by Ayisha Malik
‘I’m ready,’ came Hammy’s voice.
‘Think of the shitty Wi-Fi as a social media detox,’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ I replied, thinking about this. ‘Maybe then I could blog about it?’
‘You do know that there are people who live without proper food?’
Of course he’s right. That’s the problem when you haven’t been to Afghanistan or Sudan and God knows where else – wanting things like hot water and electricity sounds unreasonable. Turns out a person can suffer from all kinds of dependencies.
‘Yes. Obviously,’ I said. ‘Heating might be useful, though. Sleeping in twelve items of clothing is boring.’
‘Oh, really?’ He slipped his hand back round my waist when there was another knock at the door.
‘How long will you be?’ called Hamida.
‘He’s coming!’ I shouted, giving Conall a semi-remorseful smile for my loudness.
‘God, you have a big mouth,’ he said.
‘Isn’t that why you married me?’
He leaned in and considered me for a moment. ‘It was the only way to get you to sleep with me.’
I laughed. Stupid sod. ‘Here, have a biscuit.’
I took one out of the drawer and it would’ve been the perfect time to put my hands down his pants when we heard: ‘Feroza will be waiting for us.’
Taking a deep breath, I looked at him. ‘We could still go and live with Chachi,’ I said. ‘Just for a bit more privacy. And, you know, electricity.’
‘I’m not living in comfort while the rest of the team have to stay here,’ he said as he began searching for his 35 mm lens.
‘How do you cope with such an excess of morality?’ I asked.
He looked up and stared at me.
‘-Don’t worry, I get it. The team. Speaking of,’ I added, trying not to get distracted by his bare chest. ‘Better go before team leader has a coronary.’
Bit inconvenient to have sex right now anyway. Why did no one warn me about having to shower (including washing your cascade of hair) every time you have a shag? Obviously I knew the Muslim rules, but try spontaneity when you live in a hovel where the water’s always cold. He looked down at me and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘When we get home we need to have a talk,’ he said.
There was that serious look again. My heart skipped a beat. Nothing good ever comes from someone saying those words. Was it regret? Was it finally here?
‘About what?’
‘Just . . . things.’ He gulped down his glass of water.
‘FYI – you should never make someone wait a whole day to find out what “Things” means.’ I used air quotes because they annoy him.
‘You could do with a bit of patience,’ he said. ‘And I know you’re trying to annoy me,’ he added, pointing his finger at me.
I laughed. ‘I hope your water’s not boiled and you get the runs.’
‘Might be worth it seeing as you’d have to nurse me better,’ he said. He stared at me for a while and the fluttering of mad creatures in my stomach prevented a smart retort.
‘Weren’t you looking for something?’ I asked.
He paused. ‘Right. Yes. What was it?’’
‘Your lens. In the drawer,’ I told him.
Why wasn’t I repulsed at the idea of looking after him, runs and all? What has happened to me?
‘Conall . . .’ came Hammy’s voice, which I think I had the capacity to throttle, so at least not all my natural instincts were dead.
‘Before you go, mind if you hand me my hijab and pants?’ I said, looking up at the fan.
He stood on the bed and picked the items off the fan.
‘Your highness,’ he said, handing them over and kissing me. The long type of kiss. The kind that – forget home – makes me forget my hijab and pants.
I’ll stop complaining about where we’re living. It’s not that bad. Well, it is, but then being in an adult relationship is also about compromise: weighing up the pros and cons, and if Conall got fed up with all my moaning and told me to leg it, that would definitely be a con.
‘Thanks, husband,’ I said, smiling.
Just then, Billy sprang up on the desk and deposited a dead mouse on the table.
God, I’m a Londoner, get me out of here.
1.40 p.m. My God! Was cleaning the flat when out of nowhere I heard a huge crash, so violent it seemed as if the walls were shaking. Jawad, the servant, rushed into the room a few seconds later.
‘What was that?’ I said.
‘Wait here,’ he replied.
