by Ayisha Malik
‘Guess you wouldn’t know, huh?’ he said.
Imran sprang to mind. I wonder how he is. When it comes to feelings, I think that’s as far as a person really ought to go. What exactly has loving excessively done for Naim, who sat there, looking . . . a bit hollow?
‘You don’t want to hear this,’ he said.
There was some kind of tug going on, because I didn’t want to hear, but then I did too. This is what they must call conflict.
‘I don’t think I slept for about three months after me and Zainab broke up. And then Mom died.’ He stubbed out the cigarette and held up the butt. ‘Gotta love sleeping pills and cigarettes.’
‘Sleeping pills can be handy.’ I smiled at him but he was staring at the ashtray. ‘Although, not when they’re used to send people to bed early.’ I told him that Mum sometimes puts a pill in Dad’s tea when he’s doing her head in.
Naim smiled and took out another cigarette. ‘That is awesome,’ he said. ‘So I guess being aloof runs in the women in your family?’
‘Aloof? We are all deeply involved, thank you.’
‘I wanted to text you something a few days ago,’ he said.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah, but then I thought forget about it. Oh, did you sort out the cunt?’
‘Hain?’
He laughed, ‘The typo in your email?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Fine.’ I was desperate to ask him, What? What were you going to say?
He tapped the pack of cigarettes on the table. ‘You know, you are entirely lovely.’
Now, the thing is, if you’re going to say such a thing at least have the decency to avoid eye contact.
‘Oh.’
When Imran said things like that I used to roll my eyes because he’d say them so often. But this was different; less is more and all that.
‘And you’re pretty.’ There it was again. The curse of the blush. ‘You know, I was finding it tough here. Then I met you. Weird how these things happen, right?’
‘Totally.’ I kind of wanted to lean over and give him a hug, because what can you say to a person about a break-up and parental death? For someone who’s apparently a writer now, I am about as articulate as a dog.
‘You’re still a khothi, though,’ he said.
‘Well, thanks – nothing quite like being called a donkey,’ I said.
‘I can’t be too nice now can I, Sofe? People will ask what the hell happened to me.’
Isn’t it odd how one day you don’t know a person and then one day, without realising, you feel, well, close to them.
Friday 25 November
10.25 a.m.
From: Hello, Publicity
To: Hopeless Romantic
I thought you’d have inferred my backing a beard due to my chosen form of headgear. Keep up, Abid.
Why don’t you sport a beard, I’ll carry on wearing a hijab and we can keep a tally of the highs and lows of keeping faith.
6.20 p.m. Shain’s just emailed a picture of me holding a Bible and smiling – captioned: ‘If Islam doesn’t tickle your fancy, how about Christianity?’ I should try to be a better publicist for my own religion. It’s a sign from God that I’m obviously in the wrong department. In publishing, that is, not religion.
Monday 28 November
1.35 p.m. Bloody hell. My makeshift prayer room has been turned into a medical room with an entry code. I had to call Facilities and explain why I need it. There’s always that uncomfortable feeling of someone judging me for being religious. Like when doing publi-city for books such as The Inanity of Religion – bit weird when you are a walking, talking sign for religion. There were a few raised eyebrows at that launch, and definitely no mention of me in the author’s speech – though probably because throughout the campaign he referred to me as ‘that Muslim girl’.
‘Facilities,’ said quite possibly the most bored voice ever.
‘Hi, I’m really sorry but I was wondering if it was OK if I had the code for the medical room. The thing is, I use it to pray and now it has a lock and I just wondered if that was OK? Sorry.’
‘Oh, yeah, er do you wanna hold for two seconds . . . Dave! What’s the code for the medical room? Yeah, someone wants to pray in it – yeah, pray. No, we don’t have a prayer room. Well, I dunno, do I? Sorry, two seconds. No, she doesn’t want a prayer room, just the code. Is it just you who wants to pray?’
‘I think so.’
‘Just today or every day?’
