The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘What?’

  She stood up, inspecting her face mask in the mirror. ‘I’m not dead yet.’

  12.05 p.m. ‘Acha, do you think I should wear my orange suit with red embroidery or red suit with orange embroidery?’

  So, Mum, funny thing: my husband’s not coming to the wedding.

  ‘Soffoo?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘O-ho, Maria! Should I wear my orange suit with red embroidery or red suit with orange embroidery?’

  ‘Red with orange. Who’s this person coming for lunch?’ asked Maars, walking into the kitchen. ‘One second.’ Her phone rang as she spoke to her mother-in-law, calling about Adam.

  ‘Sorry, the woman looks after him once and she thinks she’s the fairy godmother.’

  ‘Maria, you should be grateful she’s looking after him at all so you can enjoy your lunch here. You children don’t know sacrifices grandmothers make.’

  ‘Don’t know why you’re defending her. It’s not as if you like her,’ said Maars.

  ‘Haan, she is very miserable. But still, don’t we mothers deserve our own life?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course,’ said Maars, as if it was the most obvious thing. Which it was.

  ‘He’s from Karachi,’ said Mum.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘The guest.’ Mum tasted the lassi and added more sugar. ‘An old family friend. He found me on Facebook. Technology is amazing, haina? I remember how I used to write letters and waited and waited for replies. Now just one click and you find someone from forty years ago.’

  Maria and I looked at each other as Mum turned to us.

  ‘You both behave yourselves tonight, hmm? He’s from a very good family and doesn’t need to hear what bakwas you both talk.’

  I wanted to highlight for the record that we weren’t the only ones capable of talking crap.

  Went up to get changed and Maars came into my room. ‘Is it me or is Mum acting weird?’

  I looked at my phone to see if I had a missed call from Conall, but they’ve become increasingly infrequent.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Was he with Hamida? What were they talking about? I had to tell Maars; the anxiety was driving me mad. Just then her phone rang and it was Tahir.

  ‘With Sofe, waiting for this guest.’ She rolled her eyes at me.

  ‘What do we talk about?’ she said. ‘Yes, Tahir, we all sit and bitch about our husbands. OK, I’ll call you when we’re done. Yeah. Love you too. He’s so paro,’ she added when she put the phone down, looking more fond of him than I’d ever seen her. Just then Auntie Reena came into the room. She stood there, looking sullen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Maars.

  ‘Nothing, Beta. What could be wrong with me? I don’t complain.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go and watch some Zee TV,’ said Maars, putting her arm round her and leading her out of my room.

  Auntie Reena wasn’t doing a very good job of showing that life gets less complicated with age.

  6.50 p.m. Oh my actual God above, below, all around me. First, why can’t I just shut up and give simple answers to simple questions, when I know things always come back and bite me on my restless rotund arse? Second, what the hell just happened??

  The doorbell rang and I went to open it. I looked at the man’s face and thought: he looks familiar. The receding hairline, the stout and strong frame, the friendly smile, the moustache . . . oh my God.

  ‘Uncle Mouch!’

  ‘Ji?’

  Uncle-fucking-mouch! From the plane. The one I told I’d been married four times! What was he doing ringing our doorbell??

  ‘Salamalaikum,’ I said, smiling so hard I thought my jaw might break, praying he wouldn’t recognise me.

  He looked at me for a moment, a question in his mind appearing, and then the slow dawn of realisation.

  ‘Oh.’

  Just then he looked over my shoulder – his face changing from surprise to relief.

  ‘Mehnaz,’ he said.

  He looked back at me.

  ‘Wasim,’ said Mum.

  Who’s Wasim? This is Uncle Mouch. Mum came forward, practically pushing me out of the way as he handed her a bunch of twelve red roses, which I felt was inappropriate, as flowers go.

  She looked at the roses as he watched her.

  ‘The ones you left,’ he said.

