by Hafsa Zayyan
Back in his office, Sameer kicks his desk in frustration: it takes five minutes to make a good first impression, but five months to fix a bad one. Ryan asks him if everything is OK. It gives Sameer small pleasure to remind Ryan of his failures; he has tried to do this more and more since he was offered the role in Singapore. Outwardly, Ryan is sympathetic; inwardly, Sameer thinks, he is probably delighted.
The deal starts to ramp up and Chris becomes increasingly difficult to work with. He calls Sameer at all times of the day – and if he doesn’t pick up, Chris phones his mobile repeatedly until he does. Although Sameer knows more about this deal than anyone else now working on it, he is taken off the negotiations and the key deal documents; he is allocated the most junior workstreams and more senior people are introduced to pick up where Sameer left off. When he tries to delegate some of the low-level work to a trainee and Chris finds out, Chris admonishes him over email – I asked you to do this, Sam. Not the trainee. There was a reason I asked you to do it. Can you think why? – copied to the whole team, a stain of embarrassment. There is always a snide remark to be made, something small and subtle to put him down – when he makes a positive contribution, ‘That’s one of the most obvious points, come on, dig deeper – we need to add value’; when he sends out a draft document with a small typographical error, ‘It’s just fucking embarrassing, you know. Embarrassing’; when he proposes a solution to a problem, ‘Are you sure about that, Sam? What is it that you haven’t fully thought through? Go on, think.’
There is some strange insensitivity in Chris’s approach: for two weeks in a row, Sameer is still in the office when iftar approaches and he has to break his fast at his desk with a sandwich. Chris does not seem to care that Sameer is trying to observe Ramadan while working. He organises a lunch with the client for those working on the deal, despite the fact that he knows that Sameer is fasting and will not attend. In fact, he telephones Sameer and asks him to make the booking: ‘I would normally ask my PA to do it, but I really fancy Lebanese food so I think you’ll know where’s best to go.’ Sameer stares at the phone blankly. He doesn’t even like Lebanese food.
For the first time in his life, Sameer starts to doubt his own abilities, and even briefly wonders if he should stop fasting to see if matters are corrected.
The counter-effect of working with Chris is that it seems to vastly improve his friendship with Ryan, who eagerly seeks details of the latest disaster, which Sameer offers generously. ‘It’ll all be fine once Ramadan is over,’ Ryan says sympathetically, but his eyes gleam hungrily. ‘You’re fasting right now, so you have to be considered, you know, handicapped.’
A couple of weeks into Ramadan, Sameer arranges to see Ryan at the weekend for a late dinner. Jeremiah is never free any more and this has had the unexpected effect of making Sameer feel like he is shrinking. He dreads long weekends of nothing stretching ahead of him and dreads weekdays having to deal with Chris; yet he still cannot bring himself to go back to Leicester. In response to Sameer’s proposal for dinner, Ryan sends him a brown thumbs up. Sitting cross-legged on his sofa in front of the TV, Sameer stares at the small brown thumb and wonders – is he being mocked?
Sameer (18.23): Why is your thumb brown? lol
Ryan (18.24): Inclusivity, mate! I don’t see colour – and he sends another brown thumb.
Sameer might have laughed at this before – he remembers a time when Mark had said exactly the same thing when Sameer had pointed out at a work Christmas party that the person Mark had referred to as Jaya, the Sri Lankan Tamil new junior associate, was in fact Prudence, a black secretary. But now Ryan’s comment gives rise to a flicker of irritation. He thinks about saying something, but then – given Ryan is his only friend right now – decides against it. They have a perfectly pleasant conversation over dinner, and he leaves feeling happy that he has managed to socialise.
The days drag on, and as Ramadan draws to a close, the thought of returning to Leicester – and delivering news of Singapore – plays on Sameer’s mind. The Eid celebration that follows Ramadan is always glorious: after a long month of fasting, Eid-ul-Fitr has a festivity about it that doesn’t compare to other holidays (it’s our Christmas, Sameer would patiently explain to his colleagues); everyone’s moods are lifted by the fact they can eat again, there is a new sense of empathy for the hungry and charity is distributed widely. Sameer half wonders self-destructively whether he can avoid going home for Eid by saying that he is working, but then he imagines himself alone in his flat in London on Eid day and he is overwhelmed by a moment of self-pity to the point that he nearly books a train ticket right there and then.
