The Scope of Permissibility, page 22
Downstairs, Sara heard the front door swing open. She could hear Naeem in the kitchen, the microwave humming. Panic and terror held her in position.
‘Whose shoes are these?’ She heard a trilling female voice call out, the pretty cadence of it filling her ears. A woman, with the easy confidence of someone entering their own home.
Naeem had not answered, and the question was stated once, then again, its volume and pitch increasing with each repetition.
‘It’s a girl, Ammu. She’s upstairs.’ Naeem’s voice sounded unfamiliar, and Sara realised why: he was afraid, more afraid than she had ever heard him, even when compared to how he had behaved that day at the beach. Then, Sara had been able to use her body to contain and shield him, but there was no such recourse available to them now.
‘You brought a girl into the house? You brought a girl into our house?’ This was followed by a scream, and a dull thump which could have been a slap or perhaps something falling to the ground in a distracted motion. Sara imagined the woman entering her house, clasping a jacket or an umbrella in her hand, thinking of a shower and dinner as she went to put her shoes away. She had styled this house, crafted her children to sit upright in its varnished chairs and utter their pleases and thank yous, and now her son had brought a stranger inside without her permission.
The screaming stopped, then continued without pause. It was terrible to hear, a mother’s anguish at being so deceived by the child she had raised with such care, the son she had thought devoid of the ugliness in other people’s children. Sara could understand this woman’s fury, but she could not escape it; the only viable exit was to go down the staircase and out the front door. She was trapped inside this house. The screaming ceased, and when the woman spoke again, it was clipped and precise.
‘Bring her down here now, please.’
Sara had thought Naeem would protest and tell his mother that she was being ridiculous and hysterical, that she had no right to demand such a thing, but he did not. Instead, she heard his footsteps on the staircase and his hand turning the doorknob, and then he was standing before her. He did not speak, but instead began shoving her things inside her bag with a ferocity she had never imagined he could possess. Sara did not object as Naeem crumpled her hijab and put it in the bag alongside her phone and car keys. She could not speak to him or look at him, just follow him down the staircase, bare-headed and barefoot, where the woman stood waiting.
‘Give us a moment, won’t you?’ She gestured towards the garden, indicating that Naeem should leave.
In the minutes since Naeem had gone upstairs, the woman had composed herself. Although her words had been phrased, if not delivered, as a question, Naeem complied, closing the door behind him so limply that it remained ajar by several centimetres. The woman moved and shut it in one neat flick of the wrist, before proceeding towards the front part of the house. She did not turn around to see if Sara was walking behind her, but Sara followed her anyway. They turned into the guest room and sat on sofas facing each other, reminding Sara for a moment of the very first time she had come to this house.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ the woman said, sitting with her legs crossed. She seemed far too young to be the mother of an adult son and was one of the most beautiful women Sara had seen, her face carved with such skill by Al-Musawwir, The Fashioner. Only the slight dampness of her sleeve and the hard gleam in her honey-brown eyes hinted that she was the same woman whose screaming had so chilled Sara. The long eyelashes were the same as her son’s, as were the long fingers, but these fingers and wrists were glazed with jewellery: a gold band and a tiny, brilliant diamond ring on the left hand, a thin gold bracelet on the right. This woman wore her wealth tastefully, just as her son did. These people seemed to know how to be wealthy in a way that did not offend, but suggested the existence of further riches.
‘Mrs Kazi, please –’
‘Call me Meherin, please. I didn’t catch your name, dear? Your full name.’
It did not occur to Sara to lie, or to walk out of the room. Naeem had left her alone with this woman, whose force of will had Sara affixed to her seat, her eyes downcast. She felt she owed Naeem’s mother a debt for her gross misappropriation of her house, and by extension, her son. This was a mere preview of the judgement she and Naeem were to receive on the day after which there would be no more days, and she could not contemplate fleeing from this woman any more than she could contemplate fleeing from the judgement to come.
