“You’re just like my wife. First time she came from Pakistan all she wanted to do was argue and talk shit. Soon as she gotta bit of responsibility it all went out of her.”
“So what now? You agree to disagree?” asked Musa.
“No boss, she just shuts the fuck up because the kids are noisier.”
“You ever wonder what it would have been like with anyone different.”
“I’m not the wondering type boss. I just get on with it.”
“Is that enough?” asked Musa, barely opening his eyes.
“If it ain’t I sure as hell don’t miss what’s left,” replied Shafqat.
Shafqat now began to cut Musa’s hair. Musa relaxed. He remembered a talk given at the Madrasah by some guy who had a beautiful long white beard and who hated the clean shaven in his audience. At that time Musa’s beard was in its infancy; a soft downy growth of hair covering the skin underneath his chin. He frowned trying to remember his name… Sheikh Farooqi…yes that was it. He remembered clearly now. Sheikh Farooqi was an asshole who had a degree in hotel management and was a conscientious manager of a hotel in Karachi. The story went that Sheikh Farooqi had taken pity on a pair of powerfully built strangers who carried gigantic back packs and had no credit cards but heavy money belts bulging with dollars. After ascertaining that they were not homosexuals (apparently they were too shabbily dressed) he had allowed them to stay in a suite at single room rates. Later that evening, when the Sheikh was in his room on the first floor, a bomb exploded in the hotel. The hapless Sheikh fell through the floor and landed in the nightclub that, for the sake of propriety, was situated underground. As he lay on the floor among the debris and the remains of half-naked dancers, he renounced his profession and became a scholar.
Sheikh Farooqi was fanatical in his belief that the longer and more unkempt the beard, the brighter the spiritual light. At that talk he recalled a saying: every time you shave an angel collects your hair and on the day of judgement weaves the hair into a rope and strangles you. Musa smiled at that picture and for his own pleasure imagined himself picking up the Sheikh by his long beard and repeatedly smashing his head into the ground.
Gradually the rhythm of hammering the Sheikh’s head became a lullaby. Shafqat smiled as he saw Musa’s head drop. So like a kid, he thought. He noticed the copper-brown streaks in Musa’s hair. Javed had hair like that. The old man, Itrat, took a great deal of pride in his first born. Javed had everything that everyone around him craved. He was handsome, charming and charismatic. Guys resented him but nonetheless flocked around him; and the girls were smitten. He looked at his sleeping customer; remembering the last time he ever saw Javed.
It was a very hot summer. Javed had walked into the shop carrying Musa and said, “Hey Shafqat. I need a massive favour. Can you take care of him for a couple of hours!”
“What! Are you crazy?”
“I gotta go somewhere,” explained Javed.
“What about your family?”
“They’ve had to take Mum to hospital. I was left with this.” He looked with annoyance at his smiling brother. “There’s something I just gotta do.”
Javed smiled and winked at him and Shafqat understood but did not smile back. Javed checked his wallet and quickly left the shop. Shafqat picked up Musa and he had smiled thinking he was going to be taken outside. He laughed and clapped his hands excitedly. Shafqat gently ruffled the copper brown curls. He was a cute, unspoiled child. Musa had then pointed to the door and said “Sally”. Shafqat held him very close then.
When Javed returned his face was flushed and he smelt slightly acidic.
“Thanks Shafqat, you’re a star!” He pressed a ten pound note into his hand.
“I only get paid for cutting hair man!”
“Take it. You’ve earned it. He’s a noisy bastard.”
“Hey, don’t speak like that about your brother.”
Javed winked at him, picked up Musa and sauntered out of the shop.
That was the last time he saw him. Suleiman would still come in now and then. Always quiet and always looking at everyone longer than he needed to…
“Wake up boss. You’re done.”
Musa yawned and opened his eyes, squinting at the blurry world around him.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Twenty minutes boss. Turn round and have a look at yourself.”
Musa swivelled the chair round and looked at himself in the mirror with a curious detachment. He saw someone with large, intense eyes flecked with sapphire and emerald. His eyes were drawn to the fairness of his skin now shorn of the beard and the cut of his jaw was smooth.
