Take the Hint!

I'm Zakariya, and I'm an innocent man. I like cat videos, for crying out loud. How much more innocent can you get?

Then why's everyone acting strange around me?

And what's Oliver-bhai saying about marriage?

A comedic short story by Muslim Fiction Project, that will certainly have you laughing out loud.

Take the Hint!

My earliest memory is of diving in water. It was like a toilet, water flushing around me as if someone had pressed the button and now I was being drowned. Hands grabbed at me, I recall, pushing me further into the depths of each wave.

Someone wanted to kill me!

At least, that’s what my primitive brain understood at that young age. My mum tells me I was, what, a week old at that point. And it was her treacherous hands that had pulled me under the water and almost drowned me.

A psychology class in uni said that all trauma could be linked back to parents. In my case, it certainly was.

Mysteriously, despite remembering not much else around that time, I remember the traumatic experience that still shakes me to the core even now.

“Zakariya, get down here, please.”

Is someone speaking? I pull off my headphones—I was watching cat videos on YouTube, in particular one of a feline hopping onto the shoulders of an Imam whilst he led the prayer.

“Zakariya, can you hear me?”

It’s my mum. And she seems to be having an urgent problem. I hop off my chair, sidestep the new bed I got last week—it’s got thousands of springs each of which I can feel whilst asleep—and tail it down the stairs two at a time.

I wrap a hand around the edge of the doorframe and poke my head into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

Her face is distressed, lines on her forehead creasing against each other as she stares back at me.

“It’s an emergency,” she shrieks, jumping across the floor to reach me. “Something very bad has happened.”

Worry flows through me as I think of the worst-case scenarios. Has another baby been pushed into a tub of water and nearly drowned? Have aliens descended onto earth to take over the planet? Have Pepsi decided to change their formula to a new flavour?

“Come,” my mum says, grabbing my arm and tugging me to the line of cupboards spanning the kitchen wall, above a small window overlooking the back garden.

“What is it?” I ask.

She reaches two hands up, grips the handles of the cupboard like it’s the edge of a cliff, and slams the two doors apart.

But the cupboard is empty. Nothing is inside, except for empty jars staring back at me with their glinted gazes.

“Is that it?” I say, the worry within me dissipating as I level a mini-glare at my mum, unimpressed.

“It is an emergency,” my mum says, turning to me with alarm brimming in her eyes. “I need some chilli powder and you need to get it for me.”

I resist the urge to palm my head, such is the disappointment more than anything running through me, and turn back to face the exit of the kitchen. “You got me feeling like someone’s died,” I say. “Or Horrid Henry’s stopped airing, or something.”

“Forget Horrid Henry. This is a much bigger tragedy. Please, go get some. It won’t take you that long.”

I sigh, defeat racing through me at the prospect of leaving the house. I’m not exactly extroverted, and the bazaar with leering Bengali uncles and the man shouting about the sanasur he’s selling isn’t the place I wanna be.

Still, I can’t just say no to my mum, can I?

I grab my coat and pull it on, then the woolly brown scarf that my grandma gave me as a present last Eid, and gloves as well because layers of old meat stain every surface of the bazaar, before rushing out the front door.

The sooner I can get this little trip over with the better. I unlock my bike from its lock to the garden gate beside my house, then mount it and zoom across the streets to the bazaar, which is a few minutes away.

On the way, I hum an old nasheed I used to listen to a lot. I can’t remember the name, but the tune still sticks to my mind—sticks like the remnants of old meat on a butcher’s workbench, like that of those in the bazaar.

I reach the massive place soon enough. The building almost as wide as Jannah with the demeanour of hell rears its ugly head as I unmount my bike and lock it against one of the railings. I’m the only one that bikes here. Everyone else drives, and with only a single file for both exiting and entering, the place is jam packed even on a Tuesday morning when no one’s got shopping to do.

Apart from my mum, of course, with no chilli powder being her idea of an ‘emergency’.

