‘Imagine the headlines: “Muslim gang beats up Christian boys in street”.’
We both laughed, although we knew how quickly anti-Muslim feeling could rise, like it did after the Bali bombing. Riaz’s laugh came from deep inside him, warm and infectious, like Papa’s used to be when we were kids. I wondered how far his good mood would stretch.
‘Riaz, I want to invite Maryam over tomorrow night. Why don’t you ask Tariq so he can drive her?’
Riaz’s eyes flickered slightly. ‘Hmm. What’re you up to?’
‘It’s difficult for me, Riaz. You can go out to see whoever you please. If Tariq came here with Maryam, Mum could meet him. I know they’d have a lot in common. Then she could talk to Papa. You know Papa won’t let me have any friends at all lately unless he’s met them first.’
Riaz pursed his lips. Would he be like Raniya’s brothers after all, determined to uphold my honour and that of the family at any cost? I prayed enough of Mum had rubbed off on him. Finally he smiled. ‘I’ll only do this because Tariq’s my mate. But be careful: Big Brother will be watching.’
‘He won’t speak to me. I just want Mum to meet him. Can you manage that?’
‘Sure thing.’ Riaz winked at me as he left.
How easy was that? I punched Maryam’s home number into my phone.
4
Maryam bounded up the stairs to my room. It was obvious her parents didn’t care if she met Riaz in our house. ‘Shall we watch a DVD on your computer?’ she said.
‘Okay,’ but I was half-hearted. I paused in my doorway. I could hear Riaz and Tariq in the kitchen. Cupboard doors banged. Good. That would bring Mum in.
‘How about Pride and Prejudice?’
‘Sure.’ Most of me was in the kitchen. Mum’s voice said, ‘Nice to meet you.’ There was Tariq’s deeper one in reply. Then Riaz making espresso coffee, the murmur of voices. It was working. I grinned broadly at Maryam. ‘Pride and Prejudice it is.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ And I led her into my room and into nineteenthcentury Britain, the era Papa wanted to keep me in. At least in Jane Austen’s world, some girls had a choice or could refuse a suitor. I sighed as Darcy proposed to Elizabeth. Tariq would never propose to me. He would have to ask his parents to visit mine to make a match. But Papa would never agree. He wanted me to marry a Muslim. All I could hope for from Tariq was friendship. In Australia people of opposite sexes and different ages were friends all the time. But for me, a Muslim Pakistani girl, even securing a friendship was a problem.
The movie finished and so had our drinks and chips. ‘Would you like coffee?’ I asked.
Maryam nodded. She and I had dispensed with a lot of the Pakistani ways of doing things. It was polite there to refuse twice and accept the third time, but Anglo–Australians didn’t ask you a third time. ‘I’ll come down with you,’ she said.
We passed the lounge where the guys were watching soccer with Papa. That was good: sport seemed to be a leveller. At least Papa wasn’t interrogating Tariq.
Mum was putting Anzac biscuits in the oven. ‘Hi, Mum.’ I took mugs out of the cupboard. ‘Can we try those when they’re cooked?’
‘Not too many. They’re for my class tomorrow.’ She smiled at Maryam. ‘I’m glad you brought your brother tonight. He’s a treat.’
‘We think so too,’ Maryam said.
Mum glanced at me and I froze. What if she caught on that I had engineered Tariq’s visit? But her gaze was thoughtful and soon passed over me. ‘Ten minutes for those biscuits and only take a few,’ she said. ‘Tell that to your brother too if he comes in.’
I lingered as long as possible making the coffee, listening to Maryam chat on about a movie she’d seen. Finally, the tray of coffee and biscuits was ready and we had to go back to my room. It was disappointing, but what had I expected? How could Tariq come into the kitchen to see me with Papa home? One step at a time, I reminded myself.
When it was time for Maryam and Tariq to leave, Maryam hugged me on the front step. ‘Thanks for inviting me, it was fun. Just think, we have three months off. Let’s go to the beach soon.’
‘Okay.’ I smiled and forced myself not to look at Tariq. Still, I was as aware of him as if he was standing directly in front of me.
