I find myself realizing that this man is actually breaking down in front of me and I think 'no oh please God no, not another one. Not now. Another day, another time maybe I'll sympathize. Maybe when I've caught up with myself.'

It would do to me what I'm most terrified of. Not living in the now. Living in the past. Hurt ties you down.

It's been a long long time since I've allowed myself to be hurt and now sometimes I wonder why people bother with it at all. Walk out when it stops being fun. Keep it simple. Rules I've lived by for what seems like forever. Why feel any more than that anyway? You're never alone after all, not really and belonging to someone in the conventional sense is overrated. It's stress and tears and complications. It's the last time you call them knowing they're not going to call you back tonight, the look in your eyes when you see them connect with someone else, the uncertainty attached to saying 'I love you'. It's hurt.

Besides you belong to nobody but yourself. The bits and pieces of people you choose to pick up along the way belong to you. He doesn't belong to me or her. But I know his secrets and his fleeting obsessions and she doesn't. Still. Not belonging. And I'm fine with that. It leaves me free. Who know where we'll end up?

And maybe one day I'll be hurt too and curse myself for it just like he is now. But that will happen. You're allowed to get too attached. And then one day, all of a sudden and out of the blue, you're not.

People talk and I understand why they do. It's because they're not brave enough to think differently. But it's alright. I'm happy.

Notes on Saudi Arabia - 1

Madinah

The women here are never alone. They're either with their husbands, weighed down by their many children or they travel together in parties of four or five and never less. I've been here two days. They come to the mosque for every prayer. Never alone. I wonder if there is time to think of God.

I certainly haven't given the concept much thought since I've been here. The days have passed in a blurry haze of desert heat and headscarves and going to the mosque every so often. I haven't really even been alone till now and now I'm looking, hunting for a pen and watching the man sitting on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette with barely concealed envy. Not just because of the cigarette but because he can. Can sit on the sidewalk and smoke a cigarette and not have to worry about his greasy hair.



The Masjid al Nabi is a little like a sports bar. Everyone goes altogether too much, drinks something from a tap and seem to be overwhelmingly fascinated by a phenomena that I am not completely comfortable with. And of course, if we continue to draw parallels between sport and religion, everyone judges you harshly for not being equally enthralled. And so while I sit here on the steps of the haram as the sky fades to a milky purple and the women around me bow their heads in prayer, I catch some looking at me sideways and knitting their eyebrows together.

A very fancy, very crowded sports bar.


It's a little intoxicating being here, watching all these women and all these headscarves rise and fall at the same time as if they're part of something bigger than themselves. It's a little scary that I find that comforting.

More later.

En route.

I'm not so into pilgrimage. In fact, until about five seconds ago I wasn't even entirely sure how to spell the word.

And yet today I am getting on a plane and flying the five hours to Saudi. To perform Umra. With my parents. Abaya and all.

Okay so that came off as a little angsty but I can't really write and youtube 'how to pray in Islam' at the same time. In the past three days I have learnt how to recite the four quls, pray, cover my head and perform wuzu. All the things I was taught at six, abandoned by twelve and now, six years down the road, make as little sense to me.

'Laqqum deenaqum waleeya din' is the only phrase from the Quran that I have ever quoted anywhere. 'To you your beliefs and to me mine' And now, once again, I am memorizing verses that make little sense to me and frankly it seems fake beyond belief.

And I don't believe in rituals. I firmly believe they suck all the spiritual out of everything. And as far as Islamic rituals are concerned, I believe they are irrelevant to my life. There are other ways to find faith. But then again, that's just me.

'Darling' says a friend on the phone 'Don't go as a believer. Go as an observer. You might just be surprised.'

Or maybe I'll just admire the buildings.

Notes to follow.

I have spent this summer between 'why' and 'why not' and the sheer effort that comes with dismissing boundaries has left me exhausted.

Redefining

We manage to talk while we kiss. I don't mean at the precise moment (and who in God's name can pull that off anyway?) but in betweenish and we crack jokes and laugh like idiots and walk around the room. Because it's familiar. No effort to be sexy because honestly the fact that we're here right now doing this is really enough. No effort put into hair or clothes or timing or any of that because he's probably my best friend right now during this moment in time and if I don't want to I don't have to.

So technically it's perfect. It's not tense. We're not trying to be phenomenal here we're just hanging around having a good time, arguing about smoking, hunting for my cell phone and his wallet and kissing every now and then.

It's got a pretty ugly label and I hate it. Friends with benefits. What does that even mean? Are friends generally not beneficial? Is this really even a benefit?

Okay so it's not romance. Is it? Romance for me being what exactly? It's never really been about candles and lighting (lightning?) And we've seen love in all it's tackiness, relationships at their most disloyal, hook ups at their most unsuited. This is purer somehow.

