Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘I hope you’re not expecting to come inside,’ I said as I handed him tea and got into the car.

  ‘I got tea, I got snow; I’m happy,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know how long it’ll last. Flying tomorrow and you guys are shit at dealing with shifts in weather. Flight’ll probably get cancelled.’

  I sat inside and suggested that he should just stay in his land of opportunity if he didn’t like it here.

  ‘Sofe, I already have stuff on my mind. Why spoil one moment I’m actually happy?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Just, you know, stuff.’

  ‘That’s specific.’

  ‘I should kick you in the shins.’

  ‘Then I’d have to report you to police and you’d definitely miss your flight. Here . . .’

  I took out a packet of biscuits from my coat pocket.

  ‘Hahaha, are you kidding me?’

  ‘When it comes to Lemon Puffs, I never kid,’ I said.

  He took a biscuit and dipped it in his tea.

  ‘There’s too much milk in this.’

  ‘There is not too much milk. ’

  ‘You had forty-five minutes to make me a cup of tea and you didn’t even leave the tea bag to brew long enough.’

  You’re so ungrateful.’

  ‘I drive all the way in the snow to see you and I’m ungrateful?’

  ‘Well, instead of appreciating that I brought out Lemon Puffs – not just any biscuit, mind, but Lemon Puffs – and saying thank you, you criticise my tea-making skills.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, let’s call them skills.’

  He took a bite from the biscuit and the rest fell into the mug.

  ‘Serves you right,’ I said.

  He reached out for another one and I pulled the packet away.

  ‘You are the worst host.’

  ‘You criticised my skills,’ I said.

  ‘Who puts that much milk in tea?’

  ‘Who spends this much time complaining about it?’

  He looked at the bit of biscuit floating around in the mug. I saw a light come on and thought Maria had woken up. Looked up and it was only next door.

  ‘OK, can I at least have your biscuit then?’

  I couldn’t help but smile. ‘Fine, you can have my biscuit.’

  He took another Lemon Puff as I put the packet on the dashboard.

  ‘Imagine if we had kids,’ he said. ‘You’d be like, pick up the kids. And I’d be like, no you pick up the kids.’

  I’m sure my brain had formed some words, but they seemed to have got lodged somewhere between my throat and mouth. I don’t know how the conversation had gone from bad tea to kids, but there we were, in the snow, arguing about who’s going to pick up our children. WTH? I felt myself getting ever closer to that cliff’s edge. The problem with edging forward is that your steps sometimes quicken without you realising. And everyone knows when it snows there’s ice – a person’s bound to slip on ice.

  ‘No one would ever invite us for dinner,’ I said.

  He turned towards me and rested an arm over the headrest. ‘Who gives a fuck about anyone else?’

  Argh! Words, lodged. Tongue, tied. Before I could dislodge anything he sat back.

  ‘I guess I should say thanks for the tea and biscuits.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Lemon Puffs for a lemon puff.’

  ‘Sofe?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He looked at me and I had to take a deep breath.

  ‘Can I use your bathroom?’

  ‘What?’ Honestly. What was I expecting him to say? ‘Oh, yes, fine.’

  Had to be super quiet so Maria wouldn’t wake up. We stopped at the bottom of the stairs and I was suddenly aware of my arse being in his face if I were to lead the way.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, no. Ladies first,’ he whispered, smiling.

  Never has the house felt so small, or my arse felt so big.

  He came out of the bathroom and looked around.

  ‘So where’s your bedroom?’

  Putting my hand on his shoulder, I led him towards the stairs as he looked back insisting he was just curious.

  I opened the door to let him out and he stopped for a moment.

  ‘Sofe?’

  ‘Yes, Naim?’

  He put his hand on the outside handle. ‘You don’t wanna be single for ever, do you?’

  I gave a mini shrug. ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas, Puffs.’

  I waited for him to say more, and as the moment stretched I could’ve stepped closer and kissed him. (I didn’t. Obviously.) Where the hell did this affection spring from?

  ‘Merry Christmas, you lemon.’

  Oh dear. Affection, affliction – same thing.

