Boy vs. Girl (12 page)

“Nah, don't bother, I'll take the bus.”

“It's far, y'know…”

“Yeah, I know, but I've got some things I need to take care of anyway.”

Skrooz nodded and said, “OK, then, d'you want a ride to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” replied Faraz, opening the car door, dragging his schoolbag out from beneath the seat. “That would be great. See you, guys.”

He raised his hand to wave at them but they had already revved off down the street. The sound of the girls' playful screams echoed in his ears.

It took Faraz over two hours to get home. He got lost once and fell asleep, missing his stop. When he got off the bus he was sick on the grass verge.

He had seen the men coming home from the mosque. He had missed the
tarawih
prayers for the first time.

When he got in, the house was dark. He let himself into the house and was about to go upstairs when he saw that the lamp in the living room was on. Was someone still up?

He looked into the room and saw Farhana lying on the couch, asleep, a book lying on the floor by her hand. Her mobile phone lay face down. He picked it up and looked at the screen. Seven missed calls from someone called ‘M' in her phonebook. He shrugged and put it down again.

Faraz looked over at his sister's sleeping face and his heart softened. She had waited up for him. And once again, he was overcome with shame, thinking of where he had been, who he had been with, what he had been doing.

There was a cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa. Faraz picked it up, shook it out and, ever so gently, laid it over his sister, pulling it up to her neck. When the soft fabric brushed her face, she stirred and her eyes fluttered open.

“Faraz..?” Her voice was husky with sleep.

“I'm here, sis,” he whispered.

“What time is it?” Farhana sat up, looking at her watch, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Where have you been? You look terrible…”

“Just went for a ride with the lads, that's all.”

Farhana sighed. “Oh? I thought you had gone to pray
tarawih
…”

“Yeah, I kind of missed it… listen, sis, I'm knackered. Gotta get to bed now.” He got up to leave but she reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Faraz…” she said. “Are you OK?”

He squeezed her hand and fought to hold back tears. He didn't want her to worry. “I'll be all right, sis, don't worry.”

“Insha Allah, Faraz, insha Allah
.”

Insha Allah
, he said to himself.
I'll be all right
.

Ummerji was still upset about Farhana's
hijab
. She grew agitated every time she saw her with it on and took every opportunity to criticise or ridicule it: it was too big, too wide, like an old woman's, it didn't suit her, made her look washed-out, made her look ugly. Ummerji was suddenly concerned with Farhana's education and career: the
hijab
would limit her opportunities, would affect her grades, make job-hunting harder, make her a social outcast.

At first Farhana tried reasoning with her. “But, Ummerji,” she said, “the women during the time of the Prophet Muhammad wore scarves. Allah tells the believing women to cover in the
Qur'an
…”

“To be
modest
, Farhana, to be modest!” was her
mother's reply. “There is a difference.”

“But all his female relations wore it, and all the female companions –”

But Ummerji refused to consider Farhana's arguments.

“My mother used to recite
Qur'an
every day, Farhana, she was well-known for her generosity, and she never wore
hijab
. Are you saying that she was a bad person? That your Naneeji is a bad person? That I am a bad person?”

“Ummerji, this has nothing to do with you or Naneeji, or anyone else! This is between me and Allah. Please try and understand that. I am not judging anyone…”

“Of course you are!” retorted her mum. “You are saying that you are right and we are wrong. That you are a better Muslim than we are, those who have lived longer in this world and know more than you!”

Farhana gave up then.

* * *

This tension made Farhana hesitant to ask her mum about going out to
iftar
with her aunt.

As it happened, when she did finally pluck up the courage to ask, her mum had already made other plans.

“No, Farhana,” had been her answer. “We are busy this weekend. Uncle Munir is coming over for
iftar
with his family and I need your help here to prepare the meal.”

