by Hafsa Zayyan
‘We’ve got big news,’ Jeremiah begins to grab glasses from the kitchen and line them up on the counter. Rahool unscrews the bottle cap and pours a generous helping of vodka into each.
‘So have I actually.’ Sameer stares at the glasses of vodka. ‘I don’t have any mixers. I’m sorry – I forgot. Haven’t really been with it.’
Jeremiah laughs. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘We’ll do it like the Russians: just water and ice.’ He starts adding water to the glasses. Rahool dispenses ice from Sameer’s fridge-freezer into the glasses. Sameer accepts a glass from Rahool, but he does not feel like drinking it. ‘First, can we sort out the tunes please?’ Jeremiah jumps onto the sofa, getting out his phone to connect it up to Sameer’s surround sound. A small amount of vodka-water-ice sloshes from his glass onto the settee. ‘This stuff doesn’t exactly get you in the mood for celebrating …’
‘What are we celebrating?’ Sameer asks. The music stops and then starts again; a new track, with a deeper base.
‘If you want Dave, let’s listen to something a bit more upbeat,’ Jeremiah says, changing the track to ‘Thiago Silva’ and nodding his head along to the new tune. ‘Rahool?’
Rahool is leaning against the wall that separates the beginning of the kitchen from the living room, drink in hand, as if he is unsure about whether or not to enter. Although Sameer has been friends with Rahool for longer, Sameer knows more about Jeremiah than he does about Rahool. Rahool is quiet. He’s the sort of person who is content to just be present; part of the group, but not part of the conversation. When he does speak, it is careful, considered. Even drink does not make him open up; if anything he becomes stiffer, more awkward. Next to Jeremiah, who, by contrast, can be so loud it borders on brash, Sameer sometimes forgets that Rahool is even there.
‘You first,’ Rahool says, nodding towards Jeremiah.
Jeremiah’s eyes are wide, brimming with excitement. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘I’ve been offered a job at Beatz Studio.’ There is a short silence. ‘It’s a recording studio in South Croydon. I’m going to be assisting the studio manager.’
‘Wow, J, that’s great news,’ Sameer says, clapping him on the back. Jeremiah works as a DJ, playing anything from club nights to birthday parties, but he also has a bedroom studio where he makes music. He’s wanted to be a music producer for as long as Sameer can remember.
‘This is a really big step for me,’ Jeremiah continues, taking a big slug of his drink. ‘Beatz is working with some major underground artists right now, know what I mean?’ He finishes his drink and moves past Rahool into the kitchen to fill another one. ‘T Shawty, Riddim, Boss Man. Can you believe it – Boss Man!’ Jeremiah’s voice rises and crescendos with the sound of ice being dispensed from the fridge freezer into his glass. Sameer has never heard of any of these artists. He shoots a look at Rahool, who shrugs and takes a sip of his drink. ‘What I’m saying, man, is that I’ll get to meet these people – I’ll be the face of the studio, you know, sorting things when the artists arrive, working closely with the engineer, getting the artists to grips with the studio. And the best thing?’ He pauses and Sameer realises that Jeremiah expects him to guess.
‘Um, you might end up producing music for one of these artists?’
‘Well, no – but yes, that’s a very good point –’ Jeremiah shakes a finger at Sameer, grinning, ‘that is one thing that might definitely, possibly, happen.’ He takes a long swig from his glass. ‘Guys, catch up?’ he says suddenly, noticing that his friends are not drinking at his pace. ‘No, the best thing – the best thing – is that it’s part of my contract that I can use the recording studio equipment when it’s not being used and when I’m not working. I’m talking state of the art – latest and best technology – I mean, half the stuff in that studio I don’t even know how to use yet.’ Jeremiah runs a hand over his head, as if he cannot believe the news himself.
‘That’s awesome. After all these years – you’re finally doing it.’ Sameer is pleased to hear his friend’s news; it brightens him and makes the vodka-water look slightly more appealing. He takes a sip and imagines the liquid running through his veins, recharging his batteries. ‘So when do you start?’
Jeremiah beams. ‘Next month. Can’t wait!’
Sameer motions for Rahool to come into the room. ‘Congratulations, J,’ he says, raising his glass. ‘To following your dreams.’
