Chapter Thirty-Seven
I was emotionally drained after Malik and I had it out. My eyes were swollen, my mouth felt and tasted like sandpaper and I had zero desire to meet Noah. When I took my phone out to cancel, I saw that we were supposed to meet in less than an hour. How could I flake on him so close to our date?
I had forty minutes at most to make myself presentable, so after applying cucumber slices on my eyes for a few minutes to help reduce the puffiness, I washed my face and threw on an oversized shirt and jeans because they didn’t need ironing. I tried my best to hide my dark circles with concealer and used blusher to give my sallow complexion some life, but it made little difference. I didn’t have the energy or time for anything more elaborate, so sticking on sunglasses, I slunk out of the house and made my way to Noah.
Unsurprisingly, I was late getting to Southgate, given how little time I had between bawling on the sofa to leaving the house. If Noah was annoyed, he didn’t show it.
‘Hey, Maya! How are you?’ he smiled, leaning in and giving me a long, tight hug. Still not used to the physical contact, I felt a pang of discomfort but I didn’t pull away. I felt too embarrassed and I wondered how many women out there went along with men’s wishes to avoid having an uncomfortable conversation.
What I did notice from the hug was that this time, I didn’t feel as though my knees were going to give way. Yes, he still smelt nice; yes, it felt good to have his strong arms around me; yes, his broad back was pleasant to touch. But I wasn’t electrocuted like last time. Was I too tired for chemistry or had the Noah-effect worn off?
‘I’m OK,’ I said simply. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Five minutes doesn’t count as late, not really,’ he said kindly. ‘There’s a cool little cafe down the road. Do you want to sit inside or get a takeaway and go for a walk?’
I pondered the question for a moment. Inside meant taking off my sunglasses and letting him see my red, puffy eyes. But I had no energy to walk around aimlessly.
‘Can we sit down inside?’ I croaked. ‘Maybe we can walk around after?’
‘Sure.’ Noah began energetically striding away in the direction of the cafe and I sighed, trailing behind. Hanging out with a personal trainer was tiring. They always wanted to be active. And all those endorphins from the exercise seemed to keep him in a constant state of cheeriness.
‘How’s your week been?’ I asked once I had sat down with a hot mug of chamomile tea and a gigantic wedge of carrot cake, still wearing my sunglasses. Noah had ordered a black coffee and the world’s smallest cannoli. He insisted on paying for it all despite my feeble protests.
‘Really good!’ he enthused. ‘Wow, that cake is huge. How will you manage all that?’
I narrowed my eyes, not that he could see them through the dark lenses. ‘Um, I haven’t eaten all day and I had a crap week, so I think I’ll manage.’
Noah didn’t ask me why my week was crap, nor did he pick up on his faux pas. Instead, he continued talking about his own week, his clients, how he was house hunting. I was house hunting too, but I didn’t get a chance to tell him because the pauses between his sentences were too short.
As I listened to him go on and on, I wondered if he had been like this the last time we met. I didn’t think so. I was certain that he wasn’t as obtuse the first time we went out either, nor the time on the Tube. Maybe he wasn’t the issue, maybe it was me; I wasn’t in the best headspace after my horrendous week and I was always irritable and moody a week before my period was due. I was being rubbish company and really should have cancelled the meeting. He was having to work extra hard to keep the conversation going.
‘Hey, why are you still wearing sunglasses?’ Noah asked suddenly, mid-way through recounting a story about one of his clients – a really big, built man who kept farting every time he squatted. It was a funny story, but it was putting me off my cake.
‘Oh, I’ve got a really bad eye infection,’ I lied smoothly. ‘And I’ve got a fever too. I don’t feel well.’
‘Oh, God, why did you come out then? We need to get you home!’
‘I didn’t want to flake on you.’ This, at least, was true.
‘Let me call you an Uber,’ Noah said.
‘No, no, I can do it myself,’ I replied, taking my phone out and regretting the lie that was now costing me twenty pounds.
‘No way, I insist,’ Noah protested, opening up his phone and I instantly felt bad for the mean thoughts I was having about him. He was a genuinely nice guy. And so what if he was always happy and excited? It was better than always being cold and unreadable like Zakariya. Noah at least made it clear that he liked me. He didn’t wait weeks and weeks before initiating contact with me and then leave me with a silence to decipher.
The Uber came quickly and I was almost sorry to say goodbye to Noah so hastily. Almost, because I was also relieved. I needed a break from it all; not just his chatter, but from my family, work – basically from my life.
I remembered then that I had yet to book my solo trip, as per Noah’s list. The activity couldn’t have come at a better time. By the time I had reached home, my solo long weekend to Istanbul was all booked and paid for and I smiled for the first time that day. Now I just had to persuade Sheila to give me time off.
A couple of weeks later, I was on a plane completely alone for the first time in my life, in a bid to cross number twenty-seven off my list. Not that Ma and Baba knew I was on my own. They were so unimpressed when I told them that I wanted to go away again (twice in one year was incomprehensible to them) that I couldn’t work up the courage to tell them I wanted to go alone as well. In the end, I lied and told them that I was going with Dina and the kids. They loved and trusted her too much to say no to me after that.
