by Ayisha Malik
‘You’re telling me that you wouldn’t have thought about it a little more if Dad were alive?’
‘The end result would’ve been the same,’ I said.
Maars held on to one of Adam’s hands. ‘The thing is, you know Mum loves having stuff to do and now Dad’s gone she’s at a bit of a loss. Why do you think I come over all the time with fatty here?’ she said, looking at Adam.
‘Dad was quite high maintenance, wasn’t he?’
I never realised how much Mum liked maintaining him.
‘Anyway,’ continued Maars, taking Adam back. ‘She’s just rattier than usual and now she has Auntie Reena to rant with.’
‘Misery has enough company here then.’
Had to remind myself that I was here to see my friends too – although God knows where they were – and to start work on the second book. Focus.
‘Come on. Sitting here is depressing,’ said Maria, standing up.
‘What Mum needs is a plan,’ I replied.
‘Just be careful, Sofe.’
‘Of what?’
She kissed Adam on the cheek and said: ‘That you don’t start seeing Conall through other people’s eyes.’
8.50 p.m. Oh God. Why is it that it’s precisely the wrong shit that comes out of my mouth that then comes into being? Between Adam crying and Mum and Auntie Reena organising the pot plants, the house was driving me crazy so I went out to have a fag. They say things aren’t nearly as great as you remember them to be, but I’m sorry, fags are.
When I came back in (went upstairs, washed my hands, stuck a chewing gum in my mouth, sprayed myself with perfume – like old times) Mum was sitting with an odd kind of agitation. Maria looked wide-eyed and excitable as if she’d just had a spliff. Auntie Reena smiled very widely. Too wide for it to mean anything good.
‘Beta, sit down with us,’ she said.
I did so, looking at the three faces then at Adam, wondering whether I should be wishing to be him right now.
‘What’s going on?’ I said.
‘Don’t sound so worried, Sofe,’ said Maars, smiling at me in encouragement.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘We’re throwing you a wedding,’ blurted out Maars as she clapped Adam’s hands together.
Hain?? Auntie Reena began shuttling out words.
‘People don’t know you are married and we must have a wedding otherwise what will they say? Your Auntie Bilkees talked and talked about what you did and, hai hai, she ate my head.’ Auntie Reena grabbed hold of her head as I held on to mine. ‘Look, here’s the guest list.’
She waved three pages of A4 paper at me. ‘Only three hundred people. How many will come from the groom’s side? He’s gora na – probably not many.’
I tried to gain control of the thousand threads of thought that were shooting out of my head. ‘He’s also Irish.’
‘But he’s gora?’ repeated Auntie Reena.
I tried to explain that weddings were rather a big affair in Ireland too. Conall and I were both cultural anomalies.
‘Irish and white aren’t the same thing,’ I replied, distracted. How was this happening? Why can I not go one year without looking at a wedding list?
‘Better to put down sixty,’ said Mum.
‘The thing is,’ I ventured, ‘I don’t think a wedding’s necessary.’ I gave a weak smile, beginning to appreciate, on a whole new level, what my dad had been up against.
‘Hmph,’ said Mum, putting the guest list (who the hell was the Saqlain family and why were there eleven of them??) on the coffee table and looking away from me.
‘Listen, Beta –’
‘No, Reena,’ interrupted Mum. ‘We can only ask our children to give us happiness,’ she said. ‘We can’t expect it.’
Mum the martyr was so much worse than Mum the despot.
‘It doesn’t have to be huge,’ said Maria, looking at me in warning.
‘Well,’ I began, ‘three hundred people isn’t really small.’
‘But- –’ began Maria.
‘Nahin, nahin,’ said Mum. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m just a mother. What do I matter?’
I took a deep breath, caught between the sadness of the mother I witnessed last night and the potential wrath of my husband. ‘It’s just that Conall’s not here,’ I said. ‘We can’t have a wedding without a groom.’
‘Le, so you tell him to come,’ said Mum. ‘He can’t do that much for his wife? Why would he want to stop our enjoyment?’
