by Kim Kellas
But then, the following Saturday morning, as Aila lay in bed enjoying those blissful moment of peace and privacy before the next crisis hit, Shaf called and she thought, that’s your generation, Ma, not mine. Shafia gushed with copious apologies. This was the first chance she’d had to catch up since the wedding and she launched into her story, while Aila stayed in bed, with the phone glued to one ear.
After the wedding, she and Nayan had gone back to her parents’ house and she “died a thousand deaths” to see the makeshift wedding gate her mother had put outside the house in Morden and the decorations on the front door. So embarrassing, and then there was more horror to come, as they sat through the whole gift thing while her mother analysed who gave what and how much each piece of gold was worth.
Aila changed ears. “So we had lunch. We’re ready to leave and then you wouldn’t believe the performance. She cried and sobbed and wailed and showed more emotion as I leaving than she’s shown in my entire life.
“But Dad was so sweet – he just smiled and kissed my forehead and we drive drove to Nay’s and it’s all fine, no decorations out the front. But I was offered a glass of the ‘ceremonial drink’ which actually tastes like bat’s piss, I tell you.
“By this time I’m exhausted and Nay’s room’s been done up with flowers and garlands and petals across the bed, never mind that I know the bed quite well. We crash out early. No action; we’re both dead and have a long lie in the next day.
“Then talk about true colours. Day one and I have to cook lunch. Now I’m his mother’s personal slave. She hasn’t lifted a finger to wash up or clean since I got here. I can’t come at calling her Mata and I’m thinking ‘bitch face’ won’t work. Nay says he understands and I should just be patient, but he doesn’t. I can’t wait to get back to work.”
Aila cut in. “You’ll be allowed to work?”
“Got to save before we start a family. But no more bunking off.”
“Guess not.” She brought Shaf up to speed on the goings on at the club to giggles and omigods until duty summoned them both and Shaf was gone. “Coming Ma,” Aila called out and, as she went downstairs, she wondered what the next crisis would be.
Nessa waited at the old mahogany table with a brown envelope on her lap, “There’s been some news,” she said, without looking up. “We’ve had a proposal.”
So Aila sat down. She’d dealt with this one before. “Oh God, not Shamim again. It’s getting out of hand, you know. Every time I go to the restaurant he does that hang-dog thing and I just want to swat him, Ma. Can’t you speak to Dad about him?”
“No, it’s not Shamim, it’s a proper proposal.” She opened the envelope and slid a photo across the table. “This is he.”
Aila snorted. “I could eat this one for breakfast.”
“It’s not a laughing matter.”
“Mum, come on, look at him,” she passed the photo back. “He’s a stick insect. We’d look like an eighteen together.”
“You can’t judge by looks alone. Here.” Nessa gave her a typewritten page.
“What’s this? A CV? Are you kidding me?” She scanned the page. “Gourab. Gourab the Fab. Sorry. Gourab Syed BA in I.T. Dhaka University. Waste disposal operative. A janitor? Oh, please.”
“It’s hard to get work in the capital. He’s done well.”
Aila continued reading. ”Son of Mohammed. Nephew of Fadil. Born 1986. So we’re the same age. It’s all good then. The fact that he’s a janitor who looks half-starved and he’s got a head like a beehive – what’s that about? – won’t matter at all. I’m sure we’ll get on famously. Can’t wait to hear his views on recruitment strategies and I’ve always been interested in rats. Liiiike Ben. Oh wait. He’s a freshie. Does he speak English? Do we know? Not that it matters – we can communicate in grunts.”
“Not everyone’s had your good fortune, Shuna.” Her mother’s use of the cultural name had the effect of a rap on the knuckles.
“Okay I’m sorry, I was out of line. But a freshie?” She picked the photo up again. “And is this really his best picture?”
Nessa grabbed it back. “That’s enough. He comes from a good family. We’ve found a bride for Mazid too.” Aila stiffened.
