Saturday, 3 April 2021
‘Ibrahim!’ cries mum, hammering her fist on my bedroom door, ‘Fajr!’ This is my wakeup call this morning: no sweet words for me. Mum says she’s been calling me for an hour, but this is the first I’ve heard. I’m honestly surprised it’s morning already as I’m sure I only just fell asleep. Wearily, I get up, pushing my fists into my eye sockets and wander across the landing to the bathroom. ‘Hurry up,’ she barks at me, ‘you’ve got ten minutes left.’
‘Okay, okay,’ I mutter, making wudu as quickly as is humanly possible. When I traipse down the stairs moments later, still dripping water, mum follows after me. ‘Are you joining me?’ I ask her on my way, but she just snaps back at me irately.
‘We all prayed ages ago!’
Setting my rug out, I stand for the dawn prayer, bowing and prostrating in the feeble morning light. It’s not my best, for I’m still half asleep, exhausted from that never-ending drive in the dark; I could almost have flown to New Delhi in less time. When I’ve finished, I feel like making another long dua, but it seems futile today. I want to ask for an easy ride from my parents, but instead I just pray for world peace and mercy for the oppressed. In truth, I only elongate my prayers because I sense mum is sitting there behind me, itching to lay into me for yesterday, but I’ve already run out of things to ask for. ‘Amin,’ I whisper finally, planning my retreat back to bed.
‘So…’ she begins, as soon as I turn around, staring at me belligerently, watching my every move from her place, perched on the edge of the sofa, but she doesn’t follow through, choosing to torment me with silence instead. What’s she thinking? I expect she’s dreaming up a lecture to trounce me with. Me? I’m just afraid of whatever’s about to spill from her lips. Somehow, I hate these long silences more than anything she could say to me. This one weighs on me so heavily that it finally lifts me from the floor and flings me back down onto an armchair.
‘I know yesterday was a mistake,’ I mutter, hiding my eyes from her, ‘but my intentions were good. I had to do something to help dad. I can’t bear to see him like this.’
‘Don’t you think there might be a reason he hasn’t seen his family in twenty-five years?’ she berates me, baring her teeth. ‘Don’t you think there might be a reason we ran away? Don’t you think there might be a reason that even your granny and grandad came here with us? Don’t you think there might be a reason we’ve never been back.’
‘I… I didn’t think…’
‘No, you wouldn’t think Ibrahim, because you’re just a kid. You couldn’t possibly know what you were getting yourself into. And us!’
‘I’m sorry, I just wanted…’
‘No, Ibby. We’ve rebuilt our entire life here, so… so you’d never have to experience any of the things we did. We made sacrifice after sacrifice to be here. Do you think we could easily afford to move down here? You’ve seen that shithole now. Do you think the life we’ve given you was easily won? We bought a shell of a house, barely touched in fifty years, so we had a chance of getting you into the best schools, so you’d have opportunities we never had. And what do you? You go wandering right back into that vipers’ nest, to invite those venomous reptiles back into our lives. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Ibrahim. Just no idea.’
‘I…’
‘I hope you haven’t given anyone our address.’
‘Of course n…’
‘Why “of course”? Your phone number?’
‘I…’
‘Don’t you think they can now track you down the exact same way you traced them? Is it that hard? Or do you think it takes the brain of a seventeen-year-old to understand how the internet works?’
‘I just thought…’
‘What’s your dad’s job, Ibby?’
‘I don’t…’
‘He’s a data-whiz. He can do stuff with data that would make your brain explode. If he wanted to, he could slice and dice the data to find out what the prime minister had for dinner last Tuesday. Don’t you think he already knows where his mum lives? What’s happened to his dad? What his cousins are doing? Don’t you think he already knows?’
‘I just thought…’
‘No, you didn’t think, Ibby. You didn’t use your brain. If you did, maybe you would’ve thought to ask me about it.’
‘What, like anyone’s listening to anything any of us say these days?’ I cry, throwing my hands up before me. ‘Whenever I try to talk to either of you, you bite my head off. Whenever I try to talk to you, you just blow up in my face. Just like now. I just wanted to help. I just want my dad to get better. Maybe I have needs too. Maybe there are things I want to talk about. Maybe there are things happening in my life that I need someone to talk to about. No, but you’re just stuck in your own world, as if nothing else matters. Yes, so I took matters into my own hands. Because I want my dad back. If that makes me your evil, idiot son, so be it.’
