AKHIR MERA KASOOR KYA HEH?

This story is set in the UK during the late1990s before the widespread use of mobile phones. It is a story about a man, who in terms of love, wants to have his cake and eat it too! It chronicles the impact of his behaviour on those dearest to him.

AKHIR MERA KASOOR KYA HEH?

Like the other parents I waited outside the primary school to collect my two children. I politely nodded acknowledgement and recognition at one or two of the other parents, mostly mothers. However I had no time at all for a few of the parents who had failed to teach their little darlings that racist name calling was hurtful. I was tired of having to comfort my ten and seven year old when they had been called Paki or half-castes. The school for all its bluster was clearly either incapable or unwilling to tackle the problem appropriately and that upset me all the more. I just couldn't keep taking time out from my job to repeatedly register complaints or to follow up on those I'd already made. To avoid becoming angry about it, for the moment I pushed such thoughts aside and instead wrestled with the practical matter of what I was going to feed the family at dinner. They were all such fussy eaters but I would have to come up with something - preferably that didn't require too much time and effort. After all, I was tired from working at the office all day.

While Fareed was involved with the children I busied myself in the kitchen making dinner. While my husband is great with the children and the children dote on him, his work as an accountant for a large fruit and veg distributor keeps him away from home quite regularly. There's always talk of meetings up and down the country and overseeing early deliveries. It has been particularly trying these past few years because he's away from home more than I or the children would like. Still, I consider myself lucky I've found a considerate partner when a few of my friends and acquaintances have already been down the route of separation and divorce. That's not to say he pulls his weight in terms of the housework. If I don't specifically ask him to put the hoover round the house, he's content to sit and watch TV or read a newspaper. With some cajoling he'll do the dishes or occasionally rustle up a curry for dinner.

Not surprisingly my family hadn't actually approved of my choice of partner. They had skirted around the subject of marrying somebody who wasn't exactly English. To them he was just another brown-faced immigrant. Thankfully he had no family to worry about but I suspect his community wouldn't have welcomed a gori mem' into the fold with open arms either. Yes, being married to him, I've learned a thing or two about Pakistanis. I can even understand a few basic Urdu phrases. Still, I suppose I can't grumble. He's a decent bloke. We've had good times together - less so since the children were born. Adam, the youngest is the apple of his dad's eyes - and not only because he's a boy, Fareed assures me. Sometimes I feel a twinge of jealousy that the children appear to get more attention than I do. Well at least sometimes, it feels as though he loves them more than me.

Once the children were in bed, my feeling of being low priority was reinforced when Fareed casually mentioned that in a couple of days he would be on one of his business trips away from home. Although, as always, he reassured me it would only be for three days, four tops, I still felt he was abandoning me. I always feel that way when he's away from home. I can't even contact him because he's moving about all the time. The sooner those small affordable mobile phones come onto the market, like the manufacturers keep promising, the better. When they come on the market, I'm going to go straight out and buy one for each of us. It'll be better than standing by the phone waiting for him to call from a public phone-box in some strange town. Not knowing if and when he'll call me only makes me feel even more isolated. As it is, I already feel I carry the whole burden of the household as though I was a single parent. Of course it doesn't make it any easier that sometimes he calls to say he's going to be away for longer than expected. I hate that type of call from him, but jobs are too precious a commodity that families like mine have to put up with this type of lifestyle.

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When I married Hameed six years ago, I'd never imagined life would be the way it is. Don't get me wrong. I love my husband. Apart from the occasional disagreement, we're relatively happy. Why shouldn't we be? After all, I found myself an Aamir Khan look-alike with gold-rimmed glasses, for a husband. My Aamir is not short like the actor and stands a good head taller than my own five feet five inches. Although I work part-time, I'm thankful to have a partner who can provide for his family. Maybe in a year or two I'll consider working full time.

While our honeymoon period is a distant memory, we've settled into comfortable routines, Hameed, bless him, still makes what he considers romantic gestures by buying me flowers and sometimes perfume. While that's all well and good, I wish he'd change his current job so that he can be with me more. That's what I really want from him. I'd gladly trade all the flowers, perfume and dining out if only he were home every night with Shoba and me. He is a loving father to our Shoba, I'll give him that, but the child needs to see her father more often. As a five years old she asks after her father often enough for it to distress me. As if I needed reminding that her father's not around.

It's not just because he's away from home so much that I have much more independence than many of my married friends. Hameed is inclined towards kindness, empathy and is non-controlling - all characteristics that attracted me to him. Then again, as he's away so often I'm having to make many of the decisions by myself in any case. Not that it happens very often when he's home, but if I want to go somewhere by myself, he doesn't question it or get grumpy like some husbands do. We rarely argue but I'm not sure whether that isn't a lot to do with me treading on egg-shells when he's around. I do my best to not upset him since he's home only for short bursts of time. You could say I go out of my way to keep my husband happy when he is at home. When I first married him I had personal dreams and ambitions but these days I find myself bogged down in the routine of being a wife and mother as well as holding down a job at our local primary school. There's so little room in my life for what I want for myself. I seem to have put on hold any personal ambitions I might have entertained. As my mother continually reminds me, my first and foremost duty is to be a supportive wife and mother. In other words my dreams have been relegated to the second division and if I'm strictly honest, probably more like the third division.