Our enjoyment?
‘And waisay, Soffoo, as a wife you must learn to stand up and say what you want,’ said Mum as Auntie Reena nodded. ‘Men take advantage.’
It was the first time Mum had addressed me without sneering, so I didn’t point out that the same could be said about wedding-crazed mothers. People go on about financial debt, but no one tells you about the debt of life. Interest charged at infinite APR. I needed another fag.
‘Just one event,’ said Maars, eyes so wide I thought her eyeballs would fall out.
‘Le, where’s the fun without a mehndi as well?’ replied Mum.
‘Yeah, you’re right – two events,’ Maars concurred.
‘O-ho! We forgot the Bahaduris,’ said Auntie Reena, adding seven more names to the list.
I felt the thread of my sanity slowly unravelling.
‘Oh, my beta,’ said Mum, getting up and then bundling me in her arms. ‘I knew you’d be a good girl.’
‘But –’
She took my face in her hands and looked at me with that motherly affection that escapes her now and again. That kind of look can dent the sturdiest of souls.
‘Maybe we should book you a facial, haina?’ she added.
Then again . . .
Before I knew it the three of them had sprung off their seats, Maars handing Adam to me while they investigated how much decor was in the shed from Maars’ wedding. I followed them out, Adam wriggling on my hip.
‘But isn’t it a useless expense?’ I said to three arses sticking out of the shed.
‘What?’ asked Maars, turning round and holding up bunting.
I wanted to cry. ‘Mum, we could give the money to people who need it,’ I added.
‘Le, Soffoo, giving to charity is good, but everything should be in moderation,’ said Mum as she got out what looked like ten metres of fairy lights.
Note for book: When it comes to weddings, human rights can’t trump the rights of fairy lights.
This is it, isn’t it? This is the beginning of the end.
Tuesday 5 February
11.40 a.m. ‘Where were you last night?’ I asked as Conall picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Conall?’
‘Yeah, Sofe. Hang on. No! Seedha.’
‘What’s straight?’ I asked. ‘Doesn’t matter. I tried calling last night.’
‘Sorry, got caught up with editing photos and fell asleep.’
‘What is that noise?’ I asked.
‘New shelters. Feckin’ no one taking proper directions.’
‘Right. Listen, I need to speak to you.’
‘OK, hang on.’
More noise and shouting.
‘Sorry. You OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. Well, not really.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘No, nothing’s wrong, it’s just –’
‘Can you tell them I said to the right. That’s left. Sorry, Sofe, go on – what is it?’
‘The thing is, you see . . .’
Oh God, how was I meant to tell him without sounding feeble?
‘Well, you know, Mum’s forgiven me,’ I said.
‘That’s grand, Sofe. I told you she’d come round. Is that it?’
There was nothing for it, really, was there? ‘She’s throwing us a wedding. March thirtieth. Don’t suppose you’re available?’
Pause. ‘What?’
‘A wedding. For us.’ Pause. ‘Surprise!’
‘I . . . what?’
<
br /> I explained last night’s scenario to him, but he didn’t seem to feel quite the sense of obligation that I’d felt.
‘We never wanted a wedding,’ he said.
‘Very good point. But it’s just an event, isn’t it? Plus, we’ll get presents.’
‘I don’t give a shit about presents. I didn’t think you did either.’
‘It’s not as if I’d say no to them. I mean, something other than pants wouldn’t go amiss.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Sofe,’ he said, his tone softening. ‘I can’t come to London for a wedding.’
‘It’s our wedding. Plus, we could get the whole civic ceremony out of the way too.’
He paused. ‘Make it more difficult for you to ever leave me.’
Why on earth would I ever leave him? Permanently, I mean.
‘But I can’t just up and leave everything here.’
Yes. He was right, though I couldn’t help but think that it’d be nice for him to just abandon logic and principle and do something I ask.
