Dear Infidel (14 page)

The Indians were really no different to the British, except they smeared everything in this brown veneer. As if being brown ever meant anything. And that’s what I loved about the British – ‘cause whoever you were and wherever you were from, it really didn’t matter. Grab a drink, grab a girl – anyone could join in. I reckon the British and the Muslims are the truest of internationalists.

It wasn’t until I was twenty-two and on that beach in Bournemouth, though, that I realised I couldn’t be twenty forever. And it scared me, I can tell you. But then I remembered my granny. I don’t think she was
ever
twenty.

I’d gone home after the second year for the summer holidays; I just missed Mum and Dad, I guess. But then within a week of me
getting back, my gran died. I hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years and neither had my mum. Pakistan had ceased to exist for us. For the first few days I felt vaguely sad but mostly just awkward. I had a distinct lack of any real emotion. Mum was of course devastated, but ... Anyway, a few days later I found myself tidying up and stumbled across some really old photos. Dad had lots of hair and trendy specs and Mum had a beehive! But it was the pictures of Gran that stopped me dead. She just wouldn’t leave my mind after that. In every picture, she just looked so ... ethereal. I doubt if she ever did a single thing in her whole life, just for herself. And I couldn’t stop thinking about that ‘cause I’d started at this summer placement, and I saw all these people, in their mid-twenties, thirties, hell even forty-plus, still trying to act like kids. And I couldn’t figure out which was worse: trying to be twenty forever or never being twenty even once.

Summer ended and I went back to uni but I just couldn’t see things the same. We’d all spent the last two years utterly devoted to ourselves, but now it just didn’t seem right. The nights out and the nights in; when someone got pissed and did something stupid everyone still found it funny – but I no longer did. I’d never before questioned who I was or where I belonged. People went on about racism and all that stuff but, honestly, I was British. I’d never felt out of place – or rather, I’d never been made to feel out of place. They could have used me for a damn poster campaign. This was my soil and I was of them. And then I saw the world through my own eyes.

Ramazan. It’d barely even registered with me before, but in that final year, I suddenly wanted to experience it: abstinence, discipline, inner peace. I wanted to cherish a glass of water. I wanted to witness the crack of dawn and search for the crescent in the night sky. But no one would understand. Martin – my beautiful boy, my savage man. He wouldn’t understand. He would
never
understand because it wasn’t the month of Ramazan; it was the month of February, and it couldn’t be both. And I’d have to choose. But Martin made the stars dance for me and I just couldn’t. Until I saw God on Bournemouth beach.

Aunty comes into the living room, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. She places it down and gestures to me to pour from the pot. She asks Aadam where everyone else is: his parents and brother, and seems concerned that they’re not here yet. He says he’ll call but realises he’s forgotten his phone.

‘Have you brought your mobile, Nazneen?’ he asks as I’m handing tea to Uncle.

‘
Jee haan,
’ I reply with my back to him, and he opens up my purse and rummages around, before finding my dinky handset.

‘Great, thanks,’ he mutters as he leaves the room.

‘
Arre wah!
’ remarks Aunty. ‘In my day husband never ask for nothing, and wife always beg for everything!’ She makes her point in broken English which instantly makes me chuckle. Women like Aunty seldom venture into English, and when they do it’s because they
really
want to be heard. I’m guessing that it’s Uncle to whom a message is being delivered here, and given that he’s not responding, but is instead examining his biscuits with an undue intensity, I reckon he’s received it loud and clear. And so
yes
, Aunty, Aadam is a thoughtful, considerate and caring husband. And I’m sorry that Uncle wasn’t the same. I’m sorry that he never asked for your opinions or showed concern for your moods. Did he take care to warm you up? I bet he never hesitated to sail his boat, on rocky shores. Haha! Actually, Aadam’s OK in that department, but he’s no way near as good as Martin was. I remember my first experiences, finding it almost scary, being worked on like that. But I got to enjoy it;
really
enjoy it. I wish Aadam’s appetite was bigger. I miss being ...
plundered
. Martin made me feel like a rag doll.
Oh, Martin
. Colorado seems so far away. I’d give anything to go back, to Red Rocks.