I couldn’t just wait! I ran up to the rooftop. Plumes of smoke rose from not too far away. The noise of sirens blared as people flooded out of their homes. A bombing. I turned round as the door flung open and Jawad was standing there.
‘Baji, I told you to stay there. Conall-sahib has told me to look after you when he’s not here.’
‘Where is he?’
I went to run down the stairs but Jawad stopped me as he got his phone out and called him. It took several rings before someone answered. I closed my eyes in relief as Jawad handed the phone to me.
‘I’m OK, Sofe. I’m OK.’
2.55 p.m.
From Katie: Are you all right?? Let us know you’re safe. Love you xxx
2.56 p.m.
From Hannah: Your penchant for dramatics just because you’re now a writer is ridiculous. All limbs intact? Xx
2.57 p.m.
From Suj: Toffeeeeee! Come home! Twenty-eight people dead. So sad. My old man says the world’s ending. Thanks, Dad. Miss you. FaceTime later xxxxxxx
3.25 p.m. ‘Oh, thank God,’ said Maria as I picked up her Skype call. ‘Mum, she’s OK.’
‘Would she have forgiven me if I were dead?’ I asked, closing the bedroom door behind me. Everyone was sitting in the living room with their head in their hands.
‘Don’t go out,’ she said. ‘Tell Conall to stay indoors too. Foreigners get kidnapped all the time.’
‘Hai hai!’ came Mum’s voice before her frowning face came into view. ‘Forty years ago your baba moved to London for a better life and you’re back where he started. Conall’s mama, baba don’t say anything? But they are goray. White people don’t think of these things like us.’
‘Mum,’ I said, tears surfacing.
Despite her racism (and tendency towards run-on sentences) all I wanted was to hug her. It’s this place. Everything feels on the verge of collapse and I’m made for sturdier foundations. Mum looked at me, her eyes softening. Then she seemed to remember what I’d done and disappeared as swiftly as she’d emerged.
‘Sorry,’ said Maars.
She lifted my nephew up to the screen who made a wild attempt to grab her iPad. ‘Say hello to Khala, Adam. Doesn’t she look like someone who’s having a lot of sex, despite all the bombs?’
‘Maars,’ I said, feeling smug and mortified in equal measure.
‘Don’t be such a prude.’
‘When will Mum start speaking to me?’ I asked.
‘Right now she’s just crying about the Karachi madness. Says she doesn’t want you to end up a widow like her,’ said Maars.
‘Oh God – she needs to stop watching Bollywood.’
Although the fact that she didn’t want Conall dead was a good sign. The thought of Conall and co. driving back at the time the bomb went off punctured my denial that we were safe. Anxiety enveloped my stomach.
‘Sofe, you eloped. And Mum’s not been feeling well. Has this cough she can’t seem to shift.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Has she been to the doctor? It’s not pneumonia, is it? Or TB?’
What if something happened to her while we were estranged? How would I live with myself? I had to take a deep breath. It’s not how short life is sometimes, but how shocking its end can be.
‘Calm down. She’s fine. It’s people. Coming over and filling her head with ideas,’ she added. ‘Running away –’
‘I didn’t run –’
‘Getting married, without telling anyone –’
‘It was spur of the moment –’
‘Not coming back to see us . . .’
Did these grievances come from Mum or Maars? The guilt hernia was ready to explode.
‘It was all very quick.’ She leaned into the screen, her eyes looking bigger than usual. ‘I mean, how well do you actually know him?’
‘It’s Conall.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, but who’s his family?’
‘I didn’t realise we were living in a Regency novel.’
‘You can tell a lot about a person from their family,’ she said.
‘I hope not,’ I replied as she stuck her finger up at me.
She handed Adam a rusk and added: ‘You never just marry one person. You marry their whole family.’
Pfft. No one knows this better than Conall. Poor man. But to be honest, I’ve tried not to think about his parents. Mum’s silence manages to speak a thousand run-on sentences about how she sees our marriage, but has Conall even told his mum and dad? Has his brother, Sean, told them? Sean, who seems to have an absolutely fine relationship with the parents. Every time I bring the subject up with Conall he starts brooding around the house. Something about the rigidity of his movement, the shadow that passes over his face prevents me from pushing the matter. (This, I realise, reflects poorly on my sense of personal resolve.)