They say people like me and you have sucked all the romance out of life. But really they're wrong. We're reclaiming it in our own twisted, wonderful way.

So here's to me and you. Here's to our friendship.

The British Council is inclined to be more British than the British themselves, Stony houses, picturesque trees, pebble drives and small town friendliness are all very well but I sure as hell don't remember living on that side of the country.

Neither did the man and his wife who walked in with us. He looked like he'd just woken up. His wife was all dressed up. I'm talking the real deal here; make up, mehndi, silver heels, churiyaan and embroidered shalwar kameez. 'Newly weds' I thought, 'Who else but a new bride is this dressed up at ten in the morning?' They were silent, she walked with her head down. We reached the office and were ushered inside.

My brother offered the woman his chair. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated himself but in Urdu this time. She graciously took his seat and we sat on the floor. The man stayed quiet, waiting for an official to appear. When a woman did, he finally spoke. What came out of his mouth was the strongest Cockney-Yorkshire brogue I've heard in a while. I could barely understand what he was saying and neither could the official behind the desk who had to ask him to repeat his questions at least twice. He seemed impatient, obviously not used to people not understanding him.

I wondered, in that moment, how much Urdu he spoke. Enough to communicate with his parents after coming home from a long day of work? Enough to give a cab driver directions? Enough to talk to his new wife? Communicate with her, yes but understand her? Empathize with her? Console her?

My mother had the couple down. I could tell by the way she looked at them. His parents moved to England maybe forty years ago and worked as cheap labourers, in factories or as cab drivers. He was born there, brought up there. But they wanted him to marry a nice simple girl from here. Someone to make roti and sit home. So he came here. Maybe for the first time ever.

I knew the kind too. They'd settle in areas like Bradford or Luton and she might be wearing a hijab in a few years because all the Pakistani women there do. Call it cultural defence or denial or pride but it feels like the strongest force in the world regardless of whether you are inside or outside a mosque (and there are plenty of them there)  Boys are allowed to do as they please as long as they marry a nice, Pakistani girl. Girls aren't allowed to do much.

 I wondered what she'd let her kids do. I doubted she'd change the way she dressed. She'd probably live out her days in Bradford, walking around in a three piece shalwar kameez while her husband and sons wore whatever they wanted.

I felt sorry for this woman. She could hardly even be called a woman. Her husband hadn't said two words to her in forty minutes and they were obviously uncomfortable around each other. But the silence would be something they'd both get used to. Her English would improve because of the evening classes. Soon there would be communication. I felt sorry for her because I know so many like her. My aunts and cousins and even to an extent my own mother. And I knew how scary it was to live there in that cold, miserable land that really, despite the enormous Pakistani community, was nothing like home.

And ever more so, I felt sorry for her because she'd continue to do things, to live out her life, the way it had always been done. Despite the mix of two (even three or four) rich cultures, she'd be lost only until she figured out how to live there. How to live in a small community that is more Pakistani than Pakistan itself. She would probably never question where to wear a dupatta, what to cook, how to greet a desi and how to greet a foreigner, the exchange rate, her in laws, the classes she'd have to take, the way she should raise her kids, her husband going out late with his friends or the trips to London. She would just see other Pakistani women go about their lives and copy them.

 And for some reason it just seemed so hopeless to me. When cultures merge so obviously shouldn't there be a greater understanding of living? Of how traditions, languages, values, beliefs and norms are all derived from each other and everywhere else? Should there not be a refocusing of sorts when this sort of multiculturalism is encouraged?

But maybe it isnt multiculturalism at all. They'd only ever see glimpses of England where they were going. Fear of the unknown would protect them, keep them inside the community and maybe even put a scarf on their heads. This isn't real multiculturalism. This is just another example of how blindly we hang on to what we know.

I'd be living a different life there, I reminded myself. London, university, studying and so forth. But as I watched them walk away, the girl slightly unsteady in her high heels, I realized I was a little scared too. 

Ayesha.

Sometimes she draws herself up to her full height- all eleven years and five foot one inch of her- and yells at the top of her voice about her unfair everything is. How they always take his side and not her's, how we ignore her because she's the youngest, how this friend was mean and that one so immature, how mid-dance class she looked at her legs and decided she doesn't like them and how her stomach hurts every once a month and she just doesn't want to deal with it.

Then she stops yelling and the tears come flowing. I let her put her head down in my lap and kiss her hair.

And then there are questions that I find impossible to answer. 'Aliya says it's haraam to kiss before marriage. Is that true?' 'Are you going out with a boy?' 'Why does your hair smell of cigarette smoke?' 'Am I pretty?' 'Why is he being like this?' And I always pause before answering because she's the one person in the world I feel I owe the truth. Because her hair falls exactly the way mine does, her laugh reminds me of my own and she roams around in my old tshirts.

I'm going to miss her the most.