He felt a gentle hand on his head and saw Shafqat smiling at him in the mirror.
“You look good Musa.” He did not add that his expression of innocence was striking.
“Thank you Shafqat. How much do I owe you?”
“It’s been sorted.”
“How come, when?” asked Musa.
“Sixteen years ago,” replied Shafqat softly and before Musa could ask any more questions he added, “You’d better get going. They’ll be wondering what happened to you.”
Surprising himself, he embraced Shafqat and left the shop. Shafqat smiled sadly after him. Younis who had been watching from the back of the shop followed his gaze.
“He’s an exact copy, isn’t he? Do you ever think about him?”
Shafqat shook his head. “He was a no-good.”
Back at the Unit, Musa stood before his detractors, still without a firm posture of manliness, yet there was a difference, an awareness. Babarr spoke first.
“You looked like a pussy before and now you look like a goddamn rent boy.”
“Babarr! Cool it,” said Suleiman. “I think he’s got it. What’s your view Sis?”
“Yeah…Most definitely he has something but I can’t put my finger on what it is,” said Shabnam thoughtfully.
“I think you look amazing, Musa,” said Armila enthusiastically.
Suleiman rolled his eyes: “OK, so you’re not an ugly bastard but that doesn’t change the world any.”
“That’s very true. It helps but not by a great deal,” said Shabnam. “Having a pleasing appearance doesn’t give you much of an edge in this day and age. Girls want more these days. You gotta know how to use what Allah has given you. Lots of guys act like they got it when they ain’t got shit and then they try to compensate by being too macho. Other guys know they ain’t got it and try to compensate by trying to be too intellectual and too deep. You gotta find your own tuning frequency,” said Shabnam.
“You gotta market what you got, Musa, ’cos the competition to find a good wife is crazy. Everyone is turning cartwheels to get the right woman but nobody knows for sure what to do,” said Suleiman.
“How do they find wives then?” asked Musa.
“A lot of them get tired Musa. They make do,” explained Suleiman.
“So what about me? Do I go on the internet or ask around or what? What’s the plan?” asked Musa.
“The plan has gotta be for you to be confident in your own shoes. Once you are we can try the other stuff,” said Suleiman.
“That’s right, Musa. You gotta walk your walk and talk their talk,” said Shabnam.
“How do I go about doing that?” asked Musa puzzled.
“You have to learn by assimilating your own life experiences,” said Armila.
“All of you is talking shit,” said Babarr. “Confucius once said that the path of the lover begins like the path of the whore but finds its destination because of the guidance of the loved one.”
“Babarr shut the fuck up!” said Shabnam.
“Titty Soups,” said Babarr in reply.
“Titty Soups…Titty Soups…Genius, Babarr,” said Suleiman excitedly.
“Who’s Titty Soups?” asked Shabnam.
“Titty Soups is the guy that’s gonna progress this.”
“How?” asked Armila.
“You’ll soon find out,” said
Suleiman. “Go on Babarr, you take him to see Titty Soups.”
10
Babarr pulled up outside the fabulous Raj restaurant. “This is his joint. You go inside and I’ll find a place to park,” said Babarr.
The inside of The Raj was sumptuous to the point of excess. Chrystal chandeliers sparkled and sent patterns of coloured light across the marble floor. A waiter stood behind the bar adjusting his bow tie and clearly listening to a conversation between the owner of the restaurant and a young woman. Holding her hands the man nodded gently and rhythmically as he spoke.
“Look Rekha, you’re crowding this relationship with your expectations. I can’t fly solo with you right now baby. I gotta have my own space.”
She whispered something inaudible, though her brimming eyes said it all.
The man appeared to be unmoved.
“You mean a lot to me baby but I can’t give you the lease to my heart. It’s too much right now. You gotta let this relationship grow on its own, sweetheart.”
“Yo, Titty Soups you son of a bitch,” boomed Babarr, barging through the door.
