Boy vs. Girl (6 page)

Farhana smiled ruefully and got up. Her grandmother just could not help playing the matriarch! She looked through the peep hole and immediately yanked the door open.

“Auntie Naj!” she squealed, a huge smile on her face.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, Farhana-baby!”

Farhana laughed and the two of them embraced on the doorstep.

“Well, let us in then!” laughed Auntie Najma, picking up her long skirts to step into the hallway.

“
Asalaamu alaikum warahmatullahi wabarakatuhu
!” she called out and was answered by a chorus of voices from the kitchen.

Ummerji and Auntie Anisa came out to greet her while Auntie Najma bent down to tug off her sodden boots. Auntie Anisa raised her eyebrows and looked Najma over critically. “I see you dressed for the weather, eh?”

Najma rolled her eyes playfully at her older sister. “Yes, yes, I know, let's put Islam on hold for the awful British weather, shall we?” She stood for a moment, holding her boots.

“Oh, Najma,” huffed Ummerji as she took the boots and put them in the airing cupboard. “Why do you always have to take things to extremes?”

But Najma simply smiled at her sister-inlaw and held out her arms to embrace her sister.
And all was forgotten.

Auntie Najma took off her
niqab
,
jilbab
and
hijab
and went into the kitchen where she hugged her sisters and gave her mother a kiss and sat down to cut up onions, her usual task as the youngest of four girls.

That's how it is
, thought Farhana.
As long as you learn your lines, play your role, you're fine. But just try writing your own script and see what happens.

“Will you be making
chaat
this year, Sajda?”

“Not sure – I might just buy some; I don't think I can be bothered.”

“Tsk, you can be bothered! I will come and make it with you…”

“OK, Ummerji.”

“The shop stuff is full of additives anyway, Sajda. Your home-made one is much better.”

“Thank you, Najma, you're a sweetie. How is your garden coming along?”

“
Masha Allah
, it's going really well, isn't it, Ummerji? We've been harvesting tomatoes like mad…”

“Oh yes, Farhana brought some home last weekend – they were delicious!”

“Well, they
are
organic, love!”

“Organic? Just fancy words to put the prices up! This is the way we grew things in Pakistan: just the same with no fancy label!”

Farhana giggled. Trust Naneeji to distrust everything!

“I think the
samosas
are all done now… what time are you expecting the others?”

“They said they would come after they feed the kids, about 7:30…”

“
Alhamdulillah
, is Asma coming? I haven't seen her since she had the baby!”

“
Insha Allah
, she'll be coming too – it will be wonderful to see little Umar again.”

The women carried on chatting, talking about friends, family, simple things, safe things. It being days before Ramadan, there was no gossip, no ‘did you hear?' or ‘can you believe?' Farhana felt lulled by their conversation, sleepy almost. It was a nice, secure place to be, amongst family, preparing for Ramadan.

Later that evening, other women came to the house - to join in the Ramadan preparations, to drink tea and to talk. Farhana's dad made it a point to work late, then he went to the mosque with Faraz, knowing that the house would be
overrun with women.

The atmosphere in the house was electric: the kitchen steamed with cooking food and hot women's bodies, the conversation was lively, peppered with jokes and Urdu phrases. And, although the English rain poured down outside and the samosa pastry came out of a packet, rather than being made from scratch, the women and their daughters, British-born and raised, felt a sense of history and a connection with the rituals of their foremothers back home in Pakistan. And it felt good.

The first night of Ramadan was clear, the sky outside inky black, twinkling with stars. And all across the country and beyond, Muslim households were alive with excitement and anticipation.

They had all heard the news from the mosque: the moon had been sighted, the month of Ramadan had begun. The phone rang constantly with relatives and friends calling to share the good news. The mosque announced that they would pray the
tarawih
prayers that very night, after
isha,
the night prayer, in order to complete the thirty parts of the
Qur'an
before the end of the month.

Faraz got ready to go with his father. He had a shower and wore fresh clothes and a white skull cap, dabbing some perfume oil under his chin.

Farhana had wanted to go too but her mother said they had far too much to do at home.

“But Ummerji,” Farhana protested as her father and brother put on their coats, “I want to see what it's like…”

“That's for the men, Farhana,” her mum had said crossly. “We have too much to do here.”

Faraz threw his sister a pitying look as Farhana scowled. “I don't see why the men get to do all the religious stuff and we get stuck in the kitchen.”

Her father frowned, surprised at his normally obedient daughter. “Farhana, that's enough. You go and help your mother. We won't be long.”

And, with that, father and son left the house, joining other men from neighbouring houses to walk to their local mosque.

Faraz felt the air buzzing with excitement – the men were jovial, expansive, calling out salaams and ‘
Ramadan mubarak'
. There were quite a few young kids and a few lads around his age, coming along with their dads, most of them wearing white skull caps and long
kamees
, their jeans tucked into their trainers.

He recognised some of them from his
madressah
days, a few others from his school. Their faces were fresh, their clothes just like their fathers'.

These ones aren't on the streets yet – you can tell
, Faraz thought.

They acknowledged each other with brief nods, a far cry from the handshakes and hugs of the older generation.

As the mosque filled up, they began to file into rows behind the
imam
. Faraz followed his father towards the front of the building and they found a place right next to a pillar. They had just sat down when they heard a voice calling out behind them. They both turned.

A tall young man with a full beard and shoulder-length wavy hair was making his way towards them. Faraz had never seen him before but immediately his eye was drawn to the sketchy Islamic geometric pattern on the front of his loose-fitting t-shirt. Sort of reminded him of classical Arabic calligraphy and graffiti at the same time.

Dad's face broke into a smile. “Ahh, Imran!
Asalaamu alaikum!
” He immediately rose and held out his hand to the newcomer.