‘I never said…’
‘It’s basically what you said, mum. I mean, are you really any wiser than me? You love to say how I’m just a foolish kid, but look at you. Still tiptoeing around dad in your forties, as if you can’t bear to confront the past. Still telling yourself stories to excuse the fact dad hasn’t seen his mum in twenty-five years.’
This is where I stand up and peer down at my mum. ‘Well, she’s my gran too,’ I tell her firmly, ‘so I don’t care. I don’t care if you don’t want to know her, but I do. So, yeah, I’ve found her. I’ve visited her. I’ve had a cup of tea with her. And, yeah, I’ve learnt that your mum was her best friend. Because do you know the first thing she said to me when she saw me? She said she saw your mum in my face. So, you know, I don’t care what you say about dad. I’m glad I made that journey. I’m glad I found my other gran, who I didn’t even know existed until this week. Yeah, I’m glad.’
Mum glares back a me when I say this, her face all twisted with anguish, but I don’t care. I’ve said what I wanted to say. Now I’ll charge through the living room door, slamming it behind me, and stomp upstairs to my room. Yes, I’ll go back to bed now, thanks very much: it’s Saturday morning and I feel like burying myself under my duvet until lunchtime, blocking out my pathetic family and their ridiculous insecurities.
But, of course, I can’t sleep now: though my eyes feel heavy, I’m restless. My mum’s words ring in my ears over and over, and whenever I close my eyes, I just see that traffic jam from last night, my ears still throbbing with that weird monotonous motion. Lying here on my back, possessed by restlessness, seven soon becomes eight and eight becomes nine, slipping away from me, out of my grasp, until I can bear it no more. Properly dressed, I mope down to the kitchen to grab a piece of toast smothered with butter and honey, then quietly let myself out of the house, setting off to wander down the road, munching on my way.
‘Hey grandad,’ I say, when at last he answers his door, ‘sorry to knock so early…’
‘Not early for us,’ he replies, smiling.
‘Is granny around?’ I ask, peering through, over his shoulder.
‘She’s just doing the crossword,’ he tells me.
Granny loves her crosswords. She buys The Daily Telegraph for two reasons only: for the cryptic crossword and to line the cat’s litter tray. ‘Can I speak to her?’ I ask, motioning towards the side gate. ‘I’ll wait round in the garden,’ I say, tilting my head sideways.
As he wanders back inside, closing the door on me, I let myself through the wrought iron gate screened in bamboo, following the stepping stone path across the lawn to the teak garden bench in the corner, set at the perfect angle for seamless views of the rounded hills across the valley. Even in the middle of winter, granny has manicured the lawn meticulously, sculpting the shrubs in the flowerbeds to perfection. It’s always a joy to sit in granny’s garden, to mediate while she potters about plucking out weeds invisible to all but her.
‘Hello Ibrahim,’ she smiles, appearing at my side in a thick padded coat, a tray of tea in her hands, ‘this is a nice surprise.’
‘Hey granny,’ I reply, watching as she sets it down between us and takes her place on the other end.
‘Are you alright?’ she asks me, studying my face intently, but I know it has already unveiled my inner disquiet.
‘No,’ I mutter.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I did something yesterday…’ I stutter, shrugging. ‘Maybe it was a stupid thing to do…’ I glimpse at her awkwardly. ‘Yeah, maybe, because…. because my mum’s angry… seriously angry with me…’
‘What did you do?’
Heaving a heavy sigh, I stare out across her beautiful garden, my eyes settled on the late-flowering daffodils and primroses all along the foot of the fence.
‘I travelled up north to meet my dad’s mum.’
‘Catherine?’ I nod my head. ‘But… how?’
‘That doesn’t really matter. All that matters… All that matters is I met her. I had a cup of tea with her. We had a chat. She recognised you in my face. She still remembers you. She said lovely things about you.’
‘Subhanullah,’ whispers granny.
‘She seemed well. She has a nice flat, jammed full with houseplants and cats. She has her own business. She seemed healthy and happy. I liked her.’
‘Mashallah…’
‘But… but now my mum’s mad at me… and I haven’t told my dad yet. And even his mum told me not to mention her name to him. I feel like…’
‘Is that why you made contact?’