‘To following my fucking dreams!’ Jeremiah repeats, clinking his glass against Sameer’s and Rahool’s. He drains the drink in one go and gets up to make another.
‘So what’s your news, Rahool?’ Sameer turns to his other friend. He is starting to feel energised.
‘You first.’
Sameer shrugs. ‘OK,’ he says, once Jeremiah has returned to the sofa. Jeremiah changes the track to ‘All I do is Win’ and starts to sing along happily. Sameer inhales. ‘I’m moving to Singapore with the job.’
Jeremiah immediately stops singing. Rahool’s mouth drops open slightly.
‘Wait, what?’ Jeremiah squints at Sameer as if he is trying to work out whether Sameer is joking.
‘How long for?’ Rahool asks.
‘Two years to start, possibly longer.’ Sameer tips the rest of his drink down his throat and stands up.
‘That what you want?’ Jeremiah asks.
‘Well, I applied for it, so I guess, yeah,’ Sameer responds, annoyed that his friends have not immediately understood the significance of the opportunity. ‘I’m basically going to be involved in setting up a new office out there. It’ll be intense, but rewarding. I could make partner very quickly. And tax is like 15 per cent.’
‘So you’re going to be super rich, eh?’ Jeremiah says. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, I’m happy for you, man.’
‘Who exactly doesn’t want to be rich?’ Rahool raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s not about becoming rich.’ Sameer pulls a face and pours himself another drink. The ice dispenser groans: it is nearly out of ice. ‘It’s about the opportunity. I’m getting the chance to help a global firm establish its next footprint in South East Asia. There’s only going to be about ten of us to start with out there, and all of us will have a role to play. I’ll be directly involved in creating new client relationships. And I’m going to be living in another country for the first time in my life. A hot country!’
The boys laugh, and Sameer relaxes. ‘We’ll obviously come visit you,’ Jeremiah says, raising his glass. ‘To Singapore!’
‘To Singapore!’ they chorus, and drink. ‘A Milli’ plays from the speakers.
‘So,’ Rahool says eventually. ‘What will your family say?’
‘Don’t know,’ Sameer lies. He does not want to think about this tonight. Tonight is about celebrating. He finishes his drink and pours another. ‘But what’s up with you anyway?’
‘I’m moving too, actually,’ Rahool says.
Sameer smiles. Rahool is an IT consultant and his work often requires him to spend time on-site with a client. Usually his clients are based in or around London, but Rahool has spent several months in Germany and Spain in the past. ‘To Singapore?’ Sameer says hopefully.
‘No.’ Rahool is not looking at Sameer. ‘I’m leaving London. I’m moving back home. To Leicester.’
And just like that, the fun is over.
Sameer sets his glass down on the coffee table. ‘Why would you do that?’ he asks, voice strained in an attempt not to sound accusatory. ‘You’re quitting your job?’
‘You know I hate that job,’ Rahool shrugs. ‘I’ve hated it for a long time. How does it make sense that I’ve been in it for five years and I still have no idea what I’m doing? Every project, I end up taking on things that are way above my pay grade and fumbling my way through – but they won’t promote me or give me proper training. The company doesn’t value me. If I really think about why I’ve stayed here so long – well, it was mainly because of you two,’ Rahool gestures towards his friends. He still has not looked at Sameer. ‘We’ve had a good time
, the three of us, haven’t we, living in London? But I’m done with it now.’
Rahool has said a lot, and Sameer struggles to digest it. He wishes he had not been drinking.
‘You’ll be back with our old Leicester crew,’ Jeremiah drawls, raising his glass towards the ceiling. ‘To the Leicester mandem!’
Sameer and Rahool do not respond. ‘What are you going to do in Leicester?’ Sameer asks, knowing already what Rahool is going to say.
‘I’ll join the family business. It’s not as if my degree helped me to get a job I enjoyed, so I might as well go home.’
Sameer says nothing. Jeremiah has started to flick through the tracks on his phone very quickly, having lost interest in the conversation. Jeremiah’s family do not run a business; he does not understand.
