You could tell what kind of relative socioeconomic situation you were in if you listened to others around you. “Wow, can’t believe you wear fresh pair of socks everyday man”, one Year 7 student said to me. Mousy looking and probably malnourished, he had a Gollum-esque vibe about him. Sorry dude, these socks are MY precious! “Do you always wear Ben Sherman then? Like, how many Ben Sherman clothes do you have?”. “You’re rich, innit”.

Further into the year, the remarks turned sinister. “Posh boy!”, one time this student said it as I was reading something aloud during English lesson. I’d often hear whispers in the rows behind me during prayers in the great hall. Some boys behind me were talking and I sensed it was about my new blue salwar kameez (Indian tunic) matching lightning-blue socks and navy zip cardigan. Salwar kameez are much like a tailcoat, a piece of fabric that hangs down to knee-length both at the front and back. And when I would sit on the floor, I would flick the fabric back so as not to sit on it for fear of creasing it. So anyway I felt someone tug at my salwar kameez, and I subconsciously flicked it back, and my fingers caught in it. That’s odd I thought. I flicked it again. Now usually the fabric should just glide off the hands but it caught in my fingers again. So I surreptitiously glanced back and my fear was confirmed. Some one had applied a razor blade to my kameez because there was a slit where my fingers kept getting caught. Neatly done, a 2cm wide slit, but it was devastating. My brand new sky blue soft cotton kameez! Who could do this. I thought I was making progress with the students at large, I was one of the trio for heaven’s sakes! I turned and saw a few of them leering at me. I was enraged. I glared at them all. I felt an ember suddenly ignite…a diplomatic character, I don’t engage in fisticuffs. But I was being pushed. Anyway these lot didn’t realise that they were acting out of their own insecurities. For I wasn’t a rich kid at all! Dad was on Incapacity benefit by the time I was a teen as he had suffered too many heart attacks. Further, in his youth he worked 2 jobs day and night and that took its toll on him and he was written off from working altogether because the 4th heart attack was near fatal. Plus, his smoking history would have rendered him an occupational risk for any company! We lived in a council rented property on housing benefit and income tax benefit as a result. The building was called Gordon Mansions. Recall from an earlier post that the 8 of us siblings + parents all lived in a one-bed flat on Tottenham Ct Road until I was 2 years of age. But dad waited and bided his time until the 6 room flat in Gordon Mansions became available and he bid for it. It had 6 rooms 2 of which had bay windows spanning the entire length of one side of the room where the windows were two thirds the length of the wall. Complete with gold and brass window handles and latches in the Victorian style; A dining room, kitchen, a WC and a bathroom, all high ceilings, The flat was an L-shape with a large entrance hallway and a long passage that all the rooms lead off from. The doorways had alcoves and brass doorknobs.

And it was never argued nor disputed. Just accepted. Some kind of Bengali Mafia. Don Corleone, except it was Dad!

