Worlds Apart (3 page)

We lost the match. I felt like a failure, weak and embarrassed to be part of the elite team. I picked up my sports bag and stood by the edge of the netball court, watching Julie centre court surrounded by the team. Eventually she broke away and walked over to me. I wanted to tell her what had happened with that girl on court, but didn’t want her to think I was using it as an excuse for losing the tournament.

To my surprise, Julie didn’t mention anything about the game but invited me for ‘tea’ at her house after netball practice the next day. I wasn’t expecting such a kind offer and couldn’t turn it down if I was to stay friends with her. She was my only friend and my only way of staying on Team A. I accepted the invitation then walked to the bus stop.

The bus shelter was crowded. People huddled inside to avoid the blustery, cold wind that had suddenly risen
from nowhere. I sat down on the pavement, leaning against a wall with my legs stretched out in front. I kept thinking of an excuse to give Mum about going to Julie’s tomorrow. It wasn’t worth telling her the truth, because she would make a big drama out if it and insist on coming with me. However, even that wasn’t as worrying as having to return the invitation back to my house. This would mean asking Mum to make chips instead of chapatti and eating with knives and forks instead of our hands.

My thoughts were interrupted by two teenage boys riding up on their bikes and stopping in front of my legs.

‘Move it!’ one of them spat.

I looked up at them and suddenly got a flashback of the netball girl, making the Julie problem fizzle out. I knew they expected the same reaction as her. They wanted me to cower, pull my legs into my chest and apologise to them. Just the thought was making me angry.

‘No,’ I replied, looking beyond my feet at the two feet of paving space. ‘There is plenty of room to go round. And you shouldn’t be riding your bikes on the pavement.’ I recalled an incident with a police officer outside my house telling someone to get off their bike and walk.

They were visibly shocked and exchanged glances. ‘Fuckin’ move,’ the other joined in.

‘No,’ I repeated. They would have to cycle over my legs before I was going to move.

The people queuing under the bus shelter pretended not to notice and quickly shuffled forward as the bus arrived. This got me angrier. I didn’t want to get up and be defeated, but at the same time I really couldn’t wait for another bus and be left with these boys. I stayed focused on the queue, waiting for the last person to get on, then shot up and ran over. The door closed just as I got there. I looked in, staring at the driver with pleading eyes. Thankfully he could see what was going on and opened up.

I stepped inside, headed over to a window seat and searched for the boys as the bus pulled away. My tolerance level was about to burst. I’d had enough of everything going on in my life.

Perhaps I wasn’t meant to fight back. I couldn’t imagine my parents or siblings behaving this way, though I’m sure they had experienced something similar but it was never discussed at home.

As the bus stopped at the traffic lights, the boys rode past and looked in. I knew they were looking for me, but what could they do? I was protected by the pane of glass between us.

I felt anger build up inside me and I stuck two fingers up at them. I knew it was wrong, but I felt a rush
of liberation, and revenge on the netball girl. A few passengers looked at me in disbelief, especially the elderly blue-rinse brigade. I looked back with a hard stare, wanting to ask why, when the boys insulted me, I was ignored, but when I retaliated I received surprise?

I went home with the further worry that the boys would be waiting for me next time. I racked my brains for a solution. A few things came to mind: I could skip the bus and run home instead, which would make me late but I would save on the fare and be able to buy chewies from the sweet shop. Alternatively, I could hide in the queue at the bus stop and hope they didn’t see me. Or, as a last resort, I could take Mum’s air freshener and spray it on their eyes if they said anything to me again. I wasn’t set on any of the options, but one thing was for sure: I wasn’t taking it any more.

The next day I went to Julie’s house after netball practice. It was small, like our first house, and set on a side street away from traffic, unlike ours, which was on a busy road.

It was strange going to an English person’s house. Firstly, it smelt different, not of the usual garlicky smell of our house but more ‘bready’. Her mum, Beryl, welcomed me with a big smile. Her hairstyle was like something out of the ’60s, a beehive with curly brown locks down the sides of her round face. There
was another woman, heavily pregnant, sat on the sofa who looked like her twin, except for the hairdo, so I guessed it was her sister. Julie also had a big brother. He was fat and introduced himself with a ‘hiya’. What I wasn’t expecting was a big dog in the house. Those rabies adverts on TV were going round in my head and I had almost been bitten by a dog on the way home from school recently. It was big and black and could smell my fear. It chased me around the block and wouldn’t go away so I had to knock on the door of one of the houses and get the people living there to shoo it away.

