by Ayisha Malik
After dinner, Sean helped Mum wash the dishes. Auntie Scot was looking at him.
‘Look there,’ she said to Auntie Reena as I picked up rogue napkins from the floor, ‘Can you imagine Pakistani man doing that?’
Auntie Reena scoffed. ‘Le, our men taw are shit.’
Uncle Scot looked up from watching the news whilst Tahir tried to stop the baby from crying.
I looked at both aunties. ‘Come on, now,’ I said, ‘there’s no need to be racist.’
I had to take a moment and look at everyone. Everyone but Baba. There will always be something missing. There’s nothing you can do about loss, except fill the hole as much as you can with memories of the people that have been left behind.
Friday 31 August
4.30 a.m. I sat on Baba’s side of the bed, thinking of what he might’ve said if he were here. I can only guess – I’ll only ever be able to guess – but I hope that his feelings would be something along the lines of pride.
Fozia stayed over last night.
‘Darling,’ she said. I turned around and she was standing at the door. ‘It’s time to go.’
I stood up and got the prayer mat out and wrapped my hijab over my head.
When I sat down afterwards on the mat, I prayed for everyone that was in the room last night. And the person that wasn’t. I remembered the couple from the hospital whose daughter had been in an accident, and prayed she was OK as well. Also, seeing as I was feeling generous, I threw in a prayer for the rest of the world too.
‘Will you miss me, Mum?’ I asked.
She yawned as she put the kettle on and said, ‘I’ll be too busy to miss you. And waisay bhi, you know how much mess your Scotland Auntie and Uncle make in the kitchen. I’ll say thanks to God when they go back.’
When all my cases were in the trunk I went to hug Mum and Maria.
‘Acha, make sure you come back thin,’ said Mum. She held my face in her hands and tears were gathering in her eyes. ‘Chal, my bachi.’ Bachi. Yes, I will always be a child in her eyes. ‘Be careful in India. You know they don’t like Muslims.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, smiling as I hugged her.
Maria started crying. I told her I’d be back in no time and she said, ‘Not that, stupid. I’m just happy you’re doing this.’
I worried, having to leave them both, but Fozia was there (which reminds me to email the girls separately and assign who’s to look after who while I’m away). She put her arm around Mum and told her she’d help her paint the conservatory before she left for South America.
‘Make sure Suj doesn’t go breaking up with Charles,’ I said, hugging Foz, and (I’m sorry) feeling envious of her slight frame. ‘I’ll see you in India.’
‘I’ll bring fags!’ she whispered in my ear.
8.45 a.m. Thanks to God – we’re on the plane and I’ve sent emails to girls. Really wish we hadn’t flown Pakistan International Airlines, but God forbid I say a thing out loud. Conall told me to stop being rude. Let’s see how he feels a few hours in when it’s too hot, the entertainment system doesn’t work and passengers start complaining about the cutlery.
‘There are worse things in the world, Sofe.’
Must stop looking at him in puppy-dog fashion. I do have some sense of self left.
8.50 a.m. Mum just called and I spoke to everyone on speakerphone. Luckily no one in the plane really noticed or cared.
‘Beta, acha, there is a boutique in Clifton, if you call . . .’
Maria cut Auntie Reena off with, ‘Quick! Put the phone down before everyone starts giving you orders for what clothes they want made.’
The Scots told me that times might’ve changed but I’m still a girl and still the daughter of Shakeel Khan. I told them it wasn’t likely I’d forget my gender (honestly), or whose daughter I was. But when they started saying bye in unison I felt like giving them a collective hug. As I switched the phone off, Conall handed me a packet of Hobnobs. It almost made me cry. I tried not to think of how many nice things he must do for Hamida and focused on being grateful for the fact that I was sitting beside him for the next seven hours.
Because we know now that I am pathetic.
Time at current location: 2.55 p.m. I have to record this right now in case I forget any detail. I can’t risk losing a single moment to memory loss.
Some fat man tried to close the overhead compartment and I thought, see, it’s beginning – being on this flight is one of the worst things in the world.
‘Jesus, how heavy is that person’s hand luggage?’ said Conall, under his breath.
‘How heavy is that person?’ I replied, not so quietly.
‘So when we get there, Hamida’ll meet us with her partner.’
I fiddled with the seatbelt and fastened it, attempting to block out any mention of her.
‘Hmm, fine.’
‘They’re a great team,’ he said, smiling at the fifth person who’d walked past staring at him. ‘Met two years ago on a charity tour. Just got married.’
I looked at him, but he started casually flicking through the pages of a magazine. What was this? Met? Each other? What?
‘Oh.’ I took the magazine from him and pretended to flick through it in case my heart leaped out of my mouth. ‘You mean her husband?’
He nodded, saying, ‘Sofe, are you always going to just take things from me?’ I couldn’t speak; I just looked at him. ‘OK, when we land we’re going straight to Tooba mosque. Put some discipline in you. Plus,’ he continued, ‘It’s Friday. We’ll miss afternoon prayers, but you want to go to the mosque on a Friday.’
We? I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.
‘We’ll enrol in some cookery classes, too. Sort this domestic shit of yours out once and for all.’
Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats and fasten your seatbelts . . .
‘We?’ I said, accidentally dropping the magazine.
He buckled his seatbelt and gave a brief nod. The plane began to move and people were still standing, getting things out of the overhead compartments. A baby cried in the back and a man stood, chatting to his friend sitting behind him.
‘Sir, aap please beth jayein,’ said the air hostess to him.
When he ignored her request to sit down, she sighed and stomped off to the cockpit. My heart wasn’t just displaced – it had found itself practically in my mouth. But I had to act normal. It doesn’t make a difference. He’s not Muslim.