  Sunday 25 December

  10.25 a.m. So this is how people must get caught having affairs. I opened the door and Mum said,

  ‘Who came to the house?’

  For a moment I thought, shit, are there cameras here? Does Mum have access to local CCTV (this would not surprise me). Were Mum, Dad and Chachu hiding in the background, spying on me and my deviant (but innocent by general standards) behaviour?

  ‘Chalo, chalo,’ said Dad and Chachu, who pushed past Mum and me to get into the warmth of the house.

  ‘No one,’ I said, searching for the voice of conviction.

  ‘So whose footsteps are in the snow?’ she asked. I looked down at the prints. My brain, much like the weather, had frozen.

  Then Conall came out of the house with some rubbish.

  ‘Hello, Colin,’ said Mum.

  Mum started chatting to him about being stuck at Bobby’s house yesterday all the while I was thinking argh! Excuse, Sofia, any excuse. Then she asked what Conall was doing today. She almost invited him for lunch. Thank God he said his brother was visiting with a few friends. Not that I’m not all in the Christmas spirit of things, but we’d all have to be on best behaviour and that doesn’t work very often.

  ‘Taw whose footsteps are in the snow?’ asked Mum, looking at me – the woman who never forgets. Junk mail! Jehovah’s Witnesses! Local window cleaner! Naim, Naim, Naim!

  ‘Carol singers,’ said Conall as he put the lid on the dustbin. Of course! Carol singers. Stupid, small, brain. Mum seemed content with that as she went inside.

  Conall looked over at me. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, before walking into his own home.

  Felt bad about being pleased that he wouldn’t be joining us: for that moment he was my actual guardian angel.

  7.55 p.m. Everyone argued over what to watch for Christmas TV. (I was outnumbered by Bollywood lovers.) It didn’t matter, though. I managed to get some writing done. Who cares that there might not be ice sculptures at my sister’s wedding, that we have to watch B4U, or that pockets of fat are developing in places I didn’t even know were possible. I don’t think Naim cares so much either. Just as I had this thought, Maria ambled into the room and threw a Twix at me. I missed it, and looked up at her as I said, ‘Something terrible’s happened.’

  And there I was, explaining to Maria that I was looking over the edge of the cliff.

  Monday 26 December

  7.55 a.m. Potential of having a relationship with Naim:

  Cons: 1) If we were to get married, I’d be up at 4 a.m. to pray, while he’d be stumbling back home from a night out with friends. Will this lead me to be a disapproving nag? No one wants to be a nag.

  2)What if we didn’t end up getting married and there is another relationship break-up? Emotional energy crisis? Bad timing?

  3)We bicker a lot. What if we end up like my parents??

  4)That bloody scarf of his.

  5)Also, is he smug or does he just look smug? Does it say something about my judgement that I can’t distinguish between the two? Does it say something about him that it feels indistinguishable?

  6)The above shows this is making me slightly neurotic. A nagging neurotic
? Definitely to be avoided.

  7)Also, questions to ask oneself: how will he enhance my (Islamic) life? Does he want children? If so, how many? If he expects to have a brood, will I be angry with him for expecting one when I’ll be the one carrying them?

  Pros: 1) I’ve never laughed with anyone as much as I laugh with him. Oh dear.

  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

  Suj came over and listened to me repeat the pros and cons.

  ‘Why are you worried?’ she asked.

  ‘Fudge! I don’t know. Because it wasn’t part of the plan? Because he’s inappropriate? Because he doesn’t even seem like the type of guy who’d go for a hijabi?’ I paced up and down the room. ‘And what if he doesn’t feel the same?’

  ‘Toffee – you guys are practically in a relationship without being in one. I just don’t think that’s possible. I don’t think anyone does.’

  I sat on the edge of the bed and thought about Imran. A person can coat it with whatever grains of sugar they can find, but here is fact: there came a fork in the road and Imran went towards the one with the hole-in-the-wall. I don’t even think he looked back. Naim and I speak all the time, but words are just words. Imran spoke all kinds – constructed sentences that built something that resembled hope. I can’t remember if I even really wanted to be with him, or if it was because that’s what was expected.

