Boy vs. Girl (3 page)

She showed them the book:
Ramadan in the Qur'an and Sunnah
.

Farhana's eyes lit up, as they always did when she saw a book she hadn't read.

“D'you think I could borrow that, Auntie?”

“Of course – but only if you let Faraz have a read too…”

“You'd better let me have it first, Auntie, or I'll never get a look-in once it disappears into Farhana's room!”

They all laughed and Auntie Najma handed him the book. Then the milkshakes came and there was no time for talk. None of them remembered that they hadn't even eaten lunch!

* * *

Faraz looked down again at the line in the book that lay open on his lap:

‘Fasting has been prescribed for you so that you may attain righteousness…'

Could he possibly attain that? Reach that point of awareness? Stay out of the madness? He wanted to try, wanted to so badly. He would make a go of it this year, he really would.

But a little voice in the back of his mind whispered treacherous thoughts:
What about Skrooz? And the lads? What will they think?

He pushed that thought aside. In this place, at this moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to attain righteousness, to feel at peace with himself.

He took a deep breath.

He would do it,
insha Allah
, he would. He just had to stay focused.

* * *

That night, Farhana stayed up after everyone else had gone to bed. She sat up in bed, her duvet pulled up over her knees, an open book on her lap, writing by lamplight. She was making a list.

All evening, she had been thinking about what her aunt had said and, all evening, she had asked herself questions:
what do you want? Where are you going? How can you improve?

Now she had written the answers on a page in the open book. As she wrote them, they became real somehow, concrete, as if they took life from the page they now covered.

Her eyes flickered upwards to the white
hijab
once again. Her hand hesitated as she formulated the sentence in her head:

Start wearing hijab
.

Could she really do it?

She knew one thing for sure: if she put it on, she wanted to do it properly, for good, not taking
it off again after a few weeks, or after Eid. She didn't want to be a hypocrite. But was she ready to be a ‘
hijabi
'? In the fullest sense of the word? After all,
hijab
wasn't just about covering your hair. It was about a state of mind: modesty, awareness of God, awareness of your actions, being accountable, being a walking symbol of Islam.

After many discussions with Auntie Najma, and debates with her mum and her mate Shazia, who wore the
hijab
, albeit reluctantly, she now believed that the
hijab
was a religious obligation, an act of worship that would be rewarded.

That wasn't the issue.

The issue was whether or not she could live up to its expectations – and whether she could deal with the negative reactions she was sure to encounter at school.

‘And I did not create mankind or the jinn except to worship Me.'

If that was her reason for living, what was stopping her from taking this step?

Why should I care what the girls at school think?
she thought.
Or my teachers? After school, they go back to their lives, to their kids. They're not living their lives thinking about me.

Farhana turned the various discussions over in her mind again and again, arguing with herself. One person's name kept coming up again and again – Malik – but she consciously pushed it aside. She was not about to let his ideas or opinions influence her, not now.

By the time she turned out the light, she was mentally exhausted but pleased with the outcome of her internal dialogue.

I'm going to try. If this is the right thing, Allah will make it easy for me. I'll just have to trust Him on this one.

Then, just before turning out the light, she scribbled one last thing:

GOM

Get over Malik.

* * *

Across the hallway, in his room, Faraz was praying
Isha
, the last prayer of the day. It was the prayer he prayed most frequently as it could be offered just before bed, no waking early in the morning, no missing lunch.

It's not easy being me, being Faraz. At school they think I'm a loser, thick. But that's not what Skrooz says. ‘Fraz the Wrecker'. That's his name for me. He says I've got it in me to be someone, to prove meself.

But not this month. Not yet. This month, I want to be a good Muslim, a good boy, a nice Pakistani boy who goes mosque, prays on time, stays out of trouble.

Yeah, I figure I can be good for one month. Insha Allah.

It should be easy to put Skrooz off for a few weeks, just until after Eid. He didn't want that side of his life messing with his Ramadan – this month was sacred.

On Monday morning, brother and sister walked together to the bus stop. When they were younger, they had been inseparable, often not needing to speak when together. It was as if they knew instinctively what the other was thinking and feeling. But times had changed. The move to high school and adolescence had put an end to that effortless understanding. Now when they were silent, it was just as likely that they were both lost in their own thoughts, totally unaware of each other's secrets.

But hanging out with Auntie Naj had started to bring them closer again. They had slowly begun to open up.

Farhana spoke first. “You looking forward to Ramadan, then?”

Faraz nodded. “I reckon I'm gonna make a go of it this year, sis.”

“Yeah, me too,” Farhana answered. “That conversation we had with Auntie Najma over the weekend really got me thinking about Ramzan, and what it really means…”

“You mean like it not being just about going hungry? About it being a chance to make a change for the better?”

“Yeah, that's right,” Farhana smiled at her brother. She had seen his face, so similar to hers, light up as her aunt had described the blessings of Ramadan. ‘The month of mercy' she had called it, when all your sins could be forgiven, when Allah Himself would reward your sacrifice.

“I could do with turning over a new leaf in some areas, you know,” she said meaningfully.

“So, what about Malik, then?” Faraz only had sketchy details about Farhana's involvement with Malik but he knew enough.…

“Don't go there, Faraz,” mumbled his sister, looking away. “There's nothing there now…” Then she turned back to him. “What about you? What about Skrooz and the lads?”

“I reckon I can keep them off my back…”

“Yeah, I think that's best. I don't know about you hanging with lads like that anyway. Plus this is not the year to be messing about, not with exams around the corner.” She said that even though she knew that exams were the furthest thing from Faraz's mind. They just weren't on his radar.

