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I guess you thought it ended there, and for a minute I was going to leave you hanging - let your minds run wild with thoughts of what could be, what was and what wasn’t. But our story is far from over as the Lord of the Worlds is Who determines that.

I can still recall his expression, and from the moment Saleem disappeared from sight I continually hit my forehead as I listed the you should haves. ‘You should have pulled over’, ‘You should have at least waved’, ‘You should have texted him’. I hate those moments - those when recalled, you know you would never have done. A concoction of excitement and anxiety with a dash of nervousness was the mixture in my throat at the time, and staring was all that I could muster.

I thought he’d drop me an email that day to say that he had seen me. But could that squint really have been one of confusion? As though he knew me despite me being a stranger?

I know that you want to know what the deal is with Saleem and I, and it will take much more than one entry to quench your curiosity because we go further back than the eye can see, and further still than the heart can contain. My bundle of memories that was wrapped with guilt is threatening to resurface in order to tell this tale. It is one filled with days of belly-aching laughter and stinging streaks of tears; one of undeniable days of hope and many long phone conversations and emails; it is brimming with not only unhealed heart wounds, but also desperate need for reconciliation. I’m human, and I have slipped more times than can be counted for eternity - and so I write our story. I do not promise it to display an ounce of perfection, for I have merely been fashioned by One who is Perfect, and I am far less than that. It is a story that will display emotions borne by all humanity, especially that of love.

***

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I knew you were laying in wait for me again that day, watching from a distance, analysing my every move. I can only imagine your glee as I drove past him - you were probably excited at the prospect of me being knocked to my knees again, slipping as I naïvely slithered towards the invisibly marked danger zone.

You knew that day was like the others as I drove the 30-minute journey to Grandma’s home. I slowed down at the narrow junction that branched onto a one-way street, proceeding cautiously over the speed bumps. It was a 20-miles-per-hour driving zone, but I slowed further to 15. The orange bricked terraced houses that lined the streets boasted their vigour despite their age. Pristine evergreen foliage decorated the outskirts of each block, adding a hint of spring even during the harshest winter months. I made a mental note of the alleys that separated each five-house block. They were oddly placed, probably for the convenience of the architect, but at the peril of the residents who were left with no choice but to endure the sight of another block only a few metres from their front door.

‘Block one, block two,’ I muttered just above a whisper as I passed the blocks before Saleem’s, paying particular attention to the road ahead. I stole a rushed glance in the direction of his house, taking care to keep my head still - not the slightest indication of where my eyes strayed.

It would be unacceptable to be seen looking at him if he were to be watching out of his window the moment I drove by. His was the one at the very top of the three-floored house, the one facing the street. The lace curtains that skirted the windows were those his mother had picked from Clapham’s bustling market. Laced flowers danced in an elegant pattern, with a fine stitch of leaves above. I’d skimmed my fingers over the edges once, intertwining them between my fingers in a smooth drawn out motion. Then, I wondered what had made his mother choose such an elaborate design for someone she knew would pay no attention to it. Saleem had no care for such, but she had bought it all the same.

When I had passed his house there were no obvious signs of him. I continued to scan the almost deserted street in the hope that he would be strolling along it lazily, so that I may catch a glimpse of him. Every tall man with even a hint of his airbrushed brown skin caused my heart to thump. My hands would develop pinpricked beads of sweat as I gripped the steering wheel tighter, pretending not to look.

***

Read the rest of this entry »

I knew you were laying in wait for me again that day, watching from a distance, analysing my every move. I can only imagine your glee as I drove past him - you were probably excited at the prospect of me being knocked to my knees again, slipping as I naïvely slithered towards the invisibly marked danger zone.

You knew that day was like the others as I drove the 30-minute journey to Grandma’s home. I slowed down at the narrow junction that branched onto a one-way street, proceeding cautiously over the speed bumps. It was a 20-miles-per-hour driving zone, but I slowed further to 15. The orange bricked terraced houses that lined the streets boasted their vigour despite their age. Pristine evergreen foliage decorated the outskirts of each block, adding a hint of spring even during the harshest winter months. I made a mental note of the alleys that separated each five-house block. They were oddly placed, probably for the convenience of the architect, but at the peril of the residents who were left with no choice but to endure the sight of another block only a few metres from their front door.

‘Block one, block two,’ I muttered just above a whisper as I passed the blocks before Saleem’s, paying particular attention to the road ahead. I stole a rushed glance in the direction of his house, taking care to keep my head still - not the slightest indication of where my eyes strayed.

It would be unacceptable to be seen looking at him if he were to be watching out of his window the moment I drove by. His was the one at the very top of the three-floored house, the one facing the street. The lace curtains that skirted the windows were those his mother had picked from Clapham’s bustling market. Laced flowers danced in an elegant pattern, with a fine stitch of leaves above. I’d skimmed my fingers over the edges once, intertwining them between my fingers in a smooth drawn out motion. Then, I wondered what had made his mother choose such an elaborate design for someone she knew would pay no attention to it. Saleem had no care for such, but she had bought it all the same.

When I had passed his house there were no obvious signs of him. I continued to scan the almost deserted street in the hope that he would be strolling along it lazily, so that I may catch a glimpse of him. Every tall man with even a hint of his airbrushed brown skin caused my heart to thump. My hands would develop pinpricked beads of sweat as I gripped the steering wheel tighter, pretending not to look.

***

© Umm Junayd, April 2009.

This is an excerpt of my story published in an anthology this year. Read the rest in this book –> Many Voices, One Faith II - Islamic Fiction Stories