The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  Except I’m not living with it. I’m living with the remnants of what it’s left behind. And now, even though she doesn’t have to, so is my mum.

  AUGUST

  Come, All Ye Faithful

  Muslim Marriage Book

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there are two choices in marriage: to stay or to leave. Because no one changes and so you need to change your expectations. And if you don’t, then you need to take them elsewhere. The grass is always greener, but if yours is looking a little parched, rather than gaze longingly at the side you can’t ever reach why not get off your arse and water it.

  Thursday 1 August

  3.35 p.m. Major phone withdrawal symptoms. Keep reaching for it, then stop self and reach for Qur’an instead. Hope recitation counts when eyes are constantly flickering towards mobile. Diary entries are surely allowed as record of spiritual progress.

  8.25 p.m. Chucked phone out of room with note to Foz to let everyone know they can only contact me through her if there’s an emergency. What is the point of seclusion if you can’t mentally seclude yourself from social media/WhatsApp, etc.?

  11.50 p.m. Am sitting on bed, staring into space wondering why I met Conall. Because it’s never the what (well, not usually); it’s the why. That question could put someone in a padded cell. Which I kind of am right now. Minus the padding.

  Friday 2 August

  12.35 p.m. Wonder if he thinks about why I came into his life? Why did I come into his life?

  Saturday 3 August

  11.10 p.m. Perhaps the purpose is not to search for the ‘why’ but just embrace the result of it.

  1.55 a.m. Just spent past half an hour crying for God knows what. Missed Dad, missed Conall, then thought about Mum next door, alone, and cried about that. Then I cried because I thanked God for Maars and the girls, which then made me cry more because what if no one manages to be happy? I was never naive enough to think life was going to be blissful post-marriage, but I never knew it’d be harder. Apparently when you invest more, you feel more, and so I guess you end up losing more.

  Sunday 4 August

  1.20 p.m. Just watched YouTube video of a woman scholar (of which, btw, there aren’t enough) and she was having a go at the men who don’t support their wives who want to study further – who want to make something of themselves – you know, those women for whom marriage isn’t the only thing in life. Conall doesn’t fit into that misogynist boat – but it did make me think how sometimes one person’s life begins to mean more than the other’s and that you must bring your own meaning. Thank God I never really believed in the adage, Love conquers all. It can barely conquer itself.

  6.45 p.m. Was having a nap (sleep is not just a sign of depression) when the doorbell rang, and I heard Sean’s voice as Foz opened the door. I got up and leaned against the door.

  ‘What’s itti-calf?’ he asked.

  Foz explained, which was followed by a moment of silence.

  ‘I tried calling her but it was going to voicemail,’ he said.

  He did sound rather distressed. I opened the door – one foot outside the room, so I could see his side profile from over the bannister.

  ‘She’s upstairs?’ He peered up as I stepped back into the room and closed the door. ‘I just need five minutes.’

  What happened?? Was Conall OK? Was it Eamonn? I had half a mind to go downstairs and ask myself.

  ‘She can’t come out,’ said Foz. ‘You can write her a note if it’s urgent, but this is her time, really. To think.’

  The doorbell rang again. When Foz opened it I heard Mum’s voice. ‘Sean, tell me. Won’t he come back? Won’t he think of my Soffoo?’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard such desperation in my mum’s voice.

  ‘No,’ said Sean. ‘That’s the thing. I need to speak with her.’

  I wanted to rush down the stairs, grab Sean by the shoulders and shake him. But what was the point? Time to dedicate yourself to the moment, Sofia Khan. I closed the door to shut out everyone’s noise and lay back in bed. Don’t concentrate on what’s outside, but what’s inside.

  7.25 p.m. Got a note through the door from Fozia:

  Sofe,

  I know you’re not allowed to speak to anyone (does my tosser of a brother even know you’re doing this?)

  When you’re out of seclusion, itikaf – whatever it’s called – you have to call me. We need to talk.