I heard Papa say to Riaz as he shut the door, ‘Your friend seems a nice enough boy.’ My heart soared. Maybe Papa thought Tariq would be a steadying influence on Riaz. I made sure I didn’t hang around to listen, but soon enough Riaz knocked our secret code on my door.
‘So, Ames, that went okay.’ He dropped onto my bed.
I pulled my pillow out from under his head. ‘Maryam enjoyed herself.’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. Tariq charmed Mum, and even Dad’s surprised he’s not as bad as he thought.’
‘Truly?’ I was sure my eyes were shining.
He leaned on his elbow. ‘But don’t get any ideas. Tariq’s Christian and you know what Dad’s like lately. Tariq’s okay to be my mate but not for you.’
‘But I just want to be friends.’ At that moment I truly believed it. ‘He’d think I’m too young for anything else.’
Riaz regarded me for a while. Then he handed over a piece of paper. ‘I know you’ll be sensible with this. It’s Tariq’s mobile number.’
I snatched it out of his hand.
‘It’s only because Maryam doesn’t have a new mobile yet,’ he said. ‘If you get stuck and can’t catch a ride or you can’t find me, I trust Tariq to bring you home.’
I almost stroked the paper but managed to drum up some self-control. Riaz had a stern look on his face but I caught the twinkle in his eyes. If it wasn’t for wanting to spend time alone with his girlfriend, I was sure he would never have given me Tariq’s number. But the arrangement suited him well, and he didn’t need to remind me to keep it a secret.
It took me two days to find the courage to call Tariq. Even then I hit the stop button twice. When I finally rang and Tariq answered, I almost hung up.
‘Hello. Hello?’
If I left it any longer, he’d end the call. ‘T-Tariq, is that you?’
‘Ameera.’ It was a whisper, like soft wings brushing against my face.
‘Y-yes. It’s me.’ How did he know? ‘Riaz gave me your number in case I was in trouble.’
His voice was instantly louder, as if he had stood up. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘No. I’m fine. I just wanted to check the number was right.’
‘Oh.’ I heard the smile in his voice; imagined it breaking across his face.
There was nothing more I could or should say. I’d heard Natasha say things to her boyfriend like ‘See you around’ or ‘Let’s catch a movie’. What simple words when she flung them out, but not simple for me.
‘Okay, I’ll go now.’
I heard Tariq’s ‘bye’ but I didn’t want to hang up. The urge to keep him on the phone was so strong. My breath came faster. Say something, say something. Stupid girl, say something.
‘Bye,’ I said.
I pressed the end button and burst into tears.
It was that time in the early morning when hope is just a dream. I lay on my bed covered by a sheet, wondering if I’d lost my senses. Six months before I would never have dreamed of contacting a boy. Could such a friendship ever work? Was I wrong to try?
I thought of a story Papa had told me. A boy called Adam and a girl called Durkhane loved each other, but her marriage to another had already been arranged. After the wedding Adam tried to rescue Durkhane by hiring a war chief to abduct her for him. But it didn’t work out as her husband paid a higher price. Adam was betrayed and he lost Durkhane forever. He went to play his stringed rabaab up on the hills, and was so grief-stricken he fell to his death. When Durkhane heard of the accident, she became ill and never recovered. Even though Adam’s friend played his rabaab to her it didn’t help. Papa said she died of a broken heart. She was buried with Adam.
Why was I thinking about that sto
ry now? Because deep down I knew it was impossible to be friends with Tariq? Papa had never told me a story where the lovers simply got married. Were there such stories?
Just then my phone vibrated. I leaned over to answer it.
‘Good morning, Ameera.’
‘Tariq.’ Waves rippled in my stomach.
‘Did you sleep well?’
I hesitated. ‘Yes.’
‘Are your parents well?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. He sounded as if he was visiting or writing a letter. That was the way we wrote to Papa’s family in Azad Kashmir: we would ask after everyone’s health and then send them our love. Our love. My smile faded.
‘Tariq, how is your family?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘And Maryam?’
‘She’s fine too.’
We wouldn’t get anywhere at this rate.
‘Ameera?’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t want to cause you trouble.’ He used the Urdu word: ‘tuklief’.
