by Ayisha Malik
‘Please. They know jack.’
‘They were told who to marry and just got on with it. Now it’s all, “You’re too religious; you’re not religious enough. Why aren’t you taller? Thinner? Too educated. Not educated enough. Too loud, too quiet. Too Muslim. Too westernised.” That’s my favourite, really. Well, where do you live then, mate? Sodding Saudi?’
I wonder which of the above Naim thought was a problem. Too religious, probably. Sigh.
‘The next time an auntie asks me, “What are you looking for?” I’m going to say, “I’m looking for a man who I can sit next to and watch a film with, whose pants I can just put my hands down.” ’
Then the stairs creaked. As did my heart – before it plummeted to my feet. I hung up the phone as I saw Conall walk down the stairs. Of all the things I could’ve inherited from my parents, why did a Punjabber voice have to be it?
He came into the room, his mouth clamped together as he looked at me. I, on the other hand, began to find the flooring incredibly mesmerising.
‘I did ring the doorbell, but no one answered.’
‘I was in the shower.’
I prayed please, God, if you are beneficent, please let him not have heard that my criteria for a husband is wanting to put my hands down his pants. It’s obviously not the only criteria. I mean fine, it’s in the top five, but why should he have only heard that one? He went into the kitchen, made his coffee and came in ready with his bag and a full flask. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. I breathed an internal sigh of relief.
‘Well, I’ll be off then.’ And then he turned around. ‘Oh, and Sofe, next time you’re on a date – best way to get a man hooked is leading with, “I want to put my hands down your pants.” ’
I never want to see Conall ever again.
6.20 p.m. Left Conall’s before he got home. Imran called and asked what I was doing at the neighbour’s house. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of human kindness.
‘He probably fancies you.’
Honestly. Because Imran at one point in his life fancied me, he thinks everyone else is so inclined. Which is a nice idea for me, obviously, but I wish he’d get with the programme. He asked if I wanted to catch a film next week, but I told him I’m being productive. I can’t dilly-dally around going on non-dates when I have to write about actual dates.
‘Don’t your parents care you’re in some strange man’s home?’ he asked.
Do my weekends at Conall’s go into the ‘too westernised’ category?
Tuesday 27 March
6 a.m. I woke up in the middle of the night and the downstairs light was on. If someone had broken into the house, I’d have to go charging down with Dad’s old cricket bat – or, you know, call the police. I walked down a few steps and saw Dad sitting alone with his head in his hands. He saw me and leaned forward as if to stand up, but then didn’t quite manage it. When I asked if he was OK, he said he was fine, except his face was very pale.
‘It’s just my back hurting, Beta. It’s nothing.’ But he kept rubbing his chest. So I made him a cup of tea and sat down with him, rubbing his back and telling him about the launch party where an author once said, ‘Gosh! You’re rather exotic. Wasn’t like that back in my day.’
Dad should know better than to carry on smoking. Will plan an intervention with Mum and Maria to put a stop to this immediately.
4 p.m.
To Imran: I’m too tired to do any work. Still want to go watch a film?
I’m going to the cinema with Imran and will have stern words with Dad as soon as I get home. I can hardly do it when he already looks miserable. Hopefully today he’ll be better and I can shout at him without feeling guilty.
11.35 p.m.
From Imran: I’m going to take you wherever I go! Only you could make that man keep his shop open so we could have those waffles! Haha! Nyt nyt. xxx
NYT NYT? How did I not notice this when we were together??
Note for book: Never marry a man that can’t be bothered to spell ‘Night’ properly. Lazy with words, lazy with life.
Thursday 29 March
2 p.m. I’ve had to cancel lunch with Lucinda and Brammers to have an urgent meeting with Hannah. I can’t let little things like careers get in the way of helping friend in the midst of a marriage crisis. It turns out that tests for Hannah have come back; she won’t be able to have babies.
‘The worst thing is, Zulfi doesn’t care. Why would he? He has a readymade family.’
She got teary and pushed her uneaten lunch to one side. I was going to say it’s Allah’s will (which it is. Obviously.), but the time and place to say that is not when someone’s on the brink of an emotional breakdown. I’ll wait to tell her that no one knows what’s around the corner. As vision goes, ours is pretty limited.
Seeing Hannah sad has made me want to consume the canteen’s entire collection of muffins. Here’s a question: if you spend X amount of years wanting something and then realise that you can’t have it, and the person who you wanted to share it with doesn’t really mind either way, is that time wasted?
Forget years. Even months can feel like years when you meet a person who makes you laugh. It’s as if they’ve been making you laugh all your life. Bloody Naim.
9 p.m. Imran called and said I sounded weird. He asked what was wrong so I told him about Hannah.
‘She actually married that guy? She could’ve done better than that.’ Of course Imran loves generic statements. How could I have forgotten? ‘So she can’t have babies?’
‘No.’
‘You girls, man. She marries someone with a wife and kids and you can’t even . . .’
‘What?’
‘It’s not as if I was asking you to do anything weird. Everyone knows girls move in with their in-laws.’
‘Let’s all be clones.’