Beryl assured me their dog wouldn’t bite, but his barking was telling me different. Reluctantly they locked him up in the kitchen when I refused to come inside.

To my surprise ‘tea’ was not ‘egg and chips’ but a meat dish. I sat at the kitchen table with Julie and stared down at my plate, not wanting to say I couldn’t eat it because it wasn’t halal and doubly worried it was pork, which would make me puke. I remembered a prayer the imam taught us, reciting the first line of the Koran three times, before starting a meal. Perhaps if I said that it would make everything on my plate halal. I convinced myself this was the case, closed my eyes and tried to remember how the words went.

Beryl thought it was sweet that I was praying before eating my food and offered me another helping because
I had finished first. It was intentional. I had swallowed big chunks so my taste buds did not savour the meat. I politely took another helping, trying to keep the first lot down by gulping lots of water. The meal was followed by dessert, something we didn’t get at home, but which thankfully didn’t have to be prayed over.

I began to relax, savouring the sweet ice cream in my mouth for as long as possible. It was nice being in an English house, but I did wonder where her dad was. Perhaps he was working like mine.

I glanced up at the small kitchen window; it was getting dark and Mum would be worried. I’d told her I would be a bit late because of a double netball session. Surprisingly she didn’t question it, which was good as I’d be able to use the excuse again.

‘Don’t worry.’ Beryl looked across at Julie’s brother, who was sat in front of the telly eating a plate of chips, ‘Gary will walk you back.’

‘No, no … it’s okay,’ I stopped her. If Mum saw me come home with a boy, she’d kill me and Auntie Pataani would have a field day dissecting the situation with her.

However, Beryl wasn’t having it – I was her responsibility until I got home safe. I looked at Julie, who was now in her slippers and getting her homework out. Reluctantly I put my duffel coat on and headed out with Gary.

It must have been the longest fifteen minutes of my life walking home with him. Not a word was passed between us. I wondered if he had learning difficulties, but wondered more what would happen when we got to my house. I looked down at the paving, tinged orange by the streetlamps above, and mulled over my options.

‘This is my house,’ I said, pointing at a terraced house a block away from mine. ‘You can go now.’

He looked bemused as there were no lights on inside, then finally spoke. ‘I’ll see you in,’ he said, blowing his fingers through his woollen gloves and hopping one foot to the other. The cold wind had also made my fingers and toes tingle but there were more pressing issues occupying me right now. Perhaps he wants to come in and get warm, I thought, panicking all of a sudden. Of course, if it was Julie there would be no problem, nor would I be standing outside the wrong house.

I shook my head profusely then waved at his big round face until he walked back up the street. I waited until he was a dot in the distance then ran down to my house.

Mum had left me a plate of dhal on the kitchen table, thinking I hadn’t eaten. She told me off for being very late, which I was expecting. Once she’d got it out of her system, I asked if my netball friend could come for tea and if we could have chips. She looked at me like
I had three heads and responded by reminding me of ‘our way’ and the ‘English way’, which meant we were having chapattis.

I was sick of all these rules; first it was the ‘Muslim way’, then ‘the girls’ way’ and now ‘the English way’. How many more barriers were going to be put up? My mum had no idea what it was like for me. She was illiterate. She’d never attended school or sat in a mixed-gender classroom. She’d never known what it was like to do everything different from the other kids.

Defeated, the next day I tried to think of excuses to give Julie for not coming over to my house, but each one sounded lame and thoughtless. As a kid, the logic of English food served at an English house and Asian food served at an Asian house didn’t occur to me. I just wanted to be like the rest of the kids at school and this cuisine was making me feel different, more so than my physical appearance.

The invitation was finally returned. Julie and I walked to my house after netball practice one evening. The cold temperature had made the snow settle into bumpy ice on the ground, making me slip and slide as I led the way.

I spent the whole time trying to romanticise my family to her; the traditional clothes Mum wore, the language we spoke and the food we ate, all the time avoiding using the word ‘different’.

