Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

Crikey. I think I preferred the hijab question. Being asked about believing in God is like having to explain to someone why you’re in a relationship with a person who has a bit of a bad reputation.

  ‘Oh, well.’ I shrugged. I mean what could I say? ‘OK, and don’t laugh or snigger or judge, OK?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Because I trust you. Do you promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m sometimes of a disgruntled nature.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shocking, I know. Anyway, when you’re of such a disposition of you know, being pissed off, you tend to like the thing that kind of, well, gives you . . .’ I fiddled with the end of my scarf. ‘Like, you know. Peace.’ He looked at me as if he were trying to catch me out in a lie. ‘Also, you can’t help what you love.’

  ‘Peace?’

  ‘Mhmm. When I was a child and my parents argued, I prayed. Then, the more I read about it, the more I believed it. Sometimes I think I’m a lucky cow because how many people can say they have something to lean on. So that even when you have nothing, you always have that. You are never alone.’

  He put the bag of peas on his fist.

  ‘Very few.’

  ‘There we have it, my secret un-veiled.’

  ‘I can’t make you out,’ he said, searching my face. I was suddenly very aware of his leg touching mine and also, for some reason, his adam’s apple.

  ‘Oh, well,’ I said, looking at his fist. ‘People are nuanced.’

  ‘Is Imran nuanced?’

  I stared at Conall’s bruised fist and thought how Imran is the precise opposite of nuanced. Without thinking I touched the bruise – dipping my fingers into the grooves of his knuckles. It was too close, but the bruise meant something, if you think about it. He kept looking, waiting for my answer. Why the hell was I touching his hand? I stood up, perhaps a little quicker than I intended, and he got up and stepped towards me. Was he going to say something? Do something. Before I could find out I made my way towards the door. As I opened it I turned around and looked up.

  ‘The thing with Imran,’ I said, ‘is he gave enough of a shit to compromise. I didn’t think people did that any more.’

  ‘He didn’t fly to the moon, Sofe.’ It came out almost in a whisper.

  ‘That’d be useless anyway. No gravity.’

  Which is a bit what that moment felt like.

  10 p.m. I’m a liar! But when Imran asked where I was today I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that A) I spent the day with another man – however much for a good cause it was and B) that all this time I’ve spent crying about not having time to write was spent walking around London, dripping in I Heart Palestine badges. So I said that I had the phone on silent in my bag.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You still want to marry me?’

  I paused.

  ‘Do you still want to marry me?’

  ‘I don’t want to marry anyone else.’

  Sunday 6 May

  8.30 a.m. The two banes of my life – meeting the in-laws and fried onions. How does one prepare the brain for underhanded verbal assaults (I feel Pakistani parents are particularly good at these, though I might be being racist) when my senses are being assaulted by fried onions at the break of dawn? My hair and the rest of me stank before I even got out of bed.

  I woke up thinking about the conversation with Conall yesterday. I wish I hadn’t touched his fist. What an invasion of someone’s space. Or told him about God and peace and blah, blah, blah – you say you believe in God and people look at you as if you’ve said ‘I believe in fairies’. Not that Conall looked like that, but whoever knows what he’s thinking?

  8.50 a.m. Tried to launch a candle offensive but Mum’s told me to worry less about the smelly house and more about helping in the kitchen. Having a fiancé is so time consuming – an entire day wasted on preparing food. I’ll help, but I’m not going to lie and tell his parents that I cooked any of it. I am just not the sort of daughter-in-law who will pretend to enjoy things like vacuuming and curry powder.

  9.45 a.m. I was in the kitchen taking out the big dish for biryani and is it my fault that I dropped it and it fell on my poor foot? I mean, the last thing someone needs after almost losing a toe is their mother losing their temper. I’ve consequently been banished from the kitchen. Since I’m no use in the kitchen I’m going to go to Conall’s and write.

  10.55 a.m. Hmph – glad someone finds my limping funny. Last time I ask him how his knuckles are – though I don’t think there’d ever be a reason to ask that again anyway.

