The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  She spoke to Shabnam quickly in Punjabi. “Do you know why Dadaji is coming?” she asked in a tone that almost answered the question.

  “He only comes if someone is dead or dying or someone is about to be married,” replied Shabnam.

  “Be alert and watch what you say when he comes. He can pick up on what you mean like an eagle can sweep up his prey,” warned Amma.

  “Does it make any difference whether you watch what you say or not? He’ll do whatever he likes and Aboo will go along with it,” said Shabnam coldly.

  “Your Aboo is not easy to talk to these days. You know he worries.”

  “Was he ever easy to talk to?” asked Shabnam.

  “All I’m trying to tell you is that you can save yourself a lot of trouble by thinking before you speak,” answered Amma patiently.

  “OK. OK. Who’s he trying to fix up? Me, Musa, all three of us at the same time?”

  “Musa for sure…you two I don’t know about yet.” Amma’s voice hardened. “In any case the time comes for all daughters and it has come for you now. It is becoming clear to everyone that you are not interested in your studies.”

  “I am as interested as any girl who knows she can study all she likes but is going to end up in the same place,” said Shabnam automatically.

  “That place is no bad place. It is the place where all the women since Eve started from,” replied Amma indignantly. “Building a home and raising good children is not easy.” She stopped for a brief second. “You try and make it by yourself without your Aboo and your brother and you will realise what kind of people are out there.”

  Shabnam suddenly tired of this ritual argument and her indifference crested to deaden her eyes and silence her voice. That was how she felt most of the time, as if she was being shoved into a room only to realise she had never left it in the first place. It was true what Amma said. The subjects she was taking at college, Health and Social Care, and Psychology, did not particularly interest her. She did not struggle to understand but she struggled to connect, to find that spark that would get her head deeper into her studies. Even in the group activities and debates she would look around at her animated classmates and feel a slow steady surge of contempt at their enthusiasm for such mindless tasks. But if someone were to ask her what she would rather do she could not honestly reply. Some recruitment woman at college had once asked her that and became angry when she started laughing. She sensed that at home it didn’t really matter much. Clever girls who were watchful and kept their mouths shut were not really any happier than the dumb ones who accepted everything and kept quiet. In other families girls were treated differently, as if they were glass dolls or something. Everyone rushed around to protect them and loved it when they were cheeky and confident. Maybe it was just as well her family was not like that. She was fairly certain she would have got bored with everyone kissing her ass all the time.

  She wondered whether the arrival of Musa would change Aboo for the better, or would just make him more moody and irritable. Her brother’s homecoming did not cause any great rumble in her heart. She viewed him the way she would view the traffic on the high street, noisy and always there, but not important enough for her to worry about. Sometimes she would look at him keenly, curiously, but she never really talked to him a great deal. When Musa was a baby, everyone had been delighted at his precocious babbling and this encouraged him even more. To her he just never made sense, then or now.

  There was a change in him these days, for sure. In the earlier days, on the rare occasions when he came home he was so chirpy that it grated on her and she had to get busy with something or else she’d snap at him. But lately he seemed more thoughtful and, as was the case with all her three brothers, that meant more troubled. That was why Amma was so quiet these days, the unsettled tremor that had claimed her sons one by one was now gathering around Musa.

  The empty sigh that escaped her then met with the vibrant sounds of duty buzzing in the kitchen and as duty has a way of doing, enfolded her and took away the name of her unhappiness.

  The lights in the living room had now dimmed and the street was gradually withdrawing as commotion and noise dissipated into the fold of the night.

  Suleiman stood outside in the cold inhaling his cigarette in exactly the same manner as he would have inhaled a cigarette six or seven hours ago. He was watching a young Asian guy talking to a young Asian girl. The guy was undoubtedly Pakistani and the girl was definitely Indian, maybe Sikh. You knew the guy was Pakistani because he was unsure how to do what he wanted to do and this made him tense and talk fast. He was wearing a blue denim shirt with all the buttons done up, jeans that looked almost black and trainers that must have come straight from the box. The girl was obviously Indian because she was handling the situation better than a Pakistani girl would have done. She was at ease in her dazzlingly white tracksuit bottoms and a Nike jacket. She was talking too, but in a relaxed easy way, and she was being kind to her suitor with her polite smile and the mechanical laughter she offered to his awkward sound bites. It was the arms that unmasked her lack of interest: they were folded tight across her chest while she nodded her head at the shit he was undoubtedly feeding her.

  “You’re sinking you dumb fuck and you don’t even know it,” thought Suleiman, putting out his cigarette and going back inside.

  Aboo was listlessly watching the news. Images of war, hunger, and sectarian strife flickered across his face and as ever nothing registered. Suleiman sat on the sofa and waited patiently. He toyed with the idea of bringing the subject up but decided against it. Aboo was a card that you could never play no matter how well you thought you knew him. After an indeterminate amount of time, Aboo’s chest heaved and he expelled air as if it was festering inside him. He then looked levelly at Suleiman, something he did not do in front of other people.

  “Bring Musa back and sort him out a job with your guys. Something heavy and hard.”

