Boy vs. Girl (8 page)

“Shazia!”

“I'm serious! Just how do you think Miss Farhana Ahmed, the queen of the Bollywood Massive, head of Class H and and all-round hottie is going to wear the scarf? Do you have any idea what it will mean for your social life? What the other girls will say? What
Robina
will say?”

“Yeah, I have thought about all that, you know!”

“I don't think you have, love! Do you really think that you can commit to something as major as that? And what about Malik? What will he think?”

Farhana's face darkened. “Don't talk about him – there's nothing there. I can't make my life decisions based on what
he
thinks.”

“So he never did call and apologise then,” Shazia murmured.

Farhana shook her head and bit her lip, tears stinging her eyes. Malik's betrayal still hurt, a full three months later.

“Well, I'm just thinking about it. I haven't decided yet. And how can
you
go on like that? You wear scarf, don't you?”

“Yeah, but only because Dad makes me!” Shazia retorted. “It's just that all the women in my family cover – we're the
imam's
family, after all! Personally, I don't really think I need to. It's not like I'm a great looker or anything. Anyway, I don't have time for boys and all that stuff.”

Farhana shook her head. “There you go, talking that rubbish again. I just wish you would look in the mirror and see what everybody else sees!”

“What, a fat Paki with four eyes?” Shazia snorted.

“No, you daft thing! A bright, intelligent, beautiful, voluptuous, curvaceous, bootilicious…”

“Oh, cut it out, will yer!” Shazia slapped Farhana with her school bag. “Hey, there goes the bell - we'd better leg it!”

The two girls grabbed their bags and hurried towards the East Block, where one of Farhana's favourite classes, English Literature, was about to start.

* * *

Faraz's experience was slightly different. Unlike his sister, he had never been surrounded by a group of mates, all into what he was into, all interested in what he had to say.

He went to the Muslim prayer room at lunch time though, to pray and to see who else was fasting. There were quite a few boys there, ones he had seen at the mosque the night before. Again, they nodded their greetings and uttered brief ‘salaams' before performing their prayers. Most of the boys left straight afterwards. Some stayed briefly to read from mini
Qur'ans
. These were the religious boys – the outcasts.

After a little while, however, Faraz found himself all alone in the makeshift prayer room. He was happy to be there, out of trouble, but he was bored. He fished around in his school bag and his fingers felt a scratchy piece of card. He pulled
it out. It was that brother Imran's business card. He glanced up at the wall clock. If he hurried, and if the computer room wasn't too busy, he might be able to check out the website before the next bell went.

He grabbed his bag and bolted out of the door.

The computer room was pretty full but, to his relief, he saw a single empty workstation and hurried towards it. Once he had logged on to the Internet, he quickly typed in the web address on the card.

The site took a while to load. But gradually the screen began to fill with images, ‘urban Islamic' images, just like Imran's t-shirt. Faraz could feel himself growing more and more excited as he saw the artwork slideshow. Graffiti using Arabic letters loomed large on various city walls, huge canvases of geometric designs in bright, eclectic colours, galleries showcasing different artists' work, and the t-shirts and hoodies emblazoned with similar themes.

He read the blurb: an urban Islamic arts movement, dedicated to excellence and innovation in art and a commitment to community.

Sounds amazing
, thought Faraz.
Absolutely amazing.

There was one artist in particular whose work kept drawing his eye. He saw a partial photo: an Asian guy, big, beard, but dressed just like a street thug, with a spray can in his hand, standing in front of a huge mural on a Birmingham city wall: ‘salaam' it read.

This guy had done murals all over the world, been on the BBC, exhibited in Dubai. Faraz felt a stab of envy.

I wonder what his family think of him doing a crazy job like that?

His dad had often said that he hoped that Faraz would take over the newsagent's and, certainly, it was what the rest of the family expected, especially since he wouldn't be going to university. ‘No, Faraz is not the university type,' he had heard his mum say more than once.