  He looked at my feet. ‘Let’s hope it’s not a dealbreaker.’

  ‘If anything’s going to be a dealbreaker it’s the fact that everything, including the linen, stinks of fried onions.’

  ‘Nervous?’ he said.

  ‘What’s there to be nervous about?’

  ‘Meeting the future in-laws for the first time?’

  I gestured towards my foot. ‘Imran is about to introduce his parents to the girl with the limp for whom he is leaving the nest – I don’t think I’m the one who should be nervous.’

  Conall tapped his fingers on the table, looking at his fist. ‘The only thing he should be nervous about is making sure he’s good enough for you.’ And then, without looking my way, he got up and left the room.

  I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

  7.15 p.m. Bloody, bloody hell. I’ve had to change five times. Apparently any simple outfit is unacceptable. Surely the only unacceptable thing is my attire being dictated by my mum. Dad made a feeble attempt to tell Mum to leave me alone but she said that she has his prescriptions and, if necessary, she will hold on to them. He leaned forward as I adjusted the unruly scarf that refused to pin up properly and said, ‘Thirty-three years ago she couldn’t speak English. Now she’s holding my medication ransom.’

  I thought how funny Conall would find that. How funny Naim would’ve found it. All the world’s a stage. And my unwieldy hijab is its curtain.

  11.45 p.m.

  From Imran: I hope you cook like your mum.

  When people have their love goggles on, they don’t believe a bad word you say. Sometimes it’d be nice for Imran to say I’m being an annoying cow, which would be completely acceptable as I can be an annoying cow a lot of the time.

  Imran’s mum, who, by the way, I’m meant to call Ammi (and, please, that is not happening), started digging into the biryani.

  ‘Did Beti make this?’

  No, love, Beti was dreaming about cigarettes while Beti’s mum picked out the nuts in the chevra mix because your husband is allergic to them.

  Self-appointed Ammi (SAA) looked at me and smiled. I thought she might take the chiffon scarf off when she came in but she kept it on. Not a scrap of makeup. This is what my mum describes as simple people, but it seems I didn’t have to worry about any underhanded verbal assault.

  She put food on her husband’s plate before filling her own.

  ‘Haider always says to me when I go to Pakistan, “Khalda, who will know how much rice to put in my plate?” ’

  Err, I dunno – you? But Imran was beaming at them. Mum, Dad, Maria and me looked at each other, a little uncomfortable with all this niceness, to be honest.

  ‘I think June is perfect time for wedding,’ said Imran’s dad, looking over at his wife and nodding.

  ‘Haan, we think the weather is nice and before Ramadan they can also go for honeymoon.’

  I felt like my throat was closing up. June? June?? That’s next month! First of all, I have to get thin, second of all, that’s next month. Mum and Dad sat there, nodding in agreement. I tried to catch Imran’s eye but he was too absorbed in setting dates to consult (hello?) the woman he’s meant to be marrying. Maria intervened.

  ‘That’s quite early, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nahin, nahin, Beta,’ said Imran’s mum. ‘All good
things should be done quickly. Also,’ she continued, ‘now they are living away from home . . .’ His mum looked at her husband who urged her to carry on, ‘Haider’s nephew is estate agent and he can find them cheap place to rent.’

  ‘Why waste money on house that isn’t yours? Hmm?’ piped up old Haider.

  ‘And then we think we should help them buy house together, haina?’ said SAA.

  It was all first-time buyers! House prices! When two families become one . . . Mum and Dad didn’t take two seconds to say that they were glad this was brought up because they felt the same. Don’t know when they had that conversation. Or maybe I wasn’t listening?

  So the collective has decided to help Imran and me with a deposit for a home, and in the meantime faceless and nameless nephew will be providing a flat for habitation. Where? Leyton! Yes. Exactly. And when I suggested something a little more equidistant to my beloved South London, my concerns were pushed aside because, apparently, we’ll worry about that when we start looking to buy. I’m not sure whether ‘we’ constitutes me and Imran, or the people at the table and, possibly, the nameless nephew.