  Hain? He came in, looking around and complimenting Mum on the house, saying hello to Maars and Auntie Reena.

  ‘Sit, sit,’ Mum said, giving the roses to Maars. ‘Put these in the nice vase, Beta. This is my younger daughter, Sofia, and Maria is the eldest.’

  He cleared his throat as I tried to avoid his gaze.

  ‘Haan, I’ve met your youngest daughter,’ he replied.

  Mum’s warning not to talk crap came about thirty years too late. I felt the colour rise to my cheek. In my defence, he was being very nosy.

  He explained our journey on the plane, thankfully skipping the part about the four husbands.

  ‘It was an interesting talk,’ he said.

  I needed a fag. I went to the kitchen, pretending to go and help Maars.

  ‘Sofe . . . what did you do?’ she said, as soon as she saw my face.

  I told her about the plane journey.

  ‘You bloody idiot,’ she said, looking up from arranging the roses. ‘Mum’s going to kill you.’

  I patted my dress as if I’d find a packet of fags. Maars grabbed my arm as we went back in the room and sat down.

  ‘Just try not to speak,’ she whispered.

  ‘Betas, your mama looks the same as she did forty years ago.’

  Mum blushed. Uncle Mouch’s moustache really was very black. He started talking about his wife, who apparently died a few years ago. He looked up and said: ‘God’s will. So many years you spend with one person it is like losing half yourself.’

  Mum nodded. Though I’m not quite sure Mum could be any more whole than she already was.

  ‘And where is your husband?’ he asked Auntie Reena.

  Cue: awkward moment. She looked at all of us as the colour rose to her cheeks, which were stuffed with paan masala.

  ‘He’s no longer with us,’ said Mum.

  ‘Ah, I’m very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Has Mum just killed Uncle off?’ I muttered to Maars.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘And I was very sorry to hear about Shakil,’ he said.

  Tears glistened in Maars’ eyes and for a second I thought Dad might come bounding down the stairs, his voice booming from the passage, asking Mum where he’d put his glasses, and what this strange man was doing here.

  ‘Betas,’ he added, looking at Maars and me. ‘Your mother and I were great friends before she got married. Always the life of the party. Even now she is.’

  Auntie Reena shifted in her seat and Mum wasn’t lifting her gaze from the ground. Had the mention of Dad made her cry?

  ‘I know your baba only passed away last year. He was a good man. But you children have open minds.’

  His gaze rested on me. What the hell was he talking about?

  ‘Love is a thing that never dies. Even forty years later.’

  He looked at Mum. I looked at Maars. Maars looked alarmed. What the hell was going on?? Then he reached out and put his hand on top of Mum’s.

  Why was he touching her? She lifted her gaze and looked at him, but why wasn’t she taking her hand away and throwing him out of the house??

  ‘Oh my God,’ whispered Maars.

  ‘Hai, Allah,’ I said Auntie Reena.

  I tried to see the expression in Mum’s eyes, thinking I’d find grief at the mention of her dead husband, but I didn’t find that at all. It was the opposite of grief.

  Uncle Mouch looked at us, leaning towards Mum. ‘Betas . . .’

  My heart was thudding, a dark thought entering my confused mind. No, surely not. But there was his hand, still on top of hers.

  ‘I am marrying your mother.’

  MARC
H

  The Married and the Martyred

  Muslim Marriage Book

  Qabool hai: literally translated to mean, I do. Except we Muslims say it three times – for purposes of clarity. The question is always the same: do you take this man/woman, son-of/daughter-of to be your husband/wife. The woman’s asked if she accepts the money the groom has promised – which she can use for a good old shopping spree, or, if things go badly and end in divorce, use to celebrate release from clutches of the husband that she once loved.

  ‘No vows?’ I hear you ask. It’s all implicit, isn’t it – honesty, fidelity, sickness, health, etc. But sometimes it’s helpful to think about what you’re really saying ‘I do’ to. What curveballs can married life throw? Is anyone truly ready for the consequence of two separate histories converging, and prepared for the past that can sometimes crawl its way into the present?

