Can You See Me Now?

by Trisha Sakhlecha

  ‘We were going to go see a film. Sabah’s cousin scored tickets to a premiere.’

  ‘Oh right, of course,’ I said, the bravado from earlier disappearing. I tried to keep the disappointment from entering my voice. No one likes a killjoy, as my mother liked to remind me often. I gave an ineffectual shrug. I smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Sabah laughed, a high tinkle that punctured my bitterness. ‘We got you a ticket, silly. Meet us at the gates?’

  I hurried to the shower, unsure whether I was more relieved that I had been wrong about Sabah or excited that she was finally letting me in.

  The days angled on. Between classes and track practice and gossiping in the cafeteria, I wormed my way back into Noor’s and Sabah’s lives, believing, really, truly believing, that I was one of them.

  I needed this all-consuming friendship to be my real life so badly that I convinced myself it was.

  ‘Isn’t it your birthday next week?’ Sabah asked, her voice leaking in through the flimsy cubicle. I heard the sound of a zip going up before Sabah yanked the curtain open and stepped out in a tight red dress with a zip all the way down the front. She smoothed the dress down and turned, looking at her profile in the mirror, frowning.

  ‘Maybe with the heels?’ Noor said, poking her head out of the adjacent fitting room.

  Sabah nodded, before turning to face me, in my boring jeans and jumper combination.

  ‘What are we doing?’ she asked. ‘For your birthday.’

  Would it be an exaggeration to say that it felt like my heart would leap out of my chest? No one ever remembered my birthday. Last year, I’d gone to see a film by myself, just so I didn’t have to sit at home alone, pathetically waiting for my parents to realize what day it was.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, trying desperately to keep my voice breezy. ‘Maybe we could have a sleepover or something?’

  ‘Seriously?’ Noor said, stepping out of the fitting room. ‘It’s your sixteenth! We need to do something special.’ She sat down next to me and started reeling off ideas while Sabah went back into the cubicle to change into her own clothes.

  ‘Leave everything to me,’ Sabah said later, looping her arm through mine as we waited for Noor to finish paying for her jumper. ‘It’ll be your best birthday ever.’

  ALIA

  Niv and Arjun. Niv and Arjun. The words – and the accompanying pictures – fill my head, whirling around relentlessly, giving me a headache. I try to fold the thoughts away and focus instead on the campaign funding spreadsheet in front of me, trying to use the very real threat of losing the election to quell my rapidly escalating paranoia about my marriage.

  I’ve always been good at partitioning my life. Most people are, to a certain degree, but creating separate compartments in my brain is a particular skill of mine, and one that has served me well. I can deal with one aspect of my life and not have it spill over into another in any way. That’s how I’ve managed to keep going for all these years. That’s how I’ve managed to focus on my work instead of getting sucked into the past with Sabah. But as Arjun’s words from last night pound against my skull, the compartments start to give way.

  It feels as though every part of my life is disintegrating.

  Faraz had been on another one of his constituency visits yesterday. This time to one of the crisis centres I’d set up for battered women. With the TV crews in tow, of course. He’d spent three minutes praising the good work the volunteers were doing before harping on for the next fifteen about the poor response time, lack of medical facilities and the absence of a multi-faith room. He didn’t reiterate Saeed’s allegations of embezzlement, but he didn’t need to, just the insinuation is enough. It’s another brushstroke in the picture he is painting of me – the MP who claims to be secular, incorruptible, but is really no more than a charlatan who is more concerned about her own ambition than serving her constituents. The worst part is, of all the things he could say about me, this is the biggest untruth.

  When you constantly feel like an outsider, you work harder than ever to earn your place.

  I’ve fought for every refuge, every crisis centre, every temple restoration and every new mosque that has been built in the constituency. Yes, there are improvements to be made, and larger budgets to be negotiated, and I could have done more – you can always do more – but the fact that Faraz might be able to repaint budget cuts into embezzlement to push me out is infuriating. More than that, it is unfair.

