The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  Where the Heart is

  Friday 1 February

  2.10 p.m. ‘Is this your first time to London?’

  Moustachioed uncle (because when you’re brown, every elder is an uncle or auntie) next to me on the plane didn’t take feigned sleep, earplugs or book-reading as signs to leave me alone. I took a deep breath and almost choked on his cologne. At least it overrode the smell from the toilet.

  ‘It’s home,’ I replied, turning a page of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

  ‘How many brothers and sisters do you have? What do your parents do? Where do you live?’ he continued in Urdu.

  It was all I could do to stop myself from shoving my book down his throat. I kept looking out of the window, thinking of Conall.

  ‘Sorry, Beta. I’m asking a lot of questions,’ he said. ‘But you remind me very much of someone I know.’

  ‘I live with my husband,’ I said in answer to his last question.

  I twisted the gold band on my finger, remembering the story behind it when Conall gave it to me.

  Uncle Mouch looked round the stuffy plane. ‘Where is he?’

  It wouldn’t be the first time someone would ask me this question. ‘In Karachi.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Visas take long now. My nephew’s been waiting two years for his wife. The laws are very strict. Canada’s better now.’

  ‘My husband’s not Pakistani,’ I explained.

  Uncle Mouch furrowed his brows. ‘Oh.’

  I sighed and told him I’d momentarily forgotten which husband I was talking about – my fourth husband is Pakistani.

  ‘This is your fourth marriage?’ he asked, leaning forward.

  Having four husbands was a lot more fun than explaining the truth. ‘Yep. And probably not my last.’

  He leaned back in his seat. ‘Beta,’ he began (presumably calling me daughter was going to take the sting out of the lecture he planned to give). ‘In Islam divorce is very serious. A hijabi should know this, no?’ He looked at my scarf. It wasn’t just a head covering, but a useful indicator of who I must be.

  ‘Well,’ I replied. ‘Having a boyfriend’s haram so I thought I’d make the most out of marriage.’

  I always wondered whether I was a miserable cow just because I needed to get laid, but turns out that had nothing to do with it.

  The plane had barely touched the ground when everyone got out of their seats, opening overhead lockers and shuffling around. I watched the grey skies and the spatter of rain on the window before switching my phone on and checking for messages.

  From Conall: Message me when you’ve landed.

  From Maria: Tahir and Auntie Reena will be there to pick you up. So glad you’re home. Xx

  Before the crowds began to exit Uncle Mouch turned round and said: ‘Your husband’s like a garment for you, as you are for him, Beta.’ He shuffled out of the seat, his stomach pressed against it as someone pushed past him.

  ‘You know we women – we like changing our garments all the time.’

  He paused before he smiled. ‘You really do remind me of someone I know.’

  Poor her.

  From Suj: Toffeeeeeee! You’re BACK! Call me when you land. Let me know how it goes with the old dear. Love youuuuuu xxxx

  I smiled as I received messages from Katie and Hannah too. By the time I’d looked up Uncle Mouch had gone. Conall’s fine with Hammy. What does it say if I can’t trust my husband with another woman for a few months?

  Men and women in luminescent waistcoats stood by as I was poised to run into the arms of Heathrow Airport. As I went through security it didn’t look like Heathrow’s arms were quite so open, but that didn’t matter.

  To Conall: I’m home xxx

  9.50 p.m. Oh my God, I must have chronic case of delayed reaction. Zooming down the motorway I realised that it was the first time I’d be seeing Mum since I got married . . . she’ll know I’m no longer a virgin! In fact, Auntie Reena and my brother-in-law, Tahir, also knew! Horror! I mean, not as horrific as still being a virgin, but even so.

  I got out of the car, looking up at the house, and felt a surge of joy. Then I looked at Conall’s house next door – the one his brother Sean’s renting since we’re in Pakistan. I guess it’s mine too now. Isn’t it weird the things that you end up sharing, just because you now share a bed? The front door opened and out came Maria, flinging her arms round me. She’d grown out her hair which was rather a lighter shade of brown than her Pakistani heritage suggested possible.

