Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘It’s bad enough being called a terrorist, do we have to watch news about it all day too?’ I said. As if the news was going help keep hope alive.

  Slight mistake mentioning The Racist to the family.

  ‘I told you, don’t wear that hijab,’ said Mum.

  ‘O-ho, Mehnaz, calm down. She is a grown girl.’ Dad said this with more conviction than I suspect he felt.

  ‘Who was this guy? Where was it?’

  ‘Calm down, Maars. He never did anything. He wouldn’t have the guts.’ Maria flashed a look at Tahir, who leaned back in the sofa.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do with his guts, calling my little sister a terrorist.’

  Unlike myself, Maria isn’t all words and will pack a punch harder than Tahir can imagine. Maybe he’ll become personally acquainted with it when they’re married.

  ‘You’re always coming home late. Have you seen outside, how bad the world is? Shakeel,’ Mum said, looking at my dad, ‘tell her how bad the world is.’

  ‘It’s not good, you know,’ piped up Tahir. ‘I think you should stay home today.’

  Unbelievable. I sat down and looked around the room. ‘What’s next? Should I stop going to work? Stay in the house all day, maybe? Tie the apron strings and resign myself to life within four walls?’

  ‘Soffoo, you know I don’t like sarcasm,’ said Dad.

  The doorbell rang and it was Auntie Reena with her six-year-old granddaughter, Asma.

  ‘Remember Nargis’s daughter?’ she said, joining in the discussion du jour.

  How can we forget Nargis’s daughter? Our very own cautionary tale of belief gone wrong.

  ‘See what you’ve done? You always let her do what she likes,’ said Mum, looking at Dad. She turned to Auntie Reena. ‘If I had left him years ago there wouldn’t be this problem.’

  According to Mum, the world is falling apart because she and Dad stayed together. Maria and I looked at each other – Tahir glanced uncomfortably at our parents. I really wish they wouldn’t publicise their lost dreams of divorce. I tried to catch Tahir’s eye, give him an isn’t it funny when these two start this nonsense? look. He, unfortunately, was too busy spectating.

  ‘Haan,’ responded Dad. ‘Then I also wouldn’t have a heart problem.’ He leaned towards Tahir. ‘Your auntie is meant to help with my blood pressure.’

  ‘Le, pressure,’ scoffed Mum. She opened the box of solar lights, handing them over to Dad, who inspected each one before putting them on the floor. Maria looked as relieved as I felt. One never can tell whether our parents’ arguments are going to turn into a full-scale recounting of all that was wrong with their marriage. Those late-night prayers of mine when they used to shout at each other have come in handy, I believe. Maria and I are constantly impressed at the convenience of time too – it’s sapped both parties of their energy to hurl accusations.

  ‘I’m thirty,’ I said, getting back to the issue before time decided to go into reverse.

  ‘Sofe, that doesn’t mean you don’t listen to your parents.’ Tahir had got comfortable again and began chomping on some crisps.

  Asma started swishing around in her dress and flashing her knickers, while dancing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Stop doing that.’ Auntie Reena grabbed her and Asma started crying – all the while I had my heels on, ready to meet the girls.

  The doorbell rang (again!). I went to answer it as I heard Tahir say, ‘Well, just sometimes, Maar, Sofe can be a bit, you know, la-di-dah.’

  La-di-dah? I opened the door. Uh-oh, tattooed neighbour. The last thing we needed was for him to see that he lives next to a zoo. He stood there as I heard Mum say, ‘O-ho and now it’s getting late and you haven’t put on my solo lights.’

  I looked at him, expectantly. He stood there as if I’d disturbed him.

  ‘Hi?’ I said.

  ‘Chalo, let’s not get hot-headed or we won’t get dessert,’ said Dad.

  ‘I think you have my package.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Before he could answer, something smashed and I heard Mum exclaim, ‘Oh my vase!’

  Back in the living room shards of glass were scattered over the flooring. Auntie Reena was comforting Asma, Mum was already sweeping the floor, and Maria was telling Tahir he should be careful about what he says. Dad looked behind me and frowned, then ushered the neighbour into the room with a wave of his hand.