The one issue that's guaranteed to upset me is the hours Hameed keeps. In a nutshell, he's away from home far too often for my liking and that niggles away at me even when he is home. When I first married him, in my romantic naivety I'd assumed we would share every evening meal together and that I'd never sleep alone. The reality is he can't even guarantee to be with us on birthdays and anniversaries. No amount of trying to make up it up to Shoba and me afterwards is enough. So, yes I snap at him at times due to that. I'm only human.

On the second day of his return to working in the home patch, Hameed took Shoba to McDonald's for a milkshake, to which she's very partial. Chocolate flavour is her favourite and Hameed will have an ice-cream since he has a sweet tooth too. I was beginning to get worried that something had happened to delay them for so long when the doorbell rang. That was my daughter's signature call. Regardless of whether or not I or her father have a key to the front door, Shoba always insists on pressing the doorbell a few times in quick succession. I think she just likes the sound of the doorbell.

They were barely in the door when I noticed the milky mess down the front of Hameed's jacket and shirt. When I gave him an inquiring look, he just shrugged. Slips and spills are common enough with Shoba that Hameed is quite casual about it. However I was annoyed that the milkshake had ruined his favourite jacket. I tut-tutted at my daughter and then insisted that my husband change into clean clothes. Hameed knew better than to argue because he knew I was so particular about what he wore. He handed me his soiled jacket and went upstairs to change into a fresh shirt. I wandered off into the kitchen to sponge down the jacket and Shoba came trailing behind me still clutching the remains of the milkshake. I would attend to tidying her up when she finished her drink. I set about doing my best to sponge off the worst of the mess from the jacket.

I couldn't help tetchily asking Shoba about her brief trip out.

"What took you two so long? Was McDonald's very busy?"

The young girl shook her head. "No Mummy."

"Then what took you so long, beta? You didn't ask Abba to take you for a little drive at this time of the evening did you?" She loved going for drives with her father.

Again there was a shake of the head in response. "No I didn't. If we took a long time, it was Abbaji's fault."

I stopped and looked directly at Shoba. "What d'you mean it was your Abba's fault?"

"Coz Abbaji stopped to make a phone call. He was on the phone for ages and I had to sit in the car all by myself." In the long explanation there was a note of complaint from the little girl.

Shoba's explanation only puzzled me more. "Did your Abba say who he was telephoning?"

"No, Mummy."

I put it down to something important and then parked the idea while I set about relieving my daughter of her messy milk-shake, under protest. "You young lady need to get out of those dirty clothes and into a bath."

"Can we not do it later? I want to play some more with Abbaji."

I'm the one that looks after her every day of the week and my husband is the fun' person to be with as far as Shoba's concerned. That certainly rankles but I kept the feeling to myself and instead said "It's late and you have school tomorrow."

Her look of disappointed was to be expected. I just hoped it wouldn't lead to tears.

"Why don't you ask your Abbaji to give you a bath?"

That suggestion put a smile on her little face and she raced off to her father while I finished what I was doing.

After inspecting the results of my clean-up effort I decided the jacket was not wearable in its current state. It would have to go to the dry cleaners in the morning. I began to empty the pockets intending to transfer them to another of my husband's jackets. He carried the usual stuff men do - wallet, keys to the house and car, comb, some loose change and a couple of crumpled up paper tissues. I also came across a packet of fruit pastille sweets he kept on hand for Shoba. What I didn't expect was the small white envelope I found. It was some sort of letter and I would've ignored it were it not addressed to Daddy' and had already been opened. I didn't remember helping Shoba write a letter - something she would have struggled with even with my assistance. Also, as parents we preferred Shoba to call her father Abbaji. The letter formation on the envelope was clearly that of an older and more dexterous child than Shoba. Curiosity got the better of me so I took out the folded paper from the envelope. I immediately noticed the writing was definitely that of a child with capabilities beyond those of my daughter. The writing on a plain sheet of paper was neat, with the letters well-formed. The lines of writing didn't slope downwards, as was the case with very young children's hand-writing. As a Teaching Assistant who worked at my daughter's primary school I knew what very young children were and weren't capable of. For some inexplicable reason I had a sensation of dread gripping me, even before I read the contents of the letter. The letter said

Dear Daddy

We miss you when your not home. Mommy gets very sad and is different when your not here. We were hoping you would be home on Mommy's birthday. It wont be the same without you. I know its not your falt. But please please call Mommy on her birthday. It will make her very happy. And come home soon.

Love from me

XXX

For a moment confusion reigned in my mind. This was quickly followed by an avalanche of questions. What child wrote the letter? Why was the letter to the father in Hameed's pocket? If the letter had been meant to be delivered to the real father by Hameed why was it already opened?

