by Ayad Akhtar
I could feel my heart beating through my entire body, down into my toes and fingertips. I nodded. The imam smiled and handed me the microphone, but it slipped from my grip, screeching. I wiped my sweat-drenched palms on my pants and reached down to pick it up. The room full of faces was watching. I looked over at Father again, surprised at his expression. It wasn’t angry. It looked helpless.
“Surah An-Nisa. ‘The Women,’” I began.
In the name of God, the Benevolent, the Merciful…
Mankind! Do not forget your Lord, who made you from a single soul,
And from it, carved its mate,
And brought forth the many men and women.
The sound of my own voice coming through the speakers gave me confidence. I closed my eyes to shut the thought of Father out. I went on:
Fear God, in whose name you make demands upon each other.
Honor your ties of kinship.
Truly, God watches over you!
I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Souhef. “In Arabic, son,” he said quietly, correcting.
“I don’t know the Arabic. I only know the English,” I answered. My mouth was close enough to the microphone for everyone to hear.
“You only know it in English?” Souhef seemed confused. “Who’s teaching you?”
“I’m teaching myself,” I replied.
“Really?” Souhef asked, surprised.
I nodded. Beside me, Farhaz snickered.
“Mashallah,” Souhef said now as he patted my head. He took the microphone from me. “We have a very original young man here,” he said to the crowd, “memorizing the Quran in English. He will be our first English hafiz, brothers and sisters.”
Souhef paused. Hushed whispers rippled through the crowd.
“Let’s give these holy boys another round of applause.”
I looked over at Father. He was still standing by the double doors, watching.
“You’re a moron,” Farhaz said to me as we moved to the steps. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it doesn’t count if it’s not in Arabic?”
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t believe me? Ask him.” Farhaz looked back, pointing at Souhef.
I turned to the imam.
“What is it, son?”
“Farhaz says it doesn’t count if I didn’t memorize the Quran in Arabic.”
“Arabic is our holy language, young man.”
“Does it count in English?”
“Count for what?”
“To get me and my parents into heaven.”
Souhef looked at me, a gentle light in his eyes. He smiled, shaking his head. “No. You have to learn the holy book in our holy language for that. But don’t be discouraged. You have all the time in the world.”
I made my way down the steps and walked to the men’s side, my eyes to the ground. But what I didn’t see, I heard: There was laughter in everything. In the chatter, in the shifting of bodies in their seats, in the sounds of the caterers preparing to serve the meal; even the distant static hiss coming over the PA speakers mocked me. I was burning up inside.
I passed the table where Rafiq and Ghaleb were sitting. Rafiq reached out to stop me. He held my hand, offering me a kind smile.
“Nicely done, behta,” he said, encouragingly. “Very impressive.”
I didn’t believe him. To me, there was more pity in his voice than praise. Sitting beside him, Ghaleb made no gesture toward me at all. He simply stared at me with his silent, gray gaze. Rafiq pointed at one of the two empty chairs at their table. I shook my head and moved on, passing Hamza and Farhaz. Hamza reached out his hand for a high-five. I ignored it. I didn’t dare look at Farhaz, but I heard him mock me as I passed: “What a dork! He actually believed all that stuff!”
In back, I found an empty table. I heard Souhef announce into the microphone that it was time to eat, and that the men should begin to serve themselves. There was a sudden bustle: chairs moving, men rising. I noticed Mother was up, too, rushing across the room for the double doors where Father had been standing. But he was gone.
17
The Long Unraveling
Father walked out of the walima and was not to be found. He left us—Mother, me, Rafiq, Rabia, and Imran—to find our way home on our own. Mother stewed in the cab the whole way back, and stewed through the evening. She didn’t once mention the recitation. It was as if it hadn’t happened.
Once everyone was in bed, I curled up on the family room couch, where I’d been sleeping for days. I tried not to think of my humiliation at the walima, but I kept hearing Farhaz’s voice in my mind:
What a waste of time! What a dork you are! You actually believed all that stuff!
