Worlds Apart (5 page)

I imagined my parents exchanging blank looks. Firstly, this wasn’t about my parents’ respect, it was about getting their nephew over to England. Secondly, didn’t they think my parents had nephews in their own family to choose from if they really wanted to marry me back there?

I couldn’t take it any more: this was my life they were discussing. Just as I was about to barge in the shop bell rang.

Scott was stood by the shop door. He was a good-looking lad, well built, gelled-back hair, wearing a gold hoop in his left ear. He would normally come in after
the pubs closed with his very pretty girlfriend or a gang of lads after a night out.

‘Can I come in?’ he asked, holding the door open with one foot.

‘You’re not allowed,’ I said.

‘Tell your mum I’m sorry,’ he pleaded.

I looked at him and he did look sorry. A fight had erupted in the shop last night near closing time between six blokes representing different football teams for the local pubs. Hajji had hidden in the kitchen, which didn’t surprise me. I recall a fist missing me by half an inch then Scott reassuring me that he would get them all out of the shop. Unfortunately, before he could finish his sentence, a punch landed on his face and he fell by Mum’s favourite plant pot. That did it. Mum went round with a rolled-up newspaper and started hitting them. It was quite a sight to see six burly blokes being shooed out by her. Although Scott was part of the group, he was trying to stop the fight, but Mum decided the whole group was banned from coming in for a month.

‘Hang on.’ I went inside the house and pretended to speak to Mum then reappeared moments later. ‘Mum said you’re allowed in but it’s your last chance.’

Scott leapt in, rubbing his hands in glee as he scanned the food trays in the display fridge.

‘Two of them while I’m waiting, love.’ He pointed at the onion bhaji tray.

I placed the bhajis in the microwave and stared anxiously at him, trying to figure out which of the two menus stuck on the wall he was looking at; the kebab or my pizza one. I’d done a deal with Mum to rent part of the fridge and start selling my own pizzas to earn my own money.

Pizzas were becoming the fashionable food. I decided to give them the authentic touch by using a spicy tomato base and toppings such as tandoori chicken pieces, curried vegetables and chilli cheese.

Scott looked across at me then back at the menus.

‘Errr … go on then, I’ll have a pizza,’ he said, looking a little unsure. ‘And can I have a kebab as well?’

I broke into a big smile, ignoring Hajji, who was stood in the back holding a tea towel in one hand watching us suspiciously. He was always suspicious when I served a bloke.

‘How’s business?’ Scott always asked the same question.

‘Really good, thanks,’ I handed him the steaming bag of onion bhajis from the microwave.

‘What was it before?’

‘Hairdresser’s,’ I replied, making up his pizza. ‘We converted it when we moved in.’

‘Oh yeah, I remember now. Can’t imagine your mum running that place … you lot don’t really do much with your hair except grow it.’

‘We’re not allowed to cut our hair; it’s a sign of femininity.’

‘Yeah, but your hair looks great long, you should have it out, not tied back all the time.’

‘We’re not allowed.’

He smiled and took a bite of his bhaji.

I repeated the words in my head and realised how pathetic I sounded. Who said we were not allowed? Why can men in our culture cut their hair and why do Sikh men grow their hair long like women?

‘So what do you make of this book that’s out then?’ Scott asked, changing the subject but only slightly.

‘Not sure really,’ I replied, knowing straight away which book he was talking about. ‘I haven’t read it so I can’t say.’

The Satanic Verses
publication had caused chaos in Manchester. It was the first time I’d realised how seriously our religion was taken by the Pakistani community, when Salman Rushdie had to go into hiding and the bearded man from Iran announced his death threat. Like many, I had never heard of the author before, but now I wanted to read the book to find out why the community was so distressed.

I’d put my name down for the book at the local library, but there was a long waiting list. It had sold out at most bookshops and others decided not to stock it.

Scott looked over his shoulder, like he was checking if anyone was behind. ‘Bit over the top to start burning the Union Jack flag, don’t you think?’

I agreed. He was referring to the imams who’d been on the news lately protesting against the book in central cities in the UK. ‘You can’t stop people from writing what they want … freedom of speech and all that.’

‘Well, it’s like porn isn’t it, love?’ Scott wolfed his second bhaji.