  Sean

  I folded the letter up and put it in the bedside drawer, heaving myself off the bed and decided to do ablutions and pray.

  Monday 5 August

  10.55 a.m. Another note through my door from Foz.

  Hannah asked for you to pray for her adoption situation. Also, Suj (are we sure she’s not secretly a Muslim?) said can you pray that she finds out whether Charles is cheating or not. (I know, but I’m just the messenger.) Think you know better than anyone what to pray for your mum – who, by the way, wants to turn the kitchen and conservatory into one room. Maria says you should just pray for yourself.

  Don’t forget me.

  Love you xxx

  1.50 p.m. Had a moment of pathetic behaviour where I looked through Conall’s drawer, took out a T-shirt and held it for a while. It still smells of him. Then I folded it up again and put it back in the drawer. Seems there’s no answer to why certain things happen, but if I carry on with all this wondering I’ll drive myself (and others) to bloody insanity.

  Wednesday 7 August

  12.35 a.m. Have watched back-to-back YouTube clips of stories from the Prophet’s (peace be upon him) life. I thought I had problems – it doesn’t quite compare to being socially ostracised and exiled. Also, it’s not what happens in life, but how a person reacts to it. The poem ‘If’ came to mind (because who says literature has no place in Islamic learning?): ‘If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same . . .’ But where am I meant to muster that much patience and dignity, hmm, Rudyard?

  12.40 a.m. Thought of Mum – though not exactly dignified, and often not patient, there is something resilient about her. I can settle for resilience.

  Thursday 8 August

  2.20 p.m. It’s Eid tomorrow, so preparing to come out of seclusion. Swear I’ve forgotten what people look like. Read Foz’s note again, making sure I’ve done as everyone asked (and more, hopefully). Prayed for Dad. Obviously. And Eamonn. Now I get why people go on retreats. It’s not to find answers. What you have now is the answer. You go away to accept it.

  So, things I’ve established in past ten days . . . Actually, it’s just the one thing: don’t think about what you’ve lost. Think of the things you still have. And what, if you look for it, you might find.

  Friday 9 August

  Eid

  Things to do: Finish book. Find next bestseller and become editorial star. Sort out Mum’s love life. Give up biscuits. Fill each second of each day with forward momentum. DON’T LOOK BACK.

  10 a.m. The best cure to stop obsessing about getting married (when you’re single), I’ve discovered, is getting married and going through a soul-destroying break-up. It’s like when you binge on pizza and end by throwing up – you’ll never want to look at pizza ever again. All those years spent fretting over meeting someone – the things you’ll need – and turns out all you need is Eno salt.

  10.10 a.m. OK, Eno salt and sex.

  And maybe someone to hold on to.

  11.25 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  To: Sofia Khan

  Subject: Eid

  Happy Eid, Sofia. Hope it’s a good one.

  I’ll give you the weekend off but I expect a full update on the marriage book on Monday ;)

  Sakib

  Isn’t it amazing what spirituality can sometimes do for a person. The book! Yes, of course you’ll have the book!

  (Things spirituality doesn’t affect: feelings about men who use winky faces.)

  3 p.m. Came back from visiting Dad’s grave. I wonder: would he have shake
n his head in disappointment at me? Gathered me in his arms and let me cry? Would he have told me to let it go or try harder? Marriage is no joke. You made the commitment – do what you have to. Think of what your mama and I went through. We stuck by it until the end.

  Perhaps I wouldn’t have let it go if Conall hadn’t thought it was a mistake. Perhaps I’d have stood by him and weathered the marital storm because, well, it’s Conall. It would’ve made me pathetic and maybe weak, but I think I’d have borne the label. There’s no choice here, though, Baba, I whispered, looking at his dark grey marble headstone.

  Beta, one thing I have learned in life is that there is always a choice.

