This Green and Pleasant Land

by Ayisha Malik

Mariam sighed. Life was nothing but an ongoing illusion. Bilal left her and Khala as Mariam looked into the ground, imagining her own dead body lying there, and shuddered. Yes, it was eccentric, but then she wondered if the experience might do something for Bilal. Wasn’t it better to dig through the pain rather than sit still and be encased by it? She, after all, understood: to detach and reflect was to promote self-awareness, recognise the patterns of our life’s decisions so we never repeat mistakes. Unless the first mistake was ongoing … She caught Khala Rukhsana looking at her as Bilal came back out.

  ‘Are you honestly going to carry on with this?’ she asked him.

  She needn’t have bothered; he was already piling up more dirt as she spoke.

  ‘I’ve wasted enough time,’ he said.

  Something was shifting. It made Mariam distinctly awkward.

  ‘Well, some of us want to lie in our beds, not graves,’ said Mariam.

  As she and Khala Rukhsana walked back into the house, Mariam knew Saif would never have thought of such a thing. She wasn’t sure if she liked him more or less for it.

  Lying in the grave was always going to be uncomfortable. Anything to do with death generally is. It wasn’t helped by the conversation Bilal had had earlier with Mariam about her ex-husband. Bilal believed he’d taken on the role of stepfather rather well, but now he was in danger of being usurped. The less Mariam spoke about Saif, the more Bilal worried; the potency of emotions tended to grow when unvoiced. He shuffled to adjust the towels he’d finally placed underneath him to keep his clothes from getting dirty.

  The pink haze of dawn was breaking as he took a deep breath. When he’d awoken in the middle of the night the notion of digging the grave came to him as a fact. He’d put on his long johns – out of habit rather than necessity – under his pyjamas, tucked them into his socks, wore his trainers and walked into the garden to cure his thoughts of eternal damnation. The earth was dry but even so, with the effort of all the digging, he’d decided the grave didn’t need to be six feet, like his mum’s had been. Less than half of that would probably do. He had a vague paranoia that it might only lead to half an understanding, but the sweat on his brow and emerging blisters on his hands helped him get over that.

  As he now lay, eyes closed, in the womb of the earth, he remembered the woman who gave birth to him. The idea of a coffin stifled him, and he wondered whether there was something liberating in the Islamic tradition of simply being wrapped in a white sheet. He opened his eyes and considered the soul. The science of organisms didn’t explain the way his mum would laugh, or why she’d break into song; why she was determined never to marry again. The answer didn’t lie in her flesh and bones or the neurons in her brain. There was nothing predictable or pre-determined about the way she had lived. Where had it all gone?

  The laughter.

  The song.

  The soul.

  ‘Ammi, ammi, ammi.’

  ‘See?’ he imagined her saying. There she was, standing at the edge of his makeshift grave against the breaking dawn, in her sandals and bright red socks. Her sense of style never quite matched her natural beauty. ‘I told you. How can you live properly if you don’t think about death?’

  A tear slid down Bilal’s temple and he shook his head, his scalp rubbing against the soft towel as he detected the faint scurry of spiders. His mother never could do things like normal mums. The way she’d say hello to his non-white friends in their parents’ mother tongue; the way other Pakistani mums looked at her as if she was trying too hard to be angraiz. Well, it was England, why shouldn’t she be English? Except he’d think of how his English friends would smile at her – uncomfortable, pitying – when she said, ‘I’ll just have tipple,’ as she filled her glass with Fanta. Now that Bilal was older, wiser, he was embarrassed of his embarrassment.

  He closed his eyes again and an image came to him.

  He’s taking off his shoes outside a door and he walks into a large room with a carpet of red and beige prayer mats. White pillars stand tall and Arabic prayers are painted in black around the walls, the dome of the ceiling carved with more script. He does his ablutions and the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer reverberates in the room before Bilal begins to pray. Mariam and Haaris are by his side. Maybe even Khala.

  Growing up, he’d never enjoyed visits to the mosque in Birmingham, but here, now, in Babbel’s End, that image felt right …

  Just then he heard the faint rumble of some kind of motor.

