Ayesha At Last

by Uzma Jalaluddin

  Ayesha glanced around, searching for friendly faces. She spotted Khalid standing near the front, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression unreadable.

  Imam Abdul Bari walked onto the stage, followed by Sister Farzana and a wiry, bearded man wearing large aviator glasses. A tense muttering ran through the crowd. The imam stood up to start the meeting with a prayer, but Sister Farzana grasped the microphone. “Assalamu Alaikum, brothers and sisters,” she began, her perky voice contrasting with the mood of the room. “We are here to discuss the financial catastrophe caused by the imam.”

  More muttering from the crowd. A man in the back yelled, “Where did our donations go?”

  The wiry man stood up and introduced himself as Aziz, the president of the executive board.

  “We have prepared a slide show detailing our options. We are beseeching the community’s immediate financial aid to meet our creditors’ demands,” Aziz said.

  “How can we trust you?” another man shouted from the back. “Crooks!”

  A scuffle broke out, and Aziz motioned to two security guards, who quelled the dispute.

  “All hecklers will be removed from the premises,” Aziz said, his forehead shining with nervous sweat.

  “This isn’t good,” Ayesha said. The room felt as if it were closing in. Nana put his arm protectively around the back of her chair. “Nothing will happen,” he assured her. “We are among our own people.”

  Aziz fiddled with a remote control that turned on the LCD projector, and Farzana seized the opportunity to grab the microphone again.

  “I can no longer stand idly by as our mosque is dismantled. The executive board is trying to cover up a terrible scandal,” she announced. The crowd leaned forward, hanging off her every word. Farzana glared out at the audience, her eyes settling on a figure seated in the front dressed in black, hood pulled up.

  “Imam Abdul Bari is the one who is guilty! He stole from the mosque! I move for his immediate removal and a suspension of the executive board,” she said loudly.

  Ayesha gasped. “She’s lying! It was Tarek. She knows it was Tarek!”

  The crowd began to jeer. A few of the people at the back of the hall got to their feet. Nana squeezed Ayesha’s shoulder and eyed the nearest exit.

  Aziz was looking at Farzana, aghast, and Imam Abdul Bari had his head in his hands. Farzana took a flash drive from her pocket and plugged it into the laptop. “I have proof!” she said as she clicked on a video file. It began to play just as Khalid reached the stage.

  “Ammi, what are you doing?” Khalid asked. The microphone caught his words, echoing them around the room.

  She shrugged him off. “I know what is best,” she said. “Tarek has been in touch. He has all the financial records. He was set up. The imam is guilty.”

  Khalid reached for the microphone, but his hand froze. Tarek’s face beamed at the crowd from the screen.

  “Assalamu Alaikum. This video is not about Imam Abdul Bari,” a smiling Tarek boomed, the sound on high. “It is about identifying your true enemies. The person you should all fear is the one standing before you: Sister Farzana.”

  Farzana gaped at the video, stunned. She reached for the remote, jabbing at the Off button so hard it flew across the stage.

  Video-Tarek was grim-faced, his voice persuasive. “Farzana pretends to be a pious Muslim, but she is hiding a terrible secret. Twelve years ago, when she found out her only daughter, Zareena, had had an abortion, she did something unthinkable. She forced her into an arranged marriage with a stranger in India, and then she flew back to Canada, leaving her daughter all alone. She was only seventeen years old.” A picture of Zareena appeared on the screen, her skin splotchy with traces of acne, a carefree smile on her face. The audience gasped, and Farzana shrunk back.

  The video continued.

  “This past year she arranged the marriage of her son, Khalid, an awkward fanatic with no friends, to Hafsa, the daughter of Brother Sulaiman. She did this even though she knew Khalid was in love with someone else. She was willing to doom Hafsa to an unhappy marriage just so she could remain in control of her son’s life.” A picture of Hafsa popped up on the screen, smiling innocently at the camera.

  A murmur of shock spread through the crowd. A few silently vowed to come to the mosque more often. Who knew it was better than reality TV?