There was this one kid that started mid-year, a polite, jolly chap that was round and plump, very friendly, liked to gossip and loved to embellish everything. You couldn’t trust his version of events. I shall call him Osman. Anyway he came to our flat with his dad who was looking to enrol him in Islamic Madrassa and so sought my father’s counsel. People did that. And often too. Dad was like this public figure in the Bengali community at large. But he wasn’t anyone famous by the usual standards. Dad knew everyone. And everyone knew Dad. If they hadn’t seen him, they knew of him. If they didn’t know of him, they knew his name and lineage. And the reactions elicited were often that of ‘fear and revere’. I mean, we just used to be s*** scared of him. He would sit there on the sofa, serene and still staring forwards at the TV. Surrounded in this smoky screen of cigarette smoke, and every so often a small orange glow would appear through the dense fog as he pulled on his cigarette. People would file in and out, doesn’t matter the time of day, they would file in to see him, and seek his counsel. Often dad would sit there, listen, scratch his chin, draw on a cigarette, take a slow deliberate sip on his tea, re-position his shawl or blanket around his shoulders…then deliver his verdict. And it was never argued nor disputed. Just accepted. Some kind of Bengali Mafia. Don Corleone, except it was Dad! The verdict for Osman was that Big Man’s school would be fine for him and he should attend there. And so it was. Osman heard me talking to someone about something in my bedroom, and I was asked to elaborate on what toys and entertainment I had. Then I was asked to describe our flat again and then one of the boys remarked I was a rich kid and announced he didn’t like rich people. I was accustomed to these jibes by now so just ignored him and denied the allegation. Osman suddenly came out of nowhere and chimed in “Yeah, they own it, I was there, it is so nice”. Thanks, but no bloody thanks Osman! Apparently he saw the deeds to our flat that my dad owned??!! The teasing began again. But just like most bolshie, extraverted and confident teenagers, I liked a bit of attention. I didn’t completely dissolve certain rumours…truth be told I may have started a few of them myself! Please don’t judge, it was simply impulse, I promise. And it was Osman’s fault, he kept embellishing everything. Honestly that guy; if you ever come across him dear reader, give him a smack on the head for me OK.

Why is this woman looking for me in the closet? Am I dreaming? Is my subconscious telling me to come out? WHAT IS GOING ON?

“There is a furore going on in Bangladesh, Shahi”, I conveyed to him 2 days after that fated night. “Exactly, the elections. My mum went to the same school as the MP leader of the opposition you know. Also the MP was married into the same family as my maternal aunt’s in-laws. You have no idea what I went through man, so don’t look at me like that”, I implored. Two days prior I was in bed at around 10pm when suddenly mum flew into my room in a dither. “Jubeyr, oh where is Jubeyr?”, she quizzed as she was fumbling for the light switch and started opening my wardrobe. “Mum, what is it, I’m in bed”, I answered wearily, having juuuust dozed off moments before. Why was this woman looking for me in the closet? Am I dreaming? Wait, is my subconscious telling me to come out? WHAT IS GOING ON? Oh wait, I’m fully awake and I’m not dreaming; mum was simply shoving away clothing she found on the floor. Phew! “Oh, my sweetheart, please could you come give your mum a hand in the kitchen? My sweet darling boy please?”, she pleaded with a concerned and sheepish expression. Bless her, of course I would go assist her, in a heartbeat! “Jubeyr, I just got a phone call from this aunt of yours – no not related – she is an MP and is touring London, She is enroute to our house now and will be here imminently. My room is a mess and I haven’t got much nashta prepared so I am going to have to make something now. She insisted to me on the phone not to prepare a meal as she has already eaten and won’t stay very long. But Of course I must insist to her that she most certainly must eat, I mean, how can I just not offer her a 4-course meal on her first and probably only visit to our house?”, mum was talking in hushed manic tones as we sped toward the kitchen. OK, I knew the drill, having done this a thousand times on the very frequent basis that people would just drop by either unannounced or with 10 minutes notice. I went into autopilot. Mum was in the kitchen getting the fish and chicken thawed, but also heating up the deep pan of oil and chopping onions and fita (flour and water dough-based finger food) for a stir-fry. I whipped across to her bedroom and within minutes had changed the bedding and assembled the various accoutrements that made it show-room ready. Excepting my eldest sister, Mum didn’t trust anyone else with maintaining her reputation as home-making queen. Then I galloped to the bathroom; guests always used the bathroom, and judged it. It was usually clean, but it just needed my touch to ensure any dust layers were removed, fresh floor mats placed, handwash topped up and bog-roll replenished. Then I whizzed to the living room to wipe the mirrored surfaces, mahogany coffee table – including the little tables stored under – and plumped up the pillows. Don’t forget to open the small ventilation windows at the top! Then I whirled through the passage and corridors wiping all the mirrors clean of grubby grease marks. The carpeted floors would just have to remain as they were. OK, house sorted (well the parts of it that statistically the MP would see), I rushed into the kitchen and took my place as sous chef. Adept at chopping the onions, coriander, and fita I took care of prepping for the nashta allowing Mum to cast her culinary magic at the stove when it was time to cook it. Samosas and shondesh thawed, into the frying pan they sizzled til golden and crunchy. Fancy serving plates wiped and ready for plating. I proceeded to wash the fish (we wash everything in South Asian households under running cold tap water for like 10 minutes, stirring and whirling and draining and repeating until the hands are red and numb), whilst mum was adding her bespoke blend of Indian spices to the sauteed onions and garlic ready for the masala. I knew how to prepare chicken for cooking so I persevered with that and Mum took over the fish. “They’re here!”, Mum squeaked and looked at me in horror. “Go, quickly freshen up, I will welcome them and carry on here”, I reassured her, but secretly panicking inside as the front door letterbox cover rattled, the door bell rang; I opened the door…

