by Ayisha Malik
‘Yes, Mum, thanks. Now can I pray and then get some work done, please?’
I ushered her out of the room and just before she crossed the threshold, she said, ‘Pray for a husband or go and find somewhere to live.’
I’m not sure what’s worse; being grey-haired and wrinkled, sitting with my parents and watching TV, or being grey-haired and wrinkled, sitting alone and watching TV.
10.20 p.m. Nerves are an odd kind of thing. At first I thought I might have heartburn, and then I thought, Hmm, no, I’ve had this feeling before. It’s just been such a long time I didn’t quite recognise it.
Naim suggested meeting in Leicester Square. I waited outside Burger King, which is depressing at the best of times but then he is a foreigner so I decided to be accepting and forgiving.
‘You’re late,’ I said as he approached.
He was taller than I remembered and seemed to have forgotten to shave, which was a little distracting. Who doesn’t like a bit of stubble or a beard, eh? Thank God he wasn’t wearing that stupid scarf. We stood for a few seconds and I was caught in that dilemma of whether I should shake his hand. A hijabi shouldn’t really hug a man, but then shaking hands is like we’re about to have a business meeting. I put my hands firmly in my jacket pockets.
‘But wasn’t I worth it?’ He smiled, rather too widely. What was it about this smile? He had, after all, reasonable teeth. I have doubts about a person who smiles too widely or readily. It suggests something like smugness.
We walked towards Patisserie Valerie and sat down. He fiddled around with his phone as I ordered a cappuccino.
‘So what’s your family business then?’ I asked.
He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. ‘My dad’s always been hung up on the idea of a restaurant. Like that’s not been done before. Anyway, we’ve just leased a place. It’s work, right? Can’t complain.’
Nothing like a bit of passion. The waitress brought over our coffees and his apple tart. Granted, she was rather beautiful, but he could’ve been a little subtler when he checked her out. Honestly. He turned his plate around.
‘Here, try some,’ he said.
I got my spoon to take a bite when he picked out a raisin and put it to the side. ‘Isn’t it weird how these are dried grapes?’
What an idiot! And the sentiment of what I thought was written all over my face. I sat back, empty spoon in hand.
‘Raisins aren’t dried grapes.’ You moron, I wanted to add.
He looked, momentarily, embarrassed. ‘What?’
‘How are raisins dried grapes?’
‘Yeah, yeah, they are – what else are they?’
‘I don’t know, but not dried grapes.’
Then he got his phone out and started Googling it and, of course, found to my profound horror that they are indeed dried grapes.
‘Where did you think they came from? Raisin trees?’ He was laughing so hard the table was shaking.
‘All right, calm down,’ I said with whatever dignity I could muster. WTF? How have I gone through life in such ignorance??
‘It was the look on your face. This, like, conviction, that I’d said the stupidest thing ever.’
‘And yet you had to Google it.’
By this time the waitress had come back to our table. He looked up at her, his eyes resting momentarily on her rather voluptuous frame.
‘Thank you for bringing this dessert. It has, quite literally, made my day.’
Hmph. She looked a little confused.
‘Excuse him, he’s easily entertained. And a public hazard,’ I said.
‘I hope you don’t go around telling authors that raisins grow on raisin trees.’
This doesn’t bode well for my writing career. Surely this is the kind of thing a writer (and normal human) should know?
‘They’re not included in your dating book, are they?’ he asked.
‘I think it’s best to stay away from shrivelled up things.’
Like my ovaries, for example.
‘So, what are you going to say about our people’s dating rituals?’
‘Not sure. A bit of research should get the wheels in my head turning.’
‘Are you just using me?’
‘Are you telling me you’re useful?’
He laughed. ‘Well, I’ve already told you that raisins are dried grapes. Let’s take this further. Did you know that prunes are dried plums?’
‘Fascinating.’
His phone beeped and he checked the message before turning it upside down.
‘So you don’t actually want to get married?’
‘No.’ Right now I’m in the process of getting over the fact that I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT RAISINS WERE.
‘Well, that explains it then.’
‘What?’
He took a bite of the dessert.
‘Why you’re still single.’
Now, I’m as big a fan of irony as the next person, but only when I can detect it. Was that a compliment? I don’t know why the hell it made me blush. On one hand it serves very well as a natural rouge, on the other hand it can also be a bloody nuisance.
‘Hey, you wanna go get dinner?’ he asked.
I hesitated and looked at my phone. Maybe during dinner I could redeem myself and pretend I did actually have a functioning brain. Just as I was about to say yes, he looked at his phone again.
‘Actually, better not,’ he said. ‘My friend keeps messaging. I’ve kinda bailed on her a lot.’
And there was me thinking I’m the only one he really knew here.
‘Oh. Fine. Good,’ I replied. ‘Lots of wedding stuff to deal with anyway.’ Although, I did think an extended evening might’ve been quite fun. ‘Listen, there’s no obligation or anything . . . but if you’re in the mood for answering questions and me generally being nosey about your perspective on matters about faith and commitment, I’d be more than happy to listen.’
