They came across a picnic clearing, an array of wooden tables and a large rubbish bin. Without discussing it, they stopped to eat the sandwiches Moni had made. They did not speak while they ate, passing the water bottle in silence, flicking away crumbs from the table. In addition to her own sandwich, Iman ate half of Moni’s and kept the other half to crumble for the fishes and the birds. There were enough bits of leftover food in this picnic area without her needing to add more. She would make sure to carry the half sandwich deeper into the forest, to a place that was less trodden, that was rarely brushed by the debris of humans.
If only Salma hadn’t spoken, but she did. To reproach her yet again, to remind her of their shared past, their sisterhood; the times they prayed together and broke fast together. The times Salma vetted suitors for Iman. The times Iman refereed arguments between Salma and her eldest daughter. And the times I was your sidekick and dogsbody. The times you laughed at my views and treated me like a doll.
If only Salma wasn’t speaking. She was spoiling the day with her voice, all this analysis. She was egging Iman on to talk, to say again what she had said before. How she disliked direct confrontations! And yet to Salma they were the solution. ‘We must talk this through,’ she kept saying. ‘We can discuss this and resolve our differences, Iman.’
‘You are oblivious to my feelings,’ said Iman. ‘You don’t know me. If you knew me, you wouldn’t talk to me here like this.’ What she wanted to say was the forest should not be sullied with their pettiness. They should walk in silence, be in awe. They should be one with nature. But that was what Iman knew and Salma didn’t. That was the difference between them and it was greater here than it could ever be in the city.
‘I was happy walking,’ said Iman. ‘This outing today was your idea and I was going along with it and then you have to spoil it by talking.’
‘I’m talking because I’m disturbed. And I’m disturbed because you’ve changed, Iman. Why have you changed towards me?’
‘Because, because, because. Enough.’ She did not want to explain. She was forever struggling to explain, to put words to feelings. Salma would outsmart her with words. Salma would win every argument. She said, ‘Salma, there is no point. Get it through your head. I’m not going to move in with you. It’s final.’
She saw tears spring to Salma’s eyes, watched her jump up, scrunch the kitchen towel that her sandwich had been wrapped in and throw it in the bin.
They followed the trail in silence, Iman averting her eyes from Salma’s face. Never had one of them cried without the other comforting her. But there was nothing more to be said. It had come to this. After all these years and hours of laughter. Friendship was not much of an investment after all, instead it was sand pouring down the hourglass, water meandering downhill; an act of defiance against the natural state of loneliness. A sound caused them to stop and turn around. Was it a deer thrashing through the forest, pursued or believing it was pursued, heading towards them or past them? Or was it a man running? A reddish-brown streak appeared through the dappled green of the forest, veering away in another direction.
In an instant, Salma was off the track, following the sound, that red moving through the green. Iman caught a glimpse of her tear-stained cheeks, the excitement in her eyes, and then she was on her own.
Iman continued walking. Without Salma, she found herself slowing down, more in tune with her surroundings, listening and watching. Looking up at a lapwing flicking from side to side, listening to its soft waa-waa sound, she tripped on the protruding root of a tree, stumbled forward and fell. On her knees, the smell of damp earth and vegetation went to her head; the darkness of the forest was womb-like and welcoming. Rest after motion, stillness and laxity. She could give in to this. No more resistance or arguments, no one asking questions, circling her, lassoing her in. She could be what she wanted to be, in a state of existence that was unthreatened, that did not need to be accounted for or earnt. It would be easier that way. No ability to attract or need to repel advances. She would be left alone, to sing if she wanted to sing, a song for the joy of it and not in order to entertain.
The Hoopoe was hovering above her. ‘Stand up, stand up, stand up.’
She started to get up, but then decided not to. He had wasted his time. All that special tuition in her attic room, as if she were a princess. When she took off her hijab, he stopped visiting and she could only find him outside. She could only hear him when others heard him, she could only see him as they did. These were the rules now; she had chosen to become one of the crowd.