  ‘Are you OK, Bhai?’ asked Imran’s mum, looking at my dad.

  ‘Haan haan. I’m Alhamdolilah OK. Doctor says I should make very good recovery, and my wife is, ahem, such a good carer.’ Dad winked at me and Maria. ‘But what I really want is for my daughter to get married, so June is very good for us.’

  How can you argue with a dad who looks so happy you have to ask him to keep his heart in check?

  Note for book: When keeping an eye on a person’s heart, perhaps give yours the once over too.

  And so it is. I’m getting married. June 30th.

  Monday 7 May

  7.30 a.m. I had a nightmare that it’s the day before my wedding and I’m spitting out teeth into the sink. Dad comes in and says we’re at war with America and have to migrate. Then Mum comes into the bathroom and asks where her Sainsbury’s shopping list is because she needs to give it to Maria, who’s gone to Moscow (??) for the baby’s birth.

  7.40 a.m. Had to check teeth were all intact.

  8.10 a.m.

  From Imran: Have you got your guest list ready? We need numbers so can book the hotel.

  Imran’s mum insists on buying me a wedding dress. Proviso being that it’s her choice. Sigh. Putting that to one side, I asked why we can’t just go to the mosque, say, ‘I do’ three times and get the day over with? Mum is horrified at the idea of a mosque shindig and Imran won’t hear of it. Something about his parents’ youngest son getting a good send-off.

  ‘We’re not going to be living with them, so this is like their way of saying goodbye,’ he said. I wanted to say, for God’s sake – you’re getting married – not going to war. I refrained. I can be disciplined like that. ‘Don’t you want that?’ he added.

  ‘I don’t mind, as long as it doesn’t involve me being stuck behind a table for four hours, head hurting from all the pins keeping the three-tonne scarf on my head.’ But clearly not that disciplined.

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘It’s fine. You know, just make sure the scarf doesn’t weigh three tonnes. That’s all.’

  I wanted to add that it’d be nice if he made sure the outfit isn’t some horrific shade of red, but perhaps will precede that with a polite conversation.

  2 p.m. Why does everyone in the office keep asking me if I’m OK? Of course I’m OK. I’m getting married next month. Which reminds me that perhaps I should tell them. At least I should tell Katie as she will have to save the date.

  5.30 p.m. OK, I didn’t have time to send a save the date email, but I really did have to chase up those long-lead magazines. And, to be quite honest, it’s just good form to help Fleur out with the work experience person and show them where the post room is. I used to be an assistant once too, after all.

  7 p.m. Bumped into Conall coming out of the station and he asked how the dinner on Sunday went.

  ‘Fine. Not so much as a misplaced sigh.’

  He put his hands in his pockets and nodded. ‘Good. Good. Glad to hear it.’ He looked at the ground as we walked towards home.

  ‘How’s the fist?’ I asked.

  ‘Grand, really. I like having a few bruises to show for moral victories.’

  ‘Conall, there is nothing moral about violence.’

  ‘I’m going to teach you how to throw a punch. Then you can tell me that when you’re able to box the shit out of the next man that calls you a terrorist.’

  Would’ve been nice, certainly, to knock out that moron on the Tube. It’s not a very Muslim way, though, and unfortunately I can’t really be innovative with the ways of our peeps; especially if my own ideas of innovation include breaking someone’s face.

  ‘Shall I bring my boxing gloves on the weekend then?’ I asked.

  ‘You want to box?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No worries then, Sofe. I’ve got everything we need.’

  Saturday 12 May

  11 a.m. Oh my actual God. Conall wasn’t joking. I walked into the house and there were a pair of boxing gloves on the table. He brought in two mugs of coffee and handed me one.

  ‘You’re going to need this.’

  2.10 p.m. It’s official. I can kick ass (ass/arse?). Who knew I could kick that high? More to the point, who knew my jeans had such give? I’ve been trained in the art of right and left jabs too. I did almost knock Conall out but he should’ve been paying attention to where I was punching as opposed to something behind me, whatever it was.