  Friday 1 March

  10.45 a.m. ‘But what about Dad?’ I’d exclaimed when that Mouch-man had left the house.

  Mum got up and made her way to the kitchen. ‘Unless your baba comes out from his grave, Soffoo, I’m not married any more.’

  Maars rubbed her temples.

  ‘How well do you even know him?’ I said.

  ‘My daughter who ran away with a gora is asking her mother this – very good.’

  It was awful. My mother was actually right.

  ‘I was married for thirty-five years. You know how long thirty-five years is? Thirty of them we spent arguing.’

  It felt about the same ratio as me and Conall. This didn’t feel like a good omen. Mum got a bunch of grapes, put them on a plate and handed them to us. ‘They’re washed. Eat them.’

  ‘You always say you don’t need anyone,’ Maars said, quieter than usual.

  ‘He isn’t anyone.’

  ‘But . . . but you’re our mum,’ I said.

  It sounded far less ridiculous in my mind than it did out loud, but she was – she was our mum.

  ‘I am nothing else?’ she replied, looking at both of us.

  She’s been living with the ‘mother’ label, ‘wife’ label, with all kinds of labels her whole life, and I never realised – not in any conscious way – that she is more than a label.

  ‘Mehnaz, you should think what people will say,’ said Auntie Reena, who’d opened her eighth packet of paan masala.

  ‘My whole life I’ve been told what to do. I was told who to marry and where to live and I damn care now. People always do what they want . . .’ She looked at me. ‘Now it is my turn.’

  Maars and I sat in a café. She touched her head, as if she was in pain. Adam grinned, sitting on her lap without a care in this upside-down world.

  ‘It’s just –’

  ‘I know. It’s only been nine months.’

  It’s not that I have anything against old people finding happiness, it’s just that I didn’t realise my mum was in need of happiness. So soon. Maars lifted her coffee, not quite bringing it to her mouth, her eyes still fixed on some faraway place. ‘He’d better not be a shit.’ She looked at me. ‘We have to give him points for marrying the mother of a woman he thinks has had four husbands.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We’ll have to be adults about this.’

  ‘Yes.’ My reflex to start throwing things around was probably not what Maars had in mind.

  ‘Yes,’ Maars said.

  ‘Have you told Tahir?’

  She nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was shocked, wasn’t he? But then just said it’s probably a good thing. Have you told Conall?’ she asked.

  That familiar feeling of wrenched insides came back as I shook my head.

  ‘When is he coming? The wedding’s round the corner.’

  I gulped my coffee and bile down. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

  Oh my God, Mum’s going to have a date at my wedding and I’m not!

  10.50 a.m. Ugh! Awful thought swept through mind . . . Mum’s going to have sex! Wish I could pluck brain out from my head and never have to use it ever again.

  I’m having a fag.

  10.52 a.m. Maybe old people don’t have sex?

  10.53 a.m. Just googled and apparently not only do they have sex, but STD rates in older adults are rising. Uncle Mouch might look harmless and polite, but so did Auntie Reena’s husband.

  Item #356 in life: drop into conversation that future stepfather should be tested for STDs.

  Monday 4 March

  9.35 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  To: Sofia Khan

  Subject: How’s it Going?

  Hi Sofia,

  Just checking in to see how the book’s going? Let me know if there’s anything you have for me to read.

  Best wishes,

  Sakib

  How’s the book going? How’s the book going? How can I think of the MARRIAGE book when my own mother is getting married??

  9.39 a.m.

  From: Sofia Khan

  To: Sakib Awaan

  Subject: Re: How’s it Going?

  It is going A-OK. Brilliantly, even. Wedding is taking over, though. You know brown people love a literal song and dance.

  MY MOTHER IS GETTING MARRIED.

  But otherwise everything is great.

