Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  As I walked home, rubbing my fist now and again, I kept thinking about the man. What an unsuccessful day of fasting it was – neither tongue, nor limbs were in my control – The Racist had taken a hit, but so had any remainder of my spirituality. Before I went into the house I stopped outside Conall’s gate – just for a few seconds – when Sean came out with a rubbish bag.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said. Must stop staring at him just because he looks like Conall. He might think I’m a psychopath.

  ‘Hi.’

  He nodded and was about to go back in when he noticed me rubbing my fist.

  ‘How’d that happen?’

  ‘Oh, this?’ I asked, inspecting the bruising that was getting more purple by the minute. ‘I punched someone.’

  He laughed and then stopped, looking at my straight face.

  ‘How’s the house?’ I asked.

  ‘Grand. The garden door’s an arse to open, though. Conall can’t fix a lock to save his life.’

  He tucked in his shirt and rested his elbow on the pillar.

  ‘What you have to do is pull it towards you, twist the knob a quarter of an inch, anti-clockwise, and then push out. I kind of broke it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind opening it now? It’s roastin’ in there.’

  Unfortunately, it turns out that I’m a bit out of practice. I fiddled with the stupid thing and the door wouldn’t move. It didn’t help that my hand wasn’t in complete working order.

  ‘Try pushing instead of pulling,’ he said.

  ‘No, it’s definitely pull and then push. Maybe it’s clockwise.’

  His phone rang and when he picked up he kept saying, ‘Hello, hello?’ I was rather dedicated to getting the door to open when I heard, ‘Conall, I can’t hear you. What? Oh, right – you’re using your girlfriend Hamida’s phone, are ya?’ He chuckled.

  My throat was dry as I kept shaking the knob. Hamida? Who the FUCK is Hamida?

  ‘Ah, well, whatever. What? No, your garden door won’t open. No, Sofia’s trying right now. Sofia. Yes. She’ll make it what? Speak up. Yeah, she’s grand – punched someone in the face.’ Sean laughed. ‘She did, I swear to you – bruised fist and everything. Tell her what? He says: isn’t Ramadan meant to be a month of peace?’

  My heart seemed to have moved from its usual place – I had organ displacement. He has a girlfriend. Worse still – he has a Hamida – a Muslim Hamida!

  ‘He’s asking about your family,’ said Sean.

  I gave the knob another push and pull and with one last effort the door flew open. Before Sean could ask anything else, I sprinted out of the house.

  He has a Hamida. A Hamida. Probably some annoying, philanthropic do-gooder in khakis and no makeup who goes around building schools or whatever. But of course he’s going to find a girlfriend. He’s everything that’s good.

  There’s still over an hour until iftari. I’m going to curl up in my bed.

  No bloody way. Naim calling . . .

  9 p.m. I picked up. If for no other reason than sheer curiosity.

  ‘Happy Ramadan, Daisypuffs.’

  For a moment it was so comforting to hear that familiar name. As if everything that’s happened between the last time he called me Daisypuffs and now didn’t exist.

  ‘You too.’

  I thought maybe he’d found out about Baba, but he began making small talk, asking how Rammers had been so far. Blah blah blah.

  ‘What can I do for you, Naim?’

  ‘I miss you.’

  It cushioned the jagged edges of my heart a little, those words.

  ‘How’s married life?’ he asked.

  Of course. He didn’t know I’m no longer with Imran.

  ‘Do you miss me?’ he added.

  I paused.

  ‘Why are you calling, Naim?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Because I miss you and love you.’

  That’s right. The ‘L’ word: throwing it out there as if he’d said it a million times before. You never think you’ll be taken in by a person – even for a second. Everyone has such a high opinion of their judgement.

  Everyone is an idiot.

  ‘You are amazing, Naim. And I don’t mean that in a good way.’

  ‘So you’re still uptight?’

  ‘Yes. I’m still uptight and you’re still a prick.’ I couldn’t quite believe it. Right now, he thinks I’m married and this is what comes tumbling out of his mouth.

