ZAKARIYA: Salaams Maya, I’m well thanks, how are you? Here’s the link to the place I go. I go on Thursday nights, 6:30–8:00PM but I’m on level two now. Good luck!
I read the message again and then re-read another two times. It wasn’t the mind-blowing reply I was hoping for. It was friendly enough, but apart from ‘how are you?’, which was a cursory response to my enquiring after his wellbeing, there weren’t any questions; nothing to help me prolong the conversation. What could I reply to create an entire text chain? Nothing without appearing desperate.
Deflated, I replied with ‘thanks so much!’ and then put my phone away. He wasn’t going to respond to that, so there was no point in staring at it all day. I emailed the college where he took his lessons, enquiring about dates, times, costs and availability, and then headed downstairs in my running shoes, hoodie and leggings.
The old me spent Boxing Day going sales shopping, indulging in a roasted salmon lunch and then watching Christmas movies while stuffing my face with halal mince pies (the alcohol-free ones – Malik bought a whole box with brandy in them a couple of weeks before that I had to give away to Lucy). This year was different. Lucy told me not to waste money in the sales buying things I didn’t need or want because they were cheaper than usual, so I gave that a miss and went for a run instead. I was up to running three kilometres in one go now and thanks to all the stretches I did afterwards, I could nearly touch my toes. After my run, I showered and helped my mum cook for a change.
‘Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?’ Ma gasped in faux horror when I joined her in the kitchen, my sleeves rolled up, ready to be useful.
‘Haha,’ I replied. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Here, peel the potatoes.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Unless you want to de-scale the fish?’
‘Potatoes are fine!’ I said, hastily grabbing the peeler and getting down to it.
We worked in comfortable silence for a while, before Ma put a Christmas playlist on her phone and we sang along to all the classics together. Every so often she would show me what she was doing: de-scaling and filleting the fish, crushing garlic and squeezing lemons to make a fusion marinade with olive oil, dill, paprika, chilli flakes and coriander. The way Ma cooks is methodical but creative. She likes everything to be tidy and clean, but at the same time, she doesn’t weigh or measure. Her ability to create great flavours is innate.
‘Why the sudden interest in cooking?’ she asked once the food was in the oven and I began clearing up the bits of peel that hadn’t found their way to the food recycling bin yet.
I shrugged. ‘I’m working on myself a lot. I guess it feels right to learn how to fend for myself as well.’
‘Hmm,’ she said non-committally. ‘It’s not because we’re looking for a husband for you then? Or perhaps there’s already a man in your life?’
‘No way!’ I spluttered. ‘I have no desire to be the perfect, traditional wife, thank you very much. I’m learning how to cook for me, not for some man I don’t know. And whoever I marry can pitch in with all the housework, thank you. It’s not my job to be a cook and cleaner because I’m a woman. Islam says so.’
‘All right, all right,’ Ma laughed. ‘Calm down, it was just a question!’
‘Don’t you get annoyed that Baba hardly does anything round here?’ I said as I brushed the floor. ‘You work full-time and you do everything around the house. It hardly seems fair to me.’
‘Says the girl who also lives here and also hardly does anything round the house.’
‘Ouch! That’s not true! I might not cook but I do most of the cleaning.’
‘Well, it would have been a great help if you did. It would ease my load considerably.’
‘You know I’m a rubbish cook. Do you want me to waste perfectly good ingredients just so you can support traditional gender roles? I don’t see you asking Malik to cook.’
‘Touché,’ Ma laughed. ‘Useless, the pair of you.’
‘Well, this useless person soon won’t be eating much anyway. On New Year’s Day, I’m going to start a programme called the Whole 30.’
‘But you’re not thirty yet.’
‘No, it’s thirty because you do it for thirty days.’
‘Why? You don’t need to lose weight and you’re doing all that running. You need to eat well or you’ll waste away.’
‘It’s like a detox, Ma. It’s something I want to try. So don’t include me in any meals for January, I’m going to make my own food.’
‘You’re going to make it yourself?’
‘I am. So maybe after the month is up, I will be able to help you more with the cooking.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Ma smiled, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
‘. . . If you get Malik to do it too,’ I added and dashed out of the kitchen before she could say anything else.
Chapter Eighteen
The Arabic language college replied to me the following day and as fate – or divine will – would have it, they had availability in their beginner’s evening class on a Thursday, which was at the same time as Zakariya’s level two class. They also had slots on Monday and Wednesday, but no one needed to know that. I replied to their email to let them know that I would be joining them the Thursday after New Year’s Day with the fees in cash and sat back with a huge grin on my face. In a couple of days, I had organised and prepped for two items on the list and I felt massively accomplished because of it.
It had been almost four months since I embarked on this list-completing journey and I had already achieved so much. I had applied to go back to studying; I could run a decent distance without collapsing or having a heart attack; I had a beautiful wardrobe and had learnt how to apply my makeup properly; I had read bloody Ulysses. And now I was about to learn Arabic, the language of the Holy Qur’an and do a detox. As numbers ten and eleven would both take a while to complete, I excitedly moved on to number twelve, eager to find out what it was. I nearly choked on my tea when I read: Trek Snowdon.
Trek Snowdon? The only trek I knew anything about was Star Trek and even then, my knowledge was sketchy. I had never trekked for anything in my life, not unless you counted walking up Muswell Hill. How was I going to climb a mountain? Then I reminded myself that I hadn’t been able to run before and yet there I was, running through the backstreets of Haringey three times a week, often in the dark, often holding my keys between my fingers should I need to use them as a weapon against a predator. Trekking a little mountain in Wales would be a doddle compared to that. Hopefully someone – i.e. Lucy – would agree to do it with me.
I had a vague recollection of reading this entry before, when I first flicked through the notebook. I wracked my brains for what else I had seen that day, but it all happened so fast that I couldn’t remember. I decided not to check or try to recall what I had seen anymore and keep true to my plan of only reading the next items when it was time to do them.
Carefully putting the book back into my work tote bag, I went downstairs to wait for Malik to come home. He was due to arrive any moment and Ma, with a tiny bit of help from me, had cooked his favourite Bengali meal: creamy chicken korma, fragrant pulao rice and juicy lamb kebabs. I was in charge of shaping the kebabs and peeling the garlic. While that might sound easy, trust me when I say it wasn’t. Ma made me peel TEN BULBS. Then she showed me how to blend and store them with a bit of salt and oil so we could use the paste for future curries. Despite scrubbing my hands and showering, the pungent smell of fresh garlic still lingered on my fingers.
What smelt infinitely better was the deliciously creamy korma. It had been teasing me all day, reminding me of Eid morning, for which the elaborate meal was usually reserved. I couldn’t wait to dive in and make the most of the time I had before the Whole 30 programme started. With three days left to go until the New Year, I had to make every bite count.