“But Ummerji, Auntie Najma invited me and I would really like to go. I haven't really been anywhere for
iftar
so far this year, apart from Naneeji's house…”

“Well I'm sorry, Farhana, but there's a lot to do here. You know how busy it is during Ramzan. You'll just have to keep your socialising until after Eid…”

“What socialising? I never go anywhere anyway!” Farhana felt the heat rise to her cheeks and she struggled to keep the anger out of her voice. It wouldn't do to lose her temper now.

She took a deep breath and tried again. “Please, Ummerji? I'll help you prepare all the food before I go… it's just that we were going to pray
tarawih
after
iftar
at the mosque Auntie Najma goes to…”

Her mum spun round to face her and Farhana could see the anger in her eyes.

“Oh, so that's the plan, is it? You want to go out with Najma and her crazy friends? Well, you can forget it! The less you see of those types of people, the better. It's bad enough you have to wear that thing on your head – next you'll be talking about
abayah, jilbab, niqab
, criticising how we do things and wanting to marry some fanatic with a big beard! I'm not having you coming home brainwashed and full of crazy ideas. You can just forget it.”

Farhana could hardly believe her ears. She knew that her mum and Auntie Najma had their differences but this? Her mum was still talking, ranting about Najma and her extremist ideas.

Farhana knew better than to speak just then, so she simply looked down at the floor until her mum had finished.

* * *

So Auntie Najma didn't come to the
iftar
that Friday, when Uncle Munir and his family came over. Farhana had to excuse herself from a debate team meeting to get home to help her mum prepare.

The meal was delicious, as usual. Farhana was particularly proud of the
roti
as she had made it all
by herself. It went beautifully with her mum's lamb curry and everyone was full of compliments.

“Hmm, we shall have to tell Sajid, eh?” Uncle Munir had laughed, winking at Farhana's mum. “You are training her well, Uzma!”

Mum had merely smiled demurely.

After
iftar
, the men got ready to go to the mosque to pray
isha
and then
tarawih.
Farhana gazed at them enviously. Once again, she would not be going but, even worse, she knew that Auntie Najma was going to be at her mosque, praying that night. Her heart ached to join her.

She tried to busy herself with the tidying up and decided that, as soon as she could get away, she would go and pray upstairs in her room. It was better than nothing, after all.

When she had finished clearing up the kitchen, Farhana made her way to the living room to say goodnight to everyone. She stopped short at the door. The room was bristling with tension.

“I won't allow it!” Naneeji was saying, shaking her head adamantly.

“But what can you do, Ummerji,” pleaded Auntie Sajda, “if that's what she wants…”

“What she wants?” Naneeji spat out. “Since
when was getting married about ‘what you want'? It's a disgrace, a complete disgrace! A girl's actions reflect on the whole family – she carries the
izzat
, the pride and honour, of the whole family. That is more important than what she wants!

“That's the trouble with living in this country,” continued Naneeji hoarsely. “Our children get all sorts of funny ideas and they expect us to just go along with it – well I won't!”

“And you shouldn't have to, Ummerji,” soothed Auntie Anisa, squeezing her mother's hand. “It's so unfair for her to do this to you, especially now…”

Auntie Sajda glared at them both. “Why are we sitting here talking about
izzat
? We're talking about our sister's life, about her choices, about her happiness! And anyway, what about Nabeel, our cousin? I don't remember you being too keen on marrying him!”

Auntie Anisa bit her lip and glanced at her mother, whose face darkened at the memory of that difficult time. It had taken a long time for her sister and the rest of the family in Pakistan to forgive her for that one.

“Why did you have to bring that up now, Sajda?
That was over twenty years ago…”

“To prove my point! You wouldn't marry your cousin, any more than Najma will marry some guy just because he's Pakistani and has the right job!”

“But a
gora
, Sajda? A
gora
? A white man? How can I allow that? How?” Naneeji's face crumpled and tears began to course down her face. The thought of one of her children marrying a non-Pakistani, a white man, filled her with shame and she buried her face in her
dupatta
and wept.

