Sofia Khan is Not Obliged

by Ayisha Malik

  ‘Aren’t you the one who’s written a book?’ she asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘That’s very exciting. I won’t ask what it’s about. I bet every writer hates that question.’

  I looked over my shoulder.

  ‘One accidental book does not a writer make.’

  She picked up a box of jiffy bags.

  ‘It’s very lucky. Just think of how many people would die to be in your position and, look, just like that you’ve managed to get a publishing deal.’

  And then Fleur, who was walking down the corridor, caught sight of us and came into the stationary room.

  ‘Margaret, I told you, if there’s anything you need, tell me.’ She gave me an apologetic smile.

  ‘Fleur, it’s fine. There’ll be plenty more chances to be nice to me – my dad will always be dead.’

  Poor Fleur. She went bright red and walked away. But I’ve never been very good at filtering – so that’s another thing death does; fucks up an already fucked up brain filter.

  ‘I’m really sorry to hear about your father,’ added my new friend, Margaret.

  I began stacking the envelopes in size order. I thought she’d left, but as I turned around to check, she said, ‘Not everyone has a daughter who manages to write a book.’

  She smiled and stepped forward, taking the show card from me, but I wanted to say I don’t want you to take the show card. I want you tell me what his last words to me were. Every night I stay awake trying to remember our last conversation and absolutely anything he might’ve said that could at least mean something. Anything other than, ‘Ask your mama where my glasses are.’ Philosophise that.

  8 p.m. I still haven’t quite got used to seeing someone other than Conall coming out or going into his house. The day his brother, Sean, moved in I had to do a double-take, they look so alike. He smiles a lot more than Conall. I’ve just not particularly been in the mood to smile back. But when I went into the garden to get some pots from the shed and looked over into Conall’s garden, I saw that the flowers he planted are blooming. I had to stop for a moment and look at them.

  Truth is, he’s wedged in my thoughts. I’m trying to dislodge him, but somehow I can’t think of Conall without thinking of Baba and I can’t think of Baba without thinking of Conall. And I can’t think of either without wanting them back. Apparently you can’t just wish things into existence; conjure them up like a magician. Even miracles have their limits. You can’t resurrect the dead. The only thing I should be resurrecting are stories about sex, apparently. Although ‘resurrect’ would be the wrong choice of verb there.

  9.20 p.m. The girls have come over. Hannah’s asked me for about the hundredth time (and that isn’t an exaggeration) whether I’m praying or not. No, I’m not. And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop asking. I think she got the message because she started speaking to Maria about organic baby food. In the past month Maria has been marching around the house and city with Mum, preparing funerals, calling mortgage companies, writing to solicitors – the pregnant and impregnable. Hannah’s voice wasn’t even strained when she spoke about Maria’s baby – in fact, I almost forgot she can’t have a baby. She too has lost something. I suppose we are both in mourning.

  11.45 p.m. I went upstairs to sit on Dad’s side of the bed. This is a spot that feels far from the madding crowd, so to speak. Which feels closer to him. I came here to think – maybe about God. But all I could think of was flowers that bloom and how withered I feel. I didn’t even hear the footsteps enter the room.

  ‘Fast opens soon.’

  I looked and Hannah was sat next to me.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I brought you some dates.’

  She placed the plate between us and we both sat in silence for a while.

  ‘Shit happens, doesn’t it?’ I said.

  ‘It does.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sofe.’ We both looked out of the window. ‘But I wouldn’t stop praying. That’s counterproductive,’ she said.

  Then the call to prayer broke out, and she handed me a date.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t even think it – but I just can’t bring myself to pray,’ I replied.

  She uttered the supplication to open fast.

  ‘Well, sometimes it takes a while. Eat your date.’

  She moved the plate away and sat closer to me.

  ‘I bloody love you,’ she said, putting her arm around me. I’m fine when people are neutral towards me; it’s when they’re nice that something comes undone. I sobbed. I sobbed as if the droplets of tears would cleanse the pain or something. She shushed me, and hugged me, and said it would be OK. But I sobbed until she made me lie down and put a blanket over me.