I didn’t even feel angry. Just deflated. The dissonance of logic and hope can do that to a person. ‘I know, but God, Conall, weren’t you even thinking about the book launch and being here for that?’
Silence.
‘Will you stop going quiet?’ I said.
‘I know. I’m sorry, but what do you want me to do?’
Pause.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Nothing, I guess,’ I replied.
‘Sofe, you know –’
Just then Auntie Reena’s head peeped through my bedroom door. ‘Sorry, Beta, you don’t mind, na?’
She came and sat on the edge of my bed, even though she could see the phone in my hand.
‘Sofe?’
‘I have to call you back.’
I tried to muster a smile for Auntie Reena.
‘Beta . . .’ She looked agitated as Bollywood music played downstairs.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What will people say at your wedding when your uncle isn’t there?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Your uncle is very selfish,’ she replied.
‘That can’t be true,’ I said, thinking that it was probably exactly true. Does Conall feel I only think about myself? Do I only think of myself?
‘Men change,’ she said. ‘They forget everything – that you’ve been their wife, maid, looked after their mother while having to forget your own one in Pakistan. You know how our men are. Beta, what you did was not very good to your mama, but sometimes I’m very glad you married a gora. They’re different. O-ho, you know Sonia? Auntie Mishaal’s daughter? She married a gora and she tells me how he makes her chai and dinner and asks how she is. As if their lives are both – what do they say? Equal.’
It wasn’t all Pakistani men but the scales were certainly tipped in the non-progressive direction.
‘Your mama said that Conall will find out what he has to deal with now he’s married you but, Beta, we both know you’re a good girl.’
She patted my leg and smiled while I thought of the vote of confidence my mum had in me.
‘But when men are away from their wife . . . well. You know it is their nature to look at other women.’
I wondered – had Uncle gone and had an affair?? Why is a new lease on someone’s life so often detrimental to another’s? Something pinched at my insides as I thought of Hamida and Conall, together every day, coming back to the same house every night. What was I thinking, leaving him like that?
‘Your mama has been better to me than anyone. But other people? They think I am shameless for leaving him. What do they know how he has made living with him impossible?’
She looked at her hands that glittered with gold rings.
‘Tell people that,’ I said.
‘I would rather people judge me than feel sorry for me.’
Judgement is so much more bearable than pity.
‘Oh –’ she leaned towards the door, listening to the noises from the TV – ‘It sounds like the daughter-in-law is about to poison her mother-in-law.’
Just as she was about to leave, she turned round. ‘I will be at your wedding, even if my husband is not.’
The same could be said for me.
Note for book: If you’re going to have an important conversation with your husband, make sure you’re in the same country. If you’re going to have a wedding, make sure there’s a groom.
12.45 p.m. ‘This is madness! You’re in the country and I haven’t seen you,’ exclaimed Katie on the phone. ‘Devon was the dream. How’s being back home? Has your mum forgiven you? Ugh, this rain, Sweetu. Insane.’
Sometimes it’s nice speaking to Katie because she often does the speaking for you.
‘Meeting on Thursday,’ she continued. ‘You’ll love Sakib. Sometimes I wish you’d married him. In fact, I kind of wish I’d married him. Though I love Conall. Obvs.’
‘And your husband, remember.’
‘Yes, that too. Anyway, how are you?’
‘Well, my mum’s decided to throw me a wedding.’ I couldn’t quite bring myself to add that my husband wouldn’t be coming to it.
‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘That’s good, no? You love weddings.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘No, you don’t. I thought maybe Karachi had changed you.’ Katie then asked if I could talk my mum out of it, just as I heard Maars being instructed to climb a ladder to put up the fairy lights. ‘Won’t Conall like a bit of a song and dance? Tom’s going to be so excited when I tell him.’
‘No, he’s not really the singing, dancing type,’ I replied.
‘That’s a shame. But I guess you can’t have it all.’
Thursday 7 February
11.20 a.m. ‘See here,’ said Mum, showing me her Facebook profile on her iPad. ‘I can create an event and people will RSPCA there.’
