Dear Infidel (21 page)

Aaliyah was crying. She’d woken up suddenly after drifting off to sleep and Kahina thought the unfamiliar surroundings had frightened her. Nazneen was sitting alone in the kitchen before Kahina had burst in with babe in arms. And the kid’s bawling wasn’t stopping and Kahina kept talking in a rush, despite Nazneen not responding with even a word. And the worried mother touched her daughter’s forehead before announcing that she thought she was getting a temperature. Expressionless, emotionless, wordless, Nazneen watched on. And Kahina came swiftly round and dumped the little girl in Nazneen’s arms before returning with haste to the sink. She blathered on. Warm drinks, warm wraps, swaddles, blankets, hot water bottles. Nazneen gazed at the small child and held her out, as if to inspect. She observed the little girl’s bawling intensify as she writhed in her arms, straining to get away from the stranger and call out to her mum.

‘Pasha, Imtiaz, guess what? It’s an
Eid Special
on Zee TV tonight – they’re showing
Pakeezah
!’ The four boys were in the kitchen, sipping tea and warming up. It was just past seven o’clock when Zakir burst in, heralding the good news.
Pakeezah –
Pure of Heart. The word lingered in the air, like dried dandelion on a summer breeze. The film was a masterpiece, a story about a tragedienne, a courtesan in Muslim Lucknow at the turn of the last century. Instantly they recalled: the swirling romanticism, the intoxicating songs and dance. Happier, simpler days.

‘Wow,’ whimpered Pasha. ‘I loved that film.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ said Imtiaz, finally sounding like he was home. ‘The music though,
Bhai
, the music – some of those songs will live forever.’

‘
Yaar,
’ continued Zakir to his boys. ‘Your mother has a CD of the songs. It’s right here, I think.’ And he slid open a drawer underneath the worktop, picking up a batch of discs. And there it was:
Pakeezah
– Songs from the Movie. He handed it to Imtiaz who took it reverentially.

‘Do you remember that song,
Chalte Chalte
?’ asked Aadam, joining in.

‘Yeah,’ said Pasha. ‘Look at the cover. Look ... She’s about to sing that very song.’ And there she was, Meena Kumari, dressed in pink. A sheer veil was covering her face and she was dancing. And the song? An ode to her mysterious lover:
Chalte Chalte
.

‘I can’t watch that film,’ declared Salman.

‘What? Why not? It was one of our favourites!’ said Pasha.

‘Come on, bro,’ encouraged Aadam. ‘I reckon Mum and Dad still have a tape of it somewhere. We all loved that one.’

‘Look, I’m not interested, OK? You all go ahead.’ He walked away, taking a seat by the breakfast table.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Nazneen. ‘It’s just some old film.’

‘Yeah, a dumb, glossy story about a prostitute.
Pretty Woman
for Indians. It’s hardly inspiring, is it? And besides, I’m not stopping you all from watching. Go ahead!’ He sat alone and in relative darkness, frozen like prey in the predator’s range.

Imtiaz broke the rising tension.

‘Please, Salman. Why don’t we all just go and watch it, eh? Tastes change. Maybe it’ll be showing its age now. But it was part of our youth, right? What do you say?’

Salman looked up, convinced that the hub around Imtiaz had clustered a little tighter. Five pairs of eyes were on him.
Don’t spoil this, please,
implored one.
What’s wrong with you, you cunt?
swore another. A third just wore a look of mild contempt. He found that the most offensive.

‘You know, you all surprise me. You talk big about Islam and politics, and yet you carry on in the same ways.’

‘What the hell are you on about?’ said Pasha. A giggle, however, crept into his blast, taking the edge off his indignation. Aadam, too, began to smirk.

Sensing the temperature getting too hot, Zakir did what he always did and got out. Imtiaz, though, went for one last throw of the dice.

‘Look, we’ve had a lovely day.
I’ve
had a lovely day. Let’s not spoil it now, eh? It doesn’t matter about
Pakeezah
– it’s only a film.’

‘Oh no,’ snorted Salman. ‘It’s much more than that.’

‘Actually, he’s right.’ Pasha’s heavy voice was pregnant with intent and the two exchanged looks of unguarded malevolence. Imtiaz walked out.

‘You know, Pasha, you’re a hypocrite.’

‘And how’s that?’

‘Well, you talk about possible bombings on the Underground and you question Islam because of Bin Laden, but why not the other way round?’

‘
Bhai
, we were talking about watching a Bollywood flick, that was all,’ said Aadam, his face heavy with disappointment. Standing behind Nazneen he held her tightly across the shoulders.

