by Hafsa Zayyan
The guests came in hordes – you will remember Ashkar, who now runs the largest foreign-owned bank in Uganda; our friend Sakib, the owner of the sugar plantation near Jinja – he has come home for Ramadan; the Singhs, in the retail management industry, now running the new shopping mall that has just opened in Kampala. As we spoke, I felt a growing sense of accomplishment. Despite constituting such a small percentage of this country’s population, we are part of a very special club. Together, we have boosted Uganda’s economy and inflated its revenues. There is opportunity everywhere here and the native population does not understand how to use it: we, on the other hand, have capitalised on it.
After dinner, we cleared space for the Muslims to pray together. I stood at the front, leading my community in front of God. My dear, we need these communities to give us our sense of belonging. And what is happening with Farah threatens that.
If you were here, I know that you would be able to reason with her. You were always very close to her – and she is the spitting image of you: wide-set eyes, fair skin that flushes easily, brown hair the colour of a chestnut. Perhaps because of her resemblance to you, she has always held a special place in my heart – my little girl, always excelling at school, praying her namaz on time, dutifully helping Shabnam in the kitchen. Perhaps that is why she can break my heart in a way that none of my others could. Farah will soon be eighteen years old – of marriageable age – and whilst I encourage her to study and I have no objection to her attending university, I also believe that it is right that she marries before she does. She cannot be living away from home in university dorms, able to mix freely with men. That is not right. That is not our way.
Papa, Shabnam and I spent some time canvassing the appropriate family for Farah. When we found one, Papa reached out to his contacts to verify their history and lineage. They came to our house one evening whilst Samir and Tasneem took Farah to the pictures. We got along very well; you would have liked them. They are from the same province of Kutch as my own family. The boy is called Noor.
After they left, Farah came home and I sat down with her to tell her about the boy. She has known for a long time that this day was coming. We have given her every freedom she has wanted, I have put her through school, allowed her to go out with her friends, bought her anything she desired. Now it is time for her to settle down.
How do I tell you what happened next?
She began to cry; she took my hands and knelt at my feet. ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘I can’t marry him. I’m in love with someone else.’
I felt my heart stop, Amira. ‘Who?’ I demanded. She shook her head, pressing her lips together tightly. I grabbed her by the shoulders and spat ‘Who’ into her face until she whispered the name, and I let go of her shoulders and stumbled backwards. I must have clasped my chest because she leapt up in concern, asking if I was all right. I did not respond. I did not ask her questions. I did not want to know the details. ‘Papa,’ she said, still crying, ‘he will convert to Islam. We have talked about it, and he is willing to convert.’ I looked at her wide eyes, and I slapped her hard across the face. My Farah, who I have never laid a finger on. She held a hand to her cheek, sobbing silently. I told her to get away from me, to get out of my sight.
We gave her life. I have fed her, clothed her, sheltered her, given her an education. And all I have ever asked in return is for her to show akhlaq, respect towards me, towards our cultures, our values, our traditions.
How was I to break this news to Shabnam, to Papa? The shame – the embarrassment – that my daughter – my Farah – could even contemplate such a thing. Those in the house knew that something was wrong. I told Shabnam that Farah was not to go out, not even to school, not to leave her room. Shabnam begged me to tell her what had happened, but I could not bring myself to do it for several days. In the end, though, there is only so long that you can wait to return to a family who has offered a proposal. I called Shabnam, Papa, Samir and Tasneem together and, unable to look them in the eye, told them. There was a long silence, heavy with the weight of shock and disappointment. Our sweet Farah, with a Hindu boy. Of all things – a Hindu.
You remember when the Usmans’ daughter ran away with a Sikh boy? What shame she brought upon their family. The grandfather died of shock on the spot, and the wretched girl did not even attend the funeral. We stared at the Usmans with pity, we whispered behind their backs about how they had failed to bring their daughter up properly. The Usmans retreated – and rightly so – to the fringes of our community and then their business encountered financial difficulties and they became bankrupt. It was as if that daughter had been a curse. We might have tried to help the Usmans, but we did not want to risk becoming associated with their misfortune. They returned to India.