On the night of the twenty-seventh fast, Sameer is sitting in front of the TV, eating a bowl of cereal, when his phone rings. It’s his father. ‘Son?’ Instinct pricks Sameer’s ears to attention: he immediately knows that something is wrong. ‘I have … I have some very bad news.’
His body becomes aware before his mind that something has happened, or is about to happen, that might change the course of his life irreversibly. The room begins to spin, blood rushes from his head to his feet. He suddenly realises that it is stupid that he has been avoiding going home.
‘It’s the Patels – their son Rahool.’
Sameer exhales deeply, with the guilty relief that follows the knowledge that it is not his family, but his heart feels like it is beating in his throat: what has happened to his friend?
‘He was attacked, Sameer … He’s been beaten very badly.’
Sameer opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. He can’t remember the last time he spoke to Rahool. He had felt – perhaps somewhat childishly – that an understanding, a sort of pact – the two of them, going it alone – had been broken when Rahool had cut the cord with London and retreated into the fold of his family business. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. ‘Is he OK?’ he asks at last. There is a long pause. ‘Dad?’
‘His brain is swollen, son. He’s in a coma.’
This news comes with the unthinking understanding that he must give up these silly games and go to Leicester at once. He immediately calls Jeremiah and they decide that they will travel back to Leicester together in the morning. Sameer’s deal has started to ramp up again, but without hesitation he emails Chris: Family emergency. Need to go home for a couple of days. It’s nearly the weekend; he will only be out for two days.
The boys meet at the train station in the morning. It is the first time that Sameer has seen Jeremiah in weeks and it’s a relief to see his familiar face, although he somehow seems taller now, broader – his shoulders are bigger, like he’s been going to the gym. On the journey, the conversation is at first devoted to Rahool, but the topic is quickly exhausted with the limited knowledge they have. As they fall back into comfortable chatter, Sameer feels strangely happy to be with Jeremiah despite the horrible circumstances that have brought them together. Jeremiah boasts about his work in the studio; Sameer tells him about Ramadan, about Chris. Jeremiah’s expression is suddenly serious. ‘It sounds like something you might want to escalate, mate.’
Sameer looks at him, surprised.
‘It’s not OK to behave like that. Someone should be told.’
‘Yeah,’ Sameer replies, a note of uncertainty in his voice. ‘I think you’re probably right.’ He won’t act on it of course. Jeremiah’s response – the condemnation of Chris’s behaviour – is enough.
On arrival into Leicester, the boys order an Uber to the hospital; it is not far from the station and they do not speak during the short journey. Sameer looks out of the window as the car winds through a part of the town centre. The familiar streets glare back at him; now that they have witnessed what has happened to Rahool, they appear menacing, unfriendly.
The hospital is not a place that Sameer is particularly familiar with; he’s been blessed in his twenty-six years with good health and, generally speaking, so have his immediate family. Jeremiah lags behind with obvious apprehension, so Sameer takes the lead through multiple
sets of doors and down long, starched corridors, his nose tickled by the mawkish smell of bleach mixed with something else he cannot quite place.
Rahool is in the intensive care unit, behind a locked set of doors with a buzzer. While they wait to be let in, Sameer dispenses gel from a mounted box on the wall outside the unit and rubs his hands together until the cold sensation of the alcohol evaporating has left him.
When the nurse eventually comes, she is with Rahool’s father. There is a heavy tiredness to his body; never a slim figure, his large belly sags; soft, puffy pockets of liquid collect in bags under his eyes; even his long earlobes hang heavier than usual. Sameer embraces him, and he hangs on to Sameer tightly, eyes closed, hopeful. In the midst of this embrace a fleeting thought crosses Sameer’s mind that if Rahool – the only child of the Patels – had not come back to Leicester, he might have been OK.
‘I really appreciate you both dropping everything to come,’ Mr Patel says as they enter the unit. ‘It means a lot to us.’
