Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  I laughed in a suitably incredulous manner.

  ‘I don’t say it’s a good thing,’ he continued, ‘but everyone has to compromise, Beta.’

  ‘Next thing you’ll be saying marry someone who writes “lol” and uses emoticons.’

  The wrinkles around his eyes seem to be etched deeper. Naim crept into my mind and suddenly I wished the stupid bugger were here. Oh, inconvenient truth.

  ‘Baba,’ I said, putting my arm around him, ‘there are so many more important things in the world to worry about. Famine, for example.’ I stood up, giving him my hand. ‘And fairy lights.’

  He furrowed his brows. ‘Nothing is more important than my daughters.’

  That’s the nice thing about dads; they actually believe this. I kissed him on the cheek and looked him in the eye.

  ‘I’m afraid the world would disagree.’

  Actually, half the world was at the mehndi where Auntie Scot managed to get locked in the toilet cubicle. Honestly. Conall in the meantime was capturing all this and the general cultural calamity with his camera. It all must’ve been quite an education for him. Perhaps an education he could’ve done without; but no one said you just learn the things you want. Ambreen waltzed in with her mother-in-law, her husband lagging behind with the baby and child who began running around and tipping over chairs.

  ‘I can’t wait to have a third baby.’ Ambreen rested a hand on her chest. ‘Honestly, motherhood is just the most beautiful thing. Finally life has meaning. Who are these people who think one or two children are enough? Ugh!’ Hannah looked on stony-faced, not that Ambreen noticed. ‘And I’m sooooo old,’ Ambreen said, touching my shoulder. We are, of course, the same age.

  Ayla interjected, ‘No way. I hope I look like you when I have two kids.’

  My poor, young, stupid, cousin.

  Ambreen giggled and patted Ayla’s arm, ‘Oh, don’t, I’m so ugly. Look at the size of my nose. Sofe never cared about the size of her nose.’

  Conall hovered in the background, snapping away.

  ‘I couldn’t worry about the size of my nose and my arse,’ I said putting a mini kebab in my mouth.

  ‘You’re curvy. I’m so skinny, ugh. It’s annoying.’

  Suj flicked her hair and said, ‘Yeah, I couldn’t deal with boobs the size of poached eggs.’

  Ambreen’s face fell for perhaps a millisecond before she recovered her composure and twittered. ‘That’s what I say, but Ibrahim’s says, “no one likes a fat person”. ’

  ‘Who’s fat?’ Ibrahim came and locked his arm around my neck. ‘Sofe,’ he said, ‘How are you, voluptuous thing? And when are you tying the noose, I mean knot,’ he asked, clearing his throat.

  ‘Ibraheeeeeem,’ Ambreen exclaimed. ‘I hope you plan on getting me the new BMW.’

  ‘Yes, Princess Ambreen,’ he said, pointing his fingers to his temple.

  Note for book: All that glitters is not a BMW.

  Auntie Reena, while dancing, had somehow, quite miraculously, bent down so low she was having a hard time getting back up again.

  ‘Tst, look at Reena,’ said Mum, shaking her head.

  Conall smiled – I noticed it’s rather lopsided, as if he can’t quite commit to full-on smile. Don’t know what it is about him. I thought he was moody, but the more I see him the more I think he just looks sad. He has broad shoulders. Looks like they carry a lot of the world’s weight.

  ‘It’s all craic, Mrs Khan,’ he replied.

  She laughed as if he’d said the funniest thing.

  ‘Haan! She is taw completely crack.’

  Annoyingly, Ayla decided to scamper up to me, telling me to come and dance with her.

  ‘Can’t, dear, have to be careful of my arthritis.’

  She looked at me in surprise and then rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, come on, you’re the best dancer.’ Punjabi MC began pounding, which had Ayla forgetting all her zeal to get me on the dance floor as she did a rather good job of occupying it herself.

  ‘Dancing makes God angry?’ asked Conall.

  I looked at him, mildly surprised that he even noticed I was there. It’s so boring having people ask me what might or mightn’t anger God with that ironic tone, especially when I know exactly what they’re thinking. Also, not being able to shake my hips for a few hours? I am being robbed of life itself.

