Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Oh. Haan, haan, of course, Beta.’ She sounded so aggrieved! And I, of course, felt awful.

  ‘I’m going to have arrabiata.’ Imran put the menu down and looked at the bag. ‘Have a look.’

  ‘Your mum thinks I should wait until I get home.’

  He shrugged. ‘She just thinks girls should do everything with their mums.’ I’m assuming the look of horror showed on my face because he laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry, Sofe. She’s not going to be like that with you.’

  I took it out, and well, it was just so gold. A thick strip of gold, with little balls hanging from it.

  ‘Oh, that’s . . . lovely.’ I dangled it in the air, wishing a rabid dog would pounce out of nowhere, grab the choker and run off with it. Preferably somewhere far, far away.

  Imran smiled. ‘If you don’t like it, you don’t have to wear it.’

  Oh! If only!

  ‘No. I’d love to wear it. Just as long as your mum doesn’t ask me to call her ammi again.’

  I browsed the menu, reasoning to myself that being annoyed about trivial matters is un-Islamic. Unkind. One can try to make others happy by doing small things. So I’ll wear an ugly choker for the day? Who cares? Imran looked so relieved and glad and, gosh, well, I’m learning to bite my enormous tongue.

  ‘You might as well. It’s all the same when you become a Haque.’ He took a piece of bread and dabbed it in the plate of olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

  ‘Become a Haque?’

  He munched on the bread. ‘Yeah, you know, when you change your name.’

  ‘I’m not changing my name.’

  The munching slowed down.

  ‘But everyone changes their name when they get married,’ he said.

  ‘Erm, no they don’t. And I don’t care what everyone does.’

  ‘What’s got into you lately, why are you so, I don’t know, short?’

  ‘I’m not short. I’m just saying that I’m not changing my name.’

  ‘Sofia Haque. It’s got a ring to it.’

  ‘But I already have a name. I’ve had it all my life, why should I change it for anyone just because I’m getting married?’

  He leaned back and blew out a puff of air. ‘Anyone?’

  A figure came and loomed over us.

  ‘Are you ready to order?’ Mr Chirpy Waiter beamed at us, but Imran’s stare was fixed on me. The waiter turned around and walked away.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said. ‘You’re the one who’s always saying things like, that’s so westernised, that’s such a westernised thing to say and do. Changing my name isn’t?’

  ‘We’ll chat about it later.’ He took the napkin and laid it on his lap. ‘What you going to get?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it now.’

  He sighed.

  ‘What’s got into you?’

  ‘Imran,’ I said, putting down the menu, desperate for him to understand. ‘If it’s not the wedding date, it’s the outfit. If it’s not the outfit, it’s the choker, and if it’s not the choker, it’s my name. You’re telling me to change my name.’

  ‘Everyone changes their name.’ He ran his fingers through his hair, which just made me remember his hairdressing appointment that his mum made. ‘Fuck’s sake, Sofe. What more do you want? I’m moving out for you. Can’t you do this?’

  I put my napkin down and realised: I’d miscalculated the measure of his sacrifice. To me, it is so small. To him, it is everything. He stared at me and my unreasonable self. I felt a rush of affection for him, but I knew it wouldn’t last. I’d go back to being short and frustrated because reason has nothing to do with it, after all.

  ‘I don’t think we should do this,’ I said.

  It took a few moments before he seemed to realise what I’d said – his face contorted as if I’d sucker punched him.

  Oh, God! I had to tell him. I had to say that I just can’t marry him. Now I know what a person who’s been thwacked looks like. Awful, awful, awful!

  Saturday 23 June

  5.40 a.m God, if today’s the day you want the world to end then I can’t say I’d mind. Although, if I could get in a little more prayer time that would be helpful – you know, to make up for bad deeds etc. Which now include telling the man I promised to marry that I no longer want to marry him.

  5.46 a.m. On the other hand, surely it’s much worse to marry someone half-heartedly because you were too spineless to tell them the truth. Now, would I rather be a spineless liar or a person who’s too selfish to keep a promise?

