The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  The day, somewhere in the middle of July, was strangely wild. The wind howled and the walls of the Madrasah of Islamic Britons echoed with pulses of anxiety emanating from the devout inhabitants within. The elderly mused that such a sign heralded Judgement Day but the younger devotees, awash with science and weather forecasts, somewhat sardonically held responsible the frenzied applause of liberated Iraqis or jubilant Hamas Party members.

  Whatever the reason, the looming sycamore trees which were too close to the north wing of the Madrasah repeatedly opened and closed their branches, revealing a window through which three young Holy men could be espied, buoyant upon a wave of electronic impudence. They were soon-to-be graduates of the Madrasah. Embryonic mullahs, they had memorised the Holy Quran but at that very moment they were indulging in that act of impish behaviour all first-time users of a webcam seem to enjoy, irrespective of custom, creed and culture: gesticulatory abuse.

  The least enthusiastic participant, Musa, sat by the computer trying to configure a microphone, a webcam, Yahoo messenger and a Windows XP operating system to work in unison so that his cousin in Pakistan (also a Holy man with awesome credentials) could hear and see him. His two comrades, Ali and Basto, crouched behind him, working their index fingers in a furious oscillatory motion.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum. Jahangir, can you hear me?”

  “Waalaikum assalaam, Musa. I am hearing you wonderful, but I cannot make vision with you,” Jahangir’s clipped English crackled slightly.

  Musa adjusted the webcam so that its elliptical window faced him.

  “How is that, Brother Jahangir?”

  “It is better with Musa, but I think there is great disturbance behind you. It looks as though it is raining fingers in the background.”

  Musa scowled and waved angrily behind him. “Hey, guys cut it out! Grow up would you?” oblivious to the fact that his one-fingered salute, given a few irate moments ago, had started the mother of all one-fingered salutes.

  Ali and Basto stood up and chortled. Ali was Samson-like with his shoulder-length hair and immense physical strength. His craggy, haughty features were better-suited to a mountainside since mountains, according to the Quran, refused the privilege of emotion. Ali was the voice of hard realism in the group and he despised sentiment and slowness. For this reason he often fought with Basto, who by unspoken, common consent was the slowest of the three. But Basto wasn’t bothered for he lived in a state of perpetual peace, a streetwise version of the Dalai Lama, aglow with his shaven head and cherubic face.

  Musa tweaked the webcam again and slowly Jahangir began to emerge from the digitalised nebulae as a sombre-looking young man whose black hair was combed back in the manner of a 1930s’ film star. His face filled most of the screen now, and the three young men were slightly unnerved by the stern eyes and the hard flat line that served as his mouth.

  “Welcome, Brother Jahangir!” said Musa, as though he had just walked through the door.

  “The welcome is mine, the welcome is mine, how are you?”

  “Oh, fine thank you. How are Aunty and Uncle?”

  “They are sending their most warm regards, Musa. Um…how is your sister?” Jahangir’s voice changed into a more cautious mode, as though he were enquiring about the presence of landmines.

  Ali exchanged a knowing smile with Basto. Shabnam was famed for her dazzling green eyes aflame in her pale complexion and notorious for her acerbic tongue which sadly did nothing to detract her many admirers on whom she lavished contempt and derision. She called Ali RGD (recessive gene dump) on account of his parents being cousins and his fiercely pronounced nose. Clearly, Jahangir had also been bitten by the Shabnam bug.

  “Oh, the same, Jahangir. Everyone is trying hard to find her a suitable husband, but she treats each one like betel leaves: she chews them up and spits them out!” Musa laughed at the wittiness of his metaphor. All this, however, was lost on Jahangir, whose eyes widened in alarm. Turning away he hollered a name, and after a few moments a more genial face filled the screen.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikum Uncle,” said Musa.

  “Waalaikum assalaam, Musa,” responded Uncle, leaning forward until his nostrils engulfed the entire monitor. The three Holy young men were treated to a surgical view of an enclave that might have been situated in the Amazon rain forest, filled as it was with green hairy vines.

  “Why do you not recite to us your award-winning poem, son?” he bellowed.

  “Uncle, you don’t need to shout, we can hear you fine and why don’t you lean back? We can’t see you properly.”

  Uncle sat back and smiled with the expectant joy of a child about to be told that Santa will visit him tonight. Musa noticed the incipient yearning in his face and sighed. The event to which his uncle was referring was a poetry competition organised by the Madrasah. One night after Musa had eaten a halal burger that must have come from a toxic cow, he had stumbled into the common room, nauseous and unable to sleep. To soothe the tumult in his belly, he loaded a DVD of Shakespeare in Love. On that very auspicious night, the combination of intestinal acid and the wonder of love had inspired him to write a majestic poem which won the competition and now every dumb schmuck wanted to hear it recited.

  Quite unnecessarily, Musa cleared his throat and inhaled a lungful of the oxygen which energised only poets. Basto and Ali’s expressions slipped into a “not this shit again” cast.

  In the cave that is our soul

  The darkness is our desire for power.

  Blind bats flee from our call

  To nest in a sane man’s tower.

  Laden is the heart that seeks respite

  From this world’s deadly fight.

