Promising Azra

by Helen Thurloe

  The mosque was down the road from the school, a high white dome sparkling against the blue sky. Beyond it, a huge lake glittered. A camel train snaked along its edge.

  ‘Where are all the people?’ I asked.

  Vanessa laughed. ‘Inside, of course! They’re waiting. For you and Layla.’

  I wanted to ask her a question. Something wasn’t right. She took my hand and led me up the marble steps. ‘Look!’ she said, pointing to the vast doors. They were patterned with delicate cut-outs that threw lace shadows over the ground.

  ‘Matches you!’ She held up my hands, finely inked with henna swirls. Bride’s hands.

  As we passed under the arch, it all made sense. My husband was inside, waiting for me. For our wedding. I couldn’t see his face yet, and couldn’t remember what he was supposed to look like. But I knew I would recognise him.

  And Layla was getting married too. I could see her just beyond the opened doors, talking on her phone. She was ringing me, to remind me to bring something. Something I needed for the wedding. What was it? I knew it was important.

  Still the phone kept ringing. And ringing. Wasn’t anyone going to answer?

  ‘Aslam Malikum?’ said Baba’s voice. ‘Ah, salam, Zarar.’

  I opened my eyes. To my bedroom, and a grey sky. Soraya coughed and turned over. Then I remembered. Today was the picnic. And the chemistry competition.

  I reached for my phone. Eight forty-five. The dim light made it seem earlier. A spray of rain splattered the window.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I heard Baba say. ‘Okay then. Salam.’

  I pulled the covers over my head. Great, I thought. Wet picnic.

  Another gust of rain slapped the glass. Or was there no picnic? I sat up. Maybe it was cancelled? Was there a chance I could still get to the chemistry competition?

  I pulled on my dressing-gown and went into the living room. Baba sipped tea.

  ‘Morning, meri jaan,’ he said. ‘Not much of a day for a picnic, eh?’

  I shook my head. ‘So, what’s happening?’

  ‘Uncle said it’s clearing later. But Omar isn’t well, so he can’t come. Something like what you had, from the sound of it.’

  Like what I had? Perhaps Omar also had better plans for today. At least Javid was coming; he was the nicer of Uncle’s twins. Short and cheerful like Auntie, and doing computer science at uni. Omar was tall and intense, and studying to be an accountant like Uncle. Him and Rashid, they were really into cars.

  ‘What if the rain settles in?’ I said. ‘Doesn’t look good.’

  Baba raised his hands. ‘What can I do? We can only wait and see.’

  I sat next to him on the divan. ‘Baba, you know today is that chemistry competition? If the picnic’s off, do you think . . .’

  He waved his hands like windscreen wipers. ‘No, no, no, no, no. Don’t start. Please, this is a family day, whatever the weather.’

  I slumped against the wall. It was useless. I dropped my head onto my knees.

  Baba put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Azra. Next time. I promise, next time.’

  ‘Next time what?’ called Mama from the kitchen.

  ‘You tell her,’ I said to Baba. I wanted it in writing, or the next best thing.

  He sighed, then lifted his voice so she could hear. ‘Next time Azra has a science competition, she will be allowed to go.’

  Mama sniffed and rubbed her nose with her arm, wrapping up the naan in foil.

  ‘Hear that, Mama? It’s a promise,’ I said. ‘Baba’s just promised me I can go next time. Okay?’

  ‘I heard it, Azra,’ she said. ‘A promise.’

  ‘All right then?’ Baba said.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, Baba, thanks.’ If there was a next time.

  By eleven o’clock, the rain had stopped and patches of blue sky stretched between the clouds. Uncle must have special powers, I thought, to make the weather get my hopes up, then crush them again.

  At least we weren’t going to the beach for this family picnic. Not like our last one in the summer, with the boys belly-flopping into the rock pool, and splashing Soraya and Farzana until they squealed. And then there was even more shrieking when the girls freaked out about the seaweed in the water. A bunch of sunburned Aussies stared at us in our covered-up swimmers, while we tried our best to keep out the way of the goggle-faced lap swimmers. I shuddered. Not as bad as that.

  I helped Soraya into her shalwar kameez before putting on my own. I wished Mama didn’t insist on traditional dress. It only drew attention, like an arrow above my head. Look here! Ethnic family gathering!

