“How did you feel when you saw Musa?” asked Fozia.
At the sound of his name Iram felt an ominous shiver of unease seep into her skin and could say nothing. She had begun to tire of the idea of him. The girls, especially Farrah, seemed to view him with contempt and she wondered what he had done to anger them so.
“When he came to our house he would have lunch with the servants instead of Mother and Father. He has no class. No etiquette. Everybody praises him because he has fair skin. That is so typical of village people,” said Farrah scornfully.
“Still he is…” Fozia’s voice trailed off uncertainly. Iram looked up at her, displeased at their mutual realisation. “Nothing.”
Farzana shot an angry look at her younger sister and Fozia looked down sheepishly.
“What is Musa? He is nothing. He has no qualification or standing. What can he give to Iram? Besides, her hand is to go to Khalil,” announced Farzana with authority.
Iram’s heart leapt and she blushed. Her cousins grinned at each other, amused by her girlishness.
“Have you spoken to Mother about this?” asked Farrah enthusiastically.
Iram struggled to remain composed.
Farzana shook her head. She focussed on Iram, her eyes shrewd. “You will need to show that you are worthy to be an officer’s wife. You will need to show your intelligence and courage now.”
“How do you mean?”
“What are you going to do or say when you get to England?”
Iram’s face reddened with desperation for she could think of nothing clever to say. Her cousins would have been able to reel off something ingenious without a second’s thought and she wasn’t surprised that Farzana gave her some advice straight away.
“A woman can get a man to do anything if she knows how. You must use your eyes to give the message of your tongue. When you meet Musa, you must let him know what he means to you without ever saying so. He will try to be sweet to you but you must not respond. Eventually he will become angry and try to force you to give a signal. All you have to do is to remain silent and he will understand and walk away. Something else you have to understand Iram, boys in England have no control over their bodily desires. He needs you more than you need him. He has probably had plenty of girlfriends. You are his way of becoming respectable,” said Farzana.
“But he is a Hafiz!” said Fozia.
“What difference does that make? Putting books on a donkey’s back does not make the donkey any wiser!” replied Farzana with asperity.
“Try to get Shabnam on your side,” suggested Farrah. “She has a lot of confidence for a girl. Dadaji is probably trying to marry her off as well so she will know how it works. Watch her and learn from her.”
“Remember Iram, if nothing else works you can still say no,” said Farzana. “If they threaten you then remember that we are their honour. If we have a single hair out of place they will lose their respect; they would rather die than live through that. Nothing can happen to you if you do not let it.”
As the intensity of the mid-day sun lessened a little the village slowly came to life. The muezzin heralded the call for the afternoon prayer and men slowly walked to the mosque with disgruntled faces. Iram sat on the veranda watching the shimmering blades of grass that stretched as far as the eye could see. Nearby, a buffalo stood with a long wooden pole stretching from its neck to a borehole within the well. An emaciated farmer wearing a dirty stained cotton shalwar kameez raised a stick and flicked it at the buffalo causing it to move forwards a few steps. Drenched with perspiration the farmer whipped the buffalo until it began a weary circling of the well and water started to fall from a rusted iron pipe.
Iram saw a parallel between her life and the buffalo’s and was angry. Of all the sisters, Farrah was most prone to harsh observations. She did not have the unnatural wisdom and maturity of Farzana who was only a year older but, nonetheless, her portrayal of her plight hurt. All the boys in the family would have been involved if their marriage was being decided so why was that privilege not extended to the girls? Nobody had the right to map out her future. She would put Musa in his place. The way she did it would not be pleasant but that was a small sacrifice for the future she deserved. He probably thought that she would be as easy to conquer as one of his girlfriends. She would not be herded like that buffalo. She did not have her cousins’ education but her wits were sharp and she listened and learnt from the talk of others. She was a lot like Farzana in that respect. Iram smiled proudly at the thought – essentially she was one of them.
How her heart had lurched when Farzana had said that she would be reserved for Khalil! For a moment she was alarmed that she might have done or said something improper that had revealed her attraction to him. But no, she had been clever there, keeping her eyes down whenever he was near her. All she had to do was to continue to be clever and she would become the wife of an officer in the Pakistani army. She would live in the best houses and have servants. She frowned, her lack of English would be a problem as they all spoke English in the army, but she could take a course – she would worry about that later.
25
“You can use this place for a while. My parents have only just bought it but at the moment they’re too busy to organise finding a tenant. You’re safe, no one will ever know,” said Armila.
The flat was no more than a large white cubicle, the bed folded into the wall and a tiny kitchenette led into the bathroom. A painting of floating heads and arms hung on the wall.
“Who painted that shit?” asked Shabnam.
“It’s a copy of a Picasso,” replied Armila.
“He must have been a nut,” remarked Shabnam as she flung her shoes off and sat down heavily on the one small sofa.
Armila shrugged. She pointed at the fold-up bed and said, “Listen, you and Leroy need to be careful. If you bounce up and down too much that thing will fold and you’ll both be slammed into the wall.”
“Shut up!” retorted Shabnam indignantly.