  As always when reciting the poem, Musa’s voice assumed a more refined, plummy, cadence. A passer-by might have thought himself privy to a newscast but across the cyberspace which separated Musa and Uncle, a chorus of angels sang.

  “Oh…that is so nice and beautiful Musa. I am so proud of you. Who could ever think that the little boy who used to slide on his bottom whenever he wanted to move could write something so nice and pretty? Hold on one second, you must recite this to your aunty.”

  Musa sat still, exultant in the praise of his poetic prowess and his chest swelled. Ali briefly wondered if Musa’s kameez would burst the way he had seen in the Incredible Hulk.

  Aunty, like her husband, beamed her pride at her prodigious nephew into the webcam. The years had taken their toll and her face was jowly, but each jowl quivered with joy. Even the single streak of silvery hair that fell across her lined forehead seemed to swish happily.

  “Hello Musa. Congratulations. This is a great moment for this family. I remember your father when he first left to come to England and…” she elongated the and, sounding like a boxing-match commentator, “he say to me that after five years he will come back, but I say to him you must stay in England for the sake of your children
and now…” her voice choked with emotion, “his son is talking English the way English people do!”

  Musa tried hard to sound casual and weary. “Oh it’s nothing Aunty, it’s just inspiration. You know the way Allah inspired the bee to make honeycombs and the Prophet Noah to build the ark. It’s…more or less the same.”

  Aunty smiled and nodded her head at each syllable, looking increasingly blank as she tried to unravel Musa’s thread of modesty. Ali and Basto glanced at each other and shook their heads in disgust.

  Musa recited his poem again and, as before, the reaction was ecstatic.

  “Oh Musa that is lovely. It is like hearing…” Aunty’s face creased as she struggled to think of a suitable comparison…” water rushing over a…a…waterfall. No it is much better than that actually. It is like hearing children singing in a playground or like a song sung by…by…a singer, you know what I mean don’t you son?”

  Before Musa could reply she hurried on: “Musa, could you recite the poem again slowly, so I can write it down and get my son Hosnaan to make a T-shirt with the poem on the front. He is getting very high in textiles you know!”

  “Oh no, Aunty, there’s no need for that. I mean it’s just a poem,” said Musa unconvincingly.

  “Musa, it is my duty. Besides look at the rubbish people are wearing on their T-shirts nowadays.” Aunty leant forward in the manner of someone about to impart a national secret. “The other day on the bus I see a young man with a T-shirt that said MR ZERO IS HERO, so I went up to him and asked: ‘Who is Mr Zero?’ and you know what he said? ‘It’s just a name, get off my case, mad woman!’ I told him, ‘If your mama had been on your case properly you would not be turning up like this.’” Aunty leant back, outrage plastered all over her face. “But it is getting like this now! Too many illegitimate children are using public transport! Anyway, please to recite poem again, but slowly please.”

  Aunty readied herself with pen and paper and Musa did as he was told, sounding distinctly unhinged. Ali nudged Basto and gestured towards the door.

  Sometime later, after he had recited his poem to yet more relatives and had successfully fielded questions about his future with the ultimate in philosophical one-liners (he repeated “Live” to anyone who asked what he planned to do), Musa looked around and found that he was completely alone.

  At that very moment, in a small dingy room in Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorism unit, a young detective constable sat facing a giant screen covered with concentric green circles in the centre of which flashed a red light emitting an intensely irritating, electronic noise. The room was without windows and there was no ventilation apart from that emanating from Detective Inspector Harvey Edwards who sat snoring in his chair, his ruddy cheeks swelling ever so slightly as he let loose explosions of sound.

  Paul Dearden looked dejectedly at his superior officer. How the hell could the man sleep so much? Throughout every accursed day over the past six months, ever since he had been assigned to the decryption unit, Edwards snored blissfully, waking only towards the end of the shift when he would burp, look foggily at Dearden with those huge blue eyes, run a trembling hand through his spiky ginger hair and, knowing full well how annoying his junior officer found it, he would say in a parody of a Yorkshire accent, “Awreet our kid. Owt been happenin’? No? Nowt? Let’s have a yaw down the local then.” He would then stand, shake his drooping gut, with both hands and march briskly out of the room. A yaw meant conversation and owt did not mean the conventional out but anything. And gander meant look, and tab meant cigarette, and ullet meant owl, and nark meant annoy and that was the only fucking decryption he had done since coming to the unit: unravelling the vernacular of DI Edwards.

  As his mentor snored on, Dearden stretched, smoothed the lapel of his jacket and gently pushed back his black hair, enjoying its reassuring thickness. Bored, he walked across to Edwards’ desk, picked up his newspaper and rolled it up tightly. Then he whacked his superior officer on the head; he had done this plenty of times before and never once did Edwards wake up but the exercise did release a certain amount of frustration in Dearden. Glumly he fanned himself with the newspaper. He deserved so much better than this. A tall athletic graduate of University College London with a degree in Mathematics and a Masters in Algorithmic Operations, he should have been a banker or an economist but at the end of his studies he had decided, “I’m tired of being a bookworm. I want to experience life. Be an adventurer. I mean come on! How many girls have said I look like the young Sean Connery?’And so, despite his parents’ fury, he had joined Scotland Yard and was immediately accepted on the accelerated Intelligence Officer course. But when he had emerged top of his class with a fantastic working knowledge of Aikido, what had he really achieved? How could he have known that he would end up in this shithole?