At some point, I must have fallen asleep. I roused to find Father sitting next to me in the darkness, his hand on my shoulder.
“Behta, wake up,” he said in a hushed voice. He looked exhausted, his egg-shaped eyes webbed with crisscrossing red lines. “Are you okay?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded.
There was a long silence as he stared at me. “I want you to know something. I left because I was so disgusted. I was disgusted by what they’re doing to your auntie, and what they did to you. Those people are idiots. Idiots. And she’s letting herself become one of them.” He spoke slowly, trying to enunciate. But the words were slurred. “I know it’s a question of credibility. I know I don’t have credibility with you. I know that.”
I was confused. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.
After a pause he went on: “I know what you and your mother think of me. But I want you to understand something. I’m a successful man. And that is not an easy thing to become. There is no guarantee for success. And that means that whatever you may think of me, I still know a few things. And whatever she thinks of me, the truth is: I can’t be the complete fool you people think I am…If anything I say has any meaning for you, you have to trust me. I’m not the fool. They are. Those people tonight. Those are the fools. Not me. And not you. I want you to understand, Hayat, no matter what they made you feel tonight, you are not the fool. Those people are like sheep, following each other around, always waiting for someone else to lead them. All of them. They’re all the same. Even Souhef.”
He paused again. He was getting emotional. As he leaned closer, I could clearly smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I saw you talking to him at the end of your recitation,” he said. “What did he say?”
“He said it didn’t count if I knew the Quran in English.”
“That’s why I hate these people, Hayat,” Father said angrily. He was squinting at me in the darkness now. “I know that you won’t understand what I’m going to say to you now… You’re not one of them. You’re not. That’s the truth. I know you don’t understand why I burned your Quran, but there was a reason. It’s because you’re different. You can’t live life by rules others give you. In that way, you and I are the same. You have to find your own rules. All my life I’ve been running away from their rules, Hayat. All my life. You will be the same. Don’t ask me how I know it, but I do.”
As he spoke, I remembered my dream with the Prophet, how I had been running, and how I had then left Muhammad in the mosque. For a second I thought I understood not only what Father was saying, but the dream as well. And then the clarity faded.
“That’s why I hate these people, Hayat,” he said. “They don’t understand why they came here, or what they came here for. They don’t know who they are, or what life is. They are the fools.” He was spitting words now, disgusted. “Don’t listen to them. Their mindlessness. Their stupidity. Now do you see why I hate them so much? Hmm? Do you?” He had taken hold of me, and was squinting harder now, as if having trouble seeing me, though I was just inches from his face. “Do you see why now?” he repeated, his voice breaking. He sounded like a child. “Don’t you see what they are doing to her?”
And then he started to cry.
I held him against me. As close as I could. In my ar
ms, he shuddered and moaned. He pressed himself tighter against me. I tried to do the same, to close all the distance between us. Soon, I felt his tears against my neck.
“Don’t you see?” he cried. “Don’t you see? Don’t you see?” he kept repeating.
I didn’t answer. I just held him. It was all he seemed to need.
Mina and Sunil showed up the morning after the wedding to finish packing up her room for the movers. She looked unhappy. Her face was framed with a tightly tied hijab, her eyes lowered, as if she were reluctant to see or be seen. We all took tea together, after which Sunil and Mina disappeared into her room upstairs and shut the door behind them.
Rabia and Rafiq went to my room to pack their things. They were going to be joining their daughter and new son-in-law at the Chathas’ for the rest of their stay in America. I took Imran and went down into the family room to watch television. We sat side by side on the couch, Imran snuggled up against me as we watched The Flintstones, then Scooby-Doo. At some point, Mina came down to see us.
“Imran? Are you enjoying your big bhaiya?”
Imran nodded vigorously, pushing up against me, taking hold of my waist.
I held him tight, a flood of emotion filling me. I started to cry.