I felt the needed to sit down for moment. As I sat pondering the questions dark suspicions began to surface. All those days he was away from home on allegedly business might not be what they appeared. Convenient for him that he couldn't be contacted when he was away from home. Then I remembered the occasion when I had asked him about the long blonde hairs on his jacket and he had dismissed it saying that he had physically bumped into some blonde headed woman. Then there were those marks on his back. At the time I had been nave enough to accept that he had bad itch and had used a back-scratcher over enthusiastically. I just couldn't help it but to me all those small separate incidents and now this letter fitted into a pattern. I metaphorically kicked myself for being suspicious and yet a part of me told me that just because I loved him I shouldn't ignore all those little signs that something might be amiss in our marriage. It became obvious to me that I'd have to talk to him about it. I needed reassurance and explanations that only he could provide. That conversation was best conducted when Shoba was safely tucked up in bed. However I was also aware that waiting until then would only afford time for the panicky ideas running around in my head to take hold.

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Through the haze of sleep I thought I heard the front door closing with a dull thud. My limbs weighed down by sleep wouldn't respond to my need to get up to investigate. Were those footsteps on the stairs I was now hearing? God! There was a burglar in the house. With difficulty I forced myself out of bed and into an upright position. I was unsteady on my feet as I willed myself against the fear to go investigate who was moving around my house. My heart was thudding loudly and quickly. If only Fareed was with me now. Then suddenly I thought of the children and that galvanized me into action. I was determined no one would hurt my children. I stealthily moved towards the bedroom door. I had barely taken two steps when the bedroom door opened slowly and a tall figure loomed in the doorway. I gave a hysterical shriek and my hand flew to cover my mouth.

"Why are you up at this time of night?" the dark figure in the doorway asked.

"God, it's you!" I exclaimed in surprise. A torrent of relief washed over me. "You frightened the life out of me," I accused, my heart slowing a little as my fear began to ebb away.

"Who d'you think it was at this time of night?" my husband asked with a hint of irritation.

"But you weren't supposed to be home until tomorrow evening," I explained feeling foolish for being frightened.

He came up to me and wrapped me up in his arms. For a long moment I just held onto him, comforted by his embrace.

As I relished our long hug, I heard him say "I finished early so I came home ASAP. It was your birthday the other day. I'm really sorry I couldn't be with you on your special day."

I pulled back from him enough to look up into his face in the dark. Was that a frown I detected, despite his kind words? I dismissed the idea and said "That doesn't matter now that you're home."

He disengaged from me and told me to go back to bed. He needed to brush his teeth and have a quick shower before he joined me. So I reluctantly let him go. Yet there was something different about him. I'd known him too long to miss the signs. His tone of voice and that slight but permanent scowl to his face suggested that something was bothering him. In the end I brushed the thought aside and contented myself with the fact that I had now more time with him. When the children found out their Daddy was home they'd be overjoyed.

He finally joined me in bed and he snuggled up to me. When he began to kiss me, I didn't resist. In fact I kissed him back. "I missed you," he said softly as he nuzzled my neck and throat.

I had missed him too. When his hands began to wander over my body I knew the signs. He wanted me as much I wanted him. Now that I was sure he wasn't too tired for what I wanted, I responded enthusiastically to his advances and even had a few moves of my own.

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Jenny was in a deep sleep next to me, but I was wide awake despite being exhausted. My brain just wouldn't switch off. I couldn't put aside what had happened earlier in the evening. The remembered argument continued to echo in my mind. Even though I had dissected how the argument had gone while driving home to Liverpool, the dialogues continued to play like a film on a loop that just wouldn't stop. Around the edges of my unfocussed anger and frustration lurked anxiety and a little disappointment at how a small oversight on my part had precipitated a situation that I could have done without. All because my daughter had cared about her mother's happiness. That letter had ignited the blue touch paper and a conflagration had ensued.

"Who exactly is the child that wrote the letter?" Tabassum had demanded to know as she waved the paper at me.

"I've already explained she's the daughter of a close friend," I replied in as even a voice I could muster given the circumstances.

"That part I understand. So why was the letter in your pocket?" She stood over me glaring at me when she said it, and her gaze never wavered from my face.

"I was delivering the letter to my friend so that he'd phone his wife on her birthday."

"Why was the letter opened?"

"When I met up with him at a local cafe, he read it and then put it down on the table while we talked. When he took off, he forgot the letter so I pocketed it hoping to give it to him when I next bumped into him."

"The letter was that important," was Tabassum's sarcastic response.

"Yes," was all was prepared to say at that point.

"Just how close a friend is the daughter's mother?"

The woman had suddenly changed her focus and it appeared I was in for more intrusive questions.

"What d'you mean?"

"Don't play all innocent with me!"

"I'm not. What are you insinuating?"

"Who's insinuating? I'm saying plainly that you shouldn't take me for some nave gaon-waali."

She could surely tell from my expression that I was genuinely surprised by her sudden change in approach but that wasn't going to stop her going on.

"When have I treated you like a fool?"

"Maybe you've forgotten but there was the time when there were blonde hairs on your jacket -"

"But I already -"

"And then there were the scratches on your back -"

"But I've already explained how -" I began to protest, but she spoke right over me.

"Very conveniently you're working away from home for half the year. I can't ever contact you. And now this letter here is the proof of what you've been up to."

Tabassum threw the letter at my face and I reflexively ducked and the bit of paper fluttered harmlessly to the floor.

"Proof of what exactly?" I asked, my irritation clear for her to discern.

"As if you didn't know," was her caustic yet indirect reply.