“Her name’s Sobia. She’s your father’s uncle’s granddaughter. Her family lived in the next village to us. You might remember them.”
“No, I don’t, and I have no idea who you’re talking about. Why is this happening now?”
“Well, we always said your brother would be married first, in case your in-laws wouldn’t allow you to travel for his wedding.”
“I know that, but why now?” Still her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Your father’s uncle’s ill. Dad’s asked for one of the bulls at home to be sacrificed, but we don’t hold out much hope. Chacha’s dying and he wants to make sure Sobia’s taken care of. We’re thinking the wedding could be soon. After Eid, we’ll all go home.”
“That’s not even two months away. Has Maz been told?”
“Dad’s speaking to him today.” Nessa put the envelope in front of her. “Just look again, with open eyes.” She stood up and walked into the kitchen, leaving Aila to push it away.
The whole business didn’t sit right and, while she understood Chacha’s dying wishes were a big deal, the rest of it made no sense. They didn’t live in a village, so was a village girl a good idea? When she finally got to speak to Mazid, he said he didn’t want to be married like that, to a girl he’d never met, and agreed the timing was wrong. He hadn’t finished his degree and he had no money.
However, every time she tried to talk to her father, the discussion degenerated into shouting and ended with Sadhan slamming doors and stalking off, while Nessa stayed silent and retreated to the kitchen.
Hostilities continued into the next week, but Sadhan remained unmoved. Even when the situation at the restaurant deteriorated, he refused to back down. The takings were down and nowhere near enough money had come in. Aila told him yet again it was a clear sign the timing was all wrong. But he decided it was high time she stopped carping and did something to help.
So instead of scoring what she thought would be a winning point, Aila was commandeered to do the deliveries at the restaurant on Saturday nights. While she drove steaming take-away boxes all over Hersham, her father fretted and fumed in the kitchen. Bloody recession was the last thing he needed on top of everything else. Begs the question, why go? she shouted at the end of the night, which nearly provoked another attack and she had to back down.
He wasn’t going to budge and Aila was at a loss. She had argued on Mazid’s behalf, from every angle she could think of, and she’d argued about the debt he’d incur. She even argued about the effect such a long trip would have on her mother’s health. But at no point did she mention the proposal. Aila never referred to it, nor used it in any of the arguments about Bangladesh, because it had been shut out of her mind and therefore it didn’t exist, like the jinn that never happened all those years ago.
Around the time of her fifteenth birthday, Aila would have a sense of something in her room from time to time when she walked in, and it would be behind the door, or in the corner by the window, lurking like the shadow of a threat. Just after her birthday, it became an old woman in a black burkha, with no hands and no feet, who sat, grey-faced beside her dressing table, and glared at her with angry eyes.
She told her father and he at first assumed it was a nightmare that would pass, like all her bad dreams. But Nessa knew what it was even before the scratch marks started to appear on her back and, when she showed Sadhan, he paid attention. The dark red lines were the work of jinn, indisputably. So he contacted the Imam and arranged an exorcism.
She remembered coming home from school to find the Imam and her father waiting in the lounge and she remembered screaming as panic rose and the men came towards her. After that she had no idea w
hat happened. She woke up at something like three in the morning and felt nothing, except raging hunger. In the kitchen, her mother watched her eat and said the red lines had gone. A few days later, her menses started.
Ramadammed
Ramadan began on the first Tuesday in September. Though they knew within a few days when it would be, the new moon had to be seen in Saudi Arabia before the first day was confirmed. As Aila ate the Iftar meal that night with her family, she knew she’d have to face Neil with the news that Bangladesh would happen by the end of the month.
In the morning, she left early and went straight to his office. He smiled and she said her piece. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know how else to say this. I have to go to Bangladesh quite soon. My brother’s getting married and it looks like I’ll have to be away at least until the middle of November.”
