You're Not Proper by Tariq Mehmood Page A

coffee table in front of him, I prayed inside my head, ‘Please God make it another sale.’
    I sat down in front of him, fidgeting with the twenty-pound note. When he finished, I asked, ‘Another sale, Dad?’
    â€˜No, silly,’ he said. ‘Baba Zaman just had a baby son.’
    Everyone knew Baba Zaman. He was the first one to move to Boarhead from Pakistan. He walked with a bent back. He coughed all the time, spitting phlegm on the floor. He was on wife number three or four; the others were all buried in the graveyard.
    â€˜How’s the baby?’ I asked.
    â€˜Alright, I think,’ Dad said sadly, sipping his tea. ‘It’s a girl.’ He quickly added, ‘Such is Allah’s will.’
    â€˜And the new Mum?’ I asked.
    â€˜She’s young, she’ll be alright,’ Dad said. ‘You’re asking a lot of questions today.’
    I don’t know where I got the courage from, but I said, ‘I’m fourteen now Dad, not young any more…’
    â€˜An old woman, eh,’ Dad interrupted with a laugh.
    â€˜It’s not important, Dad, but it’s been bothering me, like. Were you and Karen’s Dad once best mates? I asked Mum and she said to ask you.’
    Dad called Mum, ‘Sakina, in here now!’ I stood up and stepped toward the door.
    Mum came running in. Dad took his shoe off and held it in his hand, shouting, ‘What have I said about talking about that family?’
    â€˜She’s growing up. She keeps asking questions. I always tell her to ask her father, you know best,’ Mum said.
    â€˜How dare you disobey me!’
    Dad stepped towards Mum. He raised the hand with the shoe. She lowered her head.
    â€˜It’s my fault Dad, honest. I couldn’t help it. I’ll never ask again,’ I said. He looked at me with raging eyes.
    I ran upstairs, plugged my headphones in and listened to Lady Gaga.

Kiran
    Even though Shamshad was always horrible to me, I still felt sorry for her. When I told this to Laila, she said, ‘Maybe she was found in a dustbin?’
    â€˜Maybe,’ I said thinking about how my Mum could just flip from one mood to another.
    â€˜Mums,’ Laila laughed, ‘can’t live with ‘em.’ ‘Can’t live without ‘em,’ I added.
    Laila and I chatted all the way to Boarhead College. I told her what Donna had done to me. Laila shook her head in disbelief. It was like we’d been best friends all our lives. I had never been to the college but Laila knew her way round. We went down a flight of stairs, along a corridor into the women’s toilets and Laila taught me how to do my
voozu
, to clean myself up before prayers. After that, we went into a large room. There were kids from East Boarhead, people from Africa and even some white people. Most of the women wore hijabs. The men had beards. Some of them wore long skirts; some wore
shalwars
that ended above their ankles. Someone tapped on a microphone, and a white man, in his early twenties stood up on the platform. He had light-brown, unkempt hair and a small, stubbly beard. His thin face reminded me of the pictures of Jesus. Everyone went silent. He gave the call to prayer, the
azaan
. I had heard this at my grandfather’s and often on the television, but never as beautiful as this. It was like he was singing something that was coming from deep inside me. After the
azaan
in Arabic, he did it in English. By the time the
azaan
finished, the men had placed mats on the floor. Some people sat at the back but most stood in neat lines on the mats. Women on one side, men on the other. I stood next to Laila and we all prayed.
    After the prayers, we all squatted down and the white man who had given the
azaan
began to speak: ‘Brothers and sisters, may peace be upon you all. How many of you heard the
azaan
in English for the first time?’
    Along with a few others, I put my hand up. He looked around, stroked