The Family Tree

‘Don’t spill any on your clothes, please,’ sighed Auntie Farhana.

After the appetiser, Uncle Javid insisted they have a break for an hour.

‘Digest this properly,’ he ordered. ‘Then we can move on to the mains.’

Ammi disapproved. ‘Stop acting like a gora,’ she said to him. Abbu rolled his eyes and offered to wash up the dirty dishes in between.

‘Why don’t you go and change into your Eid clothes?’ Abbu said to Farhana. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

Farhana wouldn’t have it. ‘You’re our guests for today,’ she said.

The group grew restless, counting every minute down until Javid’s hour rule was over. Ammi muttered under her breath about ‘wasting time’. Farhana hung about the kitchen, occasionally stirring a pan there and arranging a dish here.

‘I’m still hungry,’ Bilal wailed.

‘I think we’ve digested now, Javid,’ Abbu said.

‘Another ten—’

‘Nope. Farhana, let’s do this.’

Abbu and Ammi bustled forwards to assist Farhana whilst Uncle Javid stretched luxuriously. Chicken and potato curry was being ladled over lamb pilau.

‘We have spinach and paneer too,’ Javid shouted over the group. ‘I always like to serve a vegetarian option too.’

‘You like to serve?’ Abbu asked. ‘You haven’t lifted a finger all day. Farhana’s done all the cooking.’

Ammi took a mouthful and asked for the salt. Saahil and his cousins took a bite before simultaneously coughing and spluttering for water.

‘I barely put any chillies in so don’t start!’ Auntie Farhana said, wagging her finger at them all.

‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ Abbu said, pointedly to her.

Ammi stirred the serving dish and commented on the excess oil but otherwise, praised the cooking. Grains of rice littered the floor as the children rushed away from the table. Saahil received another ‘look’ from Abbu and helped Farhana take the dishes to the kitchen.

‘Another hour’s break this time, I’d say,’ Uncle Javid half said, half burped.

‘Let me know when I can go to the toilet too, Javid,’ joked Abbu. Javid roared with over-the-top laughter and patted Abbu on the back.

‘What’s for dessert?’ Saahil asked. ‘Please,’ he quickly added after getting a stern eye from Abbu.

‘Gajar ka halwa.’

‘What’s gajar?’

‘Carrot,’ Farhana replied.

‘Oh… nice,’ replied Saahil, thinking it didn’t sound very appealing. ‘My mum always made trifle for us.’

‘Forget trifle shifle,’ Javid said, waving his arm dismissively. ‘This is proper authentic, home-made—’

‘Actually, we got this from the shop,’ interjected Farhana.

‘Did we?’ Uncle Javid said.

‘Yes, you bought it this morning.’

‘Oh, must have slipped my mind,’ he laughed nervously.

‘And for the record… I love trifle too, Saahil.’ Farhana winked at him.

‘Yes, yes, very nice. What’s on the telly?’ Javid grabbed the remote and turned on a Bollywood music channel. ‘Oh, Amjad, look! It’s our favourite!’

Amitabh Bachchan was singing an epic song about friendship whilst frolicking in a stolen motorbike and sidecar with partner in crime, Dharmendra. Abbu smiled and joined his brother on the sofa. They sang along and copied the gestures. Saahil knew it was a very famous olden-day film from the Seventies. Abbu had tried to get him to watch it several times. He turned away smiling and found Zak and Bilal beckoning him into the other room.

‘Let’s jump on the sofas,’ Bilal whispered, excitedly.

‘Er, okay.’

They burst into the room next door. It was super clean and neat, and Saahil could tell that it hadn’t really been lived in. Fancy ornaments were placed methodically throughout and an elaborate flower arrangement lay centre stage on the coffee table. Saahil sat on the edge of the sofa. He sank all the way in and realised why the boys wanted to jump on them. They were very soft and bouncy. Zak, Bilal and Hamid began leaping from one sofa to another, competing over who could jump the highest. There was a knock on the door and Humaira walked in with Aleena and Zahra.

‘Girls aren’t allowed in here,’ Zak announced, flushed pink in the face.

‘Shut up,’ Humaira said, pushing him out of the way.

Abbu’s words about good behaviour played on Saahil’s mind as he watched his cousins have a blast around him. They were getting giddier and giddier. Jumping around and pushing and kicking each other from one sofa to another. Saahil stayed put in the corner and had his arms around both Zahra and Aleena protectively. Bilal took a running jump and almost fell on top of them.

‘Oi, watch out okay?’ Saahil warned. ‘These two are only little.’