I sat up and felt the prickling behind my eyes. ‘I understand.’ I held my breath. Too soon, my heart shrieked, too soon for the end.
‘But may I ring you sometimes?’
I blew out my breath; saw a stranger in the mirror. This was it: the crossroad. I could say no, should say no. This number is only for emergencies.
Papa would think Tariq was immoral to ask me such a question. Maybe Riaz had never meant us to ring each other, but he’d given me the number. In doing so he’d given me a choice. I would treasure that even if nothing came of it. Now Tariq also held out a choice. The power to choose was not something that a girl like Natasha would think remarkable, but for me it was a heady feeling.
I tried to keep my voice steady as I answered. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’
The next time Tariq rang he spoke of his studies and asked me about my uni choices.
‘I applied for Adelaide uni, the same one as you,’ I told him.
‘Then we will meet and talk over coffee.’
His words were warm, flowing over me, caressing me. If we had been able to meet openly would it have been the same?
Besides his studies, Tariq had a part-time job with a government agency and on weekends he worked in a music shop. He sent songs to my phone. We both liked Junoon and the way their rock blended with traditional Sufi music. They had been banned in Pakistan until recently, their songs deemed too political for their outlining of social injustices. Tariq called them the U2 of South-East Asia.
The calls became longer. I messaged him when I was alone and he’d ring. Tariq could recite poetry: Hafez, Rumi, also the Psalms from the Bible. I told him stories. ‘The Ruby Prince’ was the only story I knew that ended happily. The Ruby Prince was a pari, and his human wife risked her life to dance before the Fairy King to win him back. Tariq mentioned ‘Hir and Ranjha’ and the tragedy of it.
‘In most folk tales the lovers can only be together once they’re dead. It’s a spiritual joining,’ I said, remembering how Papa had explained it to me. Then I added hopefully, ‘But they’re just stories, like Romeo and Juliet.’
Tariq chuckled. ‘They’re stories with a purpose. How else do you think they get generations of people to marry who their parents want them to marry?’
‘But it’s our belief.’
‘Is it?’
I was silent, thinking about the seventy-five per cent of the world that practised arranged marriages.
‘I bet you won’t find in the Koran that you can’t marry for love,’ Tariq added.
‘But Papa says Muslim girls should marry Muslim boys—’ I stopped, mortified. This was me I was talking about now. If friendship was the only thing I could ever have with Tariq then surely he would say so? Instead he carried on with his argument.
‘That’s a cultural thing. All the Koran specifies about marriage is that two people willingly enter into it.’
I’d never heard it described like that before.
Tariq’s voice became softer. ‘That means, Ameera, if anyone like us wished to be married, they could.’
I held my breath. What was he saying? That he wanted me?
5
It was Tariq who first mentioned meeting. ‘My friend Samuel is having a party at his house,’ he told me. ‘His sister is inviting her friends to come too.’
I was silent. A mixed party. I knew what Papa would think of that.
‘What’s his sister’s name?’
‘Natasha.’
My heart jumped. ‘Natasha Collins?’
‘Yes. You could tell Maryam you heard about the party and you can go with her. The Collinses won’t mind. Riaz could bring you to our house.’
At least Tariq understood the difficulties. Imagine trying to explain to an Anglo–Australian boy that I couldn’t be seen alone with him.
‘Thank you. I’ll ask Mum.’
It was as if a weight had been lifted from Tariq when I agreed. He started telling me a story from the Bible. ‘There’s a whole book about a king and the girl he loves. The king even wishes he was the girl’s brother so that at least he could see her and talk to her.’
Hadn’t I also felt like that? Tariq must have too. I hesitated: I knew it wasn’t wise for me to go to Natasha’s. But I told myself this wasn’t dating, not by Natasha’s standards. This was just meeting a friend. Wise or not, I did it: I asked Mum to explain to Papa that I needed to see my girlfriends. I omitted to tell her that boys would be present. I felt guilty but I didn’t want to put Mum in a situation where she’d have to keep a secret from Papa.
