Is the ice-cream very sweet?
‘I think I don’t have to spell it out to you beta,’ abba said. He meant the duty of cleansing the family honour rested with me.
‘It’s your faraz,’ he added anyway.
My little sister Safiyah had strayed, and everybody agreed that there was only one thing to do. Amma cried, but said, ‘She has dishonoured your father.’ The Bradford uncles were very vociferous in their condemnation; they may be in the drug trade, but are five-times-a-day namazis, and had performed the hajj. They agreed that had she fallen for a Jew, or even an idol-worshipping Hindu, her sin could not have been greater. Whatever possessed her to even speak to a Shia piece of trash?
Your uncles have done everything, abba informed me, they know the right people. They’ve got the gun, arranged your passport and your flight to Peshawar, and they know how to get rid of the body. You have nothing to fear, Allah will look after the righteous.
I knew that it was something that I have to do. I have no hesitation rejecting my offer from Keele. What would I do with an engineering degree if I have to carry the burden of a coward for the rest of my life? Father has drilled into us about family honour and traditions ever since we were toddlers. His grandfather was a Nawab, and before partition the family possessed thousands of bighas of prime land. I have always love my little sister, but she should not have allowed that Shia piece of shit to take advantage of her.
There is no point feeling guilty. I must shut off images of carrying her on my shoulders, of her following me with her puppy eyes. Mota this, mota that. Above everything else I must shut off the image of this six-year old watching me eat an ice-cream, approaching me, tugging at my shirt and asking, ‘Mota, is the ice-cream very sweet?’
beta: son; abba: father; faraz: religious duty; namazi: one who prays; hajj: Mecca pilgrimage; bigha: acre; Mota: big brother.
