by Haroun Khan
Yet, for all that, they could create systems. Muslims could learn from that. He, himself, should learn from that. Amazing systems and organisations. Who cares if you were a self-hating arsehole, if a group of self-hating arseholes could create something as amazing and compassionate as the National Health Service, or social services, or a decent justice system. They were generally pliant, did what they were told, were able to work together and just get on with it. Maybe the effects of that were far more compassionate than any religion or ideology that concentrated on building good individuals. Far more moral than Muslims, in constant turmoil, destroying each other and any chance of progress via rivalries in righteousness; people whom, whether religious or secular, held a pliable attitude in using violence to coerce each other.
A thousand thoughts went through his head, vacillating between love and hate of his situation and this country. Always crossed-messages in this city. Giving refuge to the developing-world displaced, yet at the same time providing shelter for rich tyrants, and generals who instigated coup d’etats and would have their opponents executed. London, in all its iniquity and all its glory. The centre for separatists and warlords, agitators and autocrats. The home of Asian intellectuals, Arab newspapers, and Pakistani political groups. Grace-and-favour given to a churning rolodex of despots, dictators, and dissidents, their roles forever rotating, but the money always welcome.
Ishaq could feel his heart pound. Each heartbeat raising to a maximum pressure and then releasing to its lowest. From systolic to diastolic. Is this the way it will always be? Thinking and feeling like this?
He reached St Paul’s Cathedral. In his path, at the edge of his vision, he saw a young white woman walking towards him, slightly off-kilter. Dressed in a formal gown and wearing a tiara that glinted in the moonlight, like a princess that had just come from the ball. Stopping in front of him she gave him a strange vacant stare. Someone looking like him would probably be seen as a threat to her virtue, in this late, lonely spot. Ishaq thought that, with his hood up, he might be scaring her. He gave the woman a wide berth and raised his pace, to get past as quickly as possible. Before he could do so she gave him another vacant look, took a squatting position by the wall, pulled-down her knickers and started pissing, with a satisfied smile planted on a boozy face. Sprinkled steam emanated, as acrid urine hit cool air. Her midnight had come. Her fairytale over. Crumpling his nose he dipped his head , then looked to the beautifully-lit dome of St Paul’s. Ishaq moved on.
7.
On the wall, above Ayub’s head, lay a canary-yellow clock. Probably a plastic Made-in-China jobbie from Tooting Market, or the pound shop. The second hand was stuck. Ishaq stared as the hand attempted to move forward, only to be rebuffed each time. Forcing its way onward, only to instantly snap back. There was something captivating about the movement, the hand seemingly destined to repeat the same moment, endlessly thwarted by some invisible force.
He was sitting with his legs crossed in front of him. His body leaning back, petitioning the wall to support him and keep him upright. He had given up trying to be attentive. As Ayub finished, Ishaq looked down, gazing towards his navel for revelation .
‘As the great companion of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, Abu Hurarrah, may Allah be pleased with him, narrated: “The believer is the mirror of the believer.” As you do before you leave your house, you check in the mirror, for dishevelment in your hair, or dirt on your clothes, and you rectify this. Accordingly when you see your brother, his shortcomings are your own and you should advise them, in a nice way and with wisdom, on what reformation is needed. Of his character and soul.’
Ishaq looked up and saw Marwane sidling nearer, breaking into a simper. He met those conspiratorial eyes and returned them with exaggerated intensity. Marwane must have heard of his humiliation.
‘The prophet, peace be upon him, also said: “This religion is sincere advice.” So your intentions should be pure with regard to your brother. You should show kindness and humility. Advice should not be given with the intention to make one feel lesser. It should be a reminder to you both. As Allah says in the Quran: “The believers are indeed brothers, so make peace and reconciliation between your two brothers and fear Allah, that you may receive mercy.”
‘And this mercy spreads out into your community. There are many sayings of the prophet, peace be upon him, that whether in love, pain, and kindness, our people, our community, we are like one body. What is felt in one part spreads and is felt in the others…’
As Ayub finished Shams came towards the boys ,bearing a tray with rattling cups of tea that chimed, and a crumbling pack of digestives. Giving his salaams he sat down, giving each a hug, and dished out the cracked porcelain as the boys scrambled for the best biscuit. ‘Assalmu alaikum, ain’t seen you both for time.’
