Dear Infidel (4 page)

Contented once more, he opened his eyes ... The first shafts of light were breaking through – Eid-al-Fitr was nearly here. He suddenly thought of his long-deceased grandmother and remembered her getting all flustered one Eid morning, once upon a lifetime ago. ‘So much for the woman of the house to do,’ she would bemoan half-heartedly, whilst not begrudging her lot at all. That didn’t stop her reciting the mantra, though, as if she were flicking prayer-beads out aloud.

And there he is, little Pasha, sitting in the kitchen of the family home in Karachi. His legs swing unimpeded under the seat, still too short to touch the ground. And he’s watching this woman in wonderment. He doesn’t know what to make of it, of any of it: this day, this strange country, his grandmother’s fuss. He’s fascinated by her, though, this round ball of a woman. She’s rolling from room to room, arms gesturing here and there, and machine-gunning orders to daughters and daughters-in-law: ‘
Rashida, find that silver leaf ... You can fry those samosas now, Arwa. Sara, crush those cardamom seeds and lay out the sweetmeats. Where is that silver leaf
?!’

On being woken up he’d initially been grumpy, but now he’s just plain mesmerised. He doesn’t understand the live show that he’s watching, but he’s gripped. And besides, anytime his mummy or one of his aunties passes by, they make time to give him a taste of something, or tickle his tummy, or give him a kiss and a hug, enveloping his little face in their bosoms. He loves his mummy and he loves his granny, the grand-matriarch whom everyone else is afraid of. But now dawn is close to breaking and a sonorous cry cracks open in the distance. He’s heard it before; they’ve all heard it before, but this time it stops Granny in her tracks. A tear rolls down her cheek. She approaches little Pasha, cups his face in her hands and tilts his head up gently.

‘Do you know what that is,
Mere Chand
, my piece-of-the-moon? Do you know what he is saying?’ He shakes his head and maintains his wide-eyed gaze. ‘It’s the
Azaan,
my son; the call to prayer, and he is proclaiming the Glory of Almighty God. Your father has taken you away from me, away from us all, and you will grow up in a strange land. But never forget who you are. Promise me that.’

Surprisingly his erection hadn’t waned, though solely through the trapped blood, rather than mental or physical stimulation. He shifted slightly. The room was now as full of light as it would get, when filtered through those ostentatiously thick curtains. Morning had broken. It was too late to pray. Pasha felt neither shame nor satisfaction, yet a nascent grin remained on his face as he drifted back to sleep.

Health is a state of harmonious chemical balance, and maintaining that balance is key. Beyond diet and exercise, even thoughts and behaviours can disrupt the equilibrium, and thus Natural Law was prescribed: a design for physical, mental and spiritual harmony. Failure to adhere to Natural Law would and will harm us: physically or psychically.

And thus, through the kinks in our armour, the efficiencies of our bodies become compromised. Be it a restless mind or an angry disposition, a tendency towards obesity or sexual overindulgence, our bodies pay for weaknesses hard-coded into us at the moment of conception. First come the warning signs: loss of sleep, headaches, irregular bowel movements. Nature informs that all is not well and you either heed its gentle prod or tear up its message through allopathic drugs. Ignorance isn’t bliss though – not when the shit-storm continues to brew, just out of sight. And one day maybe all those hamburgers you ate, or that hatred which you didn’t even try to excise, or that broken-heart which you never quite managed to mend, will be the last straw. And what black-day will that herald? What misfortune will it precipitate? The growth of a cluster of deviant cells? But were you always in control? Can you be blamed for being so easily excitable, without even time to chew your food? Was it your fault that you were all alone, that you never found your soul mate? You never had that trump card to play, no curve ball in your pocket. Dinner for one can really destroy a person, but you didn’t know that when you were young
and arrogant; only after the window had finally shut. But were you born arrogant, did you become arrogant or were you allowed to become arrogant? And when it’s all over, will God wipe the tears from your eyes or will you stand and fall by your own account, without mitigation?

Everyone must expect illness – after all, we are here to pay off debts. But whilst most of us are compromised, there are others whose protection is complete. They will enjoy good digestion and assimilation, eat moderately and be well built. And their steady minds will incline them towards sobriety, forgiveness and measured moves as opposed to fright, fight and flight. In mind and body they, amongst all, are best equipped. Like rice or wine, age becomes them, enhances them, whereas most cannot escape from withering under its assault. In Ayurveda, such a state is known as Tridosha.

