I waited for Zakariya’s response, but it didn’t come. Either he had fallen asleep or I had pushed him too far. It didn’t matter. I was in Istanbul, one of the most magical cities in the world, and I was going to enjoy every moment of it.
The next morning I woke up early enough to enjoy a traditional Turkish breakfast for one. The table was laden with cold meats, cheeses, bread, olives, jam, honey, cooked sujuk and scrambled eggs, all washed down with a glass mug of piping hot, sweet Turkish tea. At first, I felt self-conscious as I ate, so I read a self-help book at the same time in order to look less lonely. I took pictures of my food and as I became more comfortable and less bothered about what people were thinking of me, I posted a selfie of myself basking in the sunlight in my sunhat and pale blue and white maxi-dress onto my Insta Stories.
Zakariya was sort-of right about some of the men in Istanbul. I didn’t know if they were all Turkish, or if they were tourists or immigrants, but not only were a large proportion of them incredibly good-looking, but they were also extremely forward. Everywhere I went barring the mosques, men approached me to make conversation and I’m not going to lie, it did wonders for my confidence.
The mosques in Istanbul were stunning. I carried a pashmina with me in my straw holiday tote so I could wrap it around my head before entering. I also made sure to keep myself in a state of ablution so I could pray in them and not only visit them like a tourist. Hearing the call to prayer outside was beautiful and it did something to my soul. I spent hours in the various mosques and in the end decided that my favourite was the Süleymaniye Camii, which was situated at the top of a hill. It was ancient and imposing, much older than the Blue Mosque and so the architecture was more simple and less ornate, but it was quiet and calm and it soothed my nerves.
Surprisingly, I prayed more in Istanbul than I had done since Ramadan. I prayed for God to direct me to a future that was good for me. I prayed for Him to give me the courage to go after my dreams, to become a better person, to help me with my anxiety, to give me the patience and wisdom to navigate difficult situations. I also prayed for everyone I knew. My parents, my nani, my brother, my friends. I wasn’t on Umrah but the amount of time I spent in contemplation made me feel as though I was on as much of a spiritual journey as I was on a personal-growth journey. Dina was right, my connection with God was something I was lacking; something I needed to work on.
Noah texted me throughout my trip. Now that my period had come and gone, I felt differently towards his energy; I enjoyed it. Every few hours he would send me a link to a cool restaurant to visit, or gallery to check out, or sight to see and with the tips came heart emojis and kisses.
The Grand Bazaar was a lot of fun and I spent hours wandering through the maze-like halls sampling sweets, trying on jewellery and smelling perfume and soaps. I was certain I got scammed, although it wasn’t as bad as it would have been were my skin tone ten shades lighter. I was Bengali after all. My haggling skills were on another level, honed as a child when I would watch my mum and grandmother barter everything down to half the original asking price in Whitechapel market. I bought a beautiful handwoven carpet for our living room, as well as some pretty hand-painted colourful dishes. I also bought silver jewellery studded with mother of pearl and turquoise for myself, Ma, Nani, Lucy, Dina and the twins and then boxes of baklava for everyone else.
Contrary to Zak’s reservations, I did go to Nus’ret on my own, something I never dreamed I would have had the courage to do. I dressed up to the nines that night, in a slinky black satin dress, heels and red lipstick. I took my book with me as my date and I documented the whole thing on social media. My DMs blew up when I posted a picture of me and the Salt Bae himself, his arm casually draped around me and while Noah commented on it, Zak didn’t. I wondered if he was too busy to check Instagram, or if he didn’t like that I had gone out like that on my own. So I did what anyone would do: I checked who had viewed my Stories and after scanning the names one by one, I came across Zakariya’s. He had seen my picture after all. Why was he being so cold?
‘What does this all mean?’ I asked an innocent man that night, as I sat in a coffee shop on Istiklal Street with a huge piece of kunafeh and ice cream. Ali, who was attractive in a boyish sort of way, had approached me and asked me if he could join me. After three days of eating alone, I nodded enthusiastically and gestured to the empty seat in front of me. After some small talk, which I had become really good at during this solo trip, I proceeded to offload my man problems on him.