‘You know, you really should trim that beard. You look like a homeless person,’ I said.
He sighed.
‘Although, I guess where we’re going you’ll kind of fit in.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I don’t think you should take Jesus’s name in vain. Also, I have a point. On both counts.’
He scratched the beard and turned towards me.
‘Don’t you like it?’
Ladies and gentlemen, can you please take your seats and fasten your seatbelt. The plane is taking off.
I don’t think I could help smiling when I looked at him, and his lovely face with this unruly beard.
Of course I like it. I love it. I love youuuuuu.
‘It’s, you know, whatever.’
Conall leaned in, his face not two inches away from mine. ‘Whatever? I go and get a beard for you and all I get is a whatever?’
I must’ve looked confused. Hain? A beard? For me? Also, why was he so close (and yet so far!)? There was the quickening of the heart again . . .
‘You’d be surprised what you think about when you’re away from everyone. Everything.’
The confusion about his train of thought must’ve appeared on my face.
‘Like the length of your dress being in correlation with the length of a Muslim’s beard . . .’ he said.
Muslim’s beard?
‘Some things don’t make sense until you have the time to think about them. And then you just have to adjust a few things. You don’t mind having to adjust the length of your
dresses?’
‘Conall . . .’ I began. What was he saying? Did he actually mean what I think he meant?
‘You better not. Seeing as I’ve feckin’ adjusted my religion.’
Oh my actual, actual God.
‘There was only one thing I needed to sort out, Sofe. And that was knowing if you were willing to take a risk too.’
Then it all came out. How Afghanistan made him realise that he missed me. (Me? If I weren’t buckled in, I’d have buckled over. Seriously.) And that my email made him restless, and then the phone call when Sean told him about Baba – it all meant one thing, and that was apparently to come back and see if I felt the way he thought I felt. (Erm, hello? As if I had a choice in the matter. As if I could feel any other way.) He held my hand and I threw my arm around him. I’m afraid I cried. A lot. Bloody tears. Blubbered things about feelings that, really, I’d rather not repeat or get into. He seemed to find it all quite amusing.
Imagine, I don’t have to worry about tearing myself away from him. Ever. I keep wondering how this could’ve happened. Does he know what he’s doing? I’ve heard of people converting for their partner, I know people who have done it, but that shit always happens to others. Not like this. Not to you.
He’s queueing for the bathroom (good luck to him). I keep looking back at him to make sure he’s still there, and that this isn’t just a figment of my imagination. The entertainment system isn’t working, it is too hot, and someone’s just asked whether this plane is going to Islamabad (there have already been complaints about the cutlery), so it all feels real enough . . .
What do you do for a person who’s going to change their life for you? I must think of doing something equally brilliant for him. Don’t think cupcakes will work – well, not my cupcakes anyway.
Oh my God! I just flicked through my diary and read the Anaïs Nin line: ‘We write to taste life twice.’ That’s it! The book! The book can be about all of this! Nin-ster is a bloody genius!
I will write a whole book about Conall, and we will be even.
3 p.m. (Still on plane. Obviously.) Hmph. Conall just came and sat back down. Nosy bugger read the last line of my entry, laughed out loud and said, ‘Like fuck we’ll be!’
I looked at him – he is so familiar and new. I won’t think too much about what all this means. Not yet. There are months spanning out ahead, clearing the space for so many more words, so much more life. What’s the rush?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that these things do take time, after all.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my first readers: Clara Nelson, for that all-important weekend in Bosham, and without whom there’d be no pigeon sex in the book; Helen Bryant and Kathryn Price, my Cornerstones family, who kept me employed despite my never actually doing those digital campaigns. Thank you also to Ruth Warburton and Fiona Murphy for their encouragement.
I am so grateful for Nelle Andrew’s enthusiasm and belief in Sofia. Joel Richardson, thank you for your remarkable calmness and commitment (especially when it came to the font for the author name on the cover).
To the people who suffered the hazards of having a writer friend: Jas Kundi for being on hotline all these years and those coffees in Costa with Sandra Romero, to whom I am also very thankful; Sadaf Sethi for teaching me how to peel an onion and that step on Albion Road; Amber Ahmed, for being my kutiya and international budday blues partner; Shaista Chishty, because you stood on the equator with me and are the spiritual pea in my pod; Kristel Pous, for buying me biscuits and loving me despite the hand that has often been in your face; Sarah Khawaja, for our weekly work sessions and for never saying a commonplace thing; Farah Jamaluddin, for Elba (it’s nice, inni), dates and Juan! Thanks are also due to Nafeesa Yousuf for post-MS-reading giddiness, and Alex Hammond for PoshWatch and debates about things like social justice and porridge.
I am beyond lucky for my sister/surrogate mother, Nadia Malik, who is the only person I’d call if I were stuck in a jungle (reception permitting), and because she gave me Zayyan and Saffah Adam – the best hindrance to writing anyone could ask for. Thanks also to my Pakistan family; Bibi, Naz, Nani Khala and Khaloo Asad, who pray for me always.
And of course thank you to my mum and dad who unwittingly taught me the different ways in which love can spring; this life would not have been possible without them.
Lastly, but obviously not least, thanks to God for all of the above and everything in between.
Ayisha Malik is a British Muslim, lifelong Londoner and lover of books. She read English Literature at Kingston University and went on to complete an MA in Creative Writing. She has spent various spells teaching and being a publicist at Random House. Now she splits her time between writing and working as managing editor at Cornerstones Literary Consultancy.
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Twenty7 Books
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Copyright © Ayisha Malik, 2015
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Ayisha Malik to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN: 978–1–78577–003–6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-78577-004-3
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