by Ayisha Malik
9.35 a.m. Ugh. As if by cosmic intervention, ClearBlue ads keep playing on my bloody YouTube. Is it time to start thinking about babies, I wonder?
I suppose there’ll be plenty of time for that after the wedding. I checked my phone for any messages from Foz, but nothing. Babies and best friends will have to wait for another day.
Saturday/Sunday 30–31 March
The Easter Wedding Weekend
1.40 a.m. Diamantes shimmered in waves of magenta, oranges and reds that spilled into the room. Mum kept urging Suj to attack me with a blusher brush and eyeshadow. Hannah was looking after Adam as Katie walked in. The ad-lib mehndi was at home but of course no men were allowed.
‘Sweetu! You look so beautiful,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘But not when you make that face,’ she added.
She went across and helped Maria, darting from corner to corner re-taping the bunting. Everyone needs a Maria and Katie in their life.
How do brides get through weddings without a pocket of time in which to have a fag or something stronger? Thoughts of Dad punctuated the hours. I kept looking over at the girls, no Foz in sight, and wondered what she’d be saying – keeping things in order: perhaps bringing some Zen to my mother who ran around, frantic over the missing lids for the tubs of peanuts. I could see Mary observing her, semi-fascination and semi-consternation.
‘Kathy –’ said Mum.
‘Mum, it’s Katie.’
‘O-ho, how many names can I remember? Conall and Sean and Mary and I don’t know who else,’ she said in Urdu as Katie waited for her instructions.
I had to apologise.
‘To be fair, Sweetu – we do all sound the same.’
Poor Katie was coerced into looking after Mary. As aunties bent over to put oil in my hair and henna on my hands, my eyes kept flickering towards Katie and Mary, wondering what they were talking about when Hamida went and sat with them. She was all laughter with Mary, I tell you. Never seen her expose her teeth so much before.
‘Come, Mary,’ exclaimed Mum, lifting her off the cushioned floor. She led her towards me, making her dip her fingers in the oil and put it over my hair.
‘What’s this for?’ she asked Mum.
‘It’s tradition,’ Mum replied.
Mary took some henna and put it on the leaf on my hand. ‘But what does it mean?’ she asked.
‘It means we put oil in the hair and henna on the hands.’
Mary looked none the wiser and Mum looked at me as if to say: white people ask the funniest things.
‘Sorry, I must sound terribly ignorant, but why is everyone waving money around her head and putting it in her lap?’ asked Mary.
‘Oh,’ Mum said, ‘you don’t worry about that. It’s to keep away the evil eye. People see happiness and they don’t like it; this money is for charity to keep bad things from happening.’
Mary went back to where she was sitting, got her purse and put a ten pound note in my lap. Mum took it, waved it over my head and put it down again.
‘See?’ said Mum. ‘Now she is safe from all bad things.’
Mary gave a rather tight-lipped smile when I heard a kerfuffle at the door.
‘Shut up!’ I heard Suj exclaim from the passage. Just then, as Auntie number twenty-three was bending down to put oil in my hair I saw an image at the door. I had to squint to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.
‘Foz?’
Hannah, Maars and Katie turned towards the door as she beamed from the entrance.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘that was a bloody long journey.’
I leaped off my seat to hug her, tears in my eyes. Mum told me to stop being so dramatic, but her presence somehow cushioned the absence of my dad. When the night was over, me and the girls sat in the living room; the first time I had been together with all of them in such a long time – it almost made the wedding worth it.
‘When I got married I always thought I’d have a more distinct grown-up feel,’ I said.
‘I don’t know. I think it’s something you’re born with,’ said Hannah.
‘Who wants to be a fucking grown-up, anyway?’ Suj looked in the mirror and reapplied some lipstick.
‘I think Hamida was born a grown-up,’ I said.
Maria checked the baby monitor. ‘Hamida was born a boring old cow.’
‘Conall’s definitely a born grown-up,’ added Katie. ‘As for Hamida. Awful woman.’