I was now beyond irritated. I was angry but tried to keep as much of that anger out of my voice as I could humanly manage. The woman could be so frustrating at times.

"If I knew what you're on about, I wouldn't be asking you, would I?"

Then, she came right out and said it. The accusation was explicit.

"Don't deny it. The child's mother is your mistress."

"It's not like that!" I protested but I don't think Tabassum was interested in anything I had to say since she had already made up her mind on the matter.

"Dhokebaaz! Farebi! " she spat at me, her face flush with anger.

I closed my eyes and willed myself to remain calm, to let it all wash over me, to stop myself for biting back at her. That would only aggravate the problem. However she took my momentary silence as an admission of guilt.

"Tell me this then. Mujpe kya kami thi?"

Again, another sudden change in direction from her. It confused me for a moment. Feeling exasperated I asked her what she meant.

"What's so special about your rakhel? What does she provide that I don't?" she demanded to know.

What I was hearing was wounded pride and a battered self-esteem. I sensed her question was some sort of trap. I chose not to answer Tabassum.

"Mujhe jawaab doh nah. Khamosh kyon heh?"

I just shook my head in sort of disbelief at her attitude. It was clear to me she wasn't in the frame of mind to listen to anything I had to say.

"I clean and cook for you. I almost single-handedly raise our child. Don't you get enough sex at home that you feel the need to have a mistress?"

Because I stayed silent, she then changed direction and asked "If I took a lover, would you be ok with that?"

"Of course not."

"So it's not ok for me to have a lover, but it is ok for you to have one?"

"It's not the same!"

"And why not?"

I paused a moment before replying because I knew that whatever way I put it, she wasn't going to like what I said, even though it was what I know and believed to be true.

"It's different for men."

"That's a very convenient argument for every man who can't keep it in his pants!"

"You're deliberately twisting things to suit yourself."

"And you think it's ok to be married to me and to keep a mistress!"

There no point in being confrontational in return, so I met her gaze directly and told her "It's not like that at all."

"Well then explain to me what it is like."

The way she said it was more of a challenge than a request. I thought long and hard before I told her the truth.

"I care deeply for her."

"So now you're claiming you love her?" Tabassum sneered.

At that point my good intentions departed because she was questioning my feelings towards Jenny. I wasn't having any of that. I decided not to appear cowed and came out fighting.

"If you must know, yes I do!"

"And all the times you've told me you love me - those were just lies I presume."

"Of course not. I do love you."

She started wagging her finger at me. "Oh no, we're not going down that route," she warned.

"What route?"

"Where you claim to love both of us and we can all be one big happy family."

"But it's the truth. I do love you both."

It might not have been the correct thing to say but it certainly was the truth and it was time Tabassum faced up to that.

"I'm not going to accept you sleeping with someone else while you're married to me."

Whatever response I gave to that remark would cause further grief so I said nothing. That however only caused her expression to change from steely determination to anger.

"You're a self-centred b******!" she screamed at me, her arms waving wildly in anger.

When I continued to stay silent, Tabassum came forward, grabbed me by the arm and tried to haul me out of my chair. She struggled with the task given my size compared to her's.

"I want you out of here. Right now!"

She continued to yank at my arm so I decided to give in and stand up. That however, wasn't the end of it. With both hands she then pushed me forcibly in the chest and nearly toppled me over.

"Get out!"

Her eyes were bloodshot with anger and there was a determination about her that I hadn't seen before.

"Why should I? It's my house too," I reminded her.

She pushed at me again.

"Get out, I said!"

"Stop pushing me or -"

"Or what? You'll beat me up? Is that what you were going to say?"

I've never raised a hand against Tabassum but at that moment with her in that hysterical state I really felt like slapping her hard, if only to bring her to her senses.

"Stop pushing and shoving me or I will defend myself!"

She must have known she was no match for me in any physical tussle.

"I want you to leave right now," she said, dialling back her anger.

"And go where?"

"I don't care. Just go. And don't come back until you're rid of your mistress."

"That's not going to happen," I made clear to her.

"Then don't bother coming back. This marriage is over."

At that point I realised there was no purpose served in arguing any further. Staying there in that atmosphere had also become untenable. I decided to leave. Deep down I knew that after a day or two, once the seriousness of what she was saying sunk in, Tabassum would regret her rash comments.

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It's now a week since Hameed left. Since I drove him off, I feel I've been see-sawing between a myriad of emotions.

That evening he left for instance, I was seething with anger and hatred towards him. Hameed had lied and deceived me and it wasn't over some trivial matter. He had cheated on me. I don't know if I could ever forgive him for that. Even if I could, I don't think I could live with the constant nagging doubt at the back of my mind that he might return to his old ways. Among my circle of friends and acquaintances there are at least two women who've had partners that have been unfaithful. I don't know how they coped emotionally after the initial discovery of infidelity. Yes I know that some partners manage to trust again but I don't think it's in me to do that. Having said that, a few hours after he was gone, a part of me was wishing he'd come to his senses and phone me to say he had made a serious mistake and that he wanted to come back. I lay in bed staring alternately at the clock and then the bedside telephone, willing it to ring - for it to be him. That was the stage where I began to cry. Not silent tears but heavy sobs racked my body. I recognise now that was due not only to the hurt but also the accompanying confusion and regret.