  The neighbour looked around, towering over the brown jungle he’d stepped into.

  Maria nodded towards the door and mouthed, ‘Go.’ What will I do when she no longer lives here? But I wasn’t about to be a prisoner in my own home. Like a prisoner of war. Except the war is outside, and not a real war; rather, more like guerrilla warfare where no one’s sure whose side anybody’s on.

  ‘Right. Bye, everyone,’ I shouted. Before anyone could respond, I legged it and as I shut the door behind me I heard Mum ask tattooed neighbour, ‘Do you know how to put on solo lights?’

  Tuesday 20 September

  6.45 a.m. ‘Soffee toffeeeeee!’

  Honestly. The only person who can get away with such a chirpy call at six in the morning is Suj.

  ‘Suj fudge, you’re back.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky bastard dating you and when the hell is he putting a ring on your finger?’

  She’s been asking me this question for the better part of ten years. I sat up in my bed and rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Any day now.’

  ‘I’m knackered. Five weeks doing photo shoots has done my head in.’

  ‘I always knew you belonged on the red carpet,’ I said.

  ‘We belong on the red carpet.’

  I didn’t bother going into the fact that I didn’t look like a model, whereas Suj certainly did.

  ‘Has Foz quit her job yet?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has Zulfi set the date?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has Imran decided to move out of the hole-in-the-wall?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Forget that. He can’t even reply to a message. Poor you, coming back to Neverland. Actually, come to think of it, poor us.’’

  ‘What the fuck is wrong with him?’ she asked.

  Oh, God. I just spent a whole month praying away the question What is wrong with me that he didn’t want to move out, but I swear if people keep asking about it I’m going to have to become a hermit.

  ‘Anyway, forget him,’ said Suj. ‘Let’s see if that Zulfi shapes up.’

  ‘Isn’t it slightly, you know, risky?’ I asked.

  She paused. ‘I dunno, Sofe. When you see them together you’re like, yeah, this is all right. But then it’s like, he already has a family.’

  Oh dear.

  ‘Thank God you’re home,’ I said. I told her about all these ultimatums flying out of our friends’ mouths.

  ‘Damn right. You know you don’t get things unless you demand them. Speaking of, I’ve met the fittest bloke, but he’s black. Right, just got off the plane and wanted to call my Soffee toffee before I spend the next three days sleeping off my hangover. Love you.’

  7 a.m. Ooh dear – jeans feel a bit snug. But it’s better to be a little bit fat and embroiled in a struggle to become a size eight than actually being a size eight – where would you go from there? It’s not the destination that counts, it’s the journey.

  7.05 a.m. Wish the journey didn’t involve having a muffin top.

  10 a.m. Actually, journey into work did include a muffin, which won’t help the muffin top but does help my general happiness.

  I had forty-six new messages on Shady. I scanned down the list, squinting to get a better look at the photo next to each message and stopped short. Surely it couldn’t be . . . I clicked on the profile and who was it other than the jumped-up tosser from Sainsbury’s! According to his profile, he’s very serious about settling down. I think he should first learn about cookies and biscuits to be honest. Bloody online dating. Now he really will recognise me. Weird, cyber-s
talking, OCD-inducing tools show you who’s checked your profile.

  3.20 p.m.

  From An American in London: Hello. Just so you know, I told you I recognised you from somewhere.

  PS The Lemon Puffs were interesting.

  I looked at his message. A response wasn’t really warranted, but if he wants to make a point then I have those too.

  3.25 p.m.

  From Hello, Publicity: OK, fine. I told you so about the Lemon Puffs. I’m happy to impart knowledge.

  3.30 p.m.

  From An American in London: Just to clarify, I didn’t say thank you. I was just appreciating Lemon Puffs.

  3.34 p.m.

  From Hello, Publicity: I say potato, you say patata.

  3.36 p.m.

  From An American in London: Bit soon to call the whole thing off.

  6.45 p.m. I’ve spent the majority of the afternoon not pitching books to news and mags editors, but firing emails back and forth with the American (New Yorker), aka Naim. Since signing in and out of Shady will probably alert the IT police, I gave him my Gmail address. I do wonder what type of man has the time to respond almost instantly to emails. Is he bored? Does he not have a job? Is emailing women online his job? To which I couldn’t say much, considering emailing men is forming a part of mine.

