by Ayisha Malik
‘Should I expect you girls to turn up at our hotel lobby?’ he joked as he poured a drink for Hannah and himself.
‘Only if we get an emergency call from your wife,’ I replied.
‘My wife?’ he said, looking at Hannah, ‘My wife is the cause of all emergencies.’ He laughed and took her hand.
Dad had his eyes fixed on Zulfi, in an attempt, it seemed, to understand his soul.
‘Acha, your children didn’t come?’ asked Mum.
There was a palpable pause. Dad’s eyes shifted. Foz sipped on her drink and Suj pretended to look for something in her purse, while Maria fixed her stare on the centrepiece.
‘No.’ Zulfi cleared his throat and looked at the table, his sparkle dimming under the scrutiny of reality. ‘No, they didn’t.’
Hannah straightened up in her seat. ‘We all make choices.’ Zulfi watched her, queen-like on a throne of white sheet and red organza. She looked around the table, defiant and steadfast. ‘Who knows what’ll happen?’ she added.
Suj and Foz both looked at her, and I’m sure I saw a tear in Suj’s eye – perhaps she was thinking of Charles. Disquiet seemed to have replaced the quiet. I’m not fond of either.
‘No one knows,’ I said. ‘Except, you know . . .’ I pointed upwards. ‘God. Obviously.’
It was time to leave. Mum shoved a centrepiece into everyone’s arms and prompted Foz and Suj to pick up the one on the table nearest the marquee exit. So we all left the wedding with a rather heavier load than when we arrived.
Note for book: If you want to keep the centrepieces from your wedding, attach them to the table with strong adhesive. If you want to keep your sanity, learn how to drown out the voice of your family.
Sunday 23 October
10 p.m.
From Hannah: We’re off in twenty minutes! Can you please tell me if there are any dates while I’m away?!
10.05 p.m.
To Hannah: They aren’t dates. Remember; get cultured, not killed xx
Tuesday 25 October
9.35 a.m. Hmph. Katie asked about the book, but I told her that every time I sit down to write, some wedding disaster occurs, or the phone rings.
‘Your phone is rather a pain. We weren’t meant to live life with our head in front of a screen,’ she said.
Which was rather rich given that’s exactly what most people in offices do. I clutched the phone to my chest.
‘No. We weren’t meant to meet potential husbands on the Internet either.’
Not that I’ve met a marriage potential. Obviously. Fine, Suj says that there’s no such thing as men and women only being friends, but I disagree. The odd comment Naim throws out doesn’t mean anything. Nothing ever does. All it means is that he makes me laugh. A lot.
‘I don’t know why you don’t try going out with a non-Muslim,’ said Katie out of, hello, nowhere. I laughed.
‘Have you seen me? Why the hell would a non-Muslim do that themselves?’
I got a packet of cigarettes out of the drawer and Katie tutted at me.
‘Sweetu, I hope you don’t pray with the smell of nicotine on you.’
Oh dear. I put the packet back in the drawer.
4.45 p.m.
From: Bramley, Dorothy
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject: Chapters
Thanks for contract. Your remittance has been transferred. I’d really like to see some draft chapters ready next month?
Note for book: MUST WRITE IT!!!!
NOVEMBER 2011
Never Say Never
Muslim Dating Book
Muslims are big on charity and sacrifice. In fact, we’re so big on it that every year we sacrifice a goat to share it with friends and family and (charitably) feed it to the poor. (Or that’s what you’re meant to do – never trust a Muslim with a whole goat in their freezer.) The universe/God is fond of sacrifice. What nobility!