‘Why? What did she do?’ I asked, leaning forward, riveted by the information Katie was about to give.
‘Nothing. But I can’t abide by a person you don’t like.’ She pinched a tiny roll of her belly. ‘All this food and no running is making me fat. My God, I forgot to tell you – your mother-in-law asked if I was Catholic.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said yes.’
‘But you’re not,’ I replied.
‘I couldn’t say, actually I’m agnostic,’ said Katie. ‘I just went with it, and you know, maybe I was a Catholic in a former life. Although, I did tell one of your aunties that I was spiritually a Muslim.’
‘Is Conall’s mum pissed off now he’s a Muslim?’ asked Suj.
‘Do you think she hates me?’ I said, looking at the girls.
‘He’s a grown man,’ said Katie, reaching towards the table for more peanuts. ‘It’s his decision.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘Mothers-in-law. Never underestimate their influence.’
‘If they’re not with you,’ added Maars, ‘they’re against you.’
‘Haw, Soffoo, you will never guess. Your Uncle Wasim is Hamida’s father’s best friend,’ exclaimed Mum.
‘What?’ I said, adjusting my scarf in the mirror as Suj tried to put more blusher on me.
‘I told you he was a colonel and of course he must know big people in Karachi.’
The look of pride shone on Mum’s widowed face.
‘Uncle Mou . . . I mean Wasim’s here?’
‘Of course.’
I could feel Suj’s eyes on me.
‘And I’ve told your Auntie and Uncle Scot I am engaged. Strangest thing, Soffoo. They were happy. They told me they thought I should get married again.’
‘Oh. Great,’ I said.
Who’d have thought that in the family dynamic I’d be the narrow-minded one.
Must not think about Mum’s fiancé and why Hamida seems to leak into every part of my life. I took a deep breath. I couldn’t understand the anxiety. Conall and I were married already – what could go wrong?
‘Is the bride ready?’
Foz peered into the dressing room and looked at me for a good fifteen seconds.
‘Are you crying?’ I said.
‘What? No,’ she replied. ‘OK, fine, but Suj was crying earlier.’
‘Of course I cried,’ said Suj, waving the brush around. ‘I’ve been crying for a week.’
I laughed as Mum bustled round and then out of the door, rolling her eyes at us.
Foz looked at me again with so much pride I had to tell her to leave.
‘OK, sorry. I’m going . . .’ She turned round at the door. ‘As if I wouldn’t have crossed oceans for this day.’
‘Suj, throw my eyeliner at her, please. I’d do it but I can’t move my arms.’
But when I looked at Suj she was crying too and then Maars, Han and Katie barged in.
‘It’s my sister’s wedding,’ exclaimed Maars. ‘Our mum’s boyf’s in there by the way and I’ve run out of ways to avoid him.’
‘I thought we were being adults?’ I said.
‘Isn’t avoiding each other what adults do?’
As I looked at the girls, I wondered why I’ve worried about anything, ignoring the anxiety in the pit of my stomach. What, after all, can an organ know?
Note for book: Count every lucky star you have – they will come in the shape of the friends you love.
It’s difficult to know what kind of face to have on when there are three hundred people staring at you, while you’re concentrating on not fall
ing flat on your face. Especially when you’re glancing at your mother-in-law, who’s apparently wishing your prompt demise.
But there was Conall – wearing a sherwani. Imagine! I had no idea I was so partial to a sherwani. More importantly, I wonder how easy it is to unhook the buttons off one?
‘Glitzy,’ I said as I finally approached him, looking at the buttoned-up cream collar, decorated with green beads. ‘A bit of cultural appropriation for the day,’ I added.
He really is very handsome.
‘Baji, baji,’ said the cameraman. ‘Look this way. Haan. Perfect. What a shot!’
I personally think it’s fortuitous that Celtic and Pakistani colours are the same. Conall tugged at his collar. We both sat down, smiling at our crowd of admirers. I caught sight of Sakib with his wife.
‘Congratulations,’ said Sakib, coming on to the stage with her.