  Farzana, alone at the podium, stood frozen. She felt around for support and sat down. Khalid’s face was devoid of colour as he watched the video with the rest of the crowd.

  Tarek’s voice continued, hard and unflinching. “In fact, this whole set-up was her idea. She wanted to accuse the imam of something so she could convince you all to fire him and construct her own puppet regime. I know, because I helped her. I supplied her with evidence of the imam’s thieving. But here’s the truth: There is no evidence. I made it all up when I became concerned with her selfish desire for power. Take a look around the room, brothers and sisters, and ask yourselves one question: Who shamelessly took advantage of an Islamic conference to further their own agenda? Who accused an innocent imam with no real evidence? Who is manipulating you and wasting your time?”

  More muttering from the crowd, and nods of agreement. The woman beside Ayesha clicked her tasbih beads. “That man is right. I never liked Farzana,” she said.

  A picture of Farzana flashed on the screen with the word MENACE underneath. “Take a good look, brothers and sisters. You cannot trust this woman. She is not worthy of your respect. As a symbol of my sincere intentions, I have already returned the money from the conference. I only took it to keep it safe from her.”

  The video ended, and there was a moment of silence. Sister Farzana stood up, swaying slightly. Her lips moved as if she was about to say something. She sat back down, and her face sagged.

  The crowd was on its feet now, people pushing to the front as the microphone fell from Farzana’s hands. She caught Ayesha’s eye. Unhappy, Ayesha thought. Farzana stood alone and abandoned.

  The imam picked up the microphone and fixed it to his robe. Then he began to recite a chapter from the Quran, his voice echoing over the loud yells and sounds of people arguing in the gym. Slowly the crowd calmed down as Imam Abdul Bari’s recitation flowed through the congregation.

  The figure dressed in the black hoodie detached itself from the crowd and slunk into the hallway, tailed by Khalid in his white robe. Ayesha squeezed Nana’s hand and followed right behind them. The man in the black hoodie looked familiar.

  In the empty hallway, Khalid’s voice bellowed out, “TAREK, STOP!”

  Tarek turned around, smirking.

  Khalid walked swiftly up to Tarek and punched him in the face. Tarek fell to the ground.

  “So typical of you extremists,” he sneered, rubbing his jaw. “You always resort to violence.”

  Khalid stood over him, massaging his split fist. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

  Tarek slowly sat up as Ayesha bounded over to them.

  “Where’s Hafsa?” she demanded.

  Khalid raised his fist again. “Tell me why!”

  Tarek shrugged. “You don’t recognize me, do you? We only saw each other once, at the airport twelve years ago. Your mother took Zareena away from me. I tried to put it all behind me, even after Lauren told me about the abortion, but I couldn’t. When I met you and your mother again, I realized she was still a monster. I had to do something.”

  Khalid slowly sank down to his haunches, looking dazed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I wanted to humiliate your Ammi in public. To unmask her as a hypocrite and fraud in front of everyone. She sent away her own daughter to India because she was afraid of losing face in front of those people. Now no one will ever talk to her again.”

  “What about Hafsa?” Ayesha asked.

  Tarek shrugged again. “She was Khalid’s fiancée, Farzana’s carefully hand-picked selection. I thought it would kill her if she knew her precious arranged bride was with me. I’m done with her now. I dropped he
r off at home.”

  Ayesha made a move toward him, but Tarek scrambled away. “I’m a hero,” he said over his shoulder. “Farzana is a bully. Someone had to teach her a lesson. Don’t behave like you’re any better than me. When I told you Khalid and his family almost killed Zareena, you believed me.” He started laughing, and the ugly sound bounced off the concrete walls. “Of course you did. He even looks like a villain. You swallowed every word because in your heart, you don’t trust him, and you never will.”

  Khalid and Ayesha stared at each other. “It’s not true,” she said, her voice small.