  ‘Yes, it’s going to send me to hell as a matter of fact.’

  ‘No one else seems to care about that,’ he said, gesturing towards the dance floor.

  It made me think of sheep again. Black, black, black sheep. Wherever I go. Sigh. I leaned over to look at the pictures he’d taken. I’m no photographer, but they really were very good. There was a photo of the mehndi trays lined up in the front with a blurred image of me and Maria in the background. I’m adjusting the flower in her hair.

  ‘Blurry is a good look for me,’ I said. ‘Well done.’

  He nodded. Take a compliment, will you. Everyone was busy dancing so I just stood there with him, lost, surprisingly, for conversation.

  ‘Do you like the Bollywood music then?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s er, interesting.’

  Ha! I’ve heard that one before. ‘My uni tutor once said I have an interesting face.’ I looked up at him. ‘We all know what that’s a euphemism for.’

  Conall didn’t think it necessary to respond. I thought about Naim, wondering what he’d have made of the mehndi. Would he have got on the dance floor? Or would I have been standing next to him instead of speaking to the photographer? Something squeezed in my chest. Like an irresistible, unknown, but so very possible, scenario. He is not here, but he could be here. Argh! I looked at the girls who were sitting with Maria and Tahir, chatting and laughing.

  ‘Did you know the Dalai Lama wakes up at four o’clock every morning to meditate? He was once asked why and he replied, “Because through discipline I achieve freedom.” ’

  ‘That’s very philosophical,’ said Conall.

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m a very philosophical person; when I’m not selling hippo books.’

  ‘Or Viagra.’

  Hmph.

  When we’d got home and put things away, given everyone their fiftieth cup of tea, Maria and I settled into bed (along with my sanity I’ve also lost my room to the Scots so am sharing with Maars).

  ‘Tired?’ I asked.

  ‘No, weirdly. More excited.’

  I leaned over to check my phone. And at that exact moment I got a message from Naim, asking how the wedding was going. I related the Ambreen exchange.

  From Naim: BMW? If that was my wife I’d park a Fiat up her ass. Anyway, forget her – I’ve decided your nickname’s going to be Daisy.

  To Naim: Why on earth would my nickname be Daisy?

  From Naim: It suits you perfectly.

  To Naim: They’re an ugly flower.

  From Naim: What are you talking about? Daisy Duck was hot. Anyway, a daisy is a single blossom, on a single stem, long and vibrant; like you. Except for the long, and not so vibrant at weddings.

  But electric otherwise.

  There was that squeeze again. Maria turned around, and was snoring within minutes. I had weird dreams of marquees being blown up and ice sculptures in the shape of Auntie Reena’s coif.

  Barat Day! (Note for book: Known as the wedding day, which involves a civilised dinner, where everyone’s abandoned the much-loved drum-beating.)

  I thought today was going to be a nightmare, but maybe I need to learn to be more optimistic. Apart from the fact that the display fruit didn’t arrive in time, table twenty had run out of 7-Up, Auntie Reena’s bumpit was showing, Dad was caught having a cigarette and Mum forgot to wear support pants, the night went quite well. Not least when Fozia arrived alone and announced that she broke up with Kam! Girls and I did a collective cheer. I distinctly remember the camera flashing at us.

  Maria and T had their first dance and when the clock struck twelve, everyone was in a foray of congratulations. I looked at the
couple, holding hands. The only thing in my hand was my phone. No one noticed that Chachu had accidentally touched Tahir’s mum’s boob when leaning over for more rasmalai. Dad gave Mum a peck on the cheek, at which point everyone cheered and Mum blushed profusely. And not an eyelid batted at the fact that Suj was there with a black man. Perhaps the family isn’t as racist as I thought.

  As most guests congregated on the dance floor, I saw Fozia looking on, gloomily. I walked up to her and offered her my hand.

  ‘I’ll have to do,’ I said, ‘until a new and worthy man stumbles along.’

  She took my hand and looked over my shoulder, into the distance. ‘I did the right thing.’

  I spun her around and her dupatta got caught in my heel.

  ‘I make a lousy dance partner. Sorry,’ I said.

