by Ayisha Malik
‘I suppose she has important things to do given the wedding’s less than a week away.’
I relayed my conclusion about the real reason Imran didn’t marry me. Bits of apple came flying out of Suj’s mouth.
‘You were only ready to book a ticket to California with me the day he wanted to tell his parents.’
Hmm, I’d forgotten about that specific panic attack, but I think that’s a natural reaction in the context of deciding to make long-term commitments.
‘What’s wrong with wanting an extended holiday?’ I asked.
Foz took her plate of saag aloo and rice out and leaned against the counter. ‘Oh, my God, Auntie. This is so delicious.’ With which she forgot all about us and went to sit with Mum and Maria.
‘How’s Charles?’ I asked Suj.
‘He’s black, that’s what he is.’ She threw the apple core in the bin. ‘Can you imagine what my family would say: her mum died and then she fucked off with a black guy.’
‘People are shits.’
‘I’m seeing Charles tonight, but after that, Toffee . . . if my dad ever found out he’d have a heart attack.’
I wanted to say that’s outrageous, but somewhere in the gaps of my high morality there was a morsel of understanding. I can’t imagine what my parents would say if I brought home someone of the non-brown variety. ‘Just so you know, confessions about black boyfriends doesn’t give heart attacks.’
She laughed. ‘It does! Don’t you watch Zee TV?’
‘No, and neither should you because that’s what happens.’ I nodded towards Mum and Co. who’d moved on, naturally, to discussing maroon drapes.
‘If the old dear was here, she’d probably have a heart attack too,’ said Suj.
I took Suj’s arm.
‘From where she is she wouldn’t care if he were Flamingo Pink. It’s all the same in the end. Plus,’ I added, surveying the swatches on the coffee table, ‘she’s undoubtedly looking down and shaking her head at our collective stupid preoccupations.’
Foz came in for second helpings. ‘Have you spoken to the American?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘He said he’d call.’
‘Don’t be fooled by these men, Toffee. Mind games.’
To be honest, I don’t know where that comment from. What have Naim’s phone calls got to do with mind games? We’re just friends. Dad walked past and went into the garden.
‘Actually, he’s really more into singing games,’ I replied.
‘Is he five?’ asked Suj. Poor Naim. ‘Why hasn’t he called you?’
‘We’re just friends.’ But it is annoying -– when someone says they’ll do something and then they don’t. ‘Imran always called when he said he would,’ I added. ‘Although, I prefer failure to call over failure to move out.’
I looked into the garden but couldn’t see Dad. As I craned my neck I saw him hiding in a corner, having a cigarette! You’d think he’d be more discreet about it. He saw me and put his finger to his mouth. Granted he looked rather at peace, but I don’t really want to be the reason he carries on smoking. Mum, who always seems to know what’s going on, marched into the garden and began telling him off. Maria came into the kitchen as all four of us watched the battle of the wills. ‘He really needs to stop this nonsense,’ said Maars.
‘This is only pleasure I have left,’ exclaimed Dad.
‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded.
I ducked, as if that was going to help.
‘Panchod, I can’t do what I want in my own home.’
At which he carried on smoking, while Mum decided to stand firm and watch until he finished, presumably to minimise any joy.
‘Sofe,’ Foz added, ‘Men are never the ones to make the sacrifices.’
Seems all the goats in the world are female.
9.40 p.m. Well, I’ve not heard from Naim but I have heard from Jawad. Jawad would like to have coffee on Wednesday. As it happens, I am available.
Note for book: DON’T BE A GOAT!
Wednesday 19 October
10.20 a.m.
From Naim: Hello, dear raisin. How about we have a coffee tonight?
Oh, hello. Five days later!
10.30 a.m.
To Naim: Sorry, can’t tonight. Tomorrow?
10.31 a.m.
From Naim: Keep a guy waiting. OK, sure. Tomorrow.
9.40 p.m. Basically, perceived reality is pants. Take, for example, Jawad, who looked like a decent enough kind of guy in his profile picture. I’m not being superficial but he actually looked like sewer rat guy from Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles. Every time I looked at him, I expected him to perform ninjitsu in the middle of Costa.
