Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  Monday 25 June

  7.20 a.m. Haven’t slept all night. Ended up just reading the manuscript. Every few pages, I’d stare into space and think of Conall’s angry face. But I want this damn manuscript that’s ended up being a waste out of the way. Then I can live under my duvet for the rest of my life.

  9.25 a.m. There. Sent.

  10.25 a.m. Katie came over to my desk and put a Kit-Kat on it.

  ‘Well done, Sweetu. Let’s celebrate with fish and chips for lunch.’

  Yes, and I can also tell you that my wedding is cancelled. Happy Monday!

  1.30 p.m. The canteen shouldn’t allow you to help yourself to chips. How is one to know when to stop? Katie sat and listened to me and my awfulness. When she put her hand on mine and said, ‘Of course you did the right thing,’ I almost sobbed into her kale and spinach smoothie.

  9.35 p.m. The lights were off in Conall’s house when I got home. I had the awful feeling that he’d left early, but then why would he do that? Where is he?

  Mum’s constantly on the phone telling people what’s happened. She flares up with anger, laments with despair, cries with sadness: every other minute a new emotion surfaces. We have nothing, if we don’t have variety.

  The girls have obviously taken the called-off wedding very well. Incomprehension was speedily replaced with, ‘I knew it was the right thing to do’, ‘There was something not quite right about it, really’ and ‘He wasn’t good enough for you, anyway’. Suj put her glass down on the table to draw a line of finality over the last statement. Love my girls.

  Note for when revising book: Always be around the people that see the best in you. Gives you a fighting chance of maybe one day being that person.

  10 p.m. Mum and Dad haven’t spoken to me. We are all exchanging nods and grunts. I’m not really in the mood to speak to them either, to be honest. I blame myself entirely – for not knowing my own mind sooner and for the sheer weakness of giving in. I just wish they’d understood me enough to have known it too.

  Tuesday 26 June

  3 p.m. I’m praying so hard that Conall’s convoy gets cancelled. I know that’s against the rules – you’re meant to pray for whatever’s the best, but I can’t help it. Please, please, please convoy be cancelled! Pleeeeeeease.

  I just don’t understand how he can leave home for such a long time. Maybe he’s not the settling-down type – maybe he’ll always be on some convoy or another: destination documentation, capturing people and moments and truths while I sit by my computer pitching books about hippos.

  7 p.m. I walked through his gate. His keys were in my bag, and I was about to put them through the letterbox. I opened the flap but, just as I was about to push them through, I knocked on the door instead.

  ‘Hey.’ I felt sheepish. He looked it. After a moment he looked over my shoulder. ‘Where are the roses? The melancholy music?’

  ‘Just can’t get the help nowadays.’

  I glimpsed at the empty passage. My heart felt displaced, as did my life.

  ‘I wanted to give you these.’ I held out the keys for him to take.

  ‘Ah, thanks.’

  I thought he might ask me to come in and have a cup of tea, coffee, fresh lemonade. Nothing. Goodbyes are the worst. I looked again at the empty passage – just wooden floors and hollow walls. When he closed the door behind him, before I’d even shut the gate, something swelled inside me, pushing tears to the surface. Must be PMT. Though don’t know why they call it Pre-Menstrual Tension – more like Constant Menstrual Tension.

  Thursday 28 June

  7.45 a.m. I woke up early to read some Qur’an so was walking around the house in my burqa and black hijab, as one does when they’re praying. The doorbell rang, which was odd. I went to open it and Conall was standing there.

  ‘Oh.’ He stared at me and the length of my burqa. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ I didn’t even think of what I was or wasn’t wearing; I was all, Conall’s here!

  ‘I, er, thought I’d catch you before you went to work,’ he said. ‘Have I disturbed you?’ Then he looked at the black shroud once more and I realised I must’ve looked like I was about to go to Hogwarts.

  ‘Oh, no. I’m in mourning,’ I said, picking up the sides of my burqa and doing a curtsey. What the hell? Why couldn’t he stop staring at the burqa and why was I curtseying?

