Chapter 14
14
When I stepped out of Barking Tube Station, the scent of fried chicken hung in the air, a group of boys in baggy clothes lingered around the local barber’s, and a drunk man was swaying outside the off-licence. As I made my way home, a woman approached me, asking for some spare change.
Barking was the less refined, more laid-back younger sibling of London’s West End, and it was home.
Farhan bhai had offered to drop me off but I didn’t want to risk Dad seeing him. It was unnecessary stress for everyone involved.
Thoughts of Karim Malik chased me with every step: the feel of his hands on my waist, his smouldering smile, those dark eyes. My head spun with the impossibility and reality of it all – and I couldn’t wait to tell Sal. But how on earth was I supposed to convince her that Karim had my number when I barely even believed it myself?
As I unlocked my front door, balancing the box of victory treats I’d promised Sal in one hand, a sense of dread rattled through me. It was late, way past my curfew, and Mum wouldn’t be happy. There was no way she’d let me go over to Sal’s at this time of night, so she’d get her desserts tomorrow, and I’d have to tell her everything over FaceTime.
‘As-salaam-alaikum,’ I called out as I entered. ‘I’m home.’
Mum stepped into the corridor wearing her heavily stained yellow apron and a dark grimace.
‘Walaikum-assalam, you’re lucky your dad isn’t home to see you walk in at this time,’ she replied in Urdu.
‘Farhan bhai’s appointment ran longer than expected,’ I explained in our mother tongue; it was the only language I spoke with my parents because they weren’t fluent in anything else. ‘I know you won’t ask, so I might as well just tell you: Jashan got a really big opportunity.’
Her expression softened and I ran to her, enveloping her in a tight embrace. I was open with her in a way I could never be with Dad. Although she and I struggled to communicate at times because of how different we were, at least there was a line of communication.
With Dad, there was nothing.
She gave me a kiss on the forehead, then gestured towards the kitchen with her chin. ‘Come help with dinner. Go change first.’
I went upstairs to my room and put on a shalwar kameez, which Mum insisted should be the only thing I wore around the house. Apparently, Dad liked to see that I’d retained as much of our culture as possible because that somehow made me a better person. When I came back downstairs, Mum told me to cut onions and then wandered off to the living room, probably to peer out of the windows into our neighbours’ or continue watching one of those Pakistani dramas she was addicted to.
As I got to work, it was impossible to think of anything but Karim and how he could possibly message me soon … maybe even call …
‘Stir the curry, you lazy girl,’ Mum shouted, rushing back in. ‘You’re always lost in your daydreams. Your dad will be home soon. You know how annoyed he’d be if I served him burnt food!’
The excitement zapped right out of me.
Mum was always so worried about meeting Dad’s expectations that it drove her into the worst moods, which were always directed at me since I was the only one she could openly express herself to.
A touch of anger bubbled in my stomach as she pushed past me. Everything about this cramped house was starting to irritate me.
Saliha told her parents everything, regardless of how gossipy or inappropriate it was, and it was fine because they loved to laugh together and share their life experiences. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shared anything meaningful with my parents, let alone laughed with them. I thought about how it would feel to speak to my mum about anything I’d experienced today …
She simply wouldn’t get it. She’d scold me for speaking to a boy and then confiscate my phone to check everything on it.
We’d been raised in different countries and possessed contrasting outlooks on just about everything, and that meant there was an insurmountable gap between us.
Usually I kept my mouth respectfully shut, but today I just couldn’t. ‘I was busy cutting the onions like you told me to. You didn’t say to keep an eye on what you’re cooking.’
She tutted loudly. ‘I don’t know how your future in-laws are going to deal with you.’
Every conversation with her seemed to lead back to marriage – a constant reminder that this wasn’t my real home, my real family or even my real life. Since I was a girl, everything real would begin after marriage.
‘I’ve finished cutting the first two onions. What shall I do with them?’
‘Put them on my head,’ she snapped sarcastically. ‘They’re obviously for the second curry, so start making it. We’re having chicken karahi.’
‘Don’t you always criticize my cooking every time I try to make something?’ I retorted. ‘Besides, I have revision to do now that school’s starting.’
Mum’s death stare caused my stomach to tighten.
‘You’ll need these cooking skills later in life even more than your education, and then you’ll thank me. Besides, why were you out for so long if you have schoolwork to do?’
I exhaled slowly to calm myself, then inhaled the pungent smell of spices and caramelizing onions. ‘I already told you. I was out for work, and then for Jashan’s appointment.’
‘You can do all this going out after you’re married.’
‘Go out with my future husband?’ I blurted sarcastically. ‘Oh, like how Aisha baji’s husband takes her out?’
