by Ayisha Malik
Ooh, Fozia calling.
12.55 p.m. Oh my God! Fozia just told me that she emailed Riaz! Hurrah! I had to be sure that this meant Kam was well and truly over. She paused before saying, ‘It was over a long time before it was over, darling.’
Quite, Fozia. Quite.
It’s not easy keeping the phone pressed to one’s ear, concentrating on mixing flour and eggs and friend’s old love interest coming back on the scene, but I seem to be the queen of multi-tasking.
1.05 p.m. Why aren’t ‘sifted’ ingredients and ‘wet’ ingredients smooth yet? Arm is hurting. The man has cake tins but not an electric mixer. Honestly.
Argh! Time to pray!
2.35 p.m. Oh dear. I think the oven was a little overheated and now the cupcakes are burnt on the outside but squidgy on the inside. Just called Maria, who helpfully told me that I shouldn’t have left oven pre-heating for so long, and then asked me whether I’m there to write or bake cupcakes. It’s as if kind gestures are frowned upon.
Oh balls! Just heard gate close! How can he be home so early??
8.25 p.m. I’ve always maintained that it’s the intention that counts when doing good deeds. Even if said good deed ends in neighbour’s kitchen looking like there’s been a cupcake massacre. Obviously when Conall walked into the house and smelled something burning, he rushed into the kitchen. I was caught between getting rid of the burned cupcakes and airing out smoke.
‘Jesus, what the hell is going on?’
I held out the tray of charred red velvets and tried to give a winning smile.
‘Cupcake?’
Spent the subsequent hour scrubbing batter that had splattered in oven, cleaning counter tops and washing dishes.
‘To be fair, Conall, it’d have worked out perfectly well if you had an electric mixer.’
He then opened the top kitchen cupboard, took out some pans, and then brought out, lo and behold, the mixer.
‘Oops.’
I took the towel from him and gave him the mixer to put back in the cupboard. While I was busy defending my eyesight andjustifying my baking skills, I just asked, casually, if he could do the photography at my wedding.
‘You don’t have to, of course.’ I looked at him and rolled my eyes in an, isn’t the whole wedding thing a huge bore, kind of way. ‘It’s up to you, and I mean you’re obviously going to be a guest at the wedding so it’s a bit weird, but if there’s going to be anyone who’s taking photographs then it should be you. Obviously.’
The words felt all wrong. It was like I’d said something not quite right, but I’m not sure what.
He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and started wiping down the counter tops. Again. Nice arms and hands are underrated.
‘Entirely up to you,’ I said.
He carried on wiping, but the surface looked pretty clean to me, even with my apparently crappy vision.
‘I’ll get back to you on that one.’
‘Of course, sure. Whatever, you know.’
Then he turned around and said, ‘There’s a commission going. If I take it then I won’t be around on those dates.’
‘Oh.’ He won’t be there? I kind of need him to be, for the moral support. ‘When will you decide?’
He put the cloth over his shoulder and folded his arms.
‘Soon.’
Conall took a few paces towards me and leaned in and I was like, WTF is going on here. He reached out an arm – arghhhh, what is he doing?? – and indicated to something behind me.
‘The door, Sofe.’
‘What?’
‘I need something from the shed.’
‘Oh.’ I looked behind and, of course, I was standing in front of the door leading to the garden. ‘Oh, right.’
So I turned around because, well, I could feel my cheeks burning, and I unlocked the door but the knob wouldn’t budge.
‘Here, let me do it,’ he said.
‘No, no, I’ve got it.’
The stupid thing was stuck.
‘You just have to turn it.’
‘I am turning it.’
‘The other way.’
‘What other way?’
‘The opposite way . . . here, let me.’
‘No, I’ve got it.’
I tried to turn it the other way and that didn’t work so I turned it the way I was trying to turn it in the first place.
‘The other way, Sofe.’
‘It’s not working the other way.’
‘It’s not working that way either.’