“Well, by God’s grace, I have never seen a boy, and a teenage boy at that, so independent and accomplished at knowing his way around the kitchen!”

The night proceeded like a perfectly executed waltz. We whirled, and dazzled, dipped and curtsied the entire night. China chinking, cutlery lightly clinking, and glasses chinking, the evening went on and on. Nashtas devoured in the living room, the MP and her entourage were guided to the dining room for curried fish, chicken, meat and Bangladeshi delicacies. Thereafter the tea was poured; tea made by myself. Everyone had always raved about the way I brewed a cuppa. Trust me, my cuppas were so highly coveted that our neighbour personally came to ask my Mum if she could borrow me to make tea for the bridal party during the crucial wedding talks of her sons’ nuptials. Anyone in South Asian communities will tell you just how poignant that is. By this time it was 3am. In her defence, Mum implored me to go bed by midnight, but how could I just leave her and Dad alone to entertain? And besides, I could tell they were proud to have me there. The MP aunty seemed to be enthralled by me. “Well, by God’s grace, I have never seen a boy, and a teenage boy at that, so independent and accomplished at knowing his way around the kitchen!”, she gushed to Mum. “How on Earth did you manage to instil that?”, again, she beamed. Mum went all bashful and thanked her for her “Kind words, truly, but Praise be to God, for He blessed me the day I carried Jubeyr in my womb. And ever since, I couldn’t do anything without him”, she concluded, getting teary and emosh. I love my Mum.

“Wait, how is that even allowed? Like how did Big Man just allow you a day off?”, Shahi was perplexed. “Well, I was so tired cos I was up all night entertaining this MP, so how could I come in to school that morning?”, I explained. Osman was ever present and always listening. I knew he must have been responsible, because the next day I was stopped by one of the Islamic Studies teachers in the great hall as he said, “So, you’re blood relations with the PM of Bangladesh I hear”. The PM? Prime Minister? Of Bangladesh? I was thinking in my head. What is this guy on about? “Indeed we all wondered where you were yesterday, but it’s obviously all clear now and completely understandable. Well, well, it is certainly nice to have well-connected pupils in our school”, he beamed. “Well, yes, but not actually bloo-“, I began to explain but he cut me off. “Well, there you have it”, he said as he smiled and stood slightly more upright than his usual poor posture. And before I could correct him that it wasn’t through blood, and she was an MP not PM, and arrived very late and stayed very late too, in fact she stayed over, I was clasped on the back, beamed at and stroked endearingly on the shoulder, in front of everyone. Why did this shit always happen to me. It is a universal truth acknowledged that drama follows me around, I don’t make it. Those people who know me are probably rolling their eyes as they read this. The notoriety didn’t end there. Big Man, is not the type you talk to unless it was life-and-death situations, and even then, it was negotiable. If he walked toward you, you would lower your gaze and slightly bow your head in humility.

Except me. I answered back to him. They stared, utterly incredulous and stupefied. Stay tuned, for that was the day my fate was sealed…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…