‘I thought it would help him,’ I tell her, glancing back at her. ‘I just want to help him get better. If he’s missing her… I want to tell him that she misses him too, and that she’s turned her life around, and I think they should meet.’ I have to take a sip of my tea now, to moisten my throat: to loosen my tongue to let these thoughts out. ‘But mum say it’s foolish what I’ve done. She told me off. Had a go at me. But she didn’t meet her. She didn’t even let me speak. If she knew…’
‘Your mother did call yesterday. She was quite distraught.’
‘But I’m nearly eighteen. I’m not a little child. All my friends go out all the time.’
My granny slurps up a mouthful from her own cup and then holds it tightly to warm her hands against the frigid breeze. ‘She was worried when you wouldn’t answer your phone,’ she tells me, gazing into my eyes.
‘I told her I was fine. She needs to give me more freedom. Is she going to ring me every half hour when I go off to university next year? I don’t know why mum treats me like I’m a twelve-year-old.’
‘She’s only being…’
‘Protective? Yes, this is what everyone keeps saying. But she’s not protecting me. She’s just suffocating me. They both are. Everyone knows I’m the most boring kid at college. All I do is study. Nothing else at all. But even this isn’t enough for my mum and dad. I don’t know what more they want from me.’
‘They just want to see you grow up safe and happy.’
‘Safe? Well, yes, my life is so boring that nothing could possibly happen to me. But happy? I’m utterly miserable.’
‘Oh you’re alright Ibrahim. You’ve had a happy childhood. One of the best. If you knew…’
‘About dad? Yes, I know,’ I tell her, shaking my head. ‘So he had a bad childhood… Yeah, I learnt that much yesterday.’
‘Not just bad, Ibrahim,’ insists granny, crossly: ‘catastrophic.’ So catastrophic, it seems, that granny gulps down the rest of her tea in one go and slaps her cup down on the tray. ‘You know, I was always very fond of your father’s mother. We’d become friends on the maternity ward when she had your dad and I had your mother. She was so young that I felt I had to take her under my wing. We remained friends for years. So of course… of course I’ve longed to see her again… happy and well. But there are reasons for your mother’s apprehension. She’s not just being mean to you. She’s genuinely terrified of that world she left behind. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I understand her anger completely.’
‘But grandad said…’
‘Is that how this started?’
‘Don’t be cross with him. He was only trying to help me understand what might be wrong with my dad.’
‘Your grandad spends all day every day taking photos of photos. He’s had fifty-years-worth of albums stacked up on the living room floor for months. It’s driving me around the bend.’
‘Maybe revisiting old memories is good for him,’ I shrug, sipping my tea, ‘And maybe it’ll be good for my dad.’
‘Your dad has no good memories of the past.’
‘None at all? Not even of mum?’
‘None that can be extracted from all that surrounded them.’
‘So… so you also think…’
‘That you shouldn’t mention your little adventure to your father? Yes, I do. You mustn’t say a word.’
So that’s four opinions now, all saying the same thing: my dad’s mum, her guardian angel, my mum and now her mum, all cautioning me about some great mystery that must somehow remain buried deep underground. But, seriously, how bad can it be? What, dad the joker? Dad the comedian? Dad the prankster? Dad, court jester? Dad, the wandering darvish? Humble, gentle dad, who insists on keeping the company only of the fuqara? Sweet dad, who gazes appreciatively into his beloved’s large brown eyes, to dance with her in the living room to old love songs, unashamed? How could a man like that carry secrets too monstrous to be spoken of?
‘Do I have your word, Ibrahim?’ granny asks me, when the silence between us grows too cold. ‘Promise me you’ll put all of these thoughts out of your mind.’
I’m not agreeing to anything. ‘What about granny Catherine?’ I ask instead, ‘Doesn’t she have a say in any of this? Do you want her to die alone?’
‘Is she dying?’ asks granny, alarmed, her eyes open wide.
‘We’re all dying, granny. Eventually.’
‘Yes, well, of course, that is true, but…’
‘My dad needs his mum,’ I tell her. ‘I want to tell him I found her in a good state.’
‘You mustn’t say a thing, Ibrahim.’
‘So when is he going to confront the past?’ I ask. ‘In another twenty-five years, when she can barely walk?’
‘That’s a decision for him, not you.’
‘How would you feel if you hadn’t seen your daughter for twenty years?’
‘I’d…’
‘How would my mum feel if I suddenly went away and didn’t come back until I was nearly forty-five? She couldn’t even tolerate a few hours yesterday.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘How do you think granny Catherine feels?’