  An image of Noor perched on her school desk appears and I tuck it away into the furthest corner of my brain. Almost immediately another image, this time of Arjun surrounded by a group of his friends, pops up and I do the same.

  I push myself to my feet and step into the open-plan area directly outside my office, where someone has turned on the oversized TV we had installed during the last election campaign. Faraz is due to make the keynote speech at the Annual Indian Muslim Congress conference and, as expected, every news channel in the country is streaming it live.

  ‘For too long our community has been ignored. We have been treated like second-class citizens, our ambitions squashed, our voices silenced. We’ve been used as stepping stones, called terrorists, told our commitment to our religion makes us a liability. We have been told we don’t belong in the country that our ancestors sacrificed everything to build. My father created the Indian Muslim Congress because he believed we have as much of a right to be here as anyone else. He gave his whole life to the country, he fought for the rights of our community, he opened doors and created opportunities for us that never even existed before. He ignored personal vendettas so he could focus on serving the people.’

  I glance around the large open-plan space. Everyone’s eyes are glued to the TV, their careers inextricably linked with my own. I have got to win this election. If I don’t, all the sacrifices, the long hours, the heartache – it will all have been for nothing.

  ‘But the scales of justice are skewed in this country. Our mosques have been burned down, our sisters raped, our brothers falsely accused. No more. With this new wave at the Indian Muslim Congress, we will make sure we are represented in every local council, every state assembly, every ministry. We will strengthen the alliances we have spent years nurturing and form new ones. We will make sure minority affairs are a priority, not an afterthought. From now on, we will make sure every Muslim voice is heard. We will fight for our place, our dignity, our freedom. When power rests with a chosen few, if you’re not ready to fight, the silence can kill you. Don’t let fear keep you quiet. You have a voice. So use it. Speak up. Bekhauf azadi.’

  Bekhauf azadi. Freedom without fear.

  I slink back into my office as the camera pans to show the crowd – close to fifty thousand people – cheering and clapping. Somehow, despite the message of segregation, there is something inspiring about Faraz’s speech. The call to arms is right on the pulse as well, I think, as I watch Facebook and Twitter explode.

  This is Faraz’s masterstroke.

  Within moments, Omar is standing in front of me.

  I know what he’s going to say even before he opens his mouth, but I’m not prepared for him to be armed.

  He hands me a thick folder. I merely have to glance at the first page to see what it is. Opponent research on Faraz. A desperate attempt to salvage my position by ruining his. I’d be surprised if by this point Faraz doesn’t have a similar folder on me with a list of all my little indiscretions and an action plan to use them all to maximum effect.

  I skim through it then hand the folder back to Omar.

  ‘We can’t use this.’

  ‘Alia ji, this is not the time to be honourable.’

  I walk to the window, barely listening to what Omar is saying. A group of drivers and watchmen are sprawled out on the back lawn, basking in the glow of the midday sun while they eat their lunch. In less than five hours, the same men will be scrambling to light a bonfire, huddling around it in their hand-knitted jumpers and monkey caps to keep warm.
My first winter in Delhi, I didn’t get it. I couldn’t understand how it could be scorching hot in the afternoon only for the temperature to plummet in the evening. It took me a long time to appreciate the trick that the Indian sun plays on people, letting them relax in its warmth, lulling them into a false sense of security, before snatching it all away in a few short hours.

  Omar is still talking when I turn to face him. He thinks I’m being naive. He’s wrong.

  I think of the file I keep locked away in my desk.

  We can’t use anything Omar’s dug up because I’ve got something much better. A piece of information I’ve kept secreted away for years.

  I’m just waiting for the right time to use it.

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  My birthday arrived in the usual way: with a building sense of apprehension in my stomach. But for the first time in years, the nervousness was caused not by fear but rather by excitement.

  Sabah did not disappoint. Her cousin, the same one who got her tickets to the premiere at the start of term, arranged backstage passes for a Viva concert on the night of my birthday. Viva were meant to be India’s answer to the Spice Girls. Their popularity faded as quickly as their cheap hair dye, but still, it was a concert and we had backstage passes. We were excited.

