by Ayisha Malik
Dad turned up the volume on the iPod and he and Mum thought it perfectly acceptable to start singing along. Maria and I exchanged looks and quietly laughed. At least they find harmony through their mutual love of old Bollywood music. I looked over the fence and the neighbour had the door open. Was that him leaning against the wall? I turned the volume down, explaining to Dad that not everyone on our street is a fan of Bollywood. He looked at me in mock horror. We really should stop giving people an excuse to dislike us anymore than they probably already do.
But, honestly, but if you don’t like it, you really shouldn’t leave your door open.
11.40 p.m. The other problem with my being alone stance is being celibate and believing in no sex before marriage. Surely never having a shag, ever, will have an adverse effect on my health.
11.45 p.m. Hmmm, I’ve just Googled ‘lack of sex in life’ and it seems there’s no such thing. There is ‘Marriage sex problems’, ‘Bring your sex life back to life’ (ha!), ‘Lack of sexual intimacy’, etc. but nothing about not having any at all. Clearly no one’s deemed the possibility of having no sex and its adverse effects important enough to put up online. Perhaps I should instead search ‘celibacy’.
11.47 p.m. ‘The effects of celibacy on obsession and arthritis . . .’ Hmmm.
2.15 a.m. I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about arthritis. Is being celibate really making me obsessive??
Friday 2 September
‘Blah, Blah, Black Sheep’ by Yes, I’m Muslim, Please Get Over It.
On www.sofiasblog.co.uk
I’ve never liked talk of ‘otherness’. What a breeding ground for division and, quite frankly, stupidity. But, unfortunately, just because you don’t like a thing doesn’t mean you won’t feel it. Whether this feeling karate-chops you – as it probably will at some stage in your Muslim or non-Muslim life (I don’t pretend to have ownership over ‘otherness’) – or whether it slowly takes the oxygen from the bubble you realise you lived in, it’s the after-effects that are the most interesting. If things are thrown off balance, you shouldn’t worry about it too much, God’ll chuck down something on the other side of the scale to even things out, though it may very well be a shaky start.
9.40 a.m. I’ve strolled in with pastry and coffee in hand, but the only person here is Fleur. She was in a frenzy because she couldn’t find the stapler to staple the Events Schedule together. I handed her some paper clips, before checking my phone for any message from Imran. Again. Positives about being alone include being able to focus on other people’s problems, which is very selfless, and far more in keeping with being a good Muslim. Except that getting married is apparently completing half your faith. Does this mean I’m less successful in Islam as well as society?
9.55 a.m. Balls! Fleur just asked me why I’m not in the editorial meeting. Why are these now starting at nine-thirty?? Changing face of publishing – there’s crack of dawn prayer, and now there’s practically crack of dawn meeting. But how is anyone to take my professionalism seriously if I miss them?
‘Can I still blame it on Ramadan?’ I asked Fleur.
‘Wouldn’t that be lying?’
I like Fleur. Her obsession with highlighting things is very entertaining, but when she looks at you in that earnest way she makes you question yourself. I think it’s hard not to like the people that make you question things. Unless you don’t like answers.
Well, so long as everyone’s away, no harm in checking my Facebook.
9.58 a.m. Ooh. Who’s this hot guy that’s just poked me?
10.05 a.m. Oopsies. Was just going through photos of hot guy standing on mountains and at weddings, and didn’t see Brammers come up behind me. God knows how long she was looming over me.
‘Can I see you in my office in ten minutes?’
Now I’m going to have to persuade her that I really am a professional publicist, not professional cyber-stalker.
Katie came over to my desk and handed me a smoothie.
‘Happy non-fasting! It’s a bit healthier than the biscuits yesterday.’
She perched on my desk, hugging her notebook.
‘Don’t worry, I missed most of the meeting too. Forgot my wallet on the train and then my shoe fell on the track,’ she said.
There should be a book written about Katie. Just then John Trumpet, the publishing director, walked past us and into Brammers’ office, closing the door behind him.
