The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

‘Tricky thing, those,’ I said.

  We could barely see a few feet beyond the foggy night-sky, which felt like an all too suitable metaphor.

  ‘I’m booking my flight for the end of the month,’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll get to beg Mum’s forgiveness in person,’ I added.

  I noticed the hint of a scoff, so subtle it could’ve been an intake of breath. Sometimes his reasonableness was very hard to argue with, but right then I wished he could understand how my guilt was practically an ulcer.

  ‘I don’t know what’s so hard to understand,’ I said. ‘Just because you only speak to your parents at Christmas.’

  As soon as the words came out I stopped. Conall jammed his hands into his jean pockets. He does this sometimes with such reluctant force I wonder whether it’s to physically stop himself from hitting something or someone. What could possibly be so bad that he doesn’t even like them mentioned? And as his wife, how much of his personal history is mine to be known?

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said.

  He stepped towards me. I’d never quite realised how much bigger than me he was, how imposing his figure could be. He didn’t move and I could barely get any words out. He didn’t have to say anything – his look said it all: don’t mention them again.

  How do things so quickly spiral into unknown territory?

  Later that evening when we were in our room he got the prayer mat and laid it on the ground. I caught a glimpse of his tense face – a concentration of something like fury.

  As he began to pray, into my head came the voice of the imam who’d married us: ‘How well do you know him?’

  Note for book: Whatever you do – if writing a guide to marriage, don’t end up penning your very own marital misery memoir.

  Thursday 10 January

  11.15 a.m. My God, Mum’s discovered Facebook! She’s sent me a Friend Request, which given that she’s not talking to me in real life is something. Is she going through my profile, reading all my congratulation messages, seething at each emoji?

  3.40 p.m. ‘You’re coming back to London?’ said Hannah, her image blurring on FaceTime.

  ‘Yes!’ I said, finally able to be excited with someone.

  When I told Maars she thought it was great until I mentioned I’d be coming back alone. The most ridiculous part is when she told Mum – yes, the woman who hasn’t spoken to me since I got married – Mum said: ‘She is already arguing with her husband! This girl never keeps quiet.’

  Which was rich, considering.

  ‘That’s quite alternative,’ said Hannah, who wanted a detailed description of my conversation with Conall, how he reacted and how I felt about leaving him behind with Hammy. ‘The two of them living in the same place,’ she added. ‘All kinds of tensions can rise.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Han.’

  A lump of anxiety wedged itself in my throat. I’d spent the past week trying to forget about their tête-à-tête, but every time I see them together I look out for indicators of more confidences shared, secret glances, that kind of thing. As well as the usual praying five times a day, I’ve given myself a mantra, along the lines of stop being such an irrational arsehole. (Although is it irrational??)

  ‘It certainly says something about your relationship with Conall,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. Although you clearly trust him, which is good. But still – months without him . . .’

  ‘It’s really not that big a deal. Wouldn’t you do the same if you were here with Omar?’

  She paused, scrunching up her nose in thought. ‘Definitely not. I don’t think anyone I know would.’

  Oh. ‘Am I mad?’ I asked.

  ‘No . . . I mean, not really. It just took me long enough to find him. I’m not fed up with him yet,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not fed up with Conall,’ I replied. ‘But apart from wanting to be home, wouldn’t you want to be doing something?’ I paused. ‘I suppose you doctors are always doing something. Between your career, Suj’s glamorous modelling lifestyle, and Foz’s journey of self-discovery, it’s a wonder I’ve not swapped you all for less ambitious friends. Not to mention Conall’s raison d’être.’

  ‘You have ambitions.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Writing a few books to pay some bills and because you have nothing better to do isn’t the same as ambition. And yes, I’m very grateful for the opportunities, but it just doesn’t feel like mine. You know?’

  ‘Sofe, the key to happiness is to stop wanting it all. One of the many things Omar and I discovered when we spoke about the future.’

  ‘The future?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’ I paused. ‘What exactly about the future?’

  ‘The usual: what we both wanted, the fact that I’m barren.’ A shadow seemed to pass over her face. I wanted to reach into the phone and hug her. ‘Making sure we were on the same page. I didn’t need to marry a man who’d then leave me because I can’t have children. The point is, if you’re getting married the halal way – without the years of dating and living together – then you have to have The Conversation. Several, actually – about how you’ll both live together.’

  I’m pretty sure Han had a lever-arch file of questions for Omar before they got married.

  ‘It’s not sexy, but it’d be irresponsible otherwise,’ she added.

  ‘Yeah, but serial killers never say they’re serial killers.’

  ‘Delicately observed, Sofe.’

  I laughed. God, I missed the girls.

  ‘For example, how many kids does he want? Where will you live? I know, it’s boring – but that’s what you do as a couple – work it out. You guys did that, right?’ she asked.

  I suddenly felt like I was in an exam only I’d revised the wrong stuff. Billy was sleeping in the corner of the window. She had the right idea.

  ‘Sort of.’

  I couldn’t quite recall what the conversations were. I remember Conall asking whether I was sure.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I’d replied.

