Free Brick Lane by Monica Ali Page A

around the whole of London, although I did not see the edge of it. And to get home again I went to a restaurant. I found a Bangladeshi restaurant and asked directions. See what I can do!
    She said, 'It is up to you. I was only suggesting.'
    Chanu took his coat off. He began to rub his hand over his face, looked at his gloves and took those off too. 'You are worried. Let me tell you something. Sometimes we just have to wait and see. Sometimes that's all we can do.'
    'I have heard it. I know it.' She put three pinches of salt in with the lentils, now that they were soft enough to break down. She stirred in chilli, cumin, turmeric and chopped ginger. The golden mixture blew fat, contented bubbles. Nazneen tasted some from a spoon and burned her tongue. But it was her heart that was ablaze, with mutiny.
    Nazneen dropped the promotion from her prayers. The next day she chopped two fiery red chillies and placed them, like hand grenades, in Chanu's sandwich. Unwashed socks were paired and put back in his drawer. The razor slipped when she cut his corns. His files got mixed up when she tidied. All her chores, peasants in his princely kingdom, rebelled in turn. Small insurrections, designed to destroy the state from within.
    Mrs Islam took her to see Dr Azad. The waiting room was foetid, as if to sweat the illness out of the patients. An old man with a knobbly nose sat in the corner sipping mournfully from a can of something. A large family of Africans, the colour of wet river stones with long, beautiful necks and small sloping eyes, fanned out on the front seats. The children sat on their hands and whispered to each other. The grown-ups were silent. Their faces expressed nothing other than the ability to wait. Waiting was their profession.
    Mrs Islam sucked her teeth. She shuffled her feet beneath her chair and rubbed her right heel with the toe of her left slipper. From her large black bag (it looked like a doctor's bag, but it smelled of mints and the clasp was jewelled with bright glass) she took out a polythene envelope of handkerchiefs. 'Here, child,' she said. 'Take them. They're for you.'
    'Very pretty, very nice,' said Nazneen.
    Mrs Islam snorted. 'Someone gave them to me. My handkerchiefs are high quality. If you like these, I'll get more.'
    'No. Don't get more,' Nazneen protested.
    'You don't like them either.' She raised a hand to ward off denials. 'Give them to your husband.' She leaned in towards Nazneen. The wart on the side of her nose was encircled by three stubby hairs, toughened and thickened by tweezing. 'How are things now, with your husband?'
    Nazneen looked away. 'He is well. Not counting the corns, and a little stomach problem sometimes.' From the corner of her eye she saw her companion waggle her head and purse her lips. There was a pause.
    Eventually, Mrs Islam spoke. 'There is no need to tell me. I know how it is. I get to know these things.'
    Nazneen stared at a notice on the wall, printed in five languages.
    'All the young people, they come to me. Everyone knows that what they say to me stays in confidence. But if you do not wish to speak, I do not wish to hear.'
    The notice said: No smoking, no eating, no drinking. All the signs, thought Nazneen, they only tell you what not to do.
    'I'll tell you something instead.' Mrs Islam took Nazneen's wrist. Her hand was hot and dry. The skin was powdery, as if it would dissolve in water. 'When I was a girl, the nearest well to the village was two miles' walk. There was a well in the village but the water had turned bad because of a curse, and the pond water was also poisoned. Two hard miles to the water, and two harder miles back. And the women got fed up. They did the fetching and the carrying, and when they complained to their husbands, what was the result?
    'There was no result. Because for the men, there was no incentive. They were not suffering. Why should they act? So then the women of the village came together to discuss. First they shared their complaints.