‘What’s going on in there?’ I asked.
‘Oh, Trumpet’s all “Ghastly situation we’re in, ahem. Something needs to jolly well be done. What we need is a book with real punch.” ’ Katie thrust her fist in the air. ‘They might be laying people off.’
Oh my God, is this why Brammers wants to see me in the office? Despite my brilliant idea yesterday? Though firing me would mean they wouldn’t be able to tick the ethnicity box for the division. Hurrah for equal opportunities! Shame if someone better than me had to lose their job, though, would feel guilty.
Katie was just about to say something when Brammers poked her head out of the door and asked me to come through.
10.45 a.m. Erm, what just happened? I walked into the office and Trumps was still there. I thought this was them saying sod ticking equal opportunities box, let’s get rid of the scarfie who spends her time looking at strange men’s pics on FB.
‘So, Sofia, you know your idea in yesterday’s meeting was great. Contemporary, fresh, good fun,’ said Brammers.
‘Thanks. You know, glad to help.’
Trumps sniffed and seemed distracted by the pigeons outside the window. ‘Terribly filthy things,’ he said.
Brammers cleared her throat, ‘Yes, well, John and the team loved the idea.’
Even Brammers couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice. I suspect because she delivered the idea to them. Trumps, who was still distracted, looked at me as if he’d only just noticed me. ‘Brilliant idea! Excellent! Muslim dating? Well, I had no idea you were allowed to date.’ He heaved towards me and looked at me sympathetically. ‘Are your parents disappointed?’
In life? Me? My inability to find a husband? Their own loveless marriage?
‘Erm, well . . .’
‘It’s all very western, isn’t it? Must be hard for them. Out with the old, in with the new.’
Felt I should’ve played along and said, Yes, they cry about the loss of their culture and roots and curse the day they immigrated to England.
‘I, er, don’t know.’
Trumps looked a bit dissatisfied. Then something important seemed to occur to him. ‘Now, you’re not going to get stoned to death for this, are you?’
Brammers cleared her throat and then laughed. ‘Of course she’s not going to get stoned to death, John. Really.’
Wait, what? ‘Why would I get stoned to death?’
I’m sure fundos have better things to do than give out fatwas on hijabis who come up with dating book ideas. And then Brammers really did drop the bomb.
‘Because we want you to write the book.’
At first I thought she was joking, because, hello, I’d be better as a farmhand than a writer (although they probably wouldn’t take to a scarfie in the country). I’ve never tried to write a book in my life. I read books, obviously, but when I laughed Brammers just looked at me. Even Trumps was no longer distracted by the three pigeons – one of which, by the way, had propped itself on top of the other. Imagine; even pigeons are shagging.
‘Oh, but don’t you think it might be better if someone who knows how to write, writes the book?’ Silence. ‘I could always help them with stories and things.’
I looked at them, hopefully. What were they thinking??
Brammers looked like she needed to take a laxative. She then turned her computer screen around and lo and behold, what was facing me but my very own blog?
‘Katie told us about this . . .’
Katie is going to die.
‘Over five thousand followers . . . We’ve had a meeting with the team,’
she continued, looking at Trumps. ‘John and I agree that it would be somewhat authentic coming from you. From a marketing angle.’
‘Yes, that scarf thing.’
Brammers opened up her hands towards me. ‘You’re energetic, Sofe. Always telling funny stories; everyone in the editorial meeting thinks you’d be great. And this blog shows you can write.’
It’s always nice to be appreciated. Also, felt like reporting that to people with a ‘No one wants a scarfie in the workplace’ attitude. This is London, thank you.
Trumps scratched the flesh of his belly that peeped through the strained buttons of his shirt. ‘It’s a bloody brilliant idea.’
‘Sales and Marketing think so too,’ added Brammers. ‘No mean feat.’
Has Trumps’s looming retirement turned him from ingenious to insane? But what was I meant to say to the divisional publicity director and publishing director? No, loves, find another scarfie to do that for you?