‘We don’t know how…’
‘The more I think about it, the more I feel like I should just tell my dad I found her. Everyone else is saying don’t tell him, but nobody’s actually asked him what he thinks. So, yeah, maybe that’s what I’m going to do.’
‘Don’t Ibrahim…’
‘No, I’m tired of walking on eggshells, tiptoeing around him. I’m going to talk to him. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘That’s not a good idea, Ibrahim,’ says granny, shaking her head.
‘No,’ I say, jumping to my feet. ‘It’s time we all dealt with the elephant in the room,’ I tell her, pacing away. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ I call out across the garden making for the gate. ‘Yep, it’s time…’
‘I’m calling your mother,’ she cries out after me, but it’s too late, for I’ve already closed the gate behind me.
Yes, the time has come to shake this family out of its pathetic complacency. The time has come to confront the past. I’ve met his mum and he has nothing to fear at all. I’ve seen how she’s living her life. It’s time for a beautiful reunion of a mother and her son. Paradise lies under the feet of your mother: that’s what we’ve always been taught. Don’t even say uff to her, they remind me perpetually, and yet my dad hasn’t even to spoken to his own mother in a quarter of a century. Talk about cognitive dissonance: it just makes no sense at all.
‘Don’t,’ come the words which stop me in my tracks, my mum colliding with me and marching us backwards. I’m not even halfway home yet, but it seems mum has her heart set on performing this melodrama in front of the entire street. ‘Don’t do it, Ibby,’ she pleads with me, showing me her palms.
‘Leave me alone,’ I cry back, sidestepping her to continue on my way.
‘Ibby!’
‘No, mum, he has a right to know.’
All that training mum has done hammering on the treadmill for the past month has certainly paid off, for she’s not in the least perturbed by my fast pace, jogging at my side, pulling on my coat, desperate to hold me back.
‘What’s happening?’ asks Maryam, standing in the middle of the road outside our house.
‘Your brother’s being…’
‘What?’ I beg impatiently, ‘An idiot? A fool? Stupid? Because I want to help my dad?’
‘Please, Ibby,’ pleads mum, ‘just go for a walk. Cool off. Walk away.’
‘I’m not the one who needs to cool off,’ I yell at the top of my voice, ‘That’s you!’ Pushing past them, I clatter down those last concrete steps to our front door, but they only chase after me, bursting through the door behind me. ‘I’m doing nothing wrong,’ I snap back at them when I feel my mum’s hand land on my shoulder. ‘It’s nothing bad. You lot are just…’
‘JUST WHAT?’ blasts the terrible riled voice that petrifies me, ringing out from the foot of the stairs, vibrating all of the light fittings around us. Dad gapes at me, shaking. ‘What’s going on?’ he growls bitterly, ‘What’s happening?’
‘You’re up?’ I cough, fleeing into the living room.
‘I came to see what all the commotion was about,’ he says, stamping after me. ‘What on earth’s going on here?’
‘It’s nothing,’ whispers mum timidly, chasing both of us, ‘just a minor disagreement.’
‘Over whether to tell me the truth?’
‘You know?’ I splutter, cowering beside the fireplace.
‘Of course, I know.’
‘But how?’ I ask.
‘I have eyes and ears. I haven’t gone deaf.’
Mum stares at him, shuddering. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs.
‘But it’s okay, dad,’ I tell him, trying my best to present him with a comforting smile, ‘She’s doing well. She’s turned her life around. She misses you.’
‘Who?’ he asks.
‘Your mum,’ I mutter, confused.
‘What do you mean, my mum?’
‘You said you knew…’
‘I meant I know you returned home long after midnight last night.’
‘Oh, I…’
‘Why are you talking about my mum?’
‘I found her,’ I gulp. ‘And I went to meet her.’
‘YOU DID WHAT?’
‘I…’
‘Who on earth do you think you are?’ he bawls at me, his skin flushing dark red and then purple.
‘She’s my gran too…’
‘HOW?’ he yells at me, pushing his thumbs against his eyelids, the fingers of his two hands intertwined in front of his forehead. ‘WHY?’ he demands, tearing at his scalp ferociously. ‘How dare you go prying into my personal life,’ he bellows, sweating profusely, tearing his jumper from his back and flinging it to the ground. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he thunders, trembling. ‘WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?’
‘Dad…’
‘DON’T! You had no right! I told you. I told you! I told you to leave me alone. And what did you do? This? THIS!’