Bilal barely hung around to listen. Aleena wiggled out of Saahil’s grip and ran towards the rowdy bunch. He called after her, not realising that Zahra had also slipped through his fingers. Saahil stood up to grab hold of them both. In the corner, Bilal pushed Zak and he fell back. With a thud he landed on top of Zahra.

‘Zee!’

Zak stood up quickly as Saahil picked Zahra up from the floor. She didn’t cry, but looked shaken and rubbed her arm.

‘You idiot,’ said Saahil, squaring up to his cousin.

‘Well, why was she in the way?’ Zak shot back.

‘In the way? I told you to be careful—’

‘Piss off.’

Saahil grabbed him in a headlock and a scuffle ensued.

‘Fight, fight, fight,’ the boys shouted.

‘Stop it this instant,’ Humaira shouted, her arms folded. Zahra and Aleena began crying.

The door was thrown open and Abbu stormed into the room followed by Uncle Javid. They tried to separate the boys, each grabbing their own kid as both Zak and Saahil’s limbs shot out in half-hearted attempts to hit each other.

‘Stop it right now,’ Abbu said. ‘Both of you.’

Saahil did, but Zak didn’t.

‘What happened?’ Javid asked.

Both Saahil and Zak started shouting over each other at once, both relaying their own version of the story.

‘Okay, okay,’ Abbu said. ‘Let Zak speak first.’

Saahil knew Abbu was attempting to be diplomatic.

‘He tried to strangle me,’ Zak screeched.

‘Yeah, because you fell on top of Zahra and nearly squashed her.’

‘So Saahil hit you first?’ Javid asked. ‘He started it? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, Amjad,’ Javid said, looking down his nose at Abbu. ‘I did try to advise you about discipline—’

‘Excuse me, you haven’t even listened to what my son has to say.’

‘Well, it doesn’t really matter. If he started throwing punches—’

‘No, I didn’t!’ Saahil shouted.

‘—then there’s obviously some anger issues.’

Abbu’s eyes were widening with shock. ‘You are unbelievable, Javid.’

‘Now, that low-achieving school isn’t helping. If you’d listened to my suggestion and gone for the private school—’

‘I don’t want your stinking suggestions.’

‘I even offered to contribute towards fees—’

Abbu turned a beetroot colour. ‘How dare you?’ he whispered angrily.

Javid took his glasses off and wiped them, smiling condescendingly.

‘We are leaving,’ Abbu announced. He grabbed Zahra and put his arm around Saahil. They turned away from the room.

‘Amjaaaad,’ Javid said. ‘Now don’t start sulking.’

It was so quick that Saahil didn’t even see it coming. Abbu turned and punched his brother square on the nose. Javid fell back and hit his head against the edge of the door. The children drew a collective gasp. Even Abbu looked shocked.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Ammi asked, waddling down the hallway.

Abbu turned to her. ‘We’re leaving. If you want to stay, you are welcome to.’

Javid rushed forward to his mother like a little boy. Saahil was pleased to see a droplet of blood oozing from his nose. ‘Amjad just punched me!’ he cried.

‘Why, what did you do?’ she asked, casually.

Javid began spluttering. ‘But… but… he punched me.’

‘You deserved that and more,’ Abbu shot back.

Ammi reached out and touched Javid’s face to inspect. ‘It’s just a small cut. Now the carrot halwa is ready.’

‘I don’t want carrot halwa,’ Javid almost screamed with frustration.

‘Neither do I,’ moaned Abbu.

Abbu and Uncle Javid began relaying details of the fracas to Ammi like two squabbling boys.

‘Stop!’ Ammi held up a hand and glared at them both. It was almost as if an imaginary ladder had appeared and she had grown a foot taller as the two men shrank. Abbu dropped his shoulders and looked to the floor. Javid clutched his cheek.

At that moment, Auntie Farhana opened the door. ‘Dessert, anyone? I think the hour is up?’ She peered at Javid and frowned. ‘What happened to your nose?’

‘I punched him,’ Abbu said.

‘Walked into the door,’ Javid added, hastily.

Farhana laughed and motioned them back into the living room. ‘There’s more than enough for everyone.’

They lumbered in and took their seats as plates were handed around. Saahil looked at his dessert. Well, it was definitely carroty, and tasted absolutely divine. The sound of spoons clinking plates was all that could be heard. Zak glared at Saahil from across the room. Javid glared at Abbu. Silence ensued.

‘Well, this is awkward,’ Saahil whispered to his father.

‘Finish the halwa and let’s get out of here,’ Abbu replied.