She’s got a privileged life if that’s her worst emergency, I wonder as I enter the superstore and drink in the sights of men with brown teeth from chewing too much gwa and children screaming as they run around playing tag as if this is their school playground.

Wait, why weren’t they at school?

Oh yeah, it’s the holiday. Which means sales. Which means really long queues.

Just my luck.

Anyhow, I locate the chilli powder on the other side of the store, past a woman who adjusts her scarf every few seconds and just can’t seem to decipher which spices to pick out. I brush past her and grasp the chilli powder in eager hands, triumph racing through my veins as I saunter to the counter and almost slam the thing onto the table.

The cashier is unimpressed, drab face and overcast eyes leering at me like I’ve just kicked his cat.

I would never do such a thing. I promise. Don’t have a bone that could hurt the cute creatures.

Another cashier taps the shoulder of Mr Couldn’t-Care-Less, and my heart sinks when I see who it is.

Mr Oliver-bhai, whose name isn’t Oliver and I’m sure he only chose it because he wants to keep the red passport. Mr Oliver is the bane of my existence whenever I come to the bazaar, always striking unwanted chatter and attempting to kindle an unrequited conversation.

“Assalaamu Alaikum, Zakariya,” Oliver-bhai says, stretching a hand out.

I shake it. Not because I wanted to, given his palm is suspiciously slimy, likely from cutting meat all day long and generally being around dead animals. But because of a forced politeness my mum instilled within me from a young age.

Anyhow, Oliver-bhai retracts his hand and looks behind me. I turn and see the worst thing of all.

Despite the shop brimming with Asians milling about its corners and discussing both politics and products, the queue behind me is non-existent.

Meaning that dreaded conversation with Oliver-bhai is a prospect I must entertain, reluctantly.

“How old are you, Zakariya-bhai?” Oliver-bhai asks.

“Twenty-three,” I reply. Oliver-bhai doesn’t look too much older than me, likely reaching thirty, though the callouses on his palms and the early wrinkles etched into his features speak otherwise.

Oliver-bhai smacks his hand on the table. I step back, once, wary of the weirdness that sometimes accompanies Oliver-bhai.

“You are getting old, Zakariya-bhai. It is time to find you a wife.”

Oliver-bhai makes a show of searching around the shop, eyes peeled in case Miss Perfect pops into existence.

Not that I'm looking for Miss Perfect, in any case. I have more than enough on my plate as it is—a tiny plate, albeit. And problem number one is getting out of this store with the chilli powder in hand and my dignity intact.

“Come back here by the end of the day,” Oliver-bhai says, “and I shall find you someone.”

I ignore the joke, face turning red from slight embarrassment—not that I have anything to be embarrassed about, of course. My head reels as I grab the blue bag after handing Oliver-bhai the money.

“No thanks,” I say. “But do stay well.” Despite the abhorrent idea of a conversation with the man, I still have somewhat of an affinity with him.

One of those Bengali uncle type relationships that can never be shed no matter how much distance is put between the two people in question.

Chilli powder successfully secure in my pocket, I mount my bike and tail it back home again.

Once I see the customary blinking light of the upstairs toilet—that light never seems to work—I know Mum’s at home. I skid into the driveway like it’s Formula One, then lock my bike again and rap on the door.

I have to wait minutes, since Mum’s probably in the toilet doing her business. Then, the key rattles and the door opens.

I look inside to find Nadim, my cousin who’s about seven years old, dangling the key from his fingers whilst staring up at me.

I stare back at him, a little confused as to why he’s here in the first place.

Nadim’s a sweet soul. Could never hurt a fly, that one. Doesn’t mean he isn’t annoying when he wants to be. Kid has the energy of a race car with the fortitude of a freighter. An odd combo, I know, making for an even odder child.

Our staring match continues, Nadim’s eyes narrowing as he gazes back at me. I want to open my mouth and say something to break the strange silence, but something forces my throat shut.

