Greatest movie of all time!!!!
‘Ma,’ I called as I stomped down the stairs in my PJs, ‘do you want to watch a movie?’
‘Ooh, the new Shah Rukh Khan one?’ Ma poked her head out of her bedroom excitedly. ‘I’ve been saving that for after Ramadan.’
‘Uh, not exactly,’ I replied vaguely. ‘It’s a classic. It’s supposed to be the GOAT.’
‘The goat?’ Ma looked baffled as she followed me downstairs and began rummaging through the snack cupboard for microwave popcorn. ‘A film about a goat?’
‘No . . . G.O.A.T. Greatest of All Time?’
‘Sure, why not?’ Ma obliged amicably as popping noises began to sound from the microwave, instantly transporting me to my childhood. We never used to go out much as a family – there wasn’t much time or money to spare – but one thing Ma always did was put on a film on a Friday night and we would sit together in our little living room after dinner, the coffee table laden with Morrisons’ own-brand snacks, watching the latest Bollywood blockbuster.
As the film began in black and white, with ominous music creating tension, I kept glancing at Ma to see if she was enjoying it.
Two hours and a very confused mother later, I could safely say that she hadn’t. And neither had I, to be honest. I wasn’t a film buff or critic to appreciate the lighting and cinematography enough for it to outweigh the subtlety of the story.
‘Well,’ she sighed when the sled was tossed into the fireplace and the end credits appeared, ‘that was . . . interesting. Maybe next time we can watch something more . . . colourful?’
‘What’s next on the list?’ Dina asked one evening. Mohammed was working nights, so she’d asked me if I wanted to come over and stay for a couple of days. I happily agreed; cuddles with Sami were long overdue. As soon as I got in, I persuaded Dina to take some time out for herself while I watched him and she gratefully accepted. While she went for a pregnancy massage and then came home to sort out her hospital bag, I fed Sami his dinner, bathed him and got him ready for bed. I did all this without flooding the house or getting his dinner all over the kitchen floor. It felt good to be helpful. Maybe I wasn’t entirely useless at all things domestic.
‘I haven’t checked yet,’ I said as I finished off the lamb and barley soup Dina had made. We had it with crusty bread and it was gorgeous, like I knew it would be and perfect for the chilly night. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Retrieving the notebook from my bag, I opened it to the page I had bookmarked and turned it over to see what number fourteen had in store.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ I muttered, my stomach instantly churning. ‘I have to eat escargot.’
‘Oh no,’ Dina covered her mouth in horror. ‘Are they halal?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m not going to research it. Ignorance is bliss and all that.’
Dina made a face at me and I shrugged. I didn’t see why they wouldn’t be. They were practically the same as prawns. You couldn’t slaughter them with a prayer, like you did with chickens and sheep.
‘Do you have to do everything on the list?’ Dina asked as we took our bowls to the kitchen and cleared up. ‘It’s not sacred, Maya. You can miss things if you want.’
‘I can’t,’ I replied, panicking at the thought. ‘The whole point is to do everything on it. Otherwise, it’s meaningless. It won’t have the same effect.’
‘But you’re not doing everything. You’re not doing a triathlon.’
‘I know, but I’m doing something that’s in the realm of possibility. Like I didn’t sign up for a physio course either, I’m doing what’s relevant to me.’
‘And eating snails that are possibly haram is relevant to you how?’
She had a point there.
‘Look, all I’m saying is, this list is great and all and it’s wonderful how it’s getting you to try new things and become a more confident person, but it’s not your purpose in life. We’re Muslim. Our purpose is to be the best people we can be, under the guidance of God. Why don’t you change it to eating something equally as gross as snails, like lamb balls or lamb brains or something?’
I made a face and she grinned triumphantly. ‘See? The thought sickens you, right? Do that instead, if you insist on doing it at all.’
‘Fine,’ I grumbled. ‘But you’re doing it with me.’
‘Deal. I’ll cook them, the Palestinian way.’
The next day, true to her word, I came back to Dina’s from work to find that she had indeed cooked something she called nkhe’et and baid ghanam for our dinner, which we would apparently eat with hot Arabic bread, salad and wedges of lemon.
The thought made my stomach turn, but I consoled myself with the fact that it wasn’t snails and it was halal. And since the entire Levant region enjoyed these delicacies, how bad could it be?
‘I can’t do this,’ I squeaked when we sat down to eat at the dining table, eyeing the bowl of beige lamb brains, patterned and squiggly. A shiver ran down the length of my spine and all the hairs on my body – and I had a LOT of hair on my body – stood on end. The testicles didn’t look as bad, they were fried in ghee and could have been any part of the body. I ate liver and heart when my mum cooked it, the Bengali way, heavy with spices. But this . . . there were no spices in sight. The brains looked just like . . . brains.
I swallowed down the bile that rose up my oesophagus and took a sip of water. ‘You go first,’ I told Dina, my voice strangled. ‘How are you not feeling sick right now? You’re the pregnant one!’
‘I like it,’ Dina laughed. Grabbing one of the flatbreads, she tore off a piece and scooped up some of the brains, squeezing lemon juice over them and then popping them into her mouth. ‘Mmm, so good,’ she murmured. ‘Not as good as Mama’s, but almost.’ I blanched.
‘When is your mum getting here?’ I asked, delaying the inevitable.
‘Next week, Insha’allah,’ she replied, taking another bite. ‘Don’t change the topic and hurry up and try some,’ she added.
Inhaling as deeply as possible, I recited a prayer, whispered ‘Bismillah’, and did the same as Dina. Mind over matter! Mind over matter! I chanted to myself over and over, as I chewed and swallowed it, gulping water to wash it down.
‘Well? What do you think?’
‘It’s not my thing,’ I admitted. The texture was horrible; pasty and mushy. If it wasn’t for the bread giving me something to chew, it would have all come right back up.