The Family Tree

One day, Amjad held up the shawl against the sunlight. The images on the pashmina changed and took on a new life, like the stories found in stained-glass windows. A mustard-coloured blossom tree stretched the length of the shawl. Silhouettes of small birds flitted from branch to branch. Amjad peered further and placed the symbols in his own mind. Now, a year later, and all he had to do was point to each bird.

The two small ones at the bottom of the tree, facing one another.

‘Me… Saaheeee,’ Zahra would say.

Another bird, standing on the same branch, but some distance from the first pair.

‘Ehsi.’

A larger bird, flying high, with its wings spread protectively.

‘Dada.’

Higher still, and a rather plump one that could easily have been dozing.

‘Ammi.’

‘And this one Zee…’ Amjad would ask eagerly. ‘What about this one?’

It was the lone bird situated right at the top of the tree, the silhouette of its beak facing down. Amjad would hold his breath, hoping she’d remember.

‘This one?’ he’d ask again.

Zahra would usually take her time, unable to put a face to the name. She’d always get there in the end though.

‘This… my mummy.’

Three

The theatre with its elegant domes and imposing columns was the first structure that welcomed people into the city. As they swerved past and through the series of roads which would lead them out of the centre, it gave them a false sense of grandeur to the city they were about to enter. The theatre appeared out of place. It didn’t look as if it belonged there. It was too flamboyant, too flashy for such a simple town. Derelict factories and abandoned warehouses eyed the building enviously from afar. Whenever Amjad drove past the theatre, he felt ashamed because in his thirty-five years of life, he’d never actually been inside. Nor had any of his neighbours or colleagues. People like him didn’t go to the theatre. He assumed posh folk from nearby towns like Leeds, York and Harrogate were the most frequent visitors. People who regularly spent evenings at the theatre. Saahil had been once with a school trip to see the pantomime. He’d been nagging Amjad ever since to take him again. Amjad insisted he would, if and when he had the time.

Reminders of a glorious past were evident everywhere. The city housed an old factory which was once the largest silk and velvet manufacturer in the world. Amjad read about it in the newspaper when it had recently closed down. It surprised him that a mill town in Yorkshire could have such significance. It made him appreciate the forlorn-looking building more. The only impact it made now was its imposing, smokeless chimney that could be seen from almost every spot in the city. Even now, it was an impressive structure, built in the ‘Italianate style’ the newspaper informed him.

Amjad was parked opposite the mill now, waiting for Saahil and Ehsan to come out from another blackened gothic building: their primary school. It looked like it may have been a church in the olden days. Now though, it sat in a parade of shops including a halal butcher, a travel agent offering Hajj and Umrah packages, and plenty of windows displaying mannequins wearing glittery salwar kameez.

Amjad watched as Saahil and Ehsan pulled off their blazers and heaved their rucksacks from their backs. They ran towards his rust bucket of a car, smiles erupting on their faces as they spotted Zahra gurgling away in the baby seat next to him. Amjad set off and took a right turn down a long street. Within seconds, he was in his old neighbourhood. After all, where there was a factory, there was living accommodation built for its workers. It was almost a maze. One street after another with rows and rows of terraced houses. Amjad headed straight into the puzzle, stopping at one give way after the next, braking harshly to allow other cars to pass through the narrow streets. He drove past littered back alleys filled with scraggly children. Patterned salwars hung from washing lines. Tracksuit-clad youths stood around outside grimy kebab shops. Amjad sighed with relief. Thank God we got away from here, he thought once again. He checked his rear-view mirror, the crown of the factory’s chimney still visible. Saahil and Ehsan were sitting in the back, tugging at their school ties and whispering away in hushed voices. Amjad craned his neck and tried to listen in on their conversation. He caught Ehsan’s eye.

‘Ask your dad,’ Ehsan said, nudging Saahil. Saahil cleared his throat.

‘Abbu, what’s so good about the other school, the one you wanted us to go to?’

