by Ayisha Malik
SOFIA KHAN IS NOT OBLIGED
AYISHA MALIK
CONTENTS
SEPTEMBER 2011 - I Was Told There’d Be Light
OCTOBER 2011 - Out of the Frying Pan
NOVEMBER 2011 - Never Say Never
DECEMBER 2011 - Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow
JANUARY 2012 - Should Old Acquaintance be Forgot
FEBRUARY 2012 - Forget You and Forget Her Too
MARCH 2012 - Love Thy Parents. Sigh.
APRIL 2012 - Once More, With Feeling, Please
MAY 2012 - For Whom the Wedding Bells Toll
JUNE 2012 - The Halfway House Seems a Heartless Place
JULY AND AUGUST 2012 - What We Talk About When We Talk About Goodbye
Acknowledgements
For my mum and dad.
Obviously.
SEPTEMBER 2011
I Was Told There’d Be Light
Thursday 1 September
‘Fight the Good Fight’ by Yes, I’m Muslim, Please Get Over It
On www.sofiasblog.co.uk
You’d have thought that a break-up just before Ramadan would have inspired some kind of empathy from extended family members.
‘O-ho,’ one auntie might’ve said, ‘I’m sorry that your potential husband wanted you to live with his family and a hole-in-the-wall.’
Perhaps even a show of shock – a gasp, a hand to the chest or to the mouth . . . ‘Hain? A hole-in-the wall? What is this?’
Nope. An entire month and all my aunties (even the occasional uncle) felt compassion was redundant. For spiritual sustenance, they used their obsession with marriage instead. There was no sympathy at the mention of my no longer marrying the lawyer, and no shock when I explained why the hole-in-the-wall was an impediment to marital bliss. At every iftari party to break fast, all I did was wait seventeen hours to have a decent samosa, and instead I had nothing but the question of marriage shoved down my throat.
‘Maria is getting married, Sofia. Now it is your turn, nah?’
I tried! I did! But what normal human being would ask another human being to live with a cohort of mother, father, brother and sister-in-law with two children, complete with a sister and brother-in-law and three children next door, and a hole-in-the-wall joining the two houses? (Just writing that sentence about so many people confused me; imagine living with them.) I had to pretend it was the chilli sauce that made my eyes water.
Every time someone mentions the ‘M’ word, they become monochrome to me – like the first half of The Wizard of Oz – and at least Dorothy was looking for something more interesting. Home. If little old Dot was Muslim (and not that much older, to be honest), that wizard would be an eligible husband, they’d get married and she’d spend her days popping out babies and choosing suitable flooring. (Not that I have anything against babies or flooring – both are reasonable pastimes if you’re into that kind of thing.) On the plus side, she’d not have to worry about things like pouring water into authors’ champagne, or being thirty and waking up to her parents clattering around the house.
But it seems that this is life. The yellow brick road is paved with babies and just too many questions about the ‘M’ word . . .
7 a.m. The truth is, if your (ex) boyfriend has a habit of shaking his leg and all you want to do is chop off the limb in question, you’re probably not that in love with him – despite any affection that might bubble to the surface. (Incidentally, if you don’t have any kind of physical relationship with someone, can they really be your boyfriend? Shouldn’t there be a word for someone between a friend and a potential husband?) And then of course there’s the hole-in-the-wall. After a month of fasting and praying, and praying and fasting, I decided to write a list, because as Anaïs Nin said, ‘We write to taste life twice.’ I’m not sure she knew what she was talking about: we write to get rid of the taste certain morsels of life leave us with. But I don’t think I should be accused of never giving things a chance and writing is very useful for reference’s sake. Now where the hell is it. Ah, here we are:
Post-Ramadan/Hole-In-The-Wall resolutions:
•Give up smoking. Especially when Hannah says, ‘Some Islamic scholars say it’s haram. “Haram” is just “harm” without an extra “a”.’ Sigh. Knowledge is so inconvenient sometimes. (I do think it’s rather good of me not to judge her potential poly-gamous marriage given her raised eyebrows whenever I decide to get a fag out.)