‘Well, every day.’
‘What, all year round?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘So you pray every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Blimey – and what, just the once?’
‘No. Five times.’
Then he exhaled and I heard him tapping on his computer.
‘All right, love, we’ll email you the code and you can use it whenever you like.’
2.30 p.m. Well, I have the entry code but for some reason they’ve changed the door, which now has a huge glass pane so everyone in the post room is also able to see my arse in the air.
8.40 p.m.
From: Hopeless Romantic
To: Hello, Publicity
My beard’s grown. (I’m just showing off how manly I am.) How are you? Over the weekend I went to the mosque with my dad – we do that every Saturday, it’s our quality time. It’s amazing the things you can learn from your parents.
Mum and Dad were downstairs arguing about whether to invite his cousin in Birmingham to Maars’ wedding.
He told me when he came to the country he didn’t have anything. Just this tie his dad gave him when he knew he was leaving. Never saw his dad again after that. Won’t bore you with details, but it makes you realise we don’t really have problems. Our parents faced it all. And they did it with a smile.
At which point Dad shouted that Mum never has liked his family and Mum said she certainly liked them more than him.
Note for book: You might, accidentally, end up feeling close to someone, but sometimes, the closer you are the noisier it is.
DECEMBER 2011
Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow
Muslim Dating Book
What a luxury anything organic is: to take your time; to have the lived experience. To hear what a person has to say about love and say, ‘Yes! I know that feeling. It shattered my soul and it was beautiful . . .’
But you’ll probably lose your sanity as well as that money you spent to go online. So it’s just as well that Muslim dating works in dog years.
‘Don’t exaggerate!’ I hear you NMs say as you throw back your last sip of red/white (whatever) wine and look at me with incredulity. Well I nod to you solemnly, my un/disbelieving friends. There’s a schedule here. Thirty is O-L-D. So we leap, bound, dive, blindly into eternal bliss, and keep faith that it’s the right thing. What, after all, are we waiting for?
Friday 2 December
7.40 a.m. Argh! Why do I have to write a book as well as have jeans that are now cutting off my blood circulation? How am I meant to write when life (and weight gain) is literally moving in fast motion?
To Fozia: Darling! Meet after work? Panic re book. Need help. PLEASE.
From Fozia: Consider me there xxx
9.55 a.m. OMG, I just switched on my computer and whose bloody picture is plastered over the company intranet but mine! Selling the bloody Bible – I mean not the bloody Bible – obviously the Bible is not bloody,
Sorry, God, for saying bloody Bible.
10.10 a.m. I’ve had to undo my jean button as it’s puncturing a hole in my intestine. It’s too early on in life to ruin my digestive system.
1.20 p.m. Hurrah! When you accept things such as the window in the medical room through which one’s arse can be seen, then God fixes them for you anyway. I went to pray and George from Facilities was putting up blinds.
‘Din’t wantchya to worry about people seeing ya when you pray.’
I really could’ve hugged him but it felt a li
ttle inappropriate as I remembered my jean button was undone, plus he was wearing a kilt.
7.25 p.m. I’ve come home to Mum who’s in a state of panic in the kitchen. Chachu Zahid is arriving tomorrow and apparently he needs five different dishes for lunch. It’s all, ‘Clean the floors, Cinderella, grind the garlic and ginger, Cinderella.’
7.55 p.m. Oops. I mixed up the salt and sugar and have been told to get out of the kitchen.
8.15 p.m. Maria and I were upstairs going through things she wanted to throw away. I came down to make us both a cup of tea and caught Mum and Dad whispering in the kitchen. As soon as they saw me, Dad began adding spices to the curry and Mum didn’t tell him off. Hmmm. Odd.
Right, now I will transcribe my chat with Foz. Thanks to God for her.
Me: OK, tell me about all these dates you went on. Before you decided to settle for, ungh, Kam.