But seeing this Muslim graffiti artist,
desi
like him, getting on with it, staying true to his identity while living life as an artist, gave him a surge of hope.

Maybe there was a way he could still please everybody… just maybe….

That night, they all went to Naneeji's for
iftar
.

Ummerji, Farhana and Faraz had already broken their fast with dates at home while they waited for Dad to get back from the mosque after sunset prayers. He had closed the shop early in honour of the first day of Ramadan and, soon enough, they heard his car creak to a stop outside.

After swallowing down another protein shake, Faraz helped his mum and Farhana carry the hot containers of
pakhoras, biryani
and lamb curry, his mum's speciality, to the car. She had been busy all afternoon, as had her sisters and sisters-in-law and, when they got to Naneeji's house, it was clear that there was enough food to feed a small army.

The little terraced house where Naneeji had lived for the past fifteen years since her husband had passed away was full to bursting with three
generations. Naneeji's sister Razia was there with her son and daughter, their children, as well as her own children and grandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law.

After greeting everyone, Farhana took off her coat and joined her aunties in the kitchen, preparing the dishes to be served to the men who were waiting in the front room.

Her younger cousins flitted in and out of the lounge and the kitchen, snatching bites of
samosas
and onion bhaji, high on the adrenaline they could feel from the adults.

The women worked quickly – the men were clearly hungry because their voices couldn't be heard above the racket that the children were making.

As soon as the men had been served, Farhana's mum and aunts began to dish up for themselves and the children.

It was Auntie Najma and Farhana's job to take all the little ones to the bathroom to wash their hands and, by the time they got back to the living room, the floor mat was down and the trays of food were being brought through. Auntie Najma slipped quietly back to the kitchen.

Almost faint with hunger, Farhana sat down at last and took her first mouthful of proper food since the night before.

Bismillah…

Silence descended on the house as everyone ate from communal trays on the floor, right hands picking up curry and masala with
roti
, dipping in
raita
, collecting every rice grain.

Food never tastes as good as after a day of fasting
, thought Farhana. She saw the same sentiment echoed on the faces of all around her.

She looked with admiration at Naneeji and her sister-in-law, who was also her cousin, their chiffon
dupattas
covering grey and hennaed hair, both of them approaching their seventies, still fasting Ramadan, still cooking for their ever-growing families.

Farhana felt her heart swell with joy and satisfaction. She had done it! She had fasted the whole day! And she felt sure that she had kept her promises to herself about staying on the right track.

Malik hadn't called or texted today – he was probably fasting too and felt too guilty to call her up. It was probably just as well –
less temptation that way.

Soon enough, the men were talking about needing more food. Auntie Sajda and Ummerji got up and went to the kitchen to empty the containers, sending through more food. They would all be in a hurry now, to catch the night prayers at the mosque, then
tarawih
.

Uncle Munir's wife, Asma, put on a pan of milk to make sweet cardamom tea.

“Where is Najma?” asked Auntie Anisa's husband, Uncle Ali.

Auntie Anisa rolled her eyes. “Oh,
she
won't eat with us! Not with you and Abid here – says you are not related to her, that it is not allowed.”

Uncle Ali laughed, his big belly quivering slightly. “Tell her we won't bite!” Then he shouted through the open door: “Najma-ji, it's OK, we won't bite!”

“I know, Ali-bhai, I know!” came the voice from the kitchen. But Auntie Najma didn't enter the room until all the men had gone. Only then did she hang up her
abayah
and scarf.

“
Asalaamu alaikum
, honey,” said Auntie Najma, leaning over to fold up the floor mat. “How was your first day?”

Farhana sat back on her heels and smiled broadly.

“It was fine,
masha Allah
! Much easier than I expected it to be…”

“That's great! And how is Faraz doing?”

“He seems good, too,” replied Farhana. “We stayed up after
Fajr
actually, read some
Qur'an
together… it was nice…”

“Ahh, that sounds lovely,
masha Allah
!” Auntie Najma's face glowed with pleasure. “So glad to see the two of you getting into it. Did you pray
tarawih
last night?”