•I’ll maintain my philosophical take on the entire Imran and hole-in-the-wall situ. There are people who like walls, and there are people who like holes-in-the-wall, and that is that.
•I’ll also unglue the phone from my hand. One should be selective with their obsessions and mine should be my job rather than social media and checking if Imran has emailed/Facebooked/texted/whatsapped/tweeted/instagrammed/pinterested etc.
•Which leads me to the importance of being a brilliant publicist. I won’t PR my way into a comfortable afterlife, but surely serving literature is like serving education, and education is the pinnacle of Islamic philosophy. Not sure how my current campaign for Shain Murphy’s Facts About Hippos book fits in, but then life is mysterious sometimes. Also I can prove that wearing a hijab does not make me a social pariah. I will not get sacked for being a practising Muslim. Getting sacked for being a shit book publicist, however, may be unavoidable.
•I won’t eat the entire contents of fridge to make up for severe Ramadan calorie cutback where my body went into shock and believed itself to be in a state of famine. (What I’ve lost in weight, I’ve gained in spirituality. I think.)
•Since I’m on the path to enlightenment I’ll also avoid any (unintentional, of course) hojabi tendencies. I.e. stay away from jersey, Lycra, tight-knit material that leave little to the imagination, and expose what can only be described as the wrong type of lady-lumps. This, I think, is rather a win-win for myself and society. (My community spirit begins.)
•More importantly – sod relationships. It’s either that or sod what I want, and I’d really rather do the former. So what if Imran and I wanted different things? That’s the way life rolls; downhill, some might say. Emotional dependency is bad for personal growth. (And a little too good for physical growth. Obviously.) As a woman of the twenty-first century, I should be enlightened enough to not obsess over my single status. I’m going to do more meaningful things. Voluntary work? Help London’s homeless? Bake cakes for people? (Learn to bake?) The list is endless.
I checked my phone to see if Imran had texted a belated Happy Eid. He had not. Maria burst into my room in her bathrobe and threw a bunch of swatches on my bed. It’s now four months until her wedding to Tahir. Her dress is going to be maroon, so everything has to be a shade of maroon. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took down my curtains and used them for the stage’s backdrop. I want to say: keep the curtains, dear; you’ll need them for covering that hole you’ll probably end up living with. She went through my wardrobe, leaving puddled footsteps on the flooring as I picked up one of the swatches.
‘This is one of the many reasons I’ve turned my back on marriage,’ I said.
‘Yeah, right.’
She doesn’t understand the spiritual transformation of the past month. Images of hazelnut Dairy Milk only occasionally punctuated the formation of my new Zen-like personality. If life were meant to be spent in a constant attempt to be with someone, I’d have been born in Lahore in, well, the 90s.
‘I can’t find my black pointies,’ she said, stretching so far into my wardrobe she was in danger of getting lost in there. She emerged with said black heels and inspected them. ‘Thanks for scuffing them.’
I got out of bed and rummaged around for a black marker.
‘Don’t
worry,’ I said, lifting the marker in the air, trying to take the shoes. Maars snatched them back.
It was my face, I think. Perhaps I looked hurt, or just pathetic, because Maars then looked at me the way she and my parents have been making a habit of and said, ‘Oh, it’s fine. Gives them a vintage look. Here, have them.’
She tried to hand the shoes to me.
‘I don’t want them,’ I replied.
A person only accepts sympathy in the form of presents if they need it. And I don’t need it.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
I bunched my hair up in a clip and straightened out my bed sheets.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, for perhaps the thousandth time. Just to prove how fine, I turned to her and did a jig on the spot followed by jazz hands.
Maria looked at me, adjusting the towel on her head. ‘Freak.’
‘Look at these walls,’ I said, caressing the smooth Egyptian Cotton paint. I rested my cheek against the wall and gave it a kiss. ‘Every morning I wake up and look at the fullness of them and think . . . Ah, this is how God intended walls to be.’