Lying on her front, she turns the page of a news magazine opened up on her pillow. She fiddles with her ponytail whilst skim reading.
Nope, nothing interesting there,
and distractedly pulls on some bubble gum, teasing out a length.

‘
Martin, Martin. Where the hell are you?
’

It’s been half an hour since she got back to the village and she’s getting impatient. The quiche is on the table; the sun is approaching its peak. She needs to sear these memories. Destiny requires that he seal her High Noon.

She turns another page and a sentence grabs her by the throat:
“Islam succeeded where Christianity failed, in shackling man’s power of reasoning.
” Suddenly she’s no longer there. Keystone with its beautiful lake, the Rockies, even the beyond cool, Arapahoe Basin. Gone.
“Arab countries have no cultural disposition for scientific and industrial takeoff. Alas, these societies cannot make a brick, let alone
a microchip.
” And Martin, who alone in the whole world makes her eyes catch fire. Vanished.
“They are historically doomed to inferiority.
” Friends, classmates, party pals and roommates – did they ever really exist? “
Yet now the West finds itself challenged from the outside by a militant, atavistic force, driven by a hatred of all Western political thought. The notion of co-existing peacefully is more our notion than theirs.
”

She feels ... a bite on her behind. She turns sharply.

‘Martin!’

‘Dinner’s ready,’ he murmurs, his eyes feasting on her rear.

‘Oye!’ she squeals. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Working up an appetite.’ He speaks without inflection, like it were a simple truth. He crouches down onto her calves, locking her into position. He is yet to actually look her in the eye. He kneads her rump before gripping firmly; she can feel the heat from his spread hands transferring into her.
He really does look hungry,
she accepts, with a woman’s satisfaction.

Hysterical laughter breaks out in the adjacent room, bringing Martin back to planet Earth.

‘Those guys from Leeds have left, have they?’

‘Yeah, must have. This lot only moved in an hour or so ago. Americans.’

‘Don’t tell me,
the snow’s coming!
’ He pulls a funny face and drones in slightly mocking tones. Nazneen giggles and makes to turn fully round, but he still has her locked tight.

‘Hey, get off!’ she protests with another squeal, despite loving his weight on her.

He doesn’t budge but rather just sits back, smoothing his hands over her buttocks and hamstrings. She twists round further and they smile in silent mutual appreciation.

‘There’s some food left – some quiche. Let’s have it and go. Red Rocks, remember?’

He says nothing but rather looks back at her buttocks, like he were considering his options.

‘Hey there’s time for that later!’ she squeals for the umpteenth time, unaware that she’ll never be such a girlie girl again. Finally he lets go and as she sits up, he notices the magazine on her pillow.

‘What are you reading?’ he asks casually. She snaps back and shuts it before flinging it off the bed.

‘Nothing. Just killing time; waiting for you.’ She smiles assuredly. ‘Shouldn’t we do some packing?’ she adds, keen to change the subject.

‘What? Now?’ Don’t worry about it, Naz,’ he says whilst surveying the mess in the room. ‘You can do it tomorrow.’ She stares at him, not without rebuke.

‘You? I meant we’ll do it tomorrow.’

He winks and smiles and she knows his contribution will at best be a token gesture. But she doesn’t mind; there’s no point pretending that she minds.

The last time I ever saw Martin was nearly a year after we graduated. I’d started my traineeship by then and we met up in central London after work. He was seeing someone – in fact, the third different girl since we’d left uni. I asked him why, after all we’d been together for over two years. He said there was nothing like “new experiences”, like that first taste of something. I really loved him, you know, like I don’t think I’ve loved ever again. He was so handsome. No, more beautiful than handsome. He had such fine features, my stomach used to do somersaults just thinking about him. You can only feel that once in your life, I reckon. But what me and Aadam have is better than love. It’s real. Aadam’s very grounded. You get that in Muslim men, or in any religious man, really. They’re more real. Realistic. You’d find the same in a Christian man too, but Christianity’s dying, so it’s irrelevant.

I stopped drinking some time ago now. I just grew more uncomfortable with it. I do miss wine though, sometimes. Floating away. I’ve started listening to
Qawwalis
. I swear there’s God in that music.
Moula mere Moula
. And I just need to see ‘cause I know He’s there. Buried underneath all the politics and dead ceremony, there’s Truth. I just know it.
Inshallah
, one day my eyes will open.
Ya Ali Madad
.