  When I woke up it was dark, and Suj was sitting up, next to me.

  ‘Toffee, you need to eat something.’

  ‘The world doesn’t stop,’ I said. ‘Nothing does.’

  She lay down and faced me, taking my hand.

  ‘I know, Toffee. I know.’

  I closed my eyes and let the tears fall onto my dad’s pillow until I fell asleep again.

  Thursday 9 August

  2 p.m. ‘Brammers wants you to add something about sex?’ said Katie, picking out the sweetcorn from the salad with her fork and dropping it back into the large bowl. ‘People really shouldn’t make such a big deal about it. It’s only sex.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Although, granted, I have no reference point. ‘It’s all so . . . frivolous,’ I said.

  Katie emptied the salad back into its bowl and picked up a slice of pizza.

  ‘Frivolity,’ she said, bringing the plate to eye level and inspecting the pizza at all angles, ‘is the nature of the time we live in.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And the time we live in asks for sex. I know. Very unoriginal.’ She paused. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you not praying, by the way. I see everything.’

  ‘Everything but the queue behind you.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, walking to the paying counter.

  ‘God won’t mind if you don’t pray for a while. Why don’t you try something less strict?’ She put a piece of pizza in her mouth. ‘Like Christianity?’

  ‘Not really a turn the other cheek type person. Nor the whole Trinity thing.’

  She looked at me and nodded. ‘No, but imagine if you decided to take your scarf off? Now that would be a story.’ I looked at her as she ate her lunch. ‘Sorry, Sweetu,’ she said, covering her mouth as she munched on her food and I sat foodless. Not that I cared.

  ‘Not a particularly original story,’ I replied.

  ‘No.’ She put her pizza down. ‘I know you don’t like speaking about it, but you know I’m here, don’t you?’ I didn’t trust myself to speak so nodded, looking at the table. ‘OK, good. Because you should know.’

  8.20 p.m.

  From: Haque, Imran

  To: Khan, Sofia

  Subject: Sorry

  Hi Sofe,

  Sorry it’s taken so long. I heard abt your dad last month, but couldn’t bring myself to write. I was angry man. I didn’t want to be but I was. Doesn’t matter how angry I was though. I should’ve written sooner.

  I’m really sorry. I know what he meant to you. He was a good guy. Even my parents thought so. How r u keeping?

  I guess it’s easier to write now because I kind of have some news. Parveen got back in contact when she heard the wedding was called off. Thing is Sofe you’re probably right. These things all work out for the best. She wants to live with the in-laws. She’s not like you -but you know, I think she really loves me. Sometimes that’s enough.

  Anyway, like I said sorry it took so long to write. Look after yourself. And well if u need anything, let me know.

  Imran. X

  I wrote back to him, obviously – as if he should be worried about saying sorry. Have to say, I’m kind of relieved that Parvy-pants swooped in there. It makes me feel marginally better knowing that he�
��s got someone by his side. Life, eh. Bloody life.

  Sunday 12 August

  11.20 a.m. The time it’s taking to start this new chapter, you’d think Brammers had asked me to pen the new Kama Sutra. I’ve spent two days staring at a blank screen. My tabula rasa – waiting for sex to impregnate the page so that words will be born.

  I think I will go for a walk, even though Mum has warned me against getting a tan. But maybe my moving legs will have a knock-on effect on my brain.

  1 p.m. I walked, and I walked, and carried on walking until I realised I was following the road to the graveyard where Dad is buried. I made my way up the sun-dappled path leading to his grave. Profound thoughts on life and death should’ve occurred to me. Isn’t this the place that’s meant to open up your mind to questions about the nature of how we live? Who we are? But it got too hot and I couldn’t stand there any longer. I walked away and for a moment looked back, as if I was meant to say bye or something. But the time for byes is over.

  And now there’s nothing to do but write the damn chapter on sex, and get it over with. Not really the appropriate sentiment for a first time.