‘RSVP, Mum,’ I said. ‘Although, having seen the guest list, calling the RSPCA wouldn’t be such a bad idea.’
‘Hmm?’ She seemed to flush as her eyes scanned the screen.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, suppressing a giggle. ‘Acha, am I looking fairer?’
‘Yeah. People will think you’re Conall’s mum.’
Why did I mention his mum? Serves me right for trying to be clever. I pretended to pay great attention to the gold-sequinned favour boxes.
‘Oh, haan, give me her number so I can speak to her for an invite. It doesn’t looks nice na otherwise. And when is Conall coming?’
‘Oh, not until next month,’ I replied, waves of panic crashing around inside me.
Luckily, Mum seemed distracted so I ran up to my room only to see I’d missed a call from him.
To Conall: Just getting ready for meeting. Call you later. Are you coming to our wedding now? Xx
11.35 a.m.
To Foz; Suj; Hannah: Hello, friends of mine who haven’t come to see me. Where the fuck are you? Well, I know where you are, Foz. Just thought I’d let you know I’m having a wedding 30th March. Maybe I’ll see you then. Loving you very begrudgingly. Xxx
1.40 p.m. So weird coming into my old workplace. First of all, there was the Tube journey, which was a bit of a counter-culture shock. I kept smiling at people – I’m back! No one seemed to care. Then I entered the best part, the grey professional bubble with its concrete walls and mechanical smiles. Thought of Conall and his defiance of social expectation by following his passion. Funny how the thing you love about someone can also be the thing that means they’re on the other side of the world. My problem’s obviously a lack of passion – something that makes me want to wake up in the morning and get out of bed. Tonight I’ll make a list of things I’m passionate about.
Ooh, look. Fresh muffins!
1.50 p.m. ‘Gosh, look at you,’ said finger-sniffing Brammers as we sat in the conference room.
God knows what that meant. I smiled.
‘How ar
e your kids?’ I asked.
‘Feral.’ With which she got out her phone and started showing me pictures of them. ‘I must follow you on Instagram.’
We spent so long searching for each other on social media that by the time we were ready to actually talk, Katie was walking in with Sakib. I flung my arms round her until Brammers began clearing her throat.
‘We go way back,’ I explained to Sakib, shaking his hand as we sat down.
I noticed a wedding ring. (Old habits and all that.)
‘I’ve heard about it. Several times,’ he said, smiling at Katie.
Brammers looked bored. The first thing I noticed was just how brown Sakib was. It always stands out more in publishing offices. I must blind people with my hijabi brownness. They gave me the contracts to sign for book two when he handed me a book.
‘Your proof.’
It was my book! I stared at its hot pink border, the dark turquoise with block, gold lettering: Lessons in Heartbreak and Laughter. And there was my name: Sofia Khan.
‘You should be really proud,’ said Sakib. ‘I mean it.’
I did feel proud. Prouder than I’d thought I would.
Katie got her notebook out and went through the list of things she’d pitched and lined up for me. ‘There’s lots more we can do. Festivals, features . . . there’s already been so much interest with the whole Muslim marries Irish convert angle.’
‘Maybe you and Conall can do a joint event?’ suggested Sakib. ‘I’ve heard he’s handsome. Women will like him.’
I had PR fatigue. Plus, why couldn’t I do something that was just me? Didn’t sound very marriage-spirited, though.
‘Conall’s not the publicity type,’ I said, looking at Katie.
Not the publicity type, wedding type, or living-in-one-place type, which begs the question – what type is he? Restless type – that’s what. If I only knew him on paper, I’d have put the paper in the shredder. Aside from that, I could imagine him, sitting in conversation, irritated by the mundane questions. I picked up a biscuit.
‘It’d be a good tie-in for the second book,’ said Sakib.
‘He’s very busy,’ I said. ‘In Karachi.’
Sakib paused. ‘Right.’ He poured some coffee and passed me the cup. ‘He’ll be coming for your launch, though?’
