Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, adjusting my eyes, ‘I’ll think of something.’

  He leaned back and opened out his hands. ‘Like be an adult and say you’re not interested?’

  I pat him on the arm. ‘Let’s just call that Plan B.’

  Note for book: Write a list of how to put off potential husbands. Include anything, even if it is to the detriment of your dignity. Better to be undignified for a few moments, than undignified for a lifetime.

  7.30 p.m. Suffice to say, I’m never doing that again. No one likes an awkward silence, but then no one likes entertaining forced marriages.

  The beardie walked in behind his parents, and I was sitting twiddling my thumbs, wanting to throw my phone at someone, namely him when he came into my line of vision. I rather like a beard – a nice neat one, bit of stubble etc. – but there is something about a beardie who walks in, eyes lowered to the floor, that quite frankly makes me feel contrary.

  The mother sat down, looking around the room.

  ‘You have a lovely home, Masha’Allah.’

  Mum smiled her faux modest smile, then Beardie’s mum looked at me and said, ‘Beti must help to keep it looking so nice.’

  Ha! Mum looked at me and tried not to laugh.

  ‘Oh you know today’s girls. Becharis, they work all week – where can they have the time?’ said Mum.

  ‘But for the home you must make time, haina?’ said the beardie’s mum. Beardie was still looking at the floor. I wanted to go and peer up at him and say, well, this is a fine situation you suggested.

  Then the conversation went on to boring details like what the beardie does – something about business – surprise, surprise.

  ‘Beti, what do you do?’ asked the dad, who by the way seemed to be having a mid-life crisis with leather jacket, pointy shoes and more gel in his hair than his son.

  ‘I work in book publicity.’

  ‘Book publicity?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Book publicity,’ he repeated.

  I nodded. He frowned. ‘And what is that?’ He looked around the room as if everyone required an explanation. So I explained the daily routine of a publicist.

  ‘Today’s children, haina? There are all kinds of jobs people do,’ said his dad.

  ‘Haan, I think best job for girl is taw teaching,’ his mum added. ‘So many holidays, and good when you have your own family. Wouldn’t you like to teach, Beta?’

  She looked at me expectantly.

  My dad threw up his hands and leaned forward. ‘Oh this is so common, teaching sheaching.’

  Mum followed on from this with, ‘Sofia used to help the students in university sometimes.’ She laughed. ‘She said, “I’m never going to be a teacher!” ’

  Cue dissatisfied silence. Happily, Mum was able to break this with promises of chai and nibbles. The dad, mum and beardie looked at me as Mum went into the kitchen. Dad had already picked up the remote and said we should all see what’s going on in the world, so switched the news on. I looked – pointedly, might I add – at the TV.

  When the clatter of the tea arrived, I gratuitously stood up to hand the plates around. I gave one to the beardie and he looked at me for as long as I stood there handing him pakoras. Well! What’s wrong with the oh-so-fascinating ground now?

  I sat back down when his mum asked, ‘Do you like doing housework?’

  Was this a trick question?

  ‘I don’t think anyone likes housework,’ I replied.

  She laughed and her husband also chuckled, saying, ‘Very good, very good.’ I don’t remember that being a joke.

  ‘Did you help your mama makes these pakoras?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  Her husband leaned forward, in apparent good humour and asked, ‘What did you make? Tell us, don’t worry, we will think all is delicious.’ He glanced furtively at my dad, who’d furrowed his eyebrows.

  I smiled, in the sweetest of manners, and replied, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Too busy, haina? But you do cook?’ the mum asked.

  ‘No.’ Then I thought of tea and Lemon Puffs. ‘I make tea for people sometimes. But it’s not very good.’

  Mum flashed me a look and then, as if bitten by something, the beardie shot up off his seat. ‘I need to pray – where is the kaa’ba?’

  Dad stood up to show him to the other room, but the beardie looked at his parents.

  ‘Oh, Beta, you pray. We will pray later,’ said the dad, raising his hand in the air, as if to say, God’s not going anywhere.