Farhana's face darkened momentarily. “No,” she frowned. “Dad and Faraz went but Ummerji said I had to stay home and help her in the house.”

Auntie Najma lifted an eyebrow. “Ah, yes, of course… that mosque is mainly for men, isn't it?” There was more than a touch of irony in her voice. “But you could still have prayed at home, you know…”

“I guess so, I suppose I was just too upset about not being able to go – I will try to remember that next time though.”

“You should come with me next time I go,”
said Auntie Najma, getting up to put the mats away. “I go to a mosque about 25 minutes from here – they have loads of space for women and the recitation is beautiful.”

“Oh, could I, Auntie?” Farhana's face lit up.

“In fact, why don't you come to
iftar
with me this weekend? One of my friends invited me – I met her at uni – I think you would like her… you haven't really met my friends, have you?”

“No,” replied Farhana, “but Ummerji is convinced that they are a bad influence – I mean, look at what happened to you!”

They both laughed good-naturedly.

“So, will you come?”

“I'm not sure, Auntie. I think I would feel funny meeting your friends. They're all
niqabis
and
hijabis
, aren't they?”

“So?” said Auntie Najma, indignantly. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I don't want them to judge me, you know, cos I don't wear
hijab…
”

“That is a load of rubbish! Anyone who judges you without getting to know you isn't worth knowing in the first place. Besides, my friends are cool, they aren't like that.”

“You'd have to ask Ummerji for me. She'll never let me go otherwise.”

“Don't you worry, I'll speak to her. So, it's a date, is it?”

Farhana smiled. “I guess so…”

Auntie Najma winked at her and got up to assess the damage in the front room, where the children were watching TV.

Farhana smiled to herself, then got up to go to the kitchen.

As she reached the kitchen doorway, she heard a low but tense-sounding conversation taking place and then her mum's voice rose above all the others. “Najma has always been selfish, everyone knows that!”

This was greeted by a chorus of fierce whispers which came to an abrupt halt when she stepped into the kitchen. Farhana's mum breathed in sharply and quickly turned away to sweep the leftovers into the bin. Auntie Sajda sighed and ran a cloth over the counter in front of her, a frown etched between her eyebrows. Naneeji turned and managed a watery smile in Farhana's direction while her great aunt Razia glared at no one in particular.

It was clear that she had interrupted something and, by the sounds of it, it was something serious to do with Auntie Najma.

What could she have done now?

* * *

That night, both Faraz and Farhana prayed
tarawih
.

Faraz stood in the first row behind the
imam
, next to his dad, his body bowing and prostrating with a sea of others. This time, he was more aware of the meanings behind the beautiful words that flowed from the
imam's
mouth. He had read the English translation that morning and appreciated the meanings of each verse of the
Qur'an
. They spoke to him and he responded to the words as never before.

He mentally swept away thoughts of school, of home, of every detail that could distract him from his prayer.

And when he knelt with his face to the green carpet of the mosque, he prayed his own private prayers, fervently, passionately, asking for forgiveness, asking for everything his heart desired,
asking for strength and guidance.

When he and Dad came back to Naneeji's house to pick up Ummerji and Farhana, he felt he had been washed clean, fresh and sparkling.

So this is what gives those mosque boys that glow
, he thought to himself with a smile.

It felt good.

* * *

Farhana also prayed
tarawih
, with Auntie Najma, by lamplight in her aunt's room. The room smelt of perfume and books and the streets outside were still.

Auntie Najma's gravelly voice lost its edge when she recited
Qur'an
. Her recitation was slow and deliberate, powerful and moving, coaxing tears from Farhana's eyes. She and her aunt raised their hands, their feet and shoulders pressed together. They were so close, Farhana could feel her aunt's body shudder when she recited certain verses, verses that brought her to tears and interrupted her recitation.