The Family Tree

‘Tell me about it,’ he replied, wishing he could be transported somewhere else immediately. Only yesterday he’d had a run-in with his dad for telling Zahra to ‘fucking turn it off’ as the TV reminded them of what had occurred on 11 September two years ago – as if they could forget. Unfortunately, Abbu had been just within earshot. First, he told him off for swearing. Second, for swearing in front of Zahra. And then for being ‘insensitive’.

Sensitivity? Everyone was past that stage. Maybe if these news channels hadn’t shoved it in their faces so much over the past two years, Saahil might still react with some sympathy. They were still at it, churning out one documentary after the next, agonising over every detail, milking it for all it was worth. It was easy gawping at the telly in apocalyptic awe at the scenes, but now Saahil had to remind himself there were actual people in those buildings deciding on which was the easiest way to die: to sit around and embrace a fireball on the inside, or jump out of the window and let their bodies shatter all over the streets of Manhattan.

Saahil didn’t blame Abbu and Uncle Harun for worrying so much. It would be nice, after all, to just sit back and feel sorry for the victims and angry towards the perpetrators and for that be that. To not shrink slightly every time the image of those two skyscrapers popped up unexpectedly. And they did pop up. In dentist waiting rooms on muted TVs, in conversations with smug white people. It was always there. Crashing, burning, smoking, and spreading like an ash cloud into every facet of their lives.

Saahil often thought back to the actual day. It niggled at him: Abbu holding Zahra close in a one-armed hug; her blinking away innocently and playing with her plait as she watched the screen. She was completely oblivious to the fact that life had probably just changed forever.

‘It’ll blow over,’ Abbu sometimes said, trying to convince himself. Because wars just had a tendency to blow over. God only knew what kind of hell this would mutate into, Saahil thought. After all, they’d invaded two countries now. They could bomb as many Muslims as they wanted.

‘You see,’ Ehsan often said, shaking his head, ‘you can’t do shit like that and expect not to piss a few people off.’

‘No one cares about brown civvies caught up in the middle, Ehsan,’ Saahil replied, bitterly.

He remembered how the awful events had impacted their second year at university. Freshers’ Week for the First Years was due to start on Monday 17th September 2001. Saahil and Ehsan were talking about what they would get up to during the week’s parties in hushed voices so that their parents could not hear. After that, they’d put their heads down and work hard for the rest of the year. There was an air of anticipation and excitement, until everything changed.

A couple of weeks after 9/11, Saahil had been at a hospital appointment with Ammi. The waiting room was packed and the TV was playing the BBC News. Slowly, all eyes began to travel up towards the screen. So did Saahil’s. People began shuffling and looking at the floor. There was no shock and disbelief. Everyone in that room had seen nothing else for the past fortnight. The screen showed the second plane flying into the South Tower and being engulfed in a burst of flames. Saahil remembered digging his fingernails into his hands, his face reddening as he tapped his foot urgently on the floor. Saahil remembered vividly the sigh of relief he’d taken when Ammi was finally called in for her consultation.

Later that day, Saahil went to pick Zahra up from school. What she’d told him as they’d walked home together made him rage to Abbu that night.

‘They’ve been having this stupid “circle time” every day since the attack,’ shouted Saahil. ‘Zee told me that they’re passing this cuddly toy around and whoever it lands on has to talk about their “feelings” about the World Trade Center. One of the girls, Sonia or whatever she’s called, wasn’t saying much. I’m not being funny, Abbu, but I’ve seen this girl and her mum and dad. She lives on Springside Street, okay, and it doesn’t look like she has the strongest grasp of the English language… Are you listening, Abbu?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Well, Zee told me that Miss Williams goes to her, “How would you feel if your mum was in the tower?” What kind of arsehole question is that!’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘And this Sonia kid said, “I’d be sad.” Well, what else what she supposed to say? Then Miss Williams goes, “Sad, is that it? You’d be devastated.”’

Abbu had looked up from his newspaper for the first time and frowned. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, Abbu,’ said Saahil, almost bouncing off the walls. ‘That’s what Zahra told me. How does a eight-year-old know the word “devastated”? See what they’re doing, Abbu. Watch me, I’m gonna complain.’

He never did. Abbu tried to calm him down and stop him.

‘Focus on yourself. You’ve got a busy year ahead at uni.’