‘We know it’s a somewhat unusual request, Sofia. But your idea is great, and your stories, well, who can tell them better than you?’ said Brammers.
Obligation came with its vice-like grip. There were people who thought I was the one to make it work. People who didn’t think I was a terrorist. Look! We Muslims can be fun too! It just didn’t feel wholly comfortable.
‘The thing is, I’ve never written stories, you know.’
‘Small, minor detail, Sofia. If it’s awful, well, that’s what editing is for.’
Yes, I’d like to be known for writing that one awful book that had to be edited to within an inch of its life.
‘Of course we’ve discussed an advance.’
I looked at both of them. Nothing makes the ears perk up more than the mention of an advance. Especially since the salary jump from press officer to publicity manager wasn’t exactly nigh. Probably rightly so. Shame.
‘We’d like the first draft in July, we’re thinking, aren’t we, John?’
‘Yes. Good month. And October for final delivery. Fifteen thousand. Lucinda will be your editor, but Dorothy here, well, she’s interested in being hands-on with the editorial process so she’ll also be working on the book.’
My heart began to race, which was rather uncharacteristic of it. Obligation’s grip turned out to have padding in the shape of fifteen thousand pounds. I could quit work for a year and go travelling. Or add it to my savings and try to buy my own place – if I’m not getting married I can’t live with my parents for ever. All kinds of other possibilities came popping out from the seams of professional opportunity.
‘And such a huge commitment from you wouldn’t go unnoticed.’ Brammers smiled, her V-shaped vein threatening an appearance. Trumpet’s bushy eyebrows were raised expectantly, and then I suppose you could say the trumpet had sounded . . .
2 p.m. Katie was so excited she insisted on going for lunch to celebrate after I’d prayed.
‘You do know this doesn’t just happen? This is a real opportunity, Sofe. You should be ecstatic.’
One emotion at a time, please.
‘What you need to do is go online dating.’ Katie took a bite of her quiche. ‘Don’t give me that face, you know what I mean. If I hadn’t been with Tom since the beginning of time, it’s exactly what I’d be doing. Inspiration.’
‘Uh-uh. There has to be a simpler way. Let’s look into ghost-writers.’
‘You need to be open to new experiences. I’m learning to do the same. Going to India taught me this.’
‘Yes, going online is the same as travelling around India. Anyway, what if people find out?’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘And plus, I’m sworn off men.’
‘You need stories.’
I put a chip in my mouth.
‘And you won’t get them listening to your mum going on about lamps. Also, it’s a good distraction from, you know, stuff.’ I assume she was talking about Imran, who still hadn’t messaged me back. ‘What about that website? I’ve seen those ads and one of my Indian friends signed up for it. She said it was good. Sh . . . sha-something?’
‘Shaadi.com?’
‘Yes! Shaadi! What does it mean?’
‘Wedding.’
‘Well then – that’s just what the publishing house ordered.’
Man, I could do with a fag. Hmmm, maybe I can bum one off the workie.
2.15 p.m. Love our workie. I put the cigarette safely in my bag as I called Hannah.
‘This is fantastic news!’ She’d just come out of the doctor’s surgery and got my message. My new career path apparently made her day better. I’m a philanthropist! Although I did use her polygamous life as an anecdote for the office. Honestly, what was I thinking? Thankfully Hannah’s response was, ‘Finally. Someone who actually gets to benefit from my ridiculous relationship.’
Love Hannah. Perhaps this is like karma for intentions. I was thinking of ways to help people and it turns out people’s relationships are going to help me. Maybe being asked to write this book is not such a bad thing. Perhaps this is God’s way of saying, here, you might not have a man, but have a book instead. I was, after all, looking for something meaningful, and this is like volunteering my literary services to help people have a better understanding of the Muslim world: a bit of light relief in the face of chronic darkness.
From Suj: You’re a fucking genius! We’re going to be famous!
From Sofia: When are you back from Miami?
