by Ayisha Malik
‘You won’t have time for that when you’re married.’ He took his glass and kept turning it around in his hands. ‘You’ll be happy enough once the wedding’s over.’
‘Happiness,’ I said, watching him. ‘It’s just an illusion anyway.’
He leaned forward.
‘Discuss.’
‘I’m not being cynical.’ The conversation might’ve taken a turn, but all I was thinking was, Afghanistan. Three weeks!
‘Of course. You’re an optimist.’
‘That’s just stupid,’ I said, looking at the muffins, that he had bought – the lemonade he had made, this house, in which he lived. ‘I’m a realist.’
‘So, you’re saying you’re something between common and stupid?’
I thought about this and then shrugged. ‘I must be.’ To have not realised that nothing lasts for ever. It’s the mistake of humanity itself. Common, stupid, humanity.
He looked at the table.
‘Sofe, you’re odd, to be sure. But I think we can safely say, there is nothing common about you.’
There is a person who thinks this, and he is leaving.
‘Especially when I bring roses and a string quartet to play melancholy music before you leave,’ I said.
‘Will you be melancholy?’
‘I will pop a lot of pills.’
‘Sofe,’ he replied. ‘We’re better than surface jokes.’
His mobile rang, but he ignored it. I drew circles on the table with my finger, remembering our cigarette on the garden step, and looked up at him. No words would come out.
‘Can’t stay in one place for ever, Sofe.’
More’s the pity, I wanted to say. But, like an agreeable person, I nodded and tried to focus on my laptop – on a blank page I didn’t know how to fill.
Sunday 3 June
9.45 a.m. ‘What is wrong with you?’ asked Mum. ‘You’re dragging your feet like your arse is too heavy for your legs.’
‘My arse is too heavy for my legs.’
‘It is because of wedding outfit, haina? So lilac it is.’
I walked into the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, not knowing what I wanted for breakfast. Mum came in and said she’d make me paratha.
‘Soffoo,’ she said, taking out the rolling pin and ghee, ‘no one will help you in this life.’ Oh, God, here comes more cynicism. It’s a wonder Maria and I haven’t slashed our wrists, ‘But when you are married, you will be surprised how strong you are.’ She rolled out the dough. ‘Lilac lengha is nothing to worry about. You will see.’
From Imran: I can’t wait to wake up every morning to you.
Oh, Lord, I think I’m not hungry.
8.30 p.m. Maria and T came over and we’d just finished lunch when, out of nowhere, Mum said, ‘Chalo, let’s play Monopoly.’ It’s been twenty years since we last got that out of the storage cupboard. What I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for ever, but then I’d be called anti-social.
Halfway through, T got a phone call from his parents. He went into the other room and we all – yes, even Dad – strained our ears to listen to the conversation.
‘No, Mum. I don’t know. Well, whenever.’ Maria walked over to the door, and Mum started slapping Dad’s hand when he went to scratch his stubble. ‘We’re playing Monopoly. Mum, no, we’re not coming home. We’re staying here. Cos Maria wants to. And so do I.’
Maria, hand on belly, tiptoed back to her seat as all of us pretended to argue about who had how much money, which is when Maria realised that I’d stolen two hundred pounds from her.
The doorbell rang and Mum went to answer it. It’s been so long since we’ve played Monopoly that I’d forgotten my personal obsession with owning Park Lane and Mayfair. I was snatching the Community card from Tahir as Dad tried to take a fifty-pound note from my pile of money.
‘Sorry, I didn’t meant to disturb you.’
I looked up and Conall was standing there, next to Mum, with a bundle of books in his arms.
‘I told you, I’m not lying, Sofe!’ Tahir put the card back in the card pile and looked behind him. ‘All right, mate?’
Conall nodded.
‘I was just clearing out some books, and thought, well, there are some great ones on the Indo–Pak war, and thought you’d like them, Mr Khan.’
Dad eased to his feet and took a look at one.
‘Ah, haan, I’ve read this one before.’ He leafed through the rather well-thumbed copy of Kutch to something or another. He looked up and smiled at Conall. ‘Come. Sit.’