But Saahil didn’t feel the same about uni anymore either. There was a sense of foreboding, with pathetic, half-hearted attempts at partying for Freshers’ Week. Not all the students were so willing to talk to him and Ehsan anymore. The friendships they’d made in the first year had changed. Many of the connections and bonds undone. Not everyone wanted to stay friends. Instead, people had gravitated towards their own ethnic group protectively.

The divide that had been set during that first week didn’t change much over the next two years. Saahil and Ehsan kept their heads down and stuck to their own. They threw themselves into work. Thankfully, they’d come out on the other side, but that didn’t stop Saahil from viewing the whole damn thing with contempt. It was a headache he could do without. It had no place in the ideal life he imagined for himself and his family. Things that were happening a million miles away in foreign countries had no bearing on him. But there it was. This anger. This dread. And he could see it now engraved all over Abbu and Uncle Harun’s faces.

‘Anyway,’ Abbu said, smoothing down his clothes. Everyone cleared their throats. Ehsan stopped hiding his face. There was some shuffling around and readjusting themselves on sofas; any attempt to change the atmosphere and recover the same lightheartedness that they had all started the conversation with.

‘Have you heard about Rashid?’ Abbu said. Saahil saw his father nudge Uncle Harun who sat upright and nodded enthusiastically. Saahil could tell that this part of the conversation had probably been scripted between them beforehand.

‘The poor bloke hasn’t been to Jummah for two weeks in a row,’ Harun said. ‘He’s too ashamed.’

‘Why, what happened?’ Ehsan asked.

‘His son got some girl pregnant,’ said Saahil.

‘Really? That nerd Hassan? How did he get a bird?’

‘It’s not funny,’ Abbu said. The boys tried to look serious.

‘Sorry, Amjad, but it’s this one you need to keep an eye on.’ Harun grinned as he pointed to Saahil. ‘He’s the pretty boy. My Ehsi is too shy about that kind of stuff.’

Saahil snorted as Ehsan covered his face. He was definitely too shy. Saahil only had to encourage him to ask Alisha out almost every day. Ehsan just about managed to give her a smile and gaze longingly after her as she disappeared down the corridor.

‘Me?’ said Saahil, all dramatics as usual, mouth hanging open in shock.

‘Yeah, you,’ Abbu said. ‘Your uncle’s right. What did I find on your phone the other day?’

Saahil groaned. Abbu had seen a text message on his phone.

‘Who’s Katie?’ he’d asked.

Saahil pretended he’d gone temporarily deaf.

‘“You better skive lesson for me today,”’ Abbu read. ‘“I’m only coming into uni for you.”’ He’d turned the phone sideways. ‘I take it that’s a wink,’ he’d said, squinting.

‘Don’t read my messages, Abbu!’

‘Well, it’s a good job I did.’ Abbu had followed him around the room jabbering away in Punjabi, the go-to language whenever a good bollocking was in need. ‘Is that why I send you to university? So you can miss lessons and meet girls?’

‘No… I don’t know…’

Abbu’s voice rose. ‘If I find out—’

‘Yeah, yeah, Abbu… Laters.’ Saahil escaped out of the door.

Okay, fine. He liked girls. A lot. And sometimes he did have a few on the go at the same time. But he always stopped short of going into their knickers. He didn’t like hypocrites, and he had his own sister to think about. She was just a kid yet, but already Saahil could see she was going to be a little beauty with her cute upturned nose and pouty lips. In a few years’ time, many inadequate pricks would scurry around after her; and Saahil looked forward to breaking their balls if and when they got too close. In which case, he’d rather not go around bonking everything he saw and be able to guide his little sister with a bit of integrity.

‘Astaghfirullah,’ he said, touching his ears like Ammi often did. ‘I don’t mess around with people’s daughters, thank you very much. Don’t wanna go to hell, do I?’ He suppressed a grin.

‘What moral superiority!’ Ehsan mocked, patting his best friend on the back. ‘He doesn’t mess around with girls because he doesn’t want to go to hell.’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that—’

‘Yeah, you did—’

‘Shut up, Ehsi. Shall I tell Uncle Harun about Alish—’

‘Shhh!’ Ehsan placed his hand over Saahil’s mouth.

Abbu and Harun looked at each other and sighed. They both turned back to their cricket and cups of tea. Saahil smiled at Ehsan when the old men weren’t looking, relieved that the conversation was over.

Nine

Saahil frowned as he watched his friend Abdul swearing his way through the crowded restaurant. The Nineties Bollywood music that played in the background did little to hide the profanity, nor did the hum of multiple conversations and the clinking of cutlery. All six of the lads already seated at the table looked around, horrified. Ehsan smiled nervously at a couple sitting near them, trying to make amends. Too late, Saahil wanted to tell him, the tutting had already begun.

