to me? What did I do wrong?
I aynt going to marry no one to save the old man’s face. I’d rather die. Especially not a mullah. For him I suffered.
Why didn’t the mullah give up and marry someone else?
Cuz he wants to get married legal way and come to this country. He’s balla zat and the old man wants to lift his own name back home.
Beauty rubbed her feet dry and put on some sandals,opened the door and listened. She could just make out the noise from the television in the sitting room and the old man muttering. She walked quietly down the corridor and into the empty kitchen to start cooking. He’d want a lamb and chicken curry. The little ones couldn’t eat anything too hot so she’d have to make another two, without
naga
, the chilli peppers the old man liked. Dulal, her older brother, would eat whatever she made, depending on his mood. But if there’d been a fight, he wouldn’t touch anything she’d cooked. She might have poisoned it. If he ate after a fight, he’d get diarrhoea the next day. Of that she made sure. It had taken him years to realize what she did. Beauty laughed and pulled the sack of onions from the cupboard.
‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ Faisal’s voice startled her.
‘Nothing. Can’t I laugh?’
‘To yourself? You’re fucking crazy.’
Beauty chopped the onions. They’d always told her she was
faggol
and she’d believed them. The old man had told Miss McKenzie, her primary school teacher, that his daughter was mad. When she was eleven years old they heard her talking to herself and took her to see imams, so she started talking to herself in Turkish instead. Their neighbours in London at number 36 were Turkish and she’d learned how to say
bir
,
iki
,
uc
,
merhaba
and
hoscakal
from their six-year-old daughter. The old man had stopped them playing together, but Beauty remembered the sounds and rhythms of the child’s prattle and talked her own gibberish version of it to herself whenever she thought anyone was listening at the door.
‘Well, what were you laughing at?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Was it something the
halla
said?’ he insisted.
‘Why do you keep talking about her? Did you fancy her?’
Beauty knew she had to be careful. He was easy to wind up.
So what if I do? Fight’s gonna come sooner or later anyway.
‘And who were those blokes with you?’
‘What blokes?’ she said. ‘I didn’t see no blokes.’
‘Liar. There was two blokes standing there, laughing and talking.’
‘So what? It’s a free country, aynit?’
What’s free?
‘You shouldn’t have been with them.’
Why not?
But she couldn’t argue with him. She knew she shouldn’t have been standing with them.
‘Anyway,
Bhai-sahb
’ll be up soon,’ he said, and left her alone in the kitchen again.
I didn’t want to go on that course. He forced me.
Since they’d got back from Bangladesh her older brother had been cold towards her. He hadn’t wanted her to marry the mullah either, but he blamed her for the mess that had come of it, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get married until it was sorted out. Who else could he blame?
Beauty finished the onions and started on the garlic and ginger. She’d cooked for the family since she was ten years old, when her ama had gone into hospital. Tonight she would make the
hutki
, too, for her mum, just how she liked it. She stood at the cooker, measuring powders in a wooden spoon and stirring them into the onions, garlic and ginger. Above the frying she heard noises from her older brother’s bedroom overhead. He’d be down soon. She made
sagu
, and set a place for him at the table. Maybe he’d be too tired to get angry before going towork. It would depend on how much trouble the little one managed to cause.
She listened to steps coming down the stairs and watched as a form approached the ribbed glass of the kitchen door. Maybe it was only Faisal – he was getting so big these days she couldn’t be sure. The handle
I aynt going to marry no one to save the old man’s face. I’d rather die. Especially not a mullah. For him I suffered.
Why didn’t the mullah give up and marry someone else?
Cuz he wants to get married legal way and come to this country. He’s balla zat and the old man wants to lift his own name back home.
Beauty rubbed her feet dry and put on some sandals,opened the door and listened. She could just make out the noise from the television in the sitting room and the old man muttering. She walked quietly down the corridor and into the empty kitchen to start cooking. He’d want a lamb and chicken curry. The little ones couldn’t eat anything too hot so she’d have to make another two, without
naga
, the chilli peppers the old man liked. Dulal, her older brother, would eat whatever she made, depending on his mood. But if there’d been a fight, he wouldn’t touch anything she’d cooked. She might have poisoned it. If he ate after a fight, he’d get diarrhoea the next day. Of that she made sure. It had taken him years to realize what she did. Beauty laughed and pulled the sack of onions from the cupboard.
‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ Faisal’s voice startled her.
‘Nothing. Can’t I laugh?’
‘To yourself? You’re fucking crazy.’
Beauty chopped the onions. They’d always told her she was
faggol
and she’d believed them. The old man had told Miss McKenzie, her primary school teacher, that his daughter was mad. When she was eleven years old they heard her talking to herself and took her to see imams, so she started talking to herself in Turkish instead. Their neighbours in London at number 36 were Turkish and she’d learned how to say
bir
,
iki
,
uc
,
merhaba
and
hoscakal
from their six-year-old daughter. The old man had stopped them playing together, but Beauty remembered the sounds and rhythms of the child’s prattle and talked her own gibberish version of it to herself whenever she thought anyone was listening at the door.
‘Well, what were you laughing at?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Was it something the
halla
said?’ he insisted.
‘Why do you keep talking about her? Did you fancy her?’
Beauty knew she had to be careful. He was easy to wind up.
So what if I do? Fight’s gonna come sooner or later anyway.
‘And who were those blokes with you?’
‘What blokes?’ she said. ‘I didn’t see no blokes.’
‘Liar. There was two blokes standing there, laughing and talking.’
‘So what? It’s a free country, aynit?’
What’s free?
‘You shouldn’t have been with them.’
Why not?
But she couldn’t argue with him. She knew she shouldn’t have been standing with them.
‘Anyway,
Bhai-sahb
’ll be up soon,’ he said, and left her alone in the kitchen again.
I didn’t want to go on that course. He forced me.
Since they’d got back from Bangladesh her older brother had been cold towards her. He hadn’t wanted her to marry the mullah either, but he blamed her for the mess that had come of it, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get married until it was sorted out. Who else could he blame?
Beauty finished the onions and started on the garlic and ginger. She’d cooked for the family since she was ten years old, when her ama had gone into hospital. Tonight she would make the
hutki
, too, for her mum, just how she liked it. She stood at the cooker, measuring powders in a wooden spoon and stirring them into the onions, garlic and ginger. Above the frying she heard noises from her older brother’s bedroom overhead. He’d be down soon. She made
sagu
, and set a place for him at the table. Maybe he’d be too tired to get angry before going towork. It would depend on how much trouble the little one managed to cause.
She listened to steps coming down the stairs and watched as a form approached the ribbed glass of the kitchen door. Maybe it was only Faisal – he was getting so big these days she couldn’t be sure. The handle
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