  8 p.m.

  To: Sharif, Naim

  From: Khan, Sofia

  Subject: Hi

  So, what brings you to our little island?

  8.15 p.m.

  To: Khan, Sofia

  From: Sharif, Naim

  Subject RE: Hi

  I want to say Lemon Puffs, but actually most of my dad’s side of the family live in Slough so that’s where I am for now. I was just visiting my aunt when I bumped into you. My mom passed away a year ago so Dad wanted to be with his brothers and sisters. I guess I wanted a change and joined him, helping out with the family’s business. I’m still figuring out what your city has to offer that New York doesn’t.

  And what brings you to Shaadi?

  Death is an odd kind of thing; both imminent and surreal. I remember Suj’s mum dying when we were in college.

  ‘You think the world’s going to stop,’ she said. ‘And it doesn’t. It just fucking carries on.’

  I saw the world through Suj’s blurred vision and wished I could make it stop for her. Even for a moment. It all seemed to be a dream. An absurd, abstract dream.

  ‘Is she in a better place now, Sofe? You believe that stuff, don’t you?’

  I told her I did. It makes me shudder to think about people who don’t.

  I re-read Naim’s email and realised that one shouldn’t form opinions based on articles of clothing. I, of all people, should know this . . .

  From: Khan, Sofia

  To: Sharif, Naim

  Subject RE: Hi

  I’m really sorry to hear that.

  I think you’ll find London has plenty to offer that NY doesn’t. You just have to look in the right places.

  I’m actually on here as a bit of a project. I’m (trying) to write a Muslim dating book so this serves well as research.

  Sofia.

  8.25 p.m. Dad came into my room and sat down, clasping his hands together.

  ‘Soffoo.’

  ‘Baba.’

  He looked at the boxes containing wedding stuff in the corner of the room.

  ‘The wedding is in four months.’ Before he could continue, his mobile rang. ‘Haan!’ he barked down the phone. He grunted a reply before swearing at the person on the other end of the line and putting the phone down.

  ‘Your mama tells me I can’t smoke.’ He poked his head out of the door. ‘And then she is the reason I smoke.’ Word, Dad. Word. ‘So, as my daughter, you have to hide my cigarettes in case she catches me.’

  Ha! Five years ago, the idea of hiding anything from Mum would’ve had my dad in a rampage. Amazing how heart problems can solve anger problems.

  ‘How much will you pay me?’ I asked.

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned back.

  ‘My daughter is blackmailing me?’

  ‘Yep. And you might as well make it worth my while. Your wife has the eyes of a hawk and the hearing of a bat.’

  ‘Haan. Bat.’ He sat, thinking about this for a while. ‘By end of the wedding I’ll give you fifty pounds.’

  ‘You want me to hide your cigarettes for the next four months and all you’re giving me is fifty lousy pounds?’

  He flared his nostrils.

  ‘Baba, listen.’ I got up and put both my hands on his shoulders. ‘Let’s call it a hundred quid a month, you’ll get your (rationed) cigarettes and I’ll lie for you. And you know a daughter should never lie to her parents.’

  ‘Fittaymoo.’

  I shook my head – honestly, my own father cursing me.

  ‘If you’d just given me and Maria pocket money when we were kids instead of saying how western that was, we wouldn’t have had to learn how to hustle.’ I took my hands off his shoulders as he got up. ‘I think an advance is important. To foster trust.’

  I put my hand out as he reached into his pocket and got his wallet out, handing me two crisp fifty-pound notes. He squeezed my nose between his fingers, squinting at me, and said, ‘I’ll be keeping count of my cigarettes.’

  Damn.

  Wednesday 28 September

  What’s Love Got To Do With It?’ by Yes I’m Muslim, Please Get Over It

  On www.sofiasblog.co.uk

  (NB: Recycle material for dating book. Because it’s good for the environment of my brain.)