  ‘I just wanted to drop by before I left. Sofe, I . . .’ Before he finished he stepped back and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What? Half-finished things are annoying, remember?’

  ‘I wanted to say goodbye and . . .’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘And think twice before you leave the house with that on. You could cause a riot.’

  Was that meant to be funny? It felt like someone was wringing my insides. Why did he have to see me in my burqa and then I thought why shouldn’t he see me in my burqa? Why can’t I just wear what I want to bloody well wear?

  ‘As long as it’s for the right reasons,’ I said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s worth it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybes are for fence sitters,’ I said.

  ‘Is that why you’ve taken to wearing a burqa?’

  I almost laughed and was going to say, don’t be ridiculous! I’m wearing shorts and a T-shirt under this. But then something stopped me.

  ‘Now I’ll be able to eat as many Hobnobs as I like.’

  But he didn’t laugh. Nor did I. Funny was lost.

  ‘Behave yourself,’ he said.

  He was really leaving, and I thought something had cracked in my heart and expanded in my throat. There he stood with his tattoos and me in my burqa, and all this space between us. He might as well already be in Afghanistan.

  But I thought, sod this space, and I went and put my arms around him. ‘Try to stay alive,’ I said in his ear. He tightened his grip and nodded. Then he stepped back, turned around, and walked away.

  Friday 29 June

  8.30 a.m. Dad is looking better than usual. He hovered at the door while I sat on the edge of my bed, brain willing my body to get up and body refusing to comply.

  ‘Have they said anything about the book?’ he asked, or barked, rather.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  I stood up and put my hair up in a clip.

  ‘Why’s that good?’

  ‘Time away from something helps you to see more clearly.’ He frowned. I wonder how much longer he’ll frown at me.

  Mum came in and opened my wardrobe. I was going to ignore her, but living in a silent household was getting really depressing.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t find the safe key.’

  ‘Why would it be in my wardrobe?’

  ‘O-ho – I change the hiding place every month – but I can’t remember where.’

  Mum continued to paw around my clothes.

  ‘What’s this?’ Mum groped into the back for something. My eyes widened in realisation and I threw my hair band at Dad. He looked at me as I put two fingers near my lips, pretending to smoke. Dad’s head shot back to the wardrobe, but it was too late. Mum already had the box of cigarettes in hand. She looked at both of us. Dad pretended to look authoritative until the look on Mum’s face cracked him. He pointed at me.

  ‘See my daughter? She looks after me. You just give me headache.’

  I smiled, comforted by Dad’s words. Maybe not too much longer until he forgives me. Mum laughed even though she pretended to look annoyed. What an idiot I was, deciding to marry someone just to keep my parents happy (or whatever word you want to use). They’ve made it through much worse.

  The parents will be OK. I will be too. But everything is leaden right now; my feet, my head, that beating organ that pumps blood through the body.

  10 a.m. I went into Brammers’ office and took a seat.

  ‘So, Lucinda read the draft you sent.’

  ‘Oh, OK. Right.’

  ‘After
I spoke to her I thought it’d be good to have a few of the other editors read it too – that’s one of the good things about the book – it’s an easy read.’

  ‘OK.’ My mouth was dry and I tried to detect what she might say next based on her facial expressions. ‘And?’

  ‘And . . . We all loved it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely. This, Sofia, is going to be a real gem.’

  The door opened and Lucinda walked in, plopping herself on the seat next to me.

  ‘Gem! To be honest with you, I was a little bit pissed when I read the manuscript and I wanted to make sure the reason I liked it wasn’t just because I’d had a few chardonnays, you know what I mean?’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Of course you don’t know what I mean. It’s amazing. You’ve never touched a drop of alcohol. You must have the most healthy liver.’

  Yes, it’s just my heart’s that’s the problem. She peered at me as if I was some wild animal at a zoo.

  ‘Isn’t that amazing?’ she asked Brammers. ‘Have you seen how beautiful Sofia’s hair is?’