Three weeks was a long time and the club was under pressure. Memberships had started to decline and departments were underperforming. But then he asked how she felt about her brother marrying so young and swung an empty chair towards her. Something gentle in his slightly geeky face, reassured her and she felt encouraged to open up and tell him. When she’d talked herself out, he stopped doodling on the pad beside him and told her she could take whatever time she needed.
“You serious?”
“You have enough shit at home, without me adding to it. Just do what you have to do, hun. I’ll clear it with head office, somehow.”
“I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Princess, you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. I don’t want to lose you.”
She sniffed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Well just stop worrying and don’t do that thing with your eyes please. It’s distracting,” he waved her away. ”Go and bat your lashes at a spreadsheet or something.”
Back in her own office, she wiped her eyes and thought, God bless that man. He liked to think he was fierce though it never really worked, not with soft ginger features. But beyond that, Aila felt stunned to think Neil valued her. No man had ever spoken like that. Her father had never said ‘well done’ or even thanked her, as far as she could remember. She pulled a heaving file from its drawer, and mulled over what to do.
The following Friday, she found Shafia slumped in a chair in the staff room, fingering through an old copy of Heat.
“Dad’s bought the plane tickets. We’re going to Desh,” she said, closing the door behind her. “So I need to do it now.”
“No!” Shafia let the magazine fall dramatically. ”Do what?”
“See Ojo tonight and do the deed.”
“I’m lost. I thought you had already.”
“Nah, I’ve been a good girl. But as of now I need not to be.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I have to be spur-of-the-moment on this one and read Dad’s mood tonight. I’ll go home and see how things are. If all’s well, I’ll text when I need you to call and say there’s a big meeting or something; you know, make it sound feasible. I’ll grab a change of clothes, get in the car and head back to work for ‘the meeting’ or whatever. It needs to be a good few hours’ worth.”
“You know I’ve got your back, but I hate talking when he’s listening. I still remember him waiting outside Uni to catch you coming out of the main gate.”
“Yeah but we’re Souljarettes remember? We’ve been playing this game for years.”
Later that night, as the last of the members left the building, Shafia was engrossed in the closing routines. She put the catch on the main door and went to lock the fire escape, when she heard footsteps clang on the metal stairs. Aila appeared in the dim light of the members’ lounge. The black chemise was inside out and the flower she’d pinned to the crown of her head hung in tatters.
“Well?”
“Ha. Went like clockwork. After you phoned, I was out the door, bag packed. You should’ve seen his face when I turned up. I’m walking up the street and I am feeling it. He’s parked in his car. ‘Baby girl,’ he says, ‘you’re on fire’ and he holds the car door open for me, like a proper date. Then he gives me one of those kisses and I am there.
“We drive to Stratford and he can’t keep his hands off my legs and I’m kissing his arm, just real soft on the shoulder and he’s going wild. He fights not to lose control while he’s driving. We get to the hotel he’s booked, so posh and we get a bottle of Malibu and some Coke and head up to the room. ‘Let’s chill first,’ he says and we put MTV on for some music.
“I move round the chair to a slow jam. En Vogue; how could I not? A figure of eight with my hips and he can’t take it anymore. He grabs me from behind and moves me to the bed. It happened so fast. He couldn’t wait. Then we did it again over and over and we’re shouting and singing and the headboard’s banging away.
“He didn’t stay on the bed though. We were on the floor up against the wall outside the bathroom. We even went inside the wardrobe. So sexy. Who’d a thought a girl like me could do it in a wardrobe? He didn’t care. He says I’m the sexiest thing on two legs.
“Then I was so cool. You’d have been so proud of me. I had a shower, gathered my things up and made ready to walk out. He wasn’t expecting that. He thought I’d be all clingy and ‘When will I see you again?’, but no way. I have my stuff and I’m by the door ready to go. He stands up close and rests his arm on the door with me in front of him. ‘Time to go,’ I say, so cool, so calm.
“‘Is that it then?’ he says.
“‘What more do you want?’