Nazneen sat upright in bed, holding the book in her lap. Comfortable in her lotus position and with her back supported, she wrapped herself up in languor. The phone then rang, the shrill tone violating her quiet space, and with irritation she picked up.

‘Happy Eid!’ someone blurted out down the line. ‘That is right, isn’t it, Naz? That is the way you say it?’

‘Oh hiya, Nikki! Wow, what a surprise! Not to hear from you, I mean. It’s just today; I wasn’t expecting to hear from you, today.’ Nazneen winced. What a silly thing to say – way too honest. She gulped air as discreetly as possible. ‘Oh and yeah, thanks girl – “Happy Eid” is fine.’ They both giggled. ‘But how did you know?’

‘Know what, hun?’

Nazneen reached for the remote and, settling back once more, switched on the TV.

‘About Eid. That today is Eid – you’ve never mentioned it before.’

Nikki fell silent as the TV sprang to life, and a scream of
Allah-u-Akbar!
boomed through the speakers, chased by a volley of gunfire. Nazneen pounced on the remote, assaulting the volume button. The footage ended and cut back to some studio, where a camera French-kissed a cartoon of a man, replete with fuzzy beard, glass eye and hook for hand. Rendered mute, however, he communicated more clearly. The camera adjusted, zooming in for porno detail, leaving the viewers in no doubt:

Eid, Islam, Muslims ... Mad Mullahs, Militants, Terrorists. Rabid, scathing, foaming at the mouth. Book burners, wife beaters, rag wearers. Suicide bombers and Jihad.

YOU LOVE LIFE; WE LOVE DEATH.

Who didn’t know that today was Eid
?

‘Oh...’ Nikki almost whispered. ‘I think I heard it. Somewhere...’

Silence. Nazneen swallowed her rage, and her hatred for the West, and her hatred for the Muslims.

‘Listen, Naz...’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Charlie’s second birthday soon.’

‘A-ha.’

‘Will you come?’

‘Sure, Nikki, sure,’ she exhaled, still trying to centre herself.

‘Great! I’ve got loads of people coming, mostly from my pre-natal group – they’re really nice but I don’t know many of them too well. Will you come early, Naz? Help me out a bit?’

‘No worries, girl. But I’m no good in the kitchen, OK? You can put me in charge of decorating!’

‘I’ll put you in charge of Charlie, more like! Honestly, where have you been? You’ve not seen him in ages. He’s changing all the time. He’s really big now and a lot more playful. He’s a really happy little boy.’

Nazneen sank back under the still-warm duvet, seeking embryonic comfort.
Oh, the luxury!
She stretched her legs before bringing them back up, and the next moments were spent simply revelling under down, her legs affecting a half-hearted pedalling motion.

The phone rang again.

‘A change of plan already, Nikki?’ She spoke lightly and stretched to fill a glass of water.

‘Hi, Nazneen.’

The tumbler slipped from her hand, the glass smacking into her knee as cold water splashed her thighs.

‘Nazneen, it’s Martin.’

Still no response.

‘How did you get my number?’ She gazed down at her soaked nightie and bed sheet, the warm pastel blue being devoured by a dark, expanding wetness.

‘Remember Stefan? From uni? You bumped into him a while back. We still hang out together.’ Her face soured.
Stefan, uni, Martin
... Who the hell did these characters think they were, invading her space? And today of all days. ‘I’m sorry about last time – when we met.’

She scoffed silently.

‘You know my husband could have picked up.’

‘So? We’re friends, right? Old friends. It’s OK to have a past, isn’t it?’

‘What makes you think you ever came up in conversation? And anyway, why call me? I thought you were only into “new experiences”.’

She winced as she remembered – the last time they met, post-uni, after having split up.

‘Please. I tried to explain. I wrote to you. I don’t know if you ever got my letter.’

She got off the bed, threw the duvet on the floor and ripped the bed sheet off.

‘What do you want, Martin?’

‘Just five minutes ... To explain. That day when we met up – it was so disorientating.’

‘Why? Because we weren’t a couple anymore?’ Cupping the portable to her ear she stomped over to the linen basket, slamming the sheets in.

‘No. Dunno ... Maybe in part. It was just weird, meeting in London. And us both in suits!’ He laughed nervously but found no echo. ‘I’d just wanted to recapture. Remember. I hated this city when I first got here.’

