Authors: Monica Ali
'If it's violence you're advocatin', I shall have to renounce me vows to Allah.'
Nazneen turned round to see the black man on his feet. He had removed his skullcap and was holding it against his expansively robed chest.
Someone shouted, 'Apostate!'
'Who you callin' a postate?' He had a finely sculpted head, black as Nazneen's cast-iron frying pan, and in his white garb he looked like a king. 'I ain't no postate,' he grumbled.
'Brothers,' said the Questioner, 'let's keep our heads.'
The two girls in burkha rose. 'And sisters,' they said.
The Questioner glared at them. 'The Qur'an bids us to keep separate. Sisters. What are you doing here anyway?'
In defiance, they remained standing.
'There is always the Quakers,' said the black man. He resumed his seat.
For a time, Nazneen lost hold of the conversation. She stared down into her lap at the backs of her hands, at the green-blue veins that raised the skin, the freckles scattered between the tendons. Words brushed against her now and again, like moths at dusk, there and gone, barely noticed but troubling. She twisted her hands together. And she longed to be in the flat, Karim with his magazine, she with her sewing. He would walk around and fill up the space. He would walk around as if he were learning to fill the space. Each time he came now he inhabited the flat a little more.
Suddenly, she knew that what he was building up there in the flat could be pulled down here, in the hall. And she began to pay attention.
The issue under discussion was Oldham, whether to charter a coach for a trip to the north. The Secretary squatted on the stage with his clipboard balanced on his knee. He took notes and chewed on the end of his pen. Karim and the Questioner stood on either side of him, and each attempted to control the meeting.
The musician was on his feet. He wore a tight black T-shirt with silver lettering on the front, and a pair of black leather gloves with the fingers cut off. Nazneen wondered what they were protecting, whether his hands were burned.
'If we take a sound system, we'll get more support. I went to this gig, right, with DJ Kushi and MC Manak, and it was rammed. Most of the crowd were white. It was, like, amazing.'
The Questioner was dismissive. 'It's a demo, not a disco.'
'Yeah, but like we want to get people there.'
Karim nodded his head. 'Yeah. Man. That's what we want.' He kept on nodding, as if it were impossible to show the full extent of his agreement.
'Brothers,' said the Questioner, 'do we want—'
'And sisters,' said the girls in burkha.
'Brothers,' repeated the Questioner. 'Do we want to turn it into a carnival? Do we want all the white kids showing up for a disco?'
The black man spoke. 'When I was 'bout your age, the black kids went to the black clubs and the white kids went to the white clubs. I like to see it all mix up.' He addressed the musician – 'Bhangra music, is it?'
'No, man. No. Bhangra?' He looked amused. 'We're like, bhangramuffin, know what I mean? Bitta raga infusion. We're like, bhangle, sometimes. Jungle roots. Know what I'm saying?'
'Are we talking about clubs? Discos?' said the Questioner. He had the air of a man who could only be pushed so far.
The musician popped up again. 'Maybe we should, like, talk about it.'
There was a mixed reaction from the audience. Those who agreed began immediately to debate it with their neighbours. Those who disagreed began immediately to talk to their neighbours about how this should not be discussed.
'Brothers,' began the Questioner, but no one paid him any attention.
'Brothers and sisters,' began Karim, and the girls in burkha started a campaign of shushing on his behalf. 'Brothers and sisters, let's hear all your ideas. Raise your hand, and everyone can take a turn.'
Karim called on people to speak and he made each one feel as if he or she had said something of great importance. The Questioner attacked his paperwork and shook his head. He rearranged his portable office and picked his fingernails. While Karim caressed his audience with blunt syllables of wonder, his rival began to squeeze a spot at the side of his mouth. By the time Karim had finished, the crowd was sated and calm and the spot hugely inflamed.
Then Karim made a brief speech to sum up. Think global but act local, he said. Official messages of support would be despatched to the appropriate ummahs around the world – Oldham, Iraq and elsewhere. The Publications Committee would see to it. And all leaflets would, from now on, be vetted by the committee. He asked anyone who opposed this to raise a hand. No one stirred. The Questioner had his arms crossed and his hands tucked into his armpits. The meeting, Karim declared, was now closed.
Nazneen stood up and walked quickly down the aisle, looking neither left nor right. All the way home she fought the desire to run, and once inside she waited just by the door so that she opened it before Karim even knocked.