  The concert didn’t start until nine but Noor, Sabah, Addi and I were going to Saloni’s just after lunch so we could all get ready together and if I’d deciphered all of Sabah’s hints correctly, have some birthday cake.

  I spent the morning primping. I’d used my birthday money to pay for a haircut at the new salon in South Extension. The stylist had set it in tight ringlets and as I tried on outfit after outfit, I smiled and tossed my hair, twisting every few minutes to catch a glimpse of my curls bouncing in the mirror. I decided on a black top with a deep lace-up neckline and a pair of bootcut jeans that, after months of track practice, sat teasingly low on my hips. I felt pretty, beautiful even. I packed it all into my backpack along with my nightie and an outfit for the next morning and sat down on the porch steps to wait.

  Noor had said she would pick me up at four. She was already twenty minutes late, but then Noor was always late. I reminded myself that her erratic ways were part of her charm. After another twenty minutes had passed, I went inside and called her mobile – no answer – so I went back outside, certain that she would turn up any minute. I sat there, waiting, heart thumping, throat drying up, looking up every time a car passed, growing frustrated when none of them were her. Time passed, the street lights went up and my curls went down; my granddad came to check on me twice but she didn’t show up. It was already six o’clock. We were due to leave Saloni’s at seven thirty.

  I felt the prickle of tears and I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing the tears back into my eye sockets through sheer will alone.

  Crying was for the weak, my mother always said. In that at least, I agreed with her.

  I considered calling Sabah or Addi, but that would mean admitting to them that Noor had forgotten to pick me up. It would mean admitting to myself that I was being edged out of Noor’s orbit just as quickly as I had wormed my way into it.

  I thought about going back inside, telling my grandparents that my only real friend hadn’t bothered to turn up, crawling into bed and spending my Saturday night there, my bouncy new curls pressed flat into the pillow.

  No way was I doing that.

  I went upstairs and changed into the outfit I had so carefully folded into my backpack. I draped a sparkly scarf around my neck and then tried ringing Noor one last time. This time she answered.

  ‘I thought you were picking me up,’ I spoke into the phone.

  The line crackled, and for an instant I wondered if I had got it wrong.

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry,’ Noor said finally. ‘I was going to but my driver went MIA and I had to get a lift with Sabah. She said she’d send her driver back for you.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘She probably just forgot, you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She forgot to pick me up for my own birthday party? I did know what it was like.

  Noor was forgetting that I was her best friend and Sabah was making her.

  ‘I can send him for you now?’ Noor said. In the background, I could hear laughter and the faint strains of Dido.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, forcing my voice back under my control. ‘I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’

  I thought about my New Year’s resolution and the secrets Noor had whispered to me in Oxford.

  I hung up and called a taxi.

  It was time to show everyone who Sabah really was.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve invited Vineet,’ Saloni said, pouting as she applied a thick layer of pink lip gloss. She smacked her lips loudly when she finished and handed the tube to me. She turned to face Sabah. ‘Do you think you’ll get back together?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Sabah smiled. ‘I feel like something like this either destroys a relationship completely or makes it stronger, you know?’

  Addi and Saloni nodded, the idea of the romantic fairy tale that Sabah loved to peddle far more seductive than the dirty reality of being a teenage girl. No one liked to admit they felt it: the desperate need to be liked, validated, but look underneath the strawberry lip gloss and the sparkly eye shadow and you’ll find it there. Every single time. I was so sick of it.

  ‘I’m so jealous, between the Head Girl appointment and Vineet, it’s like all your dreams are coming true,’ Addi said. ‘I can’t even get a boy to look at me.’

  ‘Not dreams, plans. And maybe if you didn’t try so hard,’ Sabah said, giving Addi the side eye. ‘There’s nothing more off-putting than desperation.’

  ‘Well, you deserve every bit of it,’ Noor said, smiling at Sabah.