‘I just wanted to help…’
‘To help? This is helping, is it?’
‘Dad, I want…’
‘Get out of my sight!’ he screams at me, sending a shockwave through the whole house. ‘No, get out of my house! Go! GO! GET OUT!’
I don’t move though, for my stupefaction has left me welded in place. In fact I think the nuclear detonation has melted my feet to the floor. I’m used to him exploding, but this is something else. There’s a gigantic mushroom cloud rising above his head, everything else blown to smithereens, disintegrating into piles of dust. Dad gapes at me as if he absolutely detests me, his whole face contorted into the form of frenzied Rottweiler going for the kill. When I don’t move, he charges past me like a radioactive tornado, slamming the door behind him so ferociously that one of the hinges splits out of the frame, firing screws into the hall.
‘Thanks,’ mutters my mum, turning her eyes away from me as another door bangs closed upstairs. ‘Thanks so much,’ she adds, chastising me, tears spilling down her cheeks.
‘Mum,’ I try, but she’s already flung the kitchen door in my face.
‘Good one bro,’ barks Maryam, following after her.
‘You idiot,’ says Isa, joining them, shaking his head.
Collapsing onto the sofa, I admit that was probably the worst meltdown I’ve ever witnessed in my entire life. If I’d known this might happen, I would’ve done something differently. Now I feel utterly sick, trembling all over. I can hear my mum sobbing even through two sets of doors, and the house itself: the house seems to be breathing heavily, as if even it despises me now. I can’t understand it. Was what I did really so bad? All I did was have a cup of tea with an old woman who misses her son. All I did was attempt to mend family ties, which I’ve always been taught is noble and commendable.
‘Well done,’ says Maryam, wandering through only to gape at me contemptuously. ‘Dad just sent mum a WhatsApp message rebuking her. She’s crying now. So well done. Good work.’
‘Go away,’ I tell her, dismissing her.
‘No, you’re the one who needs to go away. You’ve broken her heart.’
‘Correction: dad broke it.’
‘But it’s your fault.’
‘Is it? Is it really? “Shall I not inform you of something more excellent in degree than fasting, prayer and charity?” How many times has mum reminded us of this narration? Me, I’ve lost count. So, yeah, okay, it’s my fault for taking everything they taught us to heart. Because the answer? What was the answer? Yeah, “It’s putting things right between people.” And that’s all I’ve done. That’s all.’
‘You’ve put things right, have you? And that’s why mum’s sitting on the kitchen floor, crying her heart out, and dad’s upstairs having a heart attack?’
‘He’s not having a heart attack.’
‘You saw him, Ibby,’ she jeers at me, ‘He turned the colour of a beetroot.’
‘He has anger issues, that’s all. It’s not my fault. They’re the ones with problems, not me. All I did… all I did is tell him his mum loves him… and that she misses him.’
‘All you did, Ibrahim, is screw everything up. I suggest you stay out of their way today.’
‘And I suggest you remember you’re just fourteen. I don’t need advice from my teensy-weensy little sister, thanks very much. When you grow up, you’ll realise how ludicrous this whole situation is.’
‘Yeah, well, actually,’ she says, heading back through the door, ‘I’m old enough to know that what you just did was totally dumb.’ Briefly she glances back at me, but it’s only to mock me. ‘Maybe think about going out for a very long walk.’
The only walk I’m going to take myself on now is up the stairs to my room, to lie down on my bed. It’s for the best anyway, as I’m still exhausted from the long drive yesterday. I’ve learnt the hard way that while having an energy drink at midnight might help you get home in one piece, it won’t let you sleep when you finally rest your head on your return. At most, I must only have had three hours’ sleep before my mum woke me for the dawn prayer. Lying on my back now, I can do nothing but listen to the house, which insists on echoing sobs and wails all around to torment me.
If only I’d opted for the room in the loft conversion upstairs. If I had, I wouldn’t hear every sound coming from my parents’ room, right next to mine. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t hear the creaking floorboards on the stairs and the footsteps on the landing. If I’d jumped for that room instead of Isa, I’m sure I wouldn’t hear my mum pushing their door open to wander in, closing it again behind her. If I’d opted for that room upstairs, I might have drifted to sleep by now, to seize back the lost hours. Instead, I can just make out what mum’s saying to my dad. She’s asking if he’s okay, but I can’t hear his response. If it’s like every other time, he’ll just lie there, staring vacantly, ignoring her. And now more feet come tiptoeing up the stairs after her, the floorboards squeaking just outside their bedroom door.