‘I don’t get how you let Hannah even do that. Oh my God, how did her parents agree to it?’ Then he started laughing out loud. ‘Sofe, man. You have some crazy friends.’
Saturday 31 March
8.45 a.m. What a drama, and it’s not even nine o’clock. The house phone rang at eight and Mum picked up. After a few minutes came Mum’s raised voice, ‘No, listen, Bhai Saab, everyone learns as they go along . . . Nahin, she only came once this week. She is married but we are her parents. If boys want to look after their parents won’t girls want to as well?’
Then Dad took hold of the phone. ‘Bhai -– these things should be discussed in person, haina?’
‘What do they think? Maria is a servant girl who we brought up just to do their dishes?’
I haven’t seen Mum angry like this before, but for once we were on the same page. ‘And she is so much better at cooking than Sofi.’ She turned to look at me. ‘This is why I tell you learn something now. You don’t know what your in-laws and husband will be like.’
Dad sighed, patting his trousers for his packet of cigarettes. I got up and took the packet from him.
‘Calm down, Mehnaz. We have to listen to everyone’s side of the story.’
‘Dad, what side? This is what I mean by living with the in-laws bol . . .’
‘Soffoo . . .’
‘Business. It’s so unfair.’
Mum then tried to call Maria, but she didn’t pick up.
‘Mehnaz, you know these people are traditional. When girls are married, they are another family’s.’
I looked at my dad as if he’d gone mad. He rubbed his eyes and sat quiet for a few moments.
‘Acha. That is what you think – she is no longer ours. Well done. Very good job we both did all our lives.’
Dad nodded at her. ‘I know, Mehnaz. She’s ours. But let me rest and when they come we will talk about it.’
He stood and made his way up the stairs as Mum stormed into the kitchen. She started peeling onions and chopping garlic.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’
‘They’ll be here lunchtime. Won’t they want food?’
7 p.m. I’ve
just crept into my room after being with Maria for the past hour. She managed to sob herself to sleep. They came at two o’clock and when they were about to leave, she said she wanted to stay here. T kept looking at the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists.
‘Maria. Are you sure?’ Dad asked her.
She nodded and Mum stepped forward, standing next to her.
‘Sister,’ said T’s dad, ‘Mothers should learn to step back once their daughter is married.’
Ha! Coming from the man whose wife tells Maria when to wake up, what to cook and where to go every day.
‘Bhai,’ Mum replied, ‘if you were a mother you would know that she stands in front of her daughter so bad things happen to her before her child.’
Mum watching all those Bollywood dramas has come in handy.
8.55 p.m. Imran’s called three times but I don’t want to speak with him and his live with the in-laws type. T left behind the mother of his unborn child. Must pray as it’s the only way to calm down and not want to round up all these men and shoot them one by one.
9.30 p.m. I sat next to Maria and asked how she was feeling.
‘Get your Dictaphone.’
‘What?’
‘That thing you use when you’re interviewing people.’
‘Oh.’ I got it and walked cautiously back into her old room. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.
‘Switch it on then.’
Maria: Living with in-laws is bullshit. Fine, it can work for some, but most of the time we know it’s bullshit. (Pause.) You know why? (Pause.) Because you realise your husband’s not on your side. (Her voice cracks.)
Me: T is on your side.
(Pause.)
Maria: No. You are.
Me: Obviously, silly moo.
Maria: Don’t you dare just settle, Sofe.
(I sigh.)
Me: Is there anyone else you’d have wanted to marry?
(Maria lets out a frustrated noise. She shakes her head.)
Me: Well, then. You didn’t just settle.
APRIL 2012
Once More, With Feeling, Please
Muslim Dating Book
Not all in-laws have a hole-in-the-wall (obviously), but many seem to be intent on drilling a hole in your head. It all boils down to forgotten history. The mother-in-law’s forgotten what it was like when she was in that very same situation thirty-odd years ago. The tables have turned and instead of changing things, she wants to take a slab of her past and whack it into her daughter-in-law’s present.
Oh, bloody hell. They’re not all like that. It’s just unfortunate that my sister’s are.
The issue, of course, is keeping the words you should be saying out loud in the confines of your overwhelmed brain. But you have to be careful: these words can either pierce the tension and release it, or inject and inflame it, until the tension swells so mightily every one is bogged down with the weight of it.
That’s the thing with words. Whatever you do with them -– in or out – you’ll have to live with the consequences.
Sunday 1 April
10 a.m. I came to Conall’s for the morning and he was still home, gardening. He walked into the house and took off his gloves.
‘Any hands in pants potentials this week?’
I’d completely forgotten about the previous week’s debacle.
‘Oh, right. Not quite. What are you planting?’
‘Seeds.’
I got my notebook and laptop out and plugged it in.
‘Obviously seeds.’
‘Wildflowers.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Chamerion angustifolium.’
‘What?’
‘Rosebay willowherb.’
‘Why are you just saying things?’
‘That’s what they’re called.’
‘Right.’
‘They need a lot of space and light.’
‘Space is important.’ I sighed.
‘And light.’
‘And that.’