  ‘I think it’s incredible that you’re both willing to forgive each other,’ I said. ‘I mean, especially Vineet.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Well, you know, a kiss is one thing,’ I said, ‘but it must be hard for him to get past the fact that you slept with his best friend.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Mohit. Didn’t you guys hook up at camp last year? It must’ve been hard for Vineet to –’ I cast around the room, wide-eyed and innocent. ‘He knows, right?’

  I watched the expressions change on Saloni’s and Addi’s faces from surprise to disgust. I resisted the urge to smile at my handiwork.

  ‘You told her?’ Sabah shrieked, spinning to face Noor.

  ‘I – oh wow, I didn’t realize it was a secret,’ I said, looking from Noor to Sabah and back again, my expression one of mortified remorse. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I bet you are,’ Sabah said, her eyes narrowing into little slits. She let me wither for a moment before shrugging. ‘Whatever, okay. It was a drunken mistake, and Vineet and I weren’t even dating then. It’s a non-issue. And for the record, he couldn’t – you know,’ she added with a wiggle of her eyebrows, ‘so we didn’t even get past the fooling-around stage.’

  Noor snorted from across the room. ‘Anyway, shouldn’t we be doing shots instead of talking about missed car crashes?’

  I smiled and sucked down the tequila shots Noor passed around, all the while seething inside, unaware that the crack between Noor and Sabah was widening.

  ALIA

  Fifteen years ago

  After the concert, and my ‘accidental’ revelation about Sabah and Mohit, on the surface at least everything seemed fine. After a few days of harmless teasing, we all eased off Sabah. She didn’t get back together with Vineet and my rebellion didn’t split the group but there was an undeniable chasm of tension between Noor and Sabah. I slipped right into it to reclaim my position as Noor’s best friend and for a while, everything was perfect.

  Or so I thought.

  The truth is, I was just a naive teenager who was years away from being able to unpick the manoeuvrings of the complicated game that was Noor and Sabah’s f
riendship.

  I settled into the empty chair next to Noor. We had been sent to the library to work on our history projects, but most of the kids from my class were busy working on something else altogether.

  A few weeks into the term, The List had started doing the rounds. It was being passed around the library, the single sheet of paper tucked in between the pages of a Wren & Martin grammar guide, titles such as Hottest Girl and Biggest Charmer bristling against verb forms and complex tenses. I heard a loud guffaw, followed by the librarian’s urgent hushing, and turned to look at the group of boys clustered by the bookshelves behind us.

  ‘Jerks,’ Sabah said, depositing a stack of books on the table before slipping into the chair across from me.

  Noor rolled her eyes, agreeing.

  ‘Speaking of,’ Sabah started, ‘what’s up with Faraz? I haven’t seen him since we came back from Goa.’

  ‘He’s in trouble again. Abbu’s sent him to my grandparents,’ Noor said, going back to the notebook in front of her, equations and formulae from the chemistry class eclipsed under elaborate doodles.

  ‘Because he was driving?’ Sabah pressed on.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Noor said, barely glancing up.

  I flicked open the history book I had picked out, trying to work out how the Indian account of colonial rule and the independence movement could be so completely different from the British one.

  ‘That’s not what I heard,’ Sabah said.

  ‘Well, he wasn’t. Abbu’s angry with him for hanging out with those boys.’

  ‘They died, you know.’

  This made me look up. ‘Who died?’

  ‘A couple and their two-year-old,’ Sabah said.

  I must have given her a blank look because she rolled her eyes. ‘Have you been living under a rock?’ she said. ‘There was an accident on New Year’s Eve. A bunch of drunk boys in a BMW crashed—’

  ‘—into a Maruti with the family,’ I finished, catching on. Nana had been talking about the case just last week. The BMW had been on the wrong side of the road, going well over the speed limit. The boys had been lucky, the airbag in the BMW inflating at just the right time; the family in the beaten-down Maruti not so much. The husband and baby had died instantly, but the wife hung on for a few weeks on a ventilator before giving up.