by Ayisha Malik
10.30 p.m. Oh my actual God. Uncle Mouch came over today while Mum was out with Chachi. He said he wanted to speak to me. He’s spoken to some officials and put out a search for Conall!
‘I’ve spoken to Hamida’s father but he is a stubborn man. I know people in the police and army and I’ve done what I can.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you must stop visiting these shrines and churches, Beta,’ he said. ‘A lot of troubles in Karachi, and shrines are a big target as well as churches. These people don’t care who they kill.’
‘I can’t stay at home and do nothing,’ I said.
‘Beta, I am doing everything now. You don’t worry. And please, don’t tell your mama,’ he said. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s fine,’ I said.
He nodded and made me promise I’d stay in the house.
When I went to bed, I couldn’t help feeling that something just wasn’t right. That there was something round the corner, except I didn’t know what.
Wednesday 25 December
9.35 a.m. I’ve been sitting in front of the lit Christmas tree for an hour and a half now. Jawad came in and asked if I was converting to Christianity, and warned me about the pain it’d cause my mother. Sigh.
Police are out patrolling the streets because they say a riot’s going to break out. Apparently nobody cares that it’s Christmas.
10.40 a.m. Mary came and sat next to me, handing me a small box. ‘I know you don’t celebrate Christmas, but, I just thought. Well: see for yourself.’
When I opened it, it was a necklace – the type that you open up and there’s a picture in it. I used to love these when I was a child. To be honest, I’m a bit old for that kind of sentimentality, but when I opened it there was no picture. It was a calligraphy of Allah’s name in Arabic. I looked at her.
‘Well, now.’ She patted me on the hand.
I got up and gave her a gift Mum and I had wrapped a few nights ago. She opened it, looking at the black needlework on the emerald green shawl.
‘That’s a beautiful colour,’ she said.
I looked at it for a moment. ‘Maybe we should’ve got something that looked less like a Christmas tree?’
She shook her head and looked at the tree again. ‘What will you do? When we find him?’ she asked.
I wondered whether to correct her ‘when’ to ‘if’, but it is Christmas and I thought I’d not be too Grinch-like.
I was going to divorce him, that’s what. But something in me wavered – unable to bring the words out. I shrugged. Maybe I’m still waiting for that gut feeling Maars was telling me about. This time, when it comes, I’ll not follow it with doubt – I’ll simply follow it through.
12 p.m. Oh my God. Uncle Mouch just called saying that someone apparently saw a white man fitting Conall’s description at the shrine in the Abdullah Shah Ghazi shrine. He said I have to stay home because there are police everywhere as a riot’s broken out. But I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing! I looked for Jawad to drive me but couldn’t find him, so I grabbed the car keys. I’m going to this place, come hell, high water or riot.
1.10 p.m. Fuck. Stuck in car. People in streets, throwing stones at police. Police with batons, hitting people. Why the hell did I come out here??
5.55 p.m. Thanks to God for GPS, but not so much for Pakistani driving. I managed to get out of the traffic as people surged in the opposite direction. The road leading to the shrine was blocked, so I got out of the car, except my crappy sense of direction meant I couldn’t quite recall which way to go. It wasn’t exactly the stop-to-ask-directions type of atmosphere. People were shouting, hurling things at each other. One car caught fire and I prayed that Chachi’s car wouldn’t meet the same fate because I really didn’t need to deal with that on top of everything else.
At that moment I realised that I should’ve perhaps left a note to someone. The rest happened so suddenly, all thoughts of telling someone where I was went out of the proverbial window. I was pushed on to the floor and couldn’t get up. For a minute I thought, this is how I’m going to die. People lunged over me, stepping on me, until someone grabbed my hand and helped me up. By the time I looked up they were already gone. It was shove-or-be-shoved as I elbowed past the stampede. Then I saw the shop with the pink and green sign. I was close to the shrine. I followed the road and turned right on to the pathway. There it was. Except people were being evacuated from it.