Ishaq looked away, fished his mobile out from his tracksuit top pocket and checked the time. ‘Wa alaikum salaam, we’ve been here Shams. What have you been up to?’
‘Just a bit of this, bit of that, ducking and diving etc.’ Shams gave a nervous laugh that petered out under Ishaq’s sudden gaze.
Marwane came in closer and put an arm around Shams, clasping him tight. ‘It’s good to see you bro, you should come round more often. So, how’s the job-hunting going?’
‘I can’t find any job, can I? I haven’t got qualifications like you lot. Plus you know how it is? They screen CVs. If you have a Muslim name, you’re loads less likely to get to the next stage.’
With faux solemnity Marwane said, ‘True dat.’
Ishaq shrugged his shoulders while playing with his phone. ‘Well you just have to keep on trying. Life is tough for a lot of people.’
‘Well add brown skin to the name and you’re automatically in trouble. Didn’t you hear me? I said they sift-out CVs. There was a program on telly where they sent a bunch in with two different names and all the English ones, the Smiths, got interviews. The Abduls got jack.’ Shams looked at Ishaq for a sympathetic word.
Marwane reached over and put a hand over Ishaq’s screen. ‘Well, change your flippin’ name then. You could be Sam and Ishaq can become Isaac. Actually, he’s totally more like a right Kevin.’ Marwane started laughing at Ishaq, looking for a response, but only received a roll of the eyes. ‘Honestly, like that Gandhi actor…what’s his name?’
‘Ben Kingsley?’ Ishaq volunteered, while trying to prise Marwane’s concealing hand away.
‘Yea, Ben Kingsley; his real name is Krishna Bannerjee or something.’ Seeing the incredulity of his friends, Marwane continued: ‘Seriously. He changed his name and now he’s a proper-successful rent-an-ethnic. He gets hired as anything from a Zambian to an Eskimo.’
Ishaq gave up on the phone, wiping the screen with a thumb and stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘That’s not dumb ya know, I bet he’s made loads of money.’
‘Nah, I’m not down with that.’ Shams’ speech sped-up as he talked, emphasising points with waves of his hand. ‘That’s really sad. I hate it when you meet some guy called Abdullah but who’s named himself Joe just to get on. That’s some proper Uncle Tom, bounty bar, coconut crap going on. You live like that, you’ll hate yourself.’
Shams looked at the boys, making sure he held their attention. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a hook-up with a cousin in Bangladesh who knows a factory that does clothes for a lot of the stores here. He can get a good deal, and I may be looking to do a bit of import-export. I just need a bit of seed money…’
Ishaq interrupted the excitable flow. ‘Sorry akhi, you know I’m a skint student.’
Shams looked at Ishaq, folding his grey thobe under him with a violent tug. At sixteen Shams’ family moved away to the much larger Bangladeshi community, in East London. He made the effort to come back down and hang out with the boys. They never came up around his yard. When Shams struggled at his GCSEs, just about getting a place in that technical college, it was obvious they had gained good grades. Ishaq and Marwane didn’t go into details, their parents’ smiles and t
heir unspoken confidence told it all. Shams had plainly asked for their results but they wouldn’t tell him. He could tell that they didn’t want to make him feel bad. They didn’t need to be like that. He was as strong as any of them.
‘Astaghfirullah, may Allah forgive me. I wasn’t angling for some money. I’m getting it together myself.’
‘Thought you said that you weren’t working?’
Shams could see question upon question in Ishaq’s eyes, in his tone. From warm friends, who would share, Ishaq had started talking down, constantly trying to ‘educate’ him. Marwane was a bit better, but his interest ran hot and cold and he used Shams only to get in sly digs at Ishaq. Anytime he asked them about uni they would blurt out appeasing sentences. As if he was too dumb or unsophisticated to understand.