I was confused and a little fearful because my understanding of the way things were and where we were headed as a family had been thrown into turmoil. What was going to happen now? That uncertainty and the anxiety ate away at me over the next few days. An ever tightening knot sat in the pit of my stomach. The distractions of the regular routines of work and looking after Shoba helped only a little. Shoba might be very young but we were close enough for her to remark upon the fact that I looked sad. Obviously I wasn't as good at hiding that from her as I'd thought. The white lie that her father was away at work was something she accepted without too much trouble because she had become accustomed to her father often not being home.

As the days passed I began to reassess my decision not to talk to my mother about the matter. At this time when things were still in the air I didn't want to share this very personal matter with anyone else. And yet, this was the very time when I needed the comfort and support of family and friends. For some reason I felt embarrassed at the idea of telling my mother about what had happened. Deep down I think I was afraid that subtly I would be blamed for the situation. I had grown up being told it was the responsibility of a wife to keep her husband happy and to keep him faithful. Quiet and accepting types of women were what was required - apparently. While I like to think I didn't subscribe to that approach to marriage, I began to realise I hadn't been totally immune to the influence of this mind-set. Occasionally I did entertain the idea that Hameed's cheating was partly my fault. If I'd kept him happy there would've been no need for him to stray. Immediately after thinking this, I flipped and decided that I'd been a good wife and the infidelity was totally his fault.

By the time Hameed had been gone a week, I began to seriously think he might never come back. While at first I was panicked by that possibility, I calmed myself by thinking it through more carefully. Unlike some women, at least I wasn't totally dependent upon my husband. I was better off than some from my community. Some were locked in unhappy or cruel marriages because they couldn't cope with the complexities of the world outside the home. Their households were their total world. Unlike others less fortunate, I knew how much and where to pay the bills, who to contact if the fridge or cooker broke down etc. I was also lucky enough to have a job that brought in just enough money to live on. Yes, it would be financially tight if Hameed and I parted ways but I could survive. Some women in my situation didn't have any employable skills to speak of. They were trapped in abusive relationships. I thanked God I was better off than many women in my situation. Yes, I did give a thought or two to God. I even considered that all along, this situation was Allah's plan for me. In which case I couldn't fight my destiny.

Even by the eighth day I was not prepared to accept Hameed back unless he stopped seeing his mistress. However I had to be honest with myself about the prospects of him giving up on her. The fact that the child called my husband Daddy' suggested that Hameed had been keeping company with this other woman frequently and over a couple of years. I couldn't get into this other woman's frame of mind. How could she be having this relationship knowing that he was married? The though did eventually occur to me that perhaps his mistress didn't know he was married. After all, if Hameed could dupe me, he was capable of fooling this other woman too.

I was realistic enough to admit that some woman do accept long term relationships with married men who aren't prepared to divorce their spouses. To tell the truth, one of my friends knows her husband has a mistress but she is prepared to accept it rather than contemplate the uncertainty that would follow breaking up with him. Obviously she keeps the matter pretty much to herself and pretends to the world they're a normal married couple. I couldn't live like. Frankly just thinking of Hameed being with his mistress and then coming home and being intimate with me makes me feel soiled and unclean.

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After two weeks I phoned Tabassum to say we needed to talk. She had to be in the right frame of mind to listen to what I had to say and the only way to ensure that was to keep my distance from her while she considered what life would be like without me. I confess it hadn't been easy for me to be out of touch for so long because whether she believed me or not, I did love Tabassum and missed her. I also missed seeing my youngest child Shoba.

Tabassum readily agreed to meet particularly since she was under the impression I'd broken off my relationship with Jenny. The truth was I could no more contemplate leaving Jenny and my children than I could contemplate leaving Tabassum. Why was it so hard for people to understand that a man can love more than one person at a time? I mean it wasn't as if I had deliberately gone out of my way to find another person to fool around with. Why doesn't Tabassum understand that I'm not having a casual affair? I fell in love and wanted that person in my life permanently. Why is that wrong?

Not surprisingly, the greeting I received from Tabassum was awkward and decidedly frosty. She made me feel a stranger in my own home. I noticed she looked haggard and had lost some weight. Clearly she had not coped well during the last fortnight. My heart went out to her because whatever she may think I love her and want us to stay married. To help break the ice I asked to see Shoba who was upstairs asleep. Tabassum had to realise I loved my daughter as much I loved her. She didn't quibble and let me go upstairs to see Shoba.

As I stood over my sleeping daughter, I couldn't resist leaning over and gently caressing her forehead. As I bent down to kiss her sleeping innocent face I repeated the vow I had made to myself that she would never be parted from me. I couldn't imagine life without her in my life. Remembering how she greets me when I come home made my heart soar. I wished she was awake right there and then so that I could talk to her and tell her how much I cared for her. After a few more minutes of just watching her sleeping, I decided to go downstairs and deal with the situation in hand.

I sat down across from Tabassum. She was looking down at her hands, to avoid looking me in the face.

"I want you to know I missed both of you," I confessed.