So I gave the thing a little yank – and by little I mean really, it was just the slightest yank, and the knob came out in my hand. I stood there for a few seconds before turning around, not quite looking at Conall.
‘Oops.’ I put my hand out to give him the now-broken item. ‘I’m not very good with knobs.’
Conall took it and stepped forward, holding it up to me.
‘Sofe, why don’t you go inside, sit at your laptop and do some work that doesn’t involve being in the kitchen, or near anything that you could possibly destroy.’
I decided not to argue and did as he suggested. I think it was the correct thing to do.
Thursday 24 May
11 a.m. I’m meant to be seeing Imran today to shop for his wedding suit. Why can’t he go with his mates or mum or whoever it is you’re meant to go with? I tried to explain that I have a book to write, and he was all, ‘All right fine’ in that passive aggressive way that I thought only I was capable of.
‘OK, no, let’s go, it’s just one evening,’ I said.
‘What are you going to do when it’s the wedding? Or when we go on honeymoon, or when we’re moving into the flat?’
We’re going on a honeymoon? Rang Suj and she was like, ‘Well, that is what normal people do, Sofe. Where are you guys going?’
Had to put the phone down and run into the toilet. Thought I was going to be sick. Why? Why am I not excited about a honeymoon? The problem, of course, is that I must be ungrateful. There are plenty of women who’d be more than happy to find a doting fiancé, blah blah blah. I think there must be a tic with the hardwiring in my head. It’s just a temporary glitch. It’ll be fine.
11.30 a.m. OMG. Imran is to me what I must’ve been to Naim. And I’m late for digital meeting.
Sod it, I need a fag.
10.20 p.m. Right, I’ve read and re-read translation of istikhara:
If this is better for me in this world and the hereafter, then make it destined for me and make it easy and a blessing, and if it’s bad for me, my religion and faith, for my life and end, in this world and the hereafter then turn it away from me and turn me away from it and whatever is better for me, destine that for me and make me satisfied with it.
Hmmm, which is perfectly fine really, but I’ve made my decision. And there’s not been any divine intervention to tell me not to marry him. I’m being stupid. Obviously.
11 p.m. Dad wasn’t feeling very well so I rubbed his back for a bit, while distracting him with tales of my boxing. He laughed saying, ‘Good, good. That’s my beti.’
I nodded, rather smugly, at Dad’s pride in my boxing abilities. I was about to tell him about the cupcakes but he said he was tired and was going to try and sleep.
Saturday 26 May
8.45 a.m. I can’t write today because Imran’s mum is coming over with her sisters to bring my wedding dress. Don’t most normal people get to choose their own wedding dress even if the outfit is a present from the in-laws? Surely a kindly groom’s side would hand over the money for the cost of the dress or – in our case, because we’re only having one big ceremony as opposed to two separate ones – go halves maybe? But no, no. No, no. Dear Imran’s side insist on doing things in the way of our ancestors. Most of our ancestors didn’t have to worry about cameras and DVDs lasting for generations though. Because I’ve insisted on doing things that are not the way of our ancestors by not living with the in-laws, this must be my punishment. Sigh. Imran isn’t coming because, according
to his family, there should be some distance between bride and groom before the wedding. Ungh. Bit ironic given I’d only seen Imran a few days ago and I had to tell him to stop putting his hand on my leg.
8.20 p.m. Oh dear. Girls came over after in-laws had left. We all sat around what can only be described as a lilac mass. Mum picked the wedding dress up and scrutinised it. She threw it back down and raised her eyebrows. Fozia patted the dress and looked like she was about to say something, but then didn’t.
‘You chose to marry him,’ said Mum.
I looked at the girls and Maria. Suj nodded, by way, I guess, of encouragement.
‘Is it that bad?’ asked Hannah.
‘It’ll look nice when you wear it,’ Maria added.
My sister is such a big, fat liar.
