You're Not Proper (10 page)

‘But they don't kill a few people…'

‘If something like this happened back there, in our part, they wouldn't kill a few people like your lot,' Laila paused and then laughed, ‘They'd wipe the whole tribe out.'

We both laughed and laughed like we'd lost it. When we stopped laughing, I said, ‘But then I heard another story, Laila. You see they own a lot of land in the village and we worked for them. When my granddad or my great granddad refused to work for them, their side came and took some girls from our side and someone got killed, maybe at a wedding…'

‘When did all this happen?' Laila asked.

‘About a zillion years ago,' I said, and we laughed a bit more.

Then Laila asked, ‘Have you ever asked your Dad what really happened?' ‘I did once or twice, but he said what he usually does,' I said, doing the best impersonation of Dad I could, ‘It's all water under the bridge.'

‘You know, Kiran,' Laila said flicking her hand in the air. ‘None of it all matters, really.'

‘What doesn't?' I was trying to find a way of saying something I really, really wanted to tell Laila.

‘All this stuff. I mean, what does it really matter?'

‘No, there's something else, you don't know Laila.' ‘Tell. Tell.'

‘I don't know how to tell you.'

‘We're mates, you can tell me anything,' Laila said, placing her hand on mine.

‘It's not that I want to keep a secret from you,' I said. ‘There's something else between us and them, I mean between my family and Shamshad's. You know when old folk talk, well, you know how they all talk about each other.'

Laila let out a
don'tIknowit
sort of a laugh.

‘But if I am ever around and someone mentions Shamshad's family, a strange frightening silence comes into the room. They all go quiet and don't look at each other. It's like there's something they really don't want me to know.'

‘They're all like that,' Laila said.

‘Who are?'

‘Grown ups. They're like kids. They think they can keep a secret when everyone knows about it.'

‘But I want to know what it is!'

‘That's what I mean,' Laila said, ‘You want to be like the grown ups.'

‘How?'

‘You wanna be a kid.'

We were giggling away in our own worlds when I noticed Donna and Chloe up the road, coming towards us. There were a couple of boys and another girl with them who I didn't recognise. I elbowed Laila and said, ‘We've got trouble.'

‘It's your gang again,' she replied. ‘Yeh, my gang,' I replied.

Donna and her crew stopped before they got to us. They started discussing something among themselves and then walked menacingly towards us.

I felt a strange tingling on my neck. Like I was being watched. I looked back at the mosque. Someone was looking at us. I blinked and there was no one there.

The mosque's doors opened and a load of men came out.

When I saw Karen and Laila on the other side of the road from the mosque, I hated Karen more than anything in the world. She had stolen my best friend. I prayed that Karen would be given a hiding by her old gang. I recognised Donna even from where I was. But it was not to be. Too many people came out of the mosque at the same time.

I went back into the class and started snapping at the kids as they tried to recite the Holy Quran. Part of me wanted to go out, right there and then and give Karen a piece of my mind and part of me wanted to let Laila know what I thought of
her
now.

The day dragged on and on, and no matter how hard I tried to forget about what had happened, I just couldn't do it.

On the way home, I sat in the back seat of the car thinking about what Dad did to her with the cane. Why didn't he just hit her with it? Why did he lift her face up, as if there was anything in it to see?

Looking at me through the rear mirror, Dad said, ‘You know you are not allowed to have anything to do with any member of Lucky's family.'

How many times I had been told this. The reasons were all jumbled up inside my head. We were
Jats
, landowners, with lots of land in Pakistan. Three of my cousins are in jail over there. Someone in Lucky's family had dishonoured someone in ours. Somebody died in Pakistan. We hated them. They hated us. And none of them could be trusted. But there was something else, something unspoken about us and them. Everyone knew my Dad and her Dad were once friends, but this was never talked about, in what little was talked about in my house. Even the mention of their family name sent the silence of my house into a deeper well. I wanted to know what this was, but I knew I was meant to keep well away from Karen.

‘I hate her Dad, I hate her!' I snapped. ‘I don't know why she came.'

