The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  Past tense. Would this knife really bleed me to death?

  ‘Sorry. I . . .’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘I can’t say our conversations revolved round the kitchen.’

  He pointed the knife at me. ‘Don’t get mad. It’s Ramadan.’

  I chopped the top off the onion and peeled the outer layers, thinking how I always did a shitty job at hiding my annoyance.

  ‘How’s the book coming along?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s . . . I’ll get there.’

  He put the sliced mushrooms to one side. ‘You’re doing the right thing,’ he said. ‘By carrying on with it.’

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to look up. He was right because if I didn’t have the book, what would I have? Where is the meaning? Is this why so many married people get stuck in a rut? The comfort of marriage diluting the need to do something more? Conall still has his passion for travel and photography. Apart from the obvious health, family and friends (for which I’m grateful, God – obviously), now I don’t have a marriage, what else do I have to strive for? That feeling of non-direction I had in Karachi has only ballooned. When the onion stung my eyes it took a little bit of convincing that it was that, and not life, which was making me cry.

  ‘You would say that,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, I guess I always do have some kind of agenda,’ he said. ‘You don’t get far in life without one.’ He chopped a red pepper in half. ‘But aside from that, I genuinely think it’s true.’ He sliced the pepper into long strips. ‘What’s amazing,’ he continued, ‘is that your parents were OK with you marrying him. I mean, it’s impressive.’ Apparently, beneath the professional, educated demeanour, Sakib was as nosy as the next brown person.

  ‘My mum didn’t have a choice,’ I said. ‘And my dad certainly didn’t. Being dead and all.’

  Sakib flinched.

  ‘Oh – did I make you uncomfortable?’ I said.

  ‘Sorry. None of my business.’ He put the peppers in a colander with the mushrooms. ‘It’s just so different from my parents.’

  ‘There,’ I said, having mixed all the contents of my salad in a bowl. ‘Are they hardcore?’

  He let out a small laugh.

  ‘Like, proper fundo types?’ I added. ‘The kind Daily Mail readers would go crazy for?’

  ‘That’s a little harsh,’ he replied. ‘They’re just quite traditional. Kind and lovely, but traditional.’ He peered into my bowl of salad as he said, ‘An English degree was only allowed if I went on to study the law.’

  ‘Hang on, you’re a lawyer?’

  ‘Lapsed. Books is all I wanted to do. Started out as a solicitor – no coincidence that I worked giving legal advice to publishers.’

  I looked at him in wonder. ‘How did you manage to make such a great and solid leap? Into publishing.’

  He turned round and added sesame oil to the chicken sizzling in the pan. ‘Told you. I always have an agenda.’ He looked at his watch.

  ‘Twelve minutes to go until fast opens, according to Googs,’ I said.

  ‘Drinks. Fridge.’

  I opened it and looked at the organised shelves, taking out a bottle of elderflower juice and sparkling water.

  Sitting at the table, he put on Sunrise Radio, which made me laugh.

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ he explained.

  It just reminded me of Ramadan with Mum and Dad when they used to put the radio on, waiting for fast to break. Sakib looked towards his plate, while his lips moved in prayer. When the call to prayer broke out he exclaimed, ‘The dates! I didn’t get the dates.’

  It was the first time I’d laughed, genuinely, in a while. I realised how odd it is that this man is my editor/boss. He rushed to get a tin, opened it, and put it in front of me.

  When he returned from praying we ate, and as he went to put the dishes in the wash I got up to help.

  ‘No, you’ve done enough work as a guest,’ he said. ‘Anyway, Husna only used the kitchen when she baked her complicated cakes or hosted a five-course meal. This is my arena on a day-to-day basis.’

  ‘You’re a bit of an anomaly as brown men go, aren’t you?’ I said. I contemplated him for a moment. ‘Hm.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I just wondered: where were your types when I was looking for a husband?’

  And I didn’t mean it as ooh, I wish I’d met you years ago, but I realised it must’ve sounded like that. I felt my face flush and thought he might look alarmed, push me out of the house, that kind of thing. But in a rather disconcerting non-frazzled manner, he just smiled and said, ‘Maybe you were looking in the wrong places?’