  Mum handed tea to the mum, and the dad continued, ‘Nowadays children do all this praying.’ He laughed, although I’m not quite sure what was so funny.

  ‘This is not a bad thing,’ said Dad, looking at beardie’s dad’s shoes.

  ‘Our son is always telling us what we are doing wrong,’ said the mum.

  Mum looked at her. ‘Acha, he isn’t a fundamentalist nah?’

  Beardie’s mum’s teacup halted mid-air. ‘No, no!’ For a moment I felt sorry for them. After all, I know what it feels like when people make assumptions based on the spectrum of your religiosity. Mum put chutney in her plate, took a pakora and before putting it in her mouth said, ‘Because we are not extremists.’ Argh!

  Note for book: Don’t suggest someone’s an extremist just because they like praying on time.

  ‘We taw are normal.’ She was then distracted by a piece of dirt on the floor, which she picked up and put in the bin.

  ‘No, no,’ said Mum after they’d left. ‘So much religious is not good.’

  ‘As if I’d let my beti marry someone whose father wears such pointy shoes, anyway,’ added Dad.

  Seems I am not the only fussy one.

  7.45 p.m. ‘What a waste of time that all-day event was.’ Fozia came over and was lying on my bed. I had the urge to pour the drink I was holding over her.

  ‘I would’ve traded,’ I replied.

  ‘That would’ve been interesting,’ she said with a weird kind of smile. She sat up and took the drink. ‘Are your parents arguing downstairs?’

  ‘No.’ I sat down and asked whether it was a room full of ‘dat’ people.

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Who started this ugly mutation of the English language?’

  Fozia sighed and shook her head. ‘Not a lot out there.’

  ‘Who cares? Rather spend a lifetime alone than having to give elocution lessons.’

  ‘Beardie a no-go then?’

  ‘No, I think I sufficiently put them off. This is why people think I’m a snob.’ I took her drink and finished the juice. Fozia put her arm around me. ‘No, darling. You’re just misunderstood.’

  Love Fozia.

  Sunday 18 March

  9.55 a.m. It’s been twenty minutes since I’ve been tapping on my laptop, and not once has Conall asked me about yesterday. Instead he’s been running up and down the stairs, looking for something. How does he know I’m not getting shipped off to Pakistan and sold into a family who’ll have me shackled to the kitchen, making chicken korma for the rest of my life?

  10.20 a.m. He came into the room and was chucking back books, looking under newspapers and grunting.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked. He ignored me, and carried on throwing things around. ‘Tell me and I’ll help you find it.’

  ‘Phone number.’

  ‘The one you were writing down yesterday?’

  He looked up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You put it in the first drawer in the kitchen.’

  He looked at me as he walked out and emerged a minute later.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You took the number down and then the kettle boiled so you went into the kitchen. I came in after you, because I didn’t know if I wanted coffee or tea and you put it in the drawer.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ He fed the number into his phone.

  ‘Important?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well, now that’s out of the way you can hear about my near-miss
with the forced marriage yesterday.’

  ‘You know there are people who are actually being forced into marriage?’

  ‘Yes, I was almost one of them.’

  He shook his head and saw the bookmarks I’d left on the table. I told him he should use those instead of creasing the pages of his book.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘No worries. Anyway, listen.’

  By the time I got to the point where Mum asked whether the beardie was a fundo, Conall was in full-fledged laughter mode.

  ‘She is gas.’

  ‘Yes. Lethal.’

  4.05 p.m.

  To: Khan, Sofia

  From: Haque, Imran

  Subject: Meeting

  Hi Sofe, how are u? It was weird seeing each other at that event. Weird that we didnt speak. I mean, how could we be in the same room and not talk? Don’t know if you wanted to ignore me, but I thought I’ll be a better person and just email you.

  It’d be good to meet for coffee, if you’re free? Unless you’re already married . . . xx

  OMG. What does this mean?? Is it a sign from God? If it is, then a sign for what exactly? Annoying thing is, as I looked at the email, I couldn’t help thinking of Naim. And also how for a lawyer, Imran’s grammar is pretty shoddy.