‘What you doing? Bloody idiot!’ they asked when Abdul reached the table with Hardeep.

‘He’s letting that gora wind him up again,’ Hardeep said, casually.

‘Who?’

‘Daniel or summat or other.’

‘He started a debate with me after the exam about Iraq and Bin Laden and all that shit,’ Abdul said as he threw himself into a chair beside them. ‘All his fuckin’ gora gang were there. You should have seen how they were looking at me.’

‘Why do you get yourself into these situations?’

‘I don’t. He’s in my face all the time.’

‘Where do you know him from?’

‘Debating society.’ Everyone burst into laughter.

‘Serves you right then,’ said Saahil. ‘Don’t join a debating society if you can’t take it.’

‘I can take it,’ Abdul said, huffing and puffing away. ‘But he’s always at it. Making snide comments and stuff. Making out as though we’re all… I’ll fuckin’ punch him next time.’ He pulled a plate of biryani towards him, angrily.

‘Well, I hope you shut him up properly, bro,’ Asif said.

‘I did. I told him that Blair has done us over because Saddam might have destroyed his weapons before we even invaded. That’s the latest I’ve heard anyway.’

‘There might not be any weapons,’ Kamran sneered.

‘I know but… that’s what they’re telling us, innit? That he’s got weapons of mass destruction. And he’s killing his own people—’

‘So we’ve gone to save them.’

‘Yay!’

‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ Asif said. ‘Why does it bother them who Saddam’s killing? They only give two shits when white people die. Not us.’

‘Shhh! People are listening,’ Umar said, as a waiter slid past them carrying a tray of drinks.

‘Don’t care.’

‘Wait and see,’ Hardeep said. ‘They’ll do to the Iraqis exactly what they did to us. Barge in, take all their shit, and then scarper outta there and leave ’em to massacre each other.’

‘You talking about… Partition?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, grimly. Hardeep was Indian. The rest of them were Pakistani. A few uncomfortable looks passed around the table.

‘That was complicated,’ Ehsan eventually said. ‘You can’t just blame all of what happened there on the whites.’

‘Why not? They like blaming us for everything.’

‘Yeah and it’s not gonna help with you doing the same thing back, is it?’

‘Well, do you know what?’ Abdul said, still angry. ‘When people keep telling you how shit you are that’s the only response you have left.’

A few of the guys suppressed laughs and muttered to each other. A waiter hovered near their table.

‘Just chill out, mate,’ Ehsan said.

‘I know, he’s getting well paranoid.’

‘You would be as well,’ Abdul continued. ‘They were smirking at me. I was trying my best to explain and they just smirked away. I probably looked like a right twat. I was going bright red…’

‘That’s what goray do,’ Ehsan said, shrugging. ‘Explain and justify your entire existence to us whilst we sit here and watch you squirm.’

‘Exactly, they get a kick out of it,’ said Saahil. ‘I just act thick, pretend I can’t hear ’em.’

‘Anything for an easy life, eh?’ Kamran sneered again and adjusted his glasses.

‘Yeah, either that or you end up with constant earache,’ Saahil replied. ‘And anyway, sometimes you can’t really blame them. It’s not their fault Muslims have started blowing shit up, is it?’

‘And is it mine?’ Abdul shot back, his mouth full of naan bread.

‘Well, no, but there’s some of these idiots at our mosque who are in denial. You know, “Muslim blows summat up – it’s the media’s fault!”’

Ehsan laughed. ‘Yeah, everything is the media’s fault. Or America’s fault.’

‘So what if they blow stuff up?’ Kamran said. ‘Why should you feel guilty? Did your dad drive those planes into the Twin Towers?’

‘Shut up, dickhead—’ Saahil began, but Asif cut him off.

‘Fuck ’em,’ he said. ‘They probably did it to themselves anyway.’

Heads turned in Asif’s direction expectantly. He sighed as though burdened with the task of having to educate them all.

‘Nine-eleven,’ he continued. ‘That was some illuminati shit.’

A few of them rolled their eyes and focused on their plates once more.

‘I know you don’t pay any attention to what I say,’ Asif said. ‘But it’s true. They needed a reason to start a war in the Middle East for oil. I was reading about it on the internet, it said—’

‘Get him to put a sock in it,’ Saahil muttered. He stopped and looked at the neighbouring tables before dropping into a whisper, ‘Or he’ll start banging on about Jews in a minute.’