I have thought and thought upon it – what had I done wrong with Farah? Had she been spending too much time going to the pictures with her friends, watching Bollywood films, romanticising about the meaning of pyar? After several hours of discussion, Tasneem said that we should call Farah to the family meeting. It hurt to see her enter the room with her head hung low, eyes raw and body drooped, entirely dejected. But I did not let her see even a shred of my sympathy: I wanted her to feel pity for me. ‘You have brought shame upon this family,’ Papa said angrily, shaking his head. ‘We will never hear you speak of this again, do you understand?’ Farah did not say anything, and I stared at the wall behind her. Finally, Tasneem said gently: ‘You only need to meet him once. Meet the boy, and if you do not like him, we will call it off.’
I wish you were here, Amira. Now, I feel like I need you more than ever.
5
It is May and the late buds of spring are in bloom. The air is charged with a nervous kind of excitement, seasons on the brink of change, unsure whether they are coming or going, whether it is summer or spring. Ramadan will be upon them soon. Although Sameer is not particularly practising, fasting is a must in the holy month. He has fasted during Ramadan every year since he was a teenager; even living alone in London and when at work he observes the month of Ramadan, refraining from eating, drinking and other worldly pleasures between the hours of dawn and dusk.
Rahool has returned to Leicester. Sameer has not been home since his last visit; he has vowed to himself that he will not return until he is ready to tell his family about Singapore. In the meantime, his life in London continues, but it’s not quite the same as before: on weekends, he is alone; Rahool no longer around, Jeremiah always busy in the studio. And ever since their night out, something has changed between Sameer and Ryan; the air between them stretched to the uncomfortable point of breaking. Now that Sameer has seen the ugly inside of Ryan, he cannot unsee it, and he can’t help but feel that every time there is mention of Singapore, Ryan looks at him in a funny way. Ryan continues to joke with him, invites him on nights out with his friends, asks him to join the others in the pub after work. But Sameer declines each time, reluctant to be around Ryan when he is drinking.
One balmy Saturday morning, Sameer sits alone in his bedroom, scrolling through the contacts on his phone, and wondering whether he really has any friends. No Jeremiah, no Rahool, no Ryan. Although most of his friends from Cambridge came to London after university, he did not stay close to them; there was a WhatsApp group, like the Leicester one, once active with hourly messages, that has now dwindled to the occasional message every few months. There is probably a more active, smaller group, but Sameer is not a part of it.
As he scrolls down his list of contacts – an impressive list, carefully collected over the years like an assortment of useless souvenirs – his finger stops at the name Hannah. They haven’t spoken in several weeks; she didn’t respond to the last one he sent her. It is a bright, clear day and it would be nice to leave the flat and perhaps have brunch; very soon it will be Ramadan and brunch will no longer be a possibility. He considers it for a moment, and then calls her. It rings out for a few seconds before she picks up. ‘Hello?’ Her voice is cautious; weary.
‘Hi.�
�� He suddenly doesn’t know what to say.
‘Sam?’ Hannah says, voice faint on the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ he responds quickly. ‘Yes. I just wondered if you wanted to do something today – have brunch, maybe go for a walk? It’s a nice day.’
There is a brief silence. Then Hannah says: ‘Look, Sam, we kind of need to talk about all of this.’
‘All of what?’
‘All of this thing – you and me,’ she sounds exasperated. ‘But now’s not the right time – I’m busy.’ He hears a voice in the background; Hannah covers the microphone and sends a muffled response. There is a pause, while Sameer waits, staring at the wall. He feels nothing. A longer pause and then – ‘I’ve managed to step outside for a minute,’ Hannah’s voice is finally clear. ‘But you know what I’m talking about – I’m not really up for carrying on like we do. Why are you even calling me on a Saturday morning? Because everyone else is busy?’
Sameer considers this. He doesn’t see the point in lying and so he says nothing.
She sighs. ‘Look, what I’m saying is if you want to do this properly, I would be up for trying that out. But I’m kind of done with being your booty call.’
He nods.