  7 p.m. Meeting Imran in my current state is like proving that he was right, that I’d not find anyone who wouldn’t want me to live with the in-laws. Smug bastard. Mind you, Naim doesn’t want his wife to live with her in-laws. But then Naim doesn’t want me to be his wife.

  Told Fozia that Imran emailed me. It took her a moment before she said, ‘Oh. Right. What did he say?’

  Perhaps yesterday’s event has zapped her energy. She thinks I should email him back because apparently it’s not as if they’re queueing at the door. Yes, thank you for reminding me. I need Hannah’s anthropological take, but she is in the midst of having her ovaries tested so has better things to worry about, and Suj’s phone isn’t working abroad. When I phoned to ask Maria she took a few moments before she slammed a door shut.

  ‘Can’t even talk in this bloody house,’ she said. ‘Oh, Sofe. Stop making all these men your friends and marry one of them already . . .’

  9.25 p.m.

  From: Khan, Sofia

  To: Haque, Imran

  Subject Re: Meeting

  Hello, how are you? Not married quite yet. Would be good to see you. I’m free most of next week – let me know what suits.

  There, that’s fairly nonchalant and cool.

  9.28 p.m.

  From: Haque, Imran

  To: Khan, Sofia

  Subject: Monday?

  Great! Hows Monday? We can meet in Charlotte Street. Remember that restaurant we went to last time? Lets go there again. xxx

  What restaurant? I’ll ignore the lack of apostrophes in email and be thankful that he is not a ‘dat’ man. Plus, there’s no harm in having an amicable catch-up with someone you thought you might marry at one point.

  Note for book: Remind yourself of that time where you had hands in prayer, asking for reasons as to why your potential husband was obsessed with living with his family post-marriage, because whatever the failings of your latest (non-)relationship, it’s handy to know that you can wash, rinse, repeat – as needed.

  Monday 19 March

  8.26 a.m.

  From Hannah: Give me news that doesn’t involve ovaries or babies, please.

  8.28 a.m.

  To Hannah: Since you ask – I’m seeing Imran on Thursday.

  9.04 a.m. ‘Do you think he wants to get back together? Is he still single?’

  ‘Of course he doesn’t, and I don’t know.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Hannah paused. ‘What if he turns around and says he’ll move out?’

  ‘The problem is, of course, that you can take the boy out of the hole-in-the wall . . .’

  ‘The only hole-in-the-wall should be a cash machine. Although, you can see how it goes and if one day you decide you don’t care any more, you can marry him.’

  ‘I will always care about the hole-in-the-wall.’

  ‘Even when you’re thirty-five and a virgin?’

  Hannah is so grim sometimes. But she really does think ahead.

  Note for book: Stop living day to day and think about the future?

  10 a.m. We’ve all been given a copy of the school photo. Katie and I have just spent fifteen minutes laughing. We look like we’re pointing to high heaven – as if we’ve seen God himself.

  10.20 a.m. Have just emailed the tweaked chapters and an additional three to Lucinda, copying in Brammers. What if she thinks they’re crap? What if they no longer want to publish it because I can’t actually write??

  2 p.m. Trumpet and Lucinda were admiring the school photo that’s been put up on the wall. I was walking out of the kitchen with tea when I heard him say, ‘Look at that. A black person, a gay person and a Muslim. We really are diverse.’ Hahaha. Had to run and tell Katie. Trumpet really does come up trumps sometimes.

  10 p.m. The good thing about not fancying someone any more is you don’t end up doing things like missing your mouth, or spilling coffee. My brain and body movements were in perfect harmony when I saw Imran. The only time I felt slightly disconcerted was when he got up and looked as if he was about to hug me, but then seemed to think better of it. To be honest, it was nice not to have to talk about the disaster-dating scene, sperm counts and racial conflicts.

  ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked.

  ‘You know, you could’ve asked me this at the event.’

  He looked at the table. ‘Sorry, it was just weird seeing you and I . . .’