I asked a police officer what was happening and he said there was a bomb blast in another shrine just fifteen minutes away from here, so they’re evacuating all religious buildings. In the foray all I could do was look for anyone that looked like Conall.
‘Have you seen a white man here?’ I asked the officer. But he ignored me as he led a line of people out of the vicinity.
I had to push past people, like salmon in a stream of chaos, forcing my way towards the shrine. I squinted into the distance, seeing a figure emerge; he had a beard and was dressed all in white. Someone bumped into my shoulder as I stumbled towards the entrance. It had to be him. His back was now turned and he was bending over. Was he praying? Whoever it was, was clearly bloody mad. I got to the steps, the face hidden from view.
‘Madam, you can’t go in there,’ said one of the police officers.
‘Let me through,’ I said, angling my head, trying to see his face – he looked a lot slimmer than Conall. ‘There’s someone in there.’
‘Get back,’ he said.
‘I’m British,’ I exclaimed, wishing I could wave my passport in his face. (Arrogance at its peak, but this was no time for niceties.)
‘Conall,’ I shouted. Again and again, over the din of the masses. Until the man finally turned round. His eyes settled on me, as if he didn’t know who I was. Then he looked confused.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shouted. ‘Get out from there.’ I grabbed the police officer’s arm. ‘Why aren’t you getting him out of there?’
He shouted out across to his colleague about a group of boys who were smashing the windows of a car. With which he and some others blocking the way ran towards them. I ran into the shrine.
‘Sofe, what are you doing here?’
‘What are you doing here? They’re blowing up places left, right and centre. We have to go.’
‘I’m not leaving this man.’
I looked down to see an old man who’d fallen over, unable to get up.
‘OK, OK. I have a car not too far from here. We can both help him.’
We picked him up. Well, Conall picked him up and I tried to help.
‘Wait here,’ I said as I ran towards the car, got in, revved the engine and shot down towards the shrine. Conall put him in the back, got in the front, and I sped my way to the nearest hospital.
He held on to the dashboard because, let’s face it, my driving isn’t perhaps the smoothest.
‘Are you OK, Uncle?’ I asked the man in the back. He was clutching his stomach.
‘Maybe I should take the wheel,’ said Conall.
I couldn’t speak. In all the chaos there was no time to think about anything but finding him. Now, he was next to me and I was so angry I could’ve pushed him out of the car.
We got to the hospital and sat in the waiting area in silence for the most part. I texted Sean to let him know I’d found Conall and that we’d be home soon.
After a while, Conall leaned forward, his head drooping so low I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, when he asked: ‘What were you doing there?’
I had my head in my hands. All the day’s activities had made me nauseous and I thought I might throw up.
‘Half the time you don’t know where first gear is,’ he said. ‘Something could’ve happened to you.’
I looked at him in disbelief. ‘You,’ I said, pushing him, forcing him to look up at me. ‘You happened to me. You and your fucking running-away act.’
He watched me, leaning back.
‘I could just fucking kill you right now.’
‘Madam, please keep your voice do
wn,’ said a nurse who’d walked up to us.
‘Do you know what it’s been like? Do you know what it’s like, emailing your husband for a divorce, waiting for him and then finding out he’s decided to do a runner – again.’
‘Divorce?’
Then I ran out of energy. ‘I didn’t think you were someone who ran. Who would run. Again. I mean, what the hell were you thinking?’
He looked away, resting the palm of his hands on his eyes, and I wanted to pull him into a hug. I will never understand this urge I have to hold him, even when I’m angry at him. Even when I’m right to be angry with him.
‘I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘I know, Sofe. I didn’t think of anyone.’ He looked around the hospital. ‘I’ve gone about everything the wrong way . . . I just didn’t know what I was doing any more, you know? What was the point, like? Claire – she’d already done such a great job bringing up Eamonn that I wondered what I was even doing there? Wasn’t I just ruining things?’