Conall hesitated for a moment, looking at the now utterly imbalanced Monopoly board.
‘No, no – thanks a mill. I have packing.’
‘Colin, you’re going then?’ Mum followed this with a ‘Hawww’.
‘Conall, Mum,’ I said.
‘Haan, that’s what I said.’ She took the rest of the books and put them on the coffee table, knocking off a few of Maria’s hotels.
‘Come have a look at my potatoes.’ He followed her out into the garden where I could see her nodding as he bent down and took a handful of soil. She laughed (at something she’d undoubtedly said) and he looked up, smiling at her. That lovely, kind smile that his face breaks into every now and again.
I turned back, reached into my dad’s breast pocket and took out the fifty-pound note. ‘Shame on you, Baba.’
‘Colin, there will be lots of people coming next weekend so sorry for noise,’ said Mum. I’m apparently having a dholki. I’ve lost the will to argue.
‘That’s, er, that’s grand, Mrs Khan.’
‘O-ho, you call me Mehnaz.’
I looked at him and smiled as he was about to walk out. ‘Sofe,’ he said, ‘you don’t seem to be winning there.’
Maria laughed saying, ‘That’s because she wants everything or nothing.’
He looked at me for a moment. ‘That’s no bad thing.’
What the hell is going on when every word and sentence all of a sudden feels like it means more than it actually says?
Friday 8 June
5.10 a.m. I cannot believe that next month I have a first draft to hand in. I’d like to know how mothers cope without sleep and carry on the daily routine of being human. I can barely keep my hand going when I’m brushing my teeth.
Tuesday 12 June
7.35 p.m. The doctor paid a home visit today. I spoke to her in the passage after she’d examined Dad. Apparently he’s doing much better. She stepped out of the house and I glanced towards Conall’s as the doctor turned around and said, ‘Your dad seems very excited about the wedding – I’m sure it helps that he has that to look forward to.’
Thursday 14 June
10 a.m. Katie and I were having breakfast in the canteen and I told her about the Godforsaken dholki Mum is making me have this weekend. Maria and Mum are putting up the fairy lights. I really wish I didn’t have to see them again. The fairy lights, that is.
‘So exciting,’ she said. ‘Can I wear a sari?’
‘You can wear a bin bag if you want. Just come, clap at the beating drum, smile and ignore any auntie who asks if you’re married.’
She cleared her throat and leaned forward. ‘Right, so don’t make a song and dance about it, I don’t want to tell anyone yet, but . . .’ And she gave me this look – a twinkle in her eye. ‘I’m engaged.’
‘Tom proposed?’
‘Last weekend, Sweetu. It’s a done deal.’
Gosh – talk about remaining calm in the face of the prospect of getting married – Katie is a kindred spirit, I’ve decided.
‘Are you happy?’
And there it was, the look of a person who has their excitement under control, but who can’t hide the ripples that will invariably surface.
‘Yes. Very.’
Then for whatever reason, I ended up having to run to the toilet and threw up a perfectly good muffin. I’d think I was pregnant, only there was only one immaculate conception – and if there is ever going to be another one, it won’t
be from the girl who writes press releases for a living.
Saturday 16 June
8.55 a.m. ‘HAVE YOU TOLD THE NEIGHBOURS THERE’LL BE NOISE?’
I’d barely opened my eyes and Mum’s voice was blaring in the house. ‘Soffooooo. Soffooooo. Uff, Shakeel, Soffoo uthi ke nahin?’
‘Haan haan, she’ll be awake soon,’ replied Dad.
The doorbell rang.
‘Haw hai. Bilal, what is this? This is taw shocking pink. I said green.’
‘Baji, this is all fashion. Last week Mrs Naila’s daughter had same colour for her mehndi.’
‘But how is this going to go with the floor cushions. Sofiiiiiiii. Wake up!’
‘Oh my daaays. What is that? We wanted green,’ said Maria. When did she get here?
Someone came bounding up the stairs and flung my door open.