  He wondered if it was thunder but the sky was coloured with strokes of bright orange and tufts of pink as the rumble drew closer. The noise broke through his spiritual barrier and roared into the garden, the automatic light flooding the garden as he sat up. The engine shut off.

  He looked up to see a figure with a shock of wild, curly hair towering over his resting place. The light bathed her in an angelic hue, which was disconcerting.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ she said. ‘Dug yourself a bit of a hole there.’

  ‘Margaret?’ he replied.

  She rested both hands on her hips, her pearl necklace swinging back and forth and her dungarees splattered with mud. The noise had been Margaret’s quad bike roaring through the stone archway that led on to her farmland at the back of the house. Bilal knew he should’ve had a gate built into it, but he hadn’t wanted to appear rude. He stretched his legs out in front of him and cleared his throat.

  ‘What are you doing here? It’s the crack of dawn,’ he said.

  ‘I should ask you the same question.’

  As a woman well into her seventies, Margaret had managed to retain the quality of child-like wonder, which very often led her, uninvited, into other people’s homes.

  Bilal hesitated. How was he meant to explain this? Oh, you know, just decided to dig my own grave since that’s what my mum used to do and I wanted to … What did he want to do?

  ‘I fell,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but what did you fall into?’

  That’s what he’d have liked to know.

  ‘My grave,’ he replied.

  Margaret straightened up and showed her overlapping front teeth in a broad smile.

  ‘Excellent.’

  When the Hashams had moved to Babbel’s End Margaret had especially worn the paisley pashmina she got from Lucknow during her travels around India. She had entered their home and taken her shoes off.

  ‘Assalam-o-Alaikum,’ Margaret had said, glancing at Mariam’s disappointingly English brogues.

  ‘Walaikum,’ Mariam had replied with a polite, rather than amused, smile.

  Mariam’s footwear, Bilal had learnt through Jenny, had been an acute disappointment to Margaret. The height of cultural experience came only when his mum had visited once or twice. She was the type of woman Margaret would have liked to have lived next to.

  ‘It’s always the interesting ones that die first,’ Margaret had said.

  But here was a happy turn of events for her: Bilal digging his own grave. Did she think it was some sort of mid-life ritual specific to their branch of Islam? In all her education about world religions perhaps Margaret thought there was a bit where people pretended to be dead?

  ‘Well, young man,’ she said, offering him her hand. ‘It’s time to rise from the ashes.’

  ‘So? How was it?’ asked Mariam as Bilal walked into the bedroom.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Margaret interrupted me,’ said Bilal.

  ‘On her quad bike?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Thought I heard it.’

  ‘We really should get a gate built into that archway,’ said Bilal, taking off his pyjama bottoms.

  ‘You always said you liked that it opened up to the farm,’ replied Mariam, glancing at his long johns. Bilal thought he detected her sigh as he sat on the edge of the bed.

  It was the openness of the land he loved. The gravelled path that led to the farmhouse where Margaret had employed a troubled local kid to do odd jobs over the we
ekends to keep him busy; the cows that supplied the dairy for the cheese factory; the chickens and hens that clucked about.

  ‘I suppose I did.’ He stared at the carpet. ‘You know, there’s a strange serenity to lying in the grave. When Margaret’s not barging in on her quad bike.’

  ‘You’re six-feet under, Bilal. Of course it’s serene.’

  ‘More like three feet, really.’

  The idea of building the mosque was burgeoning within him and he thought he might burst. So, he decided he’d put the kettle on.

  ‘Tea?’ he asked.

  ‘At five-forty-five in the morning? Aren’t you tired?’ she asked.

  Yes. Trying to make sense of life after death and the sheer willpower it takes to root yourself to reality was quite tiring.

  ‘Did you pray?’ he asked, noticing the prayer mat folded in the corner.

  ‘Hmm.’

  Bilal paused before he went into the bathroom, did his ablutions and came out.

  ‘Morning prayer time’s over, you know,’ said Mariam. ‘The sun is well and truly up.’