  Half an hour later, Javid arrived. Baba opened the door and hugged him.

  ‘Javid! Thanks for coming.’

  ‘No worries, Uncle. Hi, Auntie. Hey, cousins, you ready? Farzana’s waiting in the car.’

  Soraya jumped up and squealed. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ She loved Farzana, who was eleven and still liked to play with her little cousin.

  ‘Come on,’ said Javid. ‘One more—Rashid? I’ve got Omar’s new car for the day. He was so sick, he gave me the keys!’

  Rashid stood up from his cushion and coughed.

  ‘Not you coming down with something too?’ asked Baba.

  Rashid shook his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m fine.’

  Mama came out from the kitchen. She looked elegant in a woollen shalwar kameez with blue and green embroidered flowers.

  ‘Sick? Or smoking again?’ she asked.

  ‘I said I’m fine,’ said Rashid. ‘Lay off, why don’t you?’

  Mama gave him a look. ‘Well, don’t even think about leaving without those two eskies, and this basket, and the orange rug. We’ll take the rest with Uncle,’ she said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Rashid, turning to Javid, ‘let’s get out of here and check out those new wheels.’

  Omar’s new car was a black Nissan Skyline with an oversized speaker system. So oversized, the speakers filled most of the boot. Just Rashid’s style. But out of his budget.

  ‘Not much room in there,’ I said, as Rashid tried to stuff in the bags.

  ‘Careful!’ said Javid. ‘It’s expensive kit. Omar will make my life not worth living if we break anything.’

  ‘It’s awesome,’ said Rashid. ‘How much was it?’

  Soraya climbed into the back seat next to Farzana. They were like matching dolls, in small and medium sizes. Both with almond-green eyes, hair in twin braids, and floral shalwar kameez with silver-threaded borders. Well cute enough for ‘ethnic Sydney’ tourism posters.

  ‘Move over, Soraya,’ I said. ‘Put your seatbelt on.’ Rashid sat in the front, as Javid pressed the boot shut, shaking the whole car. He brought the basket to my door.

  ‘Can you hold this, please, Az? It won’t fit.’

  I hugged the basket as Javid started up the car. The engine rumbled. He revved it hard.

  ‘Whoa!’ said Rashid, impressed.

  ‘Too noisy!’ shrieked Soraya.

  Javid laughed. ‘That’s a bit much. How about some music?’

  He punched a button on the dash. The dubstep thump of Skrillex shuddered the car. I opened the window to let out the noise, though the breeze stung my eyes.

  ‘Hey, Rash, turn it down? I don’t know how,’ shouted Javid as he slowed the car for the traffic lights.

  Rashid pressed arrows up and down as people turned to look. It took him forever to cut the noise. I shrank behind the basket. I hoped no one from school could see me. I felt like a cliché.

  How I wished I was at the chemistry comp, solving a science problem. With my friends. Doing something I liked.

  Javid accelerated too fast off the lights, and the tyres fishtailed on the wet road. Farzana and Soraya screamed.

  ‘Slow down, you idiot!’ I shouted.

  Javid braked suddenly and the cane handle of the basket hit my forehead. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Sorry! This car’s a beast. I’m not used to it. You okay?’

  ‘Yeah,
I guess.’

  I knew he hadn’t meant to do it, but it was still annoying. And dangerous.

  ‘You should let me have a turn,’ said Rashid. ‘Except I haven’t got a licence right now.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Javid. ‘Like that wouldn’t bother Omar at all.’

  Rashid laughed. I slumped over the basket, and wished even harder to be anywhere but here.

  Soon we had three rugs spread out across the damp lawn. Orange, green and blue. One for the men, one for the women, and one for the food.

  Auntie Shakeela lay food out across the orange rug, her bracelets jangling. She loved jewellery, and there was plenty of her to wear it. She had rows of gold necklaces, and a ring on every finger. Uncle called her his expensive camel. What I liked best about her was that she laughed a lot, like she wasn’t bothered by anything. Even if her shalwar kameez was tighter around the arms than the last time she wore it.

  She was almost the complete opposite of Mama, who was small like a bird, and nearly always looked worried. And whose streaks of grey hair weren’t dyed a deep blue-black like Auntie’s.