  ‘Hey, I call to tell you I miss and love you and you call me a prick? I’m being fucking honest.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ I paused. ‘If you’d just left things the way they were I’d probably have looked back and thought, even though it didn’t work out, he was a good guy. At least he cared about me. So thanks for clearing that up for me, because there’s obviously nothing you could be other than a self-serving waste.

  ‘Don’t call me again,’ I added. ‘Ever.’

  And I put the phone down.

  11.45 p.m.

  From: O’Flynn, Conall

  To: Khan, Sofia

  Subject: Violence

  Sofe,

  Would you believe I was here, sat in Afghanistan, randomly considering this pacifism of yours, and just when I thought, she might have a point, my brother tells me you punched someone.

  It’s beautiful here. But I’ll tell you something for nothing: this place’d change a person. It’s awful. If I had words like you, I’d describe it. I met two girls today, sold by their dad for money to fund his drug addiction. Children no older than six and nine. I’ve seen things before, but this is something else. I tell you, it’d be a good time to have someone who makes you laugh.

  I won’t be here for much longer. I’m going to Pakistan. Hamida (she’s a documentary filmmaker I met) is making a film on shanty towns. The biggest one in Asia is in Orangi in Karachi. You’d love her. She never stops and she’s gone and convinced me to join her. She’s a bit like you – hammers on at you until you give in – couldn’t say no. Plan is to raise funds through the documentary to help educate kids who don’t have money for school. I’ve done all I can in Afghanistan, and I’ve run into a fair few problems, so think it’s time to leave. We’ll be making our way to India from Karachi. Remember the protest we went to and how you loved it so much? I can’t imagine what you’d be like if you knew Hamida’s plans.

  How’s the book? I didn’t think I’d email you, you being busy with your work, but when you hit someone, well – couldn’t quite help it.

  Try to keep things peaceful in London.

  Love,

  Conall

  2 a.m. I read and re-read the grammatically perfect email. I now know it by heart. Weird thing is, it wasn’t the fact that he wasn’t here, but the fact that he was sad, and the reasons that he was sad, which made me feel depressed. Children being sold. I looked outside, at the street lamps lighting up the road and, all of a sudden, the comfort of my pillow annoyed me. I switched on the bedroom light and paced up and down the room, thinking of this beautiful, forsaken place he was in.

  I’ve just seen a printout of the new chapter I handed to Brammers, and it’s given me that sinking feeling, as if something’s out of place. This stupid book – it’s not even as if I can give the advance back. And whose fault is that?

  Tuesday 14 August

  10 a.m. I know feelings can be useless – like when you want something that you will obviously never have – but they can be useful too: like when you know you’re making a mistake marrying someone, or you’ve written a book that is not the book you want to write. I couldn’t sleep all night. I was willing someone or something to inject an answer into my brain about what to do. And then it came to me. Because the last thing a person wants to do is look back and think, ‘Hmm, if only I’d followed my instinct.’

  So I went into Brammers’ office and I told her. I said, ‘This is not the book I want to write.’

  She glanced at her computer screen and then smiled at me.

  ‘Oh dear. Well, you’re
almost there, and the new chapter is just the addition that was needed.’

  ‘No. No, it isn’t – the whole thing isn’t what’s needed.’ I sat in the chair opposite as a matter of urgency and leaned forward, ‘Is this what it’s come to, Bram . . . Dorothy?’

  I wish I had a hard copy of the manuscript to wave in the air as a matter of example.

  ‘I can do more. Much, much more. We all can. We can publish something better than just a book about Muslim dating.’

  ‘Umm, hmmm, thing is, it’s going to be great. No need to fix something that’s not broken.’

  Actually, quite a lot of things are broken. She clasped her hands together.

  ‘Do you have another book planned?’ she asked as I stared at her. ‘How would you be able to write something in three months?’

  I looked at her as if I was about to tell her I’m putting her dog to sleep, because this wasn’t an argument she was going to win.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s not happening,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m taking it back.’

  ‘The problem is, Sofia, that you have a contract and there’s no way of changing that. You have to deliver a book in October.’