‘What’s happening?’ I hear Isa ask.
‘Not sure,’ whispers Maryam. Timorously, she knocks and pushes inside. ‘Are you two alright?’ she asks them.
The response comes from my mum. ‘We’re fine,’ she says, but Isa is next, creeping in after his sister.
It’s another great family reunion, taking place without me as usual. Let me guess: they’re all sitting together, embracing? That seems to be the way it goes whenever I’m in trouble.
‘I’m scared,’ weeps Isa, ‘Are you okay, dad? Are you okay?’
‘He’s okay,’ mum reassures him.
‘Why’s he shaking like that?’ he asks sheepishly. ‘Is he having a heart attack? Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’
‘Or call 111,’ adds Maryam.
There’s no response to any of these suggestions. Just silence: silence for ten minutes, then twenty and half an hour. In my mind’s eye I just see them all embracing again, without me. In my imagination, I see them together as one, holding each other tightly, comforting that strange Englishman and his Indian wife.
‘Sorry…’
The tremulous voice is my dad’s: feeble and remorseful, tinged with tears. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters again. ‘I’m sorry.’
It’s another ten minutes before Maryam and Isa seem to leave, but my dad’s penitence goes on. ‘I’m sorry,’ over and over.
This goes on all afternoon long, but despite the apologies, it seems I remain beyond the pale. Nobody speaks to me: I’m not invited to eat with the family, nor am I called down for prayer. So what is he sorry for? For exploding in my face for trying to make things better? For biting my head off every time I’ve tried to speak to him for the past three weeks? For what? What exactly is he sorry for?
No answer, for I must remain in my room all day long, and go to sleep one forsaken. They’re all too self-absorbed to notice I’m even here. Perhaps the time has come for me to just do my own thing. In five months’ time I’ll be free of all this: I’ll go to university as far away from home as possible, and I won’t come back. I’m tired of them treating me the way they do. He’s sorry? I’m sorry too. I’m sorry they just can’t see me. I’m sorry they can’t see I’m here. I’m sorry it’s come to this.
It’s eight o’clock now. I’m not sure if I’ve actually slept this afternoon, drifting between my strange lethargic ferment and a heavy comatose slumber, but now I’m wide awake. Perturbed by my inner disquiet, I reach for my smartphone and open WhatsApp. The time has come to add someone other than a family member: ‘Salams Ayşegül, can I call you?’
I don’t know why I thought she would reply straight away. Perhaps it was the sight of all my mates at college messaging each other all day long, conversing with texts. Perhaps that’s how I imagined life was for people with friends, always on a dopamine high. It turns out it doesn’t work that way in my life. When she still hasn’t responded by half past eight, I find myself harangued with regrets for sending a message at all. First: perhaps she’s from the Telegram brigade, shunning WhatsApp altogether; maybe she only uses Signal. Then: maybe she has a life and is out enjoying herself, unlike me. Finally: she was probably only being nice to me last week, but really thinks I’m a complete idiot, just like everyone else. Occupied by thoughts like these, I decide to delete my message, in the hope it will vanish on her end, disappearing into the ether, never to be seen again.
Ping! ‘Hey! Sorry, left my phone charging.’
Ping! ‘Sure, you can call. Just give me 5.’
Ping! ‘I’ll call you.’
I wait five minutes to nine o’clock, clutching my phone close to me, then fifteen and twenty minutes. By half past nine my grip has loosened. Half an hour ago I was all set to pounce on the green button, lest my ringtone warrant an interrogation, but that urgency has completely left me. Now I think it would be quite nice for someone to barge in to pry into my affairs, if it meant displacing my profound inner loneliness.
Ping! ‘So sorry. Family stuff. Can I still call?’
‘If you want to,’ I reply, but I barely have time to see Ayşegül’s smiley before my phone rings.
‘Salams Ibrahim, I’m so sorry…’
‘Don’t be…’
‘How’s things?’
‘I wish I could say great…’
‘But not so great?’ she asks sweetly.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Your voice. You sound really upset.’
‘You’re right, I am. My family hates me. Seems I screwed up, finding my gran. They’re mad at me.’
‘Why? You had good intentions.’