“Exams? Ah, yeah, that's right… no problem.”

Farhana looked at him, a touch of sadness in her eyes. “You'd ace them if you studied, Faraz, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, we all know that you got the brains between us!” Faraz had heard that comment too many times from family members. It still stung.

“That's absolute rubbish, Faraz, and you know it!” Farhana snapped. “You just need to try harder, that's all…”

“All right, all right! No lectures today, yeah? You made your point!” He ducked as Farhana swung her schoolbag at his head.

“You two at it again, are you?” They both swung round to see Farhana's friend, Shazia, standing behind them, an amused look on her face.

“Hey, Shazia!” Farhana hugged her friend. “
Asalaamu alaikum
, you're late.”

“
Wa alaikum salaam
,” Shazia replied briefly. “Yeah, didn't get much sleep last night – was helping Mum with some stuff.”

Faraz stood awkwardly to the side, trying not to stare at Shazia,
Imam
Shakir's daughter, his sister's best friend since forever, the girl of his dreams. But he was aware of her presence, of the smell of her hair, neatly tucked under a white
hijab
.

He had to greet her properly though, to be polite. “
Asalaamu alaikum
, Shazia,” he mumbled, sweat springing up under his collar.

“
Wa alaikum salaam
, Faraz,” Shazia answered, glancing at him.

Then they all heard a great roar, a revving and squeal of tyres, a great rush of horsepower far too loud and powerful for their quiet road. They turned to look.

A black BMW, low and shiny, was speeding down their narrow street. Loud hip- hop blared out of the windows and the bass made the pavement throb.

Farhana and Shazia both winced at the swear words that bounced off windows decorated with the word
bismillah
, in the name of Allah. The car
sped towards them, tearing up the tarmac until it came to a screeching halt in front of them.

What a motor!
thought Faraz, admiring the car's sleek lines and impressive alloy wheels, almost in spite of himself. He had never had the usual lads' interests – but this car, its raw power and energy, stirred something inside him.

Then the tinted window on the passenger side slid down and an Asian boy with a spiky Mohawk and silver knuckle dusters on his fingers leaned out.

“Fraz!” he called. “What's goin' on, bruv?”

Shazia looked over at Farhana. Faraz knew these guys?

The driver's door opened and another Asian guy stepped out of the car. He was a monster, this one. A huge hunk of towering flesh and muscle, scarred and tattooed, squeezed into tight jeans and a hoody. Thick silver chains adorned his chest, diamond rings on his sausage-like fingers. His dark hair was cut so short that the skin of his scalp shone through.

Immediately, Farhana knew who it was. It was Skrooz.

“Hey, bruv,” he called over to Faraz, who
hurried towards him and pumped his hand. Skrooz drew him close in an embrace, his great arm across Faraz's back, his cigarette smouldering between his fat fingers, his eyes on Farhana.

Farhana felt her skin crawl as his eyes raked up and down her body, his lips twisted in a half smile. He winked at her and she turned away, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Then he turned to Faraz.

“Where you been, blud?” he asked. “You want a lift to school? I'm droppin' my little brother off…”

“Y-you mean that?” Faraz's eyes were wide.

“Yeah, why not?” He opened the back door and Faraz practically leapt in, hardly looking back. He ran his hand over the leather seats as they vibrated to the music beneath his fingers.
Cool.

Skrooz turned to Farhana and Shazia.

“So, you ladies want a lift too?” He smiled again before taking another drag of his cigarette.

“Er, no, that's OK,” stuttered Farhana. “Our bus is here. Thanks.” And with that, she pulled Shazia towards the waiting bus.

They heard the car start up again and, with the
squeal of burning rubber, it lurched into the road and roared away.

Neither girl spoke.

Then Shazia turned to Farhana and said, “Your brother's heading for trouble, he is.”

Farhana loved her school. Her parents had decided to send her to the local girls' school, rather than the mixed comprehensive Faraz went to – and Farhana couldn't have been happier. Of course, her parents' motives had been almost solely to keep her ‘out of trouble', ie away from boys but, as it happened, Middleton School was actually an excellent school and the mixture of challenges and incentives really suited Farhana. It was left for Faraz to deal with the gangs and exhausted teachers at his inner city comprehensive.

What with a full programme of lessons, basketball, debate club, lunchtime gossip and ever-shifting loyalties, Farhana was in her element. Somehow, with her good looks and easy charm, she had always found herself riding the crest of the wave of popular opinion: she was liked and
admired by almost everyone. And her teachers adored her. Ever since the first year, they had told her that she was bright, that with hard work and focus she would excel and make them proud. “If all that Bollywood stuff doesn't go to your head!”

And Farhana found learning easy. Her mind soaked up information, facts, opinions, calculations, graphs, theories. It turned them all over, studying them carefully before storing them away to be used in a class discussion, in a debate or in an essay that would earn top marks.

Her parents knew this about her and were mildly proud. What was it Ummerji had said? ‘Farhana is a clever girl,
masha Allah.
She and Sajid are so well matched!'

When she thought of her cousin Sajid, the medical student from Karachi, the ‘nice, polite boy', her heart twisted, sometimes with curiosity, other times with rebellion.
What if I don't want a ‘nice, polite boy'?

But those were battles for another time, for later. She knew about her parents' hopes for her and Sajid and she was careful never to mention the idea of marriage, in case they decided to press the
issue. The last thing she wanted was her aunties on her case.

It was funny that, her mild schizophrenia. From her observations, it was a condition that practically all the Asian girls she knew suffered from. It was about having one persona at school, with your friends and with non-Asians, and a completely different persona at home. At school, she was intelligent, a bit cheeky, chatty and outgoing.