Mum dropped me at Maryam’s on the night of the party. I knew she wanted me to see there wasn’t just one way to live. And why couldn’t that include a few boys, I told myself. It was as if Papa thought boys only had one thing on their minds. I wished he could cut me some slack and trust me, but it all came back to that honour thing he was so concerned about. ‘The best way to keep the family honour intact is to look after your daughters in the first place,’ he always said. It was such a burden being responsible for the family honour.
The Collinses house was bigger than ours. Lights flashed and there was a Christmas tree set up. Mum celebrated Christmas with Riaz and me, but Papa wouldn’t let her put up a tree. ‘What a pagan practice that is, worshipping a tree,’ he said. Mum had tried explaining how it reminded her of Christ’s eternal life, but that set Papa off again. ‘Blasphemy! Don’t say such things. Do you want the imam coming to put us right?’ My father was so concerned about doing the right thing; it would have killed him to be embarrassed in front of the imam or his friends.
Natasha looked stunning in tight pants and a halterneck top. I had on a kurta over jeans and a dupatta slung around my neck. It was hard finding clothes to suit both Papa’s dress code and fashion—a long covering top like a kurta was the best compromise.
Natasha took Maryam and me to the backyard where everything happens in Anglo–Australian homes. I could feel the thump of the music in my chest. ‘I’m glad you came.’ Natasha was looking me in the eyes and I smiled brightly. ‘Help yourself to a drink. There’s everything…’ Her glance flickered as she paused slightly. ‘Everything from Coke to juice.’
I knew from Riaz that there would be beer and cask wine as well, but I didn’t have any interest in alcohol. It was daring enough just to be there.
‘There’s a karaoke machine,’ Maryam said.
We watched a girl sing a song following the words flashing across the screen. She even danced. Then Samuel, Natasha’s brother, started singing with her. It looked like fun.
‘Imagine being able to do that,’ I said in Maryam’s ear.
She nodded, then she turned to me and her eyes shone. ‘We could try.’
The thought of putting myself on public display like that terrified me. ‘No, I couldn’t.’
Then I spotted Tariq. He was watching Samuel sing and had a faint smile on his face. In that instant, his head turned and he looked directly at me. He knew I was there. My breath caug
ht in my throat. How were we going to do this? How could we talk and make it seem normal?
The song finished and Natasha rushed up to the girl. ‘That was great, Allie.’
A boy approached Natasha and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned and laughed at him. ‘Want to try, Brian?’ The boy said nothing, but his hand caressed Natasha’s arm. ‘I’ll sing too.’ She slipped her arm through his as their heads bent over the list of songs. It looked so simple and natural for them—but not for me.
I glanced back at Tariq but he was gone. I looked around and there he was, making his way towards us. I tried not to stare at him as he stood next to Maryam. He said something to her that I couldn’t hear, then he turned to me. ‘Hello, Ameera.’ The words were bland, but when I looked up to answer him, his eyes were bright. His smile washed over me like a wave in a sun-warmed rockpool.
‘Hi,’ I managed.
‘It’s good to see you. How is Riaz?’
I grinned at the Pakistani politeness. He would ask about my parents next. ‘Okay. He’s working at the Tandoor Kitchen tonight.’
Maryam was watching Natasha and Brian, who’d started their song. The music was loud but my ears were tuned in only to Tariq.
‘And your parents? I enjoyed visiting last week.’
I relaxed. This was what I was used to. ‘They’re fine. Papa’s got a secret.’
Tariq’s eyebrows rose. ‘What sort of secret?’
‘A surprise, he says.’
‘For you?’ Tariq was next to me now. Maryam was slightly in front of us with her eyes glued to the singers. I hoped it looked as if Tariq and I were discussing the song.
‘Papa won’t say.’
‘A Christmas present?’
‘He doesn’t celebrate Christmas.’ Then I grew daring. ‘Maybe when you’re over next time you can find out.’
Listen to me; was I flirting? I didn’t know what had come over me. The words ‘next time’ echoed in my head and were reflected in Tariq’s smile.
Natasha’s brother joined us and rested his arm across Tariq’s shoulders. ‘Hi, Rick, how ya doing?’
Marrying Ameera Page 3