Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  When I got home and told the family about the book, they were almost rapturous. (I suspect Mum more so because of the advance.) Dad took my hand, kissed it and looked at Maria and Mum.

  ‘See? You make your luck.’

  I didn’t go into detail about the nature of the book. Then Maria asked Dad to take some decorations out of the attic so wedding shenanigans trumped literary endeavours, which was useful in this instance.

  The more I think about it, the more I realise some good can come of these bad stories. And why can’t I write? One can do anything one puts one’s mind to – it’s all a matter of perspective. I’ve cut down smoking by at least half. I’m a marginally intelligent, selectively confident, assertive woman who isn’t defined by what’s on her head, but by what’s inside it. I could become a role model for Muslim youth: wise, sage-like and revered in the community. This week will be the beginning of a long line of incredibly productive weeks. Now must call Hannah to make sure she’s not in a stupor of depression, and keep my anti-polygamy feelings to myself in the manner of a truly non-judgemental person.

  Oh dear, fag broke in purse.

  11.20 p.m.

  From Katie: Shaadi, Sweetu. It’s the literary way forward. Xxx

  When God sends signs, who can ignore them? Perspective. Positivity. Sage-like.

  Saturday 10 September

  10.10 a.m. Shaadi.com? More like Shady.com. Yesterday I was mentally constructing an online profile while Tahir’s parents were over to discuss wedding plans. It hardly seems fair that I have to make all this wedding effort only for Maria to have a lifetime of getting laid. When they left and I finally managed to go online, I realised this was no normal site. According to Shady, being fair or wheatish (in skin tone, one presumes) affects my marriage prospects. As does the number of married siblings I have, and my blood group. Who’s ever described themselves as wheatish? When I voiced this concern to Mum, she just handed me a tube of Fair & Lovely. ‘I’ve told your chachu to bring more when he comes from Pakistan for the wedding.’ My dad’s brother must love all this task setting. She looked at my face. ‘You need it more than me.’

  Don’t marry a white person but do try to look like one. Sigh. But I must remember inheritance of choice, etc.

  There were a number of interests (the cyber equivalent of a lingering look?) from members of the non-Muslim kind and I wondered whether they could actually see I wear a hijab. Which was inclusive enough, but really, marrying a non-Muslim would be the most nonsensical thing for a hijabi to do. A) You’re meant to keep it in the religious family, which I’m very happy with because B) if ever I were to get married I’d rather like to grow in faith with the person who I’ve committed to for ever. While I’m not quite a ‘let’s live in each other’s pocket’ type of girl, sharing the fundamentals is rather basic. And anyone who says love is all that matters hasn’t quite grown up. This is long-term planning . . . and I mean afterlife kind of long term.

  I also received a picture match. How do they decide a picture match? Do they look at your photo and start filtering in accordance to what type of man you should marry, based on looks? In which case apparently I should marry a man whose goatee makes him look like he has testicles in lieu of a chin. Not that I’ve seen what testicles look like, but one gets the idea.

  Hey! Salaamssss! Am Pakistani man lukin Pakistani girl good and desent. She be good girl I be good husband happy we be Insh’Allah Allah blesing always.

  I called Foz, and thanked God I’m not actually looking for a husband on this thing.

  ‘Sofe,’ she replied in her ever calm manner. ‘If you want to find guys for research then you need to be proactive. Search for the type of man you’d like to go on a date with and send him an interest.’

  Note for book: Cyber-dating rules are different to real-world rules . . .

  ‘Han hasn’t responded to any of my messages. Is she pissed off?’ Foz asked.

  ‘No, but next time try to keep the salt away from her emotional wounds.’

  ‘What’s wrong with being honest? I like blunt advice.’

  ‘Dump Kam,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Point taken.’

  I flicked through some profile pages and ignored the under six-footers. Obviously.

  ‘OK, I’m going to call her again,’ she said. ‘You’d have thought after fifteen years of friendship she’d know what I mean.’

  ‘You’d have thought after fifteen years you’d know what not to say.’