‘Sofe, do you have coral nail polish?’
I squinted and pulled the cover over myself.
‘Get up. I need my eyebrows threaded.’
‘Why is everyone so loud?’
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. Maria stood, face masked in mud, hair bundled up in some weird substance that was kind of white.
‘Oh, it’s egg and yogurt. Makes your hair soft.’
I can’t believe I’m reliving the nightmare. The house has turned into a melting pot of fairy lights and ladoos.
Argh! Doorbell!
9.03 a.m. Who the hell ordered eight baskets of bananas??
9.15 a.m. Mum, Dad, Maria and I stood around the baskets that were wrapped in cellophane and swirly baby-blue ribbon.
‘Very strange thing to do,’ said Dad.
‘Soffoo – what in-laws you have.’ Mum ran into the kitchen to switch the hob off. ‘Chalo, we will make banana milkshake tonight.’
Dad walked out into the conservatory to help Tahir unpack boxes of material and Maria and I just stood there.
‘Well weird,’ she said.
10 a.m.
From Fozia: Darling, I’ll be there on time, but in case I’m late don’t tell me off. I’m seeing Riaz! Love you xxxx
Hurrah! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
5 p.m. ‘Why are there eight baskets of bananas in your kitchen?’ asked Suj. She dabbed my nose with some blotting powder and held up two different blushers. ‘Orgasm or Desire?’
I assessed the two options.
‘Both?’ I said.
She put one down and started attacking my cheeks with a blusher brush. I sighed and moved my head back as Suj stood with brush mid-air.
‘Am I doing the right thing?’ I asked.
‘Do you want Desire instead?’
‘Imran’s nice, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah. Yeah. He’s, you know . . . He’ll look after you.’
‘I’m not a dog.’
Mum walked into the room and put my outfit on the bed. She looked at my face.
‘Make sure you put on thick eyeliner.’
‘Mehnaz, is it time for my pills?’ Dad hovered at the door, buttoning up his shirt. ‘Where did I put my glasses?’
‘O-ho, they’re on your empty head.’
He felt his head and pulled them off. ‘Ah. Acha, Surjeet, Beta, don’t put too much makeup on my daughter. She is already beautiful enough.’
Mum chortled. ‘Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t realise even when glasses are on his head.’ She made Dad follow her out; something about making sure the solar lights are working.
‘Well, there’s at least one good thing that’ll come out of getting hitched,’ I said. ‘I won’t have to live here any more.’ But this just made me feel sad. I never realised how much I love this home.
7.45 p.m. People have started arriving and everyone’s all congratulations, congratulations. I’ve decided that most people are very annoying.
Monday 18 June
9.45 a.m. I gave Katie one of the smoothies I was holding when I got to work.
‘Saturday was epic,’ she said, opening the bottle and taking a sip.
‘Did you have a banana?’
‘At least three.’ She perched on my desk. ‘I met your neighbour, Sweetu.’
I rested my bag on the desk and looked at her.
‘Conall?’
‘I apologised about the noise on your behalf.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said, “That’s nothing. You should hear ’em when they’re making Christmas dinner.” ’
‘Your Irish accent is crap,’ I said.
‘I said you’re not nearly that loud at work. According to him you don’t shut up. I told him, “Well, you have to love it.” I have your back.’
‘What did he say?’
She closed the lid on her smoothie. ‘Erm, then Tom called and asked if I was on my way home.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He keeps telling me I have to get used to someone caring where I am in the middle of the night.’
‘Hmmm, right. So, what did he say?’
‘Just whether I was getting a taxi.’
‘No, I mean Conall.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something like, “That’s the truth.” Which it is. Obvs.’
‘Something like, or definitely?’
‘Oh God, it’s Brammers.’
With which Katie slipped away and managed to look as if she was in the middle of organising a G8 summit by tapping furiously on her BlackBerry. Why do people not pay attention to the details in life?