‘Jews?’ Asif said, loudly.

‘Shurrup, idiot!’

Saahil thought he saw Kamran smirk.

‘Don’t underestimate Zionists,’ Asif continued. ‘They control everything and they want everyone to hate us—’

‘For God’s sake,’ Hardeep said, grabbing Asif in a headlock. They heard him mumble a few things about ‘Israel’ before eventually giving up.

‘Anyway, most people know we’re not all the same,’ Umar said, instantly pissing Saahil off. He was sick of hearing that tired old line. It struck him as a particularly dumb thing to say. After all, there were quite a few of them about, Muslims and that.

‘What? That we’re not all suicide bombers?’ Ehsan asked.

‘Yeah, we are actually,’ Saahil said loudly. ‘“Kill a kafir a day”! That’s our motto. That’s what’s kept us going for the last 1,400 years. In fact, I’ve got an urge to slit Hardeep’s throat right now because he believes in Guru Nanak and not Allah.’ He smiled as he put his arm around his Sikh friend.

‘It’s not funny, Saahil.’

‘Yeah, stop making it into a joke.’

Saahil’s smile faded. He threw his fork down on to the plate with a clang. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest we do? Cry about it?’

‘Shut up.’

‘You shut up.’

‘Calm down, everyone,’ Ehsan sighed.

Saahil watched his friends dip naan bread into their curries with miserable faces. Abdul muttered under his breath.

‘Well, you guys sit here and sulk,’ said Saahil. ‘And I’m gonna go. I’d rather not spend the evening pondering over the many ways in which people can hate each other.’

Ehsan touched his arm as Saahil made to get up. ‘Don’t,’ he said.

‘Talk about summat else then,’ Saahil replied.

‘Yeah, he’s right. We just finished uni, for God’s sake. Cheer up.’

Saahil leaned back. A shriek of laughter erupted from a table nearby, prompting them all to turn and glance at the group of mismatched-looking friends. Probably work colleagues, Saahil observed.

‘Talk about summat else?’ someone said. Saahil was retrieved from his own thoughts by Kamran’s snarling face. ‘Talk about summat else?’ he repeated. ‘Some of us actually care about what’s going on in the world.’

The lights in the restaurant were dimmed, but Saahil noticed that Kamran had been glaring across the table at him all evening. His face was flushed, and the red birthmark on his nose seemed to have absorbed into the colouring of the rest of his complexion.

‘You care about something other than yourself?’ Saahil shot back. ‘Don’t make me choke on my vindaloo.’

Everyone held their forks mid-air and looked to Kamran for his response.

‘You’re a big, fat piece of shit, do you know that?’ He spat the words out, as though unable to hold them in any longer.

‘What the flippin’ heck is your problem?’ Ehsan started, moving forward in his seat. He was definitely a born peacemaker, but when it came down to it, Ehsan would defend Saahil without a second’s hesitation.

‘His fucking face is my problem,’ Kamran said.

‘Well, it’s prettier than yours,’ Saahil said quietly. It elicited a few giggles from around the table.

‘You think you’re better than everyone. Walking around everywhere like you own the place. You think you’re gonna outshine us all, don’t you?’

‘What’s this all about?’ Ehsan asked, looking confused.

‘Stay away from Kiran.’

‘Who?’

‘Kiran. The girl you were chatting up at uni today.’ He looked furious. Saahil could hear him breathing hard out of his nose, eyes fixed in a stare, fists balled up tight.

‘You’re not talking about that bird who was trying it on with me in the cafeteria,’ Saahil asked slowly.

‘Shut up! You were flirting with her. I saw you, leaning into her, holding her hand.’

Saahil burst into laughter. ‘As if I would go after her. Even I’ve got standards. Girl’s been around the block more times than a taxi.’

‘Saahil,’ Ehsan said, nudging him.

‘What? It’s true! And anyway, why does it bother you so much? You got a thing for her?’ He smirked at Kamran.

‘She’s a family friend—’

‘Yeah, right,’ Saahil interrupted.

‘And I’m looking out for her,’ Kamran continued. ‘I don’t want you trying it on with her like you try it on with everyone else. You’re just a bastard who messes girls about.’

‘So fuckin’ what if I do?’ said Saahil, having had just about enough from everybody. ‘It’s not like I messed about with your sister, is it?’

Kamran stood up. A few of the lads muffled their laughter. ‘Oooh, shit got serious,’ Saahil heard someone say. He rolled his eyes and sniggered into his drink.

