‘No,’ Lucy sighed, turning to look at me. ‘Sorry. Just got a lot going on.’
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really. Anyway. Yes, you should meet Zak and hear what he has to say, but call him out on his behaviour so he knows he can’t get away with it.’
The next day, I went for my first-ever therapy session, as per number eighteen on the list. I had found a Muslim female therapist online, who had lots of good reviews despite being relatively new on the scene. She also had a cancellation and was available immediately, so I booked the session before I got cold feet.
Having a Muslim therapist was important to me. I wasn’t surprised that it was hard to find one and that those I did find didn’t have years and years of experience. Mental health is still such a massive taboo in my culture. In fact, sometimes it’s worse than taboo; it’s invisible. People think it doesn’t exist or that it’s a weakness of faith and spirit. I needed someone who understood my cultural context and why I behaved in a certain way.
After telling Lucy and Arjun about my appointment, I found out that Arjun had been having therapy for years. Then Lucy told me that she had also had some counselling when her parents got divorced and she had seen someone else after a friend had passed away. I was surprised by both admissions, but I suppose that was a reflection of my prejudices about what someone who went to therapy looked like.
The therapist was a woman called Fareena and she had a home office in Shepherd’s Bush, so after bidding Lucy farewell at the station after work, I caught the bus there. I felt nervous about seeing her, more so because I was going to her home. It felt too personal somehow.
The house was on a quiet, tree-lined street with Georgian townhouses on either side. I walked up the stairs to the shiny black front door and hesitated a moment before I rang the bell, not knowing what to expect. Seconds later, the door opened and Fareena stood on the other side, smiling warmly at me. She was an older lady, probably older than Ma, and wore a plain white hijab over a white blouse and black trousers. She looked sensible and mature and made me feel more at ease when she offered me a cup of tea before leading me through a beautiful hallway with black and white chequered floors, wall panelling and high ceilings.
The office was at the rear of the house and it was light and spacious, decorated in neutral tones. As I expected, there were plants everywhere and a comfortable-looking sofa set. On the herringbone flooring was a silky Persian carpet, in the same brown and beige tones. I felt guilty stepping on it with my shoes on.
‘Please, take a seat, Maya,’ Fareena said, gesturing to the double sofa. I did as she asked and gratefully accepted the tea from her. I needed something to calm my nerves and it wasn’t going to be an alcoholic beverage, so tea would have to do. I took a gulp and instantly scalded my mouth.
‘Thanks,’ I squeaked, as she sat down opposite me on the beige armchair. I looked around the room, at the plants, the art, the books and ornaments on the bookshelf. It all looked inviting but staged. It wasn’t possible to be naturally this neutral, surely?
‘How was your day?’ she began, looking at me with kind eyes. The rest of her expression was impassive yet interested.
‘Not that great,’ I replied bluntly. I think she was making small talk, but I jumped straight into Sheila and work and how useless and incompetent I always felt, acutely aware that I was paying for this session and therefore had to make every minute count. With Fareena’s gentle questions, I ended up talking about my education and how unsuccessful I felt – especially compared to Malik, who was far more accomplished than me.
‘How is your relationship with your brother?’ she asked, writing something in her notebook.
‘It’s normal, I think,’ I began. What was our relationship like? I said it was ‘normal’, but I didn’t have much to compare it to. Most of the cultural references in my life weren’t from my culture. The brothers in the books I read and films I watched weren’t Bengali Sylhetis in London. They weren’t revered, they weren’t put up on a pedestal, they weren’t pampered to the point where they didn’t know where the cereal bowls were kept.
‘What does “normal” look like to you?’ she probed.
‘I don’t know. We get along fine, but I suppose it’s everything he represents that I find difficult to navigate.’
‘What does he represent?’
‘Erm . . . Unfairness. Double standards. The patriarchy. You know I only recently went on my first trip abroad with my female cousins, because all these years my parents haven’t let me go. But they let my brother go all the time and he’s younger than me. How does that make sense? And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.’