  Could I just be someone else altogether?

  5.50 a.m. How long should a person wait before they text the fiancé they just broke up with to check if they’re all right? OK, if I’m making a mistake, send me a sign, God. Any sign. Like, make it rain or something.

  I looked out of the window and, of course, it’s as bright as bloody anything. Although not wanting to get married is kind of a sign. I must compose myself. I am a mature adult with the ability to make life-changing decisions all by myself. I must not, at the crucial hour, lose my senses.

  8.05 a.m. I just have to clear my mind, that’s all. I have to see Conall. He’ll make it better – he’ll understand and tell me I did the right thing.

  7.55 p.m. OH MY GOD! I am mortified! Conall opened the door and I was ready to blurt it all out, but something in me hit the brakes on my declaration of guilt. I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, but couldn’t find any mugs.

  ‘Where have they all gone?’ I said, looking around as if I’d lost my very sanity. He came in, got one from the mug tree and put it in front of me. I had to walk past him to get to the fridge but he didn’t move. ‘I need milk.’ He turned around and got the milk out. I don’t know why but the empty cupboards made me sadder and I wished he would leave the kitchen so I could cry in peace.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Anything.’

  He sighed and mumbled something about me not wanting it, or wanting something else? I was too busy looking at him putting a teabag in the mug, and the more I looked at him the sadder I felt. The empty cupboards, the boxes stacked in the passage.

  ‘Actually, I want coffee.’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course you do.’

  The living room was covered with books, photo albums and papers. I sat and crossed my legs.

  ‘Tell me how I can help.’

  I put my phone behind me on the sofa to show how serious I was. He taped a box and moved it to the side. I picked up an album and flicked through a picture of him and his brother at school.

  ‘You had braces. No wonder your teeth are so straight. Unreasonable really for a man to have such good teeth, I think.’

  He kneeled and reached over to get a book that was on the sofa behind me and looked at me.

  ‘You prefer them broken?’

  He rested his hand on the edge of the sofa and I looked up at him and you know what I thought? I thought isn’t that the love-liest face anyone’s ever seen. There was that clean smell again – it makes you want to close your eyes and go to sleep. For ever, in my case.

  ‘Go eeeeh.’ I bared my teeth to demonstrate.

  He frowned. ‘Eeeeeh.’

  His arm was touching my shoulder and I was caught between wanting to laugh at him and wanting to wrap my arms around him.

  ‘A little chip might’ve done you some good.’

  He held my gaze for a moment before he pushed himself back and put the book on the pile on the floor.

  ‘I suppose the man you’re marrying has a chip?’

  Yes, and it’s probably on his shoulder – quite rightly. What was I thinking? How could I tell Conall, of all people, that the man I was meant to marry next week – I’ve decided I won’t. He patted his hand on the top of the pile. ‘These’ll be for you.’

  ‘You’ll come back at some point, I’ll take them then.’

  ‘I think I’ve stayed here long enough,’ he replied.

  ‘You’re not coming back?’

&n
bsp; ‘No, Sofe. I’m not.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I closed the album, trying to process this.

  ‘What about the American?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘His teeth.’

  ‘Oh. The American.’ I looked at him. ‘They were sort of like yours, I suppose.’

  He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Is that your way of telling me you had a crush on me?’ I’m sure I went bright red. I looked at him, thinking, what kind of a question is that? And then I thought, Crush? Conall? WTF. What would be the point in that? He’s not even Muslim. But as soon as these thoughts went through my mind they were succeeded by an oh my actual God moment. Of course I have a crush on you. I have more than a crush on you. Then one could say I was saved by the bell. But I was saved from one evil only to be plunged into another.

  ‘Jesus Christ, will you hang on,’ Conall shouted as someone banged at the door. It didn’t occur to me to worry about who it was given the utter inconvenience of aforementioned discovery. ‘Oh,’ Conall said, and then Mum came storming into the living room.

  ‘Have you gone off the track?’ She stood towering over me as I held onto Conall’s album and looked up at her furious face. ‘Imran’s ammi just called.’

