Dear Infidel Read online

  24

  ‘So do any of you boys still follow the cricket?’ Pasha glanced around, a hopeful look on his face. Everyone was finished eating and were fully done-for, appetites having not so much been pacified as beaten into the ground. Zakir actually looked in pain; by way of distraction he picked up the remote and began channel hopping.

  ‘You know Pakistan and India are playing each other, either today or tomorrow,’ he commented absent-mindedly.

  ‘Really?’ responded an excited chorus.

  ‘Yaar,’ Zakir continued. ‘There is this one-off match, celebrating the Indian cricket board’s 75th anniversary – 1929-2004. They’ve been advertising it all week.’ He stopped channel-surfing on finding a nature programme. There was a huge, scary spider with hair closer to bristles, stealthily crossing some jungle floor. The background music added to the scene, giving Mr Spider a gravitas that he was blissfully unaware of. All looked on, easily drawn in.

  ‘Well?’ repeated Pasha.

  ‘Well what?’ asked Aadam idly, his attention on the spider.

  ‘The Boys man, The Boys. Pakistan cricket...’

  ‘They’ve gone downhill,’ said Salman.

  ‘True enough,’ agreed Aadam. ‘But do you remember ’92? What a year!’

  ‘Oh God, wasn’t it just?’ said Pasha, delighted that everyone was warming to his theme. ‘The two Ws – Wasim and Waqar. They were awesome that year.’

  ‘Yeah. Wasim, man, Wasim.’ All turned to Imtiaz, astonished to see him come to life. ‘It’s not been the same since Wasim retired.’ And with that he sank back into his seat, leaving the others stunned at his first voluntary contribution of the day. The conversation stopped dead.

  ‘That was a lovely dinner, Aunty,’ said Kahina.

  ‘Hmm, the halwa, the biryani; it was all spectacular,’ enthused Nazneen, and a final round of praise followed.

  ‘Come, let’s clear these plates,’ Bilqis suggested, and with that the women, along with Husnain, got up. The four boys and Zakir, however, remained rooted to their spots: hairy-scary spider after hairy-scary spider followed, providing ample distraction. But Pasha was still thinking about the cricket.

  ‘So, what did you make of all that “Zimbabwe” business?’

  ‘Which bit?’ asked Salman. ‘England not wanting to go there or England not wanting them over here?’

  ‘Either. The issue’s the same: should a cricket tour be cancelled on moral grounds?’

  ‘What moral grounds?’ snapped Aadam.

  ‘Well it’s an open-and-shut case,’ baited Pasha. ‘Mugabe’s a Bond-style villain. All his crimes have been well-documented.’

  ‘Wrong! Maybe his recent crimes; not his older ones.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Have you heard of Matabeleland?’ Aadam glanced around. ‘It’s a province in Zimbabwe that Mugabe attacked ages ago. He killed loads of people there.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘There was a rebellion against his rule, something like that. But anyway, his own people were killed on his orders. The thing is, no-one was getting vexed about playing cricket with Zimbabwe after that.’

  ‘OK,’ said Pasha, reclining in regal fashion, ‘but that doesn’t make a boycott now, wrong.’

  ‘No, but it makes it hypocritical. Whatever the British say, they only really got worked up when Mugabe began bullying a handful of white farmers.’

  ‘So you don’t think there should be a boycott? There are severe food shortages there. How can you engage in something as trivial as cricket?’ Pasha picked out a toothpick and began cleaning his teeth with royal pleasure.

  ‘Look, this land issue – it’s all hot air. The British just see pictures of their own under the cosh and get upset. I can understand that. But they should look at the facts.’

  ‘Which are?’ butted in Salman.

  ‘Which are that Mugabe is basically right about land reform. The white farmers can’t hog all the best land forever. Cancel a cricket tour on moral grounds? I’ll expect every tour to here to be cancelled between now and Kingdom Come.’

  ‘OK, calm down,’ said Pasha. ‘We’re just talking, just having a civilised chat.’

  Aadam leaned back, a little embarrassed.

  ‘I never knew you were so feisty!’ Pasha laughed but Aadam turned away, refusing to play the joker.

