The Scope of Permissibility, page 20
‘Quick, you two get that table. I’ll get our food,’ Naeem said. He pointed to a table where two people were standing up and unplugging their laptops.
‘I was going to shout –’
‘Don’t worry about it. Besides, I have to buy this one a meal so she’ll be interrogating me on a full stomach,’ he said, smiling at Abida before noting down their orders and walking to the counter.
Abida was looking at her phone. Sara leaned forward.
‘Before he comes back, what did you want to want to chat to me about?’
‘I dunno,’ Abida said, still looking at her phone.
‘Come on, tell me,’ she said.
‘Honestly, it’s nothing. You’d better tell me what you want me to say to your boyfriend over there,’ Abida said.
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Well, what is he then? You’re not engaged, and you’re not friends.’ Abida sat back in her chair and looked towards the kebab stall, where Naeem was now carrying a tray of food and walking towards them.
Before Sara could respond, Naeem arrived and began distributing their orders. He unwrapped the paper casing of his kebab down the middle before picking it up with both hands.
‘Eat, eat,’ he said.
Abida’s arms were crossed. She was looking around the cafeteria, up at the television screen ahead, across to the sushi stall where the queue was snaking around the corner. Sara pierced the felafel on her plate with her fork and put half of it in her mouth. She wished Abida would make some effort to engage with them. She knew that, Abida thought Naeem insipid, but thinking someone boring and rich did not warrant such a response.
‘How’s Wahid’s campaigning going?’ Abida bit into her tabbouleh as she spoke, bits of parsley and burghul falling under the table.
‘I don’t really know. I’m not very involved in it,’ Naeem said evenly.
‘You’re his nominated deputy. How can you not be involved?’
‘How’s your campaigning going?’ Naeem bit into his roll, separating the paper from the sogginess of the bread. Sara recognised the way he used questions to shift the onus of response. He was not doing it to be obstructive or cruel; it was just how he spoke. He was so sincere in his interest in the people he was speaking to that most would not think to characterise it a deflection. But she knew this way of speaking would not placate Abida as it had so often placated her.
‘Enough about that,’ Abida said. ‘Have you told your parents about Sara yet?’
Sara reached for her water bottle, fumbling with its lid. This was different to the gentle concern Sadia had directed at them both. Abida was addressing Naeem only. She had not raised her voice and she was not even looking at Naeem, but Sara was aware of every sound now: the man at the kebab stall calling out order fifty-six, the shaking of excess raw onion slices into the waste bin.
‘Not yet. But I will soon, inshaAllah, and once that’s done, Sara and I can get engaged after the semester is over.’ Naeem sounded so sure. He was smiling again with his teeth, which were clear of any gristle or sauce. If she had not been placated before, she was now. Naeem was sitting with her and her best friend in the cafeteria, informing them that he was going to tell his parents that he was going to marry her. He was relaxed in the face of Abida’s questioning, and he was certain of the future they would have. It would just take more time, and they had time.
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’
Abida had noticed the same calm certainty that she had, but Sara could hear the slight inflection of Abida’s voice which indicated that she was angry. Sara was unsure why. Naeem had said that the two of them would discuss everything. He had not mansplained, a crime Abida was forever accusing the boys of. He had answered the question he had been asked and had answered it unequivocally. Abida was being unreasonable in a misguided attempt at protecting Sara, as she had done so many times before. She thought about saying something to diffuse the tension, but before she could form the words, Naeem began to speak.
‘If Allah wills it, nothing can stop it from happening. His will is the only certainty we have,’ he said.
Abida stood up now, pushing the chair against the table, metal clanging against metal. She smiled but it was not a smile Sara recognised. With a sharp pang she saw the falsity of it and wondered at what it was concealing. She was conscious for the first time that just as she had not been truthful with Abida, so too could Abida dissemble with her.
‘You’re right. I gotta get going. Don’t get up to any funny business when I go, you two, even the walls here have eyes.’ Abida squeezed Sara’s arm and waved at Naeem before leaving.
‘Why did she say that last bit?’ Naeem reached for her water bottle but retracted his hand and reached for his own instead.
‘She’s just being funny. Her idea of humour, you know. She just wants the best for me, that’s all,’ Sara said. For once she was not focused on Naeem. She was still thinking about Abida, about why she had behaved the way she had.
‘I think that went well, though,’ Naeem said. ‘I thought she’d go much harder at me than she did, actually. She acts like she’s your guard dog or something.’
‘Hey, don’t say that.’ She would not permit Naeem to speak about Abida like that. She would talk to Abida, and she would orchestrate more meetings with Naeem, and over time the two of them would begin to understand each other. Or perhaps they would not. The lens with which they viewed the world had produced entirely different fields of vision, overlapping only in the space she occupied. Sara felt the loneliness of it then, that she could not compel the love of these two people, even though she loved them both.
She looked up at Naeem as he arranged their empty plates and containers in the centre of the tray.
‘Sorry, Sara. I’ll try harder next time, I promise,’ he said.