And the staring contest continues. I watch Nadim’s eyes tremble as redness floods into them, and a sting pierces the water of my eyes and causes droplets to fall. The droplets race down my cheeks, making the sting continue to the whole of my face.

Yet this kid is unrelenting, not willing to blink and hand me the victory. I double my efforts as the outside wind brushes past my back. My eyes begin to shut on their own, whilst Nadim has resorted to grasping the door frame for support.

“What is going on between you two?” a voice says.

My concentration, never particularly strong in the first place given my less than stable attention span, snaps with my eyes shutting of their own accord.

I tell you, they shut on their own. It wasn’t my fault. I swear I could’ve kept going for days if I needed to, not that Nadim would understand any of my excuses.

The kid giggles in victory before rushing back into the house.

My mum, the offender that cost me my worthy victory, places her hands on hips and stares at me.

“Did you get the powder, then?”

I nod, whisk it from my pocket and into her hands. She gives a small smile, nowhere near enough compensation for my loss to Nadim, and charges through the house to make whatever dish it is she’d been preparing.

Wait, why’s Nadim even here in the first place? That kid doesn’t live here. This is my house, and mine alone—well, my mum’s too, and Dadi’s whenever she pops around, and my mum’s siblings suspiciously pilfer the fridge whenever they come here.

Okay fine, it’s not exclusively my house. But Nadim has a mum and dad. Where are they?

I stalk through my house after shrugging off my coat, upset at the loss to a seven-year-old. My legs lead me to the living room, where Nadim is perched, watching one of those newer cartoons on TV that look way too well animated to be from my childhood.

“I beat you,” Nadim says as I sit.

I know, having been a seven-year-old myself once upon a very long time ago, that Nadim will lord this victory over my sorry head for at least another half a decade. Before he realises petty feuds with cousins over staring matches aren’t worth bragging about.

“You got lucky,” I lob back.

But Nadim isn’t buying it. Program on TV forgotten, he turns and pulls on his ears before sticking his tongue out.

“La, la, la,” he sings, before ending it with a succinct yet accurate, “loser.”

I sigh, knowing that I’ve been bested, and stroll into the kitchen where my mum stands with her hand on head, as a curry steams before her.

“Smells nice,” I comment as I enter.

“Just hope it tastes nice,” my mum replies, wiping a hand across her forehead. “I couldn’t put any of the good stuff in.”

I stare down at the curry and realise with happiness in my chest that by ‘good stuff’ she means those disgusting little black things that cause nausea when chewed but still, for some unknown reason, is included in almost every Asian dish.

“That’s fine,” I say. “Heck, I’d even prefer it that way.”

“I would ask you to go out again and get some,” my mum says, “but that’d be too much work. And you’re not exactly free.”

Considering I’m a graduate with a month left before the new job starts, I’ve got more than enough time in the world to go shopping again. Not that I’m letting her know that.

“Can’t go back anyway,” I say. “Oliver-bhai is there. Keeps trying to speak to me.”

“He’s a sweet man,” my mum says. “You shouldn’t say bad things about him.”

“Forget what I say about him,” I say. “He told me today I should get married. Can you believe it?”

My mum recoils as if a bug has just attacked her. I glance at the surrounding area, attempting to locate the pesky bugger that caused my mum’s flinch. But nothing crops up, and I return to staring at the smoke billowing from the curry as my mum swirls the chicken around with a large, wooden ladle.

“Oliver-bhai is an interesting man,” my mum says.

Yeah, interesting in a weird sense, though I don’t voice that out loud.

I leave my mum to cook the rest of the curry, which I will feast on after Asr prayer. I hear her grab her phone and dial a number—probably my Dadi’s. She always calls her every day at least once, as if she is her own mother and not the mother of my late dad.

I don’t wish to face Nadim again, either. Not after the humiliating loss I suffered at his hands in the staring contest. I've been scarred for life and don't want events to repeat themselves. And I don’t want to face the taunts I know Nadim will throw my way.

