by Ayisha Malik
‘Juno! Rusty! Down!’
The woman smiled as she dragged the dogs away, saying things that Rukhsana couldn’t understand. Bilal pointed at Rukhsana, shielding his eyes from the sun, as the old lady smiled again, the dogs sitting back on their haunches, their tongues lolling out. The old woman grabbed Rukhsana’s hand and shook it so hard she thought it would trigger her arthritis.
‘You. Are. Welcome. Here. I’m Margaret.’
Bilal spoke too fast. The old lady – Margrit? – made sympathetic faces and then attempted to speak to Rukhsana again. Her heart beat faster as she tried to make sense of the words, but the blood rushed to her ears and she tried so hard to understand that she missed it all.
Bilal put his hands in his pockets and said in Punjabi: ‘She said she’s really happy you’re here.’
‘But she doesn’t know me,’ said Rukhsana, puzzled.
Margrit was now looking at Rukhsana’s green and purple printed shalwar kameez. She spoke to Bilal, smiled so widely Rukhsana wondered at her having a facial spasm, and then walked away, taking her dogs with her.
‘How old is she?’ asked Rukhsana.
‘In her mid-seventies, probably.’
‘Subhanallah.’
How come Margrit walked without limping? Maybe it was the food that white people ate? Maybe her kismet was really good. The air smelt of freshly cut grass with a faint scent of manure. Margrit kept a farm! So much energy. Rukhsana looked around and saw the next house was a hundred yards or so away and set back from the road. It was taller than Bilal’s, older and much bigger, with two statues of dogs on pillars either side of a grand black gate.
‘That’s Margaret’s house,’ said Bilal.
How exposed it all was. How unprotected she felt by the open skies and miles and miles of green land. She began to repeat her Allah hu Akbars as she grabbed her necklace – remembering God was the only thing that comforted her soul. She turned to Bilal as a ripple of dread ran through her veins.
Bilal smiled. ‘Home sweet home.’
AFTER HAVING CALLED THE cleaner, done the shopping, cooked dinner, played a game of Scrabble with Haaris and dropped him at his friend Sam’s house, Mariam had pattered up the stairs. The latest article Jenny wanted for the West Plimpington Gazzette could wait. She hadn’t missed a deadline in the past five years, after all. Writing for the district’s paper was a mindless enough task, and coupled easily with her other freelancing, which prevented Mariam from considering too often where her ambition had gone. She clutched her laptop as she walked into the study, sat on the floor and opened up a new internet tab. She typed in ‘Adalrik Muller’, trying to calm her breathing as she scrolled down the screen, searching for the clip for forgiveness.
‘Where is it?’ she muttered before she found it, beneath Holding on to Hatred.
Bilal and Khala Rukhsana would be a few more hours yet but she peered over the window ledge, just in case, before clicking ‘play’.
To forgive is to not just react, but sometimes to do nothing at all. To ignore those who live in a state of unconsciousness is to have your own consciousness fully in the present.
She drank in the words, each philosophical insight dispelling her anxiety. Psychology – pseudo or otherwise – had done wonders for the tightness that lived in Mariam’s chest.
Every situation in life can be a test; when one is challenged one is forced to give deeper of themselves – without it we’d remain superficial. We can protect ourselves in the cocoons we make for ourselves, but can we sustain that in the real world?
The world, however, remained disjointed. Mariam put her head in her hands as the video ended. After some time – knowing she shouldn’t – she took the step ladder into her walk-in wardrobe to rummage for the box she knew she’d stored at the top at the back of the cupboard, where Bilal would never look. In it was a plain, black lever arch file, which looked like it might contain admin documents, rather than the pieces of Mariam’s life before it broke. Opening the box, she saw a photo of her wedding day with her first husband, Saif. There he was, typically light-skinned, tall and handsome, setting her up for a typical heartbreak. The black moustache should’ve put her off – no good could come of something that glossy – but she’d liked him despite it. Had she really ever smiled that easily? Some of her college friends in Birmingham had laughed at her – the English Literature geek, marrying someone from Pakistan. He’d have an accent! Did they even read in Pakistan? But, according to her mum, he was a good boy from a good family.
