Boy vs. Girl (14 page)

“Me mam used to bring me here,” he said then, almost to himself. “She don't understand though. She still wishes I had become an engineer or doctor or some crap like that. I tell you, when she gets on my case about getting a job, I just leave some money on the table. She don't ask where it come from and I don't tell her. No need for her to be knowin' dem tings.”

“What about your dad?” Faraz wanted to know.

“Nah, man, my dad divorced my mum when I was a kid. I'm the man of the house now and she knows it. She don't ask me what I get up to as long as I put money on the table and keep my brothers and sisters in check.”

“What d'you mean?”

The look on Skrooz's face made Faraz think he shouldn't have asked. But he continued anyway. He was clearly in the mood to talk.

“Dem kids are too wild, innit. They don't show no respect to my mum so it's up to me to sort them out. Give them a few slaps if they get out of line. Take my sister, yeah? She's eighteen, right, thinks she knows it all. Till I find out she's seeing some guy. Well, we sorted him out good and proper, didn't we, lads?”

The rest of the group cheered and thumped Skrooz on the back.

He took a sip from his can then spat into the grass. “Think he can mess with my sister… chief!”

“Nah, man,” added Imti, another of the lads. “That is the ultimate in disrespect, for mans to be messin' with my sisters. Can't allow dat to happen, no way.”

There was general agreement. Just then, they saw Natalie and her friend walking on the path into the park with their buggy. They had come through from the estate behind them. Natalie smiled and waved. Skrooz kissed his teeth and turned away. “I don't like cheap hos, man,” he muttered through
clenched teeth.

Faraz said nothing. Skrooz and his friends had seemed to like them well enough a few weeks ago.

Natalie's wide smile vanished when she saw that she wasn't welcome and she flicked her ponytail and walked on.

After a short period of silence Skrooz continued. “You see, that's why I'll only ever marry one of our girls. The rest of them are just nasty. Cos if you're gonna marry someone you need to know that they ain't been anywhere, that they ain't been with no one else.”

“That's right!” said Mo fiercely. “I ain't never gettin' played by one of these biaitches here! I love my money too much!”

They all burst out laughing. Mo was known as the stingiest out of all of them.

Faraz laughed too but with a sense of bewilderment. The irony of the conversation was not lost on him.

Farhana was falling too although she wouldn't admit it. She had managed to keep fasting, but only just. Her prayers had become a series of movements, hurried and shallow. She found it hard to pour herself into anything vaguely religious. Her arguments with her mum were wearing her down and worry about Faraz gnawed at her constantly.

“I'm really worried about him, Auntie,” she had confided in Auntie Najma the day before. “He's started hanging with these guys again and they're no good, I know it.”

“Yeah,” agreed Auntie Najma, “he was kind of evasive the last few times I spoke to him. Has he had any more contact with those brothers from the arts organisation?”

“Oh, that? He hasn't mentioned it at all. It's like he's totally clammed up – won't speak to me about anything now.”

“Hmmm, I will have to get down there soon…”

“Well, I would keep a safe distance if I were you. You're not Ummerji's favourite person right now.”

“She's still having trouble accepting your
hijab
then?”

“Oh yes. And as far as she is concerned, it's all your fault. So she's basically told me to stay away…”

“You mean you're not allowed to see me?”

“Well, basically, yeah. If she knows that you've invited me somewhere or that you're going to be at a certain place, all of a sudden, we're too busy, we can't go… it's crazy. And now with this
gora
situation…”

“Oh, yes, there's that.” Then Auntie Najma's voice changed. “Listen, I don't want you worrying about that, OK? It's all in Allah's hands so don't stress yourself. Just remember to keep focused. Keep worshipping Allah, keep respecting your mum and don't upset her on my account. We'll
find another way around it,
insha Allah
…Got to run now, honey, and get back to work.”

“Oh, Auntie?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Umm… nothing, it's OK…”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it's fine. It's fine….”

* * *

But it wasn't fine.

Farhana's
hijab
felt heavy now, heavier than it had ever been. Heavier than when her mum questioned her about it, making her feel as if she had done the wrong thing, that she was on her way to becoming an ‘extremist'. Heavier than when she found that she was no longer the centre of attention at school. Heavier than when, after the initial honeymoon period when her wearing the
hijab
was a novelty and a number of the girls had admired her brave decision, the hype moved elsewhere.

It was strange. When she had first put on the
hijab
, she had felt strong, powerful, in control. She was pleased when guys hardly gave her
a second glance. She enjoyed the fact that they didn't call out after her, asking for her number, complimenting her on her hair, her eyes, or whatever they thought she wanted to hear.

Now they averted their eyes or mumbled their greetings. That was how they had been brought up – this was how their mothers dressed, after all.

So this is what it feels like to be respected
, Farhana had thought to herself, and she was flooded with gratitude that she had been strong enough to do this.

But lately, she had lost some of that confidence, that immunity to guys' indifference to her. It had started to bother her that their eyes glazed over when they saw her, sliding away from her face, brightening when they saw Robina's cheeky smile and highlighted hair.

Her pride was hurt, her vanity bristled: everyone knew she was ten times prettier than Robina!

Once upon a time, she had been the darling of every clique that mattered. Now, in her
hijab,
she was considered a pariah, especially as she hadn't gone the ‘hijabi fashionista' route. Some girls she knew wore a scarf but teamed it with the
latest skinny jeans or skirts with knee-high boots, chunky accessories and expertly applied make-up. And although she didn't want to wear her
hijab
that way, she couldn't help a stab of envy as she watched these ‘trendy hijabis' strut their stuff.

“They have a name for them in the States, y'know,” said Shazia when she caught Farhana looking at a group of girls make their giddy way to the bus stop.