From Suj: Who bloody knows! I have another spot on my chin. Men in Mee-ami are HOT! Always knew you’d be famous. Love you and your big brain! Xxxxxxx
The cons of having a best friend who’s a model includes having to wait until she’s home to have a proper conversation. I won’t yet break it to Suj that Muslim dating books do not make a person famous.
10.55 p.m. The girls and I had a post-Ramadan commencement of our monthly meet in Spice Village in Toots (sans Suj), which turned into a celebratory dinner. I’m going to be a writer! (With fifteen thousand pounds!) Fozia came after work drinks with her banking lot and said it’ll show people that we Muslims aren’t boring bastards. Double hurrah! And I can also use Fozia’s stories.
‘I’ve been out with most of the Muslim men in London . . . And look who I’ve ended up with.’ She slumped her head on the table. ‘Good for you, though,’ she mumbled before looking up with distressed Bambi eyes. ‘Can I have your job? God I hate mine.’
‘All you need is a plan, Foz,’ said Hannah. She got out her phone and started making a list. I patted Fozia on the head as I began to see that actually the picture here was bigger than I’d thought.
‘I’m beyond a plan.’
‘No one,’ said Hannah, ‘is beyond a plan. No weeping over the mixed grill, please. ’
That’s obviously because Hannah (whose activism against the objectification of women includes forgoing makeup. I’m against this too – obviously – but inflicting social trauma because you can’t be arsed to put on mascara is a little selfish. We’re not all blessed with natural beauty) can’t live without a plan.
‘Is it weird that Imran hasn’t texted me back?’ I said.
‘Do you think he’s got married?’ asked Hannah.
Why does everyone act as if there’s a marriage marathon going on? ‘It’s only been five weeks.’
Foz sat up and sighed. ‘Maybe he went to Pakistan and found himself a wife.’
I stared at her as the awful possibility dawned on me. But then I remembered who we were talking about.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not Imran. He’s too . . . what’s the word?’
‘Idealistic?’ Hannah offered.
‘Exactly.’ I remembered how much that used to annoy me about him. Until it stopped annoying me and then just made me laugh. ‘Maybe life played the irony card and he fell down a hole?’
Hannah cleared her throat. ‘Girls, I’ve decided – I’m giving Zulfi an ultimatum . . . It took him two years to tell his wife about us. He needs to either set the wedding date or I’m gone.’
Foz gulped down some mango lassi. ‘My friend who’s a second wife never had any of this, Han.’
Hannah’s makeupless face went a shade of red.
‘She’s really happy,’ added Fozia. Honestly, Foz reads a situation as well as she can read Chinese. It looked like Hannah might throw her chicken tikka across the restaurant and storm out.
‘I’ve given up fags,’ I interjected. ‘I’m against any kind of dependency – nicotine included.’ (This morning’s fag doesn’t count. Nor does the one in purse.)
Hannah stabbed at her plate (possibly visualising Foz?). We needed Suj to diffuse the situation but she was on a beach in Miami, modelling, and we were in Spice Village, eating a mixed grill.
‘I am happy,’ said Hannah.
I tried not to look at Fozia.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Excellent. That’s the goal, isn’t it?’
Hannah looked at me. ‘You hate it when people say they’re happy.’
‘Yes, but look at me. I have an ex-boyfriend who’s either married some boatie or fallen down a hole. Listen, you do what you have to do, and leave the rest up to God. That’s what we do. Action followed by a substantial leap of faith.’
I wanted to add that perhaps the action should be a little more thought out, but you don’t blame the person who lit a fire while they’re still in the middle of a burning building. To think: there are all these people in polygamous marriages, and one of my best friend’s about to join in. A person could get used to the practicalities of it; seeing your husband half the week (less time spent shaving), being home alone (brilliant – you get quality couple time together and alone time), not quite having legal rights as a wife since you’d only be married by Islamic law (hmmm) . . . It’s the emotional part-ownership that’s surely the biggest drag. That and also sex sharing. Except it’s not PC to judge – we are all autonomous beings, blah blah blah.