He’d only wanted to urinate but Pasha had been inside the toilet for ten minutes. Contemplating on his haunches, he marvelled at how nothing in this house had changed: no new carpet, no lick of paint. Actually, that wasn’t quite true – the cooker was almost new and there was a microwave in the kitchen now. But in terms of furniture, optional extras, things that make a house a home ... Still, he had to concede, it’d all been very well maintained. In fact the occupants looked more moth-eaten than the things around him.

The temperature dropped. An object. Form. Taking shape. Pasha blinked rapidly and checked to his left and right. He was alone in the bathroom with his wet reflection staring back at him.
How long have I been standing in front of this mirror?
A sense of alarm gripped him but it was fleeting.
I look fine,
he reassured himself. He stepped out with renewed confidence and strode animatedly to the top of the staircase but then stopped dead. Salman was looking up at him. He was standing by the opened front door and, like Pasha, appeared stunned. A couple of children darted past, the young boy sounding excited, but Salman didn’t move. More adults arrived behind him and he was shaken out of his stasis. The effect rippled out and Pasha restarted his descent, quick-stepping down with his gaze locked to the floor. They stood face-to-face.
What the fuck is appropriate here?
Aadam and Nazneen came out of the living room, each with one of Salman’s children in tow. Pasha heard the kitchen door open and knew his mother would soon be conducting the melee. Salman extended a hand. Pasha ignored it and hugged him, and for the second
time since arriving he was holding back tears. Arriving at the scene, Arwa was delighted.

‘
Arre
Ibrahim, let me hug my sister’s boy now,’ she chided her son playfully. The two men parted, feeling a little embarrassed. There was no time to dwell on it, though, as Arwa pounced on her prey, kissing him on both cheeks and openly admiring his sturdy physique. Everyone laughed – the air was pleasant and light. The sisters Arwa and Bilqis embraced next and the whole gang moved on from the porch. Zakir made a beeline for the living room but, to his dismay, everyone followed his wife into the kitchen and from there to the adjacent breakfast room. Zakir grudgingly fell into line.

Greetings continued streaming forth. The brothers, Salman and Aadam, exchanged a few mock punches and Zakir and Husnain, the two elder statesmen, shook hands diplomatically. Husnain gulped, bracing himself for the company of his contemporary. He shot a look at his wife and her sister, the two of them already gossiping greedily. He knew he’d not separate them all day. The boys, too, would all be together and the idea of spending time with Kahina or Nazneen was a non-starter. Apart from his grandchildren, that left Zakir, who had already begun talking about the takeover of some accountancy firm. Husnain sighed. But at that moment he heard the excited voices of his boys. It looked like Pasha had made some joke; one which had tickled Aadam pink. He was bent double in laughter and Pasha was patting Salman on the chest: the joke was clearly at his stern elder son’s expense but he was looking relaxed and taking it well. Husnain felt better already. He was determined to enjoy the day; by proxy if he had to. Imtiaz’s absence suddenly registered but no one else had mentioned him, so he said nothing.

Taimur was looking for attention. He had brought a toy car along and was trying to show it off. ‘Look, Aadam
Kaka,
look!’ he said, holding the toy up for his uncle to inspect.

‘Not now,
Beta,
’ commanded his dad but Taimur continued appealing.

‘Wow, look at this!’ said Aadam, unable to dismiss the child. Taimur was made up. ‘Is it your favourite? Look, Pasha Uncle, look at Taimur’s car!’

‘This is super cool!’ exclaimed the new uncle, taking hold of the boy around the shoulders.

‘But hey,’ said Aadam. ‘I think we can do better than this!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Taimur, trying to keep his excitement in check.

‘Well, I like your car,’ Aadam began, his words slow and melodic, ‘but Aadam
Kaka
has an even better toy to give his favourite nephew.’

‘Eid presents, yeah!’

‘Not now,’ half-protested Salman, admonishing his brother with a look.

‘Nonsense! Now’s as good a time as any.’ And he walked off before returning with Nazneen, who now held a couple of presents.