Boy vs. Girl (15 page)

Despite her prayers, her feelings for Malik had not disappeared. They tormented her, especially at night. She missed him, wanted nothing more than to call him, to speak to him, to hear his voice. More than once, she had called his number, only to hang up as soon as it started ringing. She had managed to resist answering the phone when he had called back.

“You can be such an idiot, you know that,
Farhana?” Robina said while they waited for the next lesson to start. “Do you know how many girls would kill for the chance to go out with Malik? And you had him – and let him go! And now that you're wearing
hijab
, he'll never want you!”

“Well, isn't that the whole point of
hijab
?” Shazia rolled her eyes and adjusted her glasses. She had really had enough of Robina's attitude. It was as if, now that Farhana was covering up, Robina thought it was her duty to take over as the most popular girl in school.

“Well, Shaz,” Robina turned to Shazia, “I can understand someone like you wearing
hijab
… after all, you're not exactly supermodel material, are you?” She smiled sweetly. “But Farhana? Come on!”

Shazia's face burned as several girls around her tittered. She blinked hard to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over, and swallowed the lump in her throat.

Farhana was furious. “Robina!” she whispered fiercely, “why do you have to be such a first class cow?”

“Oh, now, don't you start getting all self-righteous with me just cos I told your little sidekick
here some truths about herself! You know me, Farhana, I like it when people know their place. At the end of the day, we all know you only hang out with her because you feel sorry for her!”

You're fasting, don't rise to the bait!

But one look at Shazia's horrified face and Farhana knew she would have to speak.

“What a load of rubbish! How dare you say something that's blatantly untrue? I've known Shazia forever, she's my best friend. And let me tell you something,” she leaned over Robina's desk until her face was inches away. “Shazia is ten times the friend you are. You've just become a carbon copy of your sister: fake and shallow!”

“Shallow, huh?” Robina studied her nails, unphased by Farhana's words. “That's not what Malik told me last night…”

A shocked murmur rippled through the classroom. Farhana stepped away from Robina, swaying slightly as if she had been slapped in the face.

“What..?” she croaked.

Robina narrowed her eyes. “You heard me.”

“You little …” Shazia couldn't bring herself to say more. “How could you do that to Farhana?”

Farhana simply stared at Robina, unable to process what she was saying. Malik? And Robina? It just didn't make any sense… but then again, it made perfect sense.

Robina was enjoying her moment of triumph. “Come on,” she said, “all's fair in love and war, right?” She looked around the class, her left eyebrow raised. “You didn't really think he would wait around for you, did you?”

Farhana could no longer control the tears and, with one last look at the smirk on Robina's face, she ran out of the room. By the time she got to the toilets and locked herself in a cubicle, she was sobbing, the smell of disinfectant sharp in her nostrils.

Shazia came to see if she was all right, but she pleaded with her to leave her alone.

“I'll be back in a minute, Shaz, please…”

When her sobs had subsided, she came out of the cubicle and went to wash her face. She looked up at the pale face and the red eyes that stared back at her. She raised her hands to her head and pushed the white scarf back until it hung around her neck and several strands of her glossy hair fell forward. With her hands still on her shoulders, she began
to cry again, looking at her reflection.

Where did I go wrong? Where?

* * *

Farhana went straight home after school and went upstairs to lie down. What was meant to be a short nap turned into a three hour sleep. When Farhana woke up, her room was dim and she could hear her mum calling her to come and break fast. She felt better after saying her prayers, stronger.

It was nice to see Faraz home for a change. She found herself looking at him often during the meal, trying to read his facial expressions, his silence.

After the family had eaten their
iftar
, Dad said, “Right, you two, your mother and I are going over to Uncle Ali's for a family meeting.”

“What about, Dad?” asked Faraz.

Their dad glanced over at their mum who pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“It's about Auntie Naj, isn't it?” asked Farhana. “About her wanting to marry a
gora
, right?”

“Farhana,” snapped her mother, “stay out of this! It has nothing to do with you! The family will
decide what should be done about all this.”

Faraz looked at Farhana. “You mean Auntie wants to marry someone who isn't Pakistani?”

Farhana nodded. “A white guy, Muslim though. Sounds like a really great guy, to be honest, and I think…”

“Farhana!” cried her mother. “How can you say that? You know how I feel about inter-racial marriages! They never work! What is so wrong about sticking to your own kind? Those who understand you best? Marrying out of your culture is a recipe for disaster…”

“My own kind?” Farhana's voice rose. “What do you mean, Ummerji? I was born in England! I grew up in England! I can barely speak Urdu! Why should I have more in common with a Pakistani from back home than someone born and raised here? How does that make any sense?”

“Farhana,” growled her father, a warning in his voice. “You must respect your mother…”

“I do respect you, Ummerji – but that doesn't mean that I can't have my own opinion. Why do you expect us to be exactly like you? We're British, Ummerji, British Asian, British Muslim, whatever! We will never go back to the way we would have
been if we had stayed in Pakistan. Would you rather Auntie Naj marries someone who may have different goals from her, who may not understand her, who can't make her happy, just because he is Pakistani?”

Mum tried to reply but Farhana kept talking. “I thought Islam was supposed to be inclusive. Does Allah look at our lineage or at our hearts? Let's face it, a lot of Asians don't want their children marrying out because they are racist, pure and simple!”

Farhana's father stared at her. “Now you are calling us racists, Farhana? Have you forgotten that it was our shop that was looted by those white thugs? That we are the ones being discriminated against every day?”

Farhana smiled sadly at her father. “It doesn't stop us judging people by their colour though, does it, Dad? Remember that girl I used to play with at school, Edith? The only reason you never invited her here was because she was black. And the only reason you are all so upset about Auntie Naj's choice is because he is white. I don't know what you call that, Ummerji, but I call it racism.”