  ‘Don’t worry, Toffee. I know you. You have your shit sorted. When it comes down to it, you’ll know exactly what to do and, just like always, it’ll be the right thing.’

  Note for book: Fear of rejection isn’t a sophisticated feeling. You know it thwacks you in the gut. But no matter how hard you try to look for it, you will probably never see it coming.

  WEDDING SHEDDING . . .

  Friday 30 Dec – Sunday 1 Jan

  Mehndi Day! (Note for book: Otherwise called a henna party, involving the ritual of putting henna on the bride and groom’s hand, feeding them sweetmeats, followed by drum beating and dancing. Aunties are never so happy as when they’re at a mehndi.)

  From Suj: Toffeeeee! Can’t wait for tonight and tomorrow. Just a quick q, tho. Can Charles come tomorrow? Love you! Xxxx

  To Suj: Of course. Btw, do you have purse to go with my green outfit? Xxxxx

  From Fozia: Suj told me you said Charles could come to the wedding. Well done. Sod what people think. Does this mean I can bring Kam? X

  Sigh. All I can say is, thanks to God there’s no alcohol at Mussie weddings (unless Chachu was carrying a hipflask) – just a DJ, some chicken korma, a few belly-dancing accessories and the aunties are on the dance floor as if their life depends upon it. Aunties who, by the way, were queued outside my room before each function saying, ‘Soffoo, Beta, make my eyes like yours . . .’ Why are sixty-year-olds obsessed with recapturing their youth in the form of liquid eyeliner?

  There were (and possibly still are) sixteen people living under the same roof. I’ve spent most of my life not knowing one relative from the next, and now I even know the colour of their knickers. Any mental capacity I might’ve had to think about Naim was superseded by their dietary requirements. On top of which I kept having mini convulsions at the idea of everyone’s reaction at Suj turning up with a black guy at the barat, and then being horrified at my own sense of inherent racism.

  We were preparing brunch and Uncle Scot (as in Scotland – his name obviously isn’t Scot) was all, ‘London is so rush, rush. Also, there are so many of our people here now.’

  ‘We have a lot of Sri Lankans,’ replied Mum, picking up Dad’s glasses from the table and cleaning them.

  ‘And Polish,’ added Dad.

  ‘Le, here you don’t even know your neighbour,’ Uncle Scot shook his head. ‘Not like Glasgow.’

  ‘Nahin, we are lucky,’ said Mum as she went to answer the doorbell.

  ‘Irish,’ added Dad.

  Uncle Scot nodded thoughtfully. ‘Haan. They’re different to English.’

  As if on cue, Mum ushered in a harassed-looking Colin. Every-one stopped talking, which is when he looked like he wanted to get the hell out of there. Dad asked him to take a seat. Yes, please, neighbour, come join us and our casual racism.

  ‘These goray like our things nah,’ Mum said to me when I asked why she’d invited him. ‘Bechara, he probably has no one to cook for him. You shouldn’t be mean, Soffoo,’ she added. ‘Not everyone is miserable like you.’

  Well, wouldn’t you be miserable too if you’d just discovered unfortunate feelings, which all evolved from an unfortunate task TO WRITE A BOOK. It didn’t help when every time I mentioned ‘chai’, everyone’s ears pricked up like I’d just announced my engagement.

  While I was making seventeen cups of tea, Cousin Scot, Ayla, came into the kitchen, saying, ‘O em gee who is that hottie with Dad?’ She peered into the conservatory, looking at Conall. ‘He is fit.’

  I remember Ayla when she was in nappies. Now she’s sixteen, twirling her straightened hair around her fingers. Since when are teenage ’Stani kids allowed to wear sleeveless tops and be dripping with accessories? We were lucky if Mum and Dad let us use Vaseline.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God, he just smiled at you.’

  Which was so surprising I had to look behind me to check there was no one else there. I wanted to impart wisdom and say: maybe you don’t have to walk around in skintight clothes to have a hottie smile at you. Though he probably wouldn’t want to do much else.

  ‘It’s OK, Ayla,’ I said. ‘The only reason he smiled is because I’m bringing him tea.’