  I clicked on a hottie’s profile. Non-Muslim. Shame.

  ‘Another good point. OK. Remember, Sofe, be proactive, not ho-active.’

  ‘Thanks, Foz.’

  I’ve expressed interest in four men who all seem relatively normal, don’t have a problem with spelling or grammar, and aren’t overly fond of emoticons.

  11 a.m. I’ve already received one response from Shady:

  A hijab???? Seriously??!! You’re living in the West!!!

  Who is this prejudiced person who suffers from punctuation hysteria, one might ask? A BBC correspondent. Had to double-check he was actually brown. In true Zen manner I wished him luck with his identity crisis.

  Maybe this is the scrutiny sage-like people suffer.

  3 p.m. Were the great writers in history also interrupted mid-writerly flow to visit people’s houses and give out celebratory ladoos? My pen will have to wait because everyone needs yellow sugar balls the size of a fist to clog their already ghee-filled arteries.

  Maria suspended wedding planning and tried to be helpful by giving me a writing timetable for the next month.

  ‘See, today you have between twelve and two-thirty to get started. We take a break, give out some invites and ladoos, come home, have dinner and you can carry on between . . .’

  To be honest, I stopped listening. I looked at the colour-coded paper.

  ‘The writing process is a creative one, Maars. You can’t just box it up and label it.’

  It’s not her fault she doesn’t get it.

  ‘I don’t want you wasting time,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to tell people I have an author for a sister.’ Yikes, Maria saying it out loud like that made it feel rather real. She looked at the timetable. ‘You have to be disciplined.’

  I’m beginning to realise the strain of people not understanding artistic development.

  3.15 p.m. Hmph, Dad’s managed to get out of parental duties by complaining about high blood pressure. Though God forbid he give up smoking. Mmmm, smoke . . .

  7.45 p.m. ‘Are you all right?’ Maria asked, stacking wedding invites (that weren’t going to be hand-delivered) on the coffee table.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, glancing at my reflection in the living-room mirror. Eugh. ‘Do I look like shit?’

  ‘No, you idiot. I mean are you all right with the whole Imran thing?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Fine. Although the next time an auntie or uncle asks when I’m getting married, I’m going to say I’ve taken a vow of chastity.’

  Nothing makes our people more uncomfortable than the mention of sex (or lack thereof).

  She inspected my face. ‘Not exactly what I’d planned. Me getting married and you dealing with a break-up.’

  Poor Maria was being elder sisterly, but I hadn’t even paid attention to that particular irony.

  ‘Well, thankfully break-ups aren’t fatal,’ I said, taking an invite and throwing it at her. ‘And stop pretending to worry about things other than your wedding.’

  ‘Shut up. It’s just if you were any more miserable, we’d have to disown you.’

  Hmph. And there’s me thinking I was putting on a relatively good show.

  ‘Don’t worry. Anyway, I’ve got a book to write.’

  ‘And that’s a lot more interesting than men.’

  Which I knew was a lie, but I let it slide. ‘It would just be far easier deciding to live life as a single person if everyone would let me.’

  ‘People are always going to ask when you’re getting married,’ said Maria. ‘
That’s what makes people actually get married.’

  I think there should be a ‘Marriage’ jar. Anyone who mentions it has to put in a pound. The proceeds can go towards funding research into arthritis and obsession.

  7.50 p.m. OK, must sit down and write. Write, write, write.

  7.55 p.m. Why are there no biscuits in the house? How can this be?? It’s probably a good thing though, as I’ll end up eating an entire packet and then spend the next three days wasting prayer time on asking for a stomach bug.

  7.58 p.m. I can’t live like this. Surely it’s bad for my mental state to deprive myself of things in life. It’s like in Islam where everything should be in moderation, and not having biscuits at all is the opposite of moderation if you think about it.

  8.45 p.m. Honestly. You can’t even go to Sainsbury’s and get a packet of Lemon Puffs without being given advice. I had my headphones in and was speaking to Fozia.