“Ho-jabis,” Shazia went on, trying to keep her lips from twitching.

“What?” Farhana was shocked. “You can't be serious! That is so wrong!” She looked at one of the girls adjusting the wide belt that cinched her waist as she clip clopped in her high street heels. “But then again…” She and Shazia burst out laughing.

“Well, at least they're trying, right?”

“Yeah, true, but my dad reckons that doesn't even count as
hijab
anyway,” said Shazia. “Just because your head's covered don't mean you're dressed decently.”

“But would your dad rather they didn't cover their heads at all?”

“Well, I've tried asking him that but he just
says that in Islam, you need to submit totally, not half-heartedly.”

“Your dad's really got a way of making you feel low, hasn't he? Like you can never be a good enough Muslim.”

“Hmmm, not really,” replied Shazia. “He is an
imam
after all, so he's studied the
Qur'an
and he knows a whole lot more than most people. It's just that he didn't grow up here. He doesn't know what it's like to grow up in a society where everything is calling out to you, offering you forbidden things. He sees everything in black and white and, you know what? Although I know that he's right most of the time, I just wish he would see things from my point of view once in a while and realise that it's not that easy to do what you know to be right.”

“What about your mum? Does she talk to him about it?”

Shazia laughed. “My mum is constantly on at him! ‘Junaid!' she says, ‘you don't understand what it is like for young people these days!' He just smiles at me and says, ‘Islam doesn't change,
beta
. You just have to be strong.' Then he'll give me a hug and I'll get all teary because I want to be what he expects of me – it's just so hard!”

“I guess I knew that
hijab
was a full-time commitment – I guess I didn't think it would be so difficult…”

“You finding it hard?” asked Shazia softly.

Farhana took a deep breath. This was not familiar territory. Usually, it was Shazia who shared
her
fears and insecurities, Farhana who offered advice and comfort.

“I miss him, you know,” she said quietly.

“Who, Malik?”

Farhana nodded. “It's like there's a little voice telling me that, if I wasn't wearing
hijab
, I'd be with him now…”

“But hold on, Farhana,
hijab
wasn't the reason you broke up with him, remember?”

Farhana's mind flashed back to that dreadful morning when Robina had rushed in to the classroom, full of the latest news, full of the story about Malik and that model.

Tears stung her eyes. “Yeah, I suppose you're right… I guess he just isn't who I thought he was, who he told me he was…”

Both girls were silent for a while. Then Shazia spoke.

“But Farhana, how come you're feeling this
way? I always thought you were strong, too strong to let something like this phase you. You know what you're like: once you make up your mind about something, that's it, there's no shifting you.”

“I know, Shaz, I know, that's why I'm finding it hard to understand what's going on with me at the moment. I just feel so weak, like everything is wearing me down. I don't know how long I can hold on…”

Shazia hugged her friend.

“Sounds like your
iman
is low. Have you spoken to your Auntie Naj about it?”

“You know what, Shaz, I haven't really spoken to her about the
hijab
- and Malik. She's going through her own stuff right now with the family…”

“So, is she still going to marry that white guy, then?”

“I honestly don't know. My granny is dead set against it but I think my eldest uncle, who is acting as Auntie Naj's
wali
, might be coming round to the idea…”

“Really?” Shazia's eyes were wide. “I wouldn't have expected that! He always seemed so stern to me…”

“Yeah, but my auntie is his baby sister and we all know he has a soft spot for her. Besides, he will listen to the Islamic side of things more than Naneeji. Auntie Naj's argument is that, as long as he is a good Muslim, and he's a good person – respectable, responsible and all that – it shouldn't matter that he's not Pakistani. But Naneeji's more interested in culture and what ‘the community' will say.”

“Sounds familiar,” murmured Shazia, thinking of her own grandmother. “But is all the aggro worth it? What if they don't accept him? What then?”

“Honestly, Shaz,” sighed Farhana, “I just don't know.”

“And what about the kids? How will they fit in? They won't be full Pakistani and white people will never accept them: they'll just be stuck in the middle. And what if it doesn't work out? Honestly, sometimes I think it's just not worth marrying out, rebelling like that, it's just easier to go with the flow. The family always wins in the end anyway…”

“Do you really believe that, Shaz?” Farhana didn't know what to think.

“Well, would you sacrifice your parents and the rest of your family for some guy you hardly
know – because it's not like she's known him for ages. He's her friend's brother, they work at the same organisation and they've spoken a few times, that's it! At the end of the day, your family wants what's best for you…”

“What they
think
is best for you,” interjected Farhana, “there's a difference. Auntie Naj says that he's strong in his
deen
and that she's seen a lot of his character through working with him. Plus, he's a revert so he understands the life that she's come from, what it was like living in London, what it means to have grown up here.

My family would rather marry her off to someone traditional who wouldn't understand that she's different, that she wants different things. She doesn't want to get into a marriage where things will be just like they were in her mum's house, the same old traditions, the same attitudes. She wants a marriage where she can grow. And most of all, she wants Islam, pure and simple, not our cultural version of it.”

Farhana sighed. “Well, that's what she says anyway…”

* * *

When Farhana thought back to the first days and weeks of Ramadan, she could hardly recognise herself. She had been strong then, unshakeable. Her faith kept her heart at ease and her head high. Now she yearned for the peace she had felt then, blissfully immersed in the
Qur'an
, the prayer, the fasting, the night prayers of
tarawih
.

Where had it all gone?

She knew that the telephone call from Malik had been the beginning. That was when she first felt her resolve weakening. And then there was the constant struggle with her mum over her
hijab
, the estrangement from Faraz. Things still weren't right between them. For a start, he hadn't stopped hanging out with Skrooz and Farhana could not forgive him for that.