He turned towards me and I looked into his eyes, trying to catch him out in a lie. But they are the same eyes – and they’ll always end up settling something within me, no matter how bloody angry I am.
‘Right.’ I stared at my hands, dirty and scratched. I realised I must look a mess. I noticed people’s calves and shoes, walking past in different directions.
‘You didn’t think to tell someone where you were.’ I shook my head.
I could feel his eyes still on me. ‘Sometimes I think it’s easier for people when I’m not around.’
‘That’s not for you to decide.’
We both sat, watching the chaos of the hospital unfolding before our eyes.
‘I’m not like you, Sofe. I’ve searched for contentment my whole life and never found it. It’s like you’re watching the piece of this puzzle, floating over your head, and you know it’s the piece to make the puzzle complete, but you can’t quite grasp it.’
‘And now you’ve grasped it?’
He leaned forward, clasping his hands. ‘All I know is that I can’t fail my son again.’
I don’t know why tears surfaced my eyes.
‘I have so many wrongs to right.’
‘Sir, madam?’
The doctor stood in front of us and said the man was stable and that they’d found an ID card, so his family were on the way.
‘Suppose we should go,’ I said.
He nodded as we walked towards the car again, got in and drove back to Chachi’s. As we reached the gate, I said, ‘Oh, by the way. Sean thinks you’re a fundo now.’
Before he could say anything the gate had opened and the whole posse was waiting there: Maars, smiling in relief as she held Adam, Mum already running towards the car as Mary clutched Sean’s arm.
9.10 p.m. Sean has been speaking to Conall for the past two hours asking him various questions, most prominent of which being whether Conall thinks the West is evil. Conall slapped the side of his head. Every time I looked at him, a deep kind of sadness settled in me and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was still that so much felt unsettled.
‘Your beti didn’t listen to me, Mehnaz.’ Uncle Mouch came striding through the door, looking rather angry. That’s when Mum discovered that he’d been helping to find Conall these past few days. She made room for him to sit down on the sofa.
‘You boys. You’ll be the death of me,’ said Mary, holding on to Conall’s face. I love that face. ‘You’ll never believe it but I think I might be getting used to spicy food,’ she added.
Mum looked at me and mouthed, ‘Thanks to God.’
Mary’s phone rang and she handed it to Conall. ‘It’s your father.’
Conall looked over at me and smiled. You can’t depend on your gut when your heart feels this way.
Thursday 26 December
12.35 p.m. Ha! My mum’s engaged again! Apparently it takes a brave girl to do what I did and Uncle Mouch’s daughter could stand to learn a few things from her new stepsister. I decided not to point out that bravery and stupidity are not the same thing because let’s take the compliments when we can.
‘We are not living life for our children any more,’ said Mum.
I thought of Dad and felt a pang for him. I always believed she was the woman he loved and wanted to marry, and to see Mum like this with someone else felt like losing something. But she looked happy. I’d gladly lose a thousand things to see her that happy.
So, they’re to be married in Tooba Mosque this Saturday with little ceremony. Maars Skyped Auntie Reena to tell her the news.
‘Reena,’ said Mum, leaning into the screen, ‘if I can get another husband, you can get more budgies.’
Auntie Reena said she didn’t need budgies because she’d moved on to taking driving lessons. ‘Mehnaz. We will have a wedding party for you when you come back.’
And I’d been so sure the following year would be one of no more wedding parties.
6.20 p.m. I was on the rooftop when Conall came and joined me.
‘I like it here just before the sun sets,’ I said.
He looked out on to the horizon.
‘What did your dad say?’ I asked.
He looked at the ground. ‘We only spoke for a few minutes. He wanted to know if Ma was OK and said me and Sean better get her back to Kilkee safely.’
He turned to face me.
