Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘I’m a prick,’ I said. I must be. Me and my Oh, I’m going to be alone, I’m going to be alone – blah blah bleugh bleugggghhh.

  Hannah brought me a mug of tea and sat down. ‘I married a married man. Your prickishness doesn’t impress me.’

  Suj opened the window, sticking her head outside. ‘Han, love, if fancying someone equals prickishness, then I’m the biggest one of them all.’

  That’s the first thing that made me laugh all week. Fozia held out a cigarette for Suj. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Trust me, it helps the pain . . .’

  ‘Yeah, until it kills you,’ replied Suj.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I exclaimed. ‘I turned into one of those optimistic people.’

  Suj exhaled, shaking her head. ‘We all do that when we like someone.’

  ‘Did he ever mention marriage?’ asked Han.

  I shrugged. There was the mention of kids, but suggestions are not commitments. I looked at Fozia who, bar handing me a cigarette on demand, hadn’t said much.

  ‘He’s called me eight times in the past three days and I’m running out of excuses for why I can’t pick up. Why doesn’t he call his bloody girlfriend?’

  I showed the girls a picture of her, Zai-knob, lying in a field, hand resting on forehead as if posing for a magazine shoot.

  ‘Oh, Toffee. He’s a prick who wears a scarf in Sainsbury’s and she’s a prick, posing in a field – they’re made for each other. This is what you do,’ continued Suj, pulling her head back through the window, ‘you tell him to fuck off.’

  ‘You know my theory,’ said Hannah. ‘To get over someone you just have to move on to someone new. Just make sure he doesn’t already have a wife.’

  ‘Forget that, Toffee, where does he live? We’ll go over there and slash his tyres.’ Suj stood up and grabbed her car keys. ‘Come on. Let’s go. Hannah’ll keep watch and, Foz, you can keep handing out those death sticks to Sofe.’

  Yes, I’d like Suj to slash his sodding tyres! Why the phone calls, why the meet-ups, why the flirtations? But then every time my anger rises it’s quelled by the fact that I’m the one who was all about it being platonic – it’s all for the book. Pfft. Maybe Suj is right -about men and women being friends – and especially when you’re all Muslim. Scarcity (of Muslim men) breeds potential for emotional dependency.

  I finished my cigarette and stood up.

  ‘Fun as that sounds, can you drop me home instead?’

  Note for book: On one hand not sleeping with someone saves you from increased emotional drama (which I’m still glad about to be honest – imagine how much worse I’d feel if something had happened), on the other hand, without it – without a kiss, or grabbing someone’s hand, holding it as you walk down the street, you can never be sure as to what it really is. Also, if you’re going to have male friends, keep it safe and make sure they’re not Muslim.

  Saturday 4 February

  8.10 a.m. Mum came into my room and started vacuuming as if I wasn’t comatose in bed.

  ‘You have to write anyway. Waisay you say you’re too busy to do housework but every evening you come home and don’t get out of bed.’

  ‘Mum, I feel ill.’

  She switched the vacuum off and put both her hands on her wobbly hips.

  ‘When I had you and Maria and your baba was at work I had hundred and two temperature. There was no central heating, it was December and your grandfather had just died. I couldn’t even go to the funeral in Pakistan. Lekin I got up, washed both your clothes by hand, and started painting the walls. I’m very strong.’

  I’ve obviously heard this story before, but sometimes I forget that beneath her ever-present need to clean and do something, there’s an immigrant woman – full of stories about death, and washing clothes in a cold climate.

  I heaved myself out of bed, kissed her on the cheek, and decided to dress myself.

  8.40 a.m. There are several ways in which I could react to this situation. I could succumb to classic Bollywood grief and give way to listening to melancholy songs, re-read all his messages and use his FB profile picture as my phone’s screensaver before taking my sister up on her offer to ‘beat the shit out of him’. Or I could write this book. But no one did that, sitting in their home, crying over crumbling Lemon Puffs.