Amjad sighed. The long-awaited school admission letters had arrived at the beginning of the month. When Amjad had opened Saahil’s, he was devastated to see that his son had been placed in the local failing comprehensive, the one he’d dreaded him going to. Ehsan’s letter revealed the same fate. It was only a mile away from the school Amjad wanted the boys to attend, another comprehensive but one with a much better reputation. There was no complicated selection process, no exam, no interview. All offers were to be made based on the pupil’s catchment area. It didn’t matter then, that Amjad had worked seven-day shifts to save up enough money to move his family away from what was known as the ‘Paki ghetto’. He couldn’t exactly change his child’s skin colour. He’d said this bitterly to Harun. Not that either of them let Saahil and Ehsan hear them. They didn’t want the boys to start thinking like that at such a young age.

‘That one’s for white people,’ Ehsan said, without waiting for an answer.

Amjad jerked the car with surprise.

‘We haven’t got a place there coz we’re Pakis. Think about it. All our goray mates have got in.’

Saahil looked confused. ‘But how can there not be any white kids at this other school?’

‘Oh yeah, there will be,’ said Ehsan. He leaned closer to Saahil and whispered, ‘Council estaters.’

‘Ehsan,’ said Amjad, frowning in the mirror. Kids these days are so smart, he thought, trying his best to appear shocked at his statement. He saw Ehsan shrink back in his seat.

‘Sorry, Uncle,’ he said. ‘But I’m just sayin’… It’s true.’

‘What did I say to both of you the other day?’ Amjad said, stopping at some traffic lights. ‘At least you’ll be together. And if you work hard, you can succeed anywhere. You just need to really concentrate and… and try.’

‘What does “special measures” mean again, Abbu?’ asked Saahil.

‘It just means the school is erm… struggling… a bit,’ Amjad said, choosing his words carefully.

‘Hmmm,’ said Saahil, not sounding too fussed. ‘At least we can mess about at this crappy school.’

‘Saahil!’

‘I’m just joking, Abbu.’

‘We can’t mess about,’ Ehsan said, his face scrunched up with worry. ‘You know what my dad’s like. He says I’ll end up washing dishes at a restaurant if I don’t study hard.’

‘He’s right. And you,’ Amjad said, pointing to his son in the backseat, ‘you’ll be stacking shelves at Morrison’s. That’s what happens if you don’t concentrate at school. Look at me: if I’d listened to my dad and studied properly, I’d be a lawyer or a pharmacist now.’

Saahil nodded dutifully. Ehsan continued frowning.

‘I don’t wanna be a shelf-stacker,’ he said. Amjad saw Saahil grin and roll his eyes.

‘As if that’s gonna happen,’ he whispered into Ehsan’s ear.

Amjad smiled to himself approvingly as he parked up outside his house. Here it was, the home he had inhabited for less than six months with his wife. After struggling to conceive again for nine years, Neelam had announced her second pregnancy to much jubilation. Amjad was determined to make a fresh start. He could see the area they lived in deteriorating further and wanted better for his family.

They couldn’t move too far away as they needed to be close to a mosque. Amjad had always skipped his lunch break on Friday afternoons to pray the special Jummah prayers. Men poured into the mosque at noon, sometimes accompanied by their young sons whose floor-length robes flapped around at their ankles. Fathers and sons walked together; Saahil with Amjad, Ehsan with Harun.

The best he was able to afford at the time was a charming terraced house less than two miles and a fifteen-minute drive from their old place. It was further away from the city centre. As Amjad drove through, the takeaways became less visible, the streets became greener. There were English families on the street too, as well as black and Indian, fulfilling Amjad’s hope of living in an area where his children would play with kids of different backgrounds. Not that everyone was so welcoming. Amjad remembered being glared at by their elderly white neighbour on the day they had moved in. He’d almost mouthed ‘sorry’ as he’d carried a cardboard box apologetically through the door, a pregnant Neelam following him. At her insistence, Amjad placed two hanging baskets at each side of the door. He sometimes still imagined her standing by the doorway, scarf draped loosely over her head, one arm extended to arrange the flowers and the other placed protectively over her baby bump.

Amjad thought about quickly shoving some fish fingers into the oven for the boys’ dinner when a taxi pulled up behind them. It was Harun.

‘Sorry, I got held up in traffic,’ he said, smoothing down his creased shirt.

‘You didn’t have to rush,’ Amjad replied, unstrapping Zahra from her car seat. ‘Anyway, come in, we’ll have a cup of tea.’ They all went inside.

