Read an excerpt from Salma El-Wardany's debut novel, here, then dive in with us throughout the month.
In this house, things were said differently. There was a mug of tea that was always waiting for her father. It said, here, I love you. The family meals that were always on the table said, here, we care about you. To ask how you were was to complain that you’d been in the bathroom too long. To say I love you was to shout that you didn’t look both ways when crossing the road. Love came under the guise of anger and rough voices, which didn’t make it less loving, it just held a different shape.
“I agree,” she replies, laughing. “I think you should run for prime minister in the next election. I’ll be your campaign manager.” “Are you ready? She’s about to go off on one,” whispers Saba, giggling in her ear as she squeezes her. Hakim groans again and pulls himself quickly out of her embrace, but not before squeezing her hand and grinning in a way that says he’s glad she’s home. It’s been six months since she’s been back, which isn’t that long, but it’s too long, given that she only lives an hour away, and the familiar guilt begins to take its place in her stomach.
As usual, her mother insists that Kees makes the roti when she’s home and although she never says it, she’s glad. She washes her hands, rolls up her sleeves, and begins rolling out the dough between her palms.
Her mother takes her chin in her hand and turns it to face her. “Beta, you look tired and skinny. Why aren’t you eating?” They all eat together, food laid out on a cloth on the floor, and talk about the things that mean something but also nothing. Who’s getting married and what happened at the mosque. As usual, as soon as the meal is over, Kees’s mother packs curry into old margarine tubs, wraps roti in tinfoil, and sends Hakim with the food parcel to the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Carson.
She can hear Saba running up the stairs and so she quickly ends the call, throwing her phone across the bed like a thief caught stealing.“I’ve got a feeling you’re going to anyway,” Kees replies, grumpily. “And why are you sitting on top of me? You have no concept of personal space.”Kees stares at her, mouth swinging slightly open, and replies stupidly, “How can you be in love?”Kees bites her tongue and wonders, not for the first time, if she’s kept her boyfriend hidden too well.
Attempting to be a rational and supportive sister, Kees picks up her mug of tea, sips on it quietly, and becomes determined to say the right thing.“The matchmaker introduced us. I told Mum and Dad I wanted to marry a few months ago and I’ve been meeting people ever since.” “Someone who’s Muslim and Pakistani and good and kind and who our parents approve of. I’m ready, Kees. I’m not like you. I don’t care about politics or being a lawyer.”“I’m not really interested in a career. I want to have babies and kiss their fat little feet and feed up the people I love.”Her sister looks hurt. Kees reaches for her hand to squeeze an apology but Saba snatches it away.
“Yes, Beta,” he replies. “The rishta is coming tomorrow and we want the family to meet everyone. But we also wanted to check if you’re okay with Saba getting married before you.”“Leh! Of course she’s okay with it. She has her head in charities and politics all the time. She even has a book in her hand now. She doesn’t even think of these things.”
Kees walks home from the station even though her bags are heavy and even though she’s weighed down by the margarine tubs of curries her mother has neatly packed up ready for her freezer. She shifts the bag again and keeps walking, chin slightly tilted up as if ready to receive a blessing.