  8.45 a.m.

  To Fozia: Darling, apple of my eye, sanity in my ever-so-slightly ridiculous life – time is ticking for the book and I need new inspiration . . . do me a favour and come speed-dating with me tonight. PLEASE.

  From Fozia: Lordy, darling. Can’t. The thing is, Kam called me last night . . .

  I didn’t bother reading the rest of her message before calling her.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ I exclaimed. Whatever happened to our poignant conversation on the wedding dance floor? ‘Stay away. Remember The Terminator? Kam’s an indestructible knob sent to stamp on your will. Don’t let him.’

  ‘But what if . . .?’

  ‘Ah! Shh. Listen. I have a great plan. We’ll go speed-dating, and this’ll take your mind off Kam, and my mind off What’s-his-face . . .’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ll be a lot better if you said yes to that speed-dating.’

  She paused. ‘OK, fine.’

  I put the phone down and pushed thoughts of Naim into the less well-lit corners of my mind.

  Note for book: Whatever you do, don’t play heartbroken damsel to his Casanova complex.

  10 a.m. I told Mum I’m going speed-dating with Fozia. Her response? ‘She doesn’t wear a scarf. She will grab all the men.’

  Note for Book: Scarf for spirituality – excellent.

  Scarf for speed-dating – apparently bad.

  10.30 a.m. Conall was brushing his teeth when he answered the door. He went into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. Then he came into the living room and switched the TV on, all the while brushing away. When he’d finished, he left the toothbrush on the kitchen table top.

  He sat on the floor with a drawer resting on his lap, apparently looking for something. I was thinking about Naim and began typing – a sudden bout of inspiration.

  ‘You’re stabbing at your keyboard like you’re about to murder it,’ he said without turning around.

  ‘Let me ask you a question. If you call a girl every day, give her nicknames, that kind of thing, what do you mean? You know, from a male perspective.’

  ‘Is this a hypothetical question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I logged onto the Internet to check Naim’s Facebook.

  ‘Well, seems I like her company.’

  Like her company? Why don’t you just tell a person they’re ugly and get it over with?

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said.

  ‘Are you talking about someone in particular here?’

  I moved the laptop to one side and looked out of the window. The weather had cleared up and the sky was bright blue.

  ‘Hannah said it all boils down to the fact that he can’t be arsed to be woken up for fajr. Morning prayer.’

  ‘I know what fajr is.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Conall looked outside the window too, probably wondering what I was staring at.

  ‘Don’t suppose this has anything to do with a certain someone who was outside your house Christmas Eve.’

  I looked back at him.

  ‘What does it matter, anyway?’

  He stood up and put the drawer back in the cupboard. As he put his coat on, he asked what I was doing tonight. I hesitated for a moment. Not exactly the type of thing you want to shout out about, but since I doubt that Conall cares much, I told him.

  ‘Muslim speed-dating? What’s that then? Dating without any alcohol, behind a screen or something?’

  ‘Not behind a screen, Mr Offensive. Though there won’t be alcohol. For obvious reasons.’

  ‘Why, in the name of Christ, are you going speed-dating?’

  ‘Multi-tasking. This way my mum will think I’m serious about finding a husba
nd, and I will find material for my book, obviously.’

  ‘You don’t want to find a husband?’

  Had to think about this. Husband sounds so impersonal and contrived. Mission marriage. But then there is that partner-shaped hole. Or is that specifically Naim-shaped? I can’t quite decide.

  ‘Whatever really.’

  ‘Well, it’s always good to see passion.’

  ‘I’m fine being alone.’ I looked at Naim’s FB page. Conall picked up a book and put it in his bag.

  ‘Apathy and conviction aren’t the same thing,’ he said rather quietly.

  Well! Aren’t we Mr Philosophical.

  ‘And you don’t know what alone, alone really is.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’

  He said you’re welcome (albeit ironically) and left. When he was out of the house I realised that he seems kind of alone, alone. Perhaps I should’ve said something nicer than ‘thanks’.