‘Look, mate,’ Rahool continues, ‘I’m not you. I didn’t go to Oxbridge and get a job as a top lawyer in the City. I don’t earn enough to live alone in a flat like this.’ Sameer feels heat rising in his neck, but Rahool’s face is not unkind. He finally looks at Sameer, and he is sympathetic. ‘What I’m saying,’ he says gently, ‘is that London is not to me what it is to you and J. I’m broke, I hate my job, and I’m tired of it. J is here for a reason, and he’s going to make it. And you, well – you’re not even staying in London yourself any more. The point is, I’m not sure what I’m doing here anyway.’
It does make sense, Sameer thinks. Or at least, he thinks it makes sense. He feels a quiet discomfort, a sense of betrayal, but he nods, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, at Rahool. Their fathers had been friends for many years, both migrants from Uganda who had arrived in Belgrave, penniless, and had gone on to become successful businessmen. Rahool’s father had started out as a car mechanic, and now ran his own truck and van rental company. Sameer’s family had started out selling saris, and then sold the sari shop to open a restaurant specialising in East African Asian cuisine – Kampala Nights – which now had four branches across the Midlands. Both families had invested their money wisely. Both families were very comfortable. For some reason that Sameer cannot now rationalise, he had always thought that Rahool was with him on the idea that they would not just end up working in the family business, that they would make it on their own. He finishes his drink, goes to the bottle of vodka and realises it is nearly empty.
‘It’s the end of an era,’ he announces solemnly to his friends. He opens a cupboard near the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that the partners had gifted the associates at Christmas. It is warm, but no matter. They must celebrate; and to do so, they must drink. ‘I’m going to Singapore. Rahool, you’re going back to Leicester. J, you’re going to South Croydon,’ Sameer starts to laugh. He unwraps the foil and begins to untwist the cage holding the cork. Before he has the chance to react, the cork flies off. Jeremiah ducks; the cork hits a mirror hanging above the sofa, but it doesn’t break. Champagne erupts from the bottle, frothing over Sameer’s hands and legs and onto the floor. He quickly raises the bottle to his lips and tries to suck up the foam.
The boys are laughing. They bring over their glasses, trying to catch the froth as it slips from the bottle towards the floor. When it finally subsides, the bottle is half empty. Sameer pours out what is left and the bottle is finished. They are all still laughing. Rahool raises his glass. ‘To the end of an era,’ he echoes.
‘The end of an era!’ Sameer and Jeremiah boom. Sameer looks at his friends through the film of vodka and champagne. He feels a strange urge to cry.
A few hours later, after a predictably long queue and a quick extortion at the door, Sameer and his friends are inside east London’s most popular club. Sameer immediately goes to buy a round of drinks. They didn’t drink anything else after the champagne and, stepping inside to see the throbbing mass of bodies moving to music, he suddenly feels horribly sober. ‘Three vodka Cokes, please,’ he shouts to the barman, who nods and flips three glasses onto the counter.
‘Hey, mate.’ Sameer feels a hand on his back. It’s Ryan, with someone he doesn’t recognise.
‘All right?’ Sameer grins. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I should be buying for you, my friend,’ Ryan responds, muscling in between Sameer and a woman standing next to him at the bar. Ryan’s finger begins to tap rapidly on the counter. His friend does not attempt to come close to the bar and stands apart, on his phone.
‘You didn’t make it for pre-drinks,’ Sameer remembers, secretly glad that Ryan had not come. His drinks appear and he pays.
‘Work,’ Ryan rolls his eyes and then flashes a bright smile. ‘But it’s all good, man – I made it out! Shots please, mate – whatever you’ve got. Six of them. So, Singapore. Exciting. You must be excited. I would be so excited if I was you.’
Sameer is vaguely conscious that Ryan has taken something. The shots arrive, and Ryan knocks one back. ‘For you,’ he says, pushing the other five towards Sameer. Sameer can smell Jägermeister.
‘Five for me and one for you?’ Sameer says, pushing two back towards Ryan. ‘How is that fair?’
‘Singapore for you and nothing for me,’ Ryan responds, laughing. ‘How is that fair?’
Sameer frowns, unsure whether Ryan is joking. Ryan has already downed another shot. ‘OK,’ Ryan says, leaning towards Sameer. ‘I’ve helped you out now. Come on, drink.’