  Shit.

  ‘No telling me, or your baba! Without anything, you just cancel wedding?’

  The thing is, having a disgruntled mother is one thing, but an angry one like the one I met today was a little different. Conall came in behind her and said, ‘You’re not getting married?’

  ‘Why isn’t she getting married? Of course she’s getting married.’

  I managed to get up, after a faulty start with all the bloody stuff around me.

  ‘No, Mum. I’m really not.’

  ‘What about all the guests? The money? Tell her,’ she said, looking at Conall. ‘Tell her how stupid she’s being. Let’s go home. Your baba will talk sense into you.’

  Conall stepped over the mess and faced me. ‘You’re not getting married?’ He looked at me and . . . Oh! I love his face. ‘You don’t have to go home.’

  ‘Le. Of course she does. She is mad.’

  I shook my head and followed Mum out of the door, like a delinquent fifteen-year-old who’d just been caught stealing underwear from M&S. I glanced backwards to see Conall staring at the ground as he ran his hand through his hair.

  We got inside the house and Dad was pacing the room. He stopped as soon as he saw us. ‘Soffoo, what is this I’m hearing?’

  And so it began . . .

  ‘What is wrong with him?’ exclaimed Mum.

  ‘If you didn’t want to marry him, why did you say you’d marry him?’ said Dad.

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Le, what didn’t you know?’ For the succeeding hour Mum felt that repeating everything I said would make me see how ridiculous I sounded. Yes, I’m sure I did sound ridiculous. I’m sure that I am ridiculous. Then I thought, it’s all well and good standing here and shouting at me, but perhaps if you hadn’t all been banging on about me getting married so that Dad could ‘live to see me happy’, this whole thing probably wouldn’t be happening. But of course that’s not taking responsibility for my own actions.

  The phone rang and Mum shot me a look after she picked up.

  ‘Baji, what can I say? I am talking to Sofia . . .’

  Oh, God above and around me, it was Imran’s mum.

  ‘Haan, we understand. Of course.’

  More looks.

  ‘Please, we are talking to her and she will listen. Don’t worry, there will be a wedding . . .’

  Dad was shaking his head at the floor.

  ‘Nahin, baji, don’t say like this. I’m not saying Imran can’t find a girl . . .’ Mum’s tone began to change. ‘Taw so what? Men marry girls much older than them.’ She glanced at me. ‘I understand you’re angry, we are also. We speak to her and . . . hmm . . . nahin, so . . .’ Mum stood up and started shaking her head. ‘Why are you bringing up her age again and again? They are same age . . . Listen, she is a child . . .’

  (Erm, seriously . . .)

  ‘They make mistakes . . . Well, acha, if this is how it is then we don’t want this rishta either!’ With which Mum hung up and threw the phone on the sofa.

  ‘Who the hell they think they are?’ she exclaimed. ‘Same age, same age. So what?’

  ‘Mehnaz. Calm.’

  ‘Hain? What calm?’ continued Mum as she got out her diary and looked up a number. ‘I told them get lost. We don’t want rishta either.

  ‘Haan, Sikandar? Haan, I spoke to you yesterday about the swing for the mehndi? Nahin, it’s cancelled.’

  ‘Where was Imran?’ I asked. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘I heard him in background telling his mum to be quiet. But that woman? Uff.’

  Dad looked at me. If ever there was a look of utter disappointment, there it was.

  ‘We will have to pay them for the wedding,’ he said.

  Mum put her hand to her forehead. ‘Hai hai, all that money. Just think. And the talk that will happen? You should’ve heard that woman. Waisay, she walks around pretending she is simple, and the tongue on her.’

  I hadn’t even thought about the money. Think things through!

  ‘Sofia, this is not a good thing you’ve done,’ said Dad.

  No, I wanted to say, it’s the worst thing I could’ve done. Mum flicked through more pages of her blue book.

  ‘I’ll give the money from the book,’ I said. ‘I’ll do something.’