  When our immigrant parents crossed an ocean, for evermore, they also crossed certain boundaries of understanding, which, of course, they didn’t quite understand. My sister came home from a date once. Mum asked what happened.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘Just didn’t really click.’

  Mum nodded, a confused expression forming as she went back to grinding the ginger. I went on a date a few months later and Mum asked how it had gone.

  ‘Nice guy.’

  Mum’s face went from disgruntled housewife to hopeful mother.

  ‘But no click,’ I added.

  The same confused expression was etched a little deeper as Mum went back to chopping up the parsley.

  A friend of mine came over one day and was describing a man her parents had set her up with. ‘What was wrong with him?’ asked Mum.

  ‘He was a bit quiet. We didn’t click.’

  Confusion had morphed into incomprehension. Thoughts of ginger, parsley, garlic, were all abandoned. Mum leaned forward, bringing out her hands as if she were about to make a sacrificial offering.

  ‘What is this . . . click?’

  And there it was, that very ocean in our living room.

  9.10 a.m. I signed into my Gmail account, trying to figure out how to pitch to Stylist for Shain Murphy (how, how, how do hippos fit into contemporary, city women’s lives?) and noticed I hadn’t received a reply from Naim. Was it wrong to have mentioned the dating book? Should I go undercover?

  10.05 a.m.

  From Hannah: Brace yourself . . . I’m getting married! Next month!

  10.40 a.m. I can’t believe it! Zzzz Zulfi has pulled his finger out and set a date. Does this mean that people can change and surprise you? Or did he just break under the weight of ultimatum – which is a charming story.

  I asked whether she’s sure. I mean really sure – because humans are pretty great at self-delusion. She said she loved him, which didn’t really answer my question. But apparently if you argue with that logic (if that’s what you want to call it) then you’re a cynic, God forbid. That, and of course Hannah’s thirty-one – funny how age is always inserted into the equation of love. I can sit here and argue about the implications of polygamy until I’m no longer brown in the face, but no one’s allowed to contest matters of the heart. Unless the heart wants religion – in which case there is no shortage of people to tell you that you’re a nut.

  12 p.m. Still no
email from the American.

  4.55 p.m. No email, and I want a muffin.

  9.45 p.m. ‘I thought you wanted a simple wedding?’

  Suj, Foz and I looked at the pile of magazines Hannah slammed on the table as she ordered a virgin mojito.

  ‘I’ll have a skinny cappuccino, thanks, babe,’ said Suj, handing the drinks menu back to the waitress.

  ‘Sorry, we only have semi-skimmed.’

  ‘Oh. All right, I’ll have a vodka then.’

  Hannah and I cleared our throats.

  ‘Bollocks, I forgot I’m with a bunch of Muslims. Black coffee then.’

  Poor Suj.

  ‘Yes. Simplicity is key. But there’s no need to be ghetto about it,’ said Hannah.

  Note for book: When people say they want a small wedding, they almost always lie.

  I told them about the brief emailing episode with the American.

  ‘Small world. Great story for the grandkids.’ Hannah picked up a magazine from the pile.

  Weddings also give people tunnel vision; at the end of which there is always some form of extravagant party – for everyone. She’s obviously forgotten that I’m a conscientious celibate now, as opposed to one by default.

  ‘He’s gone AWOL because I mentioned the book.’

  ‘Why are you being honest?’ said Foz. ‘So soon?’

  Sigh.

  ‘I like that she doesn’t care what people think,’ said Hannah, flicking through the magazine. ‘It’s refreshing.’

  ‘This is your fault, you know.’ Foz jabbed her finger in Suj’s direction. ‘You need to stop letting her take everything so lightly.’

  ‘All right, love. Why don’t you use that finger to call Kam and tell him he’s a tosser?’ Suj put her hand on my knee and squeezed it. ‘And Sofe can do whatever she wants.’

  ‘Forget Kam,’ I said. ‘Call post-divorce Riaz. He was a good egg.’

  ‘Now, what do you think of this flower arrangement?’ Hannah slid the magazine towards us.

  Note for book: Weddings also cause selective hearing.

  ‘No carnations,’ said Foz, colouring a little, presumably at the mention of Riaz.