I also lied to Sheila, claiming a ‘family emergency’ was the reason why I needed to take two days off, creating an elaborate story about a fictional family member falling seriously ill. I asked Allah to forgive me for my lies and pleaded with him not to make the sick family member thing come true.
Both Zakariya and Noah had texted me consistently throughout that time, although the content of their messages couldn’t have been any more different. Zak would send me funny phrases he’d learnt in Arabic, links to interesting political articles or ask me my advice on things like where to live when he moved to Dubai, sharing listings of fancy apartments near the sea, with pools and gyms, that cost the same to rent as a crappy basement flat in Hackney. And not the bougie part.
Noah, on the other hand, sent me motivational quotes, gym TikToks of himself – which admittedly made me a little hot around the collar (I am a red-blooded female after all) – and the occasional ‘thinking of you’ type message, with a little ‘x’ at the end.
Noah’s texts were endearing, playful and he was clearly interested in me and trying to get a rise out of me. Zak’s were intellectual, Islamic and a tad abrupt at times. I knew that I was an idiot for enjoying the fact that I was hearing from him more than usual, as platonic as it was. Though each time I received a message, I felt a pang of regret at the timing of us.
‘Can’t you forget about uni and follow him to Dubai?’ Dina had said when I told her how I was feeling. It was the night before I flew out to Istanbul and we were talking while I was packing my suitcase. Sami and the baby were downstairs with Ma.
‘Are you seriously telling me to give up my dreams and my career for a man? And one who isn’t interested in me and is seeing someone else?’
‘Err, not when you put it like that,’ she responded weakly.
‘What’s wrong with Noah?’ I demanded, as I struggled to choose between a red floral maxi-dress and a blue floral jumpsuit.
‘Nothing’s wrong with him, per se,’ Dina said carefully. ‘I just wonder if he’s Islamically and culturally compatible with you, that’s all. Plus, I really don’t see your parents being happy about you wanting to marry a half-English personal trainer with no degree.’
‘He’s Muslim,’ I said a tad defensively. ‘He doesn’t drink. That says a lot these days, you know. And you know he’s trying to become a physiotherapist!’
‘I know, but what are his life goals? Is he trying to become a better Muslim, a better person? Is he the man who’s going to help you grow in this life and the next life?’
‘He’s already helped me grow massively!’
‘How? You’ve known him for what? A month?’
‘I feel like I’ve known him for nearly a year because of the list,’ I admitted. ‘The list has helped me grow so much.’
‘It has,’ Dina conceded. ‘In some aspects. You’re more assertive, more confident, you understand yourself more. But how else has it helped you grow? Are you closer to God? Are you a better human? Only you can answer that.’
As I sat on the plane, replaying Dina’s conversation in my head, I told myself that while the list didn’t help me get closer to God, it wasn’t supposed to. That was a journey I was going to have to embark on myself, it had nothing to do with Noah or Zakariya or anyone else.
Landing at Sabiha Gokcen Airport in Istanbul, I managed to get a taxi that would take me all the way to my hotel, which was near the Galata Tower. The first thing I noticed was how hot it was, much hotter than I thought it would be. I broke out in a sweat before I made it inside the cool, air-conditioned cab despite the thin cotton of my shirt. But it didn’t matter because I HAD MADE IT and as the car drove from the Asian side of Istanbul across the bridge to the European side, I couldn’t stop staring out of the window and drinking up the sight of all the lights and majestic mosques.
Checking into the modern little hotel right next to the famous tower was easy enough and as I showered and got into bed, I struggled to fall asleep from the excitement and nerves of being in an unknown city completely on my own.
A text pinged through from Zakariya, straight to the point as usual:
ZAKARIYA: Salaams, have you arrived?
MAYA: I have! Thanks for checking in. You OK?
ZAKARIYA: Yeah, can’t sleep for some reason.
MAYA: Me neither! I’m too excited to sleep!
ZAKARIYA: What’s your plan for tomorrow?
MAYA: How do you know I have a plan?
ZAKARIYA: I know you love a good list, Maya Rahman.
MAYA: Haha, you’re right, I do Basic touristy stuff tomorrow – Blue Mosque, Hagia Sofia, Grand Bazaar. And then there’s other stuff I wanna do like go to Topkapi palace of course and a nice fancy dinner at Nus’ret hopefully.
ZAKARIYA: You’re going to go to Nus’ret on your own?
MAYA: Yeah .?.?. why not?
ZAKARIYA: Be careful, please. These Turkish guys are womanisers.
MAYA: LOL! You sound jealous! Don’t go generalising people like that, alright?
I waited for Zakariya’s response, but it didn’t come. Either he had fallen asleep or I had pushed him too far. It didn’t matter. I was in Istanbul, one of the most magical cities in the world, and I was going to enjoy every moment of it.