  ‘I’m going to give Kam an ultimatum. Hannah’s on to something.’

  ‘I’m not a fan of those,’ I replied, remembering being on the receiving end of Imran’s ultimatum. ‘I prefer a more organic approach to love and life.

  ‘You know what the problem is?’ I continued. ‘There are the men who’ll marry a hijabi – but then expect her to move in with a hole-in-the-wall, or think she’s going to be this weird paragon of traditional values.’ I sighed. ‘And then there are the men who are all, “You’re living in the west – what’s with the hijab?” Honestly, I can’t help it if I like God. Life would feel so much harder without God, you know?’

  The person next to me glanced at me and moved swiftly away.

  ‘Well, I’m no hijabi and look at me.’

  ‘Excuse me? Excuse me, hi . . .’

  I turned around and looked up to see a brown (wheatish?) man standing in front of me.

  ‘You dropped your, er . . .’ He looked at the packet. ‘Lemon Puffs?’

  He scanned my basket that was stocked with cakes and muffins (because what if there was an emergency like today, except it was in the middle of the night – where would I get my biscuits from? And with my spirituality at stake too).

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  He leaned forward a little and stared at me as if I had something on my face. I leaned back.

  ‘Sorry. Have we met before?’ he asked.

  I looked at his unfortunate pink shirt, green scarf ensemble. ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s not a line,’ he said. ‘I swear.’

  ‘OK.’ I didn’t think it was a line – if I thought it was a line I’d probably have laughed in his face, they never fail to amuse me – but there was no need for him to look so horrified at the prospect. I waited for him to give back my biscuits.

  ‘So, are they good – your Lemon Puffs? I need some good cookies.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Fozia on the phone.

  ‘You’re American?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she replied.

  ‘Not you, Foz – hang on, I’ll call you back.’

  ‘What gave it away?’ he said in his distinct American accent.

  ‘Your lack of knowledge of Lemon Puffs, obviously. And the fact that cookies in England are these things.’ I picked up a packet of Marylands to demonstrate. ‘These,’ I said, taking the Lemon Puffs from him and putting them back in my basket, ‘are what we call biscuits.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Biscuits.’ He gave me a weird look again. ‘You’re sure I don’t know you?’

  ‘No. I have a vague face. People I don’t know think they recognise me all the time, and people I know never do.’

  He picked up another packet of Lemon Puffs, looked at me and put them back. ‘I don’t think I trust your opinion.’

  ‘OK.’ Weirdo.

  I was about to call Foz back when he said, ‘You know the problem with Muslim dating?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear,’ he said, gesturing towards my headphones.

  Err, actually, I believe you’ll find you can help by not eavesdropping.

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘So many restrictions,’ he said, eyes hovering over my scarf. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I get if you’re conservative, but everyone’s too ready to jump from coffee to marriage.’

  OK thanks, strange person, for your opinion, but who said I’m conservative. Talk about judging a person by their scarf.

  ‘And why do you assume that everyone who wears a hijab is conservative?’

  ‘Oh? Is there something you’re not telling people?’

  He raised his eyebrows suggestively. That’s not what I bloody meant! I’m not some dodgy hijabi, rocking up in a scarf everywhere but secretly conducting illicit liaisons.

  ‘I mean generally.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t mean to sound obnoxious.’

  ‘Do you live in London?’ I asked.

  ‘Just moved.’

  ‘Then don’t worry. You’ll learn that eavesdropping isn’t in keeping with British culture.’

  Moron.

  ‘Is being rude in keeping with British culture?’

  Hm. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Being rude’s not the same as giving an education,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, you’re an educator?’

  ‘More a fountain of knowledge, actually.’

  ‘So when I visit my aunt today and she asks what I found in the confectionary aisle, I’ll put the bag of shopping down and tell her, “biscuits and wisdom”. ’ He paused. ‘From an unexpected source.’

  That, despite my better inclination and his ironic tone (which I’ll forgive in this instance), did make me smile.

