Mosaic Monologues
A woman’s work
As everyone arrives for the book launch, I stand by the right side of the table full of books, and the balloons to my left, as advised by the Instagram-specialist children. After thanking everyone, I introduce each child’s work by the theme of the piece. These kids were brilliant throughout the project. For each child, I wanted people to understand this: these children are complex, stop stereotyping. I look out and see the children sat up straight, looking at me with shy smiles. The headmaster seems to have changed his mind about leaving early and is now leaning onto the bookshelf, looking more relaxed. The funders are smiling and nodding along with every performance. The parents’ faces are overflowing with emotions and are beaming at everyone who stands up in front. A job well done, I tell myself.
When it was all wrapped up and pizzas boxes are opened, I move towards a parent. She is wearing shalwar kameez today and looks middle-aged. I think probably from Pakistan. I switch languages.
‘Tussan ni nikki bahun sohni nazam likhi eh.’ (Your daughter wrote a beautiful poem.) I smile at her.
She looks at me with irritation.
I continue to smile and say, ‘Nah sirf sochi kinni eh, parr apni socha ki lafzaan vich bahi kinni eh.’ (Not only can she think of ideas, but can eloquently put them into words.)
She now looks like she is trying to control her annoyance. Then she speaks in her perfect Yorkshire accent.
‘She hasn’t slept all night. She was so excited and kept saying, “Mum, it’s my book launch tomorrow, I’m a writer, don’t be late!”’
I stare at her face. I was the seller at my doorstep. Now, I need time to adjust. But I’ve got ahead of myself! Let me tell you what happened from the beginning. Let me tell you about ‘my restful weekend and time to plan for this huge launch that I have organised and needed to compere today!’
On Saturday evening, a matam, that’s a death, happened in Bradford in my husband’s family. At Fajjar time, Maasi Naito called to say that she will be here by midday and is turning up from Luton with two cars full, expecting a three-course meal! Bilal [my husband] knew I have this book launch and that I needed to finalise all the preparation, including my speech, the kids’ bios, a schedule for the whole thing, plus pick up the drinks, order the food and just so many things that I had left, as I knew I could get the housework done on Saturday and had all Sunday to prepare for the event. But stupid me, how could I even think such a thing in a Kashmiri family? Only the ‘relatives and what will people say’ matters in a Kashmiri family, and of course, men’s work. If this was Bilal’s work, everyone would have known about it. Maasi Naito would have been the one steering the two car loads full to another relative as poor Bilal had a huge project on and needed to work. But for Kashmiri women, don’t be daft! Our salaries matter, the status we bring matters, but our workload, the pressure and stress we face, our mental health or even physical health for that matter, is valued at zero. As long as the husband and his family are happy, and then of course our own parents and their families.
I was so pissed off; I called my mum. It sometimes helps just talking to her. I told her, ‘Mum, honestly, I get it. Mehmaan Huthaa ni rehmat honein.’ (Guests are a blessing of God.) ‘But I promise you, if you had the amount of work I’ve got on, even you would question whether this was a blessing. Your generation didn’t have to work outside. If you had guests over or a sudden matam, the whole family was involved. If house work wasn’t done, everyone knew why. My manager wants this event to go perfectly, so it looks good for the company. My head is about to explode with all the things I need to do whizzing around that I can’t do because I’m busy stirring haandiyan for bloody Maasi Naito!’
Mum suggests I get the food from catering.
I told her, ‘Oh, you think, do you? Get some things from outside? Maybe because you’re a reasonable human being, mother. I have to make the aata and make fresh roti, as last time that is the only thing I got from outside, and do you know what the cow Maasi Naito said, after scoffing her face? She poured some fish into her rakavi and then looked at my husband and pulled on this pitiful face and said, “Bilal, I’m hungry, Puttar. I don’t eat much else, just roti, and I can’t eat this bazaar bought stuff. Will you please get me three slices of white bread, so I can fill my belly with something?”’
I wish Bilal didn’t have this sad competition with his cousins. They are all forever trying to prove whose wife is more educated, has a better salary, can cook more dishes, has the squeaky cleanest house. He goes after me checking that the dusting is done properly. He never does things like that normally, but Massi Naito and her crew call, and my Bilal loses his marbles. He’s a different man.
I said to her, ‘Can you imagine if I had agreed to move to Luton when he came? Jesus, mother, you would have had to bury me within a year. Last time, his cousin stood at the fireplace, swiped his finger at the top of the mirror, and went, “Doesn’t your little one have allergies? You should be careful about dust.” And as the rest smirked, he wiped it on a tissue whilst pulling a disgusted face and eyeing his wife. Bilal went bright red. I just wanted to scream, “Yes, we are so dirty, don’t ever come back here again!”’