  “Sure but Musa’s not gonna last long with manual work. Why not get him doing something in the mosque like voluntary work with the kids. Teaching them Islam and all that stuff.”

  “I’ve seen people in the Zakaria Masjid. They sit there all the time talking, talking, and never doing any real work. Just sitting there like chickens waiting for their young ones to hatch.” Aboo smiled briefly. “Sometimes they have problems with the missis and so decide to live in the mosque and talk about Islam all day long. Let Musa know what it is to work and suffer and then he will learn how much easier it was to learn about Islam. I don’t want him becoming like those bloody fools in the mosque.”

  “I don’t see how he’s going to be any different,” said Suleiman thoughtfully.

  Aboo looked at his second son long and hard, mixing in everything he knew with everything he did not want to know. When he spoke it was in the whisper of his own father’s voice.

  “That’s because to you there is no difference between cloth that has never been dirty and cloth that was never really clean in the first place. A son that has the mark of a true Muslim is a son that can make it easy for his mum and dad when their time comes.”

  “But that kind of son always fucks up the life of his own kids. Just like…” thought Suleiman to himself yet when he spoke he was as laconic and unconcerned as he always appeared to be.

  “OK Aboo. Whatever you say. I’ll bring Musa back tomorrow. Just go easy on him. He makes too much damn noise when he disagrees with something.”

  “Eat before you go,” commanded Aboo as Suleiman rose to leave.

  Suleiman obeyed as he always did and as always his obedience left no imprint in his father’s vision, for Aboo opined in stone and Suleiman, through a circumstance completely beyond his control, always found himself bearing the hard-edged brunt of an undeserving estimation.

  After dinner when the plates had been cleared and their children had left them alone, Amma sat heavily on the floor, cross-legged as was her custom, and looked up at her husband of forty years. She remained still, in patient repos
e, but the long black gown she wore spilt uneasily around her like viscous trouble.

  Without fear of reprimand or consequence she spoke out. “Are you really aware of what is going on around us?”

  “Of course. Do you think I live on the moon?” Aboo replied nonchalantly.

  “The moon would be too good for us. At least then your eyes would be on us for some of the time.”

  “My eyes never leave this family,” said Aboo.

  “Hmm. One eye back home and the other with us.”

  “You never get tired of saying that,” he remarked dismissively.

  “Day by day you seem more and more lost,” said Amma desperately.

  “Wrong Begum, wrong. I sometimes think if I could just lose myself, my mind, my conscience, my responsibilities, and become, as they say, senile, it would be a blessing from Allah. That way the trouble you get from thinking would just go. Perhaps that’s the reason why English people drink. They want to forget and be happy.”

  Amma sighed knowing that no argument would ever penetrate.

  “How long is Dadaji staying?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. He thinks he can swing it all his way. Maybe he can. It’s all simple from where he stands. I still need my father. Our children will never need me the same way. In any case his intentions about Musa are firm.”

  “Iram?” asked Amma.

  “Yes Iram. Dadaji has stood watch over her all her life and he will never accept the idea of her marrying outside the family.”

  “Iram…is not pretty you know,” said Amma as if troubled by her very acceptance of this fact.

  “Pretty or not, what difference does it make? Pretty ones are more of a burden for their parents.”

  “Will Musa accept?” asked Amma hesitantly.

  “Don’t you know your own son? He will never accept what is in front of him. He is someone who will dream of the stars while lying in the sun,” said Aboo without derision.

  “It was you who spoilt him,” Amma retorted.

  “All fathers spoil their youngest and all mothers spoil their eldest. I remember Dadaji telling me that when they were all young,” said Aboo his voice soft and gentle.

  Amma let her head drop.

  “Don’t do that. There’s no point to it. We must have trust in Allah. Whatever happens is His will.” Aboo stood up slowly.

  “It’s time for prayer,” he said with more energy.

  Despite her husband’s admonishment Amma’s head remained bowed even as he closed the front door, leaving for the mosque. But gradually her antennae of orderliness awakened her to the untidiness of the room. Quickly and instinctively she got to her feet and began to straighten displaced cushions. Everything seemed disjointed and this irritated her immensely. She went to the kitchen and took the vacuum cleaner from its cupboard and returned to the front room. She noticed that a picture frame was slightly lopsided, as if someone had taken it off the wall for a closer look and carelessly put it back. In the frame was a short composition written almost twenty years ago. Amma read what she had read a thousand times:

  My family

  My family is the best in the world because everyone has a shiny face.

  I think my dad is the strongest in the world because he lifts me up. And puts me on shoulders and laughs like a nut case.

  I think my baby brother Musa is the cutest in the world and he laughs. When I rub him on the back every time he does a hiccup. Whenever he cries Sally and me make funny faces to make him stop and laugh but he doesn’t, only my Mum laughs.

  I think my sister Shabnam is the prettiest girl in the world and people always look at her and smile when I have to hold her hand at the bus stop.

  Sally is my bestest friend but sometimes he’s a bit greedy and always wants what I have. Mum always sticks up for him and says it’s OK he’s your brother.

  My Dad says because I’m the oldest people should listen to me.

  I say because I’m the oldest my Mum should stop hugging me.

