Chapter 5
5
Saliha and I walked towards Bond Street Station after our shift and I could no longer hold it in. ‘Did you find it weird how Karim Malik looked at us?’
Sal’s brown eyes met my darker ones as she frowned. ‘I think everyone was weirded out by his death stares. And he was blinking so much – it was like he was winking a Morse code message to someone.’
I snorted loudly.
‘Anyways,’ Sal continued, ‘where are you meeting your brother?’
‘Notting Hill Gate Station,’ I replied.
She hesitated for a moment, then asked, ‘Did your mum agree easily?’
I shrugged. ‘Not really. But I’m not letting my parents keep me away from him any more.’
A few years ago, my brother Farhan had told our parents that he was in love with Morowa, a Christian Ghanaian woman he’d met at university, and our very Pakistani, very Muslim dad hadn’t approved one bit. Farhan bhai had always been strongheaded though, so he’d married her anyway.
Dad had disowned him. Threw him out like an old pair of shoes.
I often wondered whether Dad was really as cold as he came across. Surely he felt pain and loss too? He must still think about Farhan …
My brother had been a burst of colour within our home, always hiding behind doors to scare us, singing random Bollywood songs and laughing his annoyingly loud laugh. Dad had held him as a newborn, watched him grow into the kind, warm man he’d become. It made no sense to me how someone could throw away that bond so willingly.
But then again, it made complete sense.
This was what happened when you were obsessed with tradition, honour and reputation.
Even if Farhan bhai had become distant from us, at least he was in love and happily married. That was a lot more than I could say about my sister Aisha, who’d obeyed our parents’ every decision. It haunted me every single day that Aisha baji had let herself get swept away in the storm of our parents’ rules and expectations. She’d been stuck weathering it for so long now and there didn’t seem to be any way out.
I wanted to become more like Farhan bhai, brave enough to make my own decisions and stick by them, because something in my gut told me that my future would look a lot like my sister’s if I didn’t …
‘Have your parents seen their grandson yet?’ Sal asked quietly. ‘Zain’s so cute. And he looks just like Farhan bhai!’
‘No, they haven’t. I did FaceTime Mum while I was babysitting him once. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t hang up either. So … that’s that.’
I knew Mum missed Farhan. He was her favourite child. Whenever I asked to go over to his place, she eventually softened up and gave me permission, even making excuses for me whenever Dad asked what I was up to. It was the only time she stood up for me in front of him.
Sal placed a soothing hand on my back. ‘Is Farhan bhai’s business doing all right?’
‘It’s been tough to set it up,’ I replied honestly. ‘But I think they’re going to make it.’
Just over a year ago, Farhan and Morowa had opened Jashan, a modern Pakistani dessert shop in Ilford. They’d been advertising heavily on social media, and even Saliha had helped us get word out, but there were so many South Asian confectioners around, so the competition was fierce.
‘They’re bidding for a wedding catering opportunity today,’ I continued hopefully as we entered the station and tapped through the ticket barriers. ‘And they’re short-staffed, so I’m helping out.’
‘I hope it goes well,’ said Sal. ‘Their food is amazing and deserves more recognition.’
Jashan was going to be big someday. I could feel it. Farhan bhai had studied business and Morowa was a chef, and something about the way they worked together, combining their ideas and cultural worlds, told me that their difficult days would soon be behind them.
‘If they get the job, I’ll bring you some of Morowa’s desserts to celebrate,’ I said as I stepped on to the escalator descending towards the train I needed.
‘Oh, they better get the job,’ Sal called out just before she disappeared from my view.