I return upstairs and drown myself in cat videos as I’d been doing before my mum decided to make it my life’s mission to fulfil her every need. An hour passes, in which I laugh at almost every cat video in existence. One particular video, of a feline slamming a cupboard door in another cat’s face, really got to me.

In any case, the time for prayer rolls around, and I make wudu, grab my jacket, and tail—see what I did there, cos cats have a tail—the five-minute walk to the masjid. The blue building roars in the distance, and I quickly run inside before the grey clouds decide to pour rain down and drench my body.

They’ve been doing that a lot lately. And I don’t like it.

As I get ready to pray my four rakats sunna before Asr, I notice one of the regular worshippers staring at me, an odd look in his eyes.

Is there something on my face?

I quickly swipe a hand across my hair and forehead, then discover a piece of grime had stuck to my skin. I flick it off, think nothing more of the staring worshipper, and pray my salah.

The four rakats fardh with the imam starts soon after. That doesn’t take too much time—it’s not the second imam, who believes every prayer is a Ramadan special and makes it twice as long. It’s a nice, medium sized prayer, right in the Goldilocks zone of concentrating whilst not getting worn out.

After I’m done, I begin reciting Allah’s remembrance under my breath, staring at the carpet whilst trying not to make eye contact with the man from before. When the remembrance is finished, all too quick, I look around and see that same man staring at me, beady eyes trained like a hawk hunting prey.

I resist the urge to squeak, then haul myself to my feet, and quickly snake through seated worshippers to the exit. But I don’t reach it in time. Instead, the same man from before, I’m assuming since the touch is rough, taps my shoulder.

I pause, pretending not to feel it as I glance around for my shoes, but the tap hits me again. No escaping it this time.

I turn and face the man. Up close, he’s got intense eyes, dark brown in colour. Wrinkles, though not as set into skin as that of my grandma, line his face as he stares at me.

It’s a glare, I tell you. He’s probably eyeing me up to see if he can use me to help with something. But I’m not exactly the strongest tool in the shed—and I’m not a tool in general, either.

“Let’s talk in the lobby,” Beady Eyes says, and I follow him after grabbing my shoes. The lobby is quiet, with worshippers slowly filtering out through the front entrance.

Beady Eyes leads me to the little room which acts as a reception for the masjid. He asks me to sit down, which I warily do.

What’s he planning? I’m not an intern or anything, handling calls for the masjid because Beady Eyes can’t be bothered.

The chair is leather, but rough, as if the cow itself is rolling against my back. The armrest is way too high, the seat far too low, and it’s as if I’m about to sink into the ground as Beady Eyes stares at me with his beady eyes.

“Where do you see yourself in five years' time?” he says.

I stare at him, blinking twice, registering what he’s just asked. Is this some kind of interview? Am I being recruited for a job at the masjid, and against my will no less?

“Umm,” my words fumble, and my voice trails off. Something about the glare in his eyes is putting me off. Heat rushes to my face—I’ve never been confident in interviews. And this is probably the hardest one I’ve been in.

“Maybe in a new job?” Beady Eyes suggests, prompting me with ideas as to what to say. Very weird for an interview. Usually, interviewers I’ve had battles against just peer into your eyes, as if gazing at the depths of your soul, whilst expecting verbal perfection in return. “What do you currently work as?”

I just look back at him, eyes wide and mind confused. “I’ve got a graduate scheme,” I manage to blurt out, aware of the redness flooding my cheeks as I speak.

And hey, it’s getting really hot in this room. Don’t they have some air conditioning or something around here?

“Graduate scheme in what?” He leans down as he speaks, gives me a good stare. I gulp in return, mouth freezing with the answer lodged in my throat. “And where did you graduate from?” he added.

“Princeton,” I mutter.

Wait, no, that’s not right—

Beady Eyes leans back and rubs his thick beard. “Isn’t that in America?”

“I meant Kingston. It’s a university near here.”

