Dear Infidel (22 page)

‘I’ve been thinking about that a lot recently.’

Nazneen looked furious. ‘What? Why am I hearing this for the first time?’ Aadam turned away. ‘Where are you thinking of going? Pakistan? Dubai?’

‘Look, I believe in plurality. I want my children to grow up with different races, different religions.’

‘Well this is the best place to stay, then, surely,’ said Pasha.

‘Not if they can’t grow up confident in themselves first. We’re second-class citizens now – they’ll forever be apologising for things that they’re not responsible for.’

‘So just where are you planning for us to go?’ Mockery had replaced the anger carrying Nazneen’s previous words, and her eyes – for the first time ever – held him dispassionately. Aadam froze. ‘Well speak up then...’

‘Canada appeals to me. It’s a nation of immigrants, a great leveller. I won’t have to spend all my time worrying about the fucking natives.’

‘Our future isn’t here,’ began Salman, like he was sealing the argument, ‘whilst this country wages war against our own people, and in our own lands.’ He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms theatrically.

Nazneen’s face crumpled. ‘You ostentatious f...’

‘What?’ Salman looked around confused, having missed the retort. Pasha pressed home the advantage.

‘Understand one thing – if you live here, your first loyalty is to this country. The worldwide Muslim community doesn’t override that.’

Aadam spat his contempt.

‘The British shouldn’t be suspicious of our
Ummah
. They, too, have their
Ummah
: New Yorkers, young Aussies partying in Bali, white farmers in Zimbabwe. And why not? I don’t begrudge them that.’

‘OK,’ conceded Pasha. ‘But at least you can differentiate. Salman hates Hindus so much he can’t even watch a Bollywood flick. And you know what gets me? He’s going to pass his poison onto his kids. I can understand some hick in Montana hating Muslims and I can see
why some boy from a Peshawari Madrassa would hate infidels. But we’re here – we should be leading the way. But no, he wants to hibernate. He just wants to hate.’

Rendered mute, Salman jumped from face to face, like he was searching for some clue.

‘So what? What gives you the right to come down so hard on Salman? Don’t demand from us what you wouldn’t demand from the British.’

‘Oh, but I can.’

‘And how’s that?’

‘Because he’s living in their country, that’s why.’ Pasha began coughing spasmodically, his hands cupped over his face. Walking slowly to the sink, he poured a glass of water, his face sombre. ‘I just don’t want to be associated with any of this. Put yourself in the shoes of the average bloke, sitting at home and watching the news, and seeing pictures from our own 9/11 stream in. What are they going to think? Can you blame them for hating you?’

‘Fuck you,’ spat Aadam. ‘These bastards have demonised us. That makes you happy, does it?’

Pasha clapped in mockery. ‘
Wah!
And so the answer to Muslim grievance is terrorism?’

‘Terrorism? Just what does that word mean? If you or I were in Baghdad at the start of the war, with the city being pounded from the air, wouldn’t we have been terrified? What a fucking stupid word. If some madmen ever do let off bombs on the Underground, Britain will have no right to be outraged.’

Nazneen looked mortified. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Because they’ve killed so many more innocent people themselves, that’s why.’

‘So what are you doing to broaden their vision?’ butted in Pasha.

‘What?’

‘How are you going to change things?’

Looking spent, Aadam shuffled over to the sink himself. Nazneen picked up the chase.

‘That’s a stupid question. None of us individually can make any difference. All we can do is live our lives, work hard and try and contribute.’

‘Good answer,’ complimented Pasha, before turning squarely towards Salman.

‘And you?’

Salman looked towards Aadam, a plea for help written all over his face. Pasha wrenched him back.

‘Answer me – how are you going to make things better? By mixing with the hardcore set down at the
masjid
? By sticking your kids in an Islamic school? By teaching them that Hindus are our enemies and that they shouldn’t watch Hindi films?’

‘Oh go to hell, Pasha, I don’t have to justify myself to you.’

‘No, but you have to justify yourself to the British.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do. Regardless of how they eat, drink, fuck and wage war, you still live in their country. You’re a guest; we’re all guests. We can’t slouch on their nice sofa, take control of the TV remote and sit there farting and belching till the early hours. That’s the road to hell – we’ll end up overstaying our welcome.’

‘No. Forget it. I’m not interested in these racist people.’

‘Racist? Racist!’ Pasha laughed in mock exaggeration. ‘There are street names in the East End, written in Bengali. There’s a larger-than-life bust of Nelson Mandela at the Royal Festival Hall. What more do you want from them?’