‘He’s totally hot and cold. One minute he’s driving me home and climbing a mountain with me and the next he’s distant and aloof. I don’t know what to make of it!’
‘And you said that he once made his intentions known and you rejected him?’ Ali asked in heavily accented, broken English, his forehead knitted together in concentration as he tried to keep up with the story.
‘Well, yes,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘But that was ages ago. I’ve made it pretty clear to him since then that I’m interested, but he’s not reciprocating it.’
‘And what of the other man? What was his name, Nuh?’
‘Yes, but he pronounces it the anglicised way, Noah.’
‘Strange. Why does he do that?’
‘He’s half-Lebanese, half-English,’ I explained to Ali, wondering why I was explaining Noah’s choice of pronunciation to a stranger. But I guess I had opened myself up to scrutiny when I involved a stranger in my business.
‘You cannot trust Lebanese men,’ Ali said seriously, his face expressionless.
‘Why not? And he’s only half-Lebanese!’
‘You cannot trust English men either.’
‘It’s not like Bengali men are much better. It’s not a race or ethnicity issue, Ali. Most men, I find, are lacking. It’s about finding the one that lacks the least. Noah, at least, has made it obvious that he likes me.’
‘If that is enough for you to be happy, then good luck, sister Maya.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The journey home from Istanbul was bittersweet. I ended up having a much better time than I had anticipated and I’d unexpectedly found a friend in Ali. We spent my last day there together and he took me to Galata Port, where we spent all day walking around, shopping, trying different foods from random little carts and drinking tea. We ended the evening at a shisha cafe near Taksim that played the best Turkish music and had a lively atmosphere. It was full of attractive people our age playing cards, smoking shisha and chilling out.
While we puffed away, Ali shared that he was in love with a girl called Zeynep but her parents wouldn’t let her marry him because their family backgrounds were too different, in terms of politics, wealth and education. We spoke for hours about his dilemma, about my two love interests and everything in-between.
‘If your heart is telling you to go to Zakariya, then you must,’ Ali said solemnly, inhaling deeply and letting out the longest, strongest plume of smoke. ‘You must not let him move to Dubai without knowing how you feel.’
‘How can I?’ I replied miserably. ‘Firstly, he’s started seeing someone. Secondly, I can’t ruin his dreams, his ambitions. Everything with Zakariya is too difficult. Noah is so much easier.’
‘Since when was the easier path the better path? I thought all you English people say that good things are worth fighting for?’
‘You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies, Ali,’ I laughed. ‘Real life is hard enough. Love should be easy.’
‘So you love this Zakariya? Or this Nuh? I mean, Noah?’
‘No! I don’t love either of them. I feel drawn to them both. They’re both so different from each other. Noah is light, Zak is dark. The thing is, I’ve spent months hoping to run into Noah and now that I’ve finally found him, I feel like I need to see where it will go. At the same time, I don’t want to lose Zakariya, as a friend or as potentially something more.’
‘It seems to me, Maya, that you are trying to have it all,’ Ali said seriously, gesturing for the waiter to top up our tea. ‘I know they tell women these days they can have it all, but you cannot. No one can have everything. You need to make a choice. Pray to God for a sign to show you who is the right one.’
I took Ali’s words with me all the way back to London Stansted. Muslims believe that prayers are more likely to be answered while travelling, so I spent a significant portion of the flight back asking Allah to show me who I should be with – if either of them.
When there was an hour or so left of the flight, I took out Noah’s notebook to cross out number twenty-seven on the list and check out number twenty-eight. Under twenty-seven, I wrote: Had the best four days in Istanbul; fed my mind, body and soul and made a new BFF. ALHAMDULILLAH!!!
I suddenly felt nervous about number twenty-eight. The end was so close and I felt as though I needed to come to a decision about Zak or Noah before I reached the end of the list. I was also feeling increasingly guilty about the fact that Noah didn’t know that his list was not only in my possession, but that all the things he liked about me – the tattoo, the hike, the skydiving, the literature, the swimming, the movies – were only because he unknowingly made me do it.
With a silent Bismillah, I turned the page:
28. DATE A GIRL WHO ISN’T YOUR TYPE
Talk to one on the Tube? Or swipe one from a dating app?
