by Ayisha Malik
‘What in the name of Christ made you do that?’ Conall whispered so loudly he might as well have used a Tannoy.
‘I don’t have to live with the hole-in-the-wall any more.’
His response was to exhale. ‘Oh, well done.’
‘It’s progress.’
I had a horrid recollection of Ambreen’s mum-in-law watching me hold Ambreen’s newborn baby.
‘Have you even thought it through?’
‘What is wrong with everyone, acting as if I don’t have a clue about life?’
‘Oh, you have a clue.’
‘I live in the real world,’ I whispered back, pointing to myself with the coriander.
‘Is it that easy to switch feelings for people, Sofe?’ He rested his hand on the wall and leaned over, shaking his head.
I don’t know. Is it?
‘Feckin’ hell.’ Then he walked past and I followed him down the stairs as he said goodbye and walked out. Why was he angry with me?
‘I’m just trying to do the right thing,’ I said to nobody but the closed door in my face.
Saturday 28 April
8 a.m. You can’t say that Dad didn’t get a welcome home party given that practically all members of the family were waiting, huddled in the passage. We now have eight functioning hearts that obviously nearly lapsed – mine included – when the news of my pending nuptials spread.
Mum and Maria brought tea for everyone, the Scots were giving Dad pitying glances, Chachu sat there silent, and T was fiddling with his phone. Maria looked around and nudged Tahir.
‘He’s just going to help me get my stuff together,’ she said.
Everyone looked up. ‘Now Dad’s back, I think it’s good for me to go back home.’
Mum and Dad exchanged looks. Dad nodded and Mum said it’s just as well they’ll have her room back, barely containing her smile.
When everyone had left to let Dad rest, I sat with him for a while. It was on the tip of my tongue but every time I went to tell him it was like the words caught in my throat.
‘Chalo now, Beta. No more fussing. Find someone this year.’
Sod it. Sod Conall’s angry face. I pushed the words through my mouth and told Dad that I’m engaged.
Of course, Chachu overheard. He leaned in through the doorway, and said, ‘You’re getting married?’ His voice is so characteristically Punjabber, it carried downstairs and I heard Mum say, ‘Who’s getting married?’ This was followed by five sets of footsteps running up the stairs.
‘Haw hai – no first telling parents. Bhabi, girls in London are so advanced,’ said Uncle Scot.
Well, at least now every one knows. Right, off to Conall’s. I’m going to act entirely normal when I see him. I’ll be the bigger person and ignore his unreasonable anger towards me. I will out-reason him yet.
8.30 a.m. He left the house early this morning. He didn’t get to see my reasonableness.
10.30 p.m. I cannot believe that Imran is in a strop because of my continuation of weekends at Conall’s. His suggestion? Shut the door to my room. It’s unnatural enough for me to be living at home. Shutting the door and having a ‘Keep Out’ sign wouldn’t do much for my sense of self I tried to explain.
‘So when’s this story going to be finished? We gonna be rich?’
‘I’m not writing the next Harry Potter.’
‘I never understood how a story about magic got famous.’
Oh dear.
10.55 p.m. Of course it’s not important whether someone’s read Harry Potter or not. Except that they must’ve been asleep for the better part of this century. Also, one shouldn’t off-handedly disparage something they’ve not read.
11 p.m. Though I reserve the right to do so for self-published erotica. Obviously.
Sunday 29 April
10.45 a.m.
Sofe,
There’s semi-skimmed milk in the fridge because I know how important it is to your health when you’re having tea and eating Chocolate Hobnobs.
Conall
PS How’s your uncle?
Turned the note around to see if there was anything else. Nothing. I wish he could’ve told me in person.
1 p.m. I told Suj about weird Conall behaviour.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘He’s a good friend to you, Toffee.’
Wasn’t what I was expecting her to say. I looked at his note again. ‘He is. When he’s not shouting at me.’
‘Yeah, but white people don’t really get us, do they? They all think we’re mental, living with our parents until we get married and all sorts.’
Not sure this is about being Asian. But then I’m not sure what this is about.
MAY 2012
For Whom the Wedding Bells Toll
Muslim Dating Book
There are three things that are certain in life: death, taxes and, if you’re Punjabi, a big, fat wedding. Time-honoured tradition in the shape of fried pakoras and henna-painted hands are to be revered, apparently. And in this quagmire of multiplying pakoras and increasingly intricate henna patterns the person for whom – with whom – you’re doing all this becomes fuzzier. The elastic boundaries of cultural tradition are stretched and stretched. You just never know how far it can go before it (and you) finally snaps.
Things to do
1.Venue. YAWN . . .
2.Wedding dress. Ibid.
3.Caterers. (Apparently people can tell one kebab from another.)
4.Take maroon drapes out of shed. (Recycling is environmentally friendly.)
5.Makeup person. Suj. Sorted.
6.Centrepieces. Seriously, who gives a shit?
7.Fruit baskets . . . Seriously, what?
8.Mehndi trays. Shed.
9.Ice sculptures. Er, VETO.
10.Find a photographer . . .