‘Doesn’t matter. My dad had a meltdown. Mum too. Yelled at me. Said stuff to me I can’t repeat. I’ve been stuck in my room all day. They’re ignoring me. I just feel… I just want to run away. I’ve had enough of them. I was just trying to help. But instead? They treat me like I’m the worst person in the world. Like I did something evil. Did I join a gang? Am I selling drugs? Did I stab someone? Did I join some weird terrorist cult? No, none of the above, but still it’s like what I’ve done is the worst thing in the world. Like I’m this big disappointment to them. But what did I do? I tracked down my gran. I had a cup of tea with her. I told her I’m worried about my dad. That’s it. That’s all I did. And for that, they’ve basically thrown me out of the family. Excluding me. I feel so… so broken. Heart broken.’
‘I’m sorry to hear…’
‘So, yeah, not a great advertisement for my family. Maybe… maybe you should just forget about… about introducing your parents to mine… maybe I’m a lost cause.’
‘Don’t say that. It’ll blow over. Sabr, Ibrahim.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen my mum so angry.’
‘Never? You must’ve wound her up when you were younger. We all did.’
‘Not like this.’
‘Maybe it’s just your test, Ibrahim. Remember, Allah is with the patient. Sabret. Just be patient. Make dua.’
‘Yeah…’ I mutter.
‘No, seriously. You’re in my duas. I’m thinking of you. Praying for you. It’ll be alright. I’m sure of it. Just… just believe. Have faith. You’re a good guy, Ibrahim. Allah won’t let you down. He just tests those He loves. I know Allah loves you.’
‘I don’t know about that…’
‘Seriously,’ she tells me eagerly, ‘I’ve had a good feeling about you from the first time I saw you. When I mentioned you to my mum, she was so positive. She didn’t say, “Stupid girl, what are you talking about?” It was like she was glad.’
‘I can’t imagine that,’ I mutter. ‘And I’m nothing special.’
‘That’s what makes you special,’ she says. ‘All the other guys love to brag, but you…’
‘Please don’t say…’
‘That’s what I mean,’ she laughs. ‘I rest my case. Have hope, Ibrahim. Things are going to turn around. Just believe.’
‘Hope so, coz I can’t take any more of this.’
For a moment we’re both quiet and I can’t help wondering how I’ve managed to kill our conversation already. What I’d give for Ayşegül’s self-confidence, in place of my awkward self-doubt. I wasn’t built for navigating all of these strange and complex relationships. If only I wasn’t so shy; if only I was an extrovert like most of my mates. But perhaps Ayşegül doesn’t see it that way.
‘Dua Ibrahim,’ she commands me, ‘Make dua. You have a direct line to the creator of the multiverse. Use it.’
‘I guess…’
‘Not I guess,’ she chortles, ‘It’s way better than WhatsApp. End-to-end encrypted. Delivery guaranteed.’ She seems to pause for a moment, only to spring another thought on me: ‘Won’t sell your personal data.’
‘Funny…’
‘No, but I’m serious,’ she says, ‘Go and make wudu, and pray tahajjud. Put your head on the floor. Prostrate to your Lord. He’ll answer your prayers, I’m sure.’
‘Maybe…’
‘Not maybe, Ibrahim. He’ll answer your prayers. I’m doing the same thing.’
‘What are you praying for?’
‘One day you’ll know,’ she titters. ‘But… but I’ve already had a response to parts one and two, so I’m utterly content. Do the same, Ibrahim.’
‘Okay,’ I whisper.
‘Do it now,’ she tells me firmly. ‘I’ll do the same. Let’s say bye and jump on that direct line. I’ll make dua for you, Ibrahim. Make dua for me too.’
I’m not one easily motivated to do salat. For years I just did it because my parents insisted on it, but I always hated it then. When I was twelve and thirteen, I found it so boring. It was just like an extra aerobic exercise for me, getting up and down for no palpable reason, other than to make my mum happy. I always used to argue with her, telling her I didn’t have to do it, and they couldn’t make me do it either, but mum would just fire Quran back at me: ‘Successful indeed are the believers, who are humble in their prayers.’
The first time I ever prayed sincerely, like I really meant it, was on the eve of my GCSEs when I turned sixteen; that was when it first became real to me. Since then, I’ve been trying my best, making the time and space to pray every salat on time, but I’ve never prayed tahajjud alone in my life. But I suppose there’s a first time for everything: yes, so let me stand my night in prayer, raising my hands to my ears. I’ll listen to Ayşegül, for she seems to know what she’s talking about. ‘Allahu akbar…’