  Javed

  When he was in primary school Javed had won a prize for his effort. Aboo had laughed long and loud when he had read it, and eagerly showed it to all his friends.

  Amma wondered who had re-read the composition. It was impossible to say for certain. She used to be able to tell when her children or her husband thought about Javed. A certain heavy quiet would settle in the room and she would look up and see disquiet on a face. But gradually Javed had made the transition from unspoken name to silent thought which as the years went became more like a whisper that you did not want to strain to hear.

  Javed, her first born, left thirteen years ago and had never returned. Amma tilted her head slightly and closed her eyes as if trying to re-awaken the scent of him in her memory. She was surprised at how quickly and painlessly it all came back.

  She remembered at the time that Suleiman and Javed, though only eleven months apart, had somehow found a different group of friends. Javed was then about seventeen and his friends were entirely English. He would sometimes bring them home and she felt they were all too informal and relaxed for their age. They lounged on her sofa with legs that seemed elastic, laughed for no apparent reason and smelling the cigarettes and alcohol on them she would frown disapprovingly. They in turn would grin in amused tolerance. Suleiman’s friends were Pakistani and they were more respectful and watchful in front of her and this pleased her enough to ignore the smell of tobacco and alcohol on their clothes.

  Javed became increasingly distant and brooded a great deal and even Suleiman seemed unable to talk to him. Every night he went out and did not return until the early hours of the morning. Then he disappeared for five days. After the sixth day she told Aboo who, instead of going to the police, went to look for his oldest son with his friends. He returned the following morning with Javed who had a black eye. He dragged him upstairs and threw him into his bedroom. When he came back down Amma asked him fearfully,” Who was he staying with?” but the outrage on his face answered her question.

  That night Javed left for good. She had woken up with a start and heard footsteps creeping down the stairs. Without disturbing her husband she got out of bed. Javed and Suleiman were in the living room talking in low ugly voices. She steadied her trembling hand on the door and listened with her eyes closed.

  “It’s not your money, Jav. Put it back,” said Suleiman.

  “Stay out of it, Sal.”

  “Where you gonna go? You can’t make it by yourself. Think, Jav. Think. That’s all I’m asking you to do. Just think it through!”

  “I’m tired of thinking, Sal. You can think all you like. But it ain’t ever gonna get better. Not for you. Not for me. Not for anyone.”

  “Let me come with you, Javed.”

  There was a long pause and she felt in her heart the ache of one of her sons. Then she heard the reply.

  “I’m not taking you with me. There’s only room for two of us.”

  “You and…”

  Javed laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Me and—”

  “You can’t even say the fucking name.”

  Then she walked in and saw Javed with his hand full of notes taken from the jar that she used to save up money for going on pilgrimage. He was bare-chested, wearing only jeans and trainers. His hair was spiked up and his face looked pale, unnaturally pale, and his lips were red and fierce.

  She recognised her oldest son’s expression. It was that of a spoilt child who could never accept the word no from his parents. She never knew what was written on her own face in that moment, only that it was enough to stop Suleiman in his tracks and push Javed away from their lives.

  Javed pocketed the notes, glanced at Suleiman and then walked past her with his head held high. The door closed and he was gone, taking a shard of innocence from all of them.

  As Amma continued to stare at the composition she became aware of the presence of another son, standing very still.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

  “No one eve
r does,” Suleiman replied quietly.

  More than three thousand miles away, in the village of Aima Ladian, a nightly ritual was taking place in an old ancestral home or haveli. Like most village houses in Pakistan the rooms surrounded a central pillared courtyard in the far corner of which was a small brick-lined space containing a stack of pots and pans. Nearby, stone stairs led to a spacious flat roof. Across the courtyard, from wall to wall, hung faded blue clotheslines.

  The three uncles, having finished their meal in silence, placed three string beds in the centre of the open courtyard. Their aged father lay back, propped up by cushions, on one bed, the sated brothers sat together on another and on the third sat their wives, the aunties. This was their daily opportunity to piece together the truth of the events shaping their lives. An old fan roared and turned in the corner, blowing cool air over them.

  The younger children were in one of the rooms watching forbidden films. There was only one older, nubile child, Iram, and at night she sat at the edge of the courtyard, her head resting against a pillar, watching her star.

  Sirius, the dwarf star, the brightest in the sky, is the jewel of the constellation and at night this giant ball of fire becomes the emblem of life for the whimsical few who still have an innate belief that within the stars rests the signature of their life. Every night when the uncles gathered in the courtyard, Iram would fix her gaze upon Sirius, and inhale the way smokers do when surveying the day.

  Sometimes she imagined herself to be Sirius in human form, majestic and aloof, aware in the remotest possible way of the ramblings and idiocies of those below. She had once heard Uncle Tasin say that Sirius was mentioned in the Holy Quran and it fell every five hundred years. This she accepted passively as she accepted most things, but afterwards she wondered whether it was true. She couldn’t imagine something so large and wondrous ever falling and how could it get back again? Uncle Tasin was not really known for his wealth of factual knowledge. He was talking now, leaning back and recalling his exploits of the day as he always did while his wife watched with a worried frown.