They sat still and silent for a moment, before Naeem was approached by one of the bearded boys for a handshake and Sara rose, thinking she would get herself another felafel because she had not paid attention to the eating of the first one at all.
23
Abida
Abida settled herself on the couch with an open pack of Pringles that she had found in the cupboard. Her parents had gone to the mosque and taken the children with them, and Maroof was out somewhere too. There was a stain on the backrest which looked like either daal or coffee. Whatever it was, it didn’t bother her, being long-dried and crusty. She switched on the television, flicking away from the Islamic channel reruns of Dr Zakir Naik refuting a Bible verse to the mainstream channels. To her disappointment, there was not much of interest on, just an animated children’s film and one of the recent Bond films. Abida had been to the cinema with Connie and some of her other friends to watch one of the Bond films in high school, an outing neither Abbu nor Ammu had sanctioned. Her act of rebellion had been wasted: the popcorn was overpriced, Connie had spent most of the movie outside arguing with her boyfriend on the phone and the character of Bond had seemed rather awful, a bland roué with very little to recommend him other than some nifty gadgets. She had not been to the cinema since, and she had no desire to.
She left the television on the channel with the children’s film, which appeared to be about a group of shifty Mafioso sharks. A rattle from the back door caused her to get up, check that it was bolted and switch all the lights on. There had been a robbery two streets behind them the previous month, and the robbers had punched and kicked the occupant of the house, an elderly woman, prior to making off with the money she had kept in her bedside drawer. Abida turned the volume on the television up, the sharks now dancing around and singing in their underwater lair, thinking again of her election speech. She began to recite potential opening lines, raising her voice above the shark song, raising her voice so that she would not again think of Naeem and Sara and the things they had done with each other.
She had sat with the two of them and allowed them to play their parts, driven by a morbid curiosity more than anything else. She observed Sara’s happiness in Naeem’s company, his watchfulness of her. She had attempted to not allow the images of them to burst through her mind, but when Naeem had invoked Allah’s name she could bear it no longer. He was a hypocrite who cloaked his lust and ego in a veneer of righteousness, secure in the privileges he had done nothing to earn. Worse still, he had smiled at her as though they were friends, when they both knew that he would not have spoken to her at all had it not been for Sara. She could not permit herself to think of Sara’s lies, the way that she had condescended to her when Abida had been right about her relationship with Naeem from the outset.
The front door jiggled and shook. The turn of a key in the door indicated that she had been saved from intruders on this occasion, and Abida put the Pringles back in the cupboard and turned down the volume of the television.
‘Oh, it’s just you,’ she said, seeing Maroof. He had long ceased accompanying their parents on visits to other Bangladeshi families, saying he would next accompany them when they had a nice girl to show him, as though he were inspecting a car.
Maroof did not respond with a sharp retort or a snort as expected, sinking into the couch next to her.
‘Maggie dumped me,’ he said simply.
Abida’s first impulse was to make a snide remark, that it had taken Maggie long enough to do it. But the angle at which Maroof’s chin met his chest told her that to do so would be cruel and vengeful. Abida could be cruel and vengeful, but only when she did not recognise the cruelty of what she was doing until after it was already done.
‘What happened?’ The softness of her voice startled Maroof into raising his head, although he did not look at her, staring at the television, where a shark was now chasing a fat, inept goldfish.
‘She just told me it was over between us. She said she still wants to be friends. As if I’d want to be friends with her after that.’ Maroof uttered the last statement with such vehemence that a globule of spit landed on Abida’s nose, which she dabbed at delicately so that he would not notice.
‘Did she give you any reason why?’
‘She just said she didn’t see any future for us and that there was no point continuing to see each other. What an absolute bitch,’ he said, sounding more like himself.
‘Girls aren’t bitches because they break up with you. Besides, she’s right. You knew there wasn’t a future for you two anyway. You weren’t exactly planning on telling Abbu and Ammu about her, were you?’
Once it had been said, she worried Maroof would snap at her, perhaps even strike out. He had smacked her once when they were very young, and the vague memory Abida possessed of this incident included the somewhat more concrete memory of her father smacking Maroof, both occurrences never having been repeated since.
When he responded, Maroof sounded almost nonchalant, reaching for the remote.
‘I guess you’re right. She was a hottie though, right? Do you think Mum and Dad will find someone as hot for me or will I have to go hunting myself?’
‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response,’ Abida said tartly. She hated men, hated their inconstancy. Their propensity for violence guaranteed their dominance, their fists and penises wielded as weapons, and when they were not violent, they were pathetic.
Maroof laughed. Maggie had been correct in her assessment of their future; Maroof would have dumped her in six months or a year, once he had tired of the play at rebellion and gotten on with his real life.
‘Do you want to get a kebab or something?’ Maroof spoke affably, the tightness of his jaw the sole indication of the sadness he had carried when he had entered the house. Abida could not determine if this was because he did not want to appear sad in her presence, or if it was because his pride had been bruised and not his heart. Whatever it was, she did not want any part of it. She shook her head and he shrugged and walked back out, the revving of his car against the road rattling around before it faded off into the stillness of the night.