  ‘You have put fire to everything,’ said Mum. ‘And for what?’ she asked. ‘Think, Soffoo, for what?’

  8.10 p.m. I’ve realised I’ve left my phone at Conall’s and I can’t pop over to collect it with Mum and Dad in not-so-quiet fury downstairs. Disaster, disaster, disaster!

  Sunday 24 June

  9.10 a.m. I’m a prisoner in my own home. It’s all murmuring and stomping downstairs, with intermittent exclamations at how someone must’ve given me the evil eye. What must Conall think of me? I wish I had my phone. I need my girls! Life is so much more depressing without my phone. If only I could get out of the house to see him and explain that I’m not an intentionally horrible person.

  9.40 a.m. I can’t stand this. I’m going to creep out and hope my parents don’t notice.

  10.45 a.m. I walked into the living room but wasn’t quite sure how to start the conversation. Was I meant to say sorry for bringing zoo-like behaviour into his home? The shouting? The abrupt exit? Before I could decide, Conall piped up, ‘Am I going to have to ask what happened?’

  I put the phone in my pocket.

  ‘I know. I know I did a shit thing, but I’ve done him a favour.’

  ‘Feckin’ hell, Sofe. Take a thing seriously now and then.’

  I could handle my parents being angry with me, but not Conall. I wanted him to tell me it was going to be OK – you know, offer those false words of comfort.

  ‘But my dad,’ I tried to explain. ‘There were wires and everything.’

  ‘Ah. So it was the pressure.’ He was leaning against the door. ‘Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that anyone else you love doesn’t get connected to wires then.’

  Which instantly made me think of Conall attached to wires.

  ‘I mean that poor bloke.’

  One can imagine what being stabbed might feel like; this was like the knife twisting in my guts.

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s awful. I’m awful.’

  I went to walk out of the room but he was in my way.

  ‘You go and blame your family and your dad.’

  ‘I said I’m awful, didn’t I?’ And then I mumbled, ‘What would you know about being brown anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, what would you know about being brown?’

  ‘Oh, that card.’

  ‘I am brown.’ I pointed to my face to make this absolutely clear. ‘It’s different, Conall. It’s so, so different.’ H
e had nothing to say, it seemed. ‘I need to go home. I’ll put your keys through the letterbox before you go.’

  He looked down at me: I was the sound and he was the fury. I’d have left but he wouldn’t move. Then he put both his hands in his pockets, moved to the side and said, ‘Fine, drop them through the letterbox.’

  As if it didn’t matter whether I stayed or left.

  11.30 a.m.

  From Imran: I’m sorry abt mum calling. She was just upset. Anyway, your dad spoke to my parents and I’ve emailed my account details. I’ve also emailed you a list of all the numbers and things that need cancelling too. Let me know when it’s done. Transfer the money as soon as you can. Imran.

  At first I thought, don’t apologise! Then anxiety wrapped itself around me once more. How could I have done that to him? And that money for which I said yes to the book in the first place, is now going to pay for the wedding that never was.

  3 p.m. Maria has come over. She came straight up to my room, her belly ever expanding, and closed the door behind her.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  Not sure if it was her maternal look, with her hand resting on belly, or whether it was the concern on her face, but I went up to her and hugged her so tight I think she was scared I wouldn’t let go until labour kicked in. I told her everything, from how I think I said I’d marry Imran because I was scared of Dad dying, to how each time Imran would mention anything about the wedding I’d feel sick and that he thought Hannah was stupid for being a second wife, and Suj shouldn’t marry a black guy and that it all amounted to he and I having nothing in common. She sat there, nodding.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sofe. You send me that bloody email and I’ll call all the people needed.’ She put her arm around me. ‘Listen . . . it’s better to do something now. Later sometimes gets too late.’

  ‘Mum is furious.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Mum. I’ll deal with her too.’

  God, having an older sister is a relief. She stared at the floor, contemplating something. She then raised her head and looked at me, ‘And hey, at least you won’t have to wear that lilac lehnga.’