, I know this song,’ said Maria.
I think parents reserve a certain look for their first-borns, whatever’s happening in the world. Perhaps having children is an attempt to try and glue that world back together. There’s optimism – although I doubt a person who has babies gives it that much thought. Mum and Dad both watched Maria – the departing daughter – sad and proud. Parents can be so Bollywood sometimes. She’s only getting married, though it’ll be a bore not being able to throw my dirty socks at her. Don’t think my parents would ever look at me with that kind of pride. But then her life’s as orderly as Mum’s Tupperware cupboard; she finished her studies, got a job, found a boy (though granted she had to sit through about fifty different ones, with their parents, in our living room. Ungh – never doing that, thanks). But at last she found one and now she’ll marry him. One petite foot in front of the other: clean, consecutive, steps. I prefer hopscotch. Just so happens there’s more chance of a stumble and fall.