Harun still helped Amjad with school runs to save him from dragging little Zahra out in the cold. Saahil could walk home as the school wasn’t far, but Amjad didn’t like the idea of him sauntering home with the rest of his friends, kicking discarded takeaway cartons in his path and replying to racist graffiti on the walls. Besides, Harun’s increased help since Neelam’s death had become a regular opportunity for a cup of tea. As much as Amjad loved his children, it made a nice change not to have to gurgle away in baby language to Zahra twenty-four-seven, or have to tell Saahil off again for banging his football against the wall. Harun’s company always relieved Amjad of the bitterness he felt at being a widowed dad who constantly changed nappies, prepared baby food, ironed uniforms and made dinner. Harun reminded Amjad he was still a young man who could obsess over cricket and football scores, talk about cars and share Bollywood music cassettes. He was Amjad’s contact with his previous life.

‘Keep it down,’ Harun shouted at Saahil and Ehsan as Amjad prepared the tea. They always saved their meetings to make proper Pakistani chai, not the watery English tea they usually drank for quick convenience. Harun stood in the kitchen with Zahra in his arms as Amjad boiled the milk in a pan and threw in a few teaspoons of loose Yorkshire Tea, lots of sugar, cardamom pods and some cinnamon sticks. When it was ready, they both settled on to the couch as Saahil and Ehsan played with Zahra.

‘Ah!’ Harun shouted, making them all jump. ‘I notice a new marking on your door.’

Amjad glanced back and grinned. ‘Yep, we had a ceremony on her birthday a few weeks back.’

Harun was of course referring to the first foundations of a growth chart inked into the kitchen door. Saahil was the first to be marked on his tenth birthday. Neelam was alive then, and they had just moved into the new house. She’d held the ruler against the top of Saahil’s head and Amjad had made the marking in a blue felt tip pen.

Saahil, 10 yrs, 14/09/92

He was precisely fifty-five inches. Ehsan had been eyeing the chart enviously ever since and so, a couple of months later, on his birthday, Amjad had done the same. The marking was made on the same side of the door, as the boys wanted to race each other up the wall.

Ehsan, 10 yrs, 01/12/92

He groaned when he realised he stood at just fifty-two inches and vowed to come back stronger, and taller, next year.

A couple of weeks ago on Zahra’s first birthday, Saahil insisted on marking her height too. Amjad forced a smile and thought of Neelam as he held Zahra against the opposite side of the kitchen door. Saahil made the marking with a pink felt-tip pen.

‘Keep her head straight, Abbu!’

And there it was, written in slightly shaky handwriting:

Zahra, 1 yr, 20/02/94

She was a healthy twenty-nine inches.

After admiring the growth chart, Harun glanced at Amjad, who had suddenly gone very quiet.

‘You’re not still worrying about the new school are you, Amjad?’ he asked, slouching over his mug, the bad posture gained from his job as a taxi driver.

‘No,’ Amjad lied. Harun raised an eyebrow at him.

‘They’re both clever boys,’ he reassured. ‘They’ll be fine.’

Amjad looked unconvinced. ‘I know they are, but the school’s reputation…’

‘They’re getting a new head teacher,’ Harun reminded him. ‘And apparently it’s someone who’s already transformed one of the schools in the area. I did tell you that, didn’t I? Try to be a little optimistic, will you?’

‘Sorry, but I can’t. I just have a bad feeling about the whole thing.’

‘Amjad,’ Harun said, impatiently. ‘I don’t know what your problem is. You need to stop worrying.’

Amjad bit his tongue. Maybe you don’t have to worry, mate, he thought as he watched Harun sipping his tea. Harun carried an ordinary man’s burdens. Bills, mortgage, work problems. But at least he had a lovely wife at home who he could talk to. Somebody who could share the worrying with him.

Harun continued: ‘You were born here and can help your boy. Look at me…’ He paused for a moment, keeping one eye on Amjad as he grinned. ‘I still sign my name with a thumbprint.’

Amjad laughed along with him, feeling slightly guilty for his negative thoughts. Harun came to England when he married Meena. After receiving just a basic village education, Harun had worked in a cotton mill before taking up taxi driving. He struggled with his English sometimes and mostly conversed with Amjad in Urdu. Not because he didn’t understand the language at all; Ehsan was constantly blabbering away in English to his father, but Amjad sensed Harun was too embarrassed to speak it in case he got it wrong. Or maybe because of what his accent would sound like.