Maars sat on the bed. ‘Living with a hole-in-the-wall was taking it a bit far.’
Exactly. That’s not living with the in-laws, that’s living in an institution. But she has decided to live with the in-laws (without a hole-in-the-wall, which apparently makes all the difference) and anyway, Dad came thumping up the stairs and appeared at the door.
‘I’m leaving your mother.’ He rested both hands on his poorly back and puffed out his chest.
‘We know, Dad. Any decade now . . .’ I said.
Mum appeared from behind Dad and made him jump. It’s really rather impressive that such ampleness can move around so noiselessly.
‘Hai!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘You gave me a heart attack.’
‘No such luck.’ She shoved a tray in front of him. ‘Take your dogskin.’
Dad threw the Digoxin into his mouth, gulping it down with a glass of water. I hope Mum doesn’t go around saying she gives her husband dogskin. People already think Muslims are weird enough. Mum set the tray on my bed and handed Maria and me a plate of toast.
‘Look how kamzor you’ve become,’ she said to me.
Kamzor? I might be in danger of looking many things, but frail is not one of them. Three faces collectively leaned in and peered at me. I knocked on the wall.
‘But isn’t it better to have complete walls than a fat face?’ I asked. (Rhetorically, obviously.)
‘See her fussiness,’ said Mum, looking at Dad.
Dad came and placed my hand on the wall. ‘Now tell me,’ he said, walking to the other side. ‘How big was this hole?’
That’s the thing – I didn’t know. Did it have a door? Did the door have a lock? Or were the two houses separated by those long strings of beads where you can hear and see from one living room what’s going on in the next; people swishing in and out at will. Did this mean the family had voyeuristic tendencies?
‘But what if they have one big, big house?’ said Mum. She looked at Maars who was nibbling her toast. ‘At least we should have seen before Soffoo said no.’
‘What? said Maria. ‘She said no. End of.’
‘Thank you.’ Love Maars.
It’s so weird how our parents are constantly nagging us to get married when they’re ready to leg it out of their own marriage at any given opportunity. Is that what they think life is: a combination of resilience and resignation? No, thank you. They didn’t have choices – which is depressing – but surely they should be pleased that we’ve managed to inherit some. Though I suspect this much choice is not what they intended.
‘Kismet,’ I said, widening my eyes. ‘Can’t fight destiny, Mum.’
‘Le, kismet told you, say “no” .’
‘Kismet, right now, tells me I need the toilet.’
With which I walked past the family congregation and locked myself in the bathroom.
7.05 a.m. Wish I could have a fag. I could lean out of the window, but surely the fumes will penetrate the gap between the door and floor? Also, I’d have to go back into my room, lift the mattress for my secret stash and bring it back into the bathroom without being caught by either parent. (Which will make me feel as if I’m sixteen rather than thirty. Not particularly good for my sense of self.) Perhaps I should just jump out of the window and that will be the end of it.
Except I’m being a saint-like offspring to my immigrant parents.
8.15 a.m. What is the point of being a saint-like daughter to immigrant parents when my decisions are met with derision?
Mum took one look at my scarf and then outside at what promises to be a scorching day.
‘Hai hai, you want to die from heat?’
Dad was armed with his tool-belt in an attempt to fix the kitchen light. I pat him on the back.
‘Yes, Mum. One day I’ll sweat to death in my hijab.’
Mum fixed a roller in her hair as she told me about her friend Nargis’s daughter, who put on a hijab and had some gang follow her after work, calling her a Paki and telling her to go back home. Her daughter was so scared she took the hijab off the next day.
‘She should’ve said I am going home . . . Around the corner!’
‘Exactly,’ said Maria, taking two maroon swatches and checking them against the light.
‘O-ho! Bastard,’ Dad exclaimed. Not sure if he was talking about the kitchen light or the gang.
‘Your hair’s your one beauty – all covered up,’ said Mum, looking at my head.