He wiped his mouth with the napkin. ‘Sure. I reckon it could be interesting.’
Ooh, Hannah calling.
11.23 p.m. ‘So?’ she asked. ‘How was the date?’
‘Perfectly amicable.’
‘Any potential?’
‘For help with the book? Yes, plenty.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Did you know that raisins were dried grapes?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Maybe I need to read less fiction and more newspapers. I received a FB notification on my phone and checked it.
‘What is it?’ asked Hannah.
‘Oh, nothing. Just got a friend request from Naim.’
‘That’s one of the good things about dating an older man,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to analyse your relationship status through the medium of social media.’ She paused. ‘Zulfi still writes letters.’
‘Bloody hell. That’s a bit long. Although, I suppose there’s longevity in letters.’
11.55 a.m. Keep thinking about raisins. Can’t sleep. Also keep thinking about endings.
Note for book: Endings are never absolute.
The idea of getting married is so ingrained in us that even when one decides to be alone, all a person has to do is say ‘keep an open mind’ and the notion leaks out of some unknown fold. I don’t have time for leaks, especially when there are still the odd dust particles of the HITW. I looked at Naim’s friend request and wondered about extracted moments of my life being available to him.
As I went through some of Imran’s old messages on my phone I moved my finger over the screen and the ‘delete’ button appeared. I read each message one last time before I brushed each particle of dust under the carpet, with every tap of the button. Then I accepted Naim’s friend request.
12.05 a.m.
From Naim: We are now fraands?
To Naim: We are, indeed, fraands.
Note for book: You can’t employ cleaners for emotional matters, but now you can de-clutter with the tap of a button. Who has time for the ritual of letter-burning, anyway?<
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Sunday 9 October
11 p.m. Genius new idea to be used, as a back-up, should book and life-plan fail: sing Bollywood songs in English and get the other person to guess it! Perhaps idea needs to be tweaked. But have just spent two hours on phone to Naim and we both agree that this is how we could make our mark in the world.
Tuesday 11 October
10.45 a.m.
From Naim: I think we should set up our own Bollywood Winter Wonder band.
10.50 a.m.
To Naim: Will it help with non-music related matters?
10.52 a.m.
From Naim: Sofia – you manage to sing your way into my evenings; now apply the same talent to singing your way out of non-music matters too.
10.55 a.m.
To Naim: If we’re going to have a Winter Wonder band, we should go public and charge.
10.56 a.m.
From Naim: Of course. Who wouldn’t pay to listen to our genius? But given I’m clearly the brains in this set-up, leave the logistics to me.
11.03 a.m.
To Naim: But then what do I bring to the set-up?
11.04 a.m.
From Naim: The looks, of course.
Hain?
12 p.m.
From Hannah: All I want to hear you say is that you think this is a fine idea and that getting married to a married man is not ridiculous.
Called Hannah on her lunch break. She was shopping in Selfridges for wedding shoes for her cold feet.
‘What if she turns out to be this psychopath who decides to kill me for marrying her husband? What if his kids hate me now they know I’m not just a friend but his soon-to-be-wife? What if they begin plotting an elaborate revenge attack?’
All questions to have asked oneself a little more than just three weeks before a wedding, surely?
‘She’s not going to kill you, his kids will love you, and I don’t think a person has time to plan revenge attacks when they have children. Most mothers barely have time to brush their hair.’
‘Trust me. She has time to brush her hair. They have a nanny.’ She paused as I tried to think of something positive to say. ‘What if I don’t end up like Fozia’s friend who goes out to Pizza Express with her co-wife?’ she added. ‘Not that I want to.’
I’ve always hated words of comfort. I don’t know if you should trust a person who says ‘It’s going to be OK’ unless they’re going to personally try and fix it. The best thing in such circumstances is to do damage control, because surely whatever spectacular mess you might get yourself into, there’s always a way out. Unless you’re stuck in a mine or something.
‘Divorce is a handy option.’
‘That’s your solution?’ replied Hannah.
‘No. But I’m just saying that it’s a possibility.’
‘You girls don’t think I should do it, do you?’
I paused. Well, who in their right mind would say ‘Yes! Fab-ulous idea!’
‘Only you can know what’s right for you,’ I replied. This might mean I can’t be trusted.
Note for book: If entering polygamous relationship, get CRB check on the first wife. Just in case.
9 p.m. Naim called around half five saying he was in the area and asked whether I could grab a coffee.
‘Sorry, can’t,’ I said. I looked over at Katie and mouthed that it was the American. ‘I’m having dinner with Katie.’
‘Oh come on. I’ll buy you dinner . . .’
Katie watched me and raised her eyebrows.
‘Listen, she knows you have a book to write. I’m your inspiration. It doesn’t come along every day.’
‘You’re so full of shit.’
I lowered the phone and informed Katie of happenings.
‘Oh, God, Sweetu,’ she whispered. ‘Just go. We’ll have dinner next week.’
If I were Katie, I’d want to smack me right now. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, sighing. ‘Just tell him he owes me.’
We met at Tate Modern and I told him I’d be poor company because I couldn’t go back to sleep after morning prayer.