So if he was here now especially for her sake, then she must be in great need, maybe even in danger. He too was possessive about her, not losing sight of where she had gone. He too believed she needed protecting and saving. No. No more preciousness. No more responsibility either. The solemnness in which she had been told that her beauty was to be cherished and guarded; hidden and kept from harm. She wanted away from all that. Far away where she could be left alone. Like a sunset was left alone or a flower bed or a butterfly. She would not take any more orders. Stand. Sit. Fetch. Don’t come back. Send us money. Leave that bit of chicken for your brother. Marry him and not him. Make sure you remove every thread of your hair that’s tangled in the shower plug.
‘Stand up, Iman.’
No, she would not.
All she had ever wanted, truly wanted, known she had wanted, was a baby. Was that too much to ask? Her mother had more children than she wanted, and Salma had all the children she wanted. But she was like a doll, never pregnant, always slight and slim. Husband after husband, month after month. All she had ever asked for was a child. And, at first, she had thought it would be easy, just like that, marriage then baby, one following the other, the consequence of the other. Every cycle, she hoped it would be the last time she bled for a long while, but month after month, every month, a disappointment. Iman had always been in tune with her body. Unlike other girls, who could be fussy, who disliked the smell of what leaked out of them, who were terrified of their husbands on that first wedding night. Iman was a natural. She took it all in her stride. Surely hers should be the body to grow ripe with child, the body that was brimming with fertility, the potential for life. Go to school, ensnare a husband, become a receptionist – all to bide time for her true calling, her understanding of the meaning of life.
Yet neither the Hoopoe nor Salma spoke to her about this. They did not face her disappointment head-on. They did not explain to her why Moni was a mother and she was not. Why Salma had four and she had none. They would say it was Allah’s will and she knew that already, but why was it His will? What was the logic behind it, the purpose, the intention? As long as she did not know, she would be bewildered, killing time, waiting to find out the purpose of her humanity.
She had asked Salma once, ‘Is my constipation stopping me from getting pregnant?’ And Salma laughed and said, ‘Don’t be silly. There’s no connection.’ But how was she expected to know what connected to what and what caused what. She had been bored at school, lessons that were too abstract, patriotic songs which meant nothing, all the silly fuss about clean copybooks.
Hands and knees on the ground. Under her palms, the soil seemed to give way, to cave in ever so slightly. Oh, so this would be like the other time when the dog knocked her over. The earth sucking her in and this time she would not be afraid. She would not resist. She did not want to continue walking without Salma, it was not worth it to complete the challenge of the trail on her own. She rolled on her back and saw the disapproval in the Hoopoe’s eyes. ‘Stand up, Iman.’
She smiled at him. ‘I don’t want to, and you can’t force me.’
‘Didn’t I teach you? Didn’t I warn you?’
She did remember the stories, but did he want her to apply them to her life? She had never been good at school, she had told him that, yet he still went on teaching. ‘What was I meant to learn?’ The ground was welcoming, cradling her bac
k.
The bird made sounds that irritated her ears.
She laughed. ‘Is that all? I know I’m human.’
Again, being told what to do. Be responsible. Be mature. Total uninhibited freedom is not for you.
‘Go away,’ she shouted.
‘Stand up.’
‘No.’
‘Stand up.’ He was flying all around her now, zooming in close as if he would swipe her cheeks with his wings, peck out her eyes.
‘I’m not scared of you.’
‘Listen.’
‘No.’ Enough with the patronising. Enough with the holding back.
He said, ‘There are consequences to everything you do. A price to pay. Go against what is right and here of all places you will find the tangible consequences. They will not be postponed. Get up.’
‘No, and you can’t make me.’
His sadness was palpable, it descended upon her like a shroud. She would live the consequence of her disobedience, be punished.
