Things Nadir N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ Said | [MUSLIM]

IX

IX

Nadir

There are a lot of things that make me nervous. Like when Zaeb allows strangers in grocery queues to make small talk and they look at me expecting me to join the conversation, too. Or like the times when it's my turn to tell the kids a goodnight story, and I'm torn between reading too slow or risking a verbal stumble. Or when I get that feeling when I'm painting; that feeling that makes me want to cry because the correct shadow effect is missing on a cloud, or the colours of the skyline aren't quite right.

And about nervousness, too, there is a peculiar quality. It resembles other emotions, like fear, anxiety, uncertainty. At times our perception gets blurred, and we end up with a distorted, mixed feeling we can't recognise.

If I was sure of something, it was that I had never - not even a single time in all these years - asked Zaeb not to keep contact with any of her friends. Men, women, Muslim, non-Muslim, whoever, really - who she associated with had always been her choice. I had no reason, nor any business, to question her in this matter.

At lunch presently she sat across me, and she was not eating. She didn't even notice when Mishal slipped her peppers under the table, and then realising I'd caught her in the act, gave me the cutest puppy-eyed smile, exactly like her mum's.

The mum who was on the phone with her long lost best friend. And it figured that she wouldn't be eating much later either, because apparently, from what I'd gathered, Sami would be joining us to dinner tonight.

Honestly, I didn't dislike the bloke. But it wouldn't be appropriate to conceal that I didn't downright love him, either. Which wasn't exactly out of place. Anyone would be wary of an old friend of his wife's if said friend just suddenly appeared out of thin air and stood towering atop everyone with all of his looks, glamour and money.

...and the wife couldn't stop with her admiration and endless reminisces.

So, I absolutely dreaded it. I wanted my dinner, tonight's and every other night's, uninterrupted by Sami and his friend.

And yet I was on my way to the local halal meat shop because my simple-minded wife needed to ready a whole banquet every time his Majesty professed the desire to dine with us. If it weren't for the fact that I, too, would get biryani tonight, I would never have driven all the way for groceries. Good food, the only good thing coming out of the whole deal.

Like always, my heart started to race as I stood there, internally preparing to address the same counterman who's been dealing me our produce for years. He knew me and Zaeb, probably even my children, by our names. And yet I couldn't hold a five-second long formal conversation without messing up.

A usual occurrence.

When I mispronounced 'chicken breasts,' the guy behind me at the queue began to snicker. I didn't spare much heed.

At home, since Arij only came over when Zaeb called her - which was during the day when she was busy with housework - it was every bit as lively and chaotic as I liked it. The cat was being given a piggy-back ride by Mustafa as Mishal tottered behind trying to tie a ribbon around its neck. When I entered, Zaeb was in the process of telling them off for being too noisy, and, "Can't you two sit still at least when guests are about to come over?!"

But her voice had an edge to it that spoke to me even if it wasn't audible to anyone else - there was a concealed humour in her cries, a smile in her glares. It didn't - couldn't - escape me that she was in a good mood. And her good mood surely wasn't because of the lavish dinner tonight.

But in order to prevent myself from panicking about a harmless meeting, I supervised Mishal and Mustafa's early dinner, put them to bed, and then sat in the kitchen, busying myself with helping Zaeb chop some vegetables. She was flying about the place; now rummaging the cutlery drawer, now checking the oven timer, and now stirring a sauce.

"What?" She asked at one point, upon noticing that my eyes would scarcely leave her. When I shook my head she rolled her eyes and turned away to return to whatever she was doing, but not before a grin broke on her face.

Our proximity, synchronised movements and the quiet kitchen sounds were altogether so soothing, that for a while I forgot that we were scheduled to be disturbed soon.

When the doorbell rang and she almost jumped, I walked the little way to the door with her, refocussing on my characteristic struggle for linguistic composure.

After welcoming Sami and his friend and having his requested Turkish coffee, they sat nattering again.

It shocked me even now, to see how much Zaeb transformed upon being united with Sami. It needed a lot of getting used to, because she wasn't this way with any other relatives back home. But in a way, it was nice to hear her talk about the British economy, implicit racism and imported coffee - things, it figured, she had somehow never come close to discussing with me.

Getting to know that Fahad was not such a keen conversationalist was something to make my unsocial self feel at ease, although I did have to suffer a few moments of small talk before they finally agreed to dinner.

With the most aromatic Biryani, buttery curries and fresh Indian bread, we had quite a feast. The hearty spread naturally brought the heartiest praise from our guests, and just when Zaeb had stopped doing that thing when she blushes and twirls her finger around loose strands of her hair, Fahad suddenly asked me how much our apartment cost.

There was no shying away from the truth; ours was a humble yet cosy little flat. But it was still somewhat too big for my family, and well according to what we could afford.

"Eighty thousand pounds," I told him, looking away as I felt my face heat up. Just because it was nothing to be embarrassed about didn't mean I wasn't partially embarrassed. Sami sat just a seat over.

"Really?" Fahad's eyes widened. "I mean, it's quite surprising. You have a very beautiful home. I expected it to be way more than eighty thousand, I'll be honest!"

He seemed genuinely astonished, so I went on and told him that our home probably looked the way it did because of the well-placed furniture and smart interior designing.

"Well, brother; I've got to say you hired a rather accomplished designer, then!" He grinned. "I'm truly amazed."

"Then perhaps you should praise said accomplished designer," I smiled, and glanced towards where Zaeb sat, looking away, grinning.

"Really, Zaeb?" Sami exclaimed suddenly. "Did you really plan the decor of this place all by yourself?!"

"Thank you, and yes I did," she beamed. "Haven't I mentioned I have Master's in Interior Design?"

"No, Zaeb, this is...I can't describe how impressive this is!"

"Nothing but the work of a skilled decorator," Fahad declared. "I've lived in London for well over a decade, and seen quite a few houses through my work. And I can tell that you, madam, have hundreds of pounds on your fingertips. I take it in my hands to bring the most affluent clients of London straight to your office, just any time you ring me!"

"I couldn't be more grateful," she said coyly, "except that I don't have an office. I never did take any projects, you see. Got married a couple of months after my internship, had some fun decorating this flat, but then...just never got the time, you can say."

"And now you're just allowing your talent to rust, sitting at home?" Sami cried. "How could an educated and skilled woman like you ever do that?!"

"Sami," she said, softly, "I'm looking after my home and children." 

"Which you could do better, if you had another, better source of income."