Thursday 3 May
10 a.m. Bleurgh. It’s parent involvement time. I want to keep my eyes shut until someone tells me it’s over. Imran’s mum is going to call today and I won’t be home to monitor what my mum might say. Perhaps I should’ve taken the phone off the hook before I left.
7.25 p.m. Apparently she called at two o’clock (bloody Imran didn’t bother telling me). I was going to ask Mum what she was like but, before I even opened my mouth, she said, ‘Did you tell Imran you wouldn’t live with his parents?’
‘Of course. You know that’s why I didn’t marry him.’
Then she looked at my dad who was already shaking his head.
‘Haw hai. Thinking is one thing but saying is another. What will happen if everyone says what they think?’ Which was pretty rich. ‘Sometimes you should stay quiet or you’ll be back a day after your wedding,’ said Mum.
Why am I being told to keep my mouth shut over life’s essential matters?
‘No matter if you don’t like something, Soffoo,’ said Dad rubbing his chest. ‘Sometimes a person must be quiet.’
Newsflash, parents – this ain’t the 1950s and we ain’t in Lahore any more, but then who wants to be the daughter that gave her dad a second heart attack?
‘Maybe. But I am not that woman.’ With which I walked out of the room, head held high, in dignified fashion.
Saturday 5 May
8 a.m. Imran and the family are coming over tomorrow evening. Everyone is hyper about getting the wedding organised. I just want to take a nap.
8 p.m. Went to Conall’s, and he was still home.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hi.’
‘All OK?’ I asked.
‘Grand,’ he said, walking into the kitchen where he was making coffee.
I went into the living room, wracking my brain to think of something funny or interesting to say when he walked in and put a mug in front of me.
‘Thanks.’
He sat at the table and pushed a plate of biscuits towards me. There was a muffin in the middle.
‘I shouldn’t eat any more biscuits,’ I said, taking the muffin.
Silence. Conall took a sip from his mug as I searched for word
s – any words.
‘What’s the topic today then?’ he asked. Thank God! I straightened up in my seat.
‘In-laws – as usual, and the injustice of it all,’ I said. But this led back to Imran, and it felt weird. I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. Conall rubbed a scratch on the table.
‘Why are you so angry about it? You’re not moving in with them,’ he said.
‘Yes, but it’s the principle. Anyway, doesn’t matter.’
‘Maybe he feels his principle trumps your principle?’ he said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘I’m not saying he’s right, just looking at the reasoning,’ he said, putting his hands in the air. His eyes rested on the clock behind me. ‘Well, time for me to go.’
He put his coat on, wrapping a keffiyah around his neck. I willed myself to stop feeling so miserable that he was leaving. All I wanted was for things to go back to normal.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘Palestine protest.’
Also, why is everything about him just so bloody good? And here I was, writing a book about dating.
‘You protest about your injustice.’ He looked over at my laptop. ‘And I’ll go and protest about mine.’ A few days ago that would’ve sounded normal, but today there was ice in his voice and I hated it.
‘Right. Of course.’ I pretended to concentrate on my laptop screen.
He went to leave and then turned around.
‘Unless . . .’
‘Yes?’ I looked up.
‘Unless you want to come with me?’
We got to the protest, which started at the House of Parliament. Most people were wearing keffiyahs, jackets were plastered with Palestine badges, people carried huge banners and flags, children with Palestinan bandannas tied around their little heads – a foray of black, white, green and red. I’ve come to the conclusion that London’s at its best when protesting. A crowd of white people went past, chanting, ‘By the tens, by the millions, we are all Palestinians.’ An old man walked with this stick that also doubled up as a chair. Every so often he’d sit down and drink from his flask.
As we walked through Knightsbridge, past the Queen’s barracks, there were people sitting out on the balconies, waving Palestinian flags, rainbow-coloured flags, cheering everyone on. Conall had his camera and kept stopping to take photos. It was always remarkable to see what inspired him to pause and capture a moment. One that you might’ve otherwise missed
When we got to Hyde Park the speeches had started, and everyone was scattered around, sitting quietly or standing up. Conall put his camera down and folded his arms, looking serious as ever.
‘We come together here today because we are a free people. We live in a city and country for which our ancestors fought so that we could exercise that freedom. But with it comes a duty to us all, to use our voice for those who are voiceless . . .’
There was scattered applause, and I thought how stupid my problems seemed, how small. I even forgot that Conall was next to me.
‘This is the time to unite: to tell the oppressors that we won’t be silenced. That we won’t shun the gift of previous generations. This is the time to raise your voice and tell them: we will not abandon our duty. We will not forsake the voiceless. Yes, we are free, but in the words of the great Nelson Mandela: “Our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians!” ’
At which point the cheers were so loud I couldn’t hear my own voice (imagine!). I had to wipe a tear from my eye before Conall saw me. As someone else took to the mic, a group of beardies were walking towards us. They kept looking at Conall and then at me and I thought, what a bloody inappropriate time to be judgemental. I mean, come on, people. Bigger picture, please.
‘Bro.’ One of the beardies who, incidentally, had the longest beard, beamed as Conall walked up to him and hugged him. I think my hate-dar was generally off all day today.