A hollowing was taking place underneath her. Gentle, nothing to be frightened of. This was her fate, even if misgivings shrouded it. This was the inevitable consequence of who she was, the sum of her actions, the manifestation of her intentions. She submitted to it.
It was not a grave. One is placed in a grave, wedged in with care by the living, those who are still in the queue waiting their turn. She was not dead, and it was the earth that wanted her, a place of incubation, temporary and necessary. Her metamorphosis was painful. Limbs stretched and contorted, skin scorched and punctured, her hair not her hair, her fingers not her fingers. Her mouth felt tight, her tongue started to swell. It pushed between her lips and the fatness of it was new and uncomfortable. And it was not only her mouth, every part of her was in pain. The combined physical sufferings of womanhood: the cramps and torn hymens, the invasion and press of pregnancy, bruised pelvic floor and cracked nipples, even the aches of beautification, the sting of waxing, the pierce of earlobes. She could not trace how it all had started. The day she acknowledged that beauty was a burden, her femininity overpowering her soul, the day she admitted that she did not want to be human any more. Because a tree always had a home. A fox did not need to be told how to find food. A bird did not need clothes.
She was submerged now. Above her and around her, soft granulated soil. Her feet touched hair, her skin grazed cold bones, her ears caught the sounds of the creatures made of smoke. They did not want her presence. She sensed them fretting. There was a silliness about them despite the ability to move seamlessly between air, water and earth. The djinn knew no barriers. An enviable position, but still their lack of weight counted against them. Iman felt the pain subside into rawness, all the sensitivity of new skin. There was no rush. She could sleep and dream of the Hoopoe. In a dream, he would tell her another story.
There was a story that he had not completed. It was about two tribes in a forest. One tribe was made up of small gentle people, highly skilled and peaceful. The other tribe were monsters, greedy and violent. The small people lived in fear of the monsters. All their efforts and intelligence went into protecting themselves from attack. They devised methods of predicting the movement of the monsters, they laid traps for them and studied their weaknesses. The monsters were foolish. They survived on their brute strength. In the style of the Hoopoe’s storytelling, there were epic wars and myriad adventures, heroes and heroines, tales of escape and subterfuge. Yet what had moved Iman the most in that story, what made her blood run cold, was the origin of the monsters. They were not another species. They were not foreign or alien. In fact, they were the children of the small people – some, not all of their children. At the toddler age, if they were destined to become future monsters, they would start to eat more and more. They would guzzle and become aggressive. Not finding enough food in the village, they would move to the woods and forage as much as they wanted. A small mother could come across her daughter or son, call them by name, beg them to come home, but they would ignore her. The next time, as their monster form developed, the mother would barely recognise her own flesh and blood. And they, well into becoming fully fledged monsters, would no longer have any memory that she was their mother.
Iman, though, was not losing her memory. When the earth finally gave her up and she stretched up as tall as a small tree, when she shook off her torn clothes, she remembered the human she had been. In the cartoons she often watched with Salma’s children, transformed characters could see their new reflection in water. They gazed down into a pool of blue and their face swayed up at them. Iman searched for water, her movements ungainly, her sight blurred. She found a running stream, gurgling and frothing. But it did not reflect her face.
She guzzled and snorted the water. She farted and rolled in dirt. Her new body was not under her control. There she was, leaping to tear apart a squirrel. The sort of squirrel she would have cooed over a day ago. Now it was food, a mess of muscle and bloody fur. She felt the pleasure of it, the wanton recklessness of it, and wanted more.
She no longer knew the names of what she could see, hear and smell. The names of the other animals and plants. She knew that a rabbit had long ears, a twitching nose, but she could not remember the word ‘rabbit’, whether in Arabic or English. She no longer knew how to count; two plus two had an answer but it was elusive. She could not remember the verses of the Qur’an she had memorised and daily recited. Whenever she tried to speak, her tongue got in the way. She could only make sounds, grunts and moans. Parallel to this, a part of her was still self-conscious, still curious. What do I look like now? In my new life, this life of freedom? A tree did not need a home. A cow did not need a mirror. A chick did not need clothes.