‘Goodness is subjective, Mum,’ eighteen-year-old Mariam had replied with a sigh, bent over her desk, writing a critical analysis of Tennyson’s ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’.
‘You should grab these opportunities when they come.’ Her mum wagged her knobbly finger.
Despite twenty disgruntled years with Mariam’s dad, her mum hadn’t understood that opportunity didn’t just come in the form of a marriage proposal. It never seemed to strike her mother when he shouted for her to get him his dinner, nor when he – upon occasion – would hit her, that life might offer something more than self-sacrifice. Mariam had agreed to the marriage in order to avoid one of her dad’s violent episodes. Plus, her essay was due the following day.
So, during the summer holidays, she had travelled with her parents to Pakistan with indifference. And she’d ended up in love. Saif and she had bonded over their mutual love for George Eliot, and argued over Austen and the Brontës.
‘Austen was the master of irony,’ exclaimed Mariam, laughing.
He’d leaned in so she could feel his breath on her neck. ‘But the Brontës were the masters of passion,’ he’d whispered. ‘That’s better than irony … no?’
Her preconceptions had been muddied by her friends and washed away by Saif’s love for her favourite classics. She was in awe, which was only amplified by him reading Urdu poetry to her.
It was the age of furtive glances, looking at the ground when he paid a compliment, holding hands when no-one was watching. Mariam had never had a boyfriend, being too shy and quiet to attract attention, so the way he ran his fingers through her hair was nothing short of euphoria. If love was falling, she had fallen. And so, she thought, had he.
Now, she rifled through six weeks’ worth of faded love letters about feelings that brimmed and the life they’d lead together.
Sitting in her five-bedroom house, Mariam re-read some of the letters, cringing that she had once believed that six weeks was long enough to know you wanted to marry someone. Truthfully, she’d known after six days, but she had contempt enough for herself not to dwell on that.
These things happen, people had said, back in Birmingham. He got his passport and left. But Mariam knew there had been kindness, there had to have been love, it just obviously wasn’t enough for him to also stop loving the woman he’d left behind in Pakistan. Was the way he’d looked at Mariam a reflection of something he’d really felt? It hadn’t occurred to her then that the love she had felt might have simply been respite from her parents’ mutual hatred. She sighed. Why was she still going over all this, even now? Because Saif was back. And it was all she could do to stop herself from asking: what did it mean?
When she had said yes to marrying Bilal ten years ago, it was because she’d believed that things endure only when they have no replacement. A mutual friend had introduced them and their more considered approach to one another was cemented by the discovery of the shared emotional issues their respective mums (and in Mariam’s case, dad) had gifted them. Then Mariam’s mum died and Bilal had helped her carry the weight of her regrets.
‘You can only regret things you think you could’ve changed. Your mum was always going to be … well, you know,’ he had said, sitting on the sofa.
Haaris had been asleep in the room next door. Mariam and her toddler had lived in a one-bedroom flat, next to the chicken shop on Cooksey Road in Small Heath. The place had reeked of fried chicken and disappointment.
‘You can regret things you can�
��t change, too,’ she’d replied. ‘It’s just a bit more depressing.’
She thought she’d seen the flicker of a smile, though she hardly knew why. He’d shifted closer and held her face in his hand as he said: ‘I’m going to try and change what this is. Are you okay with that?’
Signposting intention might not have seemed romantic, but it gave Mariam a sense of control over her choices, which she’d hitherto never experienced. When he kissed her it had felt like the beginning of a new way of life.
Except now Saif was back, wanting to be a bigger part of Haaris’s life, finally, and those memories of him sprawled into the avenues of her mind. They invaded her thoughts as she scoped out a new writing brief. They hammered in her chest when she ran, resurfaced unexpectedly – usually when she felt reasonably happy – they caught in her throat. A leaden and unyielding love. No matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t able to control her nostalgia, even though it was for a time that she knew didn’t actually exist. Some part of her had repackaged it, selling her a memory that disguised itself as fact.