  5.45 p.m.

  Conall,

  I put your toothbrush back in the bathroom. Where it generally should be. You don’t want to get ants and stuff.

  Sofia.

  10.25 p.m. Oh my actual God. Thank God Fozia’s a better person than me and hasn’t used the hideousness that was this evening to verbally beat me with. Turns out there were precisely two (circumstantially) nice-looking guys there who didn’t in the space of three minutes put me to sleep. Although she got both their numbers, so I suppose she couldn’t be too mad at me.

  I live in a world where Mum is right.

  11.35 p.m. Argh! Naim calling again! Do I pick up? Do I ignore it? His name flashing on my screen is giving me a headache. OK, be calm, will pick up and be casual.

  Or . . . just ignore it until one day he gets tired of calling and goes away.

  11.37 p.m. He’s just left me an angry voice message. A person can (reluctantly) get used to the idea of someone not wanting to be with them. It’s when that someone doesn’t leave you alone, it gets a little confusing.

  Does saving the message make me the type of person I’d roll my eyes at?

  I don’t need to call anyone to answer that question. Shame.

  Sunday 5 February

  11 a.m.

  Sofe,

  I didn’t know we got ants in the middle of winter . . . And don’t worry – they don’t like mint.

  Conall.

  PS How was last night? Book material? Husband material? Surfacing of passion/feelings?

  I find it rather judgemental of Conall to assume I have no passion. Also, I’ve just Googled this and apparently mint is a good ant deterrent. Wish brain were its very own Google machine.

  7 p.m. I am sat on my bed, crosslegged, staring at my phone with Naim’s name flashing on the screen, again. Gone. OK, good. I wish he’d get the message.

  From Naim: What the hell is wrong with you? You haven’t replied to my messages, you’re not picking up the phone and I’ve called you a million times because I need to speak to you.

  Oh dear.

  7.25 p.m. So this is how the conversation went.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, hello. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Are you fucking Houdini?’

  ‘Nice language by the way.’ I mean, who the hell is he to speak to me like that? ‘What did you need to talk about?’

  Pause.

  ‘Do you realise we haven’t spoken properly for over a week?’

  ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re left in peace?’

  More silence.

  ‘OK, I don’t know if you’re on the rag or what your problem is but maybe you wanna have a conversation when you’re over it.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable to me.’ Silence again. ‘Well, bye then.’

  Pause.

  ‘Yeah. Bye.’

  Note for book: The best way to get rid of a person is to act as if you don’t give a shit. The person you’re trying to get rid of will believe it and, one day, you will too.

  Monday 6 February

  9 a.m. What is the purpose of Poetry on the Tube? No one wants sentiment when someone’s armpit is shoved in your face.

  10.30 a.m. Here’s the thing: why is it that the minute someone decides to be alone, a person comes along and scuppers it? I was being sage-like. I am sage-like. Actually, I’m more rage-like. I was la-la-la-la-la-la-la, and then bam! Someone picks up a packet of my Lemon Puffs. And then Brammers piped up, interrupting my mental rage, at the end of the catch-up meeting.

  ‘Can everyone make sure they put the date in their diary.’ She looked at Katie, ‘9th March, Katie. Why don’t you write it down now?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked as we walked back to our desks.

  ‘School photo, Sweetu – for winning Publisher of the Year Award.’

  ‘Oh.’ Katie stopped at my desk as I looked for my chair, which for some reason had gone walkabouts. ‘Where the hell is it?’ I asked.

  Katie looked behind her and stole Tasha’s chair from Marketing.

  ‘Don’t worry. She won’t notice.’

  ‘I want my chair. Why can’t people leave things where they are?’ Katie began rolling the chair back to its original place.

  ‘Shall we get a muffin?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want a muffin, I want my chair. Actually, I want to eat a muffin whilst sitting on my chair. Not Lemon Puffs. Muffins.’