“Why are you crying, bhai-jaan?” he asked.
“I wasn’t a good big brother to you,” I said.
“Yes you are. You’re my big brother,” he said, cheerily, pressing even closer.
Mina put her arms around me as well. “It’s okay, Hayat. We all make mistakes.”
“I don’t want you to go,” I pleaded.
“I know, behta,” she said calmly. She held me. “Be good to your mother,” she whispered into my ear. “You’re all she has. Take care of her.”
“Okay,” I said, still crying. We held each other for a long moment.
She pulled away, her eyes wet at the corners with tears of her own. “I was so proud of you yesterday.”
“Of what?”
“Your recitation.”
I looked away. Mina took hold of my chin and led my gaze back to hers.
“What is it, behta?”
“Why didn’t you tell me I had to know it in Arabic?”
She looked confused. “You don’t…”
“But that’s what the imam told me.”
Mina shook her head. “Remember what I always told you. Intention. That’s all Allah cares about. Not what language you speak.”
“But the imam said if it’s not in Arabic then I’m not a hafiz.”
She smiled. “Being a hafiz is not what matters. It’s the quality of your faith. Not the name you put on it.”
I didn’t know what to make of what she was saying. She was the one who’d said becoming a hafiz was the greatest thing a person could do. I looked away, dismayed.
She led my chin back to her gaze again. “Come say good-bye to your uncle,” she said with a smile.
Mina led Imran and me upstairs into the living room, where Rafiq and Rabia were saying their good-byes to my parents. Imran leapt up into Father’s arms. Sunil saw me and smiled. “I’m proud of you, beehhta. Keep up the goood work.”
Mina went over to Mother. There was a sudden, thick silence in the room as they hugged. We watched them hug and sniffle and whisper pleas for forgiveness into each other’s ears. They must have kissed each other a dozen times. Rabia was moved. So was Father.
Sunil looked on, annoyed.
“Come on, girls. Not the last time you’ll see each other,” Rafiq said after glancing at Sunil. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t rush them, Rafiq,” Rabia snapped.
Rafiq looked away, turning to me. “Okay, behta!” Rafiq said with enthusiasm, reaching his hand out for me to shake. “You’re a sensible young man. I look forward to hearing great things about you someday.”
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. “Okay,” I said, shaking his hand.
Mina and Mother finally parted, and Mina turned to Father—who was still holding Imran—to say her good-bye. She didn’t dare touch Father; Sunil was present. Instead, she put her hand on her heart and offered him a gentle bow of the head.
“Thank you for everything, Naveed-bhai.”
Sunil stepped forward and reached out to take Imran into his arms. During the transfer, Imran leaned out and kissed Father on the cheek. “I love you, Uncle,” he said, endearingly. Hearing this, the women cooed. Mother bit her lip to stanch a new impulse to start crying. The boy in his arms, Sunil stepped over to Mother.
“Say good-bye to your auntie,” Sunil said.
“’Bye, Auntie.”
“’Bye, kurban,” Mother replied, choked up. “Be a good boy.”
“I will.” They kissed.
And then Sunil brought Imran over to me.
“’Bye, Hayat.”
“’Bye, Imran.”
All at once, Imran’s eyes brightened. “Bhai-jaan? Remember in the castle keep when we played chess? Remember when you told me don’t forget? Remember?”
It took me a moment, and then I did. I nodded.
“I’ll never forget it,” he said.
“Promise?” I asked.
He reached out and took hold of my neck. “I promise!” he sang.
Mina looked at me again. I felt a sickening pain in my stomach. “I love you, Hayat,” she said.
“I love you, too,” I replied.
When I got to school on Monday morning, I opened my desk and saw the red library copy of the Quran sitting atop my books. I felt the fresh shame of my recital at the walima, but then I heard Father’s voice inside me, reassuring me:
You are not like them, it said. You are not a follower.