Titty Soups smiled broadly. “Hey Babarr! How ya doing?” He was promptly engulfed in a great bear hug.
Babarr pulled him to one side and they engaged in a whispered discussion. Titty Soups laughed and threw his arm around Babarr’s shoulder, and Rekha left the restaurant in tears.
Legend had it that when Titty Soups first arrived at the local comprehensive from Pakistan he had gone to the school canteen during the lunch break. On that particular day two of the girls were eating soup, and when he walked past them they were so awestruck by his good looks that their spoons missed their wide open mouths and the soup landed on their breasts.
The boys who witnessed this incident christened him Titty Soups, a name which stuck.
Babarr beckoned to Musa. “Shake hands with my man Titty Soups here.”
Titty Soups gave Musa a critical once over. “Not bad. Not bad at all. The kid has it Babarr. He most definitely has it!”
“Is it enough?” asked Babarr.
Titty Soups grabbed Musa’s arm and gently felt for muscle.
“He’s got no body tone.”
“What the fuck do you expect? He’s spent half his life in a madrasah!” said Babarr.
Titty Soups shook his head. “Even so.”
“Even so what?” asked Babarr.
Titty Soups grabbed Musa’s buttocks and shook him fiercely.
“Ouch!” cried Musa.
“Sorry, kid,” said Titty Soups.
He looked at Babarr: “Do you see what I mean? Do you see the waves? Women don’t like that.”
“Give the kid a break Titty. A month in the gym and he’ll be sorted.”
Titty Soups looked gravely at Musa. “You see kid. You know when they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder they’re absolutely fucking right. If you’ve got it, you know it. You know how you know it?”
Musa shook his head.
“You get to recognise a certain look in a woman’s eye. Only then do you know for sure that you have it. Guys spend half their lives in the bathroom looking at themselves in the mirror trying to see if they’ve got it. They never seem to get that they’ve got shit. You gotta know it for yourself kid. You gotta see that look on a woman. Everything follows on from there.”
“But how do I tell the difference between a normal look and the kind of look that you’re talking about?” asked Musa.
Titty Soups pointed outside.
“Out there on the street, at this time of the day, every Asian girl is walking around all pretty and dolled up. And every Asian guy is out there hunting and walking like he’s got a rod jammed up his ass. But you my friend are gonna blow them all away. I want you to walk out of here exactly as you are and walk up and down the road. Every time you see a group of girls you make sure you get in their line of vision. Every time you see some guys you act like you’re about to square up to them. Do that until you’re about ready to drop and then come back here,” said Titty Soups.
Titty Soups placed his hand on Musa’s back and escorted him to the door. “Go get’em tiger,” he said.
Musa made for the Shalimar shopping mall, famed for being the first shopping centre to cater solely for the needs of the indigenous Asians.
The mall was teeming with girls. At first glance, huddled in aimless groups of four or five, just like their male counterparts, they all seemed to be very glamorous and flighty.
Musa jumped on the escalator and took in the glitzy array of neon-lit advertising boards. Indistinct pop songs sounded across the mall, adding to the carefree ambience.
As he looked down he could see Asian couples larking around by the fountain, completely oblivious to custom or consequence. At the top of the escalator he stopped for a second deciding which way he would head. His eyes fell on a young girl who stood perfectly still. She wore a long black traditional outfit that made her look sleek and refined. Her face had that rich dark texture which is predominantly seen in Indian girls.
They looked at each other in a moment of shared existence and then she gave a nervous laugh and was gone. That was the look: a completely natural reaction of surprise and wonder that was utterly pure.
Musa stood there for a long time, trying to build a world out of that moment. A wonderful, crazy feeling came over him. Anything and everything was possible. What if he were to run after her and make something happen? It could happen! The force of what they had experienced could overcome anything. He sighed. Not now. He just did not have it within him but if he could arrest a girl’s attention once, he could do it again…and again.
But how awful it was to meet someone like that and then watch them walk away: to experience magic but only in passing. Was marriage really pre-ordained? Could a man with will and hope carve a different path for himself?