  He laid out the mat anyway and tried to remember the Arabic prayers, but they didn’t come to him readily.

  ‘Subhanakalla humma,’ said Mariam.

  She sat up in bed, watching him and guiding him with her words as he bowed his head, prostrated on the floor, repeating these actions until the end.

  ‘Been a while since you’ve done that,’ she said.

  ‘The function of praying is quite interesting, if you think about it,’ he said.

  There was an orderliness in the five separate prayers at set times, a discipline and dedication that he supposed was worthy of admiration.

  ‘I wonder if death is turning me into a zealot?’ he said.

  ‘Time to build that mosque,’ Mariam replied with a wry laugh.

  This time when he got into bed, Mariam turned to him.

  ‘What do you miss most about your mum?’ she asked.

  Bilal looked up at the ceiling with its spotlights and thought about it for a moment. ‘Playing backgammon. That and never knowing what might come out of her mouth next.’

  Mariam gave a soft laugh.

  ‘Yours?’ he asked.

  It took her so long to reply he thought she’d fallen asleep.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  He put his arm around her and kissed her on the head as they fell asleep.

  When they went downstairs a few hours later, Haaris and Khala Rukhsana were already at the breakfast table.

  ‘Why’s there a hole in the garden?’ said Haaris, peering out of the window.

  Mariam raised her eyebrows to Bilal, who in turn looked at Khala Rukhsana, though he wasn’t sure why.

  ‘It’s an experiment,’ said Bilal.

  Haaris sat at the table with his bowl of Cheerios. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Haaris doesn’t speak any Punjabi or Urdu?’ asked Khala Rukhsana.

  ‘I understand it and can speak it a bit, but my dad’s going to teach me it properly,’ Haaris replied, playing with his Cheerios. ‘He says I talk too much like an angraiz da puttar.’

  If Mariam bristled, Bilal didn’t detect it. What right did Saif have to say anything after years of ignoring his son? He wanted Haaris to tell his dad: I am the son of an Englishman. Except Haaris wasn’t. He was Saif’s son and just because Saif had a passport, it didn’t make him English. If asked for details, Bilal might be hazy when it came to describing the exact characteristics of an English person, but he knew a fake one when he saw one.

  ‘I’m going to pop to Richard’s,’ he said, ruffling Haaris’s hair.

  Mariam looked at him and he glanced again at Khala.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he added.

  ‘Right,’ said Mariam.

  Khala Rukhsana had been busy counting her rosary beads. She might not have understood English but she could tell when she was being a nuisance. ‘I think I’ll rest in my room.’

  Haaris sprung off his chair to help her stand. ‘Do you want some of my Cheerios? Or juice? Do you always wear a whistle around your neck? Your arms are really nice and soft. What cream do you use?’

  Mariam laughed as she watched Haaris and Khala. Bilal took the opportunity to grab his car keys and head towards finding some answers.

  ‘I’M HAVING TROUBLE WITH this faith thing,’ said Bilal finally, sitting in Reverend Richard Young’s front room.

  Richard put his hands in the pockets of his grey jogging bottoms, his thick – but, largely agreed upon, handsome – brow raised towards his even thicker salt and pepper hair.

  ‘Just a casual chat then?’

  Bilal noticed how white Richard’s T-shirt was.

  ‘Coffee?’ added Richard. ‘Too early for something stronger.’

  ‘Just as well. Mariam always gives me that look when she knows I’ve had a drink.’

  Richard made the coffee as Bilal looked around his home. It was significantly smaller and cosier than Bilal’s – he only had one living room for starters – and his was one of several houses lined down Petty Street. A humble abode with humble surroundings, offset by a view of St Paul’s church from the point of the hill upon which Richard’s house rested. While Bilal and Mariam’s home was open and bright, Richard’s was all brown and red hues, leather-bound volumes stacked on mahogany shelves. The place smelt of books and faith.

  Richard came out, handing Bilal his mug of coffee.

  ‘You don’t have somewhere to be, do you?’ asked Bilal.

  ‘Just going to the hospital to see the Joneses and then to the gym.’