  9.41 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  Only too familiar with it. I’m known for my Bollywood dance moves, in case you need to hire professional dancers.

  An image of Sakib, lifting his perfectly ironed Savile Row trousers at the sound of Bollywood music made me actually laugh out loud.

  9.45 a.m.

  From: Sofia Khan

  That sounds entertaining and horrifying in equal measure.

  9.49 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  It truly is. But the number of weddings I go to I feel it should’ve been the obvious career choice.

  Good luck,

  Sakib

  Friday 8 March

  10.10 a.m. Mum’s engagement will just take a while to get used to. I can be an adult about it. Like Maars.

  12.45 p.m. Went to Dad’s grave and sat on the ground, staring at his gravestone. It’s fine and well being adult but it’s only been nine months. How can someone move on so quickly?

  Have been trying to organise dinner with Suj and Han but something or another keeps coming up. Decided to call Suj.

  ‘Toffee! Sorry, I’ve been meaning to call you but . . . guess what?’

  ‘What?’ I asked, getting up from Dad’s grave.

  ‘I’m moving in with Charles!’

  ‘Fudge! Shut up. That’s great.’

  ‘My old man nearly had a heart attack,’ she said, as I turned back and had one more look at Dad’s grave.

  ‘Is he speaking to you?’ I asked.

  ‘He is, but it wasn’t easy,’ said Suj. ‘Who else does he have? Oh balls, Sofe, have to go but see you before the wedding, OK? Do you need me to do anything?’

  I wasn’t quite able to tell her Mum was getting married.

  ‘I’ll send you pictures of the flat,’ she said. ‘It’s so nice.’

  ‘OK . . . oh, hang on, Hannah’s calling,’ I said, checking my phone.

  ‘OK, love you! Don’t tell Han, I’m calling her tonight.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ I said, answering Han’s call.

  ‘Omar and I are going to adopt.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Bloody hell. That’s not the answer I was expecting.’

  She told me about the past few months and how they’d been talking about it. ‘We want a family, you know,’ she said. ‘And I can’t have my own so . . . well, it feels like the right thing.’

  ‘Han, that’s . . . that’s incredible.’

  She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘I messaged Foz this morning but haven’t heard from her.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t know where the hell she is.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m fine. G
reat. We should celebrate your news,’ I said.

  ‘What about you?’ said Han. ‘You going to pop them out soon, or give it a few years? It gets harder after your thirties – mid-thirties, I’d say. But still, you wouldn’t want to risk it.’

  Babies?? I’m barely managing to keep myself together let alone babies.

  Then she asked if I’d spoken to Conall about it, and how does he feel, and what’s his opinion and oh my God. These were my best friends but suddenly they felt so new. Maybe they were. Hannah was donning a new layer of adoption and Suj was fitting into her new role as long-term-moved-in-girlfriend.

  Note for book: In the relay race of life, don’t be surprised if you begin falling further and further behind, because the thing about races is that everyone is too focused on the finish line.

  To Foz: Our friends’ lives are changing and you’re somewhere taking surfing lessons. Can you find your way back home, please? Thanks. Love you xxx

  The thing is, when I think of the finish line, the only person I can see waiting there is Conall.

  Ugh. What a sap.

  Saturday 16 March

  10.40 a.m. ‘Soffoo, wedding is in two weeks and you haven’t told me how many people are coming from Ireland for the wedding. What day is Conall arriving?’

  Mum was scrubbing the windows in her bedroom with Fairy Liquid. Every time I look at her she seems a different creature altogether – a spring in her step that has me exhausted just watching her. I need to buy another pack of fags. How much longer can I keep the secret? People can be dim, but they’re going to notice if the groom’s not at the wedding. Momentarily considered borrowing Katie’s husband, Tom, or better yet, Sean, to sit on stage with me, but don’t think Conall would be mad about the idea.

  ‘I’ll call his mum again and find out,’ I replied.