She lumbered through the forest without any fear of cold or getting lost. She felt a fullness in her belly and, absentmindedly, emptied her bowels, just like that, no need to hide or squat or wash. All that fuss. Other animals sniffed her and were satisfied that she was genuine. Insects buried themselves in her coat. As time passed, she drifted seamlessly from waking into sleeping; there was no need to plan or make a strategy. A scent and a sound caught her attention. It was a human body squashed into a ball, rolling and unable to straighten up. The face was familiar and seemed to recognise her too. Iman felt as if she hadn’t seen this person for a very long time. Was it someone from back home, a relative, a friend? No, it was Moni, reduced and distorted. Iman came close to her and their eyes met. ‘Where is Salma?’ Moni said. Iman heard her voice as if it were gushing through water, the words garbled and echoed. Salma. Yes, Iman remembered Salma. Salma with a child hitched up on her hips, one hand supporting him, the other hand stirring soup in a saucepan. Salma stepping out of her car and looking up as Iman gazed down from her window.
Moni was speaking about Salma. She would help us as she had always helped us before. She would know what to do.
What would Salma think if she saw Iman now? A snake might not remember the year before, the month before. That desire to know, to check, to measure against, was human. Iman had moved from one container into the other. Her soul was in an animal’s body after years of being in a human. The outside form could change but not the inner. Her human shape itself had been a costume, like the princess ball gown she had found in the cupboard, like the warrior trousers. It had not been about the hijab covering her femininity after all, but it was about her femininity covering her human soul. There would always be Iman, the soul, heading out and returning. Her soul was the origin from which there was no escape.
Chapter Fourteen
Salma had seen his red T-shirt through tears. Tears she was hiding from Iman. It stunned her that Iman would insist that she was not going to move in with her once they left the loch. She had known that Iman was gestating a rebellion, weaving daydreams of independence that could never materialise. And this had given Salma comfort. Soon enough Iman would come to her senses. She would move into Salma’s house, sharing a bedroom with Salma�
��s eldest daughter. Salma would take her to a lawyer to claim as many rights as she could possibly get from Ibrahim. They would spend hours discussing Iman’s future, the kind of job she could do, whether Moni’s idea of the three of them running their own clinic was feasible, whether Iman was eligible for benefits or an educational grant or an apprenticeship scheme. All the sensible proper things that needed to be done. And, by extension, Salma too would practise what she preached and become sensible and proper. She would stop the messaging and phoning, the dreams of packing up and leaving. She would shrug off the holiday fantasies and get on with being a good wife and mother. She would stifle all Egypt, the Beloved nostalgia and buckle down. But instead, Iman was abandoning her, and Amir had come all the way for her. All that he said on the phone had not been empty promises and threats.
So, she ran after his red T-shirt through the forest. His was not a well-beaten trail, clear of trees and rocks. Instead there were branches sticking out to jab at her side, there were stones that threatened to twist her ankle and trip her. But she must not lose sight of him. It was him, for sure. After coming all this way for her sake, he was playing hard to get. He wanted her to be the one chasing him. He wanted her to say sorry. She was sorry, and she was happy too that he had come. No, not happy, but so excited that she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t figure out where she was heading. She called out his name, but he didn’t slow down. She could not see him clearly, not as clearly as she wanted to. The distance between them should narrow, but it didn’t. The forest was larger than she would have thought. Here were the first leaves of autumn, leaves as bright as tangerines. She crossed other trails, red, green and purple. Those she had earlier disregarded as too easy or too difficult for the three of them to attempt. The blue trail was far behind her. So was the cottage and the monastery. She was getting out of breath, which meant she must have run for a long time, covered a good distance. She jogged every day; she was fit and had told him so. And he played tennis, he didn’t jog. So surely this chase could not go on for ever.
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