  ‘Thank God you’re home,’ she said. ‘Did you take the M25?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Tahir.

  ‘I told you, you should’ve come through Kingston.’

  ‘Beta, there was so much traffic,’ said Auntie Reena. ‘I told him too, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  Tahir got my suitcase out of the car. ‘No, she didn’t,’ he whispered, watching Auntie Reena go into the house. ‘She was too busy changing the station to bloody Sunrise Radio.’

  Maars laughed and told him she’d make him some tea.

  ‘What’s Mum’s mood like?’ I asked Maars.

  ‘Like you eloped?’ She put her arm round me as we walked through the front gate. ‘Sorry, love.’

  ‘Where’s Adam?’ I asked, dying to see my nephew.

  Also, children have a way of calming tense waters, but he was asleep. I held my head high and walked into the living room.

  ‘Oh, she is here,’ said Mum, sitting on the brown leather sofa.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  She bobbed her head like one of those dogs in car windows.

  ‘ “Hi, Mum” she says.’

  Mum looked at Auntie Reena, as if saying hi was the most outrageous thing I’d done.

  ‘Your baba’s churning in his grave.’

  ‘Turning, Mum,’ I replied.

  ‘Haan, what do I know? I’m just your mother. I only pushed you out of my phudi—’

  Tahir choked on his own saliva.

  ‘Mum,’ exclaimed Maars.

  ‘I’ll er . . . I’ll make that tea,’ said Tahir, tripping on the step on his way to the kitchen.

  ‘Did you have to mention vaginas in front of my husband?’ whispered Maars to Mum.

  ‘Where does he think he came from, hmm? His father’s pe—?’

  ‘-Mum!’

  ‘Mehnaz!’

  Maars and Auntie Reena spoke in unison. Dishes clattered in the kitchen.

  ‘Thirty-two hours’ labour I had with you. Thirty-two. My best years I spent raising you. Now what do I have to hear from people? Her baba died and she ran away with a white man.’

  I looked her in the eye. I’d give her time to rant about the sacrifices she’d made and how disappointing I was, but her disappointment in my choice of husband wasn’t going to be race-dependent.

  ‘Maybe you and Dad should’ve thought of that before you moved to a country full of white people,’ I said.

  Maars cleared her throat. Auntie Reena looked at the coffee table, though that was possibly because she wanted the chocolate cake that was on it.

  ‘Le! Listen to her. You think I am so backward? That I have a problem because he is white? You will have such pretty children. If he was black -–’

  ‘-Don’t spoil it, Mum,’ interrupted Maars.

  Mum stood up to her full five foot one inch. ‘I’ll deal with anyone who says something about your husband because he’s white. As if Pakistani men are so great.’

  Auntie Reena shook her head. More clanging in the kitchen.

  ‘But, Soffoo, all my life I only thought of you and Maria and you didn’t think of your mama once, making such a big decision?’

  I looked at the ground, shamed into silence.

  ‘No,’ she said, turning to Auntie Reena. ‘Not even a phone call to say: Mama, I am sorry I’m an unthoughtful daughter but I think I will marry the gora neighbour because, like my baba, you should have a heart attack too.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I said.

  She
stepped towards me. ‘You know, your aunties and uncles always said we gave you too much freedom. And we both said, to hell with them, our daughters won’t be trapped in a house just because they’re girls. But so much freedom you took that you forgot the people that gave it to you?’

  Turns out freedom isn’t a birthright but a gift wrapped up in consequences. Her look of rage morphed into hurt as she walked past me and up the stairs into her room.

  ‘Well,’ said Maars, taking a deep breath. ‘That went well.’

  I need a fag.

  Saturday 2 February

  9.15 a.m. Woke up in state of confusion in my childhood bed, forgetting about the past year, thinking I was single again. Had me breaking out in a sweat. For some reason Auntie Reena stayed the night. I heard her clattering around in the kitchen with Mum. Picked up phone to Skype Conall but he didn’t answer.