Beady Eyes glances with his beady eyes outside the reception area. The crowds of worshippers have slowly dissipated. “Right,” he says, before turning back to me. “Would you like to meet again today?”

Confusion brushes my mind. Meet again for what, exactly? A job at the masjid?

“There’s a coffee shop near here. We can organise a meeting there for this evening.”

I don’t know what to say. Here’s a man I’ve never met before—Beady Eyes—giving me the glare of someone with beady eyes whilst interrogating me for no reason. But he is intimidating, for sure, and I wilt under that furtive gaze.

“Sure, we can meet,” I say. “Uh, what exactly are we meeting for, again?”

Beady Eyes just laughs, wraps a hand around my shoulder—a pretty rough, calloused hand—and walks me out of the reception area. I’m still bewildered as to what has happened, but Beady Eyes pays no mind. He pushes open the door of the masjid and walks me out into the light breeze and bright light.

“What time?” I ask him, shrugging myself away from his hand.

“I’d say seven pm.” He nods at me, and I return a tentative smile back. Not like my smile has ever been nice, always an awkward spreading of the cheeks—no, not those cheeks—and an upturn of the lips.

His beard returns the smile, before he departs for somewhere in the distance, leaving me alone. Thankfully, my house is in a different direction to his. I don’t think I could handle having to walk with him home.

Regardless, I shake off the cobwebs of social interaction and begin my journey home, mind still whirring as to what Beady Eyes wishes to recruit me for. A job at the masjid? And why would that require meeting at a coffee shop, when I’m right here in front of him?

Stranger things have happened, my mind tells me, and I disregard Beady Eyes’ interrogations and finish my trek home. When I get there, the front door is already ajar—Nadim has probably been racing in and out, trying to catch butterflies flitting in the wind or something. I step into the hallway and shut the door behind me.

“Oh, there you are,” my mum says, walking in from the living room. “Come, eat, I’ve finally finished the curry. And Nadim here—” the offending boy is peeking out from behind my mum— “wants to join us. Isn’t that right?” She gives Nadim googly eyes, to which the boy giggles.

I still can’t get over the fact that he beat me in a staring competition. Worst defeat of my life. I’m absolutely shattered.

Mum’s way too close with Nadim—being her nephew and all, and also the only child she has left in her family to look after from time to time. The rest are adults, like me, or teenagers whose temperaments don’t exactly align with cuddles and baking cakes together.

I remember baking cakes with my mum. They weren’t the best—chocolate mixed with way too much icing and a dash of sprinkles that served to add nothing but an aesthetic flair to the concoction—but the time spent is a valued memory.

I follow my mum into the living room whilst she grabs the curry from the kitchen. I sit next to Nadim, unwilling to look him in the eye after losing to him earlier today. The smell of meat curry floats through the open living room door, enticing my belly to begin roaring with hunger.

“Make sure you brush your teeth after eating,” my mum says, walking in with a pot in each hand. Her hands are flipping strong. “The curry can stain your mouth.”

And make my fingers go yellow, I add on internally. I know that all too well, having suffered from yellow-finger-syndrome until I could figure out a way to mitigate that by scrubbing my hands until they were red and raw.

“I’ve got somewhere to go,” I say, recalling Beady Eyes and his request. “At seven, a meeting in Blakely’s.” Though Beady Eyes never specified a shop, I’m sure he meant Blakely’s—the only real coffee shop in this part of town worth their salt—sugar, because salt in coffee is just yuck.

“Mmm hmm,” my mum hums. “I think I’ll come with you. Just to keep an eye on things.” She sets the pots down and heads out to grab plates.

Come with me? She can’t come with me. It’s an interview—at least, it seems that way. Can’t exactly take my mum to an interview now, can I?

I tell her as much when she returns with the plates. But she shakes her head at me, clatters the plates down, and sits beside Nadim with a spoon in her hand to get the curry.

“It’s good for me to keep an eye on things, just in case. You never know what could happen.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And I want to sneak a peek, too.”

