The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  6

  Randy Andy made out like there was no tomorrow. He contorted his body around girl and sofa with such flexibility that watching him you felt he was a walking poster boy for the karma sutra. The girl whose lungs were being deflated remained out of sight. She was pinned to the beat-up sofa cushions and her only form of expression was a pair of uncertain hands that told voyeurs all was not what it seemed.

  “How do you suppose they breathe?” asked Shakila.

  “Dunno, probably through the nose. They don’t look as if they’re all that worried about it though,” replied Shabnam who was sitting opposite the pair. Her answer was delivered in a shout. This mode of communication irritated her but since it was her first party she was bound to be peeved by some age-old rituals.

  “It looks different when you see it in films doesn’t it?” asked Shakila thoughtfully.

  “That’s ’cos it’s rehearsed. This is what it looks like in real life,” said Shabnam. “Like he’s trying to catch a fish with an open mouth.”

  “I think if some guy did that to me I’d kill him.”

  “That’s why no guy will ever do it to you!” retorted Shabnam.

  “Sure they will. A Pakistani guy will do it to a donkey if he thought there was a chance of a settlement visa.”

  They both laughed. The party was hosted and arranged by Randy Andy, the most popular man in college who had slept with all ethnic minorities and true to his upbeat, no-regrets outlook managed to remain on good terms with both sexes. The party was proof of that. Everyone who had a social connection with Randy Andy’s conquests was here: black men with braided hair and long leather coats, Chinese guys with Hawaiian shirts, English blokes who laughed the loudest and Pakistanis in their customary groups of four, all wearing black polo necks and gold necklaces. There were even those morons who dressed like they were vampires.

  The lights had been dimmed and a great stroboscope gyrated from the ceiling filling the room with alternating hues of green and red. There wasn’t a chair or sofa that did not have two people wanting to become one. The bittersweet smell of alcohol filled the air which was already turning brown from opiates. Music blasted from speakers in all four corners – deafening music was the signature of the party: as ever Randy Andy had something for everyone, Bollywood songs for the Asians, Bob Marley for the Afro-Caribbeans, and the Stones for everyone else.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into coming to this place,” said Shabnam.

  “What would you be doing instead? Cleaning the kitchen? You can do that tomorrow!” said Shakila brightly.

  Shabnam glared.

  “Chill out for God’s sake! Look every guy here is giving you the eye. Talk to a few of them. They don’t bite you know!”

  “What difference does it make if a guy gives you the eye? Is he gonna take you home? Can you take him home? Can he show you a good time and keep showing you a good time? Suppose you just have a one-night stand with him and you think yeah, this is great, I want more of this and then you start pestering him to give you some more. Before you know it he knows all your buttons and when he starts pushing them you’re gonna run to him like you were his bitch!”

  “Oh God,” groaned Shakila. “You’re off again aren’t you? Look why don’t you go get us a drink of coke or something? That way you can be my bitch!”

  Shabnam extended her index finger but nonetheless got up and edged her way to the table which was laden with drinks. To blend into the cosmopolitan hive she had forsaken her traditional dress and wore new Levi’s and a white Tsunami Relief top. The air warbled with the words “Shine like a star wherever you are”. She guessed this to be a Jamaican song and shook her head in disgust at the idiocy of its proclamation.

  Although she had only been at the party for an hour, people were definitely less sure on their feet and she had to change directions mid step to avoid men who moved unsteadily towards her. A tall ginger-haired guy with psychotic blue eyes asked if he could help her in any way and was promptly told to just fuck off. There was no path of minimum resistance. Assholes were everywhere. To the left she recognised Mauritius, a foreign exchange student, who was sitting in somebody’s lap and having two bottles of a urine-looking liquid emptied into his mouth. To the right there was a Sikh guy with his legs wrapped around the waist of another Sikh guy: both were singing. In a corner Chinese guys were attempting their version of the Mexican wave. Only the black guys seemed to be aloof and in control of their dignity.