Points from evening that might be useful in book:
1.He received a call from his dad about some plans to do with getting pizza. (Parental dependency?).
2.He mentioned my age several times. ‘How come you’re not married?’ ‘Do you see yourself having children sooner rather than later?’ (Thanks, God, by the way, for the actual ticking of the clock that we could hear in the coffee shop.)
3.His profile said he was tall, but he was no taller than 5 feet 8 inches. Suggests self-delusion or entirely different perspective on concept of tall.
Ah, Naim calling . . .
10.25 p.m.
From Jawad: Hi. So, good to meet you. Let’s take this forward. When do you want to meet again?
11.45 p.m. Just got off phone to Naim. Oh, my Lord. Is it me, or is that message total presumptuous twattishness?
11.55 p.m. I forwarded to girls. They all agree. Twattish.
‘Haha. Defo a twat!’ shouted Maria from her room. To which Mum asked, ‘What is twat?’ and Dad intervened with ‘Language!’
Mum, Maria and I, from our respective rooms, told him to stop being such a pot.
Whatever the twat factor, having to text back ‘thanks, but no thanks’ is definitely on my list of top ten most hated things. So I spent some fifteen minutes devising a text message, sending it to the girls and Maria for approval, editing and finally sent it:
To Jawad: It was lovely to meet you, but I don’t think we’re compatible. Take care and it’d be good to stay friends.
Which it wouldn’t. Obviously. But a person has to try to be nice about these things.
Thursday 20 October
8 a.m.
From Naim: Tonight I’m bringing a book that gives you the origins of all dried fruits.
8.03 a.m.
To Naim: Oh good, I can use it to hit you over the head. Thanks.
8.04 a.m.
From Naim: If you’re looking for an excuse to get physical, we can negotiate something ;)
Haha – he is full, to the brim, of crap.
9.40 a.m.
From Jawad: To be honest, I could tell from your attitude you weren’t interested, doesn’t take a genius to work out that the meeting was a waste of time. I guess that you only decide to meet me to gather material for your book. It’s amusing and ‘ironic’ how girls always complain about guys not being interested in them due to their age, but when someone does show an interest, they start acting all weird. Anyways, Insh’Allah you will find what you’re looking for.
What the hell? That was the most passive-aggressive ‘Insh’Allah’ I’ve ever heard. God will not be willing with that tone, young man. Maybe I should stop mentioning the book to fake dates. Also, when did I complain about non-interest because of my age, as if I’m a hundred and fifty-two? Although, in Muslim years . . .
11.28 p.m. Sshhh, I’ve been told off for coming home late. Mum has this fear of rapists, murderers and hooliganism, exacerbated by the fact that I’m an easy target as a scarfie. Told her she needn’t worry – tattooed neighbour seems to be awake all hours. Although, not sure how useful he’d be. He was pacing up and down the street, on his phone, when I came home and completely ignored me and my friendly smile. Anyway, who cares about that after what happened this evening.
Naim and I went to Edgware Road for a spot of peop
le-watching. I ended up having sheesha (throwback to my teens) because I didn’t want to just sit there with him smoking cigarettes, while I looked on, longingly. A rather big part of me wanted to say that a person should share things, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to it. I shouldn’t complain about double standards if I just sit there with my mouth shut.
Anyway, I took his phone and put it in my bag because I think paying attention to a person is important.
‘I know what we should do,’ I said, ‘We should make up fitting Bollywood songs for people walking past us.’
A man with greasy hair tied back in a ponytail strutted by, shouting, ‘Bruv. Listen. Listen, bruv,’ down the phone.
‘OK, so he’d be: “Hero Number One”. Obviously,’ I said.
Naim moved his chair so we sat facing the same way. A girl with a camel-hump hijab walked past. I noticed her look Naim’s way, smile and then I’m sure her hips swayed a little more than necessary.