“‘The whole night. When will I see you again?’
“‘Don’t know Ojo,’ I kiss his lower lip. ‘I’ll message you. Thanks, it’s been great!’ and I open the door and walk out.”
“Omigod, you’ve done it. I hope it was worth it. Your Dad didn’t ring again but you really need to sort yourself out while I finish locking up and Ails, lose the flower”
“I did, Shaf.”
Eid-al-Fitr
Eid fell on a Friday, and she crept towards it like a fugitive. After breakfast, Sadhan polished the Peugeot before he and Maz went to the mosque, while Aila dressed in her festive best. She slid a turquoise earring into place and looked at the cards propped up on her table: ‘Eid Mubarak’, proclaimed in classic font, in the midst of the Mac palettes and Eye Lure lashes.
The new sari wouldn’t sit right. No matter which way she tried the blue silk, it just didn’t work, not over one shoulder, and not across her chest. Whichever way she turned, the curves were unconcealable.
So, start again. The gold beads look okay round the top. Even slender, meaner cousins admit she’s got it on top, and she’s always had a tiny waist. Freakishly small, relative to the rest of her body.
The problems start after the waist. Ojo loves the slope of her back, how it curves ‘like a snake’. She turns in front of the mirror to see what it is he feels from behind. Are curves a blessing or a curse? Depends where you are and who you’re with and, quite soon, it’ll be judgement day.
The aunties will give her grief because she’s not married; the cousins will give her a thousand and one suggestions as to why that might be so and the uncles will just be their usual creepy selves. She stepped into the blue heels waiting by the door and clunked downstairs where Nessa had been dressed and ready for hours and, when Sadhan returned, she salaamed him first, touching his feet with her hair and then her mother.
Eid would be in Stepney this year. Nessa just couldn’t face all the cooking, with the flight to Bangladesh a week away, and so her sister was host for a change and Aila was to drive as Sadhan was in no mood for Eid traffic. After Tower Bridge, the car crawled and he wanted to know why there were wet wipes in the car but, pretending not to hear, she detoured round the back streets with the convoluted cunning of a London cabbie and accelerated up narrow lanes at breakneck speed. “Stop it Affa,” Mazid shouted from
the back, “she’s shaking!”
Back on the main roads, car horns howled and engines revved hard. At Aldgate, petrol stations heaved with rented Audis and BMWs, while the drivers gathered on the forecourts to admire the gleaming bonnets and high five each other. They passed the batty boys dancing round their ghetto blasters. Amateurs, she thought.
“You two be careful out tonight,” Nessa said, “and Aila, stay with your brother.”
“For sure, Ma.”
The tiny house on Cambridge Street heaved with people. The front porch had been left open and her cousin Maryam sauntered down the hall, toddler clamped to her hip, and smiled broadly when she saw them. “Hey Cuz, happy Eid, come on in.” The boy pulled at Aila’s headscarf as she took the tiny arms that reached towards her. “Look at this little man. He’s so beautiful – clearly got your looks.”
“Don’t be wicked. His father’s a good man,” said Maryam.
Aila sneered, “Save us from good men,” and followed her cousin inside, where they caught up with each other’s news and slipped into the easy camaraderie of long-time friends. Her son was nearly eighteen months old. Aila’s eyes widened in surprise.
Maryam smiled. “Yup it’s been that long since the wedding. Can you believe it?”
“And all I’ve done is work.”
“Half your luck. I can’t even get out. Mata says she couldn’t possibly cope with all the cooking and the running around.”
Another cousin chimed in with the same story except her husband had been out of work for months. But she wouldn’t trade her two for anything in the world. Maryam’s son crawled under Aila’s sari, and it was clear what a good mother she’d make. A natural. Speaking of which?
The inevitable started and Aila had no choice but to submit until someone flashed a new engagement ring and the focus of attention moved to rings and bangles; then, from behind she heard raised voices and her mother called out.