  Someone wanted hot milk and someone wanted it cold and some wanted cardamom in their tea and one could only have Canderel, while having no problem with having their hand perpetually in the box of ladoos.

  Auntie Reena extended her bejewelled hand and said, ‘Beta, this has so much milk in it.’ The world now knows I can’t make tea. Conall looked slightly perplexed and I realised it was because everyone was speaking in Punjabi.

  ‘Too much milk in the tea,’ said Chachu, helpfully demonstrating this by extending his cup for Conall. I had to make sure Chachu wasn’t making his tea Irish.

  Ayla sat next to Conall and began translating conversations for him. Honestly. I asked a million times for everyone to speak English.

  Chachu turned to Conall and said, ‘Shakeel told me you photographed in Kashmir?’ Conall rested his cup on the floor.

  ‘Yeah – six months.’

  Uncle Scot shook his head as his daughter tried to take pictures of Conall on her phone.

  ‘Blady Indians. They will stop at nothing to get revenge on Pakistan.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, there are two sides to a story.’

  (Turns out Conall isn’t so uncomfortable voicing his opinions. Choose your audience, love.)

  ‘Oh, so it’s Pakistan’s fault?’ Uncle Scot’s eyebrows knit together as if a caterpillar was plastered above his eyes. ‘And what is solution then? We give up?’ His arm shot in the air, hitting Auntie Reena’s elaborate coif.

  ‘Hai hai, don’t ruin my hair talking about your politics, sholitics.’

  ‘And where is the justice?’ added Uncle Scot.

  Conall was about to say something but then seemed to think better of it and went back to sipping his tea. The room had become so tense I had to say something.

  ‘Uncle, you’re Scottish – you should know something about wanting independence.’

  There I was, helping Conall out, and not even a nod of acknowledgement from him.

  ‘Well,’ said Ayla. ‘I think Kashmir should be given its independence, right. And so should Scotland.’ She looked pointedly at her parents. ‘And me.’ She turned to Conall and gave him a rather brilliant smile.

  ‘You’ve a very smart daughter,’ said Conall.

  Maria and I almost choked on our (milky) tea. Ayla – the girl who’d been called into school for using text language in her exams. She looked at him with such gratefulness though, I had to ruffle her hair.

  Thank God Conall
doesn’t understand Punjabi because Uncle Scot added, ‘And what would an Irish man know about how our people suffer.’

  ‘A lot more than you realise, Uncle,’ I replied in Punjabi.

  Conall was finally allowed to leave the house to get his camera equipment ready and come to the hall later. As evening approached, Auntie Reena came into my room, wanting me to thread a stray chin hair. Sigh. Dad said she looked like she’d been whacked on the chin as he passed her when he came into my room. Don’t think she cared much for his comment.

  He sat down on my bed, looking at my phone, while I finished re-applying my makeup (which I’d had to take off because I forgot to do my ablutions to pray. NB: Is my forgetfulness a product of wedding household, Naim, book or innate scattiness?).

  ‘Dad, why aren’t you downstairs, at the door with the keys, ready to leave?’

  He really has no sense of timing. He looked up at me, patting the bed. It was no time to sit down and have a chat, but he looked so serious.

  ‘You spend a lot of time on the phone, haina?’

  Where was Maria?? It was beginning . . .

  ‘There’s a wedding going on,’ I tried to explain.

  ‘You know, Soffoo, if you like someone you can tell me.’

  It was like I was eighteen, trapped in a thirty-year-old’s body. Shame. Why didn’t Dad need to leave the room and have a cigarette? Why couldn’t I have a cigarette?

  ‘You know what I want, Beta?’ he said.

  A watch? A daughter who doesn’t pray compulsively? A wife who has a verbal filter?

  ‘I want you to be happy and married too. Like Maria.’

  He looked at my phone again and I prayed that it wouldn’t be the moment Naim decided to message.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I want to know you’ll always be looked after.’

  ‘Dad . . . I could do the shocking thing of looking after myself.’

  He smiled and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Haan, haan, I know you will,’ he said, putting the glasses back on. ‘You know, it’s not fair, but women always have to make the compromise.’