‘It’s Sara Andrews,’ Sara said. She would not address Naeem’s mother as Meherin, but neither could she call her Aunty as she did with the mothers of friends. Sara wondered what she would have called this woman if she was her daughter-in-law, whether they would have cooked in the marble kitchen together for the men of the house.
‘Sara, you’re a nice girl I’m sure, but my son has been very foolish.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –’
Again, Naeem’s mother cut across her, her English faintly accented with something that was not Australian, but which was nevertheless faultless in its execution.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for, dear. It’s my son who’s been in the wrong. I don’t like the idea of him disgracing himself and leading on poor girls like yourself. I will talk to him myself, don’t you worry. My children sometimes tell me I can be dramatic, but I will deal with this all discreetly. There’s no need for his father or anyone else to know at this stage, unless there are any further complications,’ she continued, sweeping over the last word in a manner that left little doubt as to her meaning.
Sara realised then that she was not wearing her hijab and that Naeem’s mother had taken her for a white girl, and that, because of this, she would not exact punishment. She was not going to punish Naeem for a relationship that would not threaten his eventual marriage prospects, and she was certainly not going to punish Sara for something she assumed a girl like her would see no shame in. The horror, the utter grotesqueness of it was devastating, but Sara could not bring herself to correct the error. It was better this way, sparing them all any further embarrassment and grief. There was no future for her and Naeem. They had been aware of this for some time, and his mother had ensured they would not prevaricate any longer.
‘Naeem? Can you please come walk Sara to her car?’ Naeem’s mother stood up and extended her hand, the slender fingers oddly comforting against hers. Sara respected this woman, even if she could not like her. They were women and women understood the fallibility of boys. Naeem appeared at the door as if he had been waiting there all along, and Sara felt her legs moving and her feet slipping into the offending shoes, which had been placed next to the front door. She turned her head back to the couches, the gleaming floors, the ripple of the swimming pool behind the garden. She would not see the inside of this house again, and she wanted to etch its expanse onto her memory where she could access it, keep it safe in the months and years to come. One day, she might tell her daughter about all of this, not as warning but as fable, a boy and a girl and the things they had done in the big house with the brocade curtains.
‘You take care now, dear,’ Meherin said, shutting the door behind them and withdrawing back into her house.
Once Sara was out in the bright sunshine, she longed to run down the driveway and away from this place. She felt strangely grateful to Naeem’s mother for what she had done. But she could not run, matching her steps to Naeem’s instead, which were heavy and shuffling.
‘Sara, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ Naeem’s voice was choked, but his head was bowed, and he did not make any attempt to touch her. His mother could still be watching them from one of the house’s many windows and they both knew the time when they could hold each other and forget was gone.
‘There’s nothing to apologise for.’ Sara echoed his mother’s words. She supposed he ought to apologise but at this point the semantics of apology were immaterial. She loved him still, but it was time to go. She saw now that she would have to drive away from this house and leave Naeem, and that she could do so because, for all his goodness, she was ultimately tougher and stronger and more durable than he was. He would have permitted them to totter on, had it not been for the strength of his mother, a strength that Sara would now have to assume for herself.
‘I love you so much. It’s all my fault for being such a fucked-up coward. You don’t have to leave.’ Naeem was sobbing now, thick white mucus from his nose dripping all over his face and down his sweater. Sara did not wish to be cruel, but she would not linger to offer any more of herself to him. There had been too many offerings, too many opportunities for withdrawal she had refused to take.
‘I love you too, but I do have to go.’ Sara got in the car and closed the door, and before Naeem could say anything further, she turned the keys in the ignition and drove away, the image of him standing on the footpath with his hands to his face flashing briefly in her rear-view mirror before disappearing. She sped up. She had to go somewhere else and put her hijab back on. Absurd really, to have removed what Allah commanded for a mere boy. She would not be making that mistake again.