Once those floodgates opened, they didn’t stop. I started telling her everything. Like how when we were kids, Ma would make me mow the lawn, but when Malik wanted to do it, she told him not to because he might get hurt. It was fine for me to get hurt, it seemed. Or when she would make me stay up late helping her clean when I had coursework due in the next day, while Malik sat around watching TV. His schoolwork and homework always took precedence over mine. He was doing his GCSEs the year I was doing my A-levels and one of Baba’s random relatives came over to stay from Bangladesh. I had to give up my bedroom two weeks before my exams and study in the dining room among all the noise and the bustle, while Malik got to hide away in his room and study properly.
And they wondered why he always got better grades than I did.
By the end of the hour, I was an emotional wreck and used a few of the tissues that were on the oak coffee table in front of me. Fareena was a great listener, although I didn’t know why that came as a surprise to me. It was her job. She was literally being paid to listen to me go on and on about my childhood. But the difference between her and anyone else I had ever offloaded on – namely Dina or the twins – was that she didn’t offer advice or judgement. She listened and asked questions and the questions made me realise things on my own.
I thought I would leave the session lighter, but I didn’t. I felt heavier. I didn’t know that my relationship with Malik was a cause of stress and anxiety. I thought I was going to waltz in there and lie down on the couch like they did in American movies and talk about Sheila, Zakariya and possibly Dina. I didn’t know that there would be so many questions about my family and my childhood. And we had only just started.
Underneath ‘18. TRY THERAPY!’ Noah had added in his now-familiar scrawl, ‘Commit to at least six sessions. You’re not going to achieve anything with only one!’
He was right. One session had unearthed so much that needed exploring, unpicking and possibly unlearning.
‘Same time next week?’ Fareena asked as we wrapped up.
‘Definitely,’ I sniffed, blowing my nose into another tissue. I hoped that once the hard parts were over, I would get to a stage where talking about all the things that weighed me down wouldn’t require quite so many tissues.
The following day was Thursday, which meant Arabic class and I wondered if I’d bump into Zakariya. I had completely forgotten to reply to his invitation, what with therapy, Sheila and everything else on my mind. It was only when I was walking down Fieldgate Street, moments away from the building where the class took place, that I remembered. A part of me really hoped I would see him, but the more sensible part of me told me not to entertain the thought. What was the point? He was moving abroad in months. I didn’t need a pen pal. To be fair, I didn’t need a husband or partner either. Or even another friend.
It was while I was chanting this mantra in my head that I saw him. He was in the hallway outside both our classes, looking at his phone. He looked good, too good, with his work shirt unbuttoned at the collar and slightly messy hair. Something inside me stirred as I ducked into my classroom before he could spot me. As soon as I sat down, I replied to his last message, my mantra forgotten:
MAYA: Hey, sorry for the late reply, been really busy. Let’s grab a bite tonight if you’re free, I’m starving.
That was chill, right? I wasn’t coming across as desperate or even interested. Just hungry and busy. At least, that was the impression I hoped I had given. Putting my phone away, I forced myself not to check if he had replied until after the class was over. This meant that every minute passed agonisingly slowly and I couldn’t focus on a single thing the teacher was saying.
‘Maya,’ Ustadha Salma called out suddenly and I jerked upright in my seat.
‘Na’am?’ I replied in my almost-existent Arabic.
‘Hal ata bil bus, am bil qitaar?’ she asked, looking at me expectantly and completely catching me off guard. I stared stupidly at her.
‘Ummmm,’ I began. ‘Uhhh. La?’ Assuming it was a yes and no question, I responded with ‘no’, hoping to end the conversation.
‘Which one, Maya?’ she said slowly, in English now. ‘Hal ata bil bus, am bil qitaar?’ She asked the question again, as if hearing it a second time would somehow make me understand through a magical osmosis of sorts.