‘Who we are is just a set of stories we tell ourselves,’ she said to herself.
Some Sufi teachings had been handy in her search for self-actualisation, but they hadn’t fully done the trick. Sometimes she’d take out the prayer mat and say her supplications, which could be soothing.
Suddenly Mariam heard a car pull up outside. She rushed to store everything back in its place as Bilal’s voice came from downstairs. Clearing the laptop’s history – she prided herself on being meticulous – she took a deep breath, then walked down the soft, carpeted stairs to see Khala Rukhsana staring up at her. The shalwar kameez reminded Mariam of her mum. Her dad always told her to stop being so primitive – to wear trousers and burn those stupid shalwar kameezes. If Mariam had still lived in Birmingham, she’d wear them in front of her dad, just to irritate him. There wasn’t much call for them in Babbel’s End.
‘Salamalaikum, Khala,’ she said.
Mariam liked to avoid physical contact, but acquiesced that this wasn’t always possible. She steeled herself, ready to be enveloped in Khala Rukhsana’s pillowy arms.
‘Beti,’ said Khala.
Her own mother had never held her this closely and her lack of experience with it rendered Mariam motionless. She extricated herself from Khala and couldn’t help but notice that her arms, along with the rest of her body, were decidedly fleshier than when she last saw her. A person could never gain ten pounds without going down in Mariam’s estimation. It was impossible to deny that people who let themselves go had actually let go of life. She helped Khala on to the sofa, giving her a stool to rest her feet on, which Khala insisted she didn’t need. Bilal went to put her bags in the downstairs guest room before going into the kitchen, where Mariam was making tea.
‘We saved her from the coven,’ he said.
‘That bad?’
‘The good, the bad and the obscure,’ Bilal replied. ‘I’m just glad we’re home so you can speak to her in Punjabi. Where’s Haaris?’
‘Gone to Sam’s. Making the most of the summer holidays.’
‘Ah.’
‘This morning he told me he wants to be a philosopher,’ said Mariam.
‘Where’d he get that from?’
‘He Wiki’d Aristotle. He’s quite taken by him.’
Bilal laughed and leaned against the granite kitchen island, folding his arms. Mariam wondered at her emotional capacity for misdirection: her current husband’s love for her first husband’s son only increased the potency of her first affection. But she liked the way Bilal’s laughter loosened the seams of his tightly knit personality. Perhaps she should try to laugh more often. Habit could become character. She gave it a shot.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Bilal as Mariam coughed at the saliva that went down the wrong way.
‘Yes, it’s just funny, isn’t it?’ she replied, recovering from failure. ‘Haaris and Aristotle.’
‘He doesn’t get that from his father, does he?’ Bilal said.
Mariam measured hot milk into three mugs before pouring water from the hot water dispenser.
‘Who knows.’
He probably did. She let the teabags brew, getting out a tray and biscuits.
‘He’s coming next week to collect him?’ asked Bilal.
Mariam felt irriation again. Why did he always have to ask questions with the most obvious answers? Were they so bereft of conversation? Was he so bereft of originality?
‘As agreed,’ replied Mariam.
‘Hmmm. Making changes.’
‘So it seems.’
Mariam tried to measure her breath as they walked through to Khala Rukhsana surveying the living room with its exposed stone wall and low-hanging chrome chandelier.
‘Beautiful home you have, beta,’ she said.
Mariam wished she could make room for sympathy for Khala, that her presence didn’t already oppress her. She must try to be a better person.
‘I’ll show you around when you’ve rested,’ replied Mariam, hoping her smile seemed genuine. But a sudden paranoia that Bilal would find her letters took hold.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
She went to make sure she’d hidden the box well enough. As she left she heard Khala say, ‘Look at the world you’ve built here.’