  There was a wail from the gym. With an apologetic look at Ayesha, Khalid ran off to find his mother. When Ayesha looked back, Tarek was gone.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ammi said nothing on the ride home, her silence more disturbing than the running commentary Khalid had expected.

  “Ammi,” Khalid said.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned away from him, her face to the window.

  “All of this happened because we don’t talk about anything,” Khalid said, keeping his voice gentle. “Please, Ammi.”

  But she refused to say another word. He unlocked the front door and she walked inside the house, her eyes staring resolutely ahead. He followed her inside; he had never seen his mother like this. She was always talking, complaining, ranting, bending others to her will. Never silent.

  “Why did you accuse the imam when you knew Tarek took the money?” Khalid asked. He stood in the hallway, watching as she climbed the stairs.

  Still Farzana said nothing.

  Khalid followed her to her room. His mother reached for something at the back of her closet, standing on tiptoe to remove a heavy silver picture frame from the top shelf before she took a seat on the bed. Khalid recognized himself and his sister in the picture.

  Zareena was nine years old in the photo, a laughing, happy girl, her hair in two long braids, dressed in a bright-pink frock that appeared hand-stitched. Khalid was five years old, solemn and frowning at the camera, holding a red toy car tightly in his hand.

  “I was afraid of the shame, afraid of what others would think,” she said quietly. “I don’t know how else to be. Now I am ruined.”

  Khalid took a deep breath. He wanted to ask her if Video-Tarek was telling the truth. Had she really arranged his marriage to Hafsa, knowing that he wanted to marry Ayesha? But when he opened his mouth, he said, “I’m moving out.”

  Farzana nodded, her face frozen and expressionless. “Nani Laik was right: I have lost everything.”

  IT was Hafsa’s turn to cry on the family room couch. “He told me he loved me!” she sobbed. “We were getting married. I was organizing the wedding and you were all invited.”

  “Hafsa, why didn’t you call us?” Samira Aunty asked, stroking her daughter’s hair.

  Hafsa sat up, lower lip trembling. A week in hiding with her lover had left her unchanged. “I wanted it to be a surprise,” she said. “Tarek thought it would be such good fun. No one has ever done a surprise wedding before. It might have become a thing. We were going to film it, like a commercial for my business!” She burst into tears again and her sisters crowded around, comforting her and offering tissues.

  Ayesha left the family commiserating with Hafsa and headed to the front door. She took a seat on the marble porch steps. Idris found her there a few minutes later and they sat in silence, breathing in the fresh air of spring.

  “I can’t believe Tarek got away with everything,” Ayesha said.

  “He’ll get what’s coming to him,” Idris said.

  “You mean in the afterlife?”

  Idris shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure Hafs was all right. Tell Mom I’ll be back late.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Idris shrugged again. “Some things can’t wait for the afterlife.”

  KHALID was sipping his double-double when Amir and Idris slouched into the Tim Hortons. He waved them over. Amir sidled into the plastic booth and gave Khalid a side-hug. “I got the info on Mr. Shady. He tried to use a proxy address, but when I contacted the web hosting company and explained he didn’t have the models’ permission to post those pictures, they told me what I wanted to know. They don’t want any trouble with the law.”

  Idris slouched low in his seat. “I’ve been digging through his business. Tarek was pulling in some serious cash with his ethnic porn. He launched Unveiled Hotties a few years ago, and it’s popular. The Hafsa pics are still up, but only the ones where she’s clothed. He wants a bidding war for the other ones.” Idris’ tone was flat, but his eyes flashed with anger.

  “Have you come up with the interface and nag screen?” Khalid asked and Idris nodded.

  They went over the plan once more as they finished their coffee and donuts.

  Amir pulled Khalid aside at the door. “Clara wants to talk to you about your job,” he said. “She’s got some ideas about how to use the video footage.”

  Khalid was surprised. “Clara wants to help?”

  “It was her idea. When I told her what really happened, she felt awful. The Shark is cold, man. She’s got to be put down.”