‘Yeah, well,’ Amjad began, trying to justify himself. ‘I was never clever enough at school. We didn’t have much money either growing up. Just took whatever job was available.’

If Harun’s feet hurt from pounding at the pedals in his taxi all day, then Amjad’s shoulders ached from stacking heavy boxes at the warehouse. He didn’t want that for Saahil. And he knew Harun didn’t want that for Ehsan.

‘It’s not like that for our boys,’ Harun reminded him. ‘Times have changed. Insha’Allah, they’ll both make it to university. You wait and see.’

There was no doubting the boys were good academically. Amjad watched them on occasion working through their homework together. They sat with open books facing them, brows furrowed as they tackled difficult sums. They seemed to bounce off each other. Throwing sassy remarks in each other’s direction in a far more intelligent way than when Amjad was their age. He couldn’t have chosen a better best friend for Saahil himself. It also seemed as though his regular outbursts of ‘you don’t want to end up like me’ had had some impact. Saahil actually wanted to do well at school. So did Ehsan. Amjad overheard them a few times speaking of what they would do once they ‘got rich’. He smiled as he eavesdropped on their big plans. They consisted of nothing more than driving fancy cars for the time being, but it didn’t matter. Amjad held on to that flicker of ambition, he wanted to nurture it, to tell Saahil he could do and be anything he wanted. In fact, it wasn’t that Amjad worried Saahil wouldn’t try hard on his own despite being shunted into a failing school. His insecurities were more personal. He just didn’t want to mess up.

It was one thing feeding and clothing your kids, and another making sure they were well prepared in life. If he could just make it until they were old enough to look after themselves, he’d be happy. If he could just witness the lives they would go on to create for themselves, he’d be content. If all he could do was encourage hard work and determination in Saahil, it was enough. After all, if he popped his clogs unexpectedly, then at least Saahil would be well-equipped to look after his baby sister.

Amjad felt silly worrying over the timing of his ultimate demise. But death just took people. He’d seen that for himself. The thought of his children alone and unsupported choked him up with fear. He needed to raise them well and give them everything they would need to be okay, for Neelam’s sake.

Amjad knew that when he did eventually join his wife in that other place, he wanted to be able to meet her eyes when he got there.

Four

September 1994

Saahil’s heart sank as he watched his Abbu peer into the rear-view mirror. A parallel park was about to take place just outside his new school. They were gridlocked, with cars jam packed in all corners. Some parents braked in the middle of the road and let their children go free in the morning rush hour. Not Abbu, though. Since they had started secondary school a week ago, Abbu made sure he found a parking spot every day. He wouldn’t let Saahil and Ehsan go anywhere without a daily ‘Be Good’ lecture. Saahil knew that Ehsan was thinking the same. He had slumped slightly in his seat, knowing what was to come. Abbu would tell them to concentrate in class. To keep their heads down. To report anything suspicious to teachers. Not to answer back to bullies. To be kind and helpful to all. It was basically a masterclass in how to get your arse kicked in.

Abbu tugged at the handbrake before turning around to face Saahil and Ehsan who were sitting in the back seat. Zahra gurgled away happily in the front.

‘We know, Abbu,’ said Saahil, before his father was able to speak.

Abbu smiled. ‘All I was going to say was that if you see Mr Dixon, pass on my regards.’

Ehsan tried to keep a straight face. He pulled up the collar of his blazer to shield his smirk. Saahil rolled his eyes.

‘He won’t even remember you, Abbu.’

‘Of course he will. We had a brilliant discussion yesterday.’

The school had hosted a ‘welcome meeting’ for new parents the night before. Ehsan’s mum and dad were unable to attend, which meant that Saahil had to endure the whole thing alone with Abbu. They all sat together in the bland school hall, which made Saahil feel like as though he was waiting for assembly to begin. It was even worse. The evening basically consisted of teachers trying their best to convince the new parents that the school wasn’t as much of a shit tip as they had heard. They gave one boring presentation after the next and depicted pie charts of progression coupled with empty slogans about ‘determination’ and ‘excellence’. That sort of thing.

‘Any questions, please ask!’ they shouted in their shrill, overenthusiastic voices.