  The phone rang and Imtiaz got up.

  ‘Hello?’

  Pasha looked for clues before Imtiaz opened the living room door. ‘Mum!’ The others in the room resumed idle chat. With hand cupped over the receiver he called out again – ‘Mum!’ Still no sign of Arwa. ‘Mum!’ Finally she waddled in, her face beaming and full of import. Mum, Mother, Ma, Mata – for all of us, our first word. And from that very first utterance, it means so much. I’m small, I’m lost. Please protect me, please love me.

  Mum. How sacred the sound.

  Imtiaz really hated that fucking word. He handed the receiver over and wandered through to the kitchen. Arwa began talking animatedly and soon the others got up and followed.

  Pasha was handed some peppermint tea.

  ‘Here you go,’ said Bilqis, thrusting a mug at him.

  ‘What’s this?’ He looked into it suspiciously.

  ‘It’s good for you. Drink it.’ There was no hint of invitation or suggestion in her voice and Pasha was left wondering just what it’d take to stop being treated like a little boy.

  He trundled over to the breakfast table where the others were already sitting; Nazneen was wiping dry some huge glass tray and Kahina was filling the dishwasher with solution. She shut the door and the machine hummed into life.

  ‘Right!’ she announced, ‘I’m going upstairs to pray.’

  Salman checked the wall clock. ‘Isn’t it late for asr?’

  ‘Yes, a little, but you can still say it. Your father is doing so right now.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said Bilqis, and the two of them left.

  There was still a huge pile of dishes on the worktop and, on her own, Nazneen continued wiping. She looked across at the boys who were slouched around the table, chewing the fat. Typical, she thought to herself, and then she caught Pasha staring at her.

  ‘So, Pasha,’ she said, startling him as he turned away sheepishly. ‘Why didn’t you bring your girlfriend along?’ Pasha squeezed his mug and gazed down.

  ‘This is an Eid celebration, and she’s not a Muslim.’ He took a measured sip.

  ‘So? We celebrate Christmas. All she had to do was come down and eat a meal with us. It’s not exactly hardcore, is it?’

  ‘We’re not married, Nazneen.’

  ‘Then marry her,’ she suggested, inspecting the shine on a glass platter. ‘Islam isn’t some parochial concern. It’s a global culture – an alternative global culture.’ She scratched away at some dried-on dirt.

  ‘Really? In case you haven’t noticed we’re not exactly flavour of the month right now. Have you not heard of Osama Bin Laden?’

  ‘But that’s not Islam,’ said Aadam. ‘He has nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell me. Explain that to the rest of the damn nation.’ He raked a hand through his hair and it stayed ruffled. ‘Why the hell would Jenny want to join our club? In fact, why would I want to stay in it?’

  Nazneen placed hands on hips.

  ‘OK, Pasha, forget it.’ She picked up another dish.

  ‘Oh no you don’t – you can’t drop the subject like that...’ She continued wiping, her attention on her work. ‘Don’t you think you’re being hypocritical?’

  ‘And how’s that?’

  ‘Well, you’re standing there and talking big about Islam, yet look at how you’re dressed. Your shalwaar is not exactly cut to an Islamic design.’

  ‘Careful,’ said Aadam. ‘That’s my wife.’

  ‘Exactly! And according to all your priests, her finery is for your eyes only.’

  ‘I’m not dressed immodestly.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Pasha’s expression
couldn’t hide a faint grin. ‘I don’t think you are either, but your costume is fitted. I can make out the shape of your hips and thighs...’

  ‘Pasha!’ Aadam stared, the veins on his thin neck bulging.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Salman. Pasha grinned.

  ‘Oh come on, Bhai,’ Aadam protested. ‘Kahina isn’t covered up right now.’

  ‘True, but she wears a headscarf whenever she goes out. Nazneen doesn’t cover up at all.’ She slammed a dish down onto the worktop.

  ‘I may be a Muslim but I’m also a woman. I’m also a feminist.’

  Salman chuckled.

  ‘A headscarf is feminist,’ he said confidently.

  ‘And how do you figure that one out?’