At recess, instead of resuming my usual daily memorization of holy verses, I took the Quran and walked down the empty hall toward the library. I passed the bald old janitor, Gurvitz, pushing his trash can along on its wheels. He nodded at me. I nodded back. “How’s things?” he asked flatly.
“Fine,” I said, surprised. It was the first time he’d ever spoken to me.
“Thing is, I see you around, and I have this feeling about you. Like you’re a good kid.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he offered—suddenly brusque—as he doddered off.
Inside the library, the return bin was filled with books. I didn’t give the moment much thought. I didn’t kiss the cover as I usually did. I just put the Quran down on top of the other books and watched it slide to one side, tumbling out of view. It was the last Quran I would touch for almost ten years.
Mother and Mina spoke on the phone daily for the next three weeks, and then, one day, Mother called and Mina didn’t call her back. Mother made nothing of it at first. But then two days passed. And then a third. And now, when Mother called the Chathas’, no one was picking up.
On the morning of the fourth day—it was a Saturday—Mother got in her car and drove to the Chatha house to find out what was going on. She was gone ten hours. When she got home that night, she was seething. “He’s a savage!” she shouted, tossing her keys in the cabinet. “I knew something was wrong with that man. I just knew it.” When I asked her what happened, she exploded again: “Hayat! Her face is swollen. Completely black and blue. She’s been lying in her room for three days. And you know why that bastard did that to her? Hmm? Do you know why?”
I shook my head, my blood suddenly hot and rushing to my face.
“Because she questioned him. He wanted to tell his cousin that he doesn’t just want a job working for Ghaleb. He wants to be an equal partner. Ghaleb has built up his pharmacies for I don’t know how many years, and this idiot comes along and says he wants to be an equal partner? All because he has a doctor’s degree and he thinks that makes him more special than his cousin, who is just a pharmacist? Can you believe it? Napoleon complex, behta. Just like I told you. Just like her father. But this one is a true savage.”
Mother sat down. She was shaking. I thought she was about to cry,
until she spoke again and I realized she was trembling with anger.
“Hayat! All she said to him was, Do you think it’s such a good idea to say something like that to your cousin? That’s all! She’s trying to give that fool some good advice! And what does he do? You should have seen her face, Hayat! Thank God he wasn’t home when I got there. Thank God! Because if he was, I would have broken his head open! I hate these Muslim men. I hate them!… Not that Najat is any better. Do you know what she said to your Mina-auntie?”
I shook my head again.
“In front of your Mina-auntie and me, she tells us that the Quran says it’s all right for husbands to beat their wives. ‘Bullshit! Bloody bullshit!’ I said.” Such language on Mother’s lips was surprising. Her anger made her seem strong and alive. “So you know what Najat does? She goes and gets the Quran and opens it and shows me some verse in the fourth surah. About beating your wife?…”
I nodded. The fourth surah was one from which I’d recited at the walima. I spoke the verse:
Men are in charge of women for He has endowed them with greater resources.
Good women will obey and guard what He ordains.
Those whose rebellion you fear, reprove them; then leave them alone in bed; then beat them.
If they obey, do not harm them.
Mother stared at me for a long moment, a puzzled look on her face. It was as if she was noticing something about me she had never seen before.
“That was the one,” she finally said. “I didn’t know it, but there it was right in front of my eyes, written to give every Muslim man ideas…And then Najat says to me something you will never believe: ‘Ghaleb beats me, too,’ she says. Almost like she’s proud! Can you believe it?”
I didn’t know what to say. But Mother wasn’t waiting for me to say anything.
“So what do I do? I ask her, like any normal person would, ‘Why, Najat, does your husband beat you? Hmm?’”
Mother was absorbed in the moment, as if reliving it.
“‘Because we need it,’ she says. ‘Because it’s something about our nature. Something that needs to know its limits.’ My jaw hit the floor, Hayat. I looked at her and thought to myself, this is an insane asylum…”