  Going into what used to be Mum and Dad’s bedroom I sat on the bed. I thought about the smell of cigarettes that’d waft in when he entered a room; his white stubble when he came back from the hospital after his first heart attack; the white sheet they covered him with when we found out he’d never come back at all.

  His absence felt easier to reconcile in Pakistan. But this house; it’s crowded with the empty spaces he’s left behind.

  11.55 a.m. I tiptoed down the stairs – like any self-respecting thirty-one-year-old – and Mum and Auntie Reena were drinking tea. Called Maars to ask why Auntie was here rather than with her husband.

  ‘Tahir! Tahir! He’s crying!’ Maars shouted on the other end of the phone. I pulled my mobile away from my ear. ‘Sorry,’ she continued. ‘Mum says they’re having problems.’

  ‘Why? They’re old.’

  ‘So?’ she said.

  ‘They’ve been married forever.’

  ‘Exactly. Oh, for God’s sake. I’m coming! Have to go. He can’t find the steriliser.’

  When I went into the room and said hello, there was silence. I was going to break Mum down. I’d make her forgive me.

  ‘House is looking good, Mum,’ I said.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t you see how much painting it needs? But you never see things.’

  Right.

  ‘Beta, when’s your husband coming?’ asked Auntie Reena.

  I watched Mum, who’d picked up her iPad and was flicking through FB.

  ‘Oh, he’s not,’ I replied.

  Hurumph. From Mum.

  ‘Haw, Beta, you left him, just like that?’ said Auntie Reena.

  ‘No, I just wanted to come home and see everyone.’

  She leaned forward. ‘But . . . without your husband?’

  I tried to explain that he has important work to do there and that I have important things to do here. Although, considering Conall was helping to save lives while I was just scribbling words, perhaps that was stretching it.

  ‘He is OK with this?’ she asked.

  I kept looking at Mum, who seemed to be typing something. If you decide to elope, you need to ensure no one knows that only months into your marriage, your husband is pissed off with you for A) leaving the country and B) the book you’ve been asked to write.

  ‘He’s really glad,’ I said.

  ‘Glad?’ she repeated. ‘Beta, men should never be glad when their wife’s away.’

  ‘Well, not glad,’ I said. ‘He’s unhappy too.’

  Auntie put her flower-patterned teacup down. ‘Beta, men should never be unhappy when their wife’s away.’

  Honestly, juggling all these versions of life is very tricky.

  Note for book: There is an abyss in the line between glad and unhappy; make sure you don’t fall into it.

  Mum got up and told Auntie Reena that they needed to go to Homebase to look for tiles for the kitchen. Because when in turmoil, re-tile the kitchen floors.

  4.10 p.m. Called Katie but she’s in Devon with her family. Hannah had guests round and Suj was with Charles. Foz is still gallivanting around South America. Tried to call Conall but couldn’t get through. Couldn’t even go to see Sean since he was on holiday in South Africa.

  What’s the point in being home when no one is home with me?

  4.35 p.m.

  To: Sakib Awaan

  From: Sofia Khan

  Subject: Meeting

  Hi Sakib,

  Hope you’re not checking emails on a Saturday but just so you know, I’m in the country now. Happy to set up a meeting when you are.

  Best,

  Sofia

  To: Sofia Khan

  From: Sakib Awaan

  Subject: Re: Meeting

  Welcome home. I don’t believe in weekends. I hope you don’t think you’ll be getting any. I’m a tough editor. It’s the brown in me.

  Next Thursday at 2 p.m.?

  To: Sakib Awaan

  From: Sofia Khan

  Subject: Re: Meeting

  I believe that life should be a weekend. Going against the brown grain is what I live for.

  Thursday at 2 p.m. it is.

  To: Sofia Khan

  From: Sakib Awaan

  Subject: Re: Meeting

  We’ll have to beat that out of you. Or bribe you. Katie tells me you like biscuits?

  Great, see you then. Look forward to it.