‘Okay… nice punch, by the way.’

Abbu winked at him.

Half an hour later, Abbu strapped Zahra into her car seat. She had fallen asleep. They waited around as Ammi kissed everyone one by one. Zak stuck a finger up at Saahil when nobody was looking. He responded with two.

‘Amjad,’ Uncle Javid muttered, ‘can I have a word please?’

Saahil watched as they both headed some distance away from the car. There was some mumbling, shuffling and nodding, both men failing to make eye contact with each other. It ended with a hesitant handshake and then Uncle Javid initiated an awkward hug. Abbu responded and patted his brother on the back, though Saahil could see him purse his lips during the embrace. Saahil sighed with relief as he waved the family goodbye. That was Eid over and done with for another year. He couldn’t wait to go home and tell Ehsan all about it.

Seven

August 1997

Whenever Saahil would think back to the soundtrack of the summer of 1997, he would remember only one song. It had been driving him mad over the school holidays and thanks to Zahra, it blared from the speakers for the fifth time that day. Mel B let out a wild laugh before the Spice Girls zig-ah-zig-ahhhed their way to Saahil’s ears. He had to stop himself from tearing his hair out.

Approximately ten minutes ago, Saahil had watched Zahra’s eyes flickering towards the stairs. He’d braced himself, knowing what was to come. As soon as Abbu announced that he was going to start making dinner, Zahra began inching towards the steps. Abbu disappeared off into the kitchen and from the corner of his eye, Saahil saw Zahra scramble upstairs. The door handle turned and clicked and the stool was dragged across the floor. Saahil heard the cassette player ticking as his little sister jabbed at the buttons. He’d counted to ten before following her, and then flung open the door. Zahra had been in the same position as she usually was: standing on the stool and reaching towards the cassette player. Her small finger hovering over the play button, she gave him a sly grin before pressing down.

And here they were again. The same scenario played out numerous times over the summer. Saahil helped a dancing Zahra off the stool. He took a seat at the edge of the bed and waited as his little sister waved around her arms and wiggled her bum at the music. He checked his watch, willing for it to be over.

‘Next one,’ Zahra said, flushed in the cheeks.

‘No, that’s enough, Zee. Five times already.’

Before she could protest, Saahil switched off the player and scooped Zahra up in his arms. They thundered down the stairs and into the kitchen to find Abbu stirring a pot.

‘What were you doing?’ he asked. ‘Told you to chop these onions for me.’

Immediately, Zahra flung her arms up in the air and shouted, ‘If you wanna… my lover!’

Abbu’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. Saahil clamped his hand over his sister’s mouth.

‘Zee,’ he mumbled into her ear. ‘Told you not to say that.’

‘Yes,’ Abbu said, placing his hands on his hips, wooden spoon in one palm. ‘And I told you not to get her that tape just yet.’

Saahil was flustered by the accusation, but he had a good comeback. ‘Well, you’re the one who bought her a Spice Girls pencil case and stationery to match.’

‘Girl power,’ Zahra shouted, thrusting her fist up in the air and hitting Saahil on the nose. Abbu shook his head and told them to get ready for dinner.

‘Won’t be long as I’m only throwing in this tin of mixed vegetables,’ he said. ‘Just need to brown the onions.’

Saahil followed Zahra into the living room. She was still singing and dancing. It was the latest obsession that the family was having to accommodate. A couple of months ago, Zee was crawling around on all fours, pretending to be Simba from The Lion King. One time before that, she wouldn’t get out of the bath in the hope she would develop a tail and turn into the Little Mermaid. Zahra’s imagination was already running wild and now she was going to be starting school. A pleated grey skirt and white blouse hung behind her bedroom door. Smart black shoes lay in a box under her bed. And of course, there was the primary school bag and Spice Girls accessories. Though Saahil wouldn’t admit it out loud, he did think their songs were catchy. Zahra’s favourite was Mel B. Saahil took a fancy to Ginger Spice.

Zahra was already attending nursery in the afternoons so Abbu was quite relaxed about her starting school. He’d had a wobble the other day though, when all the uniform was bought and all the organising was done. He sat down on the sofa looking lost and forlorn.

‘What’s up?’ Saahil asked.

‘Well… it’s started, hasn’t it?’

‘What has?’

Abbu shrugged. ‘The daily grind. For the rest of her life it’s started. Primary school. Secondary school. College. University. Job.’ He ticked them off with his fingers.

‘Yeah,’ said Saahil. ‘That is quite depressing. But we all have to go through the same thing.’