* * *
He kissed her on the mouth and he led her into the bedroom. Get undressed, he said, and get into bed. He left the room. She got changed into her nightdress and lay beneath the sheets. Through the window she looked at a patch of blue sky and a scrap of white cloud. She pulled the covers up to her neck and closed her eyes. What she wanted to do was sleep. It would be impossible to stay awake. She was sick and she needed to sleep. She had a fever and her body was shaking. She turned her face into the pillow and moaned and when he kissed the back of her neck she moaned again.
Thirty or so years after he arrived in London, Chanu decided that it was time to see the sights. 'All I saw was the Houses of Parliament. And that was in 1979.' It was a project. Much equipment was needed. Preparations were made. Chanu bought a pair of shorts which hung just below his knees. He tried them on and filled the numerous pockets with a compass, guidebook, binoculars, bottled water, maps and two types of disposable camera. Thus loaded, the shorts hung at mid-calf. He bought a baseball cap and wore it around the flat with the visor variously angled up and down and turned round to the back of his head. A money belt secured the shorts around his waist and prevented them from reaching his ankles. He made a list of tourist attractions and devised a star rating system that encompassed historical significance, something he termed 'entertainment factor' and value for money. The girls would enjoy themselves. They were forewarned of this requirement.
On a hot Saturday morning towards the end of July the planning came to fruition. 'I've spent more than half my life here,' said Chanu, 'but I hardly left these few streets.' He stared out of the bus window at the grimy colours of Bethnal Green Road. 'All this time I have been struggling and struggling, and I barely had time to lift my head and look around.'
They sat at the front of the bus, on the top deck. Chanu shared a seat with Nazneen, and Shahana and Bibi sat across the aisle. Nazneen crossed her ankles and tucked her feet beneath the seat to make way for the two plastic carrier bags that contained their picnic. 'You'll stink the bus out,' Shahana had said. 'I'm not sitting with you.' But she had not moved away.
'It's like this,' said Chanu, 'when you have all the time in the world to see something, you don't bother to see it. Now that we are going home, I have become a tourist.' He pulled his sunglasses from his forehead onto his nose. They were part of the new equipment.
Nazneen looked down at his sandals, which were also new. She regarded the thick yellow nails of his big toes. The spongy head of a corn poked from beneath the strap. She had neglected them, these feet. She brushed an imaginary hair from her husband's shoulder.
He turned to the girls. 'How do you like your holiday so far?' Bibi said that she liked it very well, and Shahana squinted and shuffled and leaned her head against the side window.
Chanu began to hum. He danced with his head which wobbled from side to side, and drummed out a rhythm on his thigh. The humming appeared to come from low down in his chest and melded with the general tune of the bus, vibrating on the bass notes.
Nazneen decided she would make this day unlike any other. She would not allow this day to disappoint him.
The conductor came to collect fares. He had a slack-jawed expression: nothing could interest him. 'Two at one pound, and two children please,' said Chanu. He received his tickets. 'Sightseeing,' he announced, and flourished his guidebook. 'Family holiday.'
'Right,' said the conductor. He jingled his bag, looking for change. He was squashed by his job. The ceiling forced him to stoop.
'Can you tell me something? To your mind, does the British Museum rate more highly than the National Gallery? Or would you recommend gallery over museum?'
The conductor pushed his lower lip out with his tongue. He stared hard at Chanu, as if considering whether to eject him from the bus.
'In my rating system,' explained Chanu, 'they are neck and neck. It would be good to take an opinion from a local.'
'Where've you come from, mate?'
'Oh, just two blocks behind,' said Chanu. 'But this is the first holiday for twenty or thirty years.'
The conductor swayed. It was still early but the bus was hot and Nazneen could smell his sweat. He looked at Chanu's guidebook. He twisted round and looked at the girls. At a half-glance he knew everything about Nazneen, and then he shook his head and walked away.