‘You never miss a prayer, do you?’ he said.
‘Nope. Once a bunch of people walked into the conference room while I had my forehead on the ground.’
‘With your ass in the air? They lucked out, huh?’
I smacked his arm. Honestly.
‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘Well, I had to choose between God and a bunch of sales execs. I carried on praying, of course.’
He laughed as I guided him towards the Black History Month exhibition.
‘You know, I did the whole drinking, girls scene and then there was a time when I really got into going to the mosque. But I dunno, shit happened and it just kind of stopped.’
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. We were both looking at a selection of framed pictures, drawings and posters.
‘You know, the thing about garlic sauce is that it makes everything taste better,’ I said.
‘Mixed with chilli sauce.’
‘Obviously. But not too much.’
‘You want it spicy, though,’ he said.
‘Oh yes. Everything in life should be.’
‘Apart from raisins.’
‘Very funny.’
He laughed again.
I leaned in to look at a poster, which said: ‘Made for Kisses – The Lighter, Smoother Skin Men Adore’. He leaned in too.
‘That’s some bullshit, huh?’ he said.
I was about to reply when his phone rang. He looked at the name and excused himself as he took the call. The exhibition really was very interesting but my eyes kept wandering towards Naim, who seemed to be engaged in a rather entertaining conversation. I got my phone out to message Katie that I was sorry when I realised Naim was behind me.
‘Hey. Sorry about that.’
A big group of people entered the room.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but can we take a raincheck on dinner?’
One of the girls in the group stepped away to take a photo. She flicked back a cascade of brown hair, distracting Naim before he looked back at me.
‘Oh.’ I realised that I might’ve been looking forward to an extended evening more than I thought.
‘Dad needs me to sort out a work emergency. Is that OK?’
It’s not as if you can ignore an emergency, but this rationality didn’t quite quell the disappointment. Also, that was a very animated way of speaking to one’s dad.
‘Maybe you can still have dinner with your friend, Caitlin.’
‘Katie.’
‘Right, sorry. Katie.’
Ugh. I hope he’s not the type of person who thinks that it’s acceptable to cancel on someone and then un-cancel just because it’s convenient.
‘No. I should do some writing.’
‘You should write another blog.’
I didn’t even know he’d read them. Hair cascader walked past us, but I don’t think he noticed.
‘Blogs are on hold until I’ve written the book.’
‘I’ll make it up to you. Do you mind?’
Constant questioning about whether something is OK is very annoying.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘Human interaction beyond a two-hour window bores me anyway. Plus,’ I said, tapping on my phone, ‘I’ve received a non-idiotic email on Shady. It’s my duty to investigate.’
I showed him the profile on my phone, which, luckily, happened to be rather witty.
‘He’s good-looking, isn’t he?’
‘Why are you asking me? Make sure you tell him about the two-hour window,’ he mumbled.
Note for book (and life): Test a person’s capacity for annoyance.
I put my phone in my bag and we walked towards the escalators in silence.
‘Hey,’ he said when we got to the top. He stepped towards me. ‘You should brush up on your research skills. Ask me a question.’
‘Good point. OK. Worst date?’<
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‘Oh, God, girl who wouldn’t leave me alone, calling me Poopy Poo in all her messages.’
I laughed.
‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘When I said raisins aren’t dried grapes.’
ARGH! Why, why, why, did I say that?
‘Not that it was a date. Obviously. You know what I mean.’
He smiled and we both stepped onto the escalator. ‘One of my top three moments in London. My friends in America are going to love that story,’ he said.
‘Tell me more about this Poopy Poo. Is it a nickname you’re fond of?’
‘I could write a Bollywood song about raisins.’
‘Knowing Bollywood, it’d be a hit.’
And, right there, in the middle of the Tate, Naim opened up his arms and decided to sing a song about raisins.
Who’d have thought that writing a book could be such good fun?
Sunday 16 October
2.20 p.m. Dad came in earlier and I attempted to steer him away from taking a cigarette, but I felt sorry for him so gave in. I haven’t heard from Naim the entire weekend, though he said he’d call. How long does it take to sort out an emergency? At least it’s given me time to email Tate guy (Jawad) on Shady, while downstairs, Mum, Dad and Maria discuss Chachu and maroon drapes. Sigh.
6.30 p.m. It’s not as if people do as they promise. Like when HITW Imran said we could live wherever I wanted and then, three months later, he decided he couldn’t leave the parental womb. It’s just as well I’ve decided to be alone, I suppose, given that the idea of spending the rest of one’s life with me makes a man cling to his parents for dear life.
If HITW Imran marries someone and moves out I will be very annoyed.
6.52 p.m. Or maybe Imran realised that I have a big bum and used living with his family as an excuse to spare my feelings. A farce because of my arse!
Ooh, girls are here.
9 p.m. Foz was already warming a plate of food in the microwave and Suj was eating an apple when I came downstairs.
‘Where’s Han?’ I asked.
‘Shopping with Zulfi,’ replied Suj.
‘A wedding present,’ Foz added. ‘And she gets to choose.’