  ‘You want to be here? With me?’

  Here, there, anywhere.

  ‘Because we can wait,’ he’d said.

  But I didn’t want to wait – I was seizing moments. If Dad’s death had taught me anything it was the importance of doing that. I’d already made a string of mistakes in the past – I didn’t want waiting around for Conall to be another one.

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’ said Hannah.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Sofe. You’re always telling us not to rush into things. Trust you to go and get carried away.’

  ‘Excuse me. I’m still very much in command of my actions and feelings.’

  She laughed. ‘Yeah, all right, love.’

  Suddenly I wondered where my head had been the past few months.

  ‘It’s fine. You always have been single-minded,’ she said.

  I wasn’t sure whether she meant that I was focused, or that I’ve always had the mind of a single person. I had to go because I heard Conall and co. come home early for lunch.

  ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks,’ she said, blowing me a kiss and signing off.

  It does make me think: what other things have I not thought through?

  Monday 14 January

  6.55 p.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  To: Sofia Khan

  Subject: London

  Hi Sofia,

  Delighted you’ll be in London at the end of the month.

  I’m looking forward to working with you.

  Best wishes,

  Sakib

  At least one man in my life is happy about it.

  Not that he’s a man in my life. Obviously.

  1 a.m. Couldn’t sleep. I stared at Conall like some lovelorn woman, then stopped in order to maintain my sense of self. I got out of bed to go to the rooftop. There’s something beautiful about Karachi at night – the distant sounds, the misty a
ir, the people you can see, if you look hard enough, getting ready to sleep. Except when I got up there I wasn’t alone. A silhouette turned round as the door creaked open.

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ I said.

  Hammy was having a fag, wearing a glove on one hand. I was going to turn round, but then there aren’t many chances I get with her alone. Perhaps I could begin to understand why Conall likes her.

  ‘Mind if I stay?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. Her enthusiasm is one of the many things that endear her to me. I stood next to her, leaning my elbows on the wall as Hammy took a drag of her cigarette. I inhaled the nicotine. We were both silent as she seemed to be deep in her own thoughts. She must’ve caught me looking at her.

  ‘You know, the good thing about being married is you don’t have to answer any more questions about marriage,’ she said.

  No, I’ll have others to answer when I get to London. People are never short of questions. No wonder death is inevitable – everyone’s exhausted from the Life Inquisition.

  ‘Nosy relatives?’ I asked.

  She gave a slight nod.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘The marriage question is the lifeline of ninety-nine per cent of Pakistan’s population.’

  Quiet.

  She looked at me for a while.

  ‘When I first met Con—’

  Breathe.

  ‘– in Afghanistan he’d ask me all these questions about Islam and I was like, dude, I’m not the person to ask. I left my home because of all that bullshit. I thought he was one of those gora types, you know; who leave their country to find themselves and end up finding God.’

  She looked at me, her eyes flickering towards my hijab. ‘But he really converted for you,’ she added.

  I wanted to say that Conall doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want – something perhaps we both have in common. Anyway, in the end it can’t have all been for me. There was the seed of something there and I just watered it. I’m very useful like that.

  ‘That’s something,’ she said.

  I don’t mean to sound self-involved but why was no one talking about my compromise? I could already hear Mum: women always make the sacrifices. Not Hammy, though. She let her husband leave. Though God knows what the reason was. Just then we heard a bang. Hamida and I both started, looking round to see where it came from.

  ‘Was that . . .?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ll find out where it came from tomorrow.’

  My heart was thudding. ‘This place,’ I said, shaking my head, thinking about its bombs and guns that go bang in the night. ‘Don’t you feel unsafe?’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘Everyone scares too easily. You’re just seeing the worst side of it. You don’t like it enough to give it a chance.’

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like it; it just wasn’t home.

  ‘London isn’t perfect,’ she said. ‘And trust me, the way things are going, one day there’ll be chaos there as well. Especially for you hijabi types.’

  I thought about this, taking in the air that smelled like mud, just after it’s rained. Perhaps she was right. The thing with chaos is, it doesn’t just burst on to the scene – it can creep. Maybe, one day in the distant future, chaos would creep into London too.

  ‘There’s always comfort in the chaos you’re familiar with,’ I replied.

  She looked at me. ‘Unless you’re Con, huh? He loves the unfamiliar. Crazy guy,’ she added rather too fondly.

  I didn’t need someone to tell me what Conall is and isn’t familiar with. Why did she even spend time thinking about that? Or was that what they talked about?

  ‘Don’t you miss your husband?’ I asked.

  She threw her cigarette on the ground, the last embers flickering as she turned to me. I thought she was going to leave, but she just put her hands in her pockets.

  ‘He was my best friend,’ she said after a while.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  I’d assumed hers was some kind of arranged, loveless marriage.

  ‘Then you must really miss him,’ I added.

  She picked up the cigarette butt and flung it out into the open air. ‘You just can’t help who you fall in love with.’

  She looked at me with such intensity my insides shifted. Then, without another word, she turned round and walked out of the door.