The next morning I woke up early enough to enjoy a traditional Turkish breakfast for one. The table was laden with cold meats, cheeses, bread, olives, jam, honey, cooked sujuk and scrambled eggs, all washed down with a glass mug of piping hot, sweet Turkish tea. At first, I felt self-conscious as I ate, so I read a self-help book at the same time in order to look less lonely. I took pictures of my food and as I became more comfortable and less bothered about what people were thinking of me, I posted a selfie of myself basking in the sunlight in my sunhat and pale blue and white maxi-dress onto my Insta Stories.
Zakariya was sort-of right about some of the men in Istanbul. I didn’t know if they were all Turkish, or if they were tourists or immigrants, but not only were a large proportion of them incredibly good-looking, but they were also extremely forward. Everywhere I went barring the mosques, men approached me to make conversation and I’m not going to lie, it did wonders for my confidence.
The mosques in Istanbul were stunning. I carried a pashmina with me in my straw holiday tote so I could wrap it around my head before entering. I also made sure to keep myself in a state of ablution so I could pray in them and not only visit them like a tourist. Hearing the call to prayer outside was beautiful and it did something to my soul. I spent hours in the various mosques and in the end decided that my favourite was the Süleymaniye Camii, which was situated at the top of a hill. It was ancient and imposing, much older than the Blue Mosque and so the architecture was more simple and less ornate, but it was quiet and calm and it soothed my nerves.
Surprisingly, I prayed more in Istanbul than I had done since Ramadan. I prayed for God to direct me to a future that was good for me. I prayed for Him to give me the courage to go after my dreams, to become a better person, to help me with my anxiety, to give me the patience and wisdom to navigate difficult situations. I also prayed for everyone I knew. My parents, my nani, my brother, my friends. I wasn’t on Umrah but the amount of time I spent in contemplation made me feel as though I was on as much of a spiritual journey as I was on a personal-growth journey. Dina was right, my connection with God was something I was lacking; something I needed to work on.
Noah texted me throughout my trip. Now that my period had come and gone, I felt differently towards his energy; I enjoyed it. Every few hours he would send me a link to a cool restaurant to visit, or gallery to check out, or sight to see and with the tips came heart emojis and kisses.
The Grand Bazaar was a lot of fun and I spent hours wandering through the maze-like halls sampling sweets, trying on jewellery and smelling perfume and soaps. I was certain I got scammed, although it wasn’t as bad as it would have been were my skin tone ten shades lighter. I was Bengali after all. My haggling skills were on another level, honed as a child when I would watch my mum and grandmother barter everything down to half the original asking price in Whitechapel market. I bought a beautiful handwoven carpet for our living room, as well as some pretty hand-painted colourful dishes. I also bought silver jewellery studded with mother of pearl and turquoise for myself, Ma, Nani, Lucy, Dina and the twins and then boxes of baklava for everyone else.
Contrary to Zak’s reservations, I did go to Nus’ret on my own, something I never dreamed I would have had the courage to do. I dressed up to the nines that night, in a slinky black satin dress, heels and red lipstick. I took my book with me as my date and I documented the whole thing on social media. My DMs blew up when I posted a picture of me and the Salt Bae himself, his arm casually draped around me and while Noah commented on it, Zak didn’t. I wondered if he was too busy to check Instagram, or if he didn’t like that I had gone out like that on my own. So I did what anyone would do: I checked who had viewed my Stories and after scanning the names one by one, I came across Zakariya’s. He had seen my picture after all. Why was he being so cold?
‘What does this all mean?’ I asked an innocent man that night, as I sat in a coffee shop on Istiklal Street with a huge piece of kunafeh and ice cream. Ali, who was attractive in a boyish sort of way, had approached me and asked me if he could join me. After three days of eating alone, I nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the empty seat in front of me. After some small talk, which I had become really good at during this solo trip, I proceeded to offload my man problems on him.
‘He’s totally hot and cold. One minute he’s driving me home and climbing a mountain with me and the next he’s distant and aloof. I don’t know what to make of it!’
‘And you said that he once made his intentions known and you rejected him?’ Ali asked in heavily accented, broken English, his forehead knitted together in concentration as he tried to keep up with the story.
‘Well, yes,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘But that was ages ago. I’ve made it pretty clear to him since then that I’m interested, but he’s not reciprocating it.’
‘And what of the other man? What was his name, Nuh?’
‘Yes, but he pronounces it the anglicised way, Noah.’
‘Strange. Why does he do that?’
‘He’s half-Lebanese, half-English,’ I explained to Ali, wondering why I was explaining Noah’s choice of pronunciation to a stranger. But I guess I had opened myself up to scrutiny when I involved a stranger in my business.
‘You cannot trust Lebanese men,’ Ali said seriously, his face expressionless.
‘Why not? And he’s only half-Lebanese!’
‘You cannot trust English men either.’
‘It’s not like Bengali men are much better. It’s not a race or ethnicity issue, Ali. Most men, I find, are lacking. It’s about finding the one that lacks the least. Noah, at least, has made it obvious that he likes me.’
‘If that is enough for you to be happy, then good luck, sister Maya.’