But not everyone understands sacrifice. A bit like people who say that being Muslim doesn’t matter when dating. The pool’s miniscule and opportunity doesn’t knock, it crawls. On hands and knees. Especially after your thirties. You take what you get (or what’s given to you), and you make it work. Why not widen the net, say our non-Muslim (hereinafter NM) friends? We have to smile and try not to shake our heads at their lack of understanding. How can they know that dating a devout Muslim is like dating someone back in the nineteenth century? And to be quite honest – that shit must seem whack. We’d rather not have to put up with the indignity of having to explain this to people with bemused faces, who then throw around furtive glances at the oddness of our practices. Nor worry about having to put the brakes on spiritual development because, actually, you don’t really believe in the same (main) thing. Thick skin and a vague nature are a must when explaining to well-meaning NM friends about the true nature of what it means to date as a Muslim.
Wednesday 2 November
8.30 a.m. Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks. Must remain calm. I’ve made an excellent plan for the month in order to get the chapters written for Brammers. I can do this. I just need to maintain focus.
Ooh, Naim calling.
Sunday 6 November
10 a.m. Dad came sneaking into my room, looking over his shoulder, while I was trying to write.
‘OK, give me a cigarette.’
‘Sorry?’
‘O-ho. My cigarette. I need one.’
Poor Dad. On one hand I wanted to be the dealer who gave him the happy drugs, but on the other, I didn’t particularly want to be the reason he clogged his arteries. I shook my head.
‘Baba, you’ve managed to cut down so much in the past six weeks. Carry on. Good man. Instead of smoking, why don’t you take up golf or something?’
‘Sofi . . .’ He gave me one of those looks that, as a child, made me hunt out Maria for protection. Thankfully, I’m now far less prone to being intimidated by dark, narrow eyes and a threatening voice.
‘Sorry, Baba-kins. No can do. Mum’s right.’
‘Fittaymoo. You took my money.’
‘Yes, but to be fair, I’ve only received half of the promised four hundred.’
Before he could respond, Mum came into the room and he froze. He turned around and looked at her. Then he glanced my way and was about to say something but instead stormed out.
‘He thinks I don’t see. I see everything. Acha,’ she continued, ‘We need to give out more wedding cards in afternoon.’
Maria walked in and started showing me the wedding menu.
‘We can’t do the seating plan until we’ve sent out all the invites and everyone’s RSVP’d – and we know that ’Stanis (Pakistanis! as Dad would correct us) never RSVP . . .’
What happened to the good old days when we used to go to weddings in school halls and eat dinner from paper plates? I miss the 80s. Even the shell suits.
‘What should we get for the chocolate fountain?’
I was going to say that depends on what ice sculpture you have and lo and behold she pulled out pages ripped from magazines.
‘And which ice sculpture do you like?’
Let’s have winged angels, unicorns, sodding centaurs and any other mythical creature to go with the theme of fantastical wedding.
10.23 a.m.
From Suj: OMG, I LOVE him. But it’s not going anywhere. He is so fit though. And he makes me laugh. But I’m gonna tell him today that I can’t see him any more. xxxxxx
10.24 a.m.
To Suj: OK, tell the man you think is gorgeous and who makes you laugh and who you seem to love spending time with that you can’t see him any more. Makes perfect sense.
9 p.m. What is the point in people? Mum, Maria and I went to Ambreen’s to give the invitation. Ambreen, because she can’t help herself said, ‘Come on, Sofe! Find a husband.’ Honestly, married people live in a bubble – husbands don’t just pop out from nowhere, like a jack-in-the box. I ignored her and Ambreen’s mother-in-law looked at me and said, ‘See, Sofia, this is progress. Ambreen has two children now – what progress ha
ve you made?’
I stared at her for a moment and was about to say, ‘Well, I’m writing a book!’ But then I thought; if it doesn’t involve a human the size of a cantaloupe coming out of my vagina it mustn’t be very impressive.
Mum straightened up in her seat. ‘If Sofia had found her husband in college and dated for so many years like others, then she too would have babies. Lekin education is more important than looking for husbands.’
Cue silence and shuffling around in seats. Ambreen flicked her hair and tittered. I actually could’ve hugged Mum. (Perhaps I could take up a PhD in order to be prepared for future questions about why I’m not married? All of life is about preparation, really.)
10.50 p.m.