‘Javed has to work,’ Mum said sharply. ‘He’s providing for your sister and their two children, so he doesn’t have time to take her out.’
‘Why are you always defending him?’ I screeched. ‘Baji has told you again and again how badly he treats her. Do you not hear her ?’
Mum began kneading the dough for rotis as though I hadn’t said anything at all. I felt the urge to grab a plate and smash it just to get a reaction from her. As always, she preferred silence whenever I brought up the fact that my sister was trapped in an abusive marriage.
When Dad had first arranged it, baji was only twenty-two, a fresh graduate trying to figure her life out. She’d always been a good, obedient daughter and easily gave in to the pressure to marry Javed even though she wasn’t attracted to him. I’d tried to talk her out of it, but she’d brushed me off as the na?ve younger sister who knew little about the world.
But this much I had known even at thirteen – you should only marry someone who understands your mind and soul, someone you cannot wait to begin a life with.
Javed had been an overseas student from Pakistan at the time, and he was the son of a cousin who was close to Dad. And that was all that Dad had really thought about: the fact that he liked the guy, and how the marriage would please his relatives. There had been no discussion of how compatible the couple were, what their aspirations were, and whether there was any real connection between them.
The marriage had been for the sake of the relatives who were nowhere to be seen now that baji was severely depressed, and struggling to raise two children on her own because her husband was always absent. And it was even worse when he was home, because then she didn’t feel safe.
‘I mean it, Mum,’ I pressed. ‘Why don’t you ever take baji’s situation seriously?’
She placed a rolled roti on to a flat pan, looking perfectly unbothered. I wondered whether she truly felt no concern for baji or if she’d just mastered keeping every emotion hidden from her face, exactly as Dad preferred it.
Aisha baji had mentioned divorce to Mum many times in the past, but her response was always the same: it would be a source of shame for our family, it was important for children to live under the shade of their father, and no one would marry a divorcee, especially one with two children, so if she did divorce Javed, Aisha baji would be alone for the rest of her life, with no support, because she certainly wouldn’t be given permission to return to this house.
I knew these weren’t really her own words, they were Dad’s. Mum had no real say in anything; she accepted Dad’s expectations and decisions as her own. I couldn’t blame her entirely: this was what happened when a girl was deprived of an education, married off far too young and lived her entire life dependent on a man who didn’t respect her as an individual in her own right.
But I just wished Mum would take the blindfold of submission off her eyes and look at the true state of her family and realize why it had become like this.
‘How would you feel if her depression actually led her to suicide?’ I asked sharply.
‘Oi, besharam!’ Mum shouted, calling me shameless, because apparently it was wrong to talk openly about something as haram and taboo as suicide. ‘Aisha is lucky to have a man who hasn’t left her and who doesn’t harm the children. If you ask me, she’s being ungrateful. You know what, it’s my fault.’ She pointed the rolling pin at my face. ‘I’ve spoilt you girls. If I’d raised you to focus on your responsibilities more, neither of you would have time to think about all these extra things.’
I scoffed. ‘So this is somehow our fault now? And that’s the benchmark you’ve placed? That he doesn’t harm the kids! He may hit her, but he doesn’t leave her! That’s what you want for your daughter? For both of your daughters?’
Mum must have seen something unyielding in my eyes because she looked away swiftly and said, ‘Just go upstairs and do your schoolwork.’
We’d only end up having an even more heated argument if I continued this conversation, which would lead to a few days of silent treatment until one of us caved. I was sick of the whole routine. It achieved nothing: Mum didn’t even try to understand where I was coming from, and I certainly couldn’t agree with how she was handling the situation with Aisha baji. With either of my siblings.
Rushing up to my room, I grabbed my textbooks and got into bed.
I had a missed call from Sal, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to her any more. I tried calling Aisha baji, but she didn’t pick up. She rarely responded to my messages or calls any more, always found an excuse not to talk to any of us. She’d once told me it made her feel lonelier to know we were all aware of her situation and yet did nothing to help her.
I felt useless, and I hated it.
Flicking through my textbooks and revising for exams always made me feel better; it reminded me that this didn’t have to be my life, that hard work and good grades could open doors to a different future for me. I skim-read a few pages from my biology textbook, only half-absorbing the information in my tired, agitated state.
Eventually, the squeak of the front door opening pierced the silence, and I heard Dad’s heavy footsteps.
As hungry as I was, I’d skip dinner tonight. I didn’t want to see either of my parents.
I thought I’d be awake for hours, feeling the weight of a home broken by irreconcilable differences, but the tiredness of the day pulled me into the dark, and I craved to fall into it.
To be taken away from this place.