‘Of course,’ Sameer responds immediately. ‘Rahool is one of our best friends.’
The boys follow Rahool’s father past rows of curtains, mostly drawn, but some open; nurses fussing, hunching over bodies obscured from Sameer’s view. Some families, perhaps friends, wait nervously next to bedsides. The pervasive and unpleasant smell of what must be hospital food lingers everywhere. Sameer keeps his eyes cast downwards. He does not want to intrude on the privacy of these people and wishes that they would shut all the curtains. Past a few more beds – one empty – and then – Rahool. Mr Patel pulls back the curtain and Sameer and Jeremiah step inside.
Rahool is connected to a cacophony of wires and devices; they spawn out of him like angry growths, beeping and buzzing and draining and replenishing. Behind all the tubes, Sameer can barely see his friend. He steps forward, peering over the edge of the bed, and he doesn’t recognise the face that lies blankly on the hospital bed. Blackened, swollen, sunken, bruised. Bandages around the head, crusted blood around the mouth – why has no one wiped that up? – the tube entering Rahool’s mouth reveals several gaps where teeth used to be. Sameer’s eyes swell immediately with tears and he backs away, stumbling into a machine beside the bed. A nurse pops her head around the curtain at the sound; she smiles kindly and tells Sameer that everything is going to be OK. He glances at Jeremiah, who looks equally floored.
‘Can he hear us?’ Sameer eventually asks Rahool’s father.
‘We don’t know. We haven’t left his side,’ he adds in a small voice. ‘We’re staying in the hospital accommodation – it’s just round the corner. Preeti stayed with him all night, she didn’t let herself fall asleep. But he’s never been responsive.’
They spend an hour or so with Rahool; at one point Rahool’s father leaves and Sameer and Jeremiah start to talk to Rahool about the everyday, ordinary things. Jeremiah whispers: ‘Who did this to you, mate?’ and Sameer and Jeremiah look at each other as the machines bleep in response. Sameer is desperate to know more. Rahool never got into any kind of trouble; it makes no sense that his quiet, unassuming friend would be the subject of an attack. It’s not the right time to ask Rahool’s father. But they must find out. When Rahool’s father returns, they thank him for letting them visit and tell him that they will be back tomorrow. On their way out – again, heads down in the intensive care unit, rub hands with alcohol on exit – Jeremiah asks Sameer if they can meet Roy for a quick drink before going home.
‘Does Roy know what happened?’ Sameer asks. He realises that he hasn’t looked at the WhatsApp group since he was last home; as soon as he returned to London, it was muted once more. Outside the hospital, the crisp, odourless air delivers an immediate sense of relief.
‘Probably,’ Jeremiah replies, looking at this phone. ‘Come on – we can walk there.’
They meet Roy in an American diner close to the hospital. The boys clasp hands, embrace briefly, and are seated in a red booth. Sameer can smell a frying beef patty and his stomach growls. ‘Sorry, bit insensitive,’ Jeremiah says, remembering that Sameer is not eating. ‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’
‘Of course not – it’s fine,’ Sameer lies.
‘Well, we’re only getting drinks anyway.’
They chat idly – mainly Jeremiah gushing about his new job – while they wait for their orders to be taken. The waitress stares at them expressionlessly when, after ordering two drinks between three people, they then also don’t order any food, but she brings the drinks without saying anything. Sameer lets Jeremiah ramble on for a few minutes more and then cuts him off. ‘What do you know about what happened to Rahool?’ he says, watching as Roy decants a can of Coke into a tall glass. ‘I’ve scoured the Internet a hundred times – there’s no information out there.’
‘That’s because the media don’t care enough to report it when it’s an Asian kid,’ Roy says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, look at the guy. He’s never been in any trouble, he’s got no beef with anyone around these parts.’ There’s a short pause, where Sameer exchanges a confused glance with Jeremiah. ‘It was obviously racially motivated,’ Roy spells it out, slowly. ‘I mean, everyone knows who did it – this gang of white youths, they’ve been arrested.’
Sameer struggles to process this; he did not think that these sorts of attacks still took place. ‘What do you mean?’ he repeats.