‘What?’

‘If you want to read a porn mag you pick it up. It’s up to you.’ He suppressed laughter at my shocked expression.

‘I suppose that’s one way of putting it, but that’s not blasphemy. Apparently the book says that Prophet Mohammed’s wives were prostitutes.’

‘Who knows?’ he raised his hands in the air dramatically.

I lowered my eyes, wrapping up his kebab and pizza as Hajji stood behind watching us like a hawk.

‘That will be £4.10, please.’

Scott handed me a fiver. ‘Keep the change, love.’ He winked and picked up the bag.

As soon as he left, I dashed back in the house. The Longsight guests had gone and Mum was clearing up the pots, humming some tune.

I wanted to confront Mum on the conversation I had overheard but was too angry to speak. I looked around for Dad but he had disappeared. The topic of marriage was an awkward one with Mum, let alone trying to talk it through with Dad. He was only present on these occasions because he had to be. I compared his personality to the Longsight uncle and realised how lucky I was not to have a bullish, dominating, loud-mouthed dad like a lot of girls had. Though he had stepped in when needed, I still questioned his lack of presence in my life. I wondered if he’d said the same when my sister was getting married. Perhaps he could see a difference between us. Perhaps he knew me better than I thought.

I tried reaching out to Shazia for sympathy, telling her there was no way I was going to Pakistan to get married and milk a cow every morning. Her response was to reassure me that mothers knew best. This fuelled my anger. How insensitive. Just because it suited her didn’t mean it suited everyone. I began giving her the cold shoulder, even though I was to be maid of honour at her wedding the following weekend.

However, this was not my biggest concern right now. My GCSE results were coming out next week and even
the best correction fluid to change the grades would not convince my dad.

Shazia’s wedding took place at the local primary school with over 500 guests. Women and children packed into a small changing room with bhangra music blasting from speakers out in the corridor. Paper plates piled high with biryani soaked in ghee were passed around and the fizzy pop served in polystyrene cups was flowing. Shazia looked stunning. She wore a red sari, her face was covered in a gold net dupatta, and she had a big gold ring through her left nostril. I was dressed like a tube of glitter with Hollywood hair and Bollywood eyebrows. As maid of honour, my role was to sit beside her and collect money from the women queuing to examine the dowry gold she wore. Skilfully they scrutinised its intricate detail then lifted it away from her skin to guess its weight. Then, and only then, would they put a hand inside their bras and take out a tenner. That’s when I would jolt to attention and start scribbling their names down on a jotter pad and stuffing the notes inside a big gold purse squeezed between my knees. The money would later be returned to the couple by Shazia’s mum when their children got married.

The wedding was a success, a joyous occasion for everyone, but I left feeling depressed and couldn’t find it inside me to be happy for her. I handed the money
purse back to her mum with the excuse that I had to go home and open the shop. Something was niggling at me and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

To my dismay, my GCSE results came out worse than I had expected. My parents discovered there was never a grade A on the radar. Grades were all they were concerned with so I decided to study easier subjects and took my A levels in art. It was also the convenient option because I had to juggle my studies with working in the shop every evening. The news did not go down well with my parents. Mum was horrified that I would be painting pictures of naked people and Dad couldn’t understand why I wanted to be a painter/decorator.

I went on to study an art foundation course at Manchester College for one year, which I needed before applying for an art degree. My parents found it strange as they expected me to apply for a degree straight after A levels. They got suspicious that I was re-sitting A levels and using the foundation as an excuse. I, too, wasn’t keen on it. It felt like my life was shortened by a year. However, if I had chosen academic subjects I’m sure my life would have been shortened by many more.

The institute, based in the city centre, was my first step into the outside world. It introduced me to a tapestry of people I had not experienced at school. The students were made up of many overseas nationalities
– Japanese, Cypriot, Swedish and American – that I’d never been exposed to before. The teachers were less rigid and were approachable, making it easier to reach out for a mentor.

Dave headed the foundation course. The first day I met him, I knew he would be my mentor. He was a man in his fifties who didn’t mince his words; a similar trait to the one I saw in Mum, which I liked.