“But at least he's Muslim, Ummerji, that's something, isn't it? There are loads of Asian girls marrying English men, non-Muslims even, these days! Be thankful Najma isn't looking for that!”

“What difference will that make? What will everyone think of us? Our daughter married to a
gora
, as if we couldn't find her a good Pakistani husband? The shame! The shame!”

So that was what it was all about. Farhana didn't come out of the shadow of the doorway. She was reeling with shock.

So, her auntie wanted to get married at last. The family had been discussing it for a long time. After all, this was something that concerned all of them: a Pakistani marriage, like all Muslim
unions, was one between families, not just individuals.

There had been men who had asked after her, sons of friends of the family, cousins from Pakistan, eager to marry a university graduate who was still ‘religious'. But when they realised just how religious she was, they soon changed their minds.

But there had been one, a hopeful one, that she had heard her mum and aunts mentioning. He ticked all the boxes: Pakistani, educated - a doctor in fact - fair skinned, from a good family, respectable.

The only trouble was Auntie Najma wasn't interested in those boxes. She was looking for more, something different.

“I'm not going to marry just anyone, you know,” Auntie Najma had said in their last discussion about marriage. “I'm looking for someone who shares my passions, someone I can grow with, someone who will stretch and challenge me, always believing in me and supporting me in my dreams…”

“And you expect to find all this in a
desi
?” Farhana had asked sarcastically.

“To be honest, I don't care where he's from,”
had been her aunt's reply. “If he's a Muslim and has a good heart and wants me for
me
, for who I am, I'm game… and being drop-dead gorgeous wouldn't hurt either!”

Oh, Auntie Najma, you've done it again. Once a rebel, always a rebel, eh?

And Farhana felt a sneaking sense of pride in her aunt's fearlessness, even as her heart twisted to hear her mother and aunts argue so bitterly.

* * *

The men decided to come back to the house after
tarawih
. It had been a long time since they had all had time together and there were many issues to discuss. No sooner had they settled into the lounge than Faraz heard his new ring tone and jumped. Who would be calling him at this time? His father raised his eyebrows when he saw Faraz rush to answer his sleek new phone.

A gift from Skrooz.

“Here you go, Fraz,” he had said, all casual like.

Faraz's eyes had widened as he recognised the latest model from all the billboard ads down the
town centre. “Are you sure, bruv? I mean, I can pay you, if you want.”

Skrooz had laughed then, showing his gold tooth.

“Nah, Fraz, there'll be plenty of time for that later. You be cool and enjoy the phone. You one of the lads, innit? All the lads have this model… .”

Faraz felt his heart swell with a mixture of shame and pride. Was he one of the lads? How could he be when every time he saw them, guilt gnawed at his insides and he felt as if he was betraying himself?

Sure enough, it was Skrooz on the phone. He sounded breathless, his voice husky.

“Fraz, man, you have to get down here!”

Faraz quickly stepped into the passage. He shook his head to try to clear his mind.

“Get down where, man?”

“We're heading for the Eastside Estate, going to teach that guy Maj a lesson. You have to be there.”

“What,
now
?” His mind darted to the
tarawih
prayers he had just prayed, to his English homework waiting upstairs on his desk.

“Yes, Fraz,” came the reply, as hard as steel. “Now. We'll be there to get you in ten minutes. Be ready.”

The phone went dead, leaving Faraz standing in the hallway, mute, his hand wet with sweat where he held the phone.

“Faraz?” His head jerked up to see Farhana standing in the corridor, a pile of books in her arms. “Are you OK? You look terrible…”

She went to put the books down and come towards him but he waved her away, backing towards the stairs, away from the room where his father sat with his uncles and cousins, discussing the latest news from Pakistan and the situation in Palestine.

“I'm fine, sis, just fine… got to go out for a minute, that's all…”

“Faraz, what's up? What's happened?”