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Breaking Tradition

Aisha regretted picking up her phone when it vibrated, muttering curses nonstop upon seeing the message. Dont forget the samosas and spring rolls 4 2mrw ok? Love ma x. She took off her mask and threw it on the counter. Noticing a small mound of paper below the letterbox, she summoned them toward her, binning them one-by-one with a wave of her and. Takeout menus to the fridge, unpaid bills in the bin. Another one of Hamid’s postcards flew to join the others on the kitchen counter, having gathered dust since the first one had arrived four months ago. Aisha hadn’t read a single one. She didn’t need to, safe in the knowledge that her little brother’s safe wherever he may be in southeast Asia. She could just fly there, pick him up, and come back to Hounslow within minutes just to drag him to tomorrow’s family dinner. At least her mother can subject someone else to her ire instead of giving her another lecture on what’s expected of a Muslim woman her age. Aisha chuckled at the thought, wondering whether tomorrow would be as good an occasion to tell her and Dad everything.

She grabbed the stack of newspapers hovering to her right and crashes down on her sofa. Switching the TV on with another dismissive wave, she rifled through the tabloids, fully aware that she’s made the front page of every one of them after yesterday’s carnage at Waterloo station. The Mirror led with ‘MASKED SUPERHERO SAVES LONDON AGAIN’, capturing her levitating a train carriage away from an injured kid, crying for his mother who was crushed underneath the debris. She kissed her teeth at The Sun’s front page; her running towards the explosion in her black latex catsuit, with photographic emphasis on her posterior with the headline ‘…IT’S DEFINITELY A BIRD!’ and a centre page spread speculating her identity, with the likes of Beyonce and the Kardashian sisters among the list of guesses.

She tossed the papers away and diverted her attention to Question Time. David Dimbleby was moderating some heated debate about her recent exploits and vigilante justice, instead of the discussion on the teachers’ strike that was originally scheduled. “I haven’t got time for this Batman shit,” she said. She turned the TV off and sighed at the twin towers of unmarked test papers on her living room table. She was supposed to grade those last month. But with the union not backing down anytime soon, ridding London of crime became more of a day job than teaching her beloved fifth graders. She never thought that adjusting to her secret life as a telekinetic heroine would be easy, but nothing could make her forget about those dead girls in that brothel, or those two hostages she couldn’t save in the Shard when she first embarked on this superhero thing, or the cries of those children in Waterloo yesterday.

Her phone beeped again. “For fuck’s sake, Mum,” she tutted, “not this again.” Not bothering to check Twitter, where the fanbase for the #MaskedSuperwoman has reached fever point, and too exhausted to prepare for tomorrow, she called her local Indian takeaway. Her cooking was no match for their samosas and spring rolls, anyway.

“Oh, Aisha, I told you to dress proper for today. Why are you wearing jeans?”

It could be worse, Aisha thought. She held the food trays with one hand and embraced her mother with the other. Looking around, not much has changed in the family home, save for the red carpet. The green walls were still adorned with framed pictures, and the furniture remains the same despite her father’s desire for a new sofa since she was in secondary school. The kitchen will always smell of fresh lamb biryani, though. A welcome aroma.

“Because I’m not playing this game again, Mum,” Aisha answered.

“He’s in the back garden with Papa and his father. You go join them.”

“No, thanks,” she said as they head for the kitchen, food trays in tow. “I’ve got way too much time on my hands to be with someone right now.”

“Too much time? Pah! You haven’t worked since this bastard strike.”

If only she knew. “I’m aware of that, Mum. It’ll end soon.”

“It’s been three weeks, Aisha!” She nudged her and nodded to the tall suit smoking with the elder statesmen out in the garden. “Now, Faisal there, he’s training to be a surgeon over at West Mid. Good job, nice boy, very handsome, eh?” she grinned. “He was full of nice words when I showed him your picture, said you have lovely eyes, a beautiful smile.”