‘Sam?’
‘Sorry,’ he says. He thinks for a moment and then says carefully: ‘You’re a great girl, Hannah. But I’m just not looking to settle down right now. I like that we can have fun –’
‘You know what – actually, I’ve got to go. Goodbye, Sam.’ She doesn’t wait for a response and ends the call immediately.
Sameer knows with a certain sense of detachment that he will not see her again. This does not bother him. He lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he unlocks his phone, opens his contacts and deletes her number. Although there is nothing much for him to do – the deal has been quiet for a few weeks now and there is no telling when it will spring back to life – he’ll go into the office and review documents that have been sitting on his desk for some time. The office will be empty, but he doesn’t mind.
On Monday morning, Sameer stops by the office of the deal partner, Mark Lewis, to discuss next steps. Sameer does the majority of his work for Mark and he loves it. There is an instinctive affinity between them; a familiarity, a sense of acceptance: it has always been comfortable and easy. There have been trips to New York and Hong Kong in each other’s company, clinking glasses of champagne while lounging back into the cushions of their business-class seats; long nights thrashing out documents, bouncing thoughts and proposals between themselves; multiple conversations about the deals, the clients, and their lives. Mark has always seemed to have a genuine interest in Sameer’s development, giving him the best parts of the deal to work on, ensuring that when he involves someone else, he consults Sameer first to make sure no aspect of the work that he is interested in doing will be devolved away. Sameer is certain that Mark has been instrumental in securing his place in the Singapore office.
They speak briefly on the client’s comments on the latest round of documents; Sameer raises a query which they discuss critically; Mark approves Sameer’s suggestion. As Sameer is leaving, Mark says, ‘Actually – Sam, hang on a second.’
He stops in the doorway.
‘Shut the door for a minute, will you?’ Mark is looking shifty now, fidgeting. ‘Well. I just wanted to let you know before it’s announced. I’m leaving the firm.’
Sameer exhales; he didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath. He gives Mark a sad smile. There has been no announcement yet of the partners who will be going to Singapore and Sameer had distantly hoped that it would be Mark, although he knew deep down that it was unlikely, as Mark had not mentioned it. Mark tells him that he is moving to another firm – a firm known for being one of the highest-paying in the City. Sameer tries to shake off the feeling that he has been abandoned, recognising that it is childish; he is leaving for Singapore after all, and why should Mark not move to a firm where he can earn double what he is currently on? He wonders distantly whether Mark would have asked him to join him if he was not going to Singapore.
‘I kind of hoped you would be coming to Singapore with me,’ he says, half-heartedly trying to force his smile to prolong itself.
‘Really?’ Mark says, surprised. ‘I thought you knew that wouldn’t be my sort of thing – thought you knew that you and I were cutting ties when you accepted it,’ he laughs, and Sameer shifts uncomfortably on the spot where he is standing. ‘Anyway, the partnership is still working out who’s going to Singapore – there are a number of potential candidates in the pool.’
Sameer nods.
‘Next week is my last week. I’m taking most of my clients with me, but the ones who want to stay with the firm will be handed over to other partners. You’ll obviously still be on those deals.’
Again, a wave of betrayal – if Mark is leaving in a week, then the firm and the clients would have known for weeks, possibly months – followed by self-reprimand: Sameer, as a junior associate, had no right to know anyway. He congratulates Mark on the new job. Mark says that they will of course keep in touch, and that these are new beginnings for both of them. ‘We’ll have to have a drink to celebrate,’ he says as Sameer is leaving the room.
‘Sure,’ Sameer replies, without looking back. As he walks back to his office, a fleeting thought crosses his mind: he wonders whether his decision to go to Singapore has caused some kind of monumental cosmic shift, some kind of displacement and unsettlement of the elements of his life that have held together, suspended so well and in balance for so long, his neatly placed pockets of people: Jeremiah, Rahool, Mark. All leaving, changing, metamorphosing into different things, spreading away from him onto different paths, like the multiple veins of a river delta, prompted by his decision to leave for Singapore. He immediately shakes the thought; it’s self-absorbed and unfair.