  I don’t know where the tears came from but they streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t sob, I was looking at the grave, thinking of all the things you can lose in a lifetime. But you still get out of bed in the morning; I think that is choice enough.

  11.20 p.m. ‘Darling,’ said Foz, having come back from dinner with her family and me having settled into a food coma after dinner with mine. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘What’s happened now?’ I sat up and looked at her face.

  ‘Nothing.’ She sat next to me, tucking one leg under the other. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  She paused. ‘Itikaf did you good,’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘You’re feeling better?’ she asked.

  I nodded again.

  ‘You look better,’ she added. She stared at me. Then she took a deep breath and leaned forward. ‘Listen . . .’

  ‘Oh my God, can you please just come out with it,’ I said.

  She paused again. ‘Kam and I are getting married.’

  A vision of fluorescent teeth and greasy hair flashed before me. There it was sitting on a stage; there again, standing at the end of the aisle; and then walking away, getting into a car. Boom, boom, boom. And all the while it was next to my beautiful, lovely Foz.

  ‘Sofe?’

  There were a few moments where my mouth refused to open. My brain seemed to be a tumult of conflicting directions: say something; don’t say anything; shake her; get your shit together; tell her to get her shit together. Why must everyone do everything based on feelings? Feelings are life’s worst road blocks.

  ‘Come on, Sofe. Say what you have to say.’

  ‘I . . . OK.’

  She looked at me. ‘OK?’

  ‘I mean, you’re throwing your life away to an unworthy cause, but fine.’ I paused. ‘It’s your choice.’

  Smiling at me and picking her handbag from the floor, she said, ‘It is.’

  There’s nothing you can do or say; people always will do what they want, but it was time for acceptance.

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said, standing up, still looking at me. ‘I’ll need to move out soon.’

  ‘Move out?’

  She sat back down again. ‘We’re getting married next month.’

  ‘Next month? Why so soon?’ I wish a person could give another some time for acceptance.

  ‘I don’t want to wait any more. Listen . . .’ She put her hand on my leg. ‘It’s all going to be fine because in the end it’ll just be all of us, in our old people’s home, literally washing each other’s shit. But, in the meantime, we need to get some stories to tell when we’re old and grey.’

  ‘Like “remember that time you married the guy with the gnashers?”’

  She laughed and nodded. ‘What about that time you ran away with a white guy?’

  ‘Remember how I found out about the ex-wife and son at my wedding?’

  It didn’t quite make us laugh. Give it forty years.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving me on my own,’ I added.

  ‘Oh, darling.’ She took both my hands in hers. ‘I will never leave you on your own.’

  But I could see her driving away in that car, waving back at me as she headed towards a semi-detached and two-point-four children; parking up next to all the other semi-detacheds with Han and Suj.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know.’ Because even though it wasn’t true, at least she believed it when she said it.

  Saturday 10 August

  12.50 p.m. I was in my room, working, and trying not to think about what I’d do after Foz left when the doorbell rang. Foz answered and I heard Sean’s voice. Suddenly remembered his note to me. It’s all very well being in the mood to move onwards and upwards, but it still feels like you’re running on a treadmill when people keep popping back into your life. I prayed Foz would pretend I wasn’t at home.

  ‘Sofe,’ she called out.

  Maybe not.

  ‘Good to know how long it takes you to call when it’s an emergency,’ he said, looking at me as I came into the living room.

  ‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘Got busy.’

  ‘Can we talk?’ he asked, glancing at Foz. ‘In private.’

  Foz said she had a few errands to run and left the house. I didn’t want to talk in private. I didn’t want to talk at all. I wanted to just do: write the book, get Mum back with her fiancé, read manuscripts. Maybe even learn to cook.

  I sat down. So did he.

  ‘It’s about Conall,’ he said.

  I shot up off the sofa. ‘Do you fancy some tea?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  As I went into the kitchen he followed me.

  ‘Orange juice?’ I added. ‘Apple juice? Sparkling water?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t want anything.’