  ‘Isn’t life a wonder?’ I said.

  ‘Well, life and Lemon Puffs,’ he replied.

  ‘Exactly. Remember,’ I added, pointing to the Lemon Puffs, ‘biscuits.’ I picked up the Marylands. ‘Cookies.’

  ‘All I’m saying is if you’re going to eavesdrop then at least have the courtesy to pretend you didn’t hear,’ I said to Fozia when I called her back.

  ‘Teaches you to stop being so loud.’

  ‘You know I can never tell. “Everyone’s so ready to jump from coffee to marriage.” ’

  ‘Was he good-looking?’

  ‘He needed a haircut. Looked a bit like a jumped-up tosser with a scarf flung over his shoulder. But you know, whatever.’

  Silence. Fozia can speak volumes with her silence. She can argue a point and win the argument just with how carefully she positions these silences. I’ve always been an admirer of this (being of the non-silent type – clearly). I glanced around to see if jumped-up tosser might be in one of the queues, so I could smile to show that I can be friendly. But he was lost amidst the throng of weekend shoppers.

  Sunday 11 September

  10 a.m. Maria was organising tea lights in boxes according to colour. Dad sighed and drank his tea as he watched bearded faces splashed across the TV screen – ten years since 9/11. I remember that day so clearly. This is how we were – glued in front of the TV, anxious, depressed. A shift had taken place, and for a while we’d been displaced.

  That evening Dad had suggested we go to the mosque, which didn’t happen very often. The imam gave a sermon about our duties as Muslims and told us to pray for the people who had lost their loved ones in New York. You hear all these stories about mosques being breeding grounds for radicals, so, I have to be honest, I was relieved this imam hadn’t lost the plot.

  ‘It is a test from Allah; for all of us.’ He paused and sighed. It took a few moments before he carried on. ‘One of the greatest things a person can face on earth is the test of separation. Separation, in any form, is loss, but remember: the greatest separation is that of hope. Ignore people who blame us for the actions of a few, because a person who has faith is never separated from hope. Do good deeds, Brothers and Sisters. For everyone. Start with your neighbour – even they have rights over you – because when life is over, your good deeds will be all you take.’

&nbs
p; Two weeks later, I wore the hijab. Good deeds are kind of limited to giving up my seat on the Tube. And as for the neighbour! What if he’s a (miserable) racist? Hmm?

  Mum shouted from the kitchen, ‘Did you bring the potatoes?’

  Dad smacked his hand against his head without looking away from the TV.

  ‘You remember your cigarettes but not food for dinner. Very good.’

  ‘Panchods, look at it.’ Dad’s swearing always peaks at bad news. He leaned forward, stretching out his hand as if he were holding something between his fingertips. ‘People don’t care about life any more. We either shout at each other, or shoot at each other.’

  ‘I’ll get Tahir to bring potatoes on his way here.’ Maria put the box of tea lights to one side and picked up the phone.

  I thought about The Racist. ‘As if shouting ever made a difference.’ Not that shooting does. Obviously.

  ‘Shakeel!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘The toaster has broken!’ Dad stood up and looked down at me and Maars. ‘Look at what your baba’s become, girls. There is a technique to shouting.’ He winked as he added, ‘Learn from your mama.’

  Since I’m not really in the mood to learn from Mum, I might as well learn from the Qur’an.

  12 p.m. Here’s a thought (the Qur’an’s always been very good at helping me produce those): perhaps everyone should feel guilty on behalf of whatever stupid killing spree someone’s decided to go on, even if they’re not responsible. Guilt equals productivity.

  6.10 p.m. Oh, God. I got ready to see the girls and came downstairs. The news was still on. Mum was telling potato-bearing Tahir he should’ve got a maroon tie in the summer sales. Maria was telling him that she won’t speak to him at their wedding if the tie doesn’t match her bridal suit. Dad turned up the volume as Mum said, ‘When you’ve both finished lunch you can put on solo lights before it gets dark.’

  All I did was ask that the TV be switched off.