‘Deadline’s looming. You’d better get on with it,’ he said.
I opened Word and looked up at him. ‘You know what really pisses me off?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Patience,’ I said.
Conall pulled up the chair opposite me and sat down.
‘I hear it all the time about marriage. You must be patient with your husband. If he asks for five curries for dinner or wants you to live with his parents, then you must comply. If he wants his shoes licked clean, then why do you think you have a tongue? Oh, I don’t know – maybe to have an opinion? Worse is when people start using Islam to tell you to be a bloody doormat.’
‘Incidentally, how does Islam feel about anger?’
I had to push down what can only be described as non-sage-like feelings.
‘I’m not angry.’ I shook my head in what I hoped was a calm fashion. ‘I’m merely highlighting the injustice of it all. No one ever told men to be patient.’ You know what else I can’t stand? When people get all judgy.’
‘Judg-y?’
‘On how things should be done. Not everything is black and white, you know.’
‘Why don’t I make some tea?’
He went into the kitchen and I checked my phone.
From Imran: Pakistan Vs India! Bastards better watch out! Lololol.
He came back with two mugs of tea and chocolate digestives.
‘There, that’ll cheer you up,’ he said, pushing the plate of digestives towards me.
‘No, I’m not in the mood.’
Am I so fat that it seems as if biscuits are the only thing that make me happy? I took two and dipped them both in my tea. Then I ranted about Hannah not being able to have babies, Imran and his insensitive comments, Naim and the fact that he’s finally decided to leave me alone (I should be glad, shouldn’t I?), Dad and him not feeling well – though not sure how that fits into the whole polygamy thing. And poor Conall sat and listened, nodding every now and then.
‘The problem with the world, Sofe, is not everyone can be bothered to change it.’
Yes, well, thanks, Mr Optimistic – I am (was?) also a proponent of that theory, but I’m beginning to see that one person can’t change anything at all.
Then he said, ‘Maybe your book’ll change things.’
Ha! ‘Yes, dating books change things all the time.’
He said he knew that. What was with the irony? ‘So maybe you write something different.’
‘This is for work.’
‘Just odd. Seems to me you have a fair bit to say. Most people do – but not everyone has the same – you might say God-given -– opportunity.’
I screwed up my face. ‘Are you giving me guidance?’
He laughed. Doesn’t happen very often, but when it does it really is very kind laughter. ‘Well, there’s no leading you astray. Next best thing.’ And then he tapped the table. ‘Something to think about.’
I stared at the heading on my laptop: ‘Poke Me Once Shame on You, Poke Me Twice, Shame on Me.’ But there was no deleting it. I had to carry on – resilience and resignation is apparently part and parcel of life, not just marriage. Conall stopped at the door and turned around.
‘If you think this Naim person is the one who might give you a bit of optimism in life, I wouldn’t let it go that easily.’
I looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Erm, hello, there’s my pride.’ (As Fozia had correctly pointed out.) What did he take me for? After all this time I should be the one to say something to Naim? No, thank you very much.
‘I thought truly spiritual people didn’t let things like pride get in the way?’
ARGH! Bloody Conall and his reasonableness. But he doesn’t know that Naim laughed at the idea of marrying me. Laughed. In my face! The humiliation!
‘I’m not telling you to write the man a feckin’ love letter. Sorry. I’m just saying; don’t let a person read between the lines.’ He smiled his lopsided smile. ‘Listen, if a man turns up outside a girl�
�s house he’s probably mad about her . . .’
‘Or?’
‘Or he’s just passing his time until something else comes along.’
‘Great, thanks.’
‘All you need to know is if you’re tough enough to live with the worst of the two outcomes. It’d be shit, to be sure. But not for long.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And then there’s the possibility of the best outcome. Trust me, you don’t want to live with regret. I know what I’m talking about.’
When he left the room his words flitted around in my now-strained brain. I felt bad for his regrets. What-ifs’ are the worst. People end up popping pills for the rest of their lives because of ‘what-ifs.’
1.30 p.m. Have just prayed and I have a feeling. I feel that Conall’s right. Something about the way he said it; pride and not living with regret. And also, all these unhappy people around me. I could live with being the Mad Woman in the Attic – but I don’t think I could add ‘regretful’ to the title.
9.45 p.m.
To: Sharif, Naim
From: Khan, Sofia
Subject: Hi
Hello,
Sorry I’ve been ignoring your calls. Contrary to what you think, it’s not PMT, thank you. It’s another thing. I discovered something a little inconvenient. Apparently I have feelings for you. I know. If it’s a shock to you, then imagine what a shock it was to me.
Anyway, this is my way of explanation as to why I don’t think we can be friends any more. It’s distracting.
Look after yourself, and have a Lemon Puff on me.
Love,
Sofia
Like Conall said, it didn’t have to be a bloody love letter. I looked over the email more than a few times. If I were American too, I believe I’d call this closure. Thanks to God I’m not.
I have to say, even at my thinnest I never felt as light as I do now, though something keeps tugging at my thoughts. But this isn’t about hope; this is about the opposite of regret.