  I thought I’d been in precisely the right place at the right time, which is how Conall came into my life. When I got home the house was so quiet that the only place that felt wrong at all, was that one, right now.

  On the plus side, at least I no longer felt like screaming into my pillow.

  Saturday 27 July

  11.35 a.m.

  From Maria: How are you doing? Will come over tonight to drop iftari off and bring Adam too. Won’t ask if you’ve heard from Conall, but just so you know – I’m here. xx

  Love Maars.

  2.30 p.m. I’d been plodding along for almost a month without any communication from Conall. Then it hit me: what is the end result of separation? A vortex of some sort seemed to open up in my stomach. Hearing the TV on downstairs, I went and joined Foz on the sofa.

  ‘Thought you were going to the mosque this afternoon?’ she said.

  I shrugged. ‘Still on my period. Plus, it’s too hot.’ I slumped further down the sofa.

  ‘Me too,’ she replied.

  Video footage of a bomb went off on the TV; a reporter came onscreen.

  ‘Isn’t life depressing enough?’ I said.

  In theory, Ramadan is meant to be a spiritual illumination, but there is no light in a vortex. Foz switched the channel.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Not bloody sports.’

  ‘I wish you would go to the mosque.’

  Just then the doorbell rang.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ I said.

  Foz balled up my scarf and threw it at me. ‘Put that on.’

  And then I heard the voice. This voice that I never thought I’d have to hear again: slightly high-pitched, uneven, smug; travelling through the passage and into my furry brain.

  ‘Come in,’ said Foz.

  She reappeared in the room, the unexpected guest hidden behind the door.

  ‘What is he doing here?’ I mouthed just before Kam came into view. I think I might’ve scowled. There he was, with his oily hair and glaring, white teeth.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. His gaze flickered towards Foz when I didn’t answer.

  ‘Hi,’ I said eventually.

  I watched as my best friend pulled out a chair for her ex-boyfriend – the boyfriend who didn’t have the balls to tell his parents about her when they were dating because she’d been divorced. What the hell was going on?

  ‘How are your parents, Kam?’ I asked.

  ‘Good. Yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, one’s dead but the other one’s OK.’

  He looked at Foz again. ‘Oh yeah, God, I was really sorry to hear about that.’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘Do you want tea?’ asked Foz.

  ‘Can I have coffee, babe?’ he asked.

  Babe? And, of course, your royal bloody highness, don’t worry about the fact that it’s Ramadan. Have your coffee, have cake, but don’t think you can have my friend.

  He looked at me. ‘I’ve kept a few fasts,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Just hard, with the long hours and work and everything.’

  Ugh. We heard clattering in the kitchen as Foz put the kettle on.

  ‘God understands what’s in your heart,’ he added.

  ‘Indeed. Which is maybe why you should be worried,’ I replied with a smile.

  He shifted in his seat. ‘Still the same then, Sofe.’

  ‘
Just a little wiser.’

  When Foz came in with the coffee, she turned to me and mouthed something that looked like ‘Behave’.

  ‘How’s the world of banking?’ I asked him. And then I couldn’t help myself. ‘Still making money on the back of other people’s poverty?’

  His gnashers came out again as he laughed. I might’ve rolled my eyes. Even Foz looked at him, seeming to wonder why he was grinning.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

  There’s such genuine curiosity behind Foz’s questions that it’s impossible to be offended by her. Conall on the other hand used to say that even my questions sounded like accusations. I was too busy getting my phone to hear Kam’s reply.

  To Suj; Hannah: OMG. Get your sunglasses out. The gnashers are back. What the hell is going on??

  When I glanced over at Foz and Kam, he seemed so engrossed in what she was saying that I wondered whether people could change.

  He looked at me. ‘You look tired, Sofe. Why don’t you take a nap?’

  Maybe not. I nodded and sighed. ‘I know, some company can be quite exhausting.’