From Hannah: Darling! Been having brill time. People didn’t know what they were talking about telling me not to marry Zulfi. No one else in the world would’ve wanted to come to Kazakhstan for a honeymoon! Why do I have to come back again? Oh yes, life. Miss you girls X
2.10 a.m. Rather late call from Naim. I wanted to remind him that, despite his restaurant being quiet, I still have a job, except he didn’t sound very chirpy. The conversation was rather one-sided, but when I said I should go he asked why and, well, he sounded so bloody forlorn I stayed on the line. In the end the silence felt ridiculous so I told him I’d read a book aloud in order for him to benefit from literary wisdom.
‘Hang on. We’re following two people on the same day of each year they know each other?’
‘Exactly,’ I replied.
‘And they’re friends?’
‘Best friends.’
‘Is she ugly?’
‘No, Mr Mature, she’s not ugly.’
‘What’s his problem then?’
‘Oh, you know, the general narrative of commitment phobia.’
‘Well, aren’t you positive today.’
Silence.
‘You should read it yourself for purposes of emotional evolution.’
‘God, no, it takes me like six months to finish a book.’
If it takes him half a year to finish a book, what does that say about his life’s momentum?
‘And anyway, why do that when I have you, or others, to read it for me?’
Others? Why are my literary habits exchangeable with others?
‘Co-dependency is an illness, you know.’
He sighed.
‘The best kind of illness, Sofe. The best kind.’
He fell asleep, but thanks to him my sleep is shot.
Monday 7 November
10.45 a.m. Hurrah! Hannah’s back!
Odd that being awake most hours of the night gives a person a boost of energy; I’ve sent out copies of My Life After Dracula, emailed jacket images to Glamour, sent a pitch to Loose Women, and have even refrained from rolling my eyes at the new (fagless) workie who printed out a hundred, instead of ten copies of Shain Murphy’s interview. But I’m serene and efficient, juggling balls in the shape of work, book, sister’s wedding and unprecedented Internet friend. And prayers. Obviously.
11 a.m. Oh dear – I’ve spotted two typos in my pitch.
11.02 a.m. Arrgghhhh! Three! Three typos!! I missed out the ‘o’ in count. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
11.03 a.m. OK, calm. Maybe they won’t notice.
11.07 a.m. Oh man, I hope Brammers doesn’t find out. Bloody hell, why is Naim calling at this time of day??
11.09 a.m.
From Naim: Pick up your phone. It’s urgent!
11.35 a.m. I rushed out of the office with the phone.
‘I’m being stalked,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I have a stalker.’
‘You have a stalker?’ I said, trying to sound incredulous.
What bloody stalker??
‘Girl, I can turn on the charm. You just haven’t seen it yet.’
Why haven’t I seen it yet? What’s wrong with me that he doesn’t feel the need to turn on any charm? Hmmm? I know we’re only friends, but still. I realised I’d stopped listening to him.
‘. . . I had to pretend I wasn’t home and then she called my house phone. This is what I mean about girls making leaps from coffee to marriage. What is that?’
‘This is your great crisis? For future emergencies call 999.’
‘You’re not being very helpful about my stalker situation. I’m giving you material for your book here. We can talk about my cut later, by the way.’
‘If she’s stalking you I think she needs the help.’
‘Are you this irritating to people you date?’
‘No, I’m a peach to them.’ He’d gone quiet so I added, ‘Much as I’d love to chat about harmless stalkers,’ (the CEO happened to walk past me at this point) ‘I have my own emergency to sort out.’
‘You’re useless. Go and sort out your problem, but don’t ask me for help when you need it.’
‘Naim! I just left the “o” out in “count” in an email to the producer at Loose Women.’ I put the phone down, which was just as well as God knows how long his laughter would’ve lasted.
To be honest, I was thinking less about typos and more about why I’ve been shown no charm . . . Everyone can do with a bit of that, surely?
12 p.m. Called Foz who was like, ‘What? Why would he do that when you’re just friends.’ Fozia and her bloody tone.