The avenue that swept down to Buckingham Palace was wide as forty bullock carts and it was the grandest of roads. It was not black or grey. Nor was it brown or dusty yellow. It was red. It was fit for a Queen. The tall black railings that guarded the palace were crowned with spikes of gold. Nazneen held on to a rail and surveyed the building. After a couple of seconds she looked behind her. The pavement was rife with tourists. Young couples, joined at the hip; families, each with a disconsolate member of its own; tour groups, homogenized by race and tourist equipment; small bands of teenagers, who smoked or chewed gum or otherwise engaged their mouths in ferocious displays of kissing. Many people looked at the palace, as if they were waiting for it to do something. Nazneen looked back at the building. It was big and white and, as far as she could see, extraordinary only in its size. The railings she found impressive but the house was only big. Its face was very plain. Two pillars (in themselves plain) sat at the main doorway, but there was little else in the way of decoration. If she were the Queen she would tear it down and build a new house, not this flat-roofed block but something elegant and spirited, with minarets and spires, domes and mosaics, a beautiful garden instead of this bare forecourt. Something like the Taj Mahal.
Chanu had found his page in the guidebook. 'Buckingham Palace has been the official residency of British sovereigns since 1837. The palace evolved from a town house owned from the beginning of the eighteenth century by Dukes of Buckingham.'
He stood with his hands on his hips and appreciated the view. Shahana and Bibi stood next to Nazneen, Shahana with her back to the palace. She wanted to have her lip pierced. This was the latest thing. Last week she wanted to get a tattoo. She did not bring these demands to her father. She presented them to her mother as proof that she could not be 'taken home'. When she asked for the lip ring, she said, 'It's my body,' as if this solved anything, and Nazneen smiled and was kicked for her failings.
'Queen Victoria added a fourth wing to the building because of an absence of nurseries and too few bedrooms for visitors. Marble Arch had to be relocated to the north-east corner of Hyde Park.' Chanu took off his cap and wiped his forehead. He noticed his daughter leaning against the rails. 'Have a look, Shahana. Look at this beautiful building.'
Nazneen regarded the palace. 'Oh yes,' she said, 'it is very clever of your father to bring us here. It is a good choice.' Some of the windows were hung with net curtains, like the windows on the estate. She wanted to ask questions so that Chanu could answer them. What came to her mind was unsuitable. How many cleaners do they have? How long does it take to change all the beds? How does one family find each other in all that space? Eventually she asked, 'Which is the biggest room, and what is it used for?'
Chanu was pleased. 'The ballroom is one hundred and twenty-two feet long, sixty feet wide and forty-five feet high. When it was built it was the largest room in London. It is used for all sorts of big functions. The Queen, you see, must entertain many people. It is part of her duty to the country. Most British people know someone who has, at one time or another, been a guest at a palace tea party. This is how she maintains the affection and loyalty of her subjects.'
Nazneen asked more questions. With the help of his book, Chanu gave detailed information and elaborate conjectures. Bibi kept gazing at the palace as if she were trying to memorize it. She held on to one or other of her plaits and, when Chanu mentioned a particularly astonishing fact or figure, raised herself on tiptoe to grasp it. Shahana fidgeted and looked around. She did not like to stand in the sun. 'I'll go black,' she moaned to Nazneen. 'At least you should have bought me sun protection cream.'
'Your father is talking,' said Nazneen.
'If he ever stops,' said Shahana, 'let me know.'
Chanu was listing the treasures and artworks of the palace. A tour guide, speaking in a language that Nazneen did not recognize, had taken up a station close to Chanu. They both raised their voices.
Nazneen clapped her hands together. 'What a wonderful holiday. Girls, aren't you enjoying yourselves?'
'Yes.'
'Yes.'
'Come on,' said Chanu, 'let's walk a little way off and see it from another perspective. It will be better for photographs also.' He located the bottle of water in his shorts and took a swig. He offered it to Shahana, who pretended not to notice.
Two hundred yards down the Mall was a cart with a big tin drum of hot caramelized peanuts. Nazneen, pursuing her campaign for enjoyment, became animated. 'Mmm,' she said, and clasped a hand to her chest. 'That smells delicious. Will you buy some for me?' Chanu patted his money belt. 'I have made provision for treats.'
They sat on some steps opposite the entrance to the park and ate the nuts from paper twists with the smell of burnt sugar in their nostrils. Nazneen ate and talked and laughed and asked as many questions as she could. After a while, when Chanu began an answer and she laughed again, he stopped and looked at her with his head to one side. 'Are you feeling well? Too much sun, perhaps?' She flushed, and she laughed again. She was laughing too much, but now that she had started this laughing business it was difficult to keep it under control. 'No, no. I am very well.' She hiccoughed and this triggered another quake of laughs. She held her stomach, which was beginning to hurt. Shahana smiled, and then giggled. As a kind of caress, she applied the toe of her trainer to her mother's shin. 'Stop it, Amma.' She began to laugh as well. Bibi joined in, at first without any sign of mirth, and then with serious symptoms. Her eyes watered and her small body shook. Shahana held her hand and they shrieked at each other as they had on their one and only ride at a funfair.