  Shabnam sighed hopelessly but…but there was an opening…Dizzy Lizzy, a tall, buxom blonde, had just appeared and immediately dispersed the crowd quicker than a police warning of a bomb. This was because Dizzy Lizzy loved to talk and talk and talk about her endless relationships. Each time she did so she would sway her head to and fro and give vertigo to her hapless confidante. Hence the name. Shabnam began walking backwards as if in response to the sublime melody bellowing in the room. Some dozen steps and a well-timed one hundred and eighty degree turn and she would be by the drinks.

  “Oh Shabs honey. Hi!” squealed Dizzy Lizzy. “Knew it was you! All you Asian girls got such big bums you can spot them a mile off. What you doing here love?”

  Before Shabnam could continue she went on.

  “Did you see that film Yasmin on Channel 4 last night? It was set somewhere round here. I was watching it with my Sebastian and I said to him I know a girl like that. Weren’t that guy funny the way he wanted a quickie every time he came home at two o’clock in the morning? Thing is sweetheart…” she bent down conspiratorially, “they’re all like that, even my Sebastian. Don’t think we got it any easier love. Men are men and they’re all a bunch of fucking pigs if you ask me.”

  “Even your Sebastian?” asked Shabnam caustically.

  “Even my Sebastian. You know the other day he said I think we should become exclusive. And I said, Sebastian just because we’ve been going out for one year that doesn’t give you the right to trap me in a relationship. And then he goes, Liz I love you and I said to him just because you love me that doesn’t give you the right to control me. Then he said, don’t you love me and I said love is free and just because you love someone doesn’t mean you can’t be free. Then he goes, I need a commitment and I said to him in a polyfidelous relationship commitment is guaranteed. And then he goes to me, what’s polyfidelous mean and I said it means faithful to lots of people and then he said you slut and then I said Sebastian I refuse to be abused and then…” Dizzy Lizzy went on.

  After a short while Shabnam was able to escape to the drinks table. The music had changed to Bollywood and the heroine was loudly cooing the ecstasy of love. The goal was in sight. Two steps. Swerve to avoid pisshead. One step and then…The Asian Guys.

  There they stood in a group of four, leering at her like a pack of dogs. Shabnam gave them a smile laced with the required amount of contempt.

  “Shabnam, what you doing here? You’re supposed to be a good girl,” sniggered one of them.

  “You’re not here to find a husband are you?” said another.

  “We’re all available,” said a third and they all laughed.

  Pakistani men always acted like this. Full of macho bullshit. When they were at home they were dutiful and obedient, ready to do anything and everything for the family. Outside home, they strutted around like they were heroes with the world waiting to be theirs.

  “Even if I was I’d rather kill myself and go to hell than marry any of you assholes,” she snarled.

  “Ooh!” replied the chorus of assholes.

  “Instead of moaning like pregnant women why don’t you all move out of the way?”

  “What you gonna do if we don’t?” one of them asked.

  Shabnam laughed: “All I have to do is scream and point at you lot and every man here is going to come to my rescue. Do you know what’s going to happen then? You’re all gonna run with your tail between your legs!”

  Shabnam threw her head back and cleared her throat. The Asian Guys quickly dispersed.
One of them stopped to admire the sight of her lush flowing hair but was quickly pulled away.

  Triumphant and victorious, Shabnam shouted after them: “That’s why none of you will ever have a woman worth having! You’re all just a bunch of cowards!”

  Grabbing two of the coldest cans, Shabnam made her way back to Shakila. The air was now filled with a mist that felt as if it was pouring dirt into the pores of her skin. Shakila was almost impossible to distinguish and Shabnam cursed her for wearing her stupid black sequined dress. She moved through the swimming crowd grimacing at the falsettos of the over-loud music. A shake of a head that rustled a black tress of hair identified Shakila deep in conversation with Hardeep. Or to be exact Hardeep deep in conversation with Shakila.