Despite her annoyance at her mother for orchestrating yet another rendezvous between her and a member of the opposite sex, she couldn’t help but flash a wry smirk. “He said that, huh?” she asked as she helped her mother with the food, attempting to sound as casual as possible. “Still, Mum, I’ve got a lot going on at the moment, so as nice as he sounds…”

Aisha was interrupted by her mother’s wagging finger. “No, no, no. You’re bloody twenty nine now, woman. What about your future, eh? A single Pakistani woman at your age is no laughing matter, you know this! You should be married by now, with children, a mortgage, a stable job, with…”

A veteran of her mother’s rants, Aisha responded with a series of verbal nods no longer than “mhmm” and “yep”. She made furtive glances toward the window, the door, anything that will guarantee immediate freedom. Due to the incident at Waterloo, Transport for London shut off all train service for the day, making the journey to southwest London from her flat in Brixton a nightmare. She considered flying here, but didn’t want to risk ruining the fried hors d’oeuvres 30,000 feet in the air.

Faisal caught her eye and waved at her. Her mother wasn’t lying; he looked good in a dark three-piece, the man clearly has taste. And for all she knew, maybe this guy could turn out well for her, potential husband material if he plays his cards right. Then again, her mother said that about Habib, Waqas, Ayman, and Shariq before, and they all turned out to be utter bores. Apart from Ayman, who happened to be secretly gay, and to his credit, told her the truth before things could go any further. She often thought about Darren and how things would’ve played out if he wasn’t a cheating scumbag, but she could never talk to her mother about her relationship with someone not of the same ethnicity. But for now, though, Faisal’s presence was a hindrance to her admitting her secret double life to her parents.

“Are you even listening to me, Aisha?” her mother asked. “I’m afraid that I will die before you bring any children to this world.”

Aisha snapped out of her stupor and threw a puzzled look at her mother. “Ma, stop being so melodramatic and help me with the food, they’re coming in,” she said, pointing out the men coming through the back door. Upon seeing Aisha, Faisal greeted her and offered to help only for Aisha to decline politely. As he trudged towards the dining room table with his father, Aisha’s old man pulled her in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“He’s a good man, Aisha. From a good family too. You should consider him, at least,” he said, patting her on the shoulder, and then left her to join his guests. Now alone in the kitchen, Aisha pulled out her phone from her pocket to look for a reason to abruptly leave. According to the live news ticker on the BBC website, there wasn’t one.

To Aisha’s surprise, dinner went a lot better than she had expected. Faisal proved to be good company, retelling anecdotes from his days in medical school and volunteer work in Kenya. His father, Mashuqur, was also great, having left Aisha and her parents in stitches several times throughout with his rants about westernised Asians. Faisal even managed to get on first name terms with her parents before the beef karahi was finished; a feat none of her mother’s previous ‘guests’ had accomplished. More intrigued than attracted, she couldn’t stop herself from sneaking sly glances at his direction, each one returned with a shy smile from the doctor. She didn’t know whether it was because of his background, his boyishly good looks, his relaxed demeanour, or all of the above. Even Darren wasn’t this interesting, and he was the only one she had ever come close to seeing a long-term future with. But that was ages before she reluctantly accepted her calling as London’s heroine. And, ever the cynic, the thought of balancing her alter-ego, her teaching — if the strike ends, which won’t be anytime soon, she grudgingly conceded — and monogamy with Faisal, let alone anyone, deeply perturbed her.

Aisha helped her mother clean up while the men were busy discussing what had happened in Waterloo yesterday, a conversation she had no intention of joining. She resisted every urge to levitate the dishes and glasses to the kitchen.

“So, what do you think, eh?” her mother asked, collecting plates from her and dunking them in the soap-filled sink.

“He’s not bad, Ma,” Aisha answered. “But listen, I need to talk to you and Papa about something.”

“I mean, how could you not want to marry him?” she continued, her back turned, scrubbing away like she didn’t hear a thing. “Everything a good woman should want in a man is right there, talking to your Papa right now. Mashuqur even told us about the other house he owns in Staines Road, showed us pictures before you arrived. The builders just replaced the driveway, it now has a garage, three bedrooms, a living room the size of your flat…”

Aisha’s cheeks haven’t been this red since that text from ‘Nikki’ flashed on Darren’s phone.