Rather than reply, she just nodded. There was no easy way to do this so I decided to plunge on ahead.

"Last time we spoke face to face you kept accusing me of having an affair."

"Well you were," she was quick to point out.

"And I told you that I loved her."

"Hameed," she said, a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice, "why are we going over all of this again? You said on the phone that business is over with now. We're supposed to discuss where we go from here."

"Yes we will discuss that, but there's something you need to know and understand."

"Like what?"

"That I love Jenny and I won't be breaking up with her."

That caught her totally off-guard and her initial shock was rapidly followed by anger.

"So you lied to me again! Hameed, why are you even here?"

"I needed to talk to you."

"There's nothing to talk about. I told you last time. I won't accept you seeing that woman."

Then as if the fight had gone out of her, coldly she got up out of her seat and went to the door. She held it open and she turned to look back at me.

"It's better if you left," she said with firm finality.

At this point I got annoyed at her refusal to listen to what I had to say. "Dammit woman! Will you hear me out for a moment?"

Tabassum was taken aback by my strident attitude. I think she genuinely believed that I would leave meekly since she believed she held the moral high ground. Then she became combative.

"Why should I? You had your chance to break it off with this other woman, but instead, you lied your way into this house."

"All I'm asking is for you to listen to me, uninterrupted, for one minute. Is that too much to ask? After that if you want me to leave, I will. Promise."

She eyed me suspiciously but nevertheless agreed. "OK. You have one minute to say your piece."

"The reason I didn't break up with her is that it's not some sort of sordid affair like you make out. We're married. She's my wife."

At first there was an expression of utter disbelief on Tabassum's face. Then as the implication of that news began to sink in, she composed herself. When she did reply, it was in a voice that was cold and controlled, yet angry.

"As far as lies go, that's got to be a new low point - even for you."

"It's the truth and I've got paperwork that proves it."

For a long moment, she just stood there, first looking at me, then into the middle distance. I had expected when she was confronted with the truth, either she would shout at me or burst into tears. However, she did neither. A part of her still rejected what I'd said. Her approach was to dismiss the matter.

"Wishes don't count, Hameed. That so called love you have for her has clearly got you confused. I'm the only woman you're married to," Tabassum insisted.

"And I'm telling you that I'm married to you both!" I told her heatedly. Then realising I wasn't helping my case with such an attitude, I cooled down and added in a much softer tone "Kasam se. It's all true."

While acceptance was growing she still harboured some doubt and suspicion.

"Did I miss something? Since when were you allowed to marry more than one person?"

"Have forgotten that Muslim men are entitled to marry up to four wives," I batted back at her.

The look on her face told me that she had finally accepted I wasn't lying. When the initial numbness at accepting the truth waned, instead of being subdued as I might have expected of her, she was still combative.

"Oh now you're playing the religion card, are you? How convenient for you that Islam permits only men to have more than one partner."

"I didn't make the rules."

"No you didn't, but you only follow those rules that are convenient for you. When was the last time you saw the inside of a masjid, or paid zakat for instance?"

I was irked by her attitude so I made plain my feelings on the matter. "You're not the arbiter of whether or not I'm a good Muslim."

"Just pray Allah judges you more kindly than I would."

"Are you done with the snide comments? We've important matters to discuss."

Tabassum came away from the door and sat back down where she had been before. She looked across at me.

"Oh yes, this matter of having two wives...When exactly did you marry this other woman?"

"Why's that important?"

"I want to know just how many years into our marriage it was, before your head was turned by this other woman."

"And I'm saying that's not relevant," I said tetchily.

"It's relevant to me!"

"Tabassum, I strongly advise you not to go down that route."

"Why not? Are you ashamed?"

"No."

I genuinely felt sorry for putting her through all this emotional upheaval and wanted to avoid adding to her pain. Of course she interpreted my reluctance to answer her as being due to shame and guilt. She couldn't have been more wrong.

"Well then just tell me," she urged.

"That letter you found was written by my daughter, Anita. That's why she called me Daddy."

"Yes I get that. You care enough for this other woman to officially adopt her child."

"No, she's my actual daughter, my flesh and blood."

I could see the colour suddenly drain from Tabassum's face as the realisation of what I had said sunk in. Whatever she might think, I'm not heartless and I do love her. Concerned, I got up out of my seat and went and sat next to her. She still wouldn't look at me. When I went to comfort her by putting my arm round her, she shrugged me off.

"Don't touch me," she told me in irritation.

"You're going to be ok," I reassured her, ignoring her comment.

"No I'm not!"

"Of course you are. Basically nothing's changed between the two of us. We're still married and have a beautiful child to bring up," I reminded her, trying to sound upbeat.

"You still don't get it, do you? You've just turned upside down everything I knew and understood. And you still expect us to go on as before. Well, I'm telling you we can't!"

"And I'm saying we can."

I just couldn't understand her attitude. It's not as if I had committed the crime of the century, or physically abused her. I had always been a good husband to her.

"Hameed I can't take any more of this," was her weary comment. "Please just go."

Of course I hadn't expected her to accept the news with glee, but neither had I expected her to take that attitude with me. I was confused and a little surprised by her.

"Akhir mera kasoor kya heh?"