  He does sound rather cool, doesn’t he? I wonder what else Katie’s told him.

  7.50 p.m. Managed to get through to Conall today.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’

  Pause.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Good. You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Pause.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘Pissed. And not the drunk kind.’

  ‘Christ help us if she was.’

  I looked round my bedroom – funny how quickly something can begin to feel like a distant past, even when it’s right there.

  ‘Not sure how I’m meant to get her to forgive me.’

  ‘You’re creative, you’ll think of something.’

  He didn’t seem to get how depressing it was. I heard laughter in the background.

  ‘You’re up late,’ I said.

  ‘Just sitting with everyone.’

  I could hear Mum and Auntie watching Zee TV downstairs. None of the girls have got back to me and Maars didn’t come over because Adam wasn’t feeling well. I wanted to tell Conall that I missed him, but it felt like some kind of weakness. Especially since it didn’t seem the feeling was mutual. He had everyone, apparently, and I had Zee TV.

  ‘Listen, my battery’s low. Generator’s still not fixed.’

  ‘Why’s your phone never charged?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t have quite the same energy as my wife,’ he replied.

  I laughed.

  He paused. ‘You know I’m thinking about your pants.’

  Lifting the covers, I got into bed. ‘They’re thinking about you too.’

  Another pause. I turned over to what should’ve been his side of the bed and said, ‘I bloody miss you . . .

  ‘Hello? Conall?’

  I looked at my phone and the call had been lost. Typical. After a while Auntie Reena came into my room and sat with me, telling me about the tiles she and Mum had picked out.

  It’ll be a sorry state of affairs if I travel all the way back to London just to have Auntie Reena as my best friend.

  11.30 p.m. Ha! Just found old stash of cigarettes under my mattress and hugged them! I’m obviously still a conscientious objector to fags, but nothing will drive you to smoke more than listening to your mum and aunt go on about sodding kitchen tiles.

  1.05 a.m. Mum was sitting in the pale glow of the lamp when I went downstairs.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I said as she looked at me.

  Nothing.

  ‘I’m going to make tea. Do you want some?’

  I took her silence as a yes.

  When I sat down, handing her the cup, she said: ‘Maria tells me your new book is about marriage.’

 
I cringed at the idea that she might think I assume I’m some kind of expert. I nodded.

  ‘What have you written so far?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much.’

  She sipped her tea.

  ‘Your baba always wanted things his way,’ she said. ‘That’s where you get it. I was told that to be a good wife I had to listen to him, so I did. One year passed, two years turned into five, and sometimes when I’d be giving you and Maria food or fixing his shirt buttons, I thought: he doesn’t see how much I hold back my happiness for his. So, when I began to open my mouth, he was shocked.’ She looked at me. ‘You wouldn’t remember these times. You think he was happy? Arguing and shouting. Uff. You began to understand things by then. But see how slowly he began to respect what I said? To ask me for advice until I became the only one he listened to so I always got my way. Except for last year.’ She looked over at the picture of her and Dad on their wedding day. ‘He used to say to me: Mehnaz, I hope I die before you, because I don’t think I could live without you . . . See? Your baba . . . he got his way in the end.’

  A tear dropped into my teacup.

  ‘Life with him wasn’t easy.’ She looked into her cup. ‘But sometimes, life without him feels very hard.’

  Monday 4 February

  11.50 a.m. Was sitting in Mum and Dad’s room again, while Mum and Auntie Reena had gone to take advantage of the spinach that’s on offer in Lidl. Kept thinking about what Mum said yesterday. Didn’t even realise when Maars walked into the room with Adam until she handed him to me. He grabbed my face with his hands, blowing bubbles of spit through his chubby cheeks. (Chubby cheeks are the best. Unless they’re yours, obviously.)

  ‘She’ll come round,’ said Maars. ‘It’s just people have been saying that it wouldn’t have happened if Dad was still alive. I think it feels like a personal failure.’

  ‘But it’s not,’ I said. Why did I make her feel like she’d failed?