A knock on the ajar kitchen door interrupted Aisha’s mother’s verbal train. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?” Faisal asked, tentatively, holding a plate with some leftover samosas, then looked at Aisha. “I’m just going out for a quick smoke, care to join me?”

She can almost hear the wide grin on her mother’s face. Aisha nodded, and followed him to the bench in the back garden, her mother closing the blinds to give them some privacy. They didn’t speak a single word to each other for a solid minute, the only sounds coming from Faisal’s deep drags off his Marlboro and police sirens nearby. She wondered whether law enforcement would need any backup right now, but it would be rude to ditch her present company despite the awkward silence between them. Plus, it’s Hounslow. Probably some idiot youths that got caught smoking their first spliffs in the heath down the road.

“So,” Faisal said, making Aisha startle out of her thoughts. “That was a great dinner, wasn’t it? Amina makes a mean beef karahi, and those samosas, wow! I must ask her if I can take some home with me, they are superb.”

“Yeah, my mum’s a woman of many talents,” she said, her tongue firmly in cheek.

“Remind me to pass on my compliments to her before I leave. Oh, and Shamikh’s someone I’ve known for years in the hospital. Didn’t he tell you that I was his surgeon’s assistant before?” She shook her head. “Oh, well, then yeah, he was my mentor for a couple of years,” he smiled.

“I’m sure you didn’t take me out here just to shower my parents with praise, Faisal,” she said. Before he could offer a rebuttal, she continued, “I mean, you seem like a good guy and you’ve obviously got a lot going on for you…”

“Haha, how long have you been saying that line?” he interjected. “You know, to the others Amina had invited before?”

“Actually, you’re the first to hear that line,” she answered. “Mum’s, umm, ‘prospects’ normally slink away after dinner when they realise that I’m just not that into them.”

“So, does that mean that I’ve been the first to receive the fluttery eyes treatment over dinner?”

Aisha didn’t answer him. Faisal took out another Marlboro, the sudden November gust foiling his attempts to light it up. The constant flickering of his lighter, coupled with her anxiety regarding revealing her identity to her parents, was tempting her to take up a habit she had quit for almost a year. Ensuring that the kitchen blinds were still down, she motioned for Faisal to give her one, which he eventually does after a brief, bewildered look. Once she went past the dry coughing and the cigarette taste and the rapid, nicotine-powered head rush, she started to feel more at ease with her present company. Away from the hopeful, expectant gaze of their parents, they chatted away about a bunch of topics, including past relationships that they could not bring up over dinner. She found out about him also being pressured by his mother to get married, his mates having bunked up early not helping his case whatsoever. She also learned of his wild past at university, the constant weed intake, going out four times a week, memories of his unknown to his kinfolk. Having found Faisal more interesting than she did earlier, she wondered whether her mother was right after all, that he would be a good match for her. For starters, he isn’t a strict Muslim boy. And he’s certainly not dull, he can hold compelling conversation, he’s intelligent, he’s stable…

But, as she let those inviting thoughts cloud her mind, she suddenly remembered why she came to her parents’ in the first place. And, she had only met this guy two hours ago. He didn’t need to know about her other job, never mind him ever being ready for such a revelation. And, even if she did tell him, would he be comfortable keeping it quiet? Unsure of whether it’s her guard rising up again, or legitimately rational thoughts about her double life, she stopped herself laughing at another one of Faisal’s stories from university.

“What’s up?” he asked, lighting another cigarette up.

She sighed. “Faisal,” she said, taking his right hand, “I have to be honest with you.” A pause. “Now, I know you came here with good intentions. It’s just that, y’know, there’s a lot of shit happening in my life right now, and as cool as you are,” she noticed his smile fade, “I just don’t want you to expect more out of this.”

Now, it’s his turn to sigh. “Okay, I’m not gonna pressure you into liking me. I’m not like your parents…”

“No, no, I do like you,” she insisted. “Honestly, you’re the first guest Mum has brought here that I’ve genuinely tolerated.” They both laughed at that. “You’re funny, you’re cool about everything, you’re a good man, Faisal.”