‘So, you’re the one who wrote the book he’s obsessed with?’ said his wife.
Up close I could tell how expensive her clothes were, her diamond earrings practically blinding me, a Chanel clutch in her hands. I was also rather transfixed by how clear and smooth her skin was. I didn’t detect a smidgen of concealer or foundation, just this bright coral lipstick and mascara, elongating her full lashes. Sakib’s smile seemed to falter.
‘You both make a beautiful couple,’ she said to us.
With which Sakib pursed his lips as they made their way off the stage.
‘That was weird,’ I said, leaning into Conall.
‘What?’ he said, seeming distracted. Then he looked at me so intensely I thought maybe he wants to have sex. I was figuring out ways I could hitch up my lengha without ruining my whole get-up (tricky, but not impossible), when Mum came up on stage and hushed us. ‘What will people think with you two talking, talking, talking?’
I had to explain to Conall the concept of acting like a shy bride, which felt even more ridiculous given I’d already shagged the man I was sitting next to. Mum placed herself next to Conall -– prime videography position – along with demonstrating her being a benevolent and accepting mother-in-law.
‘When will this be over?’ asked Conall.
‘A couple of hours. Tops,’ I replied, from the side of my mouth.
He shuffled in his seat. I’m assuming the cultural attire wasn’t agreeing with him. Mum then waved over to Mary, who trotted on to the stage and sat next to me. I was getting jaw ache from smiling into the camera.
A queue had formed that went right to the back of the hall because if it’s one thing ’Stanis like more than a song and dance, it’s photos.
‘Baji, bhai,’ called the cameraman to me and Conall. ‘Look here.’
‘If this guy asks me to look at the camera one more time, I’m going to smear saag aaloo all over his lens,’ I said, looking at Conall. But he was staring ahead. I followed his gaze that led to Hamida, clad in a deep purple outfit, her brown hair tied in a neat bun, highlighting her high cheekbones.
‘Baji, baji!’
‘O-ho, Soffoo,’ Mum interjected. ‘You have whole life to look at your husband. Look at the camera.’
The camera flashed, bringing us both back from our Hamida-filled vision, when Uncle Mouch came and sat next to Mum. He shouldn’t be here. That should be Dad.
Mary glanced over at us as auntie number thirty-three was putting an envelope in Conall’s hands before walking to me and asking the cameraman to take a photo.
‘Congratulations, Beta,’ she said. Then she looked over at Conall and said, ‘Goray jism ka maza lena.’
What is wrong with aunties? Mum giggled as auntie number thirty-four walked up with her three children and husband.
‘What’d she say?’ asked Conall. ‘White what?’
I was too perplexed at the look that passed between Hamida and him and at Uncle Mouch being in our family photo. And what’s the point in different cultures if a person can’t use language barriers as a way to hide auntie obscenities?
‘Nothing,’ I replied.
Mary looked increasingly uncomfortable. Foz was bent over with laughter in front of the stage, her shiny black hair tumbling forward as Katie stuck her thumb up at me. Conall rubbed his eyes. The camera flashed again, blurring my vision as Sean, Hamida, Suj and Hannah came on stage and Foz and Katie followed them. They squeezed in, Sean leaning in between Conall and me.
‘This is great craic.’ He laughed and put his arm round the auntie next to him, smiling into the camera. ‘Isn’t it, Ma?’
Mary looked over at him. ‘Will you behave, Sean?’
Leaning in again, Sean said: ‘Your friend, Suj . . . she single?’ he asked.
I shook my head.
‘Commitments are things everyone should pay heed to,’ said Mary, unmoved and staring straight ahead.
What did that mean? For once, I’d like to not be perplexed by what someone says. Conall turned to me as there was a mass exodus off the stage to allow the next lot through.
‘What did that auntie say?’ he asked.
‘Forget it.’
The next batch of photo-enthusiasts clambered on stage.