  ‘Because it’s a great–’ He stopped, like he was searching for the right word. ‘It gives women the chance ... I mean to be seen not just in terms of their body.’

  ‘That’s bollocks,’ barked Pasha, propping himself up. ‘I don’t go around with a hard-on all the time. You must be some sort of sicko!’ He looked Salman up and down, distaste fomenting on his lips. He waited for a riposte but surprisingly it was Imtiaz who piped up. Seated amongst everyone, he had started watching the small TV. The volume was off but he had nevertheless begun laughing. Everyone looked at him open-mouthed. It was a Carry On movie, and some doctor was looking aghast as a young Barbara Windsor virtually exposed herself.

  ‘Turn it up,’ said Nazneen, finally taking a seat, and Imtiaz gladly obliged. Kenneth Williams appeared and in no time he was going, ‘Ooh Matron!’ It was irresistible stuff and they all started laughing.

  ‘Looks like Carry On, Doctor, right?’ Pasha’s voice was gentle, his eyes once more soft.

  ‘Yeah, must be,’ said Aadam, his head twisted to face the TV. ‘You know I remember watching this for the first time. The thing is, I can distinctly remember that scene – when Barbara Windsor exposes herself. I think that was my first sexual awakening.’ He started tittering.

  ‘Oh, dude!’ exclaimed Pasha, wincing. ‘That’s disgusting! You once got turned on by Barbara Windsor!’

  ‘You didn’t have to tell us that, Bhai,’ said Salman, eager to join in. A fresh round of laughter broke out and they let it linger.

  ‘It looks so dated now, though,’ added Nazneen wistfully.

  ‘Yeah but it’s still funny, right? This stuff is eternal.’ Pasha didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Everyone was focused on Matron, who had just intruded in on the action; she was not looking pleased with all with the chaos she was finding.

  ‘Maybe. I’d like to think so. There’s a kind of innocence to it.’

  The doctor continued his examination of an impressively-fronted Ms Windsor, and he was close to blowing a fuse.

  ‘Bawdy.’

  ‘What?’ Aadam lazily turned towards his wife.

  ‘The word for this stuff is “bawdy”.’ She drained the last from a cup of tea and inspected the other mugs around the table.

  ‘Wow, that’s a great word.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said whilst collecting the empties. ‘And that’s why it’s dated – because it just doesn’t work any more.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ protested Pasha as Nazneen headed for the sink. ‘There’s always room for a bit of slap and tickle.’

  ‘I wish! Bawdy only works, though, where there are taboos; not when everything’s on tap.’

  Imtiaz looked around. Sensing another debate about to break out, he decided to quit. Silently, without any protest, he walked out of the kitchen. The others exchanged awkward looks. He closed the door and silence descended around the table.

  ‘What’s wrong with Imtiaz?’ asked Salman of Pasha.

  ‘Oh, Bhai,’ he groaned. ‘What’s right with him?’

  25

  ‘How do you play this?’ asked Taimur. He looked up at the strange man, his father’s cousin. Imtiaz was inspecting a pawn.

  He’d gone upstairs into what was once his bedroom. He had no particular need to go there, just a curiosity to see what it was like now. Was it being used? If so, in what way? He entered to find Kahina praying. Aaliyah was lying down on the bed, his old bed, with Taimur sitting crouched upon it. His head was resting on one hand with the other idly flicking the pages of some book. The little chap looked bored.

  Imtiaz had quickly apologised but Kahina gestured him in, mid-recitation. Taimur looked up, hopeful for some attention. He went over and the boy eagerly showed him the book: an ancient General Sciences textbook from his own schooldays. Where on Earth did he fish this out from? He’d hated school; the sheer impotence of not being good at anything. He couldn’t kick a ball, couldn’t impress in the classroom, couldn’t chat up girls – he was emasculated even before puberty. His mum used to sit with him night after night, tirelessly trying to spark something within him. He recalled the two of them on the floor of this very bedroom, his school books all laid out and her gentle encouragement with sums; her enthusiasm for spelling and grammar, and her loving concern slowly morphing into frustration, then desperation and, finally, anger. Because he didn’t get any of it. He wanted to go back; try harder; make his mum proud.