‘Oi, shut up now, Saahil,’ Ehsan said. ‘And you, Kamran, what are you getting emotional for? You don’t even have a sister. Sit down.’ He was pulled back down on to his seat by his friends. They glared at each other from across the table.

‘We’re supposed to be celebrating,’ Ehsan continued. ‘Stop kicking off with each other.’

Smirks vanished as the boys nodded with a new-found earnestness. Everybody always listened to Ehsan.

Saahil squinted and half covered his eyes. The green laser lights were making his head bang. They were stuffed into a booth outside in the courtyard of their favourite nightspot, well away from the packed dance floor where it appeared most of the students had finished their exams for the year. Their heads nodded in accordance with the inadequate booty-shaking that came as ‘Crazy in Love’ blared from the speakers. They’d passed a spliff around. Saahil waited for everything to just float away. The anger at Kamran, the stress of exams and studying, just everything. It wasn’t long until they were all acting gormless with long, drawn-out ‘whaaats’ flying around the table.

‘Look at all those birds, man,’ Asif said. He looked at Saahil and motioned with his head. ‘Go on, Saahil, you always get off with one.’

‘How many times… I don’t get off with anyone,’ said Saahil, still holding his head.

‘What about you, Umar? Why don’t you go dance with one of those lasses?’ Umar’s eyes widened. ‘No no, I don’t think so,’ he stuttered.

‘Why not? Go and have your last bit of fun before you get your bride import from Paki-land.’ Everyone laughed.

‘I don’t have anyone in Pakistan.’ An unspoken ‘you will have soon’ passed around them.

‘Don’t be a dick, Asif,’ Ehsan said.

‘Yeah, just because he’s fat,’ Saahil blurted out. ‘Oh, sorry, Umar, you know what I mean. You’re a nice bloke, you can have any girl you want.’

‘Oh look, Robert’s coming over.’

Saahil made a face at Ehsan. That was all he bloody needed. The three guys wandered towards them, beer bottles in hand. One of them tripped over a chair leg.

‘All right, boys?’ Robert said, obviously tipsy but still managing to reek of self-importance. Saahil had always resisted the temptation of lobbing a textbook at his head across the lecture hall, the pretentious know-it-all. Robert eyed the series of Cokes and lemonades on the table.

‘Look at you lot sipping on your sodas,’ he chuckled. ‘Surely you deserve a beer tonight, lads. We just finished uni.’

‘So funny,’ Asif said.

Robert’s mate, Liam, ogled at the soft drinks too, squinting and turning his head as he tried to comprehend what was before him. He opened his mouth but Saahil cut him off.

‘Just shut up,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but, like, don’t you drink… at all? Not even on special occasions?’

‘No,’ said Ehsan, staring into space like a man defeated. ‘Told you about a million times already.’

‘He’s pissed, he doesn’t remember,’ Asif sniggered.

‘So how do you explain Kamran then?’ Robert shot back, grinning from ear to ear. Saahil could tell it gave him much joy to get one over on them. ‘He’s sat at the bar necking it down. We saw him on the way in.’

They looked over the crowd and could see Kamran sitting on his own at the bar, drinking openly, not even trying to hide it. They glanced at each other in shock.

‘What a turd.’

‘I’m gonna tell his dad,’ Asif said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

‘His dad drinks as well. I’ve seen him coming out of that pub. The Shoulder of Mutton, I think it’s called.’

‘What were you doing in The Shoulder of Mutton?’

‘I work opposite the building, Sherlock.’

‘Forget about him,’ said Saahil. He looked at Robert. ‘All right, mate. What did you write for question 12b on the exam? I think I got it wrong.’

Saahil checked his watch. It was nearly two o’clock and he suddenly realised how tired he was. He’d drunk litres of Red Bull the night before to stay awake and make sure he had got all his revision done. Robert was now completely wasted and had transformed into 50 Cent.

‘I want them to love me like they love Pac,’ he slurred. Everyone fell about laughing.

‘Do you even know who Pac is, white boy?’

‘Yeah, go and listen to your puffy Timberlake.’

‘He’s not that bad,’ Umar said, nervously.

‘He thinks he’s Michael Jackson,’ said Saahil, scowling. ‘And he’s not.’

‘I know who Tupac is,’ Robert mumbled, a few minutes behind everybody else. ‘He’s the dead guy.’

‘Oi, he’s not dead all right.’

‘Here we go.’