Fozia: You remember all my running around? (Pause.) Truth is, I just don’t know what to do with him. How long is a person meant to wait? Sorry, this isn’t about Kam. What was your question?
Me: No one should have to wait this long.
Fozia: I was so happy when I was single.
Me: Or maybe you just think you were happy. Anyway, I think you just answered your own question about what to do with Kam.
Fozia: Forget about that. So, my dates. Do you remember the one who made me walk for two hours and didn’t even buy me coffee?
(I laugh.)
Me: Yes. The girls and I met you after because Imran had just told me about the wall.
Fozia: Things are never simple, are they?
(I sigh.)
Me: As simple or as complicated as you make them.
Fozia: Oh, shut up.
(Pause.)
Me: What else?
(Fozia exhales, loudly.)
Fozia: It was a bit of a slog, but they weren’t all so bad. And remember Riaz? Lovely Riaz?
Me: I miss him. Generally, though, these dates – how did they make you feel?
(Long pause.)
Fozia: Like there was hope.
Saturday 3 December
8.20 a.m. Dad’s outside, de-frosting the windshield and speaking to Conall. Wonder why Dad’s looking so earnest. Will go and join them.
8.30 a.m. Hmph, by the time I got my headgear on and made myself look presentable, Conall had gone back inside. Now I’ve been guilt-tripped into joining Dad to collect Chachu from the airport.
11.30 a.m. Why is it impossible for ’Stanis to go to or come from Pakistan without being at least thirty kilos overweight in luggage? Perhaps they like living up to stereotypes. Thanks to Chachu’s suitcases, I’ve discovered my contortionist skills. There were two cases in the boot, along with three boxes of mangoes, disguised as normal luggage (which Chachu somehow managed to wangle through Customs) and my face was still pressed up against the window.
‘I shaved my beard this morning,’ said Chachu.
I wanted to say that beard or no beard, it’s a bloody wonder Customs didn’t stop a fifteen-stone, six-foot-two brown person.
Dad turned around and said, ‘Flight from Jamaica had come in.’
That explains that, then.
6.20 p.m. Chachu left to go and explore the area over two hours ago. Didn’t know he was that curious. Hope he hasn’t gone and lost where we live.
Suj called. I was relating the wedding palaver build-up and she asked if I was inviting Naim! Am I meant to invite him? Would it be rude not to? On the other hand, if I do invite him then what am I inviting him as? A friend? Which will prompt questions from everyone as to where this friend has come from. I can’t possibly invite him as something more than a friend. That would be lying (and prompt questions as to when we’re getting married). If by some providential turn of events he ends up coming to the wedding, is that like a date? I mean, let’s not all get the wrong idea here. Would he think it’s a date? Would I think it’s a date?
6.35 p.m. Impossible. He cannot come. Dad already has suspicions and Mum will start asking him about his bank balance, invariably comparing it to Imran’s, making her question why I didn’t marry Imran because he was rich, even though there was a hole-in-the-wall.
All this because of one invite.
6.36 p.m. It would be nice to have him there, though. We could laugh at the ice sculpture.
8.45 p.m. ’Stanis have no courtesy. We slave in the kitchen for hours on end, only for Chachu to come home and go straight to bed without eating a thing. Mum and Dad were fine about it but, honestly, would a simple phone call have gone amiss?
Sunday 4 December
10 a.m. Don’t know how I managed to sleep through Chachu’s booming voice this morning. When I got up I had a message from Abid.
From: Hopeless Romantic
To: Hello, Publicity
Hi. I was reading a book and thought of you. How are wedding preps going for your sister? Wouldn’t it be nice to live on a desert island and just be the person you want to be without questions about marriage and babies?
I was wondering . . . I know you must be busy, but do you think we should meet?
I think I gasped. If not on the outside, then most certainly on the inside. Meet? It is the logical thing to do but what do you say to someone who’s so, well, beautiful? I’d probably trip over myself as well as my words. Maria walked in and said, ‘Are you mad? Of course meet him. You just tell me when and where in case he’s a criminal.’