  Brammers replied that she had not. ‘Anyway, so this is great but let’s have lunch to discuss some niggly editorial changes.’ They both looked at me.

  ‘OK,’ I said. I did everything they asked and they loved it. I should be relieved, happy, proud – but I wasn’t. I just wasn’t.

  Note for life: when you write a book, don’t do it for money . . .

  ‘This is gold dust,’ said Lucinda. ‘And it doesn’t hurt when you’re marketable.’

  Which I thought was kind of ironic given that I’m pretty un-marketable in the marriage world.

  I went back to my desk and stared at my computer screen.

  ‘Sweetu, you should be so proud of yourself,’ said Katie.

  I nodded, but there’s a fair bit of a distance between what you should be and what you are.

  Ah. Mum calling . . .

  JULY AND AUGUST 2012

  What We Talk About When We Talk About Goodbye

  Tuesday 3 July

  My dearest Sweetu,

  I’ve wanted to call you all weekend, but I wasn’t sure you’d be in the frame of mind to speak, so I’m writing instead.

  Oh, Sofe, I’m so, so, sorry. That’s not enough, but I am. I won’t go on because you don’t like that, but if there is anything at all I can do, or if there’s anything you need, even if it’s just to speak, I am on the other end of the phone, or will come wherever you are to see you.

  Your friend Fozia texted me to let me know that the funeral is tomorrow. Of course I’ll be there. Everyone at work is thinking of you and sending you big love.

  Your dad loved you.

  As do I,

  Katie xxxx

  Saturday 4 August

  10.45 p.m. Death turns people into philosophers. Tonight Auntie Reena leaned over and said, ‘You must pray for your baba, Beta.’ She thrust the rosary beads in my hands. ‘Death shows us we are not here for ever,’ she whispered, her breath stale from fasting.

  ‘Uff,’ said Auntie Scot, shaking her head solemnly, ‘you never know when your time is up.’

  Mum looked up from reading the Qur’an as Auntie Reena replied, ‘Everything stays here. Nobody takes anything with them.’ Then there was collective tutting in the room.

  Just as I was putting the rosary beads on the coffee table, Auntie Reena added, ‘You know, more important than wearing hijab is praying your five prayers.’

  Mum turned the page of the Qur’an, glancing at the clock, and Maria shifted in her seat.

  ‘Chalo, it’s almost iftari time,’ said Mum, getting up with the requisite groan caused by arthritic knees, and going into the kitchen. I followed her.

  It’s been over a month and Chachu has come and gone again, Ramadan is here again, but at least random people aren’t turning up at our doorstep with tear-strewn faces, sitting in the house for hours, waiting for fast to open – now and again picking up a copy of the Qur’an – but mostly whispering about whatever the latest social scandal is. Oh, and the poor dead dad who didn’t get to see his youngest daughter get married. All these tragedies.

  ‘Everything is from Allah,’ said Auntie Scot. ‘Just think, if Soffoo hadn’t said no to Imran there would’ve been a funeral on the wedding day.’

  Mum passed me the fruit salad and touched my cheek with her hand.

  I should never have called off the wedding. It never would’ve happened anyway.

  11.50 p.m. I keep thinking about that moment when I got to the hospital and Mum looked at me, shaking her head, tears down her cheeks. Maria was sat with her hand resting on her belly as she stared into space, Tahir next to her, gripping her hand.

  ‘Soffoo, your baba is gone,’ said Mum.

  Gone? Gone how? Gone where? What do you mean – gone? She blew her nose into a tissue and wiped her eyes. ‘Chalay gaye, Soffoo,’ she repeated. I stared and just kept shaking my head. Can someone explain to me where gone means?