"Hameed, mein thakgayi hoon. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Please just go."

I did leave but I wasn't going to give up on Tabassum and Shoba. I knew I would be back when she had time to think about things and came to her senses.

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I felt pummelled by the drip-feed of revelations. The fact that he was seeing another woman was the first blow. That he was married to this woman was the second. The final blow was that I wasn't even his first choice of partner. I was his second wife. How can a person's self-esteem cope with all of that? All the metaphors about the roof caving in, a person's life being turned upside down or having the rug pulled out from under one's feet, felt applicable to my situation. In addition, I was weary from the last two weeks of worrying when he had left to break up with his mistress. I felt estranged from the world I used to know. If only I could cast off the crushing weight of truths told to me. The fight had gone out of me, you see. I wanted miraculously to just wink out of existence. However, the best I could do was hole myself up in the bedroom and pray that it would all somehow miraculously pass. Of course deep down I knew it wouldn't pass, and I spent many days and hours trying to think it through.

The options I had were limited. My first instinct was to file for divorce. Of course everybody would be against that move - probably my mother included. I didn't expect much sympathy from my community which tends to gloss over problems rather than solve them. The local maulana would urge reconciliation since divorce was considered so abhorrent. I suspected I'd be told that Hameed was permitted to have two wives and I was indeed fortunate that the other wife lived in different town. Even my mother would probably say being a second wife was far better than being a single parent, with all the attendant problems that status would bring. In fact, given what I had now learned about Hameed's attitude, I doubted in any case, he would be willing to grant me a Muslim divorce. And if he didn't give me a Muslim divorce, I was trapped.

Unlike some Muslim women I had insisted on a civil marriage as well as a nikah. That ensured my marriage was recognised in England. After giving it some thought, I realised a divorce under English law might not be straight forward. Since he was already married to that woman when he married me, my marriage wasn't even legal, since it constituted bigamy. I suddenly found myself having to consider the probability that I had no legal rights at all in my relationship with Hameed. The house was, legally speaking, in Hameed's name. He could make me homeless if he so chose. I was also horrified to realise that my Shoba was technically an illegitimate child in the eyes of the law - born out of wedlock. And Hameed had the gall to ask mera kasoor kya heh?'

It crossed my mind that his first wife might not know Hameed was married to me. In fact, the more I thought about it, the surer I felt that a gori mem would never share her husband with another woman. Neither did I think she would be overly concerned about the technicality of whether or not he was Islamically married to the second woman. I did wonder what his first wife would do or think if she found out about me. We both had children to think about. She on the other hand was on firmer legal ground than I was. I could almost guarantee she had gone through a civil ceremony. Whether or not Hameed had insisted upon a nikah, I don't know. She wasn't Muslim.

Even if I did succeed in being granted an Islamic divorce, how would that impact on Shoba? At least a part-time father as Hameed was currently, was better than no father at all. Young children needed and deserved both parents involved in their upbringing. The prospect of being a single parent in itself didn't overly concern now. I was essentially leading such a life given Hameed's frequent absences. Financially I could just about manage, at a pinch.

I wasn't keen to go down the divorce route. Yes, Hameed had hurt me and deceived me, but I still had feelings for him. I couldn't just switch them off, at least not yet. On the other hand, I couldn't accept that he was also married to someone else. Why should I? That was not part of the contract between Hameed and me. When we first married, there was no mention of him having a wife already. There was no understanding between us that I would have to share him with another woman. The Hameed I now knew was not the same Hameed I had married. I was seeing a whole new side to him that I didn't like at all. Perhaps other women in my situation were mentally more suited to accepting polygamy than me. If I knew then, what I now know about Hameed, I would never have married him in the first place.

All these thoughts and scenarios raged in my mind with little prospect of me coming to a clear solution or course of action. Even how long I had to make a decision, was unclear. But I did know, I couldn't bear this state of limbo for much longer. The whole experience did make me think more about my faith and what it appeared to unfairly demand of me. Eh Khuda, har ek ek pata apki ijaazat se begher nehi girtah. Khonsa gunnah kia heh mein jo apne mjuhe yeh saaza di? Ap hi battaoh, ab mein kia karun.

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Ethel Braithwaite had come to Liverpool to spend a few days with her married daughter. She didn't enjoy the train journey from Bradford as much as she used to when her husband David had been alive. Frankly, since her David had passed, she didn't go out much at all. The city of Bradford where she had grown up and lived her entire life had changed beyond recognition since she was a child. Everywhere she looked nowadays, she saw brown Asian faces. Not that she held any animosity towards them. They were decent enough folk when she got to know some of them. Mind you, some of their customs struck her as strange and different, and their clothes overly colourful. With her husband gone, she often missed having someone to talk to. As she got to know some of the new neighbours she quite enjoyed their company and learned more about the immigrants than she cared to admit. Ethel particularly enjoyed watching and interacting with the children. Then again, she had always loved children. She had been a teacher once.