  Bilal looked at his friend’s broad frame and nodded. ‘Keeping those looks in check.’

  Richard was too handsome to be a vicar. Too at ease and cool to be someone religious. Bilal thought of the imams he’d grown up around: bearded and severe, never looking his mum in the eye when she spoke to them, as if she might tempt them into sin.

  ‘My face is up here, Bhai Sahib, not on the ground,’ she’d once said. The imam didn’t have a chance to reply as she grabbed Bilal’s hand and stomped off. Bilal heard that nowadays the imams were young, engaged and had a new perspective on things like heaven, hell and the proper length of a man’s beard.

  ‘Stop flirting with me, people will get ideas,’ said Richard. ‘Sunday sermon tomorrow and you know I always come up with my best ones on the treadmill. Not that there’ll be more than ten people attending.’

  Richard’s easy smile seemed to falter as he sat on the sofa opposite Bilal. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Shelley’s been looking for you, by the way,’ said Bilal. ‘You weren’t at the meeting last week.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call her.’

  ‘About Tom?’ asked Bilal.

  ‘And fixing St Swithun’s church bell,’ he said with a sigh.

  The smaller church, St Swithun’s – along with Babbel’s End – was so old there was evidence that it had existed as far back as AD 992. These days it was rarely opened, but its bell had rung out every day in times of both world wars and peace, and so the more superstitious village folk were beginning to think a prolonged silence was a bad omen. The less superstitious felt that a break in continuity was as good as a crisis.

  ‘So,’ said Richard, leaning forward, his face open and betraying just a hint of a troubled soul. ‘Faith?’

  ‘Or lack thereof.’ Bilal scratched his head, unsure of where to begin.

  ‘I’d say take your time but I’ll need to leave in a half hour. Go ahead.’

  Bilal felt himself relax. ‘I dug myself a bit of a grave.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I mean, I literally dug one last night.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Richard. ‘I see. Like your mum had?’

  Bilal nodded, observing Richard’s now furrowed brow.

  ‘I thought you always considered it a bit … extreme,’ said Richard.

  ‘I did. It is. Isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s unusual. To say the least.’ Richard alw
ays had been an expert at understatement but he couldn’t hide the concern on his face. ‘How was it? I mean, what happened in there?’

  ‘Well, Margaret turned up on her quad bike.’

  ‘Naturally. Gerald says he’s sure she only keeps the farm because it’s an excuse to get on that thing,’ said Richard fondly. ‘But what possessed you?’

  ‘It was when I went to collect my aunt and I saw the grave my mum had dug.’

  Richard cleared his throat. ‘It’s still there?’

  ‘The house is falling apart but my aunt’s managed to keep that intact.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I stood in it,’ Bilal replied.

  Richard gripped his coffee mug tighter. ‘How did it feel?’

  ‘Odd.’

  Richard paused. ‘You understand that it’s not a real grave? That, essentially, it’s just a hole.’

  ‘It’s what you make of it, though, isn’t it?’ said Bilal. ‘While I was in there, I wondered …’

  ‘What?’

  Bilal rubbed the back of his head. ‘What’s all this for – when that’s everyone’s ultimate destination?’

  Bilal suffered from what his mum had called the affliction of logic – the kind that couldn’t make room for an all-engrossing and unverifiable God. His mum’s religious intensity had peppered his logic with a faraway idea that maybe God existed, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt a compulsion to pray or fast, or do any of the things that Muslims were meant to. Until he got back to his bedroom, after lying in the grave, and stood on the prayer mat. The experience had thrown off his religious apathy. Did he do it to feel connected to God, or his mum? Or something else entirely? Perhaps a part of himself that he hadn’t wanted to consider before? Either way it was inconvenient.

  ‘You’re asking yourself a question that everyone should stumble upon once in their life.’

  ‘But who has the answer?’ asked Bilal.

  Richard leaned back, turning his untouched coffee mug around in his hands. ‘The inclusive answer would be that no-one knows. We all just die trying to figure it out. But Christian to Muslim – if I may …?’

  Bilal waved his hand as if he’d accepted his fate at being labelled a Muslim many years ago.