  ‘You’re my dance partner for life, darling.’

  ‘Even when we’re old and you have to wipe my bum because of my arthritic hands?’

  ‘This is just in-between stuff. That’s when the best part of life will begin,’ she replied.

  Note for book: There are people who will clean your shit up for you, literally. If a person can’t match this – they’re not worth the effort.

  ‘Look at Suj with Charles,’ Foz said.

  I turned around to see them dancing, looking like something out of a magazine shoot. I hoped Conall was taking pictures of them.

  ‘I don’t think she should let that one go,’ she added.

  I agreed wholeheartedly. Hannah and Zulfi were in some kind of deep conversation. That’s the thing with those two – every time Hannah’s around him she crackles with energy.

  ‘You know you did do the right thing,’ I said.

  ‘Remember when I was getting divorced?’ she asked.

  How could I forget: hours and hours of sitting with her in silence as we both filled the room with cigarette smoke. My parents forgot what I looked like because I didn’t go home for weeks.

  ‘And I went back and forth about whether I was doing the right thing or not? You said something.’

  ‘Words of wisdom? From me?’

  ‘You said, “If you’re going to make any decision in life, be fearless about it.” ’

  ‘Ha. Oh yes. Sod the consequences. Being scared is useless.’

  I couldn’t quite look her in the eye. Yes, it’s useless. Doesn’t make it any less real, though. We both moved to the sidelines and watched as everyone began bouncing to the more upbeat tempo.

  ‘I think about Riaz sometimes,’ she said. Hmmm, second mention so far. ‘I’m probably just overthinking things because I’m single again and I still can’t stand my job. It’s all in the past, after all. But I wonder, if only I hadn’t met him so soon after my divorce, and we’d been set up by a friend or something, rather than just meeting at a work do . . .’

  Dreadful place the past can be. Poor post-divorce Riaz. People don’t lie – timing is everything. And it doesn’t matter how much you tell a friend they’re missing out on a good thing, you can’t help it if their heart’s jammed between an ex-husband and a hard place. I stood by her side, letting her have her silence and re-reading the messages that Naim and I had sent one another. I didn’t think about it too much because, like Suj says, overthinking leads to wrinkles.

  To Naim: Come home, already. I bloody miss you.

  From Naim: Puffs! I was sitting at my aunt’s house and had the sudden urge to message you the same. Cross-Atlantic telepathy.

  ‘You’re missing everything.’

  Conall stood behind us, but Foz was still staring into space. People who are always on their phone are so annoying, and yet there I was – an iPhone extension.

  ‘In my defence I also use it to take notes.’ I put the phone away in my purse.

  ‘For?’

  ‘Oh, just this silly project for work. A book type thing.’

  ‘You’re writing a book?’

  ‘Not like a masterpiece or anything.’ Should really stop saying that every time the book is mentioned. ‘But yes, I suppose. A book.’

  ‘Well, this is grand material.’ He gestured around the huge chandeliered room.

  ‘Let me show you.’ He brought up a photo of when Dad gave Mum a peck on the cheek at midnight.

  ‘Look at that. You captured it.’

  I smiled at their expression: two old folks giggling as if they were teenage sweethearts. Don’t know why it brought a tear to my eye.

  ‘We could title it: “It wasn’t such a bad life, after all”, ’ I said.

  For a moment I’d forgotten who I was speaking to. Why does the next door neighbour, of all people, have to know about my disgruntled parents? Really must think before opening my mouth.

  ‘Or something normal,’ I added.

  Not sure whether it was Naim’s messages, or the photo of Mum and Dad, or the fact that as I looked around everyone seemed to be so, well, content, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps weddings aren’t so bad, after all.

  JANUARY 2012

  Should Old Acquaintance be Forgot

  Muslim Dating Book

  If one of your New Year’s resolutions happens to be to get married (or whatever), try not to go to any weddings. They’ll only make you feel that there’s a partner-shaped hole in your life (not wall). And it’s all an illusion! A few hours of seeing a happy couple or listening to your best friend talk about the one that got away can shake up your emotions and make you do stupid things, like call your ex, or elope with the next man that offers you a mini kebab. And when you don’t end up getting married or finding love (ungh), that partner-shaped hole will only continue to grow (SNOWBALL) in size. For a blind bit of optimism, go to a wedding.