  He caught the breath of sadness and refocused, taking hold of the book. Taimur sidled up to him eagerly and smiled. A pure smile, a child’s smile. He held the boy loosely and began talking, explaining a few things about some of the pictures. The boy pointed randomly and asked questions – that sunshine an ever-permanent fixture. Aaliyah, too, now made her presence known by poking the book from underneath. The cherub clearly wanted some attention and her bright, mischievous eyes looked to catch his. Imtiaz touched a ringlet, smoothing the hairs with his thumb. He was caught off-guard – a teardrop falling, exploding on the page. He tickled the girl on her tummy and she let out a shrill giggle and grabbed his hand.

  Tickle me again, those sparkling eyes said.

  How did I miss out on all this? He closed the book and put it on the floor and, as he did so, he noticed his old chess set. There was a fitted wardrobe taking up most of the length opposite, and a chess set sat up on one of the exposed shelves. It was fully set up, waiting for a game to start. A flashback, a question at a pub quiz from many years ago. Where does the game of chess originate from?

  ‘Persia. Ancient Persia,’ he’d answered with confidence, before some Indian snapped back: ‘It’s Indian, not Iranian. Indian!’ History – how so very important. He was standing right next to the board and remembering how he, and Pasha before him, used to play chess with their father. It’s weird, remembering something positive that they all shared. This set had not been used for ten years, maybe longer. He picked up the board and held it carefully, returning to the bed. It was a really magnificent set, the board and pieces carved out of solid wood, depicting characters from the African plains. Imtiaz inspected a pawn, lovingly etched to make a Masai Warrior. It was so intricate – the ear lobes were long and the face chiselled, and the warrior was holding a spear.

  ‘How do you play this?’ asked Taimur, looking fascinated.

  ‘Ask me next time,’ Imtiaz replied, not altogether convinced that there would be a next time. He put the piece back down and Taimur looked a little disappointed.

  ‘You’re a natural with kids,’ said Kahina. Imtiaz jumped to see her smiling with approval.

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, unable to stop his eyes from dropping. ‘You have beautiful children.’ He looked back towards Taimur and ruffled his hair. Kahina began folding her prayer mat and removing her scarf, all the while looking at Imtiaz.

  ‘You know, it’s not too late...’

  Too late for what? he was about to ask, but he knew. He knew. He made to say something then stopped. Picking up the chessboard, he walked over to the shelf. He placed it and felt stranded.

  ‘I, err, I should see what the others are up to.’

  ‘It’s not too late, Imtiaz.’ Her words were clear, enunciated slowly. Her gaze was not letting him go.

  ‘Look, Kahina, this is Eid.’

 
; ‘Why do you live on your own? It’s not healthy.’

  He looked around. Both Taimur and Aaliyah were now watching him, transfixed.

  ‘I’m going to be thirty-five soon. It is too late. I don’t know what to do.’ His head was bowed.

  ‘You’re wrong. It’s never too late. We can help you; help you find someone.’ She approached him and he was actually trembling. She cupped the palm of her hand around his neck; he naturally leant into her touch. She looked up at him, concern in her eyes – he didn’t understand her concern. Her hand was soft and warm. He couldn’t recall when he was last touched by another and began whimpering.

  26

  ‘Oh, God...’ sighed Sarah Miles’s character in White Mischief, whilst looking out from her colonial mansion onto clear blue African skies, ‘... it’s another fucking beautiful day.’ And with that she promptly shot herself. She was the Summer Grinch.

  It’s the height of fashion to hate the winter, but for some it’s the summer that gets them down: tanned, over-exposed bodies, pavements pounded by exposed feet. Horns blaring. All those little bottles of water and arrogant sunglasses. The relentless optimism of it all. Summer just magnifies the dashed hope of a better life; one that never arrives. Where the love and laughter, festivals and fun, and long weekends with al-fresco meals? Bring on September and October, the glowing embers, the sobriety of an autumn wardrobe. Oh the relief when the hubris of summer is over, when the tyranny of the sunny day can be put to rest.