  “Hey Lord Attenborough! Why don’t you stop bothering my friend here?”

  “Easy Shabnam easy. Nothing wrong with talking to someone is there?”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with pissing off out of my seat is there?”

  Hardeep sighed and got up. “Well nice meeting you,” he said politely to Shakila.

  “Likewise,” said Shakila brusquely.

  “Can’t bloody leave you alone for five minutes can I?” said Shabnam.

  “Five? More like fifty. What took you so long?”

  “Got held up by the Karachi Cops.”

  Shakila cast a disdainful look over her shoulder. “They look like a bunch of poofs with their moustaches and necklaces don’t they?”

  “They got no fucking manners that’s the problem. They got no idea how you should speak to women…Here, drink up,” said Shabnam handing her a can of Red Bull.

  “Keep it cold for me.” Shakila looked quickly and nervously at Shabnam. “I’m off to the loo.”

  “Don’t let Hardeep see you,” warned Shabnam.

  She settled back into a smelly sofa with the cold cans in her lap and in a moment that was as long as a pang of guilt or a sigh of regret, she was the girl inside the home whose mark she so desperately wanted to shed. She was alien and she was alone.

  The roar of the crowd around her and the frenzied antics of those who loved to have fun were as cryptic to her as the calligraphy inside a mosque or the speeches of her father.

  Surveying the party around her and with an insight that comes through longing and scrutiny, she saw that there were those who laughed as though they had lived a little and loved a lot. They would become part of a greater spectrum within which men and women could look at each other and be happy and then live lives in which they were happy. And that was a life which she could not live, though there were many who looked at her and made a fragrant bubble inside their heads in which she floated. She knew then why it was she could never come again to a party, or any gathering of toxic innocence.

  It was then, just then when the heaviness of certainty weighed heaviest that she looked up and saw that Randy Andy had gone and in his place sat someone who was watching her.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Shabnam did not answer but she saw the kindness in his eyes and felt the blood in her veins settle.

  A song she had heard many times before from Dilwale, an Indian film, was now playing. The lyric cut a swathe into her mind. “The illiterate mud of this village cannot read the letter from your heart.” Mud…she remembered at school she had a Nigerian friend and how she once teased her about putting mud on her face. She smiled at how stupid it all was.

  Pleased at her smile he said,” When I see a beautiful girl who’s sad and shy I don’t normally bother her. But when I saw you, I said to myself some rules were just made to be broken.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?” asked Shabnam.

  “No, no, not at all. I just know that life is too short to be sad. You got to start living before you start dying.”

  “Which one are you doing?”

  “You can’t talk in a place like this. Why don’t you and me get all intellectual in a fine restaurant with good food and nice music in the background?”

  Shabnam did not answer so he tried another tack.

  Gently and politely he asked, “Can I give you my number?”

  Shabnam then saw him clearly. With the velocity of an experience that was forbidden and new she could see the raw-boned strength in his body, the hardness of his jaw and the keenness of his eyes. Above all she heard the whisper of something free and the perilous dance between the seen and the unseen was in time with the furious beating of her heart.

  “Yes.”

  He fished a card out of his pocket and wrote on the back. He smiled again and she felt the unexpectedness of his pleasure. Then he was gone.

  “Hey girl,” said Shakila arriving in a flurry.

  “You took your time.”

  “Uhh-huh. What was that black guy saying to you?”

  Shabnam noticed the time and knew that soon they would begin to expect her at home. “Nothing…come on, let’s go.”

  7

  The living room of Aboo’s house had undergone a miraculous change. There was no clutter now. Along one wall was a sofa which could be made into a bed and on the floor was a long white cloth, a tattered old bag and, sitting on the cloth, an old man dressed in a simple white cotton tunic and thickly wrapped white dhoti. Around the old man, sitting on kitchen chairs were gathered his son, niece and grandchildren. Their current mood was varied. One was wryly amused. One was sycophantic. One was belligerent and resentful. One was fearful and apprehensive. One was feeling the sanctified presence of a Holy man.