‘I’m doing some odd jobs…’
‘Who for?’
‘One of the brothers.’
‘Which brother?’
‘You know, just one of the estate lot.’ Shams bowed his head.
‘No, I don’t know. Who are you talking about? Spit it out.’
‘…Mujahid.’
All three boys went silent. Marwane and Ishaq exchanged concerned stares. Ishaq put his hand on one of Shams’ wrists.
‘Shams, Mujahid is dealing drugs; what the hell you doing with him?’
Shams jerked his arm away. ‘Astagfirullah, Allah forgive us, you can’t say that. That’s slander and backbiting.’
‘I know that he…well, that’s the word on the estate. He never comes here any more and I always hear about fights with wannabe thugs,’ said Ishaq.
Marwane saw Shams’ face fix. Pulling Ishaq’s arm back in his direction he said, ‘Shams is right. Ishaq, you can’t say that, unless you got proof. Still Shams, that bro is a bit off his head. I’ve seen him around, eyes always bloodshot, looking scary. Be careful.’
‘It’s legit, he’s got a hook-up at the airport to bring some stuff in cheap and then he sells it o…’ replied Shams.
Not paying heed to Marwane, Ishaq continued, ‘You seen this “stuff”, have you?’
‘Yea, of course…I ain’t stupid, man.’
‘Who’s this hook-up, then?’
Shams scanned the room, noting-out who was new and who he remembered from before he left the area. Around that time these two started attending circles. He couldn’t get them to go on any excursions. The swearing stopped, and it went unspoken that they would not countenance anything with the hint of illegality. They were good at just getting on. Shams felt the distance, a lingering gap that he couldn’t even enquire about. That there was some secret to life that they had decided not to pass-on.
‘I can’t say. Some friend from the estate.’
‘Alright Shams, it all sounds well-shady but you’re a grown-up now. Just be careful. If you get in trouble, even if you’ve done nothing wrong, you and me don’t get second chances like posh white boys do. Remember that…so, other than clothes, you got anything else going on?’
Dry air, in the flat, pressed his cheeks; Shams pulled his collar to let some of it flow around his skin and felt his finger slide against perspiration at the base of his neck. ‘I’ve got plenty of ideas. All you need to do to make money off of rich white guys is to sell them an experience. They’ll spend money on any crap, especially the Yanks. It doesn’t even need to be anything decent. I saw this report about one guy who became a millionaire by making USB keys shaped like food. Like sushi or hamburgers. He just buys these cheap ones from China and gets them to add some plastic mould, and then the jobs a good ‘un. Can sell them for ten times what you buy them for.’
‘Yea, classy, Shams. That’s really what the world needs, an endless supply of crap electronics shaped like fast-food.’
Marwane laughed. ‘Mr Negativity straight-in there, killing it like a bullet. I’m with Shams. Who cares, as long as it’s a halal living.’
Ishaq smiled. ‘You mean like making no bacon sausage shaped USB keys?’
‘Yea…right…good one…that was nearly funny. Just saying it’s not like you’re selling haram-drugs or anything. If you made a few grand doing that then you’ll be laughing. Then you could do something proper with that cash. You can’t be picky from the start with everything. The point is that Shams is just looking for something to set him on the way, right bruv?’ Marwane said, as he pumped Shams’ shoulder with a fist.
Shams broke into a broad smile. ‘Exactly bro! That’s what I’m sayin’!’
Ishaq perked up at the chance to wind Marwane up. ‘Well tell me, what’s halal then? You’re using a bunch of plastic that’s polluting the earth, and probably using a load of child-labour down the line…’
‘Subhanallah, seriously, who made you governor of the earth?’ said Marwane. ‘If you try and be perfect on absolutely everything then we’d all be naked and homeless.’ Marwane and Ishaq eyed each other, waiting for one to budge.
Shams slumped back, away from the other boys, pushing the tray towards them to give him space. ‘Anyway, I’m just using it as an example; the best thing is to try and sell it with a story. Take it how you want. They like experiences, no need to know if it’s true. Like you can do a restaurant and do a bunch of dishes and say they were from Kashmir, for some Mughal prince who wrote poetry.’