  Monday 2 January

  9.45 a.m. And if your NY’s resolution is to write a book? Then definitely don’t develop feelings for people. We plan and plan, but God is the greatest of planners. Sigh. I will not panic (re Naim or book). The deadline for the first draft is July, which gives me plenty of time, but I still don’t have opening chapter for Brammers . . . I do wish everyone would stop breathing down my neck about it. Everywhere I go in the office I’m asked, ‘How’s the book coming along?’ I can’t even take a piss without the question being thrown at me before I’ve managed to zip up my jeans – which, incidentally, means sometimes I forget.

  3.10 p.m. Brammers called me into the office. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she clasped her hands together.

  ‘Sofia, are you finding this challenging?’

  I assume she meant the chapters, but in my head I was thinking of Naim and ended up nodding.

  ‘I mean, no,’ I said. ‘Yes. Only because of how busy it’s been at home, but don’t worry. It’s all under control.’

  How, how, how?

  ‘Just a few more weeks,’ I added.

  She didn’t look entirely convinced, despite my attempt at an utterly convincing tone. Attempt being the operative word.

  7.35 p.m. I was on my way home, wondering how I’m going to get any writing done. As I got to the house Conall was walking out.

  ‘All right?’ He opened up his umbrella.

  ‘When can we see the photos?’ I asked. ‘Weddings and wars. That’s what I’ll call the album.’

  ‘Where’s your umbrella?’

  ‘Why do you think I wear a hijab? Part religious reasons, part good sense.’

  He put his umbrella over my head, not a flicker of a smile. Tough crowd.

  ‘And how’s that book coming along?’

  Argghhh! If it wasn’t so cold and my hands weren’t jammed into my pockets, I think I might’ve jammed them somewhere else.

  ‘I’ve decided to ban people from asking that question until I get enough peace to actually write it.’

  ‘You need quiet?’ He hesitated for a moment and then said, ‘You can use my house. If you want. It’s empty on weekends most of the time. I’m out on projects and stuff.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sure.’ He nestled his face into his scarf.
‘Come over Saturday. If you want.’

  I’m not sure how much he meant that, given the repeated if you want; perhaps he was just being polite. I was about to say thanks, but no thanks, when the looming deadline made me catch my tongue.

  Whoever said prayers are futile?

  9 p.m. I told Mum and Dad that Conall had offered his house to me on the weekends to write and they both looked at each other as if I’d just announced I was moving in with him.

  ‘It is proper for you to be in another man’s house, alone?’ asked Mum.

  Honestly. I had to reassure my imaginative parents that I’d be in the living room tapping on a keyboard, not in the neighbour’s bedroom, tapping on something else.

  Sunday 8 January

  6.45 p.m. At first I wasn’t sure about taking Conall up on his offer, but by ten o’clock in the morning the house phone had rung five times, Chachu and Baba were having a full-blown debate about the Pakistani economy and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, there was a child singing tunelessly. Whose child it was, I don’t know. And no Maria in the next room to suffer with me.

  I knocked on Conall’s door at about half ten. He opened it and, much to my consternation, was still in his boxers! In January? WTF? Mum and Dad’s shifty looks came to mind before I realised I was staring, looking even shiftier.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it’d be too early.’

  He gestured for me to come in as he grabbed his robe and put it on. In the passage there was the distinct smell of paper and I walked into the living room where the walls were lined with shelves, stacked with books. They were everywhere; on the floor in piles, resting on cabinets and the coffee table. Some were opened on the floor by the sofa.

  ‘I fell asleep going through some stuff,’ he explained.

  He went about closing them and picking them up from the floor, marking the pages as he did so. It was so quiet I wished the TV or something was on, and since I mention things being on, I wished that clothes on his back were one of them. Why wasn’t he tying his robe?? I might be of a holy disposition, but you’d have to be blind to ignore the fact that he looked like he was practically photoshopped. Made me breathe in the entire time I was standing there. Gave me a backache.