  After Auntie and Mama unwrapped the dishes, the men helped themselves. Uncle and Baba went first. It was hard to believe they were brothers. Uncle was tall, with a wide moustache, while Baba was clean-shaven, with gold wire-framed glasses that made him look serious.

  After they were done, Rashid and Javid piled up their plates with tandoori chicken and samosas, and went back to the men’s rug. Then it was our turn.

  ‘Come, Azra,’ said Auntie Shakeela, handing me a plate. Soraya and Farzana played a hand-clapping game. Faster and faster, their eyes locked together.

  ‘Girls, come on,’ urged Auntie. ‘Come eat while it’s still warm. This kofta’s delicious, Nadira,’ she said to Mama. ‘I can really taste the ginger.’ She looked at me. ‘You a good cook like your mama?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nup.’ Ask me the atomic number of titanium, though, I thought.

  ‘Ah, that’s not true,’ said Mama, holding a chicken leg in the air. ‘She’s getting there; we’re working on it. And she’s been getting in lots of practice lately. Can’t throw a chapati like we could at her age, but she does a tasty biryani from scratch.’

  Auntie Shakeela smiled. ‘Well, that’s good. You’re almost old enough for your own kitchen!’

  The samosa caught in my throat. ‘Not quite, Auntie. I still need to finish school. And then university, like Omar and Javid.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? But they’re boys, Azra. You’re clever enough for a smart husband already, you don’t need to stress about exams and all that. Your cousin Parveen, Uncle Karim’s eldest, from Birmingham, was a good student like you. Just last month, she went to Lahore and married a doctor!’

  ‘Maybe she could have been a doctor herself,’ I said. ‘And why marry one on the other side of the world? My friend Layla’s just been promised. To a local guy. Couldn’t Parveen have chosen someone who’s already in England?’

  Mama clicked her tongue. ‘Azra! Do you think there are successful doctors just lying on the ground in Birmingham, waiting for brides? Or in Sydney, for that matter?’

  Auntie Shakeela laughed. ‘Have you found yourself a sweetheart already?’

  I shook my head. And thought of Pratik.

  ‘Besides, it’s easier to have family arrange it,’ said Auntie. ‘To make sure it’s someone suitable. Someone who fits in. And whose family knows how to do the right thing.’

  ‘But what if she didn’t want to marry that doctor?’ I said. ‘Could she have said no?’

  Mama frowned. ‘Why would she say no? Not if she had any sense. She could hardly do better for herself. Grandma Ajmal must’ve been happy. Are they still in Lahore?’

  Auntie Shakeela scooped a chapati around her plate, nodding. ‘Mmmm, yes. Very nice house, very nice. Good part of town, near Badshahi Mosque. I saw the wedding photos on the internet. Lovely gold. Extravagant. And Parveen has such a pretty face.’

  I sat back on my heels. ‘No need for her to have a brain then. Had she finished school?’ I added, ‘How old was Parveen, anyway?’

  Auntie Shakeela squinted. ‘She didn’t need to finish school, meri jaan, not with a match like that!’

  ‘But how old was she?’ I insisted.

  Auntie Shakeela waved her hand, like it wasn’t important. ‘Seventeen, eighteen, I can’t remember. Nadira?’

  Mama looked up from her plate, holding up a kebab in midair like she was conducting an orchestra. She pointed it for emphasis.

  ‘I think she was born when I was pregnant with Azra, so, yes, seventeen? Nearly eighteen. Same age as me when I got married!’

  Auntie Shakeela laughed. ‘Doesn’t seem that long ago,’ she said. ‘I was old by comparison. Almost twenty! My poor father was getting desperate until Zarar came back from Manchester!’

  Mama laughed. ‘Worth the wait. Zarar is a smart businessman, very clever.’

  Auntie Shakeela looked over at him sitting cross-legged on the rug with Baba. ‘Yes,’ she said, chapati flakes on her chin, ‘I am very lucky. He’s a good husband. Except when he eats too many onions! Then I don’t feel so lucky.’

  Mama laughed again and slapped Auntie on the arm. ‘Naughty! I won’t complain about Qasim’s snoring then. All husbands have things wrong with them.’

  A cloud pulled over the sun, and a gust of wind lifted the corners of the rug. I wondered how Parveen really felt about being married. And about leaving school. And leaving England, and all her friends. And was anything wrong with her husband? Did she even love him?