  ‘Sofe . . .’ said Foz.

  ‘Oh, Foz, come on. Kam knows I’m just joking. It’s Ramadan – I wouldn’t dream of being a bitch.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Sofe,’ he said, reddening. ‘But that’s probably why Foz is here with you, instead of your husband.’

  ‘Kam,’ said Foz.

  I clutched my hand to my chest. ‘Heavens,’ I exclaimed. ‘How could I possibly take that the wrong way?’

  From Suj: Toffee, WTF are you talking about? What is he doing there? Fucking extra UV protection for those teeth.

  ‘I love Foz,’ he said.

  It came as a jolt. I’m assuming by the look on Foz’s face, it came as one to her too.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I replied. ‘That makes two of us.’

  ‘People make mistakes,’ he said. Then he looked at her. ‘Sometimes you just need to be forgiven for them.’

  What is up with all this talk of forgiveness? What if Conall begged for mine? What if I got on a plane and said: it’s OK, we can work it out?

  ‘Sofe. Do you mind?’ she said.

  There’s nothing worse than watching your friend plunge into the murky darkness of unsatisfactory love, so I got off the sofa and dragged myself up the stairs. Staring at the bedroom walls, I looked at Conall’s number on my phone before taking out a fag. I was hanging out of the window, puffing away, when my bedroom door opened.

  ‘Dirty fag-head,’ said Foz.

  ‘What was he doing here? I mean, haven’t you learned your lesson?’

  She took a deep breath and came into the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said – not sounding very sorry. ‘It’s just that he’s so annoying with his stupid teeth constantly on display. Close your mouth, man. And that hair. He’s like some kind of immigrant, Euro-trash hybrid with his inability to tell his Vs from his Ws. Sorry.’

  ‘Well, now he and I both know how you feel about him,’ she said, walking over and taking a cigarette from my pack.

  From Hannah: Excuse me? What do you mean Kam? Can you please clarify that this is the same Kam she broke up with last year and I haven’t missed some vital piece of information in the midst of my adoption drama?

  Foz looked over at me before I could hide the message. ‘I knew you were texting the girls.’

  ‘Again. Sorry.’ It’s a wonder I have any friends left, to be honest.

  ‘I can’t explain it. I know Kam can be annoying,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what he puts in his hair. But he’s also funny and sweet and well . . . he’s already told me we’re meeting his parents after Ramadan.’

  This was just awful. I had to tell Conall. For a second I lost the thread of what Foz was saying and had to shake any Conall-related thought out of my head.

  ‘And I love having a fag. But, darling, no one changes,’ I said.

  ‘We both love fags,’ she said. ‘Bloody expensive, though, aren’t they?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  We both paused in thought. ‘So, not only are you getting back together with Kam, but we’re also turning into our mothers.’

  She laughed. I looked at Foz’s face. It’s such a lovely one; the kind that makes you look twice, admire its shape and features. I’ve loved this face for over a decade, but never in all this time have I felt compelled to throw my phone at it. I told her as much, which just made her laugh again, though it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘We’ve just always said that one of us should be happy,’ I said. ‘And seeing as that’s not going to be me, the duty falls upon you.’

  ‘Is it me or were his teeth even whiter than usual?’ she said.

  I laughed as she rested her elbows against the window, overlooking the street. ‘But honestly? I am happy.’

  Bloody hell.

  ‘Life, darling,’ she said. ‘You never know what feeling’s going to come and hit you straight in the chest.’

  Tuesday 30 July

  2.20 p.m. Fasting again. Have spent past two hours trying to concentrate on reading the new manuscript that Sakib sent. Visions of doughnuts keep swimming in my head.

  2.25 p.m. Doughnuts and biscuits.

  2.28 p.m. Sod this. I’m going over to Mum’s.

  3.50 p.m. Not sure if Ramadan is taking its toll but Mum’s being very grumpy. All I did was ask how Uncle Wasim is and when they’re going to Pakistan, so Maars and I could book our tickets, and she practically shouted: ‘When I get some peace in my life.’

