Monday, 12 April 2021
Mum knocks on my hotel room door at 10am. She’s on her own. Tells me we’ll go for a wander around town, while dad spends time with his mum, visiting her workplace while she makes cover arrangements for her trip south. We head down the street, dropping into the supermarket for something resembling breakfast. We’ll save this until we find somewhere to sit down. Dad had been expecting today to be Ramadan.
‘So how was your evening after we left?’ asks mum.
‘A bit of a downer. Auntie wouldn’t let me speak to Jasbir again and sent me home.’
‘I should’ve known there was a reason you were so keen to stay behind.’
‘That’s not it really. I wanted to hang with auntie, actually. I like her.’ I look at mum. Despite all her pretences of forgiveness, I can tell she’s still jealous of that woman. ‘Yeah, but she had a serious temper. Cross with Jasbir. Furious at her brother.’
‘Me too,’ says mum.
‘Really? You’re not showing it.’
‘Trying to keep my smile for you and your dad. But inside… I have a migraine and my heart is racing.’
‘And dad?’
Mum looks at me thoughtfully and pats me on my back.
‘Back where we started?’ I ask.
Mum doesn’t need to answer. Her tears are enough. They tell me everything.
‘He didn’t say so, but I know. He just said he wanted to spend the day with his mother, but I know he’s had a relapse. He’s just showing me his brave face.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I heard his dreams last night. Muttering in his sleep.’
‘For something that happened… how long… thirty years ago?’
‘He wasn’t even fourteen…’
‘Yes, but still… it was thirty years ago.’
‘The violence… he got over that years back… he was used to it… domestic violence, racist violence, anti-fascist violence… he had a decade of it, and he just got used to it. But the psychological trauma of that one incident… he’s never forgiven himself for pushing me away.’
‘Why did he?’
‘Because he believed that man when he promised that all he did to him, he would do to me. He was so fearful that I’d be the victim of a so-called honour killing that he sacrificed both our hearts.’
‘Would they have done that?’
‘Their threat was to beat me up like they beat him up. I guess he just extrapolated his injuries onto me. I was always petite. If they’d done that, it would’ve been serious for me, and your dad knew that. So, yes, we just became bitter enemies. Your dad broke my heart to protect me. That’s the kind of man your dad is.’
‘But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it, mum? You ended up together. Whatever happened then: it’s all forgotten, surely? You were reunited, reconciled. You made peace.’
‘Alhamdulilah,’ whispers mum. ‘But regret, Ibby… regrets last forever. Regrets don’t fade with time. They magnify with each passing day. They grow and grow and tower over you. They occupy you on sleepless nights. You can never escape your regrets.’
‘What about that ayat you always taught me, mum? “And who despairs of the mercy of his Lord except those who have gone astray?” You always said that the heart finds rest in the remembrance of God.’
‘That’s true. Without our faith, we would’ve been lost long ago. But you’re not always in control of the meandering of your mind. I’ve told your dad a million times that everything that happened then is forgotten and forgiven. I’ve told him that I love him with every ounce of my being, from the bottom of my heart and with every sinew. But the regrets he carries: they’re heavier than all the love I have for him. On his scales, in his head, those five years we were estranged are weightier than the twenty-five years we’ve spent together ever since. In truth, I don’t think he will ever forgive himself.’
‘But what’s to forgive? He saved you from harm?’
‘Yes, he did, but he doesn’t see that. He only curses himself for breaking my heart.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes, he did.’ She thinks for a moment. ‘No, he didn’t. That man you met yesterday did. That man broke our hearts. He took our hearts and crumbled them in his fingers.’
I glance at my mum seriously. I have a thought, but I’m not sure if I should release it. Not sure.
‘Do you think, maybe, it’s time to forgive him too?’ I ask. ‘Maybe forgiving him will heal you both. Ustadh always taught us that forgiveness is the highest form of faith.’
Mum doesn’t reply, but ustadh has made me memorise too many surahs for me to give up now. I presume that’s why they sent me to madrassa for years: for it to have some kind of practical benefit for our lives.
‘And whoever is patient and forgives…’
‘I know it, Ibby,’ she says, ‘We taught you all these ayah ourselves.’
‘Yes, but why? “We have not created the heavens and the earth and everything in between except for a purpose. And the Hour is certain to come, so forgive graciously.” Yes, you taught me this three years ago when I was fighting with Maryam. You made us both sit down, facing each other and you made us forgive each other. Why did you do that?’