A session of mingling occurred, and of course, Abbu headed straight for the principal. Saahil stood around like a spare part, smiling occasionally whenever Abbu motioned towards him proudly. Mr Dixon nodded patiently as Abbu listed off all his concerns. Saahil wasn’t really listening, but he heard random snippets of his father’s rant about the ‘quality of teaching’ and ‘student behaviour’.

‘I mean, how is it going to affect our kids’ futures when colleges find out they’ve been educated in a special measures school?’ Abbu had asked. ‘And what can we as parents do to help?’

Mr Dixon nodded his bald head sympathetically before quietly taking out a piece of paper from his pocket. He made a spectacle of unfolding it and smoothing out the creases.

‘Names,’ he’d said, before pausing for effect. ‘We’ve only been back at school for a week, and these are the names of nine pupils I just expelled this morning.’

Abbu’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Even Saahil was transfixed.

‘They were caught fighting with knives on the premises.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have experience in this, Mr Sharif, and I run a tight ship. I promise you,’ he’d leaned forward dramatically, ‘I will turn this school around.’

Abbu was sold. Since then, he’d not stopped talking about his discussion with the glorious new head teacher. He beamed as he unlocked the car doors, looking more relaxed than Saahil had seen him in a while, and motioned for him and Ehsan to get out.

‘Bye, Zee,’ said Saahil, reaching into the passenger seat and squeezing Zahra’s plump little hand.

Once Abbu was out of earshot, Ehsan turned to Saahil. ‘If you see Dixon, don’t pass on your dad’s regards unless you’re alone and there’s no one else around who can hear you.’

‘Yeah, I know, I’m not stupid,’ Saahil sulked. ‘Dixon probably won’t even remember him. How many parents did he meet yesterday?’

‘Everyone’s getting carried away,’ Ehsan began, swinging his rucksack over his back. ‘The school’s not thaaat bad. They’re just making it into a big deal.’

They walked past the sixth-form centre, a small one-storey block that was separated from the rest of the school building, and saw a group of older boys smoking outside the entrance. They towered over Saahil and Ehsan and turned to face them as they approached. Saahil immediately noticed the difference in uniform. He and Ehsan were dressed immaculately. They looked like perfect posters boys for the school. Sharp black blazers, crisp white shirts and black and red stripy ties. Judging by Ehsan’s lethal side parting, Auntie Meena had even attacked his hair with a wet comb.

None of the older lads were wearing blazers. They wore mismatched black jumpers that were without the school logo. Sleeves were rolled up casually. Some did not wear ties and others had them hanging down by their chests, shirts unbuttoned. The boys slouched against the door of the sixth form and followed Saahil and Ehsan with their eyes.

‘You two in Year Seven?’ asked one of them through a puff of smoke escaping his mouth.

Saahil nodded.

They all looked at each other and chuckled. Saahil and Ehsan passed them quickly but heard one of the boys drawl, ‘Fockin’ get smaller and smaller every year, don’t they?’

They headed into the tired-looking school block that was almost as drearily decorated as a hospital. It hadn’t stepped out of the Seventies with its cream walls, brown furniture and creaky staircases. The boys pounded up to the top floor within seconds and joined the back of the queue for their Maths lesson. Maths first thing on a Tuesday morning wasn’t so bad. Partly because it was the subject that Saahil and Ehsan were best at. Not that their new teacher had noticed. Mr Ali would refer them to the correct page of a textbook and spend the rest of the lesson yawning and stretching behind his desk.

According to the seating plan which had been devised a few days earlier, Ehsan was to sit directly in front of Saahil. As expected, Mr Ali gave them a page number and told them to get on with it. He leaned back on his chair and reached out for his telephone. The students nudged each other and waited for the familiar pattern of Mr Ali’s morning routine: a phone call to his wife.

‘Forgot to ask,’ he mumbled as he scratched his protruding belly. ‘What you making today?’

A muffled voice spoke at the other end of the phone.

‘Oh no, not daal again,’ he snapped. ‘How about…’

‘Aloo gobi, sir?’ a boy shouted from the back of the room.

Mr Ali jumped as the class burst into laughter. His face reddened as he slammed down the chunky white receiver and told them all to be quiet. Ehsan swivelled around to face Saahil, grinning. He always did this so that the two of them could work through the sums together.

‘This looks like a hard one,’ he said, squinting at the fraction.

Saahil had already tackled it. He pushed the book towards his best friend. ‘Quick, copy my answer.’