Liverpool was a city with a different mix of people. It had a different feel to it. So Ethel was surprised and puzzled when she first saw the Asian man leave the suburban house at 24 Jerome Street, across the road from her daughter Betty's house. It was curiosity that first drew him to her attention. The tall handsome Asian man with gold-rimmed glasses was saying his goodbyes to his wife. That part was unremarkable. The fact that his wife was English, wasn't. You didn't see that very often, not even in Bradford. In her day, Ethel and her friends wouldn't have dreamt of stepping out with a coloured man, let alone marry one. Ethel was seventy years old and she had seen many changes to the English way of life. There were black and brown faces everywhere these days. Nowadays girls were less picky about who they dated but she personally didn't know of any who had gone as far as marrying a coloured person. More importantly, she could have sworn she recognised this Asian man going off to work. After all, that nice neighbour of hers back in Bradford, Tabassum, had introduced him to her as her husband. Ethel could have sworn that it was the same man. If only she could remember his name...Fareed...Hameed? Well it was something that sounded like that. Whatever his name, she could have sworn on her David's grave that it was her neighbour's husband that she'd seen coming out of house number 24. Ethel couldn't understand how that might be possible but the man was definitely Tabassum's husband. That lovely girl Tabassum often popped round to see how she was doing and was kind enough to share some of the Pakistani dishes she'd prepared. Her neighbour had shown her photographs of her husband. There was no doubt in Ethel's mind that the man coming out of house opposite her daughter's was the same man to whom she'd once been introduced by Tabassum.

Of course when she told Betty, her daughter put it down to either failing eyesight on account of her age, or confusing the man with someone else. When Ethel insisted that she recognised the man, Betty pointed out that Jenny across the road at number 24 was a friend. Yes, it was uncommon, but Jenny was married to Fareed, a Pakistani man. They had two children Anita and Adam. Yes Fareed worked away from home quite often but they were a nice happy family. Ethel drawing upon what she'd learned living in Bradford, told her daughter that some Pakistanis believed men could have more than one wife. It was something to do with their religion, apparently. However when she tried to persuade Betty that this must be the case here, her idea was dismissed out of hand by Betty. Ethel was concerned for her neighbour Tabassum. You could say, Ethel felt some loyalty towards her. It distressed Ethel that the Asian man while married to Jenny, was also married to Tabassum back in Bradford. Betty failed to convince her elderly mother that it was all down to misidentification. Moreover, Ethel felt incensed at the idea that the man could be married to two different women at the same time. Well that kind of behaviour wasn't just alien, but wholly unacceptable in Ethel's eyes. After all, in England such behaviour was bigamy - and a crime. Poor Tabassum didn't deserve to be treated that way, thought Ethel. Something ought to be done about it. Her daughter though, was having none of this talk, but Betty hadn't reckoned on her mother being so determined despite her advanced years.

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When Jenny answered the front door she was more than a little surprised. A pair of police constables, one male and one female, immediately grabbed her attention. Alarm flashed through her mind at the possibility that Fareed had been involved in some sort of car accident. He was forever driving around the country and Jenny constantly fretted he might be one day have an accident.

"Yes?"

"Mrs Choudhry?" the man asked very formally.

"Yes. Why? What's happened?" Jenny asked in alarm.

"Nothing, madam. Is your husband Mr. Hameed Choudhry at home?"

"His name is Fareed Choudhry - and no he's not at home."

"I see," commented the woman constable, casting a glance at her colleague.

"When do you expect him home, Mrs Choudhry?"

"In a day or two. He often works away from home," Jenny said by way of explanation. "What's this about if you don't mind my asking?"

"We would prefer to speak to Mr Choudhry in person, madam."

Jenny was irritated by the evasiveness of the policeman.

"But I'm his wife!"

"I understand that, madam," was the calm and soothing comment from the policewoman. "Do you have a number at which we can contact Mr Choudhry?"

"No I don't. He moves around a lot."

"He does, does he?" piped up the policeman exchanging knowing glances with his partner.

"Can you at least tell me what you want to talk to my husband about?"

"All we can say at this point is that we're making some routine inquiries," answered the woman constable, giving a tiny smile by way of reassurance.

"But routine inquiries about what?"

It was the male constable who answered this time. "We're not at liberty to say at this point in time, madam."

The policewoman handed Jenny a business card.

"We can be reached at the number on the card. When Mr Choudhry returns home, please have him contact us."

With practised ease, she flashed Jenny a smile.

"Why won't you tell me what this is all about?" demanded Jenny in frustrated.

"We'll be going now, madam," said the policeman calmly, completely ignoring Jenny's question.

"But you still haven't said what this is all about."

Jenny's remark was totally ignored.

"Please ensure Mr Choudhry contacts us when he returns home," the policewoman reminded Jenny.

"And we apologise for taking up your time," the policeman chimed in.

Jenny watched as the two officers walked to their patrol car, got in and drove off. She was left puzzled and irritated by the encounter. She was wondering what to do when her nostrils picked up a whiff of smoke. God! Something on the hob was burning. She dashed back into the house to see how much of the children's dinner could be salvaged.

(The End)

Readers should note that I do not condone polygamy in any shape or form and therefore this story should not be taken as some form of apologia for polygamous marriages. In truth, the hardest part for me to write was representing the male character's viewpoint because it is so alien to my own way of thinking. If I have failed to realistically represent the male character's viewpoint, please let me know through your constructive criticisms. All helpful feedback is of course welcome.

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