“You gotta start considering these practicalities when you’re in a physical relationship. Attention to detail is always important,” Armila grinned.
“What makes you such an expert on relationships and how do you know it’s physical?” asked Shabnam.
“If it isn’t yet it will be soon. You’re stupid if you haven’t realised that yet. Why do you think he’s still hanging around?”
“You’re gonna think this is crazy. But I think he has real feelings for me. I think he maybe even loves me.”
Armila burst out laughing. “Oh come on. You know what he wants. You are going to have to stamp your authority on this relationship because once you’re between the sheets you’re going to want to stay there,” stated Armila.
Shabnam groaned. “Why don’t you focus on Musa like you used to? Give my brains a bit of a holiday.”
“Now there’s someone who is almost as messed up as you are!”
“He’s not with it just yet. He wants…”
Shabnam suddenly sat up straight and squealed delightedly.
“I’ve got it. I’ve got it! I know who should marry him!”
“Who? Tell me who!” demanded Armila.
Just then the doorbell rang.
“Who the fuck is that?” hissed Shabnam.
“I don’t know. Did someone follow you?” asked Armila.
“No I don’t think so…I don’t fucking know. I didn’t exactly keep looking behind me.”
“Do you see what I mean? Attention to detail. In a clandestine relationship, taking precautions isn’t just–”
The doorbell rang again.
“We’d better open it otherwise the neighbours will start complaining,” said Armila.
She peered through the spyhole and whispered excitedly,” It’s the guy my parents bought the flat from. He is such a hottie. Wait until you see him. Your eyes are gonna pop straight out of your head!”
She opened the door, taking in the visual feast before her.
“Hello
Armila. Sorry to disturb you. I wonder if I might come in?” asked Titty Soups courteously.
Armila beckoned him into the flat. He was dressed in a three-button suede blazer with a white Rafaello shirt and denim trousers. His black Italian leather wingtip shoes gleamed.
“Good evening Shabnam.”
“How the fuck did you get here?”
“I drove by to pick up some letters. You cannot imagine my delight to see you here with Armila. We have some important things to discuss so perhaps now would be a good opportunity.”
“The only thing we’re about to discuss is how you are gonna get your bony ass out of this place,” snarled Shabnam.
Titty Soups smiled and for a second Shabnam was unnerved by how perfect and natural his smile was.
“Shabnam, your fire draws me in closer and closer like a helpless moth until I just know I’m going to get burnt. And do you know something? I don’t think I would mind it one little bit.”
Shabnam gritted her teeth. “Just what the fuck is it that you want?”
“May I take a seat?”
Without waiting for a reply he sat down on the sofa.
“As you know Shabnam, our culture is very unforgiving to the unmarried. Now I’ll be honest with you. I’ve never really been the marrying type. I’ve always thought that marriage is for the elderly. Stupid huh?”
He winked at Armila.
“But lately I’ve kind of got to thinking that maybe my time has come. Now when I’m with kids, I’m not worried about whether or not they’re going to puke over my shoes. I’m thinking whether or not someday I would want to have them. And that led me on to consider the qualities I would want in a wife. Once I would have said the normal things: she’s got to cook, she’s got to be respectful to my parents, bazookas a bonus, but my thinking has changed. Now I don’t want those things.
“I want beauty and fire. That’s it. I couldn’t give a shit about the cooking. And I’m not too fussed about the bazookas, they’ll come with the kids. Just beauty and fire. Fire and beauty. Fiery beauty. Beautiful fire. You get where I’m coming from?”
He winked again at Armila.
“Basically it’s like this. You are one lucky girl because plenty of girls tried to get me to say this but you beat them all to the finishing line. Shabnam, you have the honour of being my chosen, my intended, my wife.”
A little vein swelled on Shabnam’s forehead.
“You…You…You arrogant fucking pig,” she gasped.
Titty Soups raised his hand in a comforting gesture. “Yeah I know…I know. It’s a shock to me as well. But hey, we all gotta take that step sometime. I thought I should tell you before my parents and then we can arrange that first informal visit.”
“Shabnam is committed,” announced Armila.
“I can see that!” chuckled Titty Soups.
“No, I mean she has given her heart to someone,” said Armila in annoyance.
“You mean she actually has one?” Titty Soups shook with laughter.
“Listen asshole. I have a man. And all I gotta do is call him and he’ll rip you in half,” snarled Shabnam.
Titty Soups stopped laughing.
“Oh…who is he?”
“What do you mean who is he?”
“Your man,” replied Titty Soups. “He does have a name doesn’t he?”
Shabnam glanced at Armila, who frowned.
“His name is…La…Le…Liaqat,” she replied lamely.
“Really? And I suppose it always takes you three attempts to pronounce his name. Come on, stop bullshitting. What’s his name?”
“His name is none of your business; it’s confidential, so fuck off.”
“Why is it confidential? Are you ashamed of him?”
Shabnam struggled. “If you must know, the reason why I won’t give his name is to protect our privacy. He’s…non-Asian.”
Titty Soups stared at her in amazement. “You’re going out with a black man!”
“How on earth did you know that? He could be white,” said Armila.