‘Ibby, this is a different matter altogether.’
‘It’s not different at all, mum. “The recompense for harm is an equal harm, but anyone who forgives and puts things right will have his reward from God Himself.” You always taught us to be forgiving of each other. You always told us that was the best way. You said it’s what Allah loves most. Be patient, you said. Be kind, you said. Forgive, you said.’
‘I won’t forgive that man until your dad does. I can’t.’
‘Then ask dad to forgive him.’
‘I can’t do that either.’
‘Why not?’
Mum doesn’t reply. So now I know. It’s up to me. When she’s not looking, I pull my phone out and message dad.
‘Salams dad. Where are you?’
‘Wandering,’ he says.
‘Not with gran?’
‘Amazing what she’s doing there. But very busy. Left early.’
‘Let’s meet then. We’re in the gardens by the fountain.’
‘I see you,’ he replies.
‘Where are you?’
‘Behind you. Walking up past the museum.’
He has arrived before I can type a reply. For all mum’s misery, he looks pretty happy to me. He smiles at us both, and kisses mum on her cheek. She slots herself under his arm, seeking his embrace. Yep, they’re still in love.
‘So,’ he says, ‘where now?’
‘We didn’t get far,’ says mum.
‘Then let’s explore,’ says dad. ‘The old town and the marina are calling me.’
‘And those beautiful chocolate brown waters?’ laughs mum. ‘Yes, I remember it well. Why not? For old time’s sake.’
‘That’s it,’ says dad, smiling at her.
Doesn’t look much like a relapse to me. He seems fine. I let them wander on ahead of me. Two lovers, walking, joined by hugging arms. I’m jealous of this pair.
Mum and dad wander all over town. They seem amazed by how much everything has changed. Me? I have no idea what they see. It’s just dull. After exhausting the old town, we cross over to the marina. I’m sauntering far behind them now. They’re engrossed in conversation. I’m just pretending to be interested in all of the yachts in the dock. Mum and dad wander on and sit down on a bench, their backs to me. Mum rests her head on dad’s shoulder. I just lean on the rails, overlooking the dock. Watching them like that, I want what they’ve got. That love of theirs.
No, but I’ll leave them to it. I’ll do a full circuit of the marina, round and round, passing the time. I’m halfway along my second circuit when my phone buzzes. It’s mum.
‘Dad’s calling you.’
‘Just giving you space,’ I tap back.
‘Come back,’ she says.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and turn back on myself, wandering back to them.
‘Hey,’ I say as I approach their bench. I watch mum and dad split, sliding sideways to make room for me.
‘Come and sit down, Ibby,’ says dad.
I sit down in between them both.
‘We’ve been talking about your conversation,’ says dad.
‘Which one?’ I ask.
‘About forgiveness,’ he says, only to fall silent, his gaze staring out across the river. Oh, that one. I brace myself for the impending fireworks, pins and needles pricking through me. ‘You’re right, really,’ he says eventually.
‘Am I?’
‘Yes, you know the sunnah better than any of us. “Speak the truth even when it’s bitter.” Abu Dhar narrated that. May Allah reward the truthful for their truthfulness.’ He looks at me. ‘And may Allah reward you too, Ibby.’
‘What did I do?’
‘You spoke the truth to your parents,’ says dad. ‘Even though it pains us,’ he adds, glancing at mum. ‘But you’re right… you’re right about our hypocrisies… demanding that you and your siblings forgive each other, while here we are…’
‘Maybe it’s different,’ I offer.
‘No, you’re absolutely right: we need to let go. We need to forgive. We both do. “Verily, in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest.” You’re right. You spoke the truth.’
‘And so?’
‘I was expecting it to be Ramadan today. It’s not. We’ve been given an extra day to prepare. And my mother’s busy. So… so it’s time I made my peace before we leave this town for good.’
‘Are you going to meet him?’ I ask.
‘Inshallah,’ says dad.
‘And will you be okay?’
‘Inshallah,’ he says.
‘And mum?’ I ask.
‘Inshallah,’ she says.
Hearing them, I hold both of their hands in mine.
‘For your mercy, may Allah shower you with mercy,’ I tell them.
‘Amin,’ says mum.