He most certainly could, thought Musa. He smiled and started to hum as he walked. A man most certainly could and he, a Holy man, and a good-looking one at that, most certainly would.
Musa made his way back to the The Raj. Titty Soups was once more leaning by the bar, every inch the suave ladies’ man.
“Hey Musa. How was it?”
Musa smiled.
“That good? Huh? Did you get the look kid?”
Musa nodded.
“Well, kid, the battle has just begun. Now you gotta get inside their heart and that’s the most difficult thing. The greatest looking guy is the greatest asshole in the world if he doesn’t have the right personality. You take Babarr. The first time you see him you think a condom stuffed with walnuts. You get to know him a little bit and you see that he pretty much acts that way. But even if you and me work out like crazy there ain’t no way we could ever act that way because his personality goes with his appearance. If you pretend to be something you’re not you become an asshole. If you try too hard you become an even bigger asshole and if you don’t try at all you become even worse than an asshole. A loser. You gotta watch and learn Musa. Watch and learn.
“A girl’s coming by soon. Her name is Neelam and she is hot, hot, hot! But at the moment she’s going out with this loser Akhshay. Now I know Akhshay and there ain’t no way a girl like that is going with a guy like that if you get what I mean. Now I gotta bit of insider info that Akhshay is coming on too strong and she don’t like that.
“So all I gotta do is go softly…softly and then–” he suddenly brought his hands together in a tremendous clap,” Wham Bam Thank you Ma’am! Fast Titty does it in a jiffy!”
“What about Rekha?”
“Who?” Titty Soups asked.
Musa sighed as the door opened.
“Neelam sweetheart. How ya doing?”
“I’m fine Titty. Sorry I’m so late.”
Neelam was all flowing hair. She had one of those rare faces that would have looked good on a man or a woman yet her appeal was not androgynous and she had a full flowing figure which she was obviously comfortable revealing. She threw her arms around Titty So
ups and gave him a brief chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Who’s this?” she asked, turning to Musa.
“He, my darling, is our waiter for this evening,” said Titty Soups. He gave Musa a knowing wink.
“He seems a little strangely dressed to be a waiter,” said Neelam.
“It’s his first day,” replied Titty Soups.
With the grace of a ballerina he placed a gentle hand on Neelam’s back and guided her to a candle-lit table filled with steaming dishes. Musa stood attentively nearby, ostensibly waiting for any additional orders.
“So…how’s life?” asked Titty Soups so softly it was almost a whisper.
Neelam, a woman weary of the injustices of life, raised a hand to her forehead.
“What can I say? He’s so jealous.”
Titty Soups’ brown eyes saddened slightly as he began to shake his head.
“I could see it coming a mile off, Neelam. You see he’s been raised in a place where love was rationed and all this has had an effect on him.” A note of contempt had crept into his voice.
“You see Titty it’s like this. I said to him Akshay I love you but I’m not in love with you and he just couldn’t seem to get that. What is it with you men? Why do you always demand the impossible?”
Titty leant closer and gently began to stroke her hand. His touch was light and delicate.
“I just think he wants more out of this relationship than you, Neelam. It’s Einstein’s theory of relativity. You take two Asians who want a happy and fulfilling relationship. The bloke goes off to cloud-cuckoo-land and the woman keeps her feet on the ground. When the bloke comes back he finds that she’s close to the finishing line in their relationship and he still hasn’t moved past first base.”
Neelam nodded at the inherent logic of his argument and smiled ruefully.
“Akhshay is no Einstein.”
Titty Soups moved his chair next to hers and brushed her cheek with the back of his index finger.
“Baby, don’t be so hard on yourself. Before you entered this relationship did you sign an agreement that stated you must take all the responsibility? Let’s start eating,” he whispered and helped her first to a dish of fragrant rice on which he heaped a little of each of the delicacies spread before them. They ate slowly, Titty gazing at Neelam all the while. He reached out and again caressed her cheek. Musa watched and became aware that he had stopped breathing.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 11