  Bloody hell; take an interest in your mother’s love life and that’s what you get. Didn’t ask what exactly was so unpeaceful as had fear of onion bhajis, frying in the pan, being thrown at me.

  4.10 p.m. Auntie Reena’s come over. She keeps talking about her budgies, but she’s also started taking computing lessons. She says you can’t live in the world and not know technology. Mum looked quite proud of her.

  5.05 p.m. Oh my God! Auntie Reena just told me she’s very sad that Mum’s broken off her engagement! (Though, truth be told, she didn’t look very sad.) Went storming into garden where Mum was watering flowers and demanded to know what was happening.

  ‘Soffoo, don’t ask me ridicklus questions.’

  I had to grab the watering can from her. She looked at me – same look of resolution I’ve seen on her when she’s negotiating with our window cleaner – ‘I won’t be the mother who thinks of herself when her daughter’s life is not settled.’

  There, under the gathering clouds, Jesus, quite literally, wept.

  ‘But, you can’t do this,’ I exclaimed as she pushed me into the conservatory and out of the rain. ‘Not now. Mum, this is the best thing that’s happened to you.’

  She hesitated. A short nod as she paused. ‘No. That was having my daughters.’ Tears sprouted from my eyes.

  ‘Chalo, chalo,’ she said. ‘It’s done and it’s the right thing. Now be quiet and let me get on with my work.’

  I couldn’t believe it and had to call Maars.

  ‘Listen, she’s doing what she feels is best,’ she said.

  ‘You knew.’

  She paused.

  ‘But, Maars,’ I said, sitting in my old room, ‘it’s wrong. More wrong than it felt when she said she was getting married in the first place.’

  ‘I tried telling her you’re a grown-up, but you know what she’s like when she gets an idea in her head. She said it’d be a distraction. “My children come before any man.” ’

  ‘But I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman.’

  ‘Well,’ said Maars, as I heard Adam gurgling in the background, ‘we’ll always be children to her.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been so absorbed in the state of my marital collapse that it didn’t occur to me Mum’s relationship was also collapsing.

  ‘Maars,’ I said, ‘this isn’t right. I know we hated the idea but he was actually quite nice.’

  She paused. ‘I know, Sofe. If I’
m honest, I think it’s made me sadder than . . . well, what happened with you.’

  If I was honest, I think I’d say the same.

  8.15 p.m. Between Mum’s newfound single status, Auntie Reena’s budgies and my friends’ various relationship issues, I needed to speak to him. I looked at Conall’s name on my phone. He’d tell me what to say to Mum to persuade her to change her mind. He’d understand why this is all wrong. I tapped on his name and hung up before it had the chance to ring. You can’t just go back to him every time you need to know his thoughts on a thing. That’s not how it works. But I can practically feel my bones twitch. Every inch of me feels restless and unsure.

  Thank God – Katie calling.

  9 p.m. I have the answer! I’ll go into spiritual seclusion! Not forever, obviously. Just for the last ten, most holy, days of Ramadan. Told Katie what happened and about my restless limbs, and she suggested I take up yoga. I don’t think stretching my limbs is going to help so I told her about the concept of seclusion (aka itikaf) – going into your room or mosque and shutting yourself off from the world, devoting each moment to prayer. It feels like there’s a lot to pray for and I don’t even know where to start.

  Because I’m not busy distracting myself with food my mind’s throwing all kinds of questions at me. What does it all mean? What, for example, was the purpose of ever meeting Conall? After the hundreds of dates with stupid men, it felt like such a stroke of divine luck to end up with him. As if he was the culmination of all those wrongs made right. Maybe it’s a sign that there is no right to a wrong – that there are just happenings – some good, some shit. (Oops. Shouldn’t swear when fasting.) What was the point of Mum meeting her childhood sweetheart forty years later, only for her to end it?

  Maybe it’s my fault for trusting one person so fully. All this time people had me believe that getting married was growing up. The subtext to this is simply that you come face-to-face with human fallibility. What’s more – you have to live with it.