‘She’d be: “My name is Sheila, I am a hijabi . . .” ’ he said.
I laughed and took the sheesha from him.
‘I didn’t say you could ad-lib,’ I replied.
‘Why can’t you be nice and smiley like hijabi Sheila?’
‘Camel-hump with the four-inch heels? Doesn’t she look at herself and think: people know my head is not this big.’
‘You’re so judgemental.’
‘I’d call it observant.’
‘I’m sure God wouldn’t mind if you wore stilettos with skinny jeans. I don’t think anyone would.’
Honestly. He turned towards me and I handed him the sheesha. ‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘Well, your hijab means you’re safe. It’s like a social condom.’
‘Yes, to protect me from socially transmitted diseases. Like you.’
‘Is this how you speak to all your fake dates?’
‘Just the special cases.’
I took my phone out and saw I had a new message from that bloody Jawad. As I read it, Naim complained about me taking his phone, but he must’ve seen the look on my face – whatever look it was.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
I shook my head and re-read the message. He waited before I handed the phone to him, explaining that I’d gone on a fake date the day before.
From Jawad: I am actually disappointed in your behaviour. I would have thought that for someone your age, you would be more mature about this process. It seems you have a lot of time on your hands. Your last message, ‘would be good to stay friends’, smacks of arrogance. It insinuates that I am desperate, which I find very offensive so you need to work on your people skills. You looked older than me when we met but I still thought that if this is a decent girl, who is intelligent and has a good character, it’s worth pursuing, but it seems like you have a chip on your shoulder. I hope that you were putting on a fake act as I wouldn’t even want to be friends with someone like you, let alone get married to. You can put up this whole charade of being an independent person and doing your own thing but, at the end of the day, you’re like every other girl; single, lonely and looking for some guy to take care of you and like you for who you are. For your own sake, I hope that you get your priorities sorted out.
‘God . . . Essay,’ he said, looking up at me. I stared at him for a moment and I don’t know why, but it seemed so ridiculous. I started laughing. Then he started laughing and we were both laughing so hard people began staring at us (also, I think I caught the waiter rolling his eyes).
I tried to compose myself and took my phone back, reading the message again.
‘Oh, God,’ I said, wiping my eyes, ‘I do find it offensive that he hopes I was putting on an act. Being myself is clearly not a good idea. Also, poor English.’
Naim was still catching his breath. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not funny, it’s fucking rude.’
‘It’s bloody hilarious. The man’s a psycho. Hang on. Maybe he’s right: maybe I am arrogant. Only an arrogant person would laugh at a message like that.’
‘You must be. An arrogant woman, looking for some guy.’
‘Any guy will do. I’ll ask greasy-haired bruv to come back.’
Naim took another cigarette and lit it up. ‘Come on, why bother with him when we have this?’
I could feel the curse of the blush re-appearing.
‘This being Bollywood songs and psychotic text messages?’ I asked.
He leaned forward, flicking some ash into the ashtray. ‘The foundation of all great relationships, no?’
I tried to think about anything mundane: stock exchange, house prices, weddings . . .
‘You hungry?’ he asked. ‘I’m hungry. Let’s eat.’
Honestly, conversation shifts are like being in the Matrix sometimes. But I went along with it, and pretended he never said anything. And when we said goodbye at the station I pretended the same, all the way home. Now I’m going to carry on pretending while I pray and go to sleep.
Friday 21 October
12.20 p.m. Emailed the girls re last night’s incident. Mixed responses. Anyway, must focus. Also, Naim messaged this morning, completely normal. Maybe I misheard what he said? Perhaps a person unintentionally starts making things up in their thirties.
Saturday 22 October
8 a.m. Wedding day! I’m off to Hannah’s to help her get ready before we make our way to the Mughal marquee. Mum’s been asking if I’m sad that Hannah’s getting married because after today, apparently, I won’t see her again.
‘She’s not emigrating, Mum.’
‘Haan, but remember Ambreen? You were always together and then she got married and left you.’ Wish Mum didn’t make me feel like an emotional filler. ‘When people have used their time with you, then they say, “who am I, and who are you.” Every one forgets everyone.’