Salman thumped the table, startling everyone.

‘I’ve had enough of this and I’ve had enough of you. You come back after all these years and all you can do is lecture? No longer just a dirty paki, like us.’

‘Dirty paki or British. Choices, choices.’ Pasha rocked his head, a measured, self-satisfied grin covering his face.

‘You know, before you think to lecture us, you should put your own house in order.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘How often do you see your mother?’ Pasha’s eyes widened. ‘Do you know that whenever your mum comes round to ours, she ends up in tears?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she do that?’

‘Because she sees her sister with her loving family, and she has none of that.’

Pasha stepped back and gripped the edge of the worktop.

‘I phone at least once a week, I see her three or four times a year. I do all I can.’

Salman laughed. ‘Are you trying to convince me or yourself?’ Pasha lowered his head. ‘I mean, are you twenty years old? A student at uni?
You phone at least once a week!
’ He revelled in his mimicry before banging the table again. ‘You think your mum’s happy?’ Silence. ‘Your father’s a complete bloody vegetable.’ Pasha’s shoulders slump. ‘Why do you think your mum’s so unhappy?’

‘No, it’s not like that.’

‘Answer the question, Ibrahim Pasha Walayat. What do you think your mother wants more than anything?’ Pasha’s body jerked as he fought-back tears. ‘Your brother’s lost – God knows what his problems are. But you ... Just ‘cause you’ve come down here today and helped her serve some dinner, doesn’t change a thing. You’ve sacrificed her – your own mother.’

Pasha moved and the others instinctively braced themselves. But he simply walked out briskly, looking at no one as he left.

The kitchen door opened and Bilqis and Arwa were there.

‘What’s happened? Where’s Pasha?’

‘I don’t know. I think he might have left.’

Arwa looked gripped with fear.

‘
Nai
. No. Ibrahim? Ibrahim,
Beta!
’ She turned and began running for the front door, and as she did so, Aadam caught the look on her face: it was beyond grief.

‘You stupid kids! Could you not show love towards each other for even one day?’ She stormed out to help her now grieving sister.

‘Well done, Salman. That was a first-class show,’ said Nazneen. She slow-clapped him and his eyes dropped, his victory instantly soured.

‘Well what would
you
have done?’ challenged Aadam. ‘Just because we hadn’t seen him in years, didn’t give him the right to talk down to us.’

‘He had some good points. He had every right to discuss them.’

‘Sure he did, but his attitude ... The whole day he’d been sizing us up. Just who did he think he was?’

‘And what about you? When were you going to mention you’re planning your escape?’

‘
Our
escape.’

Nazneen shrugged.

‘Look,’ Aadam began conciliatorily. ‘It’s difficult to explain. You won’t understand.’

‘What?
I
won’t understand? It’s you who don’t understand. I’ve had enough.’

‘Go on, then – tell me what I’m missing.’

‘All this! Screw the War on Terror. I wish you gave
me
as much attention.’

‘What?’

She blinked and held his hand in hers, like a prayer. ‘Let’s go away. Anywhere. Take a break.’

‘Nazneen, where is this coming from?’ He jerked in protest, shaking her off. ‘You know this isn’t the right time. There are things I need to do.’

She held him again. ‘Aadam, please. Forget all this. Forget work, forget everything. Just remember us.’

‘Well, where were you thinking of?’

‘How about Colorado? Let’s do something totally different. I’d love to learn how to ski. You ever been skiing? And they’ve got all these National Parks there. Have you heard of Red Rocks?’

He shook her off and laughed.

‘Colorado?’ He didn’t stop laughing and she shrank back. ‘America? You must be joking. Go all the way over there and spend all that money, only to be treated like a fucking terrorist? I can get that here for free. You know skiing is big in Iran – we can go there, if you like.’

He turned towards her, expecting an outburst, but she was once again expressionless – marble eyes offering no clue.

‘Look, Nazneen, I’m sorry. I just want to get out. There’s a shit-storm brewing, just getting ready to blow. Let’s go. It’ll be better for our kids.’

‘Kids? Emigrating? I’m not going anywhere.’ She stared impassively at the wall. He leaned in, touched her, but her marble eyes didn’t turn.

‘Nazneen? Listen.’ He looked for some response but then noticed his stiff brother. He let go. ‘If you’re not willing to listen, why did you marry me?’