Sunday 27 May
9.45 a.m. Hmmm, Conall’s not home. Maybe I should text him and see where he is. Bit nosy, though. It’s like, er, who the hell are you and why are you asking me where I am? It’s just that I could’ve done with punching something today.
10 p.m. I’m now home. Saw Conall walk through his gate. I was going to go out and say hello but Suj called. She suggested I accidentally-on-purpose burn the dress.
Tuesday 29 May
9 p.m. While Mum doesn’t take much interest in my life unless it involves wedding arrangements, at least it means there are certain things she’s not privy to. Dad, on the other hand, is all inquisitiveness. He asked about the book, so I told him the first draft is nearly done, and what did he say? Well, he said he wants to read it. I’m just wondering how well disguised my friends’ dating stories are. More importantly, how well disguised my dating stories are. Of course, I was terribly composed, slotting in the fact that it’s a competitive market and so a certain amount of embellishment is needed. To which he responded with, ‘Acha,’ and went back to his reading. It’s not getting shortlisted for the Man Booker. Fine, re-reading it last night did make us Muslims look like idiots sometimes (am I unintentionally collaborating with the mass media??) but it has to be funny and I have to take out the ‘deeper’ things, because as Lucinda and Brammers said, it’s not that type of book. Isn’t compromise a part of life? Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me? Think of others. Think of your dad.
What is the line between compromising, and compromising oneself?
Note for book: Search for the line, then be sensible and don’t cross it.
Thursday 31 May
11.45 p.m. Dad and I decided to watch Maria’s wedding DVD last night. Conall cropped up every now and again, taking photos of bride and groom.
‘He’s a nice man for letting you use his house,’ said Dad. ‘Very quiet person, haina?’
Dad looked at me from the corner of his eye.
‘Unless he has something to say,’ I replied, eyes fixed on the screen.
‘What were you two saying there?’
Conall was stood behind me and I was looking at the stage and gesticulating – which, honestly, I should do less of now that I can see that I look like a puppet on strings. He’s laughing and taking the photos. Then he says something – can’t remember what it was – and I look at my phone – to check if Naim’s messaged, no doubt. Hmm, that was the night Naim texted saying something about daisies. Pig. Never noticed this part of the DVD before. (NB: Pay more attention to detail.)
‘Can’t remember.’
I went to make a cup of tea and peered through the window to see if the lights were on next door. Nothing. When I sat back down I saw Dad holding a wad of paper, and I thought, hmm, what is that? Then I saw the title page with my name on the front and realised it was my bloody manuscript. Clearly I need to have a padlock on my bedroom door. Thanks to God Mum doesn’t know how to use my laptop or she’d be reading through my diary, asking questions like, ‘What is a shag?’
‘Baba, it’s not ready yet.’ I put his tea on the coffee table and rested mine on the arm of the sofa, looking at the word-studded paper.
He nodded and put his glasses on, then began turning the pages. The pages of my book. I was going to add that I’ll be publishing the book under a pseudonym so no one will know it’s me, but then realised that would beg the question as to why that matters.
‘How much is left to do?’
‘How much have you read?’
‘All.’
I had to reiterate it’s not finished.
‘Acha? It’s funny.’
I paused the DVD, crossed my legs, and faced my dad.
‘Really? You think so?’
‘Soffoo, I have learned one thing in life, so listen to your baba – nahin, don’t roll your eyes. Listen. Only do what you are happy to do. To hell with everyone, and everything else.’
Sometimes parents just don’t know what they’re saying. One minute they’re begging you to stop fussing about and get married and the next they’re telling you to be autonomy activists. He handed me the manuscript.
‘Recent lesson?’ I asked.
‘Ooold lesson, Beta. Very old,’ he said before sipping his tea. ‘But sometimes we need to remind ourselves.’