  Monday 13 August

  9 a.m. Well, it’s done. I’ve just emailed the new chapter to Lucinda and Brammers. I don’t think a huge chunk of my soul died, just a sliver. I can cope without a sliver.

  8 p.m. OMG. I was at Waterloo, on the escalators going down, thinking about graves, books and Afghanistan when, on the other side, there was a man running down, pushing people out of the way. He looked so familiar. He carried a brown suitcase, and being a person that never forgets a face (though I might accidentally wear two pairs of underwear on any given day), I realised it was him! The man that called me a terrorist! I looked around, trying to find someone who I could tell, ‘Look! There he is!’ An impulse compelled me to follow him. I ran down the escalators, but some annoying person had blocked everyone’s way – why don’t people follow rules! There was a group of people in front of me, all of whom looked some variation of perturbed, bored and resigned when I shouted at them to get on the right side. I had to follow that bloody man. Major rage came bubbling to the surface and something was about to burst.

  I reached the bottom of the escalators and a group of Spanish kids, jabbering and sauntering, blocked my view. Then I saw the brown briefcase and I followed it, hopscotching around people; eyes fixed on that briefcase. He cut his eye at a girl with hot-pink spiky hair and three nose piercings. This was for me, for her, for all the people he thought it was OK to be obnoxious to -– the brown briefcased, prejudiced bastard! I caught a glimpse of my flushed face and lopsided hijab in a huge poster for a new John Grisham novel. Pushing past people, I knew this was it: this was the moment where I would get my revenge. Then, out of nowhere, an old lady got in my way.

  ‘Terribly hot in these tubes, isn’t it, dear?’ A lady in a camel-coloured cardigan and carrying a walking stick smiled graciously. ‘You must be very hot in that scarf,’ she said, chuckling.

  I smiled, looking over her old little tightly curled head to make sure he was still there. Next train would be in two minutes. I was on a deadline.

  ‘You get used to it.’ Time to move on now. I tried to walk past her, but apparently Old Lady wanted a chinwag.

  ‘Ah.’ She rested both hands on her stick. ‘My daughter-in-law wears one of those. Lebanese. Lovely girl. Always calling to ask how I am.’

  Ooh, did this mean her son converted?

  ‘Christmas is a bit of a bore – neither of them drink – but I always get a nice bottle of Shloer. I can’t say if my Frank were alive he’d be very happy.’

  One more minute. Old Lady was preventing me from reaping my revenge. By the time she had stopped talking, the electricity had somewhat dissipated. I watched The Racist, gloomily. The train came and we got onto the same carriage.

  There it was: the holy grail of a long and tiring journey home. And, after the to-ing and fro-ing of people getting off, or getting up for Old Lady, there in the middle of the carriage was a lone, unoccupied seat. I saw The Racist go for it. He was closer than me, but apparently I can be swift when needed. I strode towards it and there we were, for just a moment, face to face before I slid into the chair that by any onlooker’s view was rightly his. I tilted my head to the side and smiled at him. He glared at me, nostrils flaring.

  ‘Paki bitch,’ he said, audibly enough, as he walked away, looking back as if he’d rather like to punch my lights out. (To be honest, if he wanted to be offensive then he should’ve just called me a ‘fat bitch’. No one likes being a chub.) People cast sideward glances, cleared their throats and went back to reading their Kindle or looking at their iPad. As he walked past her, Old Lady banged her stick on the floor.

  ‘Well, shame on you, young man.’

  He looked taken aback at that, but imagine his further consternation when a black guy, built like a house, blocked his way.

  ‘What did you say, blud?’

  The Racist cleared his throat. There’s no way I’d have elicited the same look of utter fear that my saviour seemed to.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I think we all heard you.’ He looked down at Old Lady and smiled, softening his tone, ‘Didn’t we, love?’

  ‘We most certainly did,’ she said.

  ‘She took my seat.’

  ‘I don’t fucking . . .’ At which Old Lady cleared her throat. ‘I don’t care if she took your pink-laced knickers, bruv. You say sorry or you’re gonna be sorry.’ The Racist stood still. Saviour leaned into his face. ‘Real sorry.’