‘Dunno. Maybe I felt sorry for you.’ She turned, finally facing him; but there was no hurt, anger or even satisfaction there. She quietly stood up and walked out. He heard the jangle of keys and a few seconds later the front door again opened. Aadam expected a dramatic bang but it clicked shut – politely, gently. Still open-mouthed, he looked at his brother but found no answers.

You are free; you are free to go to your temples, you are free to go to your mosques or to any other place of worship in this State of Pakistan. You may belong to any religion or caste or creed. That has nothing to do with the business of the State. We are starting in the days where there is no discrimination, no distinction between one community and another, no discrimination between one caste or creed and another. We are starting with this fundamental principle that we are all citizens and equal citizens of one State. Now I think we should keep that in front of us as our ideal and you will find that, in the course of time, Hindus would cease to be Hindus and Muslims would cease to be Muslims; not in the religious sense, because that is the personal faith of each individual, but in the political sense, as citizens of the State.

MOHAMMED ALI JINNAH
Presidential address to the Constituent Assembly of Pakistan
11th August 1947

He tore out of the place. He thought of his mother and heard her heart break, loud and clear inside his head.
Ibrahim, Beta? Where are you going? Don’t go!
He considered running back and wiping the tears from her eyes; he considered running back and stabbing Salman through the heart. Neither was possible and he was consumed with self-loathing. He got to his car with keys in hand but he was fumbling – her pain kept raking through him, shredding all thought, paralysing his functions.
What have I done to her?
She would have heard the end of the argument, when the raised voices reached their crescendo. They all would have heard.
Why did no one come back?
No matter. He knew she’d suspend her confusion and bolt for the door. She’d soon be hobbling down the driveway and, if he saw her now, or even heard her call out his name, it was over – he’d never leave. He mustered some sense of presence and threw himself into the car.

As he pulled away he recalled that he was born in that house. He remembered the story, having been regaled with it a thousand times. He’d come early, unexpectedly. His mother was home alone, wailing with her contractions into empty walls. And she’d pushed and pushed but he kept on resisting, unwilling to leave his cocoon, until finally he arrived – limp, blue and silent; the life-giving cord entwined around his neck. And in the stress of being expelled he’d pooped himself, his tiny nostrils blocked by his own waste. Believing her child to be stillborn, Arwa cleaned his face regardless and pressed him tight to her breast, whereupon he suddenly began crying along
with his mother. His focus snapped back to the road and he constrained himself to not look into the rear-view mirror. He kept on driving.

Finally, he hit the road that fed the motorway. It was a narrow, meandering lane, not unlike the country roads near his home. Home ... He pulled up and looked around, the sole light provided by his front beams. He’d not picked the best place to stop: just past a bend which sat atop an incline. But there weren’t any vehicles in sight and he took his chance, unable to dwell further on such practicalities, sheer fatigue having ground him to a halt.

Silence and darkness; the night’s guardians fanned out in a pincer movement, chilling the air into submission. Turning his lights onto full beam he saw the road dip as it bent, illuminating the motorway in the distance. It ran perpendicular and he followed the trace of distant headlights: heading north, heading south, heading north. It was a great view and one he’d lose if he went any further forward. He’d move on soon.

He looked down at his overcoat on the passenger seat and prised out a CD:
Pakeezah
. He felt childish about having just taken it, but he’d call in a few days, mention it to his mum. He’d give it back. His thumb caressed the cover, that dancing girl, her pain hidden under a veil. He wanted to hear her cry, absorb her tears.
Chalte Chalte
. He fed the CD unit, his senses heightened. And suddenly there was sound; a rippling, an undulation of Indian strings. His back arched, his spine reacting to being tickled; caressed with soft brush strokes. In reflex his eyes closed, the Hindustani devotional demanding reverence. Music that he’d not heard in years flooded his heart with sadness and joy. There was no singing yet; strings and flute set up the paean. Like partners they took turns, the flute playful and feminine and the strings yearning, longing.
Can such a thing be real
? they asked. Pasha was lost. Lost in a world that he never, ever saw: Indian splendour, Asian splendour, Muslim splendour. And he was now so close. The girl started singing, pining, and Pasha was sitting with the
Nawab
, watching her dance.
Why did you leave me, my Lucknavi Princess? Where did you go?
Raw folk drums dominated the sparse, barren sound but their heavy echo thundered into a hypnotic pattern, establishing a trance-like, spiritual feel. Pasha was really there, seated on a Persian rug, smoking sheesha: Mughal splendour.
Entrance me, My Princess, take me away. Make it all go away.