‘I mean a bunch of Nazi motherfuckers.’ Roy takes the empty can of Coke and flattens it with his fist.
Back home, Sameer can’t stop himself from seeing Rahool’s bloated, battered face. His family understand: they have visited Rahool themselves several times. His mother searches for signs of unease, seeking to comfort him and unfurrow his brows; his father is gentle and does not once mention business; Zara is obviously desperately curious, but recognises that he doesn’t want to talk about it and so she doesn’t bring it up. They have not told Mhota Papa what has happened and Sameer is keenly aware of just how old Mhota Papa is, and just how frail. Life suddenly seems so fragile.
That evening, as he lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, he wonders whether he should pray. He knows that it is a cliché to reach out to God in times of need, but he is fasting after all, and so there is some consideration for any prayer offered. He stands up, swigging from a large bottle of water at his bedside, and runs down the carpeted stairs, footsteps padding into the night. The clock in the downstairs hallway reads 2.40 a.m. In a small cupboard under the stairs, he finds a prayer mat stuffed into the darkness, heavy with dust. He sneezes and takes the mat up to his bedroom. There is a ritualistic washing of the head, arms and feet, and then he kneels down on the mat, puts his forehead to the floor and prays.
Sameer stays in Leicester for two more days, until Eid. Both days, he visits Rahool several times, sometimes with Jeremiah, once with his father, always with Rahool’s parents. It is very difficult to look at Rahool’s mother, and uncomfortable to be around her; she trembles and shudders and comes to tears easily. In the few days that Sameer is there, there is no improvement in Rahool’s condition.
Eid day arrives with new clothes, food and family gatherings. The usual ritual unfolds: in the early morning Sameer’s mother makes honeyed seviyan kheer, flaked with almonds and pistachios, oozing with condensed milk; they gulp it down and go to the mosque for Eid prayers. This is followed by at least an hour of greeting and hugging every person in the vicinity, waiting while Mhota Papa engages in a long discussion about the arrival of mango season. ‘I have never had mangoes as delicious as those from Uganda,’ Mhota Papa wags a finger at his counterpart, who is talking about Indian mangoes. After mosque, there is a call from Samah: she will not come from Leeds like she promised she would, John apparently being unwell; and for the rest of the day Yasmeen Foi is in a precarious mood. While Mhota Papa naps, the family go for a walk around Victoria Park and Sameer buys them all ice cream from a van on the corner. It is not a warm day and the ice cream makes their skin rise with goosebu
mps, but they smile with numb limbs, just happy to be eating in daylight. Normally – even in Leicester – they would be stared at; but not today, on Eid day, when the whole park teems with women in brightly coloured salwars and saris, catching the light in a million different ways. In the evening, Shabnam comes to the house with her husband and little boy. She holds her stomach gingerly – a bump is just beginning to show – and she tells them all with a martyred expression that she could not fast this year, now that she is carrying a baby. Zara mutters in Sameer’s ear that it is a shame that Ayaan did not fast as he waddles past them into the front room.
Sameer cannot enjoy any of it. The news about the arrests has now broken cover and Sameer has spent most of the day on his phone. He has unmuted the WhatsApp group and the boys share information. ‘Sameer, please, get off your phone,’ his mother eventually says at dinner, exasperated. ‘Come on, beta, it’s Eid. I just want you to try to relax a bit and enjoy today. We’ve only got you for a few more hours.’ But the day draws to a close quicker than his mother would have desired, and before they know it, Sameer is at the station, waving goodbye to his family – all of whom (save Mhota Papa, who is asleep) insisted on dropping him off. Their colourful Eid garb sparkles and shines at him as the train pulls away.
On the journey back to London, Sameer realises that he has not checked his work emails for several days. A mild sense of panic is quickly resolved by opening his inbox – there are hundreds of deal-related emails and he skims past them quickly, looking for anything directed at him. One email reads: Our new Singapore partners. Heart pounding, Sameer opens the email. Right at the top of the list: Chris Richmond. He immediately locks his phone and closes his eyes. Leans back against the seat and exhales deeply. He’s exhausted. Then his eyes jerk open: he’s broken his vow to tell his family about Singapore.