On my first few critiques, he asked what my parents thought of me studying art. There weren’t many Asians studying the subject in those days, as it wasn’t seen as an education, hence my parents’ dismay. I stuck out like a sore thumb and he clocked on from my surname that I was Muslim. I enjoyed our friendly banter; the remarks he made about the band of gold I wore on my arm, asking if it was part of my dowry; what my brothers and sisters did and where I was in the pecking order; all the time trying to piece me together. He spotted a
Telegraph
newspaper in my portfolio once and asked if I was a Tory. I didn’t understand politics much, except that the majority of art students labelled themselves as socialists. I was once asked to join a protest against some Bill going through Parliament but declined. Firstly because I didn’t know enough about the Bill but also because I didn’t want to be associated with a party that students signed up to just because it was seen as ‘trendy’.

Dave described my kebab shop duties combined with my studies as a 77-hour weekly shift. However, I didn’t see it that way. I saw it as a stable routine that gave me time every evening, between serving customers, to work on my art projects. It diverted my attention away from useless pastimes like watching television. The shop opened up a social circle of people from my local area, who provoked discussions and debates with me on matters affecting the local people and topical news issues. Dave devised my projects around my working hours in the shop and took time out to sit with me in the canteen. I was pleased to be getting the support and recognition and so I would try to stretch out our time together by offering him more coffee and cake. It got the students gossiping, but there was nothing flirtatious between us.

Boys were not on my radar as I was too busy with my work and studies, though I did make friends with one called Mark. He was a gentle giant with spiky blonde hair and a kind smile. We would meet every morning for coffee in the canteen and go to the sandwich shop together at lunchtime. One day Mark suggested we go to another place down near the canal as it served good tea.

The tea was nice but nothing special. What was more fascinating were the surroundings. There was something about the people both serving and being served at the café that I couldn’t quite put my finger on; nothing odd,
just different. More facial piercings, alternative clothing and tattoos.

‘Have you guessed yet?’ Mark ran his fingers through his hair, face flushed.

I looked at him blankly.

‘You know,’ his eyes flitted over to a group of young men sat at a table close by. ‘I’m gay.’

A strange feeling set in in the pit of my stomach. The first time I had heard the word ‘homo’ was at school, bantered around like a swearword. The second time was by a Muslim girl whose family friend had died of AIDS and the community refused to attend the funeral, saying it was God’s punishment. Now, here I was; my best friend telling me he was everything forbidden, dirty, and against my beliefs.

I drank my tea, finding the warm liquid comforting. I could see this was hard for him too, but for some reason he felt compelled to tell me about his personal life.

I heard a shuffling noise behind me, and then a man pulled a chair up and joined our table. He was over six foot, wore black leather trousers, a matching jacket, had a shiny head and a ring through his nostril.

‘Hello, I’m Kev.’ He held his hand out to me. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

I looked at Mark for help. Could this be a test from God, I wondered, pushing the most compromising scene
of them together out of my mind? I smiled back politely and shook Kev’s hand. God have mercy on you both, I prayed silently.

The walk back to college was not full of the usual chatter – it was awkward. I couldn’t come to terms with people who wanted to kiss someone of the same sex. I felt deceived and tricked, as if he had hurt me intentionally.

Thankfully, when we got back I spotted Vanessa and broke away from Mark. Vanessa was an extremely attractive mixed-race girl. She had been brought up in the most deprived and gun-ridden area of Manchester called Moss Side. Her father had left when she was a baby and she had recently turned to religion.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked, as she walked past. I knew she was on her way to church ‘to get some peace’, as she put it.

I decided to tag along, which surprised her as much as it surprised me. I had never been in a church before nor did I know any existed in the close vicinity. When we got there, the church was empty. We sat in the middle row of wooden benches, staring ahead at the stained-glass windows and a statue of Jesus hanging on a cross. It felt strange. I was used to the bright lights of a mosque, sitting on the floor with lots of noise around. However, as the minutes passed, I felt
the warmth of the place and began to understand what she meant by ‘peace’. It gave me time to think back to Mark. I realised that the issue lay with me and not him. I was the one with the prejudice, the conditioning, and if I let it control me, I would be the one to lose. He was still my best friend, the one I wanted to share my toasted teacake with in the morning, so I had to find a way of getting over it.