The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Titty Soups, keeping his eyes on Neelam, gestured to the stairs with a nod of his head. She stood up and he quickly followed her. As he passed Musa he raised his hand in anticipation of a High Five.

  “No peeking,” he whispered.

  Musa was greeted by the pungent odour of tobacco and the sound of the hookah bubbling slowly as its smoker chewed over his thoughts. Dadaji was still awake and Musa realised that he had been waiting for him.

  “Come in Barkhodar.” Musa smiled at hearing his grandfather call him respected friend.

  Musa sat on the floor and waited for the patriarch to speak. Dadaji rested his head against the wall, dislodging his turban slightly as he did so. His eyes were narrowed with introspection.

  “What have you seen? What have you lost?” he asked softly.

  Musa sensed the underlying question. Most of Dadaji’s questions were oblique; plain talk was not something he was familiar with.

  “I saw many things. Some of them I may well forget others I will never forget.”

  “When the veil of the beard is undone, the things you see are not always what they seem. Shaitan casts his arrow hard and the first arrow is always aimed at the eye.”

  “Must it always come back to that?”

  Dadaji leant forward, his face animated and amused.

  “You have seen yourself exalted in the eyes of women, have you not?”

  “Yes I have. How did you know?” asked Musa.

  “You are filled with pride. I have seen such pride in women who know the power of their appearance.”

  “Are these women any happier because of their power?”

  Dadaji settled back again. He seemed pleased by the question.

  “Those who are born with physical beauty cause riots in the eyes of those around them. A riot in a person’s eye speaks of passion in his heart.”

  “Doesn’t passion come about because a person wants so badly to have those things which are not in front of him?”

  “Can you see what is in front of you Musa? Only yesterday you were a child so how can you tell the real from the illusory? A lie from the truth?”

  “But why do you need to know these things? Why should every moment of life be a quest to seek hidden meanings? I am not a Sufi, Dadaji. Neither do I want to be. I just want to be me, Musa.”

  “What I am trying to tell you is that every time a woman looks at you with a lusty eye it is not a guarantee of happiness. It is not a doorway to Heaven.”

  Hearing the compassion in his voice Musa respected his grandfather but without thinking he replied in English, “Yeah but who gives a shit?”

  Dadaji looked amused and Musa had the strange feeling that he had understood every word.

  “What I am trying to say is maybe you’re right. When a woman looks at you it doesn’t always mean that the Angel Gabriel is going to come down from the seventh heaven and lift you up. And it doesn’t have to mean that Shaitan is going to take you by the hand and lead you off to hellfire. All it means is that someone has looked at you and liked you. That someone could be a tramp or a princess. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that she looked at you and for a little while you flew. That’s a great feeling to have Dadaji. To feel like you’re young and going places that maybe you never knew you could go to. You don’t always have to know the truth to be happy.”

  “You sound as if you are ready for your first day,” said Dadaji.

  “I think maybe I am.”

  Dadaji smiled and lay down again. He raised his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, as if he were trying to recall something he wanted to say. But no words came. And Musa was too tired for any more soul-searching questions. Dadaji lived in his own world, and the view from his world influenced everyone else’s. There was no denying his presence although Musa felt there was now little to fear from this frail, dignified old man.

  He remembered the stories he had heard about him when growing up: the tyrannical overlord who forbade his pregnant mother from joining her husband; the ferocious father who pushed his baby daughter on to the floor when she was placed next to him; the violent man who beat one of his sons senseless and then refused to pay to send him to hospital. He had never demonstrated his concern yet somehow he commanded the devotion of all around him.

  Dadaji’s head fell to one side. Musa carefully spread the thin blanket over him, making sure that he would not be exposed to the uncertain cold of the night.

  11

  The motorway roared with the frenetic sounds of cars occupied by people maddened by their haste. The competitors for the greatest speed were infuriated by a silver Passat that motored along sedately in the middle lane at 52 mph and as they overtook the car, they horned their anger at the nonchalant driver who responded to their abuse with an index finger so casually flicked upwards he might have been drying his nail varnish.