“You say all of this, yet you don’t want to be with me,” he replied. “It’s fine, I completely unders — ”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “In another world, if we were in some other parallel universe, where I got my shit together and the idea of a committed relationship didn’t make me so, y’know, apprehensive, then maybe, we’d have a chance. I’ve got a lot going on at the moment, that I can’t tell you,” she stopped him before he could blurt out a question, “And being with someone is the last thing on my mind right now.” She lets go of his hand. “Look, it’s not you — ”

Faisal stood up. Even in the night sky, his disappointment was clear as day. She was about to continue, but he held his hand up. “It’s okay Aisha, save the cliches. I thought we were getting along fine, but — ”

“No buts, Faisal. I’m sorry if you wanted this to go further. I really am.”

He was about to respond, but stopped himself. His uncertainty obvious by the twiddling of the unlit Marlboro between his fingers, he looked like he was about to say something else, but instead, handed her the cigarette and his card. “For when you change your mind,” he said. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Alone again, she generated a flame from the tip of her thumb, using nothing but her energy, and took a long drag of that Marlboro. She could not work out why she felt a sense of resentment towards herself, that nagging notion that she somehow let a potentially good thing slip away. She could hear commotion from the kitchen, her mother’s raised voice audible even out in the back garden. Faisal obviously told them about their uncomfortable last few minutes together, something she could not blame him for. She stomped on her cigarette just as the blinds went up, indicating that Faisal and his father had left.

She walked into the kitchen to find her mother over the sink, resuming the rest of the washing up. “So Aisha, what do you have to say for yourself now?” she asked, her back toward her daughter.

“Nothing, Mum, nothing at all…”

“You’re bloody right, nothing. You just wasted another chance your Papa and I have given you.”

“Look, I have to tell you something…”

“All I want is the best for you,” Aisha’s mother continued. “You’re almost thirty, still living in that, that, matchbox, unable to pay your rent because idiots cannot make up their minds. You should’ve followed your Papa and went to medical school, at least you’ll be guaranteed job security. Not like now, with these bloody strikes — what was that?”

The blue china shelved next to the fridge ceases its brief rattling. Control yourself, girl.

Aisha’s mother went on. “Just like your brother, wasting his life like you’ve wasted yours.”

“No, no, no, we’ve been through this before, Mum, not again…”

“A DJ! A bloody DJ!” she exclaimed, scrubbing the dishes with added ferocity now. “I swear to God, I failed with that boy. I should’ve known when he came home with that earring all those years ago. Remember that? Eighteen, the minute he becomes a man, and what does he do? Goes to Thailand to become one of these idiot party people. If only your Papa wasn’t so busy with his work, then maybe — ”

“No maybes,” Aisha interjected. “You’re not putting this on Papa, none of it. Just because he didn’t force us to become your vision of what your children should be — ”

“Don’t interrupt me, Aisha,” her mother said. The china rattled yet again, but she ignored it this time. “You could’ve been on your way to becoming a top surgeon by now, married, bringing your children, my grandchildren, to our house. Instead, you and your brother both treat life like it’s some bloody game! A bloody DJ, what kind of nonsense is that?” She slammed the sponge down into the sink and finally turned to face her daughter. “You are wasting away, can’t you see that? I was already married to your father for five years when I was your age. Instead, you do nothing these days because of this bloody strike, you’re going around wearing clothes like you’re going clubbing, you’re… WHAT?!”

Aisha was unable to restrain herself any longer. She screamed at the top of her lungs, unleashing enough of her telekinesis to cause ample destruction to her parents’ kitchen. The blue china smashed into the walls, the fridge was tipped over, the cutlery was stuck to the ceiling, leftover food and porcelain scattered everywhere on the marble floor. Her father bolted in, his mouth open wide as he surveyed the damage that was done. Panting profusely, Aisha allowed herself a small chuckle at the sight of her mother, soaked in dishwater, covered in soap suds. Before either of them could ask what in the hell had just happened, Aisha shut their mouths together with a blink of her eyes. Of the thousand scenarios that played out in her head, none included her turning her parents’ kitchen into something resembling the wreckage left behind by a tornado and forcibly silencing them with her powers.

She looked at her mother, then at her father, a combination of disbelief and distress etched on their faces. “So, do I have your attention now?”

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