  ‘Ai!’ said Auntie suddenly to Mama, ‘what about Hajira? The Syeds’ daughter? I just heard she ran away three days before her wedding! All the relatives had arrived from Pakistan. It was so embarrassing. Now her mother won’t even leave the house to go shopping.’

  ‘Hajira?’ I said. ‘The one from Saturday Urdu school?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Auntie. ‘The plump one with big eyes.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘To hell! Or good as.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  A magpie swooped down from the trees, casting a shadow over our heads. It landed near my foot, and looked sideways at me with its red eye. Like it had asked a question and was waiting for the answer.

  Auntie shrugged. ‘Some government home. Locked away from her family. So shameful.’

  Mama made a clicking noise with her tongue.

  ‘Locked up by the government?’ I asked. ‘Really? Can’t she go home?’

  Auntie waved her hand at a fly that was trying to land on the kebabs. ‘They might let her go home. But she’d be in so much trouble when she got there, she probably won’t. No one will want her now.’

  That seemed harsh.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t like the guy?’ I said. ‘Maybe there was a reason?’

  Auntie flicked up one hand.

  ‘What would she know? She’s only nineteen. Someone experienced would’ve chosen the right husband for her. That’s how it works. No one gets left out. Everyone gets taken care of. Look at how the Aussies do it, divorces everywhere. Is that what you want?’

  The magpie flew off. It knew better than to stick around for the answer.

  ‘No. I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Just asking.’ I then wondered about Mrs K. She didn’t sound too happy on the phone with her ex-husband the other day.

  Auntie Shakeela leaned over and patted my leg. ‘Don’t worry, Azra. We’ll look after you. No need for an escape plan! Not like Jasmina on the TV.’

  Mama laughed. ‘Hardly the same,’ she said. ‘Jasmina has a boyfriend she shouldn’t have. And a rich father who’s already promised her to a handsome polo player.’

  ‘That’s just a story,’ I said. ‘Not real life. If I believed everything I saw on Pakistani TV. I’d spend my entire day sweeping and cooking and getting excited about jewellery.’

  Auntie laughed. ‘But that is real life!’

  ‘Brrrr,’ said Mama
. ‘Cold when the sun hides.’ She pulled out a thermos flask from the basket, and poured two glasses of thick coffee. ‘Here, Azra,’ she said, ‘take these over to Uncle and Baba.’

  The glasses warmed my hands as I carried them to where Uncle and Baba sat, cross-legged on their rug, splitting pistachio nuts. Uncle looked up as I handed him the glass.

  ‘Thanks, Azra,’ he said, his moustache flexing as he chewed. ‘Sit down for a minute.’ He flicked the empty shells onto the grass, and patted a space for me to sit.

  I sat beside him, looking out across the river. An Indian family played cricket on the hill below, using eskies for wickets. A boy of about twelve held one of the bats, while a young man, maybe my age, held the other. They shouted in Hindi at the bowler, a man with thick grey hair.

  After a while, Uncle Zarar spoke. ‘So, Azra, your father tells me you have excellent school results.’

  I looked at him expectantly, surprised they’d been talking about me.

  ‘Seems you’re a very clever young lady.’

  I nodded, lowering my eyes. Where was this going? Were we really about to discuss me going to university?

  ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ I said. ‘I enjoy school.’

  ‘Yes, your family’s very proud of you.’

  I blushed. I wasn’t used to compliments. Especially not from him.

  ‘Family is very important, Azra. We’ll make sure you’re well looked after. You’re a good girl, a very good girl, and your family is very important to me. It always has been, that’s why you lot were the first to come out here to Australia to be with us. I hope the others can join us sometime. But so much paperwork to deal with!’

  ‘Thanks, Uncle,’ I said. ‘We really appreciate it. And I’m hoping to do well in the HSC. So I can go to uni.’

  He tilted his head and looked at me strangely. ‘Uni? I wouldn’t worry about that now. There’s plenty of time later.’

  Later? What did he mean? I looked at Baba, to see what he would say, but he was staring at a brown caterpillar edging up the leg of Uncle’s trousers.

  ‘But I finish school next year,’ I said.

  Uncle nodded, cracking another pistachio and tossing the nut into his mouth.

  ‘Yes. I know. I hear from your mother you’re also good in the kitchen.’