  A passenger in the backseat was becoming annoyed by the continual interruptions.

  “Suleiman, do you think you could maybe drive faster or should I get out and run ahead and tell them we’re on our way?” asked Shabnam.

  “Calm down sis. If I drove any faster, you wouldn’t have as much time to prepare Musa. Look at him, he’s about ready to crap himself. Ain’t that so Musa?”

  Musa responded to the solicitous concern of his brother by raising his own index finger in a slightly more agitated manner. Suleiman chuckled and settled back, humming to himself.

  Shabnam asked, “This Armila girl. Who is she? Why is she going to all the trouble of surfing through the internet and registering with muslimbrides. co. uk and finding a bride for you?” she queried sharply.

  “Calm down, Shabnam. Musa met her when he went to work for Babarr and they hit it off big time. They’re always on the phone to each other,” said Suleiman.

  “When I answered and she told me that she’d found a bride for Musa, she sounded like she was my mum! She is one bossy cow!”

  “Maybe you two have a lot more in common than you think!” grinned Suleiman.

  Shabnam glared at the back of his head and then reached into her bag and pulled out a set of cards which she had prepared for Musa.

  “OK Musa, let’s start again.” She cleared her throat. “Are you a man’s man or a wussy good-doing mama’s boy?”

  Musa sighed and dutifully read out the response on the card.

  “Unfortunately I have never taken part in any serious physical activity and I have never been involved in any punch-ups which is just as well because I would have been flattened.” He was about to protest but Shabnam waved him on. “So in that sense of the word, no I am not a man. I do, however, have other advantages. I have memorised the Quran and am knowledgeable in other important areas of Islam. If you marry me I can perform the marriage ceremony for other people in your family and I can teach the Quran to our children and any other children in the family. You will never have to hire an imam and that means you will have more money to play with. And since I have no real concept of money, that money would be your money…”

  Musa threw down the card. “I can’t take this shit anymore!”

  Shabnam promptly handed him another. “Come on now, just a few more. How do you feel about your wife wearing cosmetics?”

  Musa looked puzzled as he read the reply. “I think cosmetics are the greatest invention since computers. Cosmetics make women look beautiful. I see no reason why men can’t use light cosmetics. It is unfair that women should have all the pressure of looking good.”

  “Are you marrying this girl or Musa?” asked Suleiman contemptuously.

  “Shut up Suleiman, concentrate on the driving. OK Musa, how do you feel about housework?”

  “It is a duty and a privilege for a man to participate in it,” read out Musa.

  “Privilege my ass,” muttered Suleiman.

  Shabnam punched the back of the driver’s seat. “All right Musa, now seal the deal.”

  Musa squinted at the final card. “I promise not to have more than two children. I promise
to respect the moods of my wife. I will not make unreasonable demands and I will honour and obey her until death does me in. Death does me in!” he exclaimed.

  “Yeah I know it sounds kind of common and plain but if I said ‘Death do us part’ it would have sounded too much like the way English people marry.”

  “We’re coming off at this junction now. So get ready, we’ll be there soon,” warned Suleiman.

  After a mile Musa saw from the window “Welcome to Nelson” written in faded black letters on a board that hung so loosely from its metal frame that it was about ready to descend on the next welcoming Nelsonion that walked past. He took a deep breath and brushed the front of his black tunic which he was wearing with matching black trousers and a jacket that had a leafy motif around its edges. This outfit had been chosen by Shabnam who wanted to convey an impression of simple elegance. She herself looked suitably attired for the occasion; hair neatly coiffed, green eyeliner to accentuate her eyes, and a white silk tunic and trousers.