The next day Abida woke up, her mind turning over line after line from her speech. She fished out one of Ammu’s old red lipsticks, rolling it over her lips until they were covered in it. When she entered the meeting room, she clenched her teeth together. She was here to win. But underneath the table, her fingers shook, the back of her knees wet with sweat.
‘Assalamu alaykum, all,’ Mustafa began. ‘Thank you for coming to the nomination quorum for MSA president. This will be my last official act as president. The post of president is one which comes with a large amount of responsibility, guiding this MSA to constantly strive for greater. As most of you know, according to our constitution, elections commence with a statement of intent from candidates. We will then ask for statements from members, following which the voting will open and remain open for ten days. Remember that the president gets to choose their deputy, so Ziad will not be the default deputy unless chosen by the new president. Any questions?’
Mustafa was dressed in a sleek grey suit, his beard shaved from its former length. He had probably made these concessions for his new job, but it lent the proceedings an added air of formality. Across the table, Wahid had his hands in his lap, his biceps visible even as he sat slumped in his chair. Naeem was gazing down at the floor. Abida couldn’t see his expression, but his posture betrayed no sign of nervousness. She loathed him then, longed to grab him by his shirt and force him to lift his head and face everyone, the truth of what he was apparent to all.
‘What happens if there’s a tie?’ Fitri’s voice exuded casual disinterest.
‘The outgoing president has the deciding vote. That means me, I’m afraid.’ Mustafa chuckled, then rearranged his face into an appropriately serious configuration. They were children, Abida thought, children playing at activism and righteous outrage through their social media profiles. But this did not dim the knowledge that she would have to beat the boys across the table if she were to retain any semblance of dignity. Dissipating now was her desire to do good, to affect change; there was only me versus him; win, lose. She wondered if this was what all politics came down to in the end, nothing more than a desire to decimate the other person and grind their face into the dirt.
‘Okay, if that’s all, we’ll start with the candidate speeches. We’ve had two candidates express interest, so we’ll start with the person whose nomination was submitted first, Wahid Faridi.’
Wahid stood up from his chair, cleared his throat with a whack to the chest. Abida was gratified to see his fingers curl and uncurl as he did, breaking the appearance of cool he maintained.
‘Assalamu alaykum, guys. I’m honoured to be standing before you today and to be considered for the leadership of this group. We’re in testing times, now more than ever. We’re vilified on the streets and told we don’t belong here. The kuffar want us to break and leave this deen. Many people have already left, and the one way to protect ourselves from the same fate is to stick together. We need to help each other to stay on the straight path, and I’m committed to doing that as president. I’m not saying I can do this all on my own. I’ll need your help to do it, and I’ll have the help of brother Naeem too, who as we all know is our resident Quran expert and future doctor and all-round brilliant guy, mashaAllah. It’s people like this who will carry our ummah into the future, and people like all of you around the room. Thank you.’
Wahid sat back down, grinning now that it was done. There were a few scattered claps, murmurs of assent. Abida felt Sara reach for her hand under the table, whisper a fervent good luck, but she did not acknowledge the gesture. She noted the movement of Mustafa’s lips, the sweep of his hand towards her.
‘Abida?’ Mustafa repeated her name, and Abida rose from her chair. Wahid had stood in the same spot as he had been seated, but Abida walked instead towards the front of the room. She stood at the centre of the table, in the empty space which demarcated boys from girls. This was her place.
‘Bismillah. In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.’
In her hand Abida clasped a few sentences she had composed some time ago, back when Mustafa had first announced that the MSA would be seeking a new president. She had written of broadening their focus, had listed the Muslim population of China, statistics on First Nations dispossession and the count of Australian women killed by their partners this year. But now the words seemed grandiose, inflated in their estimation of what she could and could not do.
Abida scrunched up the piece of paper. She was aware of the silence in the room, which seemed to stretch and thicken before her. She saw the acknowledged couple, Ahlam and Ziad, exchange a glance across the table; the unacknowledged couple mirroring each other’s stances with their heads bowed. In these gestures Abida read the essential futility of what she was attempting. She had once deemed this MSA the prime opportunity to make her mark, but what would linger of this motley student group and their ambitions once they exited these walls? She would complete her degree in two years and the MSA and its lofty pledges would mean nothing at all, while the others would depart university with graduate jobs and a partner by their side, their lives defined by the vagaries of suburbia and interest rates and annual leave balances. Nobody in here cared about remedying the world’s injustices as she did, only the performance of it.
‘There are people in this room. In this very room. They’re sitting around this table right now. Let me tell you about these people and their shit.’
She heard someone hiss, the commonplace swearword sounding sordid in this setting. Abida continued, looking straight ahead at the blank wall and not at Mustafa, whose expression of bemusement she observed peripherally, or Naeem, whose head was now raised, alert. The motion reminded her of a dog, its ears perked at the suggestion and scent of a threat. He was a dog, this boy, the very embodiment of the injustices she so hated, and he had corrupted the one relationship she had believed in.