The young man grasped it firmly and shook it, his other hand on Faraz's dad's arm. “
Wa alaikum salaam
, uncle, so good to see you.” Then he looked
over at Faraz and his eyes lit up. “Is this your son, uncle?”

Faraz nodded and held out his hand, mumbling his greeting.

“
Wa alaikum salaam
, bro, how're you doing?”

“I'm good,” was Faraz's reply.

“
Alhamdulillah
,” smiled Imran.

Dad turned to Faraz. “Faraz, this is Imran. We met when he came into the shop to ask permission to put up a poster for an event they are arranging in the city centre…”

“Yeah, and your dad gave me a hard time, he did,” laughed Imran. “He wanted to be sure it wasn't something political, that we weren't holding any anti-war rallies or supporting terrorism…”

“We have to be careful, you know,” explained his father, in a tone Faraz recognised as his ‘sensible elder' voice. “Nowadays, you never know who is watching – and you young people have no sense. You end up causing trouble for all the Muslims in this country…” He carried on talking while Imran gave Faraz a knowing look as if to say ‘These oldies, eh?'

Faraz smiled. This guy seemed all right. “What was the poster about then?”

“We have a Muslim arts organisation and we're putting together a programme for the youth, you know, keep them off the streets and all that…”

Faraz's eyes lit up and he was about to ask for more details when they heard the
imam
clearing his throat, the sound amplified by the mike at the front of the room.

Imran signalled that he would talk to him after the prayer and melted into the row behind.

“
Allahu akbar
!”

The
tarawih
prayers had begun.

Faraz tried hard to concentrate on the Arabic words that flowed from the
imam's
mouth. There was no denying that he was a skilful reciter: his melodies were beautiful, his tone pitch perfect. But Faraz wished, more than ever, that he could actually understand the words, that he could grasp their meaning. He knew that this was
Surah al-Baqarah
, the Verse of the Cow, because tonight was the first night of Ramadan, and the recitation always started from the beginning of the
Qur'an
. But beyond that, he was clueless, picking up only a few familiar words. What was the point of memorising the
Qur'an
at
madressah
if you couldn't even understand it at the end?

This is rubbish
, he thought to himself.
If I come again, I am going to read the English translation first.

After a while, he stopped straining to decipher the meaning and began to lose himself in the moment, in the movements of the prayer, in the emotion in the
imam's
voice as he spoke of Paradise and Hell-fire, of guidance and loss. Faraz found his spirits lift even as his feet grew sore from standing for so long. He was in the zone. He could have stayed there all night.

But, after about an hour, the
imam
led the last
tasleem
.

“
Asalaamu alaikum warahmatullah
,” to the right shoulder. “
Asalaamu alaikum warahmatullah
,” to the left shoulder. And it was over.

Tomorrow, they would all be fasting and the strong would come again tomorrow night and the next night and the next.

Faraz hoped to be one of them.

Tired but content, he waited with his father for the mosque to empty slightly before they too got up to leave. As he was putting on his shoes, Imran came up behind him.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, bro,” he said, his voice lower, calmer now than before the prayer. “We
didn't get to finish our conversation. Here's a flyer, that's my mobile number, there. You can call me or visit our website if you want to know more about what we do. Take care, yeah?”

And he was gone.

Faraz felt the texture of the card, grainy beneath his fingers, and noticed the same ‘Islamic urban' art theme to it. He made a mental note to check out the website as soon as he got home.

On the way home, father and son did not speak, each lost in his own thoughts. Faraz thought of Auntie Naj and the book she had given him. He felt sure that it was her advice and what he had read in the book that had enabled him to ‘feel' that night's prayer, in a way he never had before.

* * *

Faraz and his father arrived home to find the house tidy and warm. Ummerji had gone to sleep but Farhana was upstairs in her room, still awake.

Faraz knocked on her door after saying goodnight to his dad. He found her lying in bed reading, her head propped up on one hand.

“Hey, sis,” he said, pulling up a chair.

“Hey,” she said, looking up at him briefly. “How was the prayer?”

“It was all right…” He knew then that she was still upset about not being able to go. “What did you and Ummerji get up to?”

Farhana raised her eyebrows at him.

“What do you
think
?” Her voice was harsh, bitter. “We tidied up after dinner, washed up and prepared the food to cook tomorrow, same as always!”

He didn't know what to say so he just looked at her, waiting to see if she would go on. And she did.

“It's just not fair, Faraz!” she cried, taking care not to speak loud enough for their dad to hear. “That's all I ever see women doing in our family during Ramzan: cooking and cleaning, cooking and cleaning! What's the point? I thought we were supposed to be in this together, that we were supposed to be worshipping too. But instead, we're busier than ever with the mundane stuff, the stupid details, the food, food, food!”

“OK, sis, easy, it's not that bad…you get reward for that too, remember?”

“Oh, Faraz!” she snapped impatiently,
“You don't understand, you'll never understand. You're a guy, you're free to go mosque, come back whatever time, read
Qur'an
all day if you want. Do you know that Ummerji has
never
been to pray
tarawih
in the mosque? Ever in her life?”

Faraz squirmed slightly. “Ummerji always says it's not really our culture; women just don't go mosque…”

“Well, bollocks to that!” Farhana's face was flushed and she threw her book down in frustration. “Ummerji may be happy to stay at home making
paneer
but I don't plan to waste this Ramzan cooking and cleaning – I want to make the most of every day, of every second…”

Faraz recognised that sentiment. He had felt the same way after reading the book that Auntie Najma had given him.

“And what's all that about women not going to the mosque? Auntie Naj goes all the time. The women during the Prophet's time used to go, so why shouldn't we?”

Faraz had never thought about it before. “Well, I guess that's just not part of Pakistani culture…”