  Katie walked me out of the office towards the canteen while I explained exactly why it’s essential that things remain where you leave them.

  Saturday 11 February

  11 a.m. I called Fozia to remind her that we have a ‘Muslim professional networking event’ (which we all know is just code for scouting for single people) to go to tonight. She reminded me about the creep at speed-dating who kept stroking our hands. Ugh. Also, I think he straightened his hair. When she asked if we could get a refund for tonight’s event, I told her we most definitely couldn’t – even though I hadn’t yet paid. She’ll be glad when she ends up meeting someone, and can thank me for it later.

  Maria had come over for the day and she looked at me as I told Foz this ever-so-slight white lie.

  ‘I know,’ I said to Maars. ‘Don’t judge me. It’s for her own good.’

  She laughed. ‘No. Good. She needs to get over that stupid Kam guy and you . . . Well I’m just glad you’re getting on with things.’

  12.10 a.m. OMG, I cannot believe it. The event took place in a church (ha!). The organiser gave a speech so everyone huddled towards the altar. I stood there, eyeing the buffet, which was a lot more attractive than anything else in the church – man-wise that is. My eyes began to wander around the room. Looked to my left and the side profile of someone seemed familiar. He had a slightly hooked nose, a mop of black hair and his arms were folded as he kept on shifting his feet. Then he turned my way and oh my actual God, it was hole-in-the-wall Imran!

  I turned my back to him and tugged at Fozia’s red dress.

  ‘Imran’s here.’

  She looked at me, confused, and then realisation began to dawn.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Over there.’

  She peered over my shoulder and grabbed my arm.

  ‘Shall I go ask if he still has a hole-in-the-wall?’

  ‘What is he doing here? Why isn’t he married?’ I said.

  I wondered if I should say hello, but Fozia said I should wait for him. (Why should women always wait for ‘him’?) But I did wait. Then I waited some more. It was when I was speaking to someone who asked when the buffet would be served (because I looked like the waitressing staff?) that he approached us, answered her, looked at me, and then walked away. Looked right at me. Then walked away. Unbelievable! As if I wasn’t the girl he once wanted to marry. What is wrong with the world? There’s the man who apparently wanted to marry me, who ignores me, and there’s the other man who doesn’t want to marry me, but calls me all the time.

  Sunday 12 February

  5 p.m. I went out for a walk an
d it was all red roses and heart-shaped balloons in preparation for the fourteenth. People skipping around, carrying poxy teddy bears.

  ‘Is it me or is anyone who takes Valentine’s Day seriously a bit of a knob?’ I said, walking through Conall’s door. Before he answered, I carried on. ‘I mean, last Valentine’s Day I was seeing Imran and I felt the same about it then as I do now, so it’s not anything to do with being single.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’ My respect for Conall has grown as a result of this.

  ‘Same with fireworks really,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t like fireworks?’

  ‘Oh, they’re all nice and pretty when they’re being launched into the air, but what about all the mess they make?’ Conall looked at the table that I’d strewn with books and papers before looking back at me. OK, so I make a bit of a mess now and again.

  ‘Well, I don’t, you know . . . blow smoke.’

  ‘Not much.’

  Hmph.

  Monday 13 February

  7 a.m. I told Suj and Hannah about Imran ignoring me at the event. Hannah seems to think it’s because I broke his heart, so I had to remind her that he was the one who wanted to live in his weird communal family system. Suj called him a prick. I don’t think him ignoring me warranted calling him a prick, but then Suj is defensive like that. I believe it’s called bias.

  Love Suj.

  Sunday 19 February

  8 p.m. I managed to get to Conall’s early, so he was at home, making breakfast. He came and sat at the dining table and brought me a mug of coffee. I looked into it.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I kind of feel like tea.’

  He sighed and took my mug, giving me his instead.

  ‘Does it have sugar in it?’ I asked.

  ‘No, your highness. Would you like me to get some for you?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said, smiling, reaching out with mug in hand.