  ‘Oh, forget it. I’m joking. It’s fine.’

  He seemed relieved.

  ‘You still look the same,’ he said.

  I had a feeling it’d be awkward seeing him again; that we’d both stumble over sentences, have awkward silences, but it was just so friendly.

  ‘Well, you only saw me last month,’ I said.

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He paused. ‘It feels longer, doesn’t it? Since we were last here?’

  I thought of Naim and all that’s happened in between.

  ‘It really does.’

  We’ve decided to be friends. He told me about some Parveen girl who he’d been seeing for a while, but that it didn’t work out. Couldn’t quite bring myself to mention Naim.

  I’d told Mum I was seeing Imran, and she was more excited at the prospect of turning my room into some kind of beauty parlour if I married him than anything else. When she asked how the evening went, I didn’t tell her it ended in friendship. This way she’ll get off my case about meeting someone as she probably thinks I’ll end up marrying Imran, and when the time comes to tell her that I’m not marrying him, I’ll just say that it turns out his parents are shipping him off to Paksitan to get married. Excellent.

  Friday 23 March

  9.30 a.m. Argh! Lucinda wants to see me in her office re draft chapters. Bollocks.

  10 a.m. A stack of manuscripts blocked the entrance to Lucinda’s office door – a literary fence, about two feet high. I had to stand over them, as if poised to do a star-jump. Stupid tight jeans.

  ‘This way only people who have a serious thing to discuss can come in,’ she said, looking for something in her drawer. She took out a Toffee Crisp and unwrapped it, gesturing for me to take a seat as she ate a chunk.

  ‘I like that colour scarf on you,’ she mumbled through the gooey mix of chocolate and crispies.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ I adjusted the ruching of the scarf. Before I knew it she’d stood up, leaned over, and had my head in her hands.

  ‘How do you pin it all?’ she asked, moving my head side to side as I looked at her plump, pink face. ‘Would you . . . would you mind showing me?’

  The thing is, when you’re the circus freak, sometimes you have to give the crowd what they want. So I unwrapped my hijab and then she asked if she could see my hair.

  ‘Erm. Sure.’ />
  I took my hair out and she gazed at me.

  ‘Wow! It’s so beautiful.’ She took a handful of it and looked at it closely. ‘It’s so thick!’

  You’re so close. It was embarrassing – I felt like a show pony. I explained that Pakistanis generally have good hair.

  ‘Aren’t you beautiful?’ Which sounded like more of an accusation than compliment.

  ‘Oh, erm, thanks.’

  She sat back down and picked her Toffee Crisp up, watching as I put my scarf back on in haphazard manner (no mirror).

  ‘So, this book,’ she said, taking a bite that filled out her cheeks. ‘Dorothy and I’ve discussed it. Fascinating subject. Fun. Unusual the way it came about but, on the whole, it’s worked out well, hasn’t it?’ She handed over the chapters with red lines and writing drawn all over the pages. ‘Have a look at my notes.’

  She rummaged around her drawer and took out another Toffee Crisp.

  Does this really happen? How do these people feel? were amongst some of the comments scratched over the paper. Sentences were crossed out and words underlined. Is this what you call something that’s ‘worked out well’?

  ‘Let me know what you think,’ she said, throwing the wrapper in the bin. ‘But I think we’re OK for you to carry on without showing us any more until the first draft is due.’

  ‘OK’ I stared at the pages, realising that this would probably just be a one-book deal. It didn’t occur to me I might’ve wanted more. I lifted myself and my disappointment off the chair and smiled. I was in star-jump position, about to leave, when Lucinda said, ‘I like you, Sofia.’ She patted around in her drawer. ‘This is going to be good.’

  Good? I suppose a person should trust a senior editor. I just can’t see how.

  Saturday 24 March

  12.45 p.m. ‘Ugh. I just about managed to escape the manicured clutches of Auntie Reena,’ I said to Suj on the phone. ‘ “What are you looking for, Beta? You shouldn’t be so fussy nah. No one is perfect.” No one’s normal, more like. As if they know what it’s like.’