“Standard Asian response. If a chick wants to tell you where to go, she will always give you the name of her man. If they’ve been together for a while, she’ll give you his height and chest size as well. But if she don’t do none of that shit it means she’s hiding something. Now a chick who’s hiding something is going out with either a black man or a white man. If Shabnam were going out with a white man, then she wouldn’t be looking like something the cat dragged in. She’d be looking like someone who’s enjoying the secret and having the time of her life, because she’s saying fuck you to the rest of the world. But Shabnam ain’t doing that. You can see that she’s also wearing a Donna Karan watch and she has a crocodile leather handbag. So the poor bastard is spending money on her but she’s still got a bug up her ass. That spells black man who’s still knocking on the door.”
He checked his watch. “Well ladies. Sadly I must bid you goodbye. I’m late for an engagement, a dinner engagement.”
“The day I agree to marry you is the day I take a knife to my throat, you bastard,” grated Shabnam.
Titty Soups smiled fondly at her and said: “Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate. Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving. O, but with mine compare thou thine own state.”
With that, he bowed deeply to Shabnam and hummed his way out of the flat, grateful at last to his English teacher.
26
Awoozy Suleiman lifted his hand to his head and touched a bandage caked with dried blood. In front of him, like a flickering candle, the statue of Jesus glowed and he saw again the eloquent yet sad eyes and the gentle smile. All somehow familiar. He frowned as he tried to understand that strange sense of recognition.
“How are you feeling?” inquired a kindly voice.
“Oh, not too bad. Did you put this bandage on my head?”
“That I did. I am well versed in the art of bandaging.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, my son. I did not want to call an ambulance because no doubt you would have had some unwelcome questions.”
Suleiman nodded.
The priest smiled at him. “Thank you for what you did. That took courage. I thought they were going to kill you, but then they seemed to recognize you. Is that right?”
Suleiman nodded again, but felt awkward, unaccustomed as he was to receiving any kind of praise, and embarrassed also by his association with the gang who had jeered at the priest for refusing to hand over the cash they demanded. He remembered what he had shouted at the youths, how they had turned on him instead and, as he felt himself lose consciousness, he had heard running footsteps and a voice shouting at the gang to stop. That voice resonated in Suleiman’s mind and suddenly he knew who it was. He winced.
“Here take this.” The priest pressed a small flask of brandy into his hand.
Suleiman filled his mouth and swallowed. He closed his eyes as the burning in his stomach intensified, numbing the pain. Settling back into the chair he breathed deeply and easily.
“It was a very good thing that we arranged to meet today,” the priest laughed. He paused and then asked,” Do you feel up to talking now?”
“I do. I’m still bothered. You see I don’t wake up every day and think today is going to be the day when I figure it all out. You learn to stop thinking when you’re in my line of work, you have to, otherwise you will get fucked up. Not thinking has become a habit. Maybe it’s because I’ve come to realise that there’s no point. What’s done is done. You are what you are. Shit happens and you gotta deal with it.”
He paused. “When I was a kid there was this family that my mum and dad used to visit. They had a son called Parvez who was brilliant at school. Never got into no trouble, a kind of perfect kid, you know? My dad used to drive me up the bloody wall going on about Parvez. He’s like this and you’re like that. Now I never met this Parvez.
“He went to a private school and his mum wouldn’t let him hang around on the street with us gu
ys. I used to pray for that family to leave. And when they did I thought I would never hear of Parvez ever again. But do you know something? Parvez wasn’t the problem, it was that feeling that you’re small and not up to much. Every time my dad would talk about Parvez, I used to get that feeling. If I think too much, that feeling comes back again. I think everyone has gotta Parvez somewhere inside of them.”
“You need to be proud of who you are,” responded the priest.
“Proud of who I am?” Suleiman’s voice echoed through the church. “I’m not clever. I was never any good at school. I don’t make an honest living. What have I got to be proud about?”
“With the eyes that I have used to observe the world for more than sixty years, I see a fine young man who is brave yet troubled and who has both the courage to realise the truth about himself and the decency to feel ashamed.”
“What do I do, Father?” asked Suleiman.
“What you did just now. Confront that which you fear the most.”
Suleiman stumbled through the door. Drinking brandy on an empty stomach and the after-effects of the beating he had received made him very unsteady. The lights were too bright. Everything was just too bright. He knocked over the hall table and steadied himself. As he did so he brushed against the plaque which had hung in the hallway for years and which was inscribed with the words “Consider the seeds you sow on the ground – is it you who make them grow or We?” Their meaning was crystal clear. He had caused something malignant to grow inside him that took away all warmth. Whatever it was that made the priest shine when he smiled, he had none of that in him. He was a creature from a different jungle where all you needed to know was that you were tough enough to handle anything life threw at you. You took no shit and you took no prisoners. He touched the plaque gently. These were words written for people outside the jungle. There was no Allah in the jungle. There were gods and demi-gods instead of simple everyday people. There had to be a way out but the problem was that beyond the jungle, the world was no kinder. Twilight was safer, moving in darkness was easier.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 24