  Dadaji’s expression was contemplative as he opened the bag and took out a rock, a plant in a small plastic case, a bottle of oil and lastly an orange. All were placed in a neat arc in front of him. He looked up and surveyed the astonishment. For the briefest of seconds everyone felt the untamed levity of a chuckle about to explode into the air.

  “One of you children is like this rock, hard and tough, yet even so like all rocks it may be broken to become something that gives sustenance.” Dadaji looked at each of his grandchildren. “One of you is like this plant – if nourished by the right hands it will produce great things but if neglected it will become like dust and fade away. And one of you is like this oil. It can bring relief or it can anger fire.”

  All sat bemused and spellbound. Then the laughter came and it was a rich earthy laugh, grizzled and with no harshness.

  “Itrat, which of your three is the cleverest?” asked Dadaji.

  Aboo silently pointed at Shabnam and her brothers almost smiled.

  “Shabnam, tell me why am I here?” asked Dadaji.

  “To marry us off.” Her accented Punjabi rang with defiance.

  Dadaji laughed again and the whiteness of his dentures flashed his amusement.

  “And what is wrong with that? Marriage is half of faith.”

  “But none of us has any faith, except maybe Musa,” retorted Shabnam contemptuously.

  Dadaji looked at Amma: “Your lioness is no longer shy,” he said gently.

  He turned back to Shabnam, straining his small eyes, remembering something. He pointed to Javed’s composition.

  “He spoilt you first and then later you spoiled yourself.”

  Dadaji hung his head in silence, still bemused by his reverie and slumping slightly as people do in mourning. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Shabnam who suddenly seemed very unsure of herself.

  “Every child leaves the mark of their parents in this world. Yet for some children their mark forever scorches their parents.”

  Though Dadaji’s gaze was on Shabnam he spoke almost as if to himself and his eyebrows were raised as though surveying a calamity.

  “Which of you three knows the most?” he asked.

  “About what?” asked Shabnam, still the conduit.

  Dadaji raised his hands in ambivalence. His eyes were now crafty and a faint smile flickered across his face.

  “Musa knows the most about Islam. Suleiman knows the most about everything else,” she answered.

  Dadaji ch
uckled and looked at his son, sharing in his amusement.

  “Who is the happiest then?” he asked.

  The question rang with an ugly sound, and in that moment they felt for the first time Dadaji’s clear-cut simplicity.

  “We might all be happy if we were allowed to do what we want,” said Shabnam.

  Dadaji absent-mindedly fumbled in his tunic for a cigarette and lighter. With long tapering fingers, he held the cigarette, firmly depressed the lighter and drew from his cigarette. He exhaled deeply, considering what he would say.

  “When you are young, you know no God other than your impulse. You will hear many voices but you will heed only one, the voice of Satan, and that voice will always tell you to do whatever you want.”

  His voice was quiet and determined.

  “When I was your age,” he pointed at Musa,” my father was paralysed. I fed him, bathed him and took care of him. When he wanted me to clean him he would poke me with a stick that had a nail at the bottom. And every night he would poke me and draw blood and I would lift him and help him to defecate and urinate and then I would collect his excrement and throw it away. Nobody asked me whether or not I was living the life of my dreams. I never wept knowing that other children led better lives.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” said Musa.

  “It is the same thing. Do you think I or your father were not young like you once. Our hearts also told us to do many things. But we chose to listen to our parents and now we reap their blessings. What blessings will you reap?”

  The passive sage no longer, Dadaji was now an angry and indignant old man.

  “Our peace of mind is more important than their blessings,” said Musa angrily. Shabnam looked at him sharply.

  “Peace of mind that is purchased with our pain is no peace. It is nothing but rank selfishness,” replied Dadaji quietly.

  Musa felt the measured calm of Dadaji’s words and had the eerie idea that he had calculated his each and every response to his questions.