I have no clue what she is talking about. It’s an interview, for crying out loud. But I know that, when my mum sets her sight on something, there’s no talking her out of it. At least, not unless you open her brain and take the thoughts out.

An impossibility, of course.

Anyway, I eat the meat curry with a healthy portion of rice. I eat a little less, knowing I’ve got a meeting later, and coffee does take up space within my stomach. I hope the caffeine isn’t too much—it causes me headaches and palpitations sometimes. Definitely not good for my blood pressure.

We all eat together, with my mum chatting to Nadim about school or something, with me avoiding his gaze due to the embarrassment of defeat. Nadim has bested me, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

Nadim exits to wash his hands whilst I finish the rest of my food.

“I’ll get you dressed,” my mum says, turning to me.

My mouth dries up. “I’m twenty-three,” I tell her. “You can’t get me dressed anymore, Mum.”

“I’ll pick out the outfit. Obviously, I can’t get you dressed. Why would you think that?”

My brain’s frazzled from the entire day. I don’t even know what to think anymore.

I haul myself upstairs after washing my hands, plate, and glass, then slink into my room. My desk sits in one corner, on which I’d been watching those adorable cat fights earlier today. I wish for such peace, before Beady Eyes and my mum decided to get all in my business and curtail an evening of video-watching fun.

“Here, wear this,” my mum says, rifling through my wardrobe and bringing out a blue shirt, button-up and a little too professional for meeting a brother at a coffee shop—even if he is Beady Eyes.

I open my mouth to protest, but under my mum’s hard stare, I wilt and cave into her demands.

She then grabs a nice pair of jeans that I got last Eid, designer jeans, and flings it at me.

“Wear those, too. I’ll be waiting outside.”

What’s gotten into her? I’m going for a regular meeting with a friend—well, Beady Eyes certainly isn’t a friend—at a coffee shop. Nothing more. Yet my mum’s acting like I’ve got a fashion show to head off to.

Shaking my head in confusion, I button up the shirt, pull on the jeans, and slide on socks from the drawer beside my wardrobe.

My mum nods approvingly when I walk out. “I always make the best style choices,” she says, looking me up and down. She grabs my hand, takes me to the bathroom, and then scrubs my face with a warm towel, before ordering me to apply some Nivea cream, brush my teeth, and meet her downstairs at the front door.

All throughout the process, Nadim is staring at me, stifling a grin. I glare at him, but his grin only intensifies.

Oh, if only I’d beaten him before in the staring match, he wouldn’t so flagrantly domineer his dominance over me.

We stare at each other for a while longer in the hallway outside the bathroom. But I look away, not willing to risk another defeat at the hands of my cousin.

We wait in the living room for five minutes. Nadim’s mother comes to pick him up, and when she sees me, she asks what the occasion is.

“Just going to meet someone at Blakely’s,” I tell her.

She raises an eyebrow at me. “A special someone, I hope.”

I laugh. “Not like that.”

Nadim hugs his mum, then turns and gives me a sly grin. Victory is in his eyes, and I know I’ll need to get payback soon, before he lords his win over me for my entire life.

“Ready to leave?” my mum asks, grabbing her keys.

I nod, and we set off down the winding roads leading to Blakely’s. Throughout the walk, my mum is silent, which is odd since she’s usually very talkative, and loud, and nagging. But those are endearing traits—at least, that’s what I tell myself as a coping mechanism.

We arrive at Blakely’s shortly before seven, and I head inside, but Beady Eyes is nowhere to be seen. I look around for a while, scanning the tables and ignoring the odd stares I’m getting.

But no, Beady Eyes isn’t there.

Which leaves one option.

An option I never thought I’d have to face.

Beady Eyes is a Hetty’s fan.

Hetty’s is the coffee shop opposite Blakely’s, and the town is divided as to which one is better. My family—of course—always goes into Blakely’s, since it has better coffee, better atmosphere, better people, better everything.

Beady Eyes being a Hetty’s fan was never on the cards.