  Most people continued to pretend nothing was happening, but one person shouted, ‘Tell him, mate.’

  I wanted to add that apparently I’m also a terrorist, but didn’t think I needed to add more ammunition to the situation. The Racist then turned around to me and said, ‘Sorry.’

  The Tube stopped and my saviour strutted off without a second look at the people glancing his way or me, smiling gratefully. The Racist made his way into the next carriage and for some reason the anger came back. Was that it? That completely disingenuous, half-hearted, pathetic, I’m clearly not having an epiphany about my narrow-minded, prejudiced views sorry? I got up and people looked at me as The Racist carried on walking.

  ‘Actually, one last thing,’ I shouted out. (Sometimes having a Punjabber voice comes in handy.) He turned around and looked as if he was bored by the entire incident. I strode towards him, with what I hoped to be my most ‘no-shitting-around’ face, and stopped so close to him that he had to lean back.

  ‘You’re a cunt.’

  That’s right. I had no idea that word would come out, but it seemed to trump all the rest. He looked unimpressed while a group of people with Team GB shirts on tried to shift their gaze. Pfft, I’ll give you something to be impressed with. I took one step back, jutted back my arm and rammed my fist into his face.

  ‘You crazy fucking bitch,’ he shouted, blood streaming down his face.

  ‘Fuck! Argh!’

  I’m not going to lie, I got a clean swipe and I think there was definitely some breakage there – unfortunately I hadn’t taken into account how much my own fist would hurt. He was bent over cupping his nose and I was bent over holding on to my fist. Conall had made it look so easy.

  The next stop came and The Racist’s nose was still bleeding, so he got off and a random passenger grabbed me by the arm, leading me onto the platform. People crowded around as The Racist pointed at me, calling me a crazy bitch.

  All thoughts about my throbbing fist were forgotten and I lunged forward to take another swipe at him. ‘And you’re a racist wanker.’

  He stumbled backwards but someone held me back as I kicked my legs in the air.

  ‘Come on now, let’s stop that,’ came the voice of the man holding me back. Then there was more shouting and more expletives exchanged.

  ‘Right, what’s going on here?’ A policeman and woman parted the crowds – no one was holding me back any more, but I was staring at The Ra
cist, willing him to give me a reason to pummel him.

  ‘That fucking crazy bitch punched me,’ he exclaimed.

  The policeman looked at me, raised his eyebrows and then looked at The Racist.

  ‘This young lady here?’ asked the policeman.

  The Racist nodded vehemently.

  ‘She’s the one who punched you?’ he continued.

  ‘I’m bleeding, aren’t I?’

  ‘All right, sir, calm down,’ said the policewoman.

  ‘I’m pressing fucking charges.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Good,’ I said. ‘It’ll give me an excuse to find out where you live.’

  The policewoman raised her hand.

  ‘You’re pressing charges, are you?’ I shouted over the policeman’s shoulder, ‘Guess what? So am I.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Er, for inciting religious and racial hatred, waster.’

  ‘And what were you doing?’ asked the policeman, sighing as he took his notepad out.

  Then a man, probably in his fifties, walked over to The Racist and spoke to him. He put his hand on his shoulder as The Racist glared at me.

  ‘Can you tell me exactly what he said to you?’ asked the policeman.

  I was distracted by the conversation in which The Racist was now shuffling on his feet. The policeman repeated the question, but by that time the man was walking towards us.

  ‘Officer, I believe the gentleman is no longer pressing charges.’

  The policeman looked over at his colleague who nodded, putting her pen and paper back in her belt.

  ‘Young lady,’ said the old man with grey hair – I noticed his glasses; his thin, gold-rimmed glasses – just like Baba’s. ‘I suggest you stay out of any further trouble.’

  I recognised the voice – it was the same man who’d been holding me back. I nodded – words had escaped me.

  He peered at me over his glasses and his eyes glimmered as if amused by something, ‘No matter how tempting it might be.’

  Before I could thank him, he made his way into the crowd and I lost sight of him amongst the throng.