  A doctor came in and whispered to Maria, who listened intently before we were led out of the waiting room. As we followed the doctor I looked at the familiar setting – I’d been here before, and it had been OK – everything would be OK. The door opened. I walked towards a bed where Baba lay as if he were asleep. He’s going to wake up and he’s going to be fine, I thought. But then some people came and covered his body with a white sheet, and I thought, what the hell are you doing? Are you mad? And then they began wheeling him out and all I could think was: Baba doesn’t have his glasses. He needs them. He can’t see anything without them. I think I might’ve begged. I begged for them to wait a minute. That’s all I wanted. One more minute. But Maria pulled me into her arms, shushing me, and I no longer had the energy to plead. The swinging doors shut and he was now on the other side. Gone.

  Now I’m sitting here, alone, and I’m thinking about what I might have done with one more minute. How can you fit a lifetime of ‘I love yous’ into a minute?

  Monday 6 August

  9.35 a.m. Death has also made me more efficient. Well, death and fasting. I don’t have the energy to explain to Mum or whichever member of the family has decided to stay over that night why I’m not getting up at dawn for suhur. Seeing as I can’t be bothered to eat for most of the day, I might as well fast with everyone else. This year it just means I get more work done and even though sometimes I nod off on the toilet, generally I’m more productive – no one needs to be awake while they pee anyway.

  12.15 p.m. ‘Sofia.’ Brammers shut the door as I walked in and she took her seat behind the desk. She smiled. I smiled back. She clasped her hands and rested them on the table. I settled mine under my legs. She smiled again.

  ‘Sofia,’ she said, letting out a sigh. ‘I have to say you’ve done incredibly well, working on the book.’ Smile. ‘Under the circumstances.’ Her voice rose a few decibels there.

  ‘Good.’

  I glanced over at the manuscript on her table.

  ‘There was just something that we were wondering. It’s not that the material is in any way lacking . . . we just feel that there isn’t enough, well,’ she leaned forward, ‘we feel there isn’t enough . . . sex.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Sex.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fascinating stories.’ She scratched her head and sniffed her fingers. ‘Gosh, do all Pakistani boys really just sleep around and then end up marrying a girl from back home, as you call it?’

  ‘Erm . . .’ I put my hands on my lap, ‘. . . as much as all English boys get drunk in the middle of the day on the Tube, I suppose.’

  Brammers looked at the manuscript.

  ‘Ah, yes, well – of course. Anyway, we do feel that, though entertaining, there needs to be more sex.’ I folded my arms. ‘Just so that it’s appealing to a wider readership.’

  Wider readership? What? Like bored housewives and people who need something to read before the next Mills & Boon comes
out?

  ‘Can I be candid, Sofia?’ Smile. ‘It’s an admirable way of life, really. No drinking, no sex before marriage, up at the break of dawn to pray. It’s really very committed . . .’ Sounded more like she thought I should be committed. ‘But it’s also a little tricky for people to relate to. And what readers really want is something they can understand.’ She twisted in her chair. ‘Of course they want something new and unknown, but really it should also be relatable, you see?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’re not talking about an exposé or anything. Just maybe one chapter involving something sex-like.’

  ‘Sex-like.’

  I stood up to leave as Brammers began typing an email. Just as I was about to walk out of the door, she said, ‘People always get side-tracked by sex. It’ll save you from explaining why you decide to live the way you live.’

  I didn’t know I had to explain my life to people as well as go through the process of actually living it.

  3.30 p.m. The new work experience girl came scampering to my desk because Fleur was nowhere to be seen and she was all, ‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry, but those show cards . . . Everything’s got stuck . . . could you have a look?’

  I unstuck the papers from the board and ended up doing the laminating myself while she watched. Her dedication to the job was admirable – she was the only one in the office who didn’t have a separate screen open to watch the Olympics.

  ‘Oh, so that’s how you keep the air bubbles out.’

  She graduated with a First from Oxford and she’s learning how to keep air bubbles out.

  ‘I don’t know how much you’ll need it in life, but it might get you a job around here.’

  She beamed at me. And I thought all Oxford Uni students were stuck up. I’ve thought a lot of things, though, haven’t I? Not quite sure what I’ve been right or wrong about.