  Sunday 20 January

  10.50 p.m. Bit difficult to get your husband to start speaking to you when he doesn’t come home before midnight. He says he’s doing night-time photography. Sure. If you’re pissed off with someone, then be sensible and shout at each other until you’re both over it.

  Spoke to Suj about coming back without Conall.

  She paused before saying: ‘Fuck it.’

  Every day that he comes home late, I’m inclined to agree with her. ‘How’s Charles?’ I asked.

  ‘You know what, Toffee? Fine. We’ve both had a few photo shoots together and it’s been all right. I quite like him. Weird, isn’t it?’

  Suj’s always been modest with her proclamations of love.

  ‘All these years we spent having man-drama and now look,’ she added.

  ‘This must be everyone’s happily ever after,’ I said, wondering why I didn’t feel very jubilant. ‘Your dad’s OK about him then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, please. Charles is black. But as long as I’m OK with it, the old man’s going to have to learn.’

  Note for book: Stick to your guns, but also know the limits of what you can change.

  Tuesday 29 January

  12.45 a.m. I’m leaving in two days. TWO. And he’s still coming home late. I’ve been occupying myself with writing but today when he came home just an hour ago, I wanted to throw my laptop at him. I didn’t. Obviously. If he doesn’t realise what an arsey thing that is to do, why should I be the one to tell him? He dropped his bags on the floor, balancing a tray in one hand complete with a sandwich and tea. I pretended to concentrate on the screen.

  ‘You’re working late,’ he said.

  ‘Makes two of us,’ I mumbled.

  He handed me a mug of tea.

  I looked up at him. ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked, offering me the other half of his peanut butter sandwich.

  I turned round and looked at what I guess was a peace offering; the weirdly yellow bread that only made me miss home more.

  ‘You know that’s not bread,’ I said, going to sit on the bed with him.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to go bake you some. Straight out of the Aga,’ he replied.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Wholemeal, if you will.’

  ‘I can think of a few ways to use that Aga,’ he said, leaning forward, the flicker of a smile.

  It’s his face. I could be a lot more resolute if I didn’t look at it so much. Unfortunately, it’s also become one of those things I like to look at. (In a strictly non-psycho way. Obviously.) Was leaving a mistake? Had to keep reminding myself that it’s temporary. Yet there’s something about packed suitcases that feels permanent. He reached into his bag, getting out a book and a package.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, picking up the book, which was in Urdu.

  ‘It’s for Jawad. He’s quite the philosophical guy, you know. I got him this book on Sufism. Thought it’d interest him.’

  ‘You like Sufism?’

  He paused. ‘I don’t like the way people can use it socially as a more acceptable version of Islam, but there’s something there, don’t you think? The idea of purifying the inner self?’

  To be honest, I’d stopped listening to him because I was too busy thinking about how kind he can be and finding it all rather attractive.

  ‘Hmm? Yes, I suppose so.’

  Then he handed me the package. I looked in it and there was a bundle of pants.

  ‘You lose yours all the time,’ he said.

  I laughed as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing his tattoos as he leaned against the bed. I wonder what they’ll look like when he’s old and wrinkled.

&n
bsp; ‘Could’ve got me flowers,’ I said.

  ‘I knew you’d appreciate pants more.’

  Unfortunately, he was right. My insides churned – I needed an antacid. Why couldn’t he come with me? Someone knocked at the door and Hammy peered in. Who else?

  ‘Sorry, I know it’s late.’ She glanced at my hijab-less head. ‘Conall, the material guy for the shelters called. Phone him in the morning, huh?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure. You OK?’ he asked.

  I found myself bristling. Asking how she feels is not a crime against humanity, Sofia. Even if it feels like a crime against you.

  She gave a martyred nod and then left the room. What was he thinking as he looked at the ground?

  ‘Fancy a shag before I leave?’ I said.

  ‘Always the romantic, Sofe.’

  He took my mug and plate from me, putting them on the side-table before holding my face in his hands. ‘You know I love y—’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ I exclaimed putting my hand over his mouth. ‘Not, like, seriously.’

  ‘What are you on?’ he managed to mumble through my hand before he moved it away.

  ‘The more you say a thing the less true it becomes,’ I explained.

  He laughed as he looked at me. ‘This a tried and tested theory?’

  ‘Just trust me,’ I said.

  ‘What am I going to do for entertainment when you’re not here?’

  What am I going to do without Conall to pull me into his arms?

  ‘You’ll be too busy crying yourself to sleep, I should hope.’ And you’d better not go finding a replacement, I wanted to add.

  ‘You know I do, though, don’t you?’ he said.

  I nodded, leaning in to kiss him. The bristly beard used to feel weird, but I rather like it now. ‘I suppose I do too. You, I mean. Not myself. Obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ he replied.

  Conall managed to get to sleep but I lay in bed, looking at his face: the one that launched a thousand feelings.

  Maybe you never can quite have it all, but there are moments in life – like now – when I think maybe I do.

  FEBRUARY