  ‘How’ve you been?’ I asked.

  ‘Sofe, I’m worried about him,’ he said.

  Getting a mug out, I put a teabag into it. ‘I have to say it feels weird eating and drinking again now Ramadan’s over.’

  ‘Are you hearing me?’ he said, stepping forward, looking at me as I watched the kettle boil. No words seemed to make their way out of my mouth – this must be some kind of post-Ramadan effect.

  ‘Something’s not right.’

  I remembered the smell of Conall’s T-shirt and made a mental note to throw it out; put all of his things in a bin bag and store it in the attic. Give it to charity. Just get rid of it.

  ‘Don’t take this personally,’ he said. ‘I’m not judging, but you go about your Muslim-ness normal, like.’

  ‘Muslim-ness?’

  ‘You know. Moderate.’

  He watched me pour the water into my mug. I turned to him.

  ‘Sean, I just spent ten days locked in my room, praying to a being that most people think is a fairy tale. And not the sweet, happy-ending type. A Grimms-type fairy tale.’

  He scratched the back of his neck, screwing up his face.

  ‘I pray five times a day. Fast eighteen hours in the summer. Wear this piece of material around my head in the scorching heat, knowing that it’s not unlikely that someone might one day beat me up for it.’ I picked up my mug of tea, raising it to the ceiling. ‘All in the name of this fairy tale.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Well, you act normal.’

  ‘Yeah, cheers,’ I said, walking past him and back into the living room.

  ‘No. You know what I mean. I’m not judging. It’s grand. Really.’ He paused. ‘Eighteen hours, though? Christ.’

  I put the mug down and folded my arms.

  ‘Anyway, that’s not my point. He’s acting odd.’

  When I asked what this oddness entailed, Sean basically mentioned all of the things I’d just listed. Minus the hijab. Obviously.

  ‘Can you imagine what my ma is thinking? I was there last weekend and Eamonn’s chemo isn’t working too well, and Conall just says: “It’s all in God’s hands”.’

  Sean looked at me expectantly, as if this information should be alarming.

  ‘Calm as anything,’ he added, sitting down. ‘And he’s distant like.’ He paused. ‘Somewhere else.’

  All Sean was telling me was that Conall was still a Muslim. The idea of it was comforting; he is consistent; he can be solid.

  ‘Listen, it’s not like I read those shitty tabloi
ds, but Sofe . . .’ He leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs and clasping his hands, reminding me so much of Conall that a big bubble of something seemed to be floating up within me, threatening to burst and smear my insides with . . . feelings. ‘You hear stories of . . .’

  I raised my eyebrows in expectation. ‘What, Sean?’

  ‘You need to talk to him,’ he said.

  I considered Sean for a moment. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about him?’

  I should give up my need to move on and go to him and make sure he’s OK. I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘But you lo—’

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘What he does, thinks, says – it’s got nothing to do with me any more.’

  All six foot of Sean seemed to deflate a little, as if a shot of air had been taken out of him. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  I nodded. Perhaps I didn’t, but one day I would. I must.

  ‘Bu—’

  ‘He’s not lost his marbles, Sean,’ I interrupted. ‘Been radicalised – whatever you’re thinking.’ I mean, honestly.

  Sean blushed as he looked at the floor, then stood up. I told him to stay but he said he had to go. Opening the door, he said: ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I know him,’ I replied.

  ‘We thought we knew him too. Then he . . .’ He paused. ‘He’s not the same.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t think any of us are.’

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘You know . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who he is now – it’s everything to do with you.’

  Monday 12 August

  8.10 a.m. Spent majority of weekend with Maars in an attempt to get Mum to reconcile with Uncle Mouch. All I hear in response is: ‘Until you are settled, I will never be settled.’

  3.15 p.m. I think this marriage book might very well be finished (like my actual marriage) in another week. Emailed Sakib to let him know. He responded with: ‘Fantastic ;)’