‘Maybe . . .’ Maars began. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you and Conall should come home? You’ve been away long enough. Then there’s Mum.’
God, I missed London, but I tried not to think about leaving here because Conall won’t want to go until the project’s finished.
‘Well?’ said Maars. Before she could say anything else the screen went black as the electricity went out, leaving us – literally and metaphorically – in the dark.
Wednesday 2 January
5.25 a.m. Conall and I didn’t sleep very well. By the time I did nod off he pulled me out of bed for morning prayers, practically carrying me to the bathroom to make pre-prayer ablutions. I think it was the first time that he prayed extra while I crawled back into bed.
I’d told him last night what Mum said about me becoming a widow.
He grabbed my hands and pulled me into his lap. ‘Complicated woman, your mother. Considering.’
I put my arms round him. ‘Not many people can understand voluntary madness.’
I wanted to add: why haven’t your parents called you to ask if you’re OK? Billy sat watching both of us.
‘People live in this city, safe enough, every day,’ he said.
‘Because they don’t have a choice. Not because they’re making a documentary about slums, building shelters, saving the world,’ I said. ‘Yes, I know, well done on all the philanthropy but there are plenty of homeless people in London.’
He looked at me. ‘I’m not leaving until the job’s done. This is important.’
For a moment I wanted to say: more important than your wife, and had to resist the urge to get up and throw a biscuit at him. That would’ve looked a bit stupid, though. It’s my own fault really. His obsession with being useful to people is one of the reasons I’m here. No one can say idealism isn’t catching. Ever since my chat with Maars, though, I just wish it could be catching in London.
‘Don’t you miss home?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. And then he shifted me on to the bed and looked at me so seriously that home became a misty thought against the solid lines of Conall. ‘Not with you around.’
I closed my eyes again, vaguely remembering that he’d wanted to talk about something yesterday, before I fell asleep with the image of him sitting on the prayer mat, looking into the distance.
Friday 4 January
12.20 p.m. Outside the netted windows I saw two guards with Kalashnikovs, pacing the street. People call London frantic but at least it’s frantic without the fanatics. Well, mostly. Conall and co. went back to the slums like the heroes that they are. As if my fears of him being shot, kidnapped, run over or mauled by a dog aren’t rampant enough.
Psychology #101: the death of a parent leads to the conviction in a domino effect of death. Keep having dreams of Mum sailing away in a ship. I’ll just do some reading, a lot of praying and not wonder about the fact that the highlight of my day is going to be a Skype meeting with my publisher/ex-colleagues.
3.55 p.m. I paced round the spacious, mangy flat. Couldn’t concentrate as I kept thinking about the bombing, Mum, and what Dad would think about my elopement if he were alive. Then there’s the whole thing about how long we’ll be here. When we first arrived the idea of an unknown return date felt exciting. I was being spontaneous, which is all the rage nowadays. But what comes after spontaneity? When I’m in the house alone, while everyone’s out saving the world, I wonder what my life outside of Conall means. Billy meandered over as I wiped the glass table, ready to bleach the floors, as Foz Skyped.
‘Oh my God, was there a bomb?’ she exclaimed. ‘When, where, how? What day is it, by the way?’
As her face came into focus I noticed the beach, spanning out behind her, and the sea that seemed to go on forever.
‘Why am I in a hole and you’re on a beach?’
She smiled as she adjusted her floppy hat and took a sip from an iced tea. ‘I’m on my balcony. Like the view?’
‘I’ll see your beach and raise you a cat and doodh-patthi. Like it?’ I asked, showing her Billy and my mug of milky tea.
‘No, it’s awful. Just wanted to make sure you’re OK. You’re mostly at home, aren’t you?’
‘Like a regular nineteen-fifties housewife,’ I replied.
‘What do you do all day?’ she asked.