Mark’s departure is announced formally the following day. Farewell drinks are hosted on the office floor on Thursday, followed by drinks at a pub round the corner. It is the day before Ramadan starts, but Sameer cannot miss Mark’s leaving drinks, and so he attends, chatting to a group of his colleagues, some of whose names he cannot remember. As the evening draws on, Ryan joins this group several times and then staggers away; he scoops himself back up and returns, only to stumble out again. Whispering his hot breath into Sameer’s ear, Ryan asks whether he would like some cocaine; Sameer politely but firmly declines. ‘I don’t know how you do it, mate,’ Ryan retorts, staggering off to the toilets. Slightly repulsed by this experience, Sameer goes to the bar to get another drink.
‘Sam,’ Mark grabs him as he walks past. Mark is standing with a couple of partners who Sameer recognises but has not worked with before. ‘This is one of my best, I’m going to miss him,’ he says to the other partners, drawing Sameer into their circle.
‘Mark just cannot stop singing your praises, Sam!’ one of the partners, Chris Richmond, is smiling at Sameer. At six foot five, Chris is large to the point of intimidation. He spits slightly when he speaks, dangerously waving about one of his huge hands on which he sports a signet ring on his little finger. ‘I’m very glad about that,’ he continues, ‘as we’re going to be working together quite closely over the next few months – I’m taking over the deal you’ve been working on with Mark.’
‘Great – I look forward to it.’
‘So what are you drinking?’ Chris asks, leaning forward to get a closer look at the dregs left in Sameer’s glass. ‘Vodka Coke? On me.’
‘Just a Coke thanks,’ Sameer replies. ‘I’m not drinking tonight.’
There is immediately a collective outcry; a shared sense of outrage that growls from the bellies of those around him who are drinking: this is an insult.
‘You can’t not drink at my leaving drinks, Sam,’ Mark whines, pushing forward his own tall pint, offering it to Sameer. A small collection of drinks already purchased for him wait patiently on the table. Mark w
ill be bought drinks all night; there is no reason for him to hoard one. Besides, there is no selfishness when it comes to trying to engage others into drinking; Mark would gladly give Sameer the lot if he would drink them.
‘Sorry – no thank you.’
‘But why?’ Chris roars.
‘Ramadan starts tomorrow. You know,’ Sameer says, voice light, ‘the month when Muslims fast from sunrise to sunset. I can’t really be hung-over for that.’
‘Right,’ says Chris. ‘Well, I didn’t know you were a Muslim.’
Sameer shrugs: what can he really say to this?
‘Aren’t Muslims not supposed to drink at all, not just not in the month of Ramadan?’ Mark laughs. ‘I’ve definitely seen you drinking.’
Again, Sameer shrugs. These conversations make him clam up with awkwardness; he wants to extricate himself from this group as quickly as possible. Before he has the chance to try, Chris asks: ‘So why do you do that then – fast? What’s the purpose of it?’
‘Um. I’ve always done it. Since I was a teenager.’
‘Yeah, but what’s the idea behind it?’ Chris asks, staring at Sameer. ‘You starve yourself, but what does that achieve?’
Sameer racks his brains, but nothing enlightening materialises. He can see the other partners are getting bored; Mark’s eyes have started to wander, scanning the room for someone else to talk to. ‘Well,’ he says quickly, ‘I suppose one drink wouldn’t hurt …’
Sameer’s first fast of Ramadan is a struggle. He ended up having more drinks than he should have, he ended up missing the pre-sunrise meal suhoor. There is a WhatsApp message from Zara on his phone in the morning: Ramadan Kareem, big bro! May Allah guide you and bless you this month and make the fasts easy for you to bear. He feels a pang of guilt.
At work, he struggles to concentrate; his vision weaves in and out of focus. Chris asks him to amend a straightforward document, and he makes small, stupid mistakes. ‘This is disappointing,’ Chris says, reviewing the hard copy in his room. Heat rises to Sameer’s face. He mutters a response, not wanting Chris to be exposed to the smell of his breath, which reeks an unpleasant odour from the fasting.