I’m seeing Naim today and will give him an invite. I wonder if I can squeeze in a meeting with the hottie. Or perhaps I should rein in my eagerness.
1 p.m. We were sitting in the living room while I decorated a wicker basket for the bangles to be handed out at the mehndi. Doing such mindless stuff is surprisingly cathartic and gives a person a chance to think about things, like wedding invites and dates. I got my phone out.
From: Hello, Publicity
To: Hopeless Romantic
Yes, sure, why not? How about Thursday?
Chachu looked rather restless. He stood up and started pacing the room. Mum kept glancing at him.
‘Baby and Bobby taw have become like English person since coming here. Don’t speak Urdu any more. Have birthday parties for the children and invite only friends as if family is nothing. All this running, running here and going nowhere,’ he said. ‘And no servants. You know, Gulzaar? The one who came in nineteen ninety-nine to marry that PhD boy. She wants to come home.’
Chachu’s son, Bobby, really should consider changing his and his wife’s name – linguistic Feng Shui. Dad listened while Mum adjusted the curtains. She turned around and said, ‘Everyone comes here and complains, but no one ever goes back.’
They all agreed that reasons to go back were diminishing. It does make one grateful for one’s home. Mum talks about how the rich in Pakistan have a luxurious lifestyle of shopping and dining, and dining and shopping, but that sounds like, quite possibly, the most boring thing ever. Not to mention depressing given that you have limbless people begging for money from those coming out of chauffeur-driven cars.
10.50 p.m. Hmph. So much for that. I began talking to Naim about the wedding and without even mentioning the invite, he said, ‘Oh damn! I would’ve gatecrashed only I’m going home for the holidays.’
So I left the invite in my purse because what is the point in giving one to a person who A) can’t make it anyway and B) doesn’t have the courtesy to inform a person of trips he might or mightn’t be taking.
‘I’ll be gone a couple of weeks – maybe three. I dunno.’ And he rubbed his face, taking his phone out to read a text.
While he responded, I felt the need to look over to see exactly who and what he was messaging.
‘Well, I expect some sympathy from across the ocean when I’m faced with handing out favour boxes.’
‘Why do you hate weddings?’ Naim asked.
‘I don’t hate weddings. I just think ice-related objects should remain either in the sea or, at a stretch, be put in one’s drink. Remember t
he Titanic?’
‘But Jack found Rose.’
‘Yes, and Jack ended up twenty thousand leagues under.’
‘But, Sofe, without a wedding there isn’t the promise of all those future years of anniversaries – you know, when the husband forgets and the wife complains, and they argue and make up. Where’s the fun without that?’
‘Oh please, anniversaries! And don’t even get me started on birthdays and especially Valentines.’
‘What are you, the Grinch that stole life?’
‘Are you telling me you don’t want to gag every fourteenth of February when you see idiots walking around London with heart-shaped balloons and bouquets of clichéd roses?’
‘You don’t care about any of that stuff?’
‘Not at all.’ I bit into my chocolate cake and was briefly too happy to register what he said.
‘You wanna get married?’
‘Hmm?’ Then the words he’d spoken formed in my head. ‘Ha. Yeah, sure.’ For some reason it seemed a winged creature went slightly mad in my stomach.
‘You know what your problem is?’ he said.
‘Enlighten me,’ I said, trying to get the creature to settle down.
Naim is always making these throwaway comments. It doesn’t mean anything.
‘You need to get laid.’
Excuse me? The creature was forgotten.
‘Fuck off.’
He burst into laughter. Honestly, I don’t need to have sex. I mean, is my state of perpetual virginity unnatural? Fine, yes. Is it marginally mortifying given that the age of consent is sixteen? Yes, it is. But I don’t need to get laid. What has getting laid got to do with opinions on weddings and anniversaries anyway?
‘Maybe one day I will. I have a date on Thursday.’