“I agree with Farhana, Mum,” said Faraz, quietly.

His mum turned to stare at him, shocked. “Faraz!”

“But I do, Mum. It's not right to judge people like that… it's not right.” He lowered his eyes and looked sideways at his sister who shot him a grateful look.

Both parents stared at their two children as if they could hardly recognise them. They both looked the same as they had always done, but also different somehow.

Ummerji noticed for the first time the dark circles under Farhana's eyes, her son's sallow skin. What had happened to her babies? She wanted to grab them both and hold them to her, like she had done when they were little. There had been no struggle then, no Pakistani or British, just a mother's love for her children. When was the last time she had hugged them?

But even as she looked at them, she felt a chasm of incomprehension widen between them, of truths untold, of secrets and defences and it scared her. She turned abruptly to the twins' father.

“We'd better go,
beta
, or we'll be late.” She got up, took another long look at both her children and left to go and wait in the car.

Dad looked over at Farhana and shook his head. “Well,
beta
, I don't know what to say…” he murmured.

“Say that you'll all give him a chance, Dad,” said Farhana quietly. “He deserves that at least….”

The bell rang and Faraz left the art room, deep in thought. He had just completed a piece of Arabic calligraphy, graffiti style, and it was already up on the display board. Everyone had been well impressed.

“Where did you get the inspiration for this piece, Faraz?” Mr McCarthy's soft voice was full of admiration.

And Faraz told him about Ahmed Ali, the one-time illegal graffiti artist turned respected Muslim artistic figure.

“That sounds fantastic, Faraz!”

“Oh, it is, Sir. Just go down the town centre – you'll see his latest mural there. He invited me to come and do a wall with him, near the end of Ramadan…”

“Isn't that in a couple of weeks' time?”

Faraz nodded, shocked at how Ramadan was almost over. Where had his Ramadan gone? It was the last ten days already, the best days according to Islamic tradition.

He thought about the dream he had had the night before, the dream where the road was getting steeper and steeper and he was struggling to get a foothold. And then the darkness overtaking him. This time, the dream had continued.

When all was black, he realised that he couldn't breathe! He struggled against it at first but then he was in a shroud, a white shroud, and the air was suddenly filled with incense, and far away chanting. His eyes began to close as the life began to seep out of his body. And the last thing he saw was her face, Farhana's face…but it was fading, fading away… No! He had to stay, he had to! But it was too late.

All the lights went out and there was silence, just silence.

He had woken with a start, gasping for air, his hand on his chest, his pillow soaked with sweat. He'd sat there for a few moments, panting, willing his heart to beat again, the air to reach his lungs, the blood to flow through his veins, warm and alive.

Then he had glimpsed the first light of dawn above the rooftops. He might just make it.

He had kicked off his duvet and got out of bed, shaking with the effort. He'd made his way in the dark to the bathroom and made
wudhu
, washing his hands, nose, mouth, arms, face, head and feet. As the cold water touched his skin, he'd felt calm return to his body.

Wash it away, just wash it all away…if I'm breathing, it isn't too late…

Then he had taken down his prayer mat from his wardrobe where his mum always put it when she tidied up. Laying it out on the floor, he had faced Makkah and raised his hands. The words he had known since his first years came back to him and he'd felt the comfort of the familiar postures, the bowing, the prostration. After so many years of
madressah
, it had settled into his limbs. He'd felt again the tranquillity that had been his at the start of Ramadan.

His prayer was simple:

Guide me, Allah. Guide me.

He was still thinking about his dream and what it could mean when he got out of the school gates and saw Skrooz's car parked up. His heart sank.

Usually, the car was packed with the other lads but today Skrooz was on his own. “Just you and me today, Fraz,” he said as he opened the car door for Faraz.

Faraz nodded. By now, he was used to doing as he was told.

* * *

The flat was dim, all the curtains drawn. Once Faraz's eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw a black bag, overflowing with rubbish, standing by the front door, waiting to be taken downstairs. Fruit flies buzzed around it and the smell of rotting garbage hung in the air.

“Wait here,” Skrooz said curtly before turning to walk down the short corridor.

Faraz stood by the front door for a moment, listening out for any sounds that would give a hint about the flat's inhabitants. Beyond the faint pattering of the rain outside, he couldn't hear anything, so he stepped forward towards the door that stood in front of him.

He pushed it open and nearly fainted at the stench that greeted him. A putrid blend of stale
curry, sweat, urine and that sickly sweet smell from the car invaded his nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes. The carpet, where it could be seen, was covered in brown patches and the walls sprouted black and green spots where the damp was rising. Take-away containers, old newspapers, clothes and empty packets of food and drink lay everywhere. Faraz had never seen such a mess in his life.

But there was a clear space around the dark green sofa in the centre of the room. The only thing there was a plate on which were arranged, with the utmost precision, a set of syringes, a metal spoon and a lighter.

Faraz stepped back out of the room, his mind reeling. Skrooz's brother was a junkie?

He stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. He knew Skrooz had told him to stay put but he couldn't resist finding out more about Skrooz's brother.

Slowly, he walked towards the door he had seen Skrooz push open a few minutes before. It was still slightly ajar. Holding his breath, Faraz, leant over and peered through the crack in the door.

Skrooz's brother was spread out on the unmade bed, his eyes half closed, his hair and
beard long and matted, his arm riddled with holes. Skrooz was calling his name softly, trying to rouse him. Anwar's bloodshot eyes fluttered open. He took a while to focus and recognise his brother, who kept talking to him in a calm, low voice.

“Have you brought me some smack, Khalid?” His feeble voice sounded like it was being squeezed out of his throat. “Have you brought me some, bro?”

Skrooz simply nodded as he helped him to sit up, pull on a jumper, push his feet into slippers.