Dad released me from his stare and I looked out at a woman pushing a baby in a pram. The baby was crying. The woman gently lifted it out, kissed it and hugged it. I wanted to be in a pram with Mum pushing me.

Dad parked the car outside our house, leaned over and looked at me. I was expecting him to tell me off, like he'd read my thoughts, but he had a warm look in his usually cold, black eyes. His thick, raised brows showed the grey roots of the blackened brows.

‘I've been meaning to buy you this,' Dad said leaning back to the space in front of the front passenger's seat.

‘You've finally got me a new laptop, Dad,' I thought, ‘you're so transparent.'

‘I know you might not believe me, but I am so proud of the fact that you came top in the school chess tournament,' Dad said putting his hand into the bag. ‘That was last year Dad,' I thought with a sinking heart.

‘We invented
shatrange
, chess, and not the
goray
.' Dad paused to look at me for a reaction.

I gave him the best false smile I could muster thinking, ‘Yes Dad, you've told me this a thousand times.'

Dad continued, ‘Chess is such a great way to learn about strategy and planning. And I still remember how you taught me that the quickest check, what do you call it, is foolish mate…'

‘Fools mate, Dad.'

‘Yeh, fools mate, that's in four moves.' ‘Two, Dad.'

‘Yes, the old mates of mine are getting into a bit of chess and I want to show them how it can be done in four.'

‘It's in two, not four, Dad.' ‘No, that's impossible.'

‘Come on, hurry up,' I thought. I think I know what's in that bag. Handing me a chess set, Dad said, ‘These pieces were hand-carved in Pakistan.'

‘That's really great, Dad,' I said taking the chess set from him. ‘Just what I wanted.'

‘Really! I knew, I just knew,' Dad said. ‘Will you show me the moves?'

‘White pawn to F3. Black pawn to E6. White pawn to G4. Black Queen to H4. Check mate!' I said quickly. Dad smiled, a stupid
Ireallydontunderstand
type of a smile.

‘The great thing about playing chess is that you have to plan out what you want to do. Life is like that. It requires hard skills. We have to set our goals and follow them. Do you understand, Shamshad?'

‘Yes Dad, I understand.'

‘Love is a soft thing, and to survive in this world we need hard things, strength, thinking tactics. Love is beautiful, but it is not enough. Though I do love you, Shamshad, I want you to be strong.'

‘I understand, Dad. And did you just say you love me?' Dad smiled. ‘I did.' He looked as astonished as me.

Just then, Dad's mobile rang. I went inside. As I opened the door, I saw Mum walking out of the living room, heading for the kitchen. Skype, I thought. If it was just me and she noticed I had come in, she would have shut the door and carried on. But when Dad came back, she always turned the computer off and entered into the kitchen.

Dad walked in. He was still talking on the mobile, his face beaming.

Giving me a twenty-pound note, he said quickly, ‘Second sale in two days. Things are picking up for Medina Estates.'

I took the money and stepped aside as he walked into the living room. My Dad's company, Medina Estates, was the oldest estate agency in Boarhead East. It wasn't just an estate agency. We did money transfers to Pakistan and sold airline tickets, rented property and sold insurance.

He was in such a good mood today, I saw my chance. Mum was bringing in his tea. I took the tea from Mum and gave it to Dad. He was still on the mobile. Putting the tea on the coffee table in front of him, I prayed inside my head, ‘Please God make it another sale.'

I sat down in front of him, fidgeting with the twenty-pound note. When he finished, I asked, ‘Another sale, Dad?'

‘No, silly,' he said. ‘Baba Zaman just had a baby son.'

Everyone knew Baba Zaman. He was the first one to move to Boarhead from Pakistan. He walked with a bent back. He coughed all the time, spitting phlegm on the floor. He was on wife number three or four; the others were all buried in the graveyard.

‘How's the baby?' I asked.

‘Alright, I think,' Dad said sadly, sipping his tea. ‘It's a girl.' He quickly added, ‘Such is Allah's will.'

‘And the new Mum?' I asked.

‘She's young, she'll be alright,' Dad said. ‘You're asking a lot of questions today.'