‘OK, OK.’ Sameer takes the first shot, grimacing. In the split second that Ryan is not looking while he pays for the shots, Sameer quickly pours the other three down the side of the bar by his feet. He picks up the drinks he had ordered and moves away from the bar. Ryan follows, his friend tagging behind.
‘It’s funny because that’s how things are now these days,’ Ryan is shouting, but Sameer cannot hear him properly over the music. ‘All about being PC and all that.’
They reach Jeremiah and Rahool, and Sameer hands them their drinks. Ryan’s head is bopping up and down, nodding unstoppably. ‘Like, you and your mates here, you’d all do pretty well these days.’
Sameer points to his ears. ‘I can’t hear you,’ he shouts, taking a gulp of his drink and turning away.
‘You know what I mean though, right?’ Ryan claps Sameer on the back, hard. ‘They’ve got quotas to fill, haven’t they?’ He waves a hand in front of Sameer, as if swatting away a fly, and stumbles into the crowd. He is swallowed in seconds, followed by his friend, who is still on his phone.
‘What was he saying?’ Jeremiah shouts. ‘That was Ryan, wasn’t it?’
‘Don’t know,’ Sameer responds, pointing again at his ears. ‘Couldn’t hear.’
After a few moments, Sameer turns to Rahool, who is closer to him. ‘I’m leaving,’ he says.
‘But we only just got here,’ Rahool protests.
‘Yeah – you stay. Have a good night. I’ll message you – we need to do something before we all go our separate ways.’
Sameer does not say goodbye to Jeremiah; he slips out of the club quietly and into the night. He has sobered up completely. Maybe he hadn’t understood Ryan properly, maybe there had been some miscommunication. But something jars, instinct giving way to unease, and he knows that he will not know how to look at Ryan on Monday. He unlocks his phone, scrolls to Hannah and sends a WhatsApp.
Sameer (01.02): Hi, you awake?
Home is walking distance, but Sameer flags down a black cab. He does not want to walk past the other revellers tonight. He WhatsApps Hannah again.
Sameer (01.04): Getting in a cab, can pick you up?
Hannah was last seen at 23.58.
‘Where to?’ the cab driver asks. Sameer gives his address and climbs into the car. He calls Hannah, once, twice. The phone rings and rings and she does not pick up.
2
To my first love, my beloved
15th August 1945
It is my wedding night tonight. But instead of lying with my new wife, I am sitting here in my study, writing to you. I could not bring myself to touch her; I could barely look at her. And now she lies in our marital b
ed, alone, whilst I sit here with a pen and paper.
I know this is foolish. I know this letter will never reach you. But I did not know what else to do. I had to talk to you.
The nikkah took place earlier today in the stuffy heat of our front room. A power cut meant that the fans were not working; all the windows were open, but no breeze could allay the stickiness that clung to us all. It was a small and rushed affair; just Papa, Samir and Abdullah were present to witness Muazzam Kaka confirming that Shabnam – my new wife – agreed. The imam hurriedly recited the fatihah and Shabnam appeared like a ghost through the side door, draped in a red gauze dupatta. A small, sickly looking child in a green salwar kameez holding a plate full of laddoos followed her. Shabnam sat down beside me, accompanied by the thick scent of jasmine, and I could feel the weight of her body depress my side of the sofa. My insides began to churn before the laddoo even reached my lips. Shabnam is twenty-one years old. I am forty.
I need to explain to you how this has happened. Much like our own wedding, I did not choose this. The news of your passing reached India before I even had the chance to shed a tear. Do you remember Muazzam Kaka, Papa’s younger brother? I am certain you do; you were always so good at remembering faces and names. He came to Uganda to visit just once, many years ago, when Samir was born. His son died last year, leaving behind a wife and two young children. When they heard the news of your passing, they appeared without a word of warning. Muazzam Kaka and Papa took me aside and explained that it was my ‘duty’, as the only surviving grandson of my late grandparents, to take care of my cousin’s family. I had never met my cousin before he died. Muazzam Kaka was as good as a stranger to me when he arrived. But I am duty-bound.
And so here I am, on the evening of my second wedding night, writing a letter to my first wife, the one and only love of my life.
I cannot begin to describe how I miss you. The pain subsides only when I am sleeping, but then I dream of you, running through the long grass towards the Nile, dupatta waving in the wind, laughing and calling me to follow you.