  ‘I could be like a hijabi Buffy the Vampire Slayer,’ I said, bounding out of the front room. ‘A scarfie superhero.’

  ‘Just save yourself, Sofe. That’d be enough.’

  Hmph.

  8.45 p.m. Perhaps there is a correlation between boxing and productivity. Got an inordinate amount of writing done, have managed to tidy unruly bedroom, wax legs, pluck eyebrows (cannot believe I subjected Conall to the monobrow, with sunlight streaming through the front window) and shopped online for jeggings. Controversial, I know, but perfect and necessary for my new lifestyle as Scarf Face.

  Ah, Imran calling.

  10.05 p.m. Really, I don’t know what he means by me being in an especially good mood.

  Sunday 13 May

  8.50 a.m. I’m being bombarded with congratulations text messages. Have I accidentally announced my engagement on Facebook? Was there a memo sent out to the community of which I’m not aware? Ambreen wants to go shopping for costume jewellery. Who gives a shit about costume jewellery? I have a boxing lesson!

  9 a.m. Except I just tried to get out of bed and my legs almost gave way. Perhaps I should’ve warmed up before high kicks and left–right jabs. Ouch.

  9.50 a.m. Hobbled downstairs, and Mum and Maria were in the TV room with a guest list. Mum’s been calling everyone to announce the wedding date. I never knew this could make you feel like you have a stomach ulcer.

  Maria ran her finger down the list until she stopped, looked up and said, ‘We’re not inviting Conall are we? Cos we want him to do the photography. Have you asked yet?’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘You’ve only got six weeks. Ask him today. Maybe he’ll do it for free, cos you’re mates now.’

  Mum’s eyes lit up at the word ‘free’.

  ‘He has better things to photograph than yet another bride and groom.’

  And also, I can’t ask him. I know we’re friends, but it feels weird to ask him this perfectly normal question. Not sure why.

  ‘Tell me friends you’re going to invite,’ said Mum, picking up the phone and dialling a number. Before I could answer she was talking to someone called Bilal about tandoori chicken.

  Monday 14 May

  3.20 p.m. I’ve just told Katie I’m getting married.

  ‘Oh my God. The American came to his senses.’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put her hand on my arm. ‘Then who, Sw
eetu?’

  Told her the hole-in-the-wall retraction story.

  ‘Oh. OK. That’s . . . that’s good. So this is the one?’

  ‘The one I’m marrying, yes.’

  ‘No, I mean the one.’

  Honestly. The ‘one’ is obviously the person you marry because that’s whose mug you’ll see every morning for the rest of your life. That’s a person’s one.

  Saturday 19 May

  10.30 a.m. I am Rocky in a scarf! Perhaps next I should take lessons in being graceful. But having a plant right next to the punch bag isn’t very good positioning. I tried to clean up the mess, but ended up just hovering over Conall, who began sweeping and telling me I should be careful where I kick my legs. He’s left now so I’m going to write, but I should do something nice for him – to make up for occupying his house and destroying it, fern by fern.

  10.35 a.m. I know, I’ll bake him some cupcakes! Everyone likes cupcakes now. So much of life is centred on cupcakes. How hard can it be? Also, it’d be a nice ‘in your face’ moment when I hand them over to him, perfectly made. Domestic disaster indeed. Sometimes I’m surprised at how capable I am of doing kind things for people. I’ll be an utter genius and make red velvets! According to Googs, it’ll take forty minutes. Sorted. I’ll go out, get ingredients, bake, and be done by midday and have the rest of the day to write.

  11.10 a.m. Balls. Forgot cream cheese.

  11.35 a.m. Hmmm, how does this bloody oven work . . .

  11.55 a.m. Oops. I didn’t realise I’d turned the oven on and have consequently almost singed my eyebrows. Also, according to my personal deadline, the cupcakes should be done in five minutes and I haven’t even mixed the batter yet. Thanks to God for online instructions.

  12.15 p.m. Crap. He doesn’t have an electric mixer. I’m sure boxing has given me sturdy enough arms to whisk ingredients manually.