  Khalid shook his head. “I just want to move forward and forget about Livetech.”

  “If you don’t stop Sheila, she’ll do the same thing to the next socially awkward religious nut who tries to get a job there,” Amir said.

  Khalid smiled. “Who are you calling socially awkward?”

  Amir returned Khalid’s smile, then gave his friend a long, considering look, one that took in his wrinkled white robe, crumpled track pants and full beard. “No offence, Khalid, but if you walk into Livetech dressed like that, they’ll probably call CSIS.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Amir clapped Khalid on the shoulder. “Brother, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to say this: You need a makeover. Right after Operation Vengeance.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tarek sat in his apartment, wearing grey boxer shorts and a ratty white T-shirt, enjoying the silence. Hafsa was finally gone, but the pictures he’d taken of her had generated a lot of interest on his website. Life was good.

  His new idea, inspired by Hafsa, was a stroke of genius: Get local Muslim women to take their clothes off for money in front of the camera. Or at least, women posing as local Muslims. A sort of “Girls Gone Wild,” except with frolicking, veiled women. It would add to his current product line of exotic girls from around the world. He would be rich!

  Tarek had never thought he would make his mark peddling porn, but the Islamic conference scene was turning out to be a complicated front. He should just stick to porn, which was a comfortable, discreet way to make money. He made a mental note to send Hafsa a gift basket for her contribution to his empire.

  His phone pinged. It was an email notification, sent to his private account.

  To: eyecandyz@unveiledhotties.com

  From: brotha-undercova@elude.com

  Subject: lawyers

  The damage that this leak has done to my personal and professional reputation is irreparable. My wife is already threatening divorce and my business partners have expressed their reservations. If I go down, you will too.

  Especially now that I know your name.

  Yours sincerely,

  Thomas L.

  What the hell is going on? Tarek opened his website and input his administrator password. When he pressed Enter, a message popped up:

  You no longer have access to this website. Your website has been infected with a virus made especially for you by Vengeance Productions. Welcome to the new world order, SUCKA!

  Tarek tried the password again, but the same message popped up. This had to be some twisted joke. His cell phone pinged with another email:

  To: eyecandyz@unveiledhotties.com

  From: johnnybhai@denote.com

  Subject: you’re dead

  According to the email I received earlier today, you own unveiledhotties.com.

>   I’m usually a peaceful man, but when my entire contacts list receives the sort of email your company sent out, it makes me very, very angry. What I do on my own time is my own business and I don’t appreciate being played for a fool. I’ll be visiting your place of business this afternoon to air my grievances in a more thorough manner.

  Sincerely,

  Javed

  Tarek scrolled to the bottom, where he read the email that Thomas and Javed, along with everyone else on their contacts lists, had received that morning:

  To: All subscribers of unveiledhotties.com

  From: Owner and CEO

  Subject: Road to Damascus

  You have been a valued customer of my specialized services for the past several years. As a purveyor of Muslim adult entertainment, my commitment to expanding audiences and tastes is unparalleled. I have provided pictures and videos of exotic women in various poses and positions, all engaged in the seductive arts.

  However, despite the fact that my website has made me a wealthy man, from a spiritual and moral viewpoint, I am bankrupt. I have recently seen the light and learned the error of my ways. In order to make a full and complete repentance, I have decided to give up all haram activities and confess my sins. And since my sins include yours, I am forwarding this email to everyone on your contacts list.

  All of your contacts will receive this email, along with a complete list of the services I have provided for you over the years. For a full record of all transactions, please click here.

  I sincerely hope and pray that this will help you on the road to your personal redemption.

  Sincerely yours,

  Tarek Khan

  CEO, unveiledhotties.com

  101 Star Team Blvd., Ste. #300 / Buzz: 333

  Toronto, ON

  416-555-2055

  Tarek sat rooted to the spot, at the centre of a spiralling tornado of panic and fear. His doorbell buzzed and his cell phone started ringing and pinging simultaneously with incoming messages. I’m a dead man.