I don't know where I got the courage from, but I said, ‘I'm fourteen now Dad, not young any more…'

‘An old woman, eh,' Dad interrupted with a laugh.

‘It's not important, Dad, but it's been bothering me, like. Were you and Karen's Dad once best mates? I asked Mum and she said to ask you.'

Dad called Mum, ‘Sakina, in here now!' I stood up and stepped toward the door.

Mum came running in. Dad took his shoe off and held it in his hand, shouting, ‘What have I said about talking about that family?'

‘She's growing up. She keeps asking questions. I always tell her to ask her father, you know best,' Mum said.

‘How dare you disobey me!'

Dad stepped towards Mum. He raised the hand with the shoe. She lowered her head.

‘It's my fault Dad, honest. I couldn't help it. I'll never ask again,' I said. He looked at me with raging eyes.

I ran upstairs, plugged my headphones in and listened to Lady Gaga.

Even though Shamshad was always horrible to me, I still felt sorry for her. When I told this to Laila, she said, ‘Maybe she was found in a dustbin?'

‘Maybe,' I said thinking about how my Mum could just flip from one mood to another.

‘Mums,' Laila laughed, ‘can't live with ‘em.' ‘Can't live without ‘em,' I added.

Laila and I chatted all the way to Boarhead College. I told her what Donna had done to me. Laila shook her head in disbelief. It was like we'd been best friends all our lives. I had never been to the college but Laila knew her way round. We went down a flight of stairs, along a corridor into the women's toilets and Laila taught me how to do my
voozu
, to clean myself up before prayers. After that, we went into a large room. There were kids from East Boarhead, people from Africa and even some white people. Most of the women wore hijabs. The men had beards. Some of them wore long skirts; some wore
shalwars
that ended above their ankles. Someone tapped on a microphone, and a white man, in his early twenties stood up on the platform. He had light-brown, unkempt hair and a small, stubbly beard. His thin face reminded me of the pictures of Jesus. Everyone went silent. He gave the call to prayer, the
azaan
. I had heard this at my grandfather's and often on the television, but never as beautiful as this. It was like he was singing something that was coming from deep inside me. After the
azaan
in Arabic, he did it in English. By the time the
azaan
finished, the men had placed mats on the floor. Some people sat at the back but most stood in neat lines on the mats. Women on one side, men on the other. I stood next to Laila and we all prayed.

After the prayers, we all squatted down and the white man who had given the
azaan
began to speak: ‘Brothers and sisters, may peace be upon you all. How many of you heard the
azaan
in English for the first time?'

Along with a few others, I put my hand up. He looked around, stroked his beard, and said, ‘
Allah O Akbar
, Allah is great. It means no one is greater than Allah. This means we are all equal in the eyes of Allah. When we prostrate, we do so as equals. In this equality, we seek peace for us and justice for mankind. And why do we get together five times a day to pray? This is so that five times a day we have a chance to get organised and find peace.'

He paused and pointed at the posters around the room. The words, Kashmir, Chechnya, Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, Lebanon and Palestine were written in large letters. Underneath them were pictures of destruction and horrible injuries.

He continued, ‘And we pray for an end to suffering. For those of you who have come here for the first time, I would like you to note there is no picture of God, nor of our Holy Prophet, may peace be upon him, nor of Jesus, may peace be upon him.'

He paused again, and said with a sly laugh, ‘And he was an Arab. Not a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy from up the road. And don't any of you dare to think I look like him! ‘Someone laughed. I froze thinking he was talking about me.

He continued, ‘And Jesus, may peace be upon him, felt it his duty to stand up against Rome…'

A mans voice from the audience interrupted, ‘Didn't Jesus say, “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's?”

The speaker brushed a lock of hair off his forehead, smiled at the questioner and nodding said, ‘It's true brother. But Jesus also said, “And unto God, that which is God's. And what is God's? Life is God's. Everything is His.” But what did Rome think? That he was a threat. Yes it did. And did he not stand up for God? Yes he did. Did he not stand up against the West? Yes he did. Today, the West is sending its crusading armies to invade Muslim lands. Is it not our duty to follow in the tradition of our prophets?'