So I then called Suj who apparently is now Fozia’s tonal dopple-ganger. I don’t know what’s so difficult to understand here.
Saturday 12 November
9.20 a.m. There’s been an explosion in the living room in the shape of maroon favour boxes and cream ribbon. Mum and Dad have gone to Homebase to get fairy lights. These are, in traditional Pakistani style, to be splayed around, outside and inside the house. Thankfully, Maria’s getting married New Year’s Eve, so I can pretend to people that we’ve broken with tradition and decided to celebrate Christmas this year.
‘What are these net thingies for?’ I asked, as I lunged over the stuff to get to the kitchen.
Maria was on the phone. She’s started her beauty regime and Saturdays are cleansing mask day – a stone-coloured thing that cracks every time she opens her mouth to speak.
‘Why don’t I do everything, and you just turn up to the wedding,’ she mumbled, before throwing her mobile on the sofa.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ I asked.
‘He’s so annoying. He’s all, why are we bothering with centrepieces and favours and stuff? Does he even want to get married?’
‘He mentioned centrepieces, not mortgages.’
She looked at me as one would a mad person, then seemed to realise I’m not mad but, in fact, just a child.
‘Sofe, if he doesn’t care about the wedding, what does that say to you? All I wanted was for him to find a photographer, and did he?’
I know being highly strung is in her nature, but surely she should be glad that after so many years of searching, she found Tahir. Ironic as well, given how many useless men had come to the house, then Tahir walks into Carphone Warehouse; she as the manager gives him a discount, and now they’re talking about centrepieces. I think she’s missing the point, and was about to tell her this, while I searched the cupboards for chocolate, when she’d already come into the kitchen. She tried to keep mouth opening to a minimum.
‘Soooo. Dad came into my room yesterday and started asking me if you’re seeing anyone.’
I stopped mid-search. What the hell?
‘ “She’s always on the phone,” he said. Tried to get information out of me. Mum and Dad only want to make it easy for you if you are.’ Argh! I have such sneaky parents. ‘Are you?’ she asked.
No I am not! Though I do feel I have a weird nameless relationship with Naim.
‘No, no. I mean, Naim and me, we’re just friends . . .’
She clearly forgot about her face situation because she made the mistake of frowning, then froze when she saw flecks of the mask falling on the kitchen tiles. She squinted at me so hard I had to le
an back.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure, nosey.’
‘Why does he call you all the time? Is he bored? If he’s bored, tell him to take it somewhere else. You’re too old to deal with a waster.’
Bloody hell. My sister needs to take a pill. A strong one at that.
‘Actually he’s being very useful. Research-wise.’
She looked at me and then her phone rang. It was Hannah. Mutual wedding experiences bond people.
‘Oh my God, I’m so glad you called. Tahir is acting as if the wedding is my thing – like he has nothing to do with anything.’
There was muffled grumbling in the background that I couldn’t quite make out.
‘Was he? Really? Why are men so useless?’
8.30 p.m. The only part of the house that’s not decorated with fairy lights is the bathroom, and that’s only because of the potential to get electrocuted – otherwise the toilet seat would also be alight with the joy of marriage.
9.35 p.m. I called Tahir, who sounded panicked to within an inch of his life. I told him he just has to pretend to be interested in everything she’s interested in – wedding-wise.
Did feel sorry for him. Maria has no sense of perspective sometimes. Imagine if they were like my parents and didn’t want to speak to each other unless it was a special occasion; like a funeral.
Ooh, Naim calling.
Sunday 13 November
1.35 p.m. ‘Toffeeeee! I tried telling Charles that I don’t think we should see each other any more and he was like what the fuck?’
I was going through FB as Suj spoke on the other end of the phone. Who is this new friend on Naim’s Facebook? She’s rather booby.
‘And then he said, “Is it cos I’m black?” Toffee! I felt so bad cos how can you give that as a reason?’
I mean he meets about a hundred new people a week, but must they all look the same?
‘So I just said, well, I’m seeing other guys so he can do what he wants.’