26
Abida
Sara had phoned her, sobbing so noisily into the phone Abida had been forced to hold it several centimetres away from her face. Sara’s speech was incomprehensible and garbled, but Abida did not need to know the details of who had said what and who had responded in which fashion. Naeem had behaved as she had been certain he would from the outset, abandoning Sara in favour of his pleasant, dull life. Abida was surprised at how little solace she drew from her foresight. Even through the grief she felt for Sara, she was so overjoyed that Sara was speaking to her again, that she had forgiven Abida for her outburst.
Abida proposed that they go out somewhere for a greasy meal, and Sara had acceded, despite their looming exams. She had volunteered to drive to Abida’s house, arriving so promptly that Abida had not yet dressed. Sara came in and sat down with Ammu, and the good manners and total lack of conceit she displayed in watching a video Farah was showing her made Abida think of the daughter-in-law Naeem’s parents could have acquired. Sara aimed to please her audience; she would have donned an elaborate red sari and bejewelled veil for her wedding, allowed Naeem’s parents to choose the caterer and the venue and the bulk of the guest list. She would have attempted to learn Bangla and emulate the way Naeem’s mother served her guests, noting her own errors before anyone else would. A Bangladeshi girl would bring her own notions of how things should be done, of how she had seen her own mother entertain and cook certain dishes, but Sara would have provided a blank template upon which Naeem’s parents could construct the expectations of what a Bangladeshi daughter-in-law would or would not do. They could have done far worse.
As soon as Abida entered the room, Sara rose and kissed Ammu on both cheeks, hugging Farah and whispering something in her ear which sent her into peals of giggles. Sara was good with children because she did not use that peculiar babyish tone of voice so many adults did, as if children could not understand them if they spoke in their ordinary voice. Abida kissed her mother, and together they turned and walked towards Sara’s car.
Inside the car, the pretence of cheer that had propped Sara up in the house seemed to desert her, and the hand not holding the wheel was shaking. Abida was afraid to speak. She did not know what to say of a relationship which had so offended her sensibilities, but had evidently meant a great deal to her oldest and dearest friend. She was a stranger to heartbreak and was curious as to what it might entail, but her immediate priority was to listen, to assuage Sara’s pain. Maroof had recovered from his heartbreak with obscene haste, requesting their parents set about finding suitable girls for him to meet in the coming weeks and months. Abida hoped he was repressing his feelings. The reality, that he did not in fact possess feelings potent enough to warrant suppressing, was far too grim.
‘We can talk about it, or we can just go eat. It’s up to you,’ Abida said. She was aware of her own shortcomings in handling the feelings of others. It required an intuitive knowledge of when to be silent and when to speak, the capacity to withhold opinions and pronouncements that could affront. It also required the ability to quieten one’s own inner monologue, a task Abida found difficult. But she would attempt anything for Sara now. They had passed through the greatest moment of crisis, and the fact that Sara was trusting her with her anguish meant more than any other gesture she could have made.
Sara did not reply. Abida marvelled at how ordinary she looked. Her hijab was pinned, her clothing was ironed, and she had the raw pink remnants of a pimple on her chin. She wondered if other people’s bodies conspired against them in such underhand ways, wondered if Naeem had adored Sara’s imperfections. She would not ask, would not allude to anything of that nature again.
The kebab shop Sara had chosen was the one Maroof frequented, which was well-known for its snack packs. Sara ordered an entire one for herself, but Abida could not stomach the concoction with its piles of meat and hot chips and cocktail of sauces, so she ordered a small hot chips instead. The crowd was mixed, girls with ripped jeans and wedge heels on the arms of their muscled boyfriends mingling with families in tracksuits and hijabs. The friendly banter between the kebab servers and their customers precluded any conversation, but when they sat outside Sara began to speak without prompting.
‘I’m so stupid. I knew all along that it was going to end and I kept going and going, and he knew it was going to end and he let me keep going, just because he could.’ Sara scraped her plastic fork against the surface of her styrofoam container, leaving three even lines down its centre.
‘He’s boring and he’s a loser, Sara. I honestly have no idea what you saw in him.’