‘More casual racism, no doubt,’ he said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I leaned in and whispered in Conall’s ear, ‘She said “enjoy his . . .” ’ I paused. Fair enough that he’s my husband but it was still embarrassing. ‘ “Enjoy his white body.” ’
He looked at me: first with confusion and then a small smile.
‘Happy?’
Cameras flashed as people still queued, and he took my hand. ‘Almost.’
That moment didn’t last long. They never do. When we got home I went straight to the bedroom to get all the shit off my face and change into something that didn’t weigh the size of a baby elephant. Hamida had gone to stay with Uncle Mouch and in a few days Conall and I would go away for a mini-break to finally get some time alone. I was walking down the stairs when I heard his mum speaking.
‘It was a spectacle,’ she said.
‘Ma, don’t –’ Sean interrupted.
‘This isn’t to do with you.’
‘Not today,’ said Conall.
‘You shirked your responsibility once, and you won’t do it again.’
‘I know, but I did try. I tried every day,’ said Conall.
‘Not hard enough,’ Mary added.
There was quiet when someone closed the door. How am I meant to eavesdrop when people close the door? (Also, have realised, I spend a lot of time trying to overhear what Conall has to say.)
I leaned against the passage wall, listening to their muffled voices and then silence. Silence that I thought would break. After a few minutes, I decided to open the door and went in.
The blood had drained from Conall’s face and Mary was wiping her eyes. Sean had his head in his hands. I looked at Conall for some kind of clue as to what had happened, but his expression scared me.
‘Sofia,’ said Mary. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this.’
‘Not like this,’ interrupted Conall.
‘Christ, Ma,’ said Sean.
She raised her head and looked at me, her mouth firm, her manner no-nonsense.
‘Who’ll tell the poor girl?’
Poor girl?
The moment before your life changes can be a blur. It’s a hodgepodge of confusion, ignorance and denial – looking to someone who might untangle it for you. Conall stood up and walked towards me.
‘Listen to me, Sofe . . .’
‘What is going on?’
He grabbed my hand, pressing it against his chest, as if I’d run away.
‘I should’ve told you, I just never –’
Is he dying? Is he having an affair? Is he leaving me? What?
‘I have a family,’ he said.
I looked at Mary and Sean – their gaze averted from us. ‘I know.’
He shook his head. Were those tears filling his eyes?
‘Another family, Sofe.’ His grip tightened, hurting my hand. ‘
I have a son.’
What? I didn’t understand. What did he mean he has a son?
‘Sofe. . .’ His voice cracked. ‘He has cancer.’
APRIL
For Better, or for Worse
Muslim Marriage Book
Most things are easier said than done: put the toilet lid down; pick up your wet towels; separate colours from the whites; don’t say that about my mother. They all fit in with the general notion of forgiveness. (Incidentally – despite what you might’ve heard – Islam is big on forgiveness.) But what does forgiveness even mean? Is it forgetting? To forget is to set yourself up for the same fall, surely. (Some might call it stupidity.) Moving on? If that’s what it means, then moving on towards what? Or does it mean to just get over it? Done with. Dusted. Finished.
And what if it’s a bigger struggle? What if there’s more to it than just putting a lid on it? How far does forgiveness stretch? The black and white of your single days – the certainty with which hypothetical questions were answered – don’t feel so clear-cut any more.
Nothing will grey your moral codes more than the simple words ‘I do’.
Easter Monday: 1 April
6.20 a.m. When you love each other are five of the stupidest words ever uttered. When you are married --– that’s another type of sentence. You can’t do certain things as easily when you’re married. Like run away. ‘Marriage’: the threading of two lives, from which you can’t escape without doing some kind of damage.
I’ve heard the story in CliffsNotes version; in stops and starts, through fury and disbelief.
‘I was young and stupid,’ said Conall, me unable to imagine that version of him. Surely he came out, fully formed and principled in the manner of the man I married.
‘I’d started drinking too much. My dad was . . . it’s no excuse. When she told me she was having a baby I tried to do the right thing and married her. But it was all temporary, and one day I . . .’ He paused, as if something was catching in his throat. ‘I left. No note or explanation.’