All three broke out in laughter. The flat was a small one-bedder, and the living room was just large enough to hold about a dozen people if they were all sat on the floor, Bedouin-style. The brother who provided the space had thrown out all of the furniture just for this purpose, leaving only a bookcase situated on the wall furthest from the boys, shelves that were filled with ornately-bound books in Arabic. Ayub was kneeling by the case, flicking through a tome while deep in conversation with some new white brother bearing a large bushy beard. Ayub looked around at the three. Marwane caught his eye and nudged the other two, pinching his lips, indicating to them that they should quiet down.
Shams looked round his shoulder at Ayub and then, in a considered hush, said, ‘I’m serious. We get such bad press, but you can sell stuff by being exotic. I had another idea, about selling food in tiffin boxes. I was reading about those dabbawallahs in Mumbai. They deliver thousands a day without any mistakes, you could make a great story out of that.’
‘But Shams, you’re not Indian or Kashmiri,’ said Ishaq.
‘Yea, but I’m brown. Most people won’t know the difference. Our lot won’t be coming anyway.’
Marwane chimed in, ‘You know, that second one is a really good idea. Properly cynical, but could work.’
It went quiet for a moment but then Ishaq looked at Marwane. He tried to stifle a laugh while he said, ‘Alhamdullillah, some good ideas, but selling yourself on being exotic? It’s like just accepting you’re a slave to their stereotypes. What do you think M?’
‘Wooooahhh, subhanallah, man, you is properly mental bruv. Ishaq, I respect you a lot, bro. You’re deep and all that. But seriously…you get dealt cards in life and you deal with them. Shams isn’t thinking of walking around in a salwar kameez shouting “a thousand apologies, effendi.”’ Marwane bobbled his head from side to side and tried to put on what he thought was a generic South Asian accent. Unfortunately, it came across as a sorry mix of Michael Caine meeting Amitabh Bachchan. ‘So what does Caliph Tabrizi say to that?’
‘Firstly, man, don’t try that accent again. It was pathetic. Secondly…secondly…’ Ishaq could see that he was getting a rise out Marwane but saw Shams expectant face. He recognised it as the same one that Shams pulled when they used to run for the ice cream van and it looked like they wouldn’t make it. ‘Yea, sounds like you’ve got some really good ideas, Shams. Inshallah, make dua, and try your best. That’s all any of us can do.’
Ishaq and Marwane continued to exchange volleys, Shams slurped contentedly on his tea. He made a decisive dip of his biscuit into his chai. Everything tasted better with a dunk. He kept it submerged so that it softened as much as possible but overplayed his hand. He looked in horror as his
biscuit broke free and crumbled into the milky swell, like a house tumbling off an eroding coastline. He checked if the others had seen and, although tempted, resisted the urge to retrieve the whole soggy mess with his hand.
‘Ok boys. If I come up with something decent, maybe you could all give me a hand. That is if Ishaq isn’t too busy boycotting Starbucks or something. By the way Marwane, are there any more biccies?’
‘There’s a pack in the kitchen if you want to grab it.’
Watching Shams get up to fetch supplies, Marwane threw Ishaq a glare. ‘You are proper taking the mick, you know that?’
‘Look, I know. I backed off, right.’
‘Whatever problems me and you might have, we still have more options than Shams.’
‘Calm down. We’ve been friends since we were kids. You want me to still treat him like one?’
Marwane replied, any previous amusement doused, his long torso slanting forward, ‘No, I want you to treat him with a bit more respect and listen to him, and not give-off that ‘it’s beneath me vibe’. Be a friend. The guy needs encouragement, not verbal waterboarding. Seriously?’
Ishaq, his aspect slightly pained, tested the carpet with a finger. ‘Ok, may Allah bless you for the advice. You’re right. He just raised some interesting issues, and I was just messing.’
‘I know that. No one wants to be a ‘sellout’, and we want to do what we want to do. But this isn’t about having some random intellectual conversation. He hasn’t got that luxury. This is about life.’