‘Good to see you, man,’ said the beardie.
I couldn’t hear the conversation. The other beardies nodded from afar – gave me one look and turned away. Conall spoke to him for a while and then Long Beard went on his way.
‘Do you think I should’ve worn a longer top?’ I asked when he came back. Mine only just covered my arse.
He gave the length of my top the once-over.
‘The length of a hijabi’s top or dress should be in direct correlation with the length of a Muslim guy’s beard,’ I explained.
He looked confused.
‘Look, it’s not just about skin. It’s, you know, shape.’
Oh, Lord. One does sometimes take for granted how a brown man will just get it. Explaining this to Conall just made me super conscious of fact that I was drawing attention to things which I was avoiding in the first place. So that’s what people mean when they say, someone’s eyes smiled. I guess stretching a smile to his mouth is always a bit of task for Conall.
‘I thought you didn’t care what people thought?’ he said.
‘They’re not people – they’re beardies.’
Conall laughed, but I don’t know why. It’s true!
I think I might have had a few too many coffees, as I was feeling quite jaunty by the end of the day. Up until now I hadn’t even thought about Naim. He was slip, slip, slipping away.
‘Why don’t I go to these protests more often?’ I jumped up and down which, granted, caused a few disconcerted glances from onlookers. ‘They’re just so fun. And have a clear moral and ethical purpose. Obviously.’
‘Sofe, I’d have thought you’d come to them all the time.’
I say I will but never actually do. Will make more of an effort in the future to shut up and just do a thing.
We got on the Northern line and sat down. Quite a few leftover protestors were looking at pics they’d taken, legs splayed out, sipping coffee. We got off at Tooters and crossed the traffic lights. I asked Conall where he knew Long Beard from. A very different group of boys were walking towards us. Most of them had shaved heads, a few were drinking cans of beer. Conall watched them and he came closer, putting his hand on the small of my back. Bloody hell, we both looked like Palestinian freedom fighters. We had got a bit carried away with the badge buying – Conall had even pinned one on the back of my hijab – he said anyone who saw it would take me seriously as a political activist.
As they walked past I heard ‘Fucking traitor’, but it seemed to come from another direction because the group of boys had walked on without a second look. Then the rest happened in what seemed like a flash. I felt Conall’s hand lift off my back, heard a thud and a grunt and when I turned around he was looking down at the ground with a clenched fist mid-air. There, on the ground, was a man lying on his back, cupping his bleeding nose. He attempted to get up and Conall went to hit him again, but I held him back, and had to drag him away from the scene of this unexpected event!
What the hell! We walked back to the house in silence. He slammed the door and marched into the living room. I followed him but he just stood there, looking around. He turned around and marched into the kitchen. To be fair, I have become quite accustomed to him slamming things. He walked back in and sat on the sofa and kind of stared into space.
‘I thought you were a pacifist,’ I said.
He shot me a look as if he was about to punch me, but then seemed to realise I wasn’t the one who’d just called him a traitor.
‘I am. Unless provoked.’
‘Bloody hell. Can’t even support a poor country without being verbally abused.’
He looked up. ‘I don’t think he was referring to my political views.’
I nodded. ‘I know.’ I felt like saying sorry to him. If I were white and hijabless, no one would’ve accused him of such a thing. But what a stupid reason to have to apologise – as if a person can help being brown. ‘Maybe you need anger management as well as AA – do you think they have a two-for-one offer or something?’ He didn’t find that funny.
‘What did you want me to do?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t think giving him a nose bleed was the answer.’
‘Well, why don’t you bake him a cupcake instead.’
‘That’s not fair, Conall. You know I can’t bake.’
I walked to the window and opened the blinds.
‘Domestic disaster, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘We all have our version of disasters. Your fist could do with some ice.’ I got a bag of peas out of the freezer and threw them on the sofa.
‘At least you have another fist that’s intact,’ I said.
He looked at it and threw the bag of peas on the table.
‘I should go back and beat the shit out of him. And then take a photo of it.’
‘What is wrong with you? Shouldn’t you photography types be impartial; assessing the world through Switzerland-tinted glasses?’ I asked. Turns out I don’t have the monopoly on outrage when faced with prejudice.
‘Being impartial’s for fence sitters, Sofe. I’m no feckin’ fence sitter.’
He doesn’t say much that Conall, but when he does, it stays. I went and sat next to him.
‘You’re such an arse.’ I handed him the bag of peas again. ‘Anyway, no one wants to be a fence sitter. It’s very uncomfortable,’ I replied.
He turned towards me, clearly still angry, and said, ‘Tell me. Why’d you start wearing that scarf?’
Had to wonder whether it offended him in some way – that scarf. I looked at his fist and thought about it for a moment.
‘George,’ I said. ‘Michael. Gotta have faith.’
‘Do you ever give a normal response to a question?’
‘Yes, when the question is interesting.’
Though I must say, George did have a point.
‘OK.’ He turned towards me so we sat face to face. ‘I’m asking because I genuinely want to know the answer,’ he said.
‘OK.’
‘Why do you believe in God? I know why some people believe in God, but why do you believe in God?’