I tried to think of ways to make reading and cleaning sound interesting but noticed the hint of a frown behind her huge sunglasses.
‘Oh shit, I have to go,’ she said. ‘I have a surfing lesson.’
‘Bankers don’t surf,’ I told her.
‘Ex-banker, darling. Well, on-a-break banker.’
She blew me a kiss and told me not to leave the house unless the building was burning.
5.30 p.m. ‘Hello? Sofia, ca– you he– me?’
Brammers’ pixie-like face blurred as I held my iPad outside the bedroom window.
‘Gosh, is that sheep I can hear?’ she asked.
I perched on the sill, gripping the iPad in case it fell into a mass of sheep’s poo. ‘Yes.’
Brammers’ face froze as her finger made its way towards her head. There are certain things I didn’t realise I’d miss when I left London but my ex-boss’s habit of sniffing her scalp after she’d scratched it wasn’t one.
‘How . . . interesting. Is this Conall’s choice or yours?’
Apparently, there’s something about a white man converting, getting a beard and going to Pakistan for a long period of time that doesn’t sit well with people.
‘Ah! Sakeeb and Katie are here.’
Sakeeb? Who’s Sakeeb? Does she mean Sakib? In which case, is there another brown person in publishing? Brammers swivelled her screen as Katie’s face came into view.
‘Sweetu!’ I exclaimed. ‘Come closer! Let me see your face.’
I took in the narrow features, grey eyes and choppy blonde hair. I almost cried with happiness as Katie smiled back before giving me her ‘let’s be professionals’ look.
Conall says that my enthusiasm for my friends can border on hysterical, but all that tells me is what an emotionally reticent sod he is. As Katie shifted away from the screen the first view I got was of someone’s crotch, which is always a little alarming. His face then appeared.
‘Sofia,’ he said.
‘Hi – you’re Sakib?’
He smiled, showing a perfect set of white teeth, looking oddly fluorescent against his yellow tie.
‘It’s good to meet you. Of sorts. Finally,’ he said.
‘Do you pronounce your name Sakeeb or Sakib?’ asked Brammers.
‘Either way, d
oesn’t matter,’ he replied.
‘Sakib,’ I said. ‘Sakeeb isn’t a name.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Brammers, putting her hand to her chest. ‘You should’ve said.’
He looked embarrassed. Was he a brown apologist? Have I spent too much time with Conall? Although this was a turn-up for the books that Conall would like: a meeting with an equal ratio of brown to white.
‘Sakib’s here to build our list of diverse authors,’ said Brammers. ‘He’s of Indian descent and Muslim. Like you,’ she added.
‘I’m Pakistani,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’
Katie looked down at her notepad.
Sakib adjusted his tie as he said: ‘We’re all very excited about the book coming out. Obviously Katie’s doing the pub—’
‘– Dhaniya! Das rupee ki gatthi, dhaniya!’
God Almighty. As if sheep weren’t bad enough I had vegetable-stall man selling coriander for ten rupees a bunch. Worst thing was we actually needed some.
‘Could you hold on – two seconds?’
I ran out, bought some coriander for ten times its value – because the guy was old and I was trying to show gratitude via charity (a lot easier to give money than wheel the cart around for him). I rushed past the six transvestites who’d come singing and dancing on to our street.
‘Sorry,’ I said, unmuting Skype. ‘Go on.’
‘And we feel that it’s an excellent opportunity to –’ Brammers stopped short. ‘What is that noise?’
‘Transvestites,’ I explained. ‘Singing outside my window.’
‘Right,’ said Brammers.
Sakib rested his ankle on his knee, tapping his pen on Brammers’ desk.
‘I’ll get straight to the point, Sofia. We’ve been brainstorming ideas with editorial and Katie,’ he said.
Katie avoided my gaze. Whenever she’s involved in ideas it usually spells inconvenience.
‘Your set-up is quite unique,’ interjected Brammers. ‘String of unsuccessful dates with Muslim men, an engagement, a break-up, falling in love with your Irish next-door neighbour, him converting and you now being married and living in Karachi.’