Friday 22 June
7.30 a.m. I have seventy-six emails in my inbox, eight mailouts to send, authors who can’t travel Economy on the train for a fifty-minute journey to Cheltenham, and a fiancé whom I’m meeting for dinner because his mum wants to give something to my mum. However, I also have the first draft of a manuscript. I don’t feel quite ready to let it go just yet.
8.55 a.m. ‘Mum, what’s Imran’s mum sending you?’ I had to whisper into the phone as weird, over-productive people in Marketing were already in the office.
‘Oh haan! She wants you to wear the choker she wore on her mehndi.’
Why does no one tell me anything??
‘But, Mum! What if it’s ugly?’
‘You are also ugly.’ Laughter from her side of the phone.
Does Imran know about this choker? No. Was I given the slightest bit of notification about this symbolic piece of jewellery that is becoming a noose around my neck and life? Clearly not.
‘I told her girls like to wear their own things, but it doesn’t looks nice, nah. She will think you are snob. Which you are, but better she knows after the wedding.’
‘Bye, Mum.’
‘Oh haan, bring some milk on your way home.’
9.20 a.m. I was photocopying when Tasha, the drawler from Marketing came over and asked what I was doing on the weekend. No one actually cares about this. What if I decided to lie around in my pyjamas, eating chocolate and watching MTV? I’d be forced to make something up otherwise I’d sound like a lazy cow. This constant need for people to be doing stuff is exhausting.
‘Oh, nothing much, just . . . wedding preps.’
Tasha’s eyes widened as slowly as her sentences take to come out.
‘Oh wooow. How exciting. I had no idea. What’s the dress like?’
And on and on the conversation had to go.
‘I bet it’s beautiful. Your weddings are just so colourful. Our weddings are so plain.’
I thought about telling her about the lilac mass, and the as-yet-unseen choker. But instead I smiled, indicated the photocopier was free and dragged my feet back to my desk.
1 p.m. What I need to do is pray and be Zen-like. I can be Zen-like. I’ve been Zen-like before, I can be that way again.
I reminded myself: the choker is an expression of a mother-in-law’s affection. It is not a form of control. Whilst wearing the choker is an unreasonable expectation, it is just a result of a long line of expectations dictated by tradition. But one should try to respect these traditions. Remember, it is not a noose; sometimes a choker is just a choker. Exha
le.
I am serene. Even this manky excuse for a prayer room, with its dingy grey walls, a bed that looks like it’s been carted out of a hospital, and noticeboard with how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre is beautiful in its own way.
Prayer time over. Emotional order has been restored.
10.45 p.m. I was geared up to be agreeable. I really was. If anybody decided to pay my intentions a visit, I swear, they would’ve seen a ‘Sofia’s being agreeable now’ sign hung smack-bang in the centre.
‘You’re acting weird.’
‘What?’
I looked at Imran as we sat at our designated table and gave him a lovely smile. All affability.
‘Why are you smiling like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like – sarcastic.’
‘Can we get a basket of bread, please?’ I asked, smiling pointedly at the waiter. ‘Was that sarcastic too?’
He handed me a little bag and I looked inside. ‘That’s to give to your mum, or you, or both. I dunno.’ And then, as if on cue, my phone rang and it was his mum.
‘Beta,’ said the ever-sunny voice on the other end of the line, ‘I told Imran to tell you not to look at choker until you get home.’
I desperately wanted to ask the reasoning behind this. And while I was at it, I should’ve asked about the eight baskets of bananas too, but there was his mother on the other end of the phone, and my mother in my head, saying It doesn’t looks nice, nah.
‘OK, Auntie. I’ll look when I get home.’
‘Good, Beta. Acha, tell Imran I’ve made his hair appointment for the weekend.’
I shot a look at him, but he was too busy viewing the menu.
‘Erm OK, Auntie.’
‘O-ho, I’m your ammi now.’
The serene part of me was unravelling fast. I don’t care how mad my mother is, I only have one, and there will have to be an ice-skating show in hell before I start calling anyone else that.
‘Oh, I think I prefer Auntie. Auntie.’
Silence, and then a clearing of the throat. This lasted a good five seconds, which might not sound long, but felt rather close to an age.