‘Bollywood Flick! How can you enjoy Indian culture? Don’t you watch the news? Haven’t you seen what those Hindus have done to our brothers and sisters in Gujarat?’

Looks of bewilderment were exchanged as Salman’s question hung in the air.

‘You’re talking about Muslim pogroms in India, right?’ asked Aadam.

Salman nodded weakly, his face turned away. Pasha began laughing – a mocking, bellicose, sinister laugh.

‘So that’s what this is about? You don’t like Hindus because of Hindu-Muslim violence and so you don’t want to watch a Hindi film?
Jesus Christ
.’ He spat the Lord’s name in vain, not knowing what else to say. Nazneen stepped in.

‘But Salman, don’t you get it? Hindi cinema, it’s part of this amazing synthesis. It flourished once – still does over there, in part. Some of India’s biggest stars are Muslim. At least they’re clinging onto being secular; we gave it up after five minutes.’

‘You’re right, honey,’ said Aadam, ‘but he’s got a point – that Gujarat violence wasn’t the work of fringe lunatics. Those Hindu mobs were led by the rich and educated: doctors roamed the streets with government-supplied printouts of Muslim addresses. No wonder it’s left such a bad taste in his mouth.’ Nazneen prised herself out of Aadam’s arms and walked over to the sink. An emboldened Salman continued.

‘Our people are being humiliated over there. During the pogroms when they captured a Muslim, they’d taunt him by chanting
Babur ki aulad
or
Aurangzeb ki aulad,
before shoving tyres over him, dowsing him in petrol and setting him alight. And you want me to ignore all that and happily sit through a Bollywood flick?’

‘Aurangzeb was a cunt,’ said Aadam bluntly. ‘He humiliated Hindus. And anyway, whose shoes would you rather be in? An Indian Muslim’s or a Pakistani Hindu’s?’

Pasha and Nazneen looked askance, clearly wondering just whose side of the debate Aadam was on.

‘You kids all right?’

Everyone turned sharply. Bilqis and Arwa were standing by the door, Bilqis looking concerned and Arwa smiling mutely.

‘Zakir told us you kids were squabbling.’ She looked around firmly, demanding an answer. Awkward gazes fell to the floor.

‘It’s OK, Mum. We’re just talking,’ assured Aadam.

‘Well can’t it wait? The film’s started. Come over when you get bored of all this rubbish.’

‘OK Mum, we’ll be over soon,’ promised Nazneen. Bilqis didn’t look convinced but said no more, and the two of them returned.

The kitchen door closed and Aadam began to giggle. ‘What were you saying?’

No reply came until the silence caught Pasha’s attention. ‘Sorry, what’s that?’

Nazneen, too, was now smirking. ‘You were about to make a point – sounded big...’

‘Oh, fuck it,’ interrupted Aadam. ‘Mum’s right. None of this crap matters. It’s Eid, remember? Let’s go watch the film and stuff ourselves with chocolates. Salman?’ He stared with wide eyes, just daring his brother to let him down again.

‘Forget about it.’

‘You’re pathetic,’ said Pasha.

‘No,
you’re
pathetic,’ retorted Salman moronically, the insult clearly rattling him.

Aadam closed his eyes, disappointment assaulting his soul. ‘Nothing is ever straightforward. But if we can’t even enjoy a Bollywood flick, then it really is all over.’

‘But why should I be understanding? All this talk about bombs going off in London. The day that happens we’ll all be ... everyone’ll hate us.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ said Pasha. ‘All the chiefs will go out of their way to differentiate between normal Muslims and the lunatics.’

‘Oh come on, please,’ cursed Aadam. ‘Forget the official line, huh? This ain’t
Candid Camera
. We can speak honestly. The day some mad, maverick Muslim walks onto a Tube with a bomb, we’re all fucked.’

Nazneen scoffed derisively, blindsiding him.

‘Really? A lot of our friends are non-Muslim. None of them rejected you after 9/11. Aren’t you just being paranoid?’ A stung Aadam searched his wife’s face for clues but she just gazed back coldly.

‘It’s...it’s not that simple. Sure, no-one just blanked me, but all of a sudden they had questions – questions which weren’t there before.’

‘Well you can’t blame them for that. The men who took control of those planes and killed all those people, did so in the name of Islam. According to themselves at least. And all those trapped in the Twin
Towers? They were just ordinary people – like you and me. They didn’t deserve to get caught up in all this stuff and lose their lives. It’s bloody disgusting.’