‘I know. Wish she could stay like this forever, though,’ he’d said, motioning towards her as she slept soundly on the couch.

Saahil nodded in agreement. They began ticking down the days on the calendar. New term began on Wednesday. Saahil would go back to the joys of GCSEs and Zahra would start learning her ABC.

After a change of head teacher for the second time around, Saahil’s school seemed to be making progress. Another team of principals had been drafted in to tackle the failing institution. An even more useless disciplining system was introduced, the first step being a ‘think sheet’. Students were ordered to sit away in a corner and reflect upon their bad behaviour by filling in a form. They’d all quickly devised a set way of filling out the ridiculous thing.

How have you disrupted the lesson?

Talking.

What will you do differently?

Not talk.

‘Apparently, the new heads have experience doing this,’ Uncle Harun repeated to Abbu for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘They’ve transformed two schools in Leeds.’

‘We’ve heard it all before though, haven’t we?’ Abbu replied.

The two of them had relaxed considerably in the years following the burning car episode. After seeing that Saahil and Ehsan’s grades were climbing, both dads realised that their own advice was true: kids could succeed anywhere if they worked hard. Both Saahil and Ehsan were predicted straight ‘A’ grades in their results. They had the option of moving away for A Level studies, but both had opted to stay put. Remarkably, Abbu and Uncle Harun hadn’t protested. Neither had Auntie Meena.

Saahil didn’t care anymore about what people thought of his school. Throughout his time there, he had seen classroom chairs being hurled at teachers who dodged them calmly and continued teaching. He’d seen petite female teachers jump straight into fist fights between burly sixteen-year-old lads and try to restrain them. Saahil’s teachers probably worked twice as hard as staff at any other poncey school. And not all the kids were so bad either. Saahil and Ehsan were good. They were aiming high and had survived without any major incidents. Though they hated school at times, both boys couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Once Zahra stopped dancing to the Spice Girls, she pointed to the calendar that hung on the living-room wall. She had chosen it especially as each month featured a different breed of fluffy kitten.

‘You wanna tick off another day?’ Saahil asked.

Zahra nodded.

‘Okay, even though it’s only five o’clock.’

Saahil grabbed a pen and picked Zahra up. She made a wonky cross against Saturday 30th August. Just four days until she started school. She wiggled in his arms with excitement. Saahil wondered if he’d been this eager to begin his education. It’s not all that, Zee, he almost said.

‘Food’s ready,’ Abbu called from the kitchen.

‘Let’s go help,’ Saahil said to his sister. He placed her on the floor and she ran off as soon as her feet touched the ground.

When his mother’s bespectacled face swam into view, Amjad thought he was being woken up for school. Five more minutes, he wanted to say, burying his face into the pillow.

‘Amjad,’ she hissed. He felt her hand tapping his shoulder urgently.

‘Ammi!’ he shouted back, coming to his senses. He drew the duvet close to his chest in shock. Ammi shuffled on her feet and pulled away. What was she doing in his bedroom in the middle of the night? The curtains were drawn shut but a small beam of light shone through signalling the arrival of the morning. Amjad rubbed his eyes and sat up in bed.

‘What are you doing? Why are you here?’ He reached out and checked the alarm clock. It was 7.30 a.m. Ammi remained distant and stayed in the shadows. She cleared her throat and mumbled something indistinguishable.

‘Is everything okay?’ Amjad asked, suddenly serious. A panic began brewing in his chest.

‘Yes, yes. Of course,’ Ammi replied.

‘So what is this? How did you even get here?’ he asked, knowing that he was the one who always chauffeured his mother between their homes.

‘I… er… got a lift from the neighbour.’

‘At seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which neighbour?’

‘Does it matter?’ she snapped. ‘Are you getting up now?’

‘Well, I suppose,’ Amjad replied bitterly, thinking he could have done with a lie-in. ‘Are the kids asleep?’

‘Yes.’

Amjad made to get up but he stopped and looked at his mother’s face in the dark. She wasn’t making eye contact with him.

‘Ammi, what’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Something’s wrong, I know it is.’

‘No… nothing.’

‘Tell me the truth. What’s going on?’

‘Come downstairs first.’

Amjad’s heart began beating fast. He knew this talk. It was the same talk the doctors had used before they told him that his wife had died. ‘Sit down first, Mr Sharif.’ ‘Take a seat first so we can discuss this…’

‘Has something bad happened?’

‘No… well, not to us.’

‘Not to us? But something bad has happened?’

‘Erm—’

‘Tell me now.’