Honestly, Mum is so cynical sometimes.
3 p.m.
From Naim: What we should’ve done was get your friend Hannah to hire us for musical entertainment. Have a good time at the wedding, and careful your mom doesn’t get you married off!
Hmmm, what a weird thing to say.
11.30 p.m. Soon as I got to Hannah’s house, her dad sat me down. He shook his head. I could hear Suj and Hannah discussing lipstick upstairs.
‘My daughter is going to be a second wife. You think I am happy?’ He leaned back and rested his hands on his legs, shaking his head again. ‘But they say, “The shadow of a man is better than the shadow of a wall.” ’
I wanted to say: there can’t be a shadow if there’s a hole in that wall, but Hannah’s mum came in and exclaimed, ‘Yusuf! Sofia’s a clever girl, she doesn’t care about shadows,’ and walked back out. I’m glad she gets it.
Hannah walked in, swan-like, glittering silver and gold. My heart swelled a little when I saw her. The pressure of it caused a tear to surface.
‘Doesn’t she look amazing?’ said Suj.
Hannah beamed. ‘Courtesy of Suj.’
‘I love this face,’ I said. ‘Well done, Auntie and Uncle, for making this face.’ I kissed it and said a little prayer for her, because thinking about the future makes me nervous. Praying, I’ve learned, is the only antidote to nerves.
‘You kept the hijab on your wedding day?’ said Mum to Hannah, when we got to the marquee. She hugged her, examining Hannah’s face and all the material wrapped around it. Then she looked at me, and, I’m sorry to say, snarled. Presumably because she assumes I’ll also wear my hijab on my fictitious wedding day. Honestly, reasons for not getting married just keep stacking up. Suj and me ushered her away with Dad and Maria to the furthest table in the marquee.
‘But I can’t see anything from here,’ Mum complained. Before I knew it, she’d managed to move herself to the front table.
Fozia turned up late, and came stumbling in asking for a safety pin because her bra strap kept slipping off her shoulder.
‘Is Han angry I’m late?’ she asked.
‘Look at her,’ said Suj. ‘She wouldn’t notice
if we were Morris-dancing on the table.’
‘Kam just dropped me off,’ said Foz. Mum came back and poured mango juice into her glass, eyeing up the centrepiece.
‘Is that why you have an unruly bra strap?’ I asked.
Suj leaned forward and whispered, ‘Until he tells his fucking family that he’s marrying you, tell him to keep his paws off your bra.’
‘Fozia, look,’ Mum interrupted. ‘Hannah wore hijab on her wedding day.’ She moved the centrepiece towards her and looked at it with as much scrutiny as she generally eyes my scarf.
Maria poked at the flowers. ‘I don’t really like the wildflowers.’
Dad kept fiddling with his handkerchief, looking around, and patting his suit jacket every few minutes.
‘They do look happy, don’t they?’ said Fozia as I pinned the strap to her kameez. She looked at them wistfully, and was only momentarily brought back to earth when I stabbed her in the shoulder with the pin. It’s wistfulness that’s got Fozia into this mess in the first place.
‘Haan, it is all happy shappy in the beginning,’ said Mum, pushing back a daisy and looking inside the centrepiece (what exactly was she looking for?). ‘When you live together, then you know what you’ve married,’
I do wonder why Mum is so obsessed with me getting married when she has such a bleak view of it.
‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘he’s only going to cock up half as much, because he’ll only be there half the time.’
Maria pushed the centrepiece back. ‘Wonder what his wife and kids are thinking. They’re all at home, watching TV or whatever, while her husband and their dad is at his own wedding.’
Dad shook his head, frowning. ‘Damn fool, this man. He will see what headache it is to have two wives. Damn, damn fool.’
Everyone tucked away their opinion as Hannah and Zulfi came and sat at the table. I now understand the term ‘flushed with happiness’. Everything about Hannah sparkled. More to the point, everything about Zulfi sparkled too.