Mum wouldn’t believe me.
I said, ‘You don’t believe me? If I didn’t have to deal with it every time, I wouldn’t believe it either!’
Mum asked what am I cooking then?
I said, ‘Poison, I wish.’ Then apologised. (Laughs.) I said to her, ‘I know, I know. Sorry, mum. I know you raised me better. But honestly, mum, I’ve got so much on at work, and I told you about the lurking redundancies. I really could have done without this. If anything is missing tomorrow, it will be my fault. Honestly, mum, I’m just scared. It’s so hard to get a job these days. I don’t want to have to look towards Leeds. It just adds so much to the travel time each day, and I already feel like I get no time with the kids.’
She asked again, what am I cooking?
I told her, ‘I’ve got the meat on for pilau on one stove, the lamb on the other, because you know Bilal’s Maasi Naito only eats lamb in curry, she can’t digest mutton apparently.’
She asked about fish handi, so I said, ‘No, not the fish. His bitchy cousin made fun last time, saying, “Our Pabhi has one speciality.”’
I just wish Bilal would listen to me and stop giving a toss. We hardly ever go to their houses. We hardly ever visit Luton. They come here for some matam or birth, and we have to feed the ungrateful twats. I told her, ‘I’ve taken out some samosas to defrost, and I’ll have to use up the chicken tikka pasties that the kids love. I’ve made some tutti-frutti, though Bilal isn’t happy that it’s not a proper dessert and it’s a western thing. His family won’t like it. I reminded him the two bowls came back empty when I made it two months ago.’
At this point, I don’t know what took over me, and I sobbed. I’m sorry mum, I didn’t mean to cry. I just can’t believe in this day and age, people don’t understand how difficult it is for women who work outside and have to do everything at home, because heaven forbid our men helped with anything, it would strip them of their manliness. I wonder if I am a man now, as I have to work outside? And these cruel people and stupid men like my husband who put you through all this, and for what? They don’t even genuinely care about him.
I got so upset, I said to my mum, ‘Honestly, some of us had the brains to run multinational companies. You lumbered us in these situations. These lot zap the energy from us with the pettiest of stuff that shouldn’t even matter, and we are barely surviving.’
Then she got upset, and I was back to apologising.
In the middle of this, there was a knock at the door, so I told my mum.
‘There’s a knock at the door. I’ll be back in a minute.’ When I came back, I told her, ‘You’re going to laugh your head off when I tell you this.’
There was a white guy at the door. I’m wearing shalwar kameez today, as you know. Maasi Naito is coming, and Maasi Naito and her obnoxious controlling son do not let any of their women wear ‘goriyaan aalay kapray.’ I opened the door, and he looked at me head to toe and then started shouting with an exaggerated slowness like this:
‘New business. Bring fruit for you.’
He then pointed at a picture of fruit on a brochure in his hand.
I gave him a goofy smile and followed his hands and looked at the picture of a box of fruit.
‘Milk? We deliver too!’
I again politely followed his gaze and looked at the milk bottles, smiled and nodded a ‘Hmm.’
‘We deliver every week. Take money next week.’ He then smiled brightly and asked, ‘You like?’
I mustered up the poshest Bradford accent I could and asked, ‘Are these pre-selected boxes or can we choose which veg we would like that week and is it locally sourced?’
He stared at my face, saying nothing, needing time to adjust.
I said to her, ‘Mum, in my mind, I thought, do you reckon my Masters in Education may have prepared me to ask a few simple questions of a seller at my doorstep?’
She said everyone just stereotypes.
I agreed. Yes, I know the stereotyping is so frustrating. Why would the clothes you wear mean you can’t speak English? How long have we had migration to this city? The no dogs and no Irish, the no dogs and no blacks, the Jews, the Italians, the Ukrainians, the Asians, now the Eastern Europeans. Still, so much judgement. Honestly, mum, it’s bloody exhausting.
And that was my weekend and why I had taken the long scenic route to prepare myself mentally. After the book launch went well, I was so relieved, when this conversation with the parent took place and took me back to the seller at my door. Once I have gathered myself, I am thinking, this might be a good idea! I complain about bumping into too many people when I’m out. Next time, I will use shalwar kameez to my advantage. When I don’t want to be disturbed and just enjoy my own company, I’ll wear shalwar kameez, keep my mouth shut and go to see the latest exhibition, enjoy cake at the teashop using only a few words or head out into town. Everyone will look at me like that man, like I looked at this parent, as though I am stupid, like I do not belong here and look down at me. I’ll enjoy my peace and solitude amongst a crowd. The only thing is, I have noticed that when people treat me like that, it knocks even my confidence.
© Nabeela Ahmed