‘Really? You could’ve fooled me. I think the phrase you used was “Pleasure Dome”.’

‘Jesus, try and understand. This place is so ... anonymous. Back in Bournemouth, at uni – we mattered. In London I became just another monkey in a bloody suit. I was trying to be upbeat, let you know I was doing all right.’

Silence.

‘I should go, Martin. I’ve actually got a lot on today. Speak another time, yeah?’

‘You think I could ever forget you, Nazneen?’

And there was a sincerity in his voice that rattled her. She stayed silent.

‘You ... you plague my thoughts.’ He spat the words out like he was trying to exorcise demons. ‘Remember Colorado? I keep thinking of that summer. Remember Red Rocks?’

She stood frozen at the end of the bed. On the wall above was a framed picture; her and Aadam on their wedding day.

‘We went hiking there a few times. It was kind of innocuous, really. You’ve probably long forgotten. But just lately, Christ ... it keeps coming back to me.’

Red Rocks Park, Colorado. An infinite blue horizon, black as coal by night; red sandstone pillars, lacerating earth and sky. But it wasn’t about the terrain, it wasn’t about him and it wasn’t even about her. It was them – Nazneen and Martin – their summer together.

‘I never understood why we broke up,’ he confessed, his voice wrenching. ‘Why you walked away ... from me.’

She couldn’t take her eyes off that photo. Aadam looked so ...
childlike
, his joy unrestrained. But Red Rocks – she hadn’t forgotten either. Could never forget.

‘I’m happily married, Martin.’

‘I’m glad. Never change though. Promise me that. Keep my number, OK?’ He hung up. Nazneen kept the phone clasped to her ear, the monotone signal rattling her skull.

It was mid-morning and Salman stood outside the
masjid,
mapping out the day ahead: home in thirty minutes, relax with the family for a couple of hours and then leave at one. They could get to Arwa
Masi’s
a little late – it wasn’t an issue.
Be in-control
, he ordered himself whilst inhaling greedily.
And don’t worry about Pasha. It will be interesting, our reunion today.
He looked around with wide eyes, willing phantom demons to challenge him.

Just as he began walking the wind picked up. His jacket was unzipped and the currents fleeced him, the sudden cold wrap shocking his body. He did up his jacket and took a scarf out from a bag, quickly tying it around his neck. He thought he must look so strange: loose and long cream-coloured robes, a short black leather jacket and a multi-coloured, multi-striped scarf. He resented having to look so undignified.

The wind blew again, but now reinforced he leaned into it to make headway. He looked up to the heavens to see only dark clouds – not pregnant with rain; just a stillborn day. Roadside trees were stripped bare, their naked branches shivering with him. A ball of scrunched up newspaper rolled across the road before hitting the kerb. Stuck. Modern-day tumbleweed for the desert nation. Rain he could handle, snow he could handle – anything real he could handle. But all this just sapped his soul.

With hands buried in pockets and chin nuzzled under scarf, he began walking stoutly. Turning a corner, he hit the main thoroughfare. Twenty-five minutes down this one straight road and he’d be home.

An old, old lady crept out of a newsagent’s up ahead. She was bent double and more shuffled than walked, her feet barely coming off the pavement with each step. Two young women pushing prams and chatting animatedly strode towards her. The lady was inching forwards almost perpendicular to reach the crossing, and the young mums manoeuvred smoothly around her, without even interrupting their chat. Neither even threw the hunched sack in the middle a glance as they breezed past.

There were roadworks up ahead, a section having been cordoned off for “Emergency Works”. There was no activity, though, as all workers had downed tools for a break. Salman counted five: pouring hot drinks from flasks, reading the day’s redtops and smoking fags. An attractive woman strode confidently by. With her head held high she wore her layers with style, despite the weather: all eyes locked onto her. Wolf whistles, some simian cackling and a few
all right darling!
s followed, which naturally she didn’t respond to. Then Salman caught the attention of one of the workmen. The man gestured to his pals, making them aware of the latest entertainment to arrive.

‘What’s up, Osama? You fancy a piece o’ that as well?’ He was grinning broadly and willing Salman to meet his gaze.

‘Yeah, don’t blame you mate,’ chipped in another. ‘All that time stuck alone up there in them mountains – you must be gagging for it.’ All five started to titter.
Don’t look at them
.