  ‘Yes, and I will.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dorothy,’ I leaned forward – for effect, you see – ‘I know the deadline’s October and I know it sounds incredibly, well, impulsive, but that manuscript you have isn’t getting published. But there will be another book.’

  ‘Well, what would this book be?’

  Shame I hadn’t quite thought that through.

  ‘Trust me, Dorothy. It’s going to be great.’

  Brammers picked up her pen and started tapping it on the table, shaking her head. ‘Impossible. This just isn’t what we agreed.’

  ‘Dorothy, please. If it doesn’t work,’ I continued, ‘if somehow I don’t pull it off then it’s not as if you don’t already have a book to fall back on.’

  She put her pen down and looked at me as that sympathetic smile that I’ve become so used to surfaced. I had to put all my energy into making sure my gathering tears didn’t fall. Wrong time, wrong place.

  ‘Please, I know I can deliver something better.’

  Brammers took a deep breath and sighed.

  ‘OK, Sofia.’ She reached out and patted my hand. ‘OK. But you know you have something good enough already.’

  I sighed with relief.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She picked up some papers and went to stand up.

  ‘Before you get up, Dorothy, there’s just one more thing.’ I put an envelope on her desk. ‘I’d like to hand in my notice.’

  12.20 p.m.

  From: Khan, Sofia

  To: O’Flynn, Conall

  Subject: Violence

  Conall,

  I’m back to being a pacifist. Every time I look at the bruise on my fist I think, this really should only be used to make obscene gestures at people who take my parking space. People who take other people’s spaces are dickheads. If I’m going to make one effort in life, it’s going to be trying not to be one of those.

  I’m not quite sure what to say about your email. At least you’re doing something – not just sitting around, sipping tea and eating samosas or whatever. Everything is OK. Complaining about anything when you’ve seen the things you’ve seen would be a dickheaded thing to do and I’ve already established I want to avoid that. I miss not being able to speak with you on weekends, or see you walk in and out of your house, sit next to you on the garden step and have a cigarette. But I suppose there’s the greater good at stake.

  In other news it turns out I’m not made for publicity. I quit my job. I am totally jobless. I hope to have more profound thoughts on life now I’m not busy writing press releases. I also have a book to rewrite. I don’t think the world’s going to be a better place for having a Muslim dating book on their e-reader. You were right. Turns out you often are.

  Karachi will be amazing, I’m sure. I am jealous. Since you’ve spent some time with my family and me at least it won’t be too much of a culture shock. I’ll make an effort to do more for the world after I finish the book, just not sure what that more is yet.

  Any thoughts you might have on what book I should write will be greatly received.

  Sofia. Xx

  It took me an hour to compose those paragraphs. There was no need to mention anything about Dad. I don’t need sympathy. Anyway, what’s the point in relating information when the only thing a person can reply with is, ‘I’m sorry.’

  7 p.m. Maria and Tahir are over for iftari. Maria keeps complaining about pains in her stomach, to which Mum replied that if you’re not going to be in pain with another human growing inside you, then when are you going to be in pain.

  I keep checking my phone for emails. Nothing. But then there’s not much to reply to.

  10 p.m. Tahir’s gone to the mosque so I came downstairs to see what Mum and Maria were up to.

  ‘I gave Sean iftari today. It’s rude, haina, all Ramadan we’ve given nothing to neighbours,’ said Mum. I put the kettle on and looked in the cupboards for potential muffins. ‘So much like Colin he looks.’

  ‘Conall, Mum!’ Maria and I said in unison.

  ‘O-ho, haan, Conall. Muffins are in bread bin – look with your eyes. And then he asked about your baba.’ The muffin was almost in my mouth. I put it down. Great. ‘Nice hai, Sean. You know how these goray like our food. Also, the kitchen light is not working properly. I’ll ask him to fix and give him biryani.’

  Maria said that Tahir is more than able to fix things in the house and Mum scoffed and said that it’ll be a wonder if he’ll manage to hold their baby without dropping it on its head.