Julie’s reaction was difficult to gauge – not surprised, excited or phased. I suddenly got worried she would relay all this back to the girls at school tomorrow, especially the netball ones, but it was too late – we were almost home.

Mum welcomed Julie at the door in her pigeon English. ‘Hello, Juuli … come here.’ She opened the door wider to let her in.

Mum wore a lime-green shalwar kameez, with yellow embroidery edging the dupatta that was loosely placed over her head. She wriggled her maroon toenails that were sticking out of her red clogs. It didn’t matter what season it was outside or what colour combination she was wearing, she never took those clogs off.

Julie’s red hair glowed in the dark hallway as she stepped inside. It looked strange to have an English person in the house. We stood in a triangle. I could smell the curry cooking in the kitchen at the back of the house and wondered if I should say something or let Julie guess what we were having tonight.

Mum started giggling. It was one of her traits when she didn’t know what to say, which was not very often. However, speaking English meant she had to think up the words to say. Finally, she turned to me and told me in Punjabi what curry we were having tonight and to tell Julie in English.

‘What she say?’ Julie eyes flitted between us, then she laughed uncontrollably. It must have sounded strange to her, almost cartoony.

I felt my face burn as I translated, then Mum cut in with another reel of Punjabi to tell us to wash our hands.

I didn’t want to take Julie to the bathroom in case she questioned the
lota
by the toilet. I would then have to explain that it was used to wash the private parts before praying. Instead, I led her straight into the kitchen to eat.

We passed the living room, where Dad was glued to the telly watching the news on the Falklands War. I wanted to go in and introduce Julie and tell him she was in the A stream at school. I stopped myself, though, remembering that I had told him I was also in the A stream, when really I was in C. I couldn’t tell him the truth, not now my sister was coming home with A*s. This secret wasn’t a problem until I got my report at the end of the year.

The only thing that had impressed him so far was that I’d beaten him at chess a few times. He’d never say it but I could tell from the glint in his eyes. It meant so much to me because I knew he saw chess as an intelligent person’s game, and that small recognition from him made my world make sense again.

Julie and I sat at the kitchen table. I looked round and suddenly noticed Mum had laid out an odd set of
crockery for Julie; the special set for English people who came to the house, as she would describe it. Her explanation was, because they ate pig, they couldn’t use the halal plates. Julie’s face said it all, questioning why her plate and glass were different to the rest. She opened her mouth to say something just as Mum nuzzled between us and poured curry into our bowls with a ladle then placed a basket of chapattis for us to share on the table.

Julie was even more confused when Mum handed her a saucer of sliced oranges to squeeze over the curry to sweeten the taste, a trick Mum used with me when I was very young. Then she came and sat on the spare chair and smiled at Julie, resting her elbows on the table. Julie looked at me, then back at Mum. Of course, it was different at Julie’s house; her mum ate dinner with us, not just serve and wait. I knew it was just a cultural difference, but it was bothering me.

I quickly led the way by ripping a piece of chapatti and making a spoon out of it to scoop the curry sauce. Julie followed. It was all very hard work. Firstly, Mum couldn’t have a conversation with us like Beryl could, because she kept switching to Punjabi and asking me to translate, then Julie got frustrated trying to scoop the curry and eventually asked for a fork. This put Mum on the back foot as we didn’t use forks in the house and she
didn’t know what one was. She now had to find some more ‘non-halal cutlery’ and ended up offering Julie a rather large dessert spoon that had been at the bottom of the drawer for ages.

Then, even with the orange juice squeezed in the curry, the chillies hit the back of Julie’s throat and she grappled for the goblet of water.

Mum panicked. She got up to refill the glass of water, asking me in Punjabi if she was OK. Her voice got louder, as did the noise from her clogs. Julie began coughing uncontrollably. I patted her back as she tried to say something. Her hair was all over the place, eyes watering, and her face bright red. Meanwhile, Mum was bouncing around the cupboards trying to find a solution. She came back with a bowl of sugar and tried to shove a spoonful into Julie’s mouth. Julie didn’t know what was happening until she moved the tiny crystals around with her tongue. Then she stopped coughing and just sat quietly, staring at the sugar bowl.