‘I’ll show you if you come downstairs.’

Ammi’s voice wobbled and she clapped her hand over her mouth. Amjad stood, confused, not knowing where this was going.

‘Ammi?’ he asked, this time more urgently.

His mother broke down into tears. She spoke through sobs. ‘Something terrible has happened to this country.’

The TV was already playing when Amjad stumbled down the stairs with Ammi. He knelt down on the floor, his eyes glued to the screen. He couldn’t bring himself to blink. The sombre-looking newsreaders were talking, but the words seemed to wash over Amjad. Besides, he couldn’t hear them. Ammi was speaking quickly in Punjabi, explaining how she had discovered the news.

‘I woke up to pray Fajr namaz at five o’clock. I don’t know why, but I like to keep the TV on in the background whilst I get ready otherwise it’s so eerie and quiet. As soon as I switched it on I saw… this.’

Amjad turned up the volume on the remote control. But it wasn’t going to change the words that were emblazoned on the bottom of the screen: PRINCESS DIANA KILLED IN PARIS CAR CRASH.

‘I couldn’t be alone,’ Ammi sobbed. ‘I called a taxi and came here.’

Amjad sat his mother down on the sofa and placed his arm around her. He kept one eye on the TV as reports flew in from various sources. For now, they were staring into a dark tunnel in Paris. It was cordoned off by police and surrounded by onlookers. The newsreaders welcomed ‘those joining us now for today’s breaking news’ not in their usual sharp, business-like tones, but in a stuttering disbelief. They took extra-long pauses, looked flustered and slightly out of control, almost as if they didn’t want to say the words.

‘Shall we move our attention to the papers?’ said the reporter as he turned to a guest seated to his left. He looked relieved to be sharing the screen with another person. The guest journalist held up a front page and began his analysis.

‘I’ll make tea,’ Amjad mumbled, suddenly feeling hollow. He left Ammi on the sofa and went into the kitchen. He watched the kettle as it boiled. The sound of the telly travelled to his ears. He wondered how people all over the country would react as they woke up on this lazy, summer Sunday morning. How were they meant to feel?

‘So young and beautiful,’ Ammi was saying as Amjad carried in two cups of tea. Amjad looked at the screen and saw footage of Diana walking through a minefield. It cut to her riding a water-park slide with the young princes.

Half an hour later, they heard movement upstairs.

‘I better go check on the kids,’ Amjad sighed, glad for the excuse to get out of the room. ‘When you hear us coming down, Ammi, just turn it off for a bit. I don’t want them seeing this yet.’

Amjad plodded up the stairs and creaked open Zahra’s door. He saw a flash of pink and found his daughter wrapped around his leg in a tight hug.

‘Morning,’ he smiled.

‘Morneee,’ she replied, her small face beaming up at him.

He picked her up in his arms and opened Saahil’s door. His son was sitting up in bed.

‘Why are you lot awake so early? And why can I hear Ammi?’

‘She’s here. We’re all going to have breakfast together.’

Saahil grinned. ‘Double breakfast?’

‘Yeah,’ Amjad nodded, knowing that if the kids stayed over at their grandmother’s, she would feed them a proper breakfast. Toast, fried eggs, tomatoes and beans. A sharp contrast to the sugary cereal that Amjad hastily poured for them.

Saahil jumped up and rushed towards the door.

‘Take your sister,’ Amjad said.

Saahil took her by the hand and walked her down the stairs. Amjad watched them go and sat alone on the bed, taking deep, slow breaths. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. But then he thought about a person he always believed he had zero in common with: the Prince of Wales, waking up his children in the early hours to tell them that their mother had died. Four years ago, Amjad had done that too.

The flowers gathered outside Kensington Palace. Men and women sobbed on camera whilst talking about the beloved princess. Ammi’s relatives called from Pakistan to offer their condolences. Harun rang Amjad to tell him that Meena had been crying all week.

‘You know she loved Diana,’ he said.

Amjad had never known anything like it. Even journalists were debating whether it was all just getting a bit ‘too much’. Why would people grieve for somebody they didn’t know? Amjad couldn’t explain why, but he also felt a deep sadness for Diana, a woman he had been quite indifferent to in real life. Yes, he always thought she was beautiful, always admired her humanitarian work, but Diana was someone he had never met or known. But sorrow lay heavy over his chest for the rest of the week. He could see it on the faces of friends and passers-by. Amjad thought about the two young princes, motherless, like his own two children. He thought about a youthful life cut short. Like his own wife. People up and down the country were mourning the crossovers and parallels of their own lives.