Mariam had to be patient and remember that each feeling, each situation had its time – that next time she wouldn’t choke on her own laughter. That even sadness couldn’t last for ever.
Mariam awoke with a start past four in the morning, the space next to her empty. Bilal had probably just gone downstairs to get a glass of water or a sleeping pill, but after last night, the way he’d looked at Khala Rukhsana as she spoke about his mum, the quiet way he went to bed, Mariam decided to check on him. She crept down the stairs, peeking into both living rooms before going into the kitchen to see the floodlights on in the garden. She wrapped her silk dressing gown tighter around her and opened the garden door.
Her husband, sleeves rolled up, knee-deep in soil was digging a hole in the ground.
‘What are you doing?’
Bilal swivelled around, shovel in hand, floodlights catching his eye like a deer in headlights.
‘Oh,’ he sighed with relief. ‘You gave me a heart attack.’
‘It’s past four in the morning,’ said Mariam, walking down the manicured lawn, past the Koi pond, and looking over at him, his eyes level to her chest.
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘So you’re digging a hole?’
Bilal leaned on the shovel and looked up at her. ‘I … it’s …’
‘Oh, God,’ said Mariam. ‘It’s not?’
‘I just wanted to see,’ replied Bilal.
Mariam scrunched up her face, stepping closer to the hole in question. ‘All because you saw her grave?’ This was concerning. ‘It isn’t normal, you know.’
He looked at his handiwork, almost halfway complete. A pile of dirt was heaped between their rose bush and apple tree.
‘That’s not the point,’ he said, wiping the sweat off his brow.
A light breeze travelled through the fresh night air as Mariam bent down, hair tumbling over her face, and grabbed the shovel from him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
She glanced around, wondering if their neighbours could see, surprised that she cared.
‘Because,’ he replied, taking the shovel back.
The muscles in his forearms tightened with each dig as Mariam watched him, focused and resolute. His grey pyjama bottoms were tucked into his socks above his trainers.
‘What exactly are you going to get from this?’ she asked. ‘Can you put that down for a second? You’re being …’
‘What?’
‘Eccentric.’
The accusation hung between them. Bilal hesitated.
‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘I’m trying to understand.’
‘Beta, what is happening?’
This time both Mariam and Bilal turned to
see Khala Rukhsana’s figure at the door. ‘I got up to pray and wanted some water,’ she called out. ‘Why are you in the ground?’
She winced as she stepped into the garden, rosary beads in hand, and hobbled towards them. By the time she reached them she seemed to have understood something and was already nodding. ‘Acha, your ammi.’
‘See?’ said Bilal to Mariam. ‘She gets it.’
‘With any luck it’ll rain and wash the whole thing away,’ added Mariam, looking up at the sky, which promised no such thing.
This possibility seemed to have only occurred to Bilal. He pushed himself out of the hole, went into the shed and came out with a piece of white tarp.
‘This is big enough, isn’t it?’ he asked, unfolding and assessing it before jumping back into the grave.
Mariam looked at him, wondering if this was it: if he had finally lost his senses.
‘The neighbours will think you’re burying someone,’ said Mariam.
He paused to consider this. ‘No-one can see our garden from here.’
‘Margaret?’ said Mariam.
‘She doesn’t count.’
He continued to dig as Mariam and Khala could do nothing but stare. What the hell had got into him?
Bilal paused and looked at Khala Rukhsana. ‘I never really got why she did it.’
Khala gave him a sad smile, her eyes glistening with tears, which possibly alarmed Mariam more than the grave.
‘Peace,’ she finally said.
Mariam understood the mechanics of grief, the need for solitude, the way in which the brain and heart could flit between memory and feeling, with nothing but despair in between. There was nothing to do but wade through the cacophony of emotion while loved ones bore witness to it. But for a surprising moment Bilal looked like the type of man who was in control of things. Then he stopped and scratched the inside of his elbow.
‘Think my rash is playing up,’ he added. ‘I’ll go and get the hydrocortisone.’