'Well, now,' said Chanu. He swelled with pride at how marvellously he had managed the day. 'It is a lot of fun.'
They walked on the other side of the road, following St James's Park, back towards Buckingham Palace. The girls went in front, with a carrier bag each, still holding hands. 'That is the best of all the sights,' Chanu told Nazneen, and she stumbled and grabbed his arm.
They had to return to the palace because Chanu wanted to try out the panoramic-view camera. It should be possible, he explained, to come close to the building and still fit the whole tiling in one shot. He fiddled around with the little cardboard box for several minutes. 'It's a disposable camera,' said Shahana. 'What's he got to fiddle around for?' But when he had finished with that camera, the situation grew worse. He searched for the other camera and announced that he had been robbed. He proposed to tell the Guards who stood in little black boxes inside the palace forecourt. 'They have guns, they could shoot the bastard.' Nazneen suggested he empty all his pockets. 'God,' he said. 'I'm not a child.' He emptied all his pockets and found the camera, and then the girls had to pose.
They began by smiling dutifully, but by the time people had been cleared out of the way, their limbs had been arranged and rearranged, they had turned their heads this way and that, and Chanu had found a satisfactory angle, even Bibi was unable to keep her mouth upturned. 'Smile,' said Chanu, and someone would walk into the frame. 'For God's sake. Look happy.'
Nazneen had to take a turn with the girls. She whispered to Shahana, 'If you smile nicely, I'll buy you those earrings.'
'The dangly ones?'
'Yes.'
'The really long ones?'
'Down to your knees. Now, smile.'
Chanu stood with his arms around his daughters. Nazneen held her finger over the button. She took the shot that would live in the kitchen, propped up against the tiles at the back of the work surface, accumulating a fine spray of turmeric-stained grease from her cooking pot. It showed a middle-aged man with stringy calves poking out from long red shorts, a white T-shirt stretched over a preposterous stomach. Under each arm he had tucked a girl in salwaar kameez. On the left, holding up a hand to protect her face from the sun, was a creature whose near-brush with adolescence showed in a few spots around her chin and an impression – mystically conveyed – that she had curled up her toes with embarrassment. She wore a green suit, so dark that it was almost the black that she desired, and her hair hung loose around her face. In time, Nazneen could not recall if the black mark across her face was a piece of grit on the photograph or a strand of hair that she was chewing. On the opposite wing was a girl who stood with her arms glued to her sides. Her face tilted up to look at the man and she smiled as if there were a knife to her back. She wore a pretty pink kameez, and her scarf trailed on the floor. The man grinned straight at the camera and his capacious cheeks were jolly. His eyes were wrapped up in dark glasses.
'We must have one of us all together.' Chanu looked around for a collaborator. He selected a young man who glowed with well-being, as if he had been fed all his life on dates and milk and honey.
'Sure,' said the man, as though he had been expecting this call. 'Stand a bit closer together.'
Nazneen moved over, so that her shoulder brushed against Chanu. The photograph would show a dutiful and modest wife, in a cotton-print sari. She put her hands on Bibi's arms.
'Whereabouts are y'all from?' His accent was familiar from the television.
'We are from Bangladesh,' said Chanu. He spoke slowly, as if he expected the man to have trouble understanding.
'Y'don't say.'
Chanu was puzzled. 'Yes,' he said. 'Bangla-desh.' Carefully, as if the man wanted to write it down.
'Y'don't say.' The man returned the camera. He had an easy way about him. He was relaxed as a child in its mother's arms.
'I do say,' said Chanu.
Shahana rolled her eyes. 'I'm from London.'
'Is that in India?' He wore a blue checked shirt and his face glowed with health.
'No, no. India is one country. Bangladesh is another country.'
'Y'don't say.' He seemed simultaneously surprised but resigned to this fact. 'Do you mind if I get a shot of all of you together for myself?' He toted his own camera. And by way of explanation he added, 'I'm hoping to go there one day, India.'
As she posed again, Nazneen realized that today was the first time they had stood together as a family for the camera. It filled her with a mixture of panic and hope, the possibility of holding things together with the unexceptional ritual of family life.