  He jumped out of his skin when, shattering the tedium, a voice on the intercom announced,” Incoming Echelon alert. Level 4. Sending through now. Repeat, sending through now.”

  Dearden rushed to the huge Kyocera printer which churned out a single piece of paper containing that indecipherable code which he, only he, would crack, and that would herald his dazzling ascent through the ranks. And then the grey faces, those pompous officious jerks, would know his name. Yes, that was the way forward. That was the mistake he had made – it wasn’t just what you knew, it was who you knew.

  He picked up the sheet of paper, his hands quivering with eagerness, and stared at a poem…He frowned. Had a mistake been made? Echelon 4 signalled an imminent threat. Then he saw it – the name. It wasn’t really that complex.

  He would have to wake Edwards. This was too important. But how to bring this tub of lard to life? Rummaging in the man’s pockets he found his lighter. Once again he picked up the newspaper and rolled it into a tight cylinder. This he gently inserted into the large gaping mouth and carefully lit the end. Slowly, fire-rimmed ashes crumbled over the gigantic belly.

  Edwards shuddered and sighed, “Maggie,” but he did not wake up.

  Dearden wondered who the hell Maggie was. Edwards was married to some hag called Lizzie. He had met her, briefly, at the Christmas party and remembered her strong handshake. She had caused a bit of a stir that evening as she went into a pinching frenzy after drinking too much although he himself had avoided her fingers.

  He looked thoughtfully at the blinking screen. Something else from that insane party floated into his mind. He had been standing with a group of fellow officers and one of them, commiserating with Dearden, said what a relief it was that he no longer had to work with “that lazy sod”. He added that the only way to get a reaction was to call him Billy Bunter.

  It couldn’t hurt to try. Dearden leaned over and whispered in Edwards’ ear,” Wakey, wakey Billy Bunter.”

  Edwards immediately opened his eyes.

  “Good afternoon sir. You will not believe what has happened. I’ve just cracked —”

  Dearden never completed his sentence. A fist struck his jaw and knocked him over.

  It was dawn. Musa smoothed his kameez and looked out of the window. The Madrasah was surrounded by a park now enclosed by high iron railings. The park had been the idea of the local council who thought that a large swathe of greenery would quell the turbulent spirit of the demonstrators who frequently marched through their area. The theory was that the young warriors would be distracted by the lush foliage and plentiful trees and perhaps be tempted to gambol through its sinuous footpaths rather than scream anti-establishment slogans like a horde of demented banshees. Sadly, the saplings were uprooted within the first month and any protestor fool enough to stop and admire the artistry of God was in for the same treatment. Now the view beyond the Madrasah was a rectangular dump filled with the conversation of the criminally active, along with snores of the sleeping vagrants for whom the park was a kind of retirement home. On the occasions when angry demonstrators did march through chanting, “Affordable housing” or “Free education” so incensed did the protestors become, that they would vent t
heir spleen on the park dwellers. To prevent an escalation into violence, the council had erected the iron fence. Musa smiled sadly. It was all there in that gloomy canvas of suburban life: the desolate reality of this world.

  He turned away from the window and noticed a partially open box containing what looked like a shawl lying on his bed. He pushed the lid aside wondering who it was for: a gift for Ali’s rarely mentioned mother, perhaps? The buying and receiving of presents though was far away from Ali’s nature. Musa lifted the scarf and underneath it was an abaya, a thin gown to cover the body from the shoulders to the feet. Underneath the abaya was a hijab to cover the head. All were made from the simplest black cloth. At the bottom of the box were gloves.

  Musa, still holding the abaya, walked to the mirror. The room, like all the rooms in the Madrasah, was spartan and bare. The grey carpet was plain and when the room was warm it gave off a faint rubberised odour. The walls were an old, blistered white; even the mirror was covered in layers of dust. Musa gazed at his obscured reflection and then down at the abaya. The Sisters. The veiled entities who existed on the other side of the Madrasah. Always shrouded yet so full of presence. When they looked at you, even though you could not see them or the expression in their eyes, it always seemed somehow that their layered garments uncovered their silent appraisal. You felt the shadow of their opinions before you were aware of their silhouettes. What was it that gave them this aura of omniscience, wondered Musa? He looked back at the bed and then again at himself in the mirror. No…it was too crazy…but still it would be interesting, like an experiment, and no one need ever know. He’d have a job explaining it if he was seen, but even so…

  The idea began to snowball in his mind: to hell with it, it was just a two minute job, nothing more. Musa quickly put on the abaya, just as he would put on a jumper. Next came the hijab. He placed it on his head and pulled it down. It was loose; clearly Ali’s mother had a big head, just like her son. A thin piece of gauze, something he had not noticed before, fell from the top, covering his eyes. Then there was the shawl, all he had to do was to wrap it around his shoulders and that was all there was to it: he had crossed over.