I suppose since Mum created me, and I created the hijab situation, covering my hair must feel like a personal affront to her. It’s not you, Mum, it’s me. Honestly, it’s bad enough having Imran prefer spending a lifetime in a weird extended family living situation, but to have to explain what you do or don’t put on your head is really the limit.
‘Acha, maybe put on some more makeup.’ Mum looked at my apparently frail features. ‘Or you’ll look like one of those Gontonomo Bay wives.’
Dad looked over his shoulder and pointed the screwdriver at Mum. ‘Mehnaz . . .’
‘But at least they have husbands,’ she added, and was so impressed with this joke she began laughing out loud, hitting Dad on the back. He turned around and grabbed her by the shoulder, waving the screwdriver in the air.
‘Girls, your mama has loose screws in her brain. I will fix it.’
‘Haw, look at the time. Soffoo, you’ll be late.’ With which Mum handed me a banana and pushed me out of the kitchen, moaning about my state of being wrapped up in too much material and her state of being wrapped up in anxiety.
Angry-looking, tattooed next-door neighbour witnessed Mum trying to loosen my scarf to at least show that I have a reasonably long neck. He looks exactly like the type of person to tell me to go back home – even though he knows where I live. But no one ever said racists were sensible.
9.10 a.m. Oh my actual God. What just happened? I stepped onto the escalators at Tooting Broadway station thinking about my last exchange with Imran.
‘But girls move in with the in-laws all the time,’ he said. ‘It’s normal.’
Normal? Whose normal? I suppose another reason to not marry someone is differing ideas on concept of normality.
‘Why can’t you make a compromise?’ he asked, looking at me with that impenetrable stare he has – as if nothing could move him. Nothing has moved him – certainly not out of his family home. I wasn’t sure whether to cry or throw my coffee in his face. It was just so absurd. But then one person’s absurdity is another person’s obsession. You make the compromise. No, you make the compromise. No, you do it . . . How about no one does it and we all live uncompromised ever after?
‘Remember one of the first times we went out?’ he said. ‘You were pissed off because no one offered an old man a seat on the train and you forced someone to get up for him?’ He finally cracked a smile. ‘Everything you say, everything you do, there’s fire in your belly. And you
wear a hijab.’ He glanced at me. ‘You should never change.’
That made something constrict in my chest. I don’t care for I love yous – they’re for people who don’t know any better. You should never change is the culmination of all your flaws made necessary: the imperfect sum of an imperfect past, which turned out to be a good thing for someone.
‘Do you really think you’ll find someone who adores you as much as I do?’
Thanks. I hadn’t realised I was a puppy. Sigh. Logically speaking, it’s not as if it’s the end of the world, but it’s the end of something. I’m not fond of endings.
I was brought back to the present as people flooded out of the train. Before the doors closed I made a run for it, accidentally bumping into a man who was walking towards me. Accidentally. I heard him mumble something, but the doors were beeping and I was too busy pushing through the rush of people to really hear. As I stepped into the (non-air-conditioned) crammed carriage, the word finally penetrated my commute-fogged brain. I turned around, mouth open in delayed realisation. Terrorist? Me? What the actual fuck! I tiptoed and angled my head to catch sight of the perpetrator of this most unexpected opinion. The tube doors were still open. I saw him turn around to disentangle his jacket that had got caught in someone’s briefcase. Someone else got stuck between the doors.
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
No one heard him. Everyone just carried on reading their papers, listening to their iPods as if someone hadn’t just pulled normality from under my feet and smacked my head against some bizarre reality. In my daze, I got my book out from my bag. Forget him, I rationalised to myself, you should be used to racist abuse, Sofia. Such flimsy words make no difference to me. It was a decent rationale, but didn’t quite do the job of putting my world back into balance. I stared at the ground and looked at my shoes: my lovely, teal, snakeskin, peep-toes (which, by the way, are offset perfectly by my coral scarf). I was like, hang on – I don’t look like a terrorist.