JUNE 2012
The Halfway House Seems a Heartless Place
Muslim Dating Book
Compromise is the name of the game, apparently. And we all do it. Every day. Muslim or not. Don’t pin it all on us. If you want babies and the man who’s committing to you is already married, well, you know, them’s the breaks. If the man who you’re with is having a few issues letting his parents know about the small fact that you’re a divorcee, well, wait it out. (The clock ticks louder for those without anyone at all.) And what about that perfect boyfriend (who just happens to be black)? Keep him until a nice Indian one comes along and leaves no boxes unticked? (Because doesn’t it make perfect sense to sacrifice a thing to please the people who won’t actually be living your life?)
But what are our options? Where is this mythical inheritance of choice? Harder to find than a bloody husband.
Saturday 2 June
9 p.m. When I knocked on Conall’s door, he didn’t answer so I used my spare key. I opened the window, switched on the fan and went into the kitchen where there was the customary note, telling me that the Hobnobs were in the fridge in case they got eaten by ants. I put the kettle on and went upstairs to the bathroom. When I came out I noticed a stack of boxes in the passage labelled ‘storage’. I looked inside and there were clothes, books and other bits and pieces. I wondered what it was for, but the kettle had boiled so I went back downstairs to make my tea and eat a Hobnob or ten.
As I settled down to read my manuscript, my thoughts wandered to Conall photographing at the wedding and whether he’d be at mine. Did he mention where this commission was? And for how long? Then I thought of the boxes. What was with the boxes? I went back upstairs and looked inside them again. It couldn’t be, could it? I instinctively opened his bedroom door and went straight to his wardrobe. There were hardly any clothes there.
I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to message him and ask where the hell he was so he could come home and explain himself. I waited through lunchtime; two, three, four, past five o’clock. I kept looking out of the window and ignored Imran’s call. The little hand on the clock moved to seven.
Around eight-thirty, keys rattled in the door.
‘Oh. Hi,’ he said.
‘Going somewhere, are we?’ I asked.
He put his keys on the table.
‘I brought you some muffins,’ he said, lifting up a bag. ‘For tomorrow.’ He looked at the untouched packet of Hobnobs on the table. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
He put the bag down and placed his hands on the chair in front of him.
‘Afghanistan.’
Yes, Afghanistan. As in the country. As in the country that’s in political turmoil. I mean, is it your actual intent to get killed? He pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘It’s for three months. Stupid to say no.’
‘Afghanistan?’ I
might have sounded a little hysterical.
Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, on top of which Conall really should rethink wearing a white T-shirt when clearly you’re going to get sweaty in the heat and, you know, T-shirts are very clingy. A person’s trying to correct a book. I wanted to leave. The problem was, my limbs felt fairly paralysed.
‘Do you want some lemonade? I made it yesterday.’ He walked to the kitchen. What is the point in having a Sainsbury’s around the corner if a person makes their own lemonade? He came back with two tall glasses and put them on the table, taking the muffins out of the bag.
‘Blueberry, of course.’
‘Is it hot in here?’ I said, gulping down the lemonade, which, incidentally tasted bloody nice. He put the fan on the highest level.
‘Better?’
Every time the fan faced his way his T-shirt fluttered against his skin, which made me remember the day I knocked on his door and he was T-shirt free.
‘When exactly are you leaving?’ I asked.
‘Three weeks.’
Three weeks!
‘Right.’ I finished the lemonade and put the glass down.
‘My brother’s going to come and stay while I’m away. You’ll get on.’
I looked at the empty glass. ‘So you won’t be at the wedding?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve spoken to a photo-grapher friend and they’ll be able to do your wedding if you want them to.’
I couldn’t give a fuck about the photographer! Why, why, why does nothing stay the same for more than five minutes? Why does everything have to change all the time?? And just for a minute when you think, here’s someone solid, someone who, you know, will just be there; they go and tell you they’re going to freaking Afghanistan.
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t you want the muffin?’ he asked.
‘But I’ll miss you.’
I’m afraid my head-to-mouth filter wasn’t on; it’s an illness.