But, as I leave Blakely’s and reunite with my mum, I can see she knows the conclusion I’ve come to.

“There could be worse things,” she says, rubbing my arm to comfort me. Comfort because she knows I’ll have to walk into enemy territory and brave the dangers inside—Mum isn’t coming inside, that’s for sure. Heck, I won’t let her.

I steel myself, clenching my jaw as if facing a snowstorm, and head over to Hetty’s on the other side. The blinds are way too drawn, making the inside look darker than the night. The décor is horrible, I notice as I peek in through the front door. Yet, Beady Eyes is there, sitting in the middle, at a wide table, twiddling his beady thumbs and twitching his beady eyes.

I inhale, gulping air and holding it in my lungs, before exhaling. I open the door and enter, knowing I have almost committed treason with such an act.

But it must be done, especially with how important Beady Eyes is making the meeting seem.

Beady Eyes gives me salaam, and I return it, though a little warily.

“I’m sure you’re a little nervous,” Beady Eyes says. “That’s fine.”

Oh, sure I’m a little nervous. Of course I’d be nervous having to come into a terrifying place like Hetty’s, a building which I swore I would never enter until the day I die.

Beady Eyes is a typical interviewer. Much politeness, but I know his eyes are smothering me, judgemental gazes downloading information to analyse later. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a notebook with him to take down points of review.

“Nasira is just coming back from the loo,” Beady Eyes says. “Give her a moment.”

Wait, what? Who’s Nasira?

That’s not my mum.

Mum’s name is Aisha.

What’s going on here?

I glance back and see my mum peering in through one of the windows. She hands me a smile, and I tentatively grin back, before turning to Beady Eyes, confusion in my gaze.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I remember my first marriage meeting like it was yesterday. Nervous and everything, but you’ll be fine.”

Now I know who Nasira is, and it hits me like a train.

“Marriage meeting?” I stumble out, mind reeling.

Beady Eyes chuckles. Then turns and says, “There she is.”

Nasira comes and sits down, and I deliberately keep my gaze away from her. I can tell she’s looking away from me, too.

But what if she is looking at me? What if she’s judging me, thinking all sorts of bad things about who I am, my character, my face?

Now it makes sense why my mum was so concerned about my appearance. She knew the entire time that this was a marriage meeting, the pesky mother.

I resist the impulse to turn and glare at her. Instead, I let my gaze rise a little. And find a shy woman, about my age, glancing back at me.

We both immediately look away. But in that flash of a moment, I see prettiness accompanied by a shy smile, and eyes that speak of kindness beyond anything the world can measure.

I don’t know how I know that. But it’s one thing of which I’m pretty certain. A feeling in my chest I can’t get rid of.

The nerves are gone, replaced by the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach. I look again, and realise that I’m staring at, most likely, my partner for life.

***

I’m watching Horrid Henry with Ibrahim, my son, who curls into my arms as we both lean into the sofa and stare at the TV. I don’t want him watching TV too much, unless it’s cat videos, since the lights can do odd things to his eyes, and he looks like a zombie whenever he’s put in front of any screen.

But I’ve made it a point to spend time with him, whenever his mother, my wife Nasira, spends some time with her friends in the masjid or visits her sister, away from the bustle of the house and being a parent.

Or when she goes into Hetty’s. No way am I letting her take my son there. Not a chance. Ibrahim is a Blakely’s fan through and through.

Ibrahim turns to me, Horrid Henry forgotten.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, mind immediately turning to the worst-case scenario, as it’s always prone to doing.

“Horrid Henry has a mum and dad. I have a mum and dad.”

I nod at Ibrahim’s incredibly insightful observation.

“But how did you and mum meet?” Ibrahim asks me.

I hug him tighter to my side. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He nods into my arms.

“Well,” I begin. “It involves my mother, your mum’s father, a lot of ignorance from me, and a scheming man in the shadows who organised the whole thing behind my back. His name is Oliver-bhai.”

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JazakAllahu Khayran for reading.