‘Of course it is. No one’s saying anything different. But why should I be made to feel guilty?’

‘Because you’re Muslim, that’s why. If a part of our house isn’t in order, it’s up to us to sort it out!’ She again held his gaze, her expressionless face jarring with her words. Alarm seeped into Aadam’s confusion.
Why is she acting like this? She was fine just before we left home.

‘Look, whoever the bombers turn out to be, one thing’s for sure – they’ll have gone underground to plan their attacks. But despite that the finger will be pointed at all of us.’

‘And? I’ve already explained that one.’

‘Well you talk about ordinary people, so what about those pilots bombing Baghdad from the skies? They’ll have known they’d be killing a lot of ordinary people too, right? But they still dropped their bombs.’

‘Make a fucking point, son. I’m getting tired of this.’ Pasha stared hard at Aadam, straining to keep his anger in check.

‘Look, if the Muslim nutter with the packed rucksack is brainwashed – which he is – then those pilots have been brainwashed too.’

‘Oh fuck off, Aadam. I’m out of here, really. These guys have stressed the accuracy of their weaponry and how they only attack military targets.’ Pasha took a mobile phone out of his pocket and began fiddling.

‘You believe that? Cluster bombs? Cluster munitions? Daisycutters? Firebombs? These are weapons of pinpoint accuracy? Would you walk onto a Tube with a bomb?’

‘Piss off.’

‘Would you drop a bomb over the Baghdad skies?’ Pasha stayed silent. ‘Well?’

‘You’re really starting to get on my nerves, Aadam.’

‘In both cases the outcome’s the same – you’d be killing random strangers who’ve done you no harm.’

‘So RAF pilots are brainwashed, are they? Exactly how does that happen?’

‘We’re all influenced by the currents swimming around us. The pilot is, the jihadi is. Just because one has a big plane and a shiny uniform and the other has rags and a fuzzy beard, it really don’t mean shit.’

‘All right everyone, that’s it. Until next Eid, then.’ Pasha doffed an imaginary cap and, putting the mobile back in his pocket, he turned to go.

‘God. Who the hell are you, huh? I don’t recognise you at all.’ Aadam looked more wrought than confrontational and Pasha hesitated.

‘Look, someday you guys will realise. All this is a dead end.’

‘“You guys
”
? Well who the fuck are
you
, then?’

‘I’m just me. I’ve never sought to embrace or reject anything, by design. These people – the British – I like them and they like me. That’s it, really.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ conceded Aadam, his eyes downcast.

‘So why get so worked up?’

‘Can’t you see, Pasha? Things are changing. And if I’m being told that a Muslim terrorist speaks for me – whether I like it or not – then I have every right to ask what the deaths of so many Iraqis says about this lot. What’s the difference between an Anglo-American soldier and an Islamic terrorist?’

‘There’s more of the first lot and they kill more innocent people,’ declared Salman, looking relieved to get a word in.

‘And don’t forget, this ain’t no Bantustan. This is Great Britain – a fucking democracy. None of this could have happened without the British Street being basically on-side. I have far more right to tar all this lot with the same brush, than they have with us. And yet I’ve never approached a British person with a sour taste in my mouth. I’ve never fallen out of love with them, or started to hate them because of Iraq. But when those bombs go off on the Underground, we’ll all be torched. I’m really starting to hate this country now.’ Aadam panted, his gaunt face scarred with exhaustion.

‘But you’ve just said you don’t hate the British. Do you or don’t you? You’ve never said this before. Why are you talking like this?’ A bitter disappointment carried Nazneen’s words.

‘I love the British, and if truth be told I’m closer to them than I am to my supposed own mob. Anyone who tries to hurt them is an enemy of mine.’

‘So what are you talking about? Exactly who do you hate?’

‘Listen carefully,’ croaked Aadam. ‘I said I love the British people, but I hate their fucking country – there’s no contradiction in that.’

‘
Their
country? But you’re British too,’ she challenged. He was finding it hard to spit bile when answering his wife; he stared into space, hoping the void would absorb his anger.

‘Yeah,
their
country. I love the British but I’m not British myself. It’s not for me to claim that territory – it’s for others to share it.’

‘This country is a haven for Muslims,’ said Pasha. ‘There’s complete freedom of worship here – even Muslim criminals get halal food in prison. Just how much more do you want them to give?’ Aadam didn’t answer and eventually Pasha asked another question. ‘If you hate this country so much, why don’t you leave?’