  Friday 17 August

  7 p.m. Everyone’s waiting for Eid to be announced. I’m waiting for a reply. I suppose I should give up. But he is in Afghanistan. Anything can happen in Afghanistan. What if there’s been an accident? Or bombing? Maybe I should ask Sean, just in case. I’d like not to come across as unhinged, though. But what if Conall’s lying in a ditch somewhere and all that stands between life and death for him is me finding out whether he received my email?

  Or maybe he’s with that Hamida. Whyyyyyyyyy??

  7.45 p.m. Oh my God! Maria just called and said she thinks she’s having contractions. The baby’s not due for another five weeks!

  9 p.m. Bloody hell, I’m in hospital. Mum, being the faint-hearted sort, told me to call her when it’s done. God, please let Maria and baby be OK. Please. Tahir has just come out of the labour room and Maria wants me inside.

  ‘She says she needs you. To talk her through it.’

  ‘What about the midwife?’ I asked. I gag just at the mention of mucus plugs.

  ‘She needs her sister, Sofe.’

  I looked at his serious face, and then thought of my poor sister, pushing a human out of her vagina.

  ‘OK. OK, let’s go in.’

  Saturday 18 August

  6 a.m. You see a woman give birth, you’re going to respect her. Fact. What an Eid present. Yes, today is Eid. I’m officially an aunt – to an as-of-yet-unnamed baby boy. I can’t believe a person can be that tiny. Maria’s asleep and Tahir’s passed out on the chair. There was this moment, when I saw the baby’s head, this weird upside down, alien thing – covered in blood and mucus and God knows what other crap – that I felt my eyes well up and actual happiness pop to the surface. It doesn’t hit you, really – how you’ve never seen anything until you’ve seen one human come out of another.

  He hasn’t opened his eyes yet and we can’t go into the Neonatal Ward, but the doctors say he’s going to be all right.

  When I checked my phone I thought I’d have an email waiting for me. I’d better go and collect Mum. She wants to see whether the baby’s fair or not. The circle of life.

  Sunday 19 August

  7.05 a.m. Mum told me to get out of bed to help her make samosas for people who’ll be coming to visit Mar
ia and baby. I saw my life flash before my eyes. All of a sudden I was in my sixties, living in the same house, making samosas for this same nephew’s wedding.

  11 a.m. Oh my God. I have lost the will to live. My arms are aching from filling in samosa pockets and I also have the weird paste all over my clothes. I have to now help Mum clear out Maria’s old room. As per tradition, she and baby will be living here for at least a month.

  I check my phone all the time. Every time it beeps I think it might be him, and it isn’t. Perhaps it never will be.

  Friday 24 August

  1 p.m. Maria and baby are coming home at last. I will be glad to be able to bundle up joy in my arms.

  Saturday 25 August

  10.30 a.m. ‘Sofia! Also bring back Maria’s white sandals. People come to see the baby and she’s walking around in horrible slippers.’

  If it’s not kebabs and chocolate fountains, it’s formula and breast pumps. When I left to pick stuff up from Maria’s home, I sat behind the wheel for five minutes. I started the engine and I took a left towards the cemetery. I still haven’t got used to seeing his name engraved on a tombstone. Date of death: 29th June 2012. On the 28th I had a father, and the next day he was gone: from flesh to eventual dust.

  I raised my hands in prayer – there’s nothing much I can do for bones, but if there’s a soul floating around somewhere, unaided and in need of a place to rest, then I’m going to pray for it. It’s different when you’re crying alone out in the open – in fact, if anyone’s ever going to cry anywhere, I’d recommend it be alone, in the open – under some blossom tree or a ridiculously picturesque place like that. There’s nothing quite as sad as grief displayed beneath a blossom tree.

  12.15 p.m. I was sat, phone in hand – waiting, as ever – and Mum asked me to get her gold bangles from upstairs.

  ‘Gold bangles?’ I asked. I mean, on one hand there’s someone like Conall (and bloody brilliant Hamida) doing things that mean something, and on the other hand there was my mum, asking me about gold bangles.