‘He’s not a loser, I am. He’s a good person in a world with very few good people in it, and I’m never going to meet someone like him again.’ The resignation Sara spoke with was terrible. How could they have come to this, at the age of twenty, to believe their best was already behind them? Few of Abida’s non-Muslim friends would speak about themselves in such a manner; they were absorbed in their jobs and parties and travels, deriving meaning from the heartbreaks and the slights, wallowing in the rebounds and the casual, undefined flings. Her Muslim friends could be just as blithe, but she and Sara were sitting here, thinking of the world and all its tribulations.
‘You know what? Fuck it. Fuck it, and fuck that fucking idiot, Sara. It’s all fucked. Let’s just enjoy our fucking meal.’
Sara stared at her across the table. Her expression was almost angry, her fork paused mid-air. The laughter seemed to pour out of her in a great big spurt, causing tears to run down her face and her hand to clutch her belly. Abida chuckled, uncertain of how she ought to respond. She stuffed a chip into her mouth, opening Sara’s container to dip another into her garlic sauce.
‘It’s just – I’ve never heard you swear, not like that.’ Sara was snorting, her nostrils flaring as the spasms in her belly appeared to recede.
‘And you won’t again, not any time soon. And if you tell anyone, you’re deader than the animals who were sacrificed to bring us this beautiful meal, so let’s enjoy ourselves, okay?’
They chewed on and on, opening the cans of Coke Abida brought them from the fridge and guzzling them down until they were empty, and she rose to get them two more. The gristly bits of doner meat disappeared into Sara’s mouth, leaving a greasy sheen on her lips and chin. They communicated in half-grunts and nods, and when they were done, they scooped the lot into the bin and walked to the car in silence.
‘I still love him, Abida. I can’t say I don’t,’ Sara said, as though the question had been posed and she had been compelled to answer.
‘People don’t just fall out of love just like that. I might not know a whole about love, but I do know that.’
‘Do you think you’ll ever fall in love?’
Abida considered the question. She had experienced crushes on various teen heartthrobs, but the boys she encountered did not hold much appeal for her. She was yet to meet a boy-man who could be soft without being weak, and who could be strong without also being callous or aggressive. She did not think such a man existed, not in the present age. Sara would have to learn what Abida had learned some time ago: love was a crutch used by the feeble, and once removed, the world could be understood for the pile of shit that it was.
‘I don’t know, Sara. I don’t think so. I just don’t see the point of it.’
Sara shook her head, looking more grieved than she had when they had been sitting at the shop.
‘Well, you’ve always been smarter than me, but I guess everyone’s entitled to get it wrong on their first go, right? I’ll have to try harder next time.’ This play at being facetious did not suit Sara and, although Abida knew it was feigned, she wanted desperately to put a stop to it. Not every difficulty could be snipped into a tidy anecdote, a cautionary tale to be told to one’s self and others. The relentless, tedious struggles of her parents through war and poverty had taught her that much. She wanted Sara to stop torturing herself, to understand that only those with sufficient courage to open their heart could withstand the rupturing of it. But she knew she could not fast-forward Sara’s healing. It was too soon for that.
‘Just because it ended doesn’t make it wrong,’ she said, squeezing Sara’s hand.
‘It was wrong, in so many ways. I was so angry at you when I should have been angry at him. You already know, so I might as well tell you everything now.’
‘You were right to be angry at me, and you certainly don’t owe me any explanations,’ Abida said. She was still curious regarding the details of how it had all begun, of how far they had gone and what it had been like, but she did not think she could bear the weight of what Sara would divulge. Some things were best left unsaid; to speak of them would be to irrevocably tear at their capacity to understand each other. Abida was beginning to understand her own limitations better, and although she was learning all the time, she did not think she was yet capable of accepting that Naeem and Sara had spent all their time in the back seat of their cars or that Sara had had an abortion or anything else. Those secrets would remain theirs to whisper to Allah in the night.