‘You know I didn’t mean it,’ he said. ‘That I shouldn’t have married you. What I meant was that I shouldn’t have hurt you – in my head, marrying you caused you pain.’ He held my face, brushing away a strand of my hair, lowering his voice. ‘If I could do it all again I’d . . . Well, you know what I’d do differently. And I know, if I hadn’t married you I wouldn’t be here now.’
‘Where’s that?’
He looked into my eyes, and I think for the first time I could read his look – it was gratitude.
‘So what? Are you Sufi now?’ I asked when he didn’t answer.
He smiled. ‘Bet you didn’t think you’d marry a cliché?’
I laughed.
‘It’s very . . .’
‘Peaceful?’ I offered.
He nodded. It’s all I wanted for him, but even so, I couldn’t help the dull pain that settled itself in my chest. He pulled me closer. I really do love his arms.
‘I don’t have any right to ask anything of you, Sofe. But you know I want you to come back to Ireland with me.’
I looked away and thought of everything that waited for me in London; namely Avaaz. Whatever choice you make in life, you will always have to give something up. But there it was: the gut. Nudging me towards what I should do.
‘Thank you,’ he said, kissing me on the forehead.
‘For?’
‘Getting on that plane.’
11.25 p.m. I watched him sleep – his chest rising and falling – listening to the familiar beat of his heart.
‘You know I’m awake,’ he said.
I laughed as he smiled, his eyes still closed. I tightened my arms round his waist, because you hold on to the things you love for as long as possible.
Saturday 28 December
3.25 p.m. Maars was changing Adam’s nappy as Mum sat on the chair and I applied blusher on her cheeks, finally getting her ready for her wedding. She closed her eyes, as I put mascara on her lashes. I saw Maars wipe something from her eye.
‘How do you make the right choice?’ I asked.
‘Have you prayed Istikhara?’ asked Maars.
I nodded.
‘Beta,’ said Mum. ‘Life without a husband I think can be very bore sometimes. But what if he dies?’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘O-ho,’ she said, opening her eyes. ‘How do you know what might happen? We all might die tomorrow.’
‘Isn’t your gran a cheerful one on her wedding day?’ said Maars to Adam.
Mum simply sighed, closing her eyes, ready for the mascara again. ‘All I’m saying is you have to think: if we all die tomorrow, what will we leave behind.’
&nb
sp; Maars picked Adam up and put him on the bed with his toy giraffe. She walked over with red lipstick in her hands and applied some to Mum’s lips.
‘What did Baba leave behind?’ she asked, her voice low.
Mum paused. ‘You two.’
I wish I could stop crying at everything.
‘One year ago, Soffoo, I probably would have told you to go with Conall – he is your husband, na. Forgiveness is best. Even some weeks ago I would have said the same.’
‘I think I have forgiven him,’ I said.
‘Of course you have. Nice girl you are, really. Just a very big mouth you have.’
‘What’s your point, Mum?’ asked Maars.
‘Tst, o-ho.’ Mum opened her eyes. ‘I don’t have a point. Flip a coin.’
‘I’m not flipping a coin for my future, Mum,’ I replied.
But before she could say anything Maars had already got a ten pence piece out from her purse. ‘Tails you go to Ireland with Conall; heads your publishing company.’
‘What, no -–’
But she’d already flipped it and there she was: my sister with the answer to my future, clasped in her hands.
‘Well,’ I said, my heart beating rather fast. ‘What is it?’
She lifted her hand. ‘Tails.’
‘Oh.’
‘See?’ said Mum, standing up and putting her hands on my face. ‘You already know what you want.’
9.20 p.m. ‘Sofe,’ said Sean as we sat in a restaurant after Mum and Uncle Mouch’s nikkah ceremony. ‘I think you’re right. I don’t think Conall’s radicalised.’
‘No shit, Sean.’
Hamida laughed for perhaps the third time I’ve known her.
‘I was just so sure,’ he added, wagging a kebab in the air as he thought about it, which was a little distracting.
‘It’s very odd, though,’ he added.