  Nelson appeared to be a hillier version of his own town. Grim terraced houses were wedged closely together and the streets were noisy. Children played football and laughed gleefully every time the ball ricocheted off a parked car. Elderly Asian women talked ardently outside their front doors. Midway through the terraces were alleys lined with overflowing bins.

  “This is it, Carr Road. Parking is gonna be a son of a bitch,” said Suleiman but he soon swerved the car into a narrow space between two battered minis.

  “Musa, you get out now and get a feel for the place before you knock on the door,” said Suleiman.

  Musa did as he was told. He shut the car door and stretched his arms. The sun caught his eyes and he lingered in that posture, bathing his face in the warmth. He wondered if there was a prayer he could recite, but it probably wouldn’t have made any difference. Aware of the overpowering odour of curry he smiled; he could have just as easily knocked on the door of a Pakistani family living in the street next to them and asked for their daughter’s hand in marriage. He began to walk up the road, checking the numbers as he did so.

  Back in the car, Suleiman scowled and turned to Shabnam.

  “What was the meaning of all that nonsense?”

  “I know. I know. It was over the top. But how else could I prep him? He doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. You know what he’s like. You may not believe this but yesterday I caught him watching some old movie, An Affair to Remember or something. You know those weepy films where the hero runs around and speaks in a posh voice and the woman just falls over herself. That’s what he thinks this shit is gonna be like.” Shabnam shook her head in disgust.

  “OK but if you can, act supportive like an older sister is supposed to be. Don’t be shoving the law into every man’s gob. One day you’re gonna go through this shit yourself.”

  Watching his brother he asked flatly, “What’s the name of this little bombshell?”

  “Dinah Hijazi.”

  “Well, let’s go make it happen,” said Suleiman.

  He got out of the car and opened the door for Shabnam. Re-arranging her scarf around her neck, she paused for a moment and gauged her brother’s clothes. Grey pin-striped suit with red braces, all very flash.

  “You rob a bank?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  “You got your secrets. I got mine. C’mon let’s go.”

  Musa, meanwhile, had found the front door open. He called out, “Assalaam-u-alaikum” but there was no response. He stepped into a narrow dark hall and heard a commotion upstairs.

  “C’mon Musa, look lively. Don’t just stand there gawking,” said Shabnam sharply. She pushed past him and shouted out hello. Again, nothing.

  “Isn’t that pathetic? They knew we were coming. I’ll go and find someone. You two plonk your asses in the living room.” She nodded to her left and then strode briskly ahead to a door with no handle.

  Suleiman suddenly seemed very uncomfortable.

  “I’ll go with Shabnam.”

  To Musa’s surprise, next to a bulging bookshelf in the living room sat a stout, bearded man with pomaded hair who jerked his head as if avoiding invisible tennis balls. Gingerly Musa edged forwards and sat on a small sofa facing him. There was a metallic noise of something snapping and he felt his backside slam against the hard wooden base. His knees came together and his arms were pinned to his sides.

  The bearded man jumped at the sound, and his head started to oscillate wildly. “Who’s there?” he asked nervously.

  “Um…Musa,” replied Musa fearfully.

  The bearded man’s head became still.

  “Ah, you’re here to see Dinah aren’t you?” His voice sounded odd, like that of a wheezy fortune-teller, prophesying gloom and doom.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. My name is Tahir. I’m her brother.” Tahir’s head started to move up and down, in an approving manner.

  “Hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long, Tahir,” said Musa, unconsciously moving his head up and down.

  “Not at all. We were wondering when you would show up–” he paused and slowly turned his face upwards, his eyes half closed, as if trying to smell Musa’s potential. “You’re a Holy man right?”

  At that moment Musa understood:Tahir was blind. He stared at him in fascination. He was certainly very well turned out: his brown checked shirt and corduroy trousers were clean and freshly pressed, and his suede shoes with black calf caps at the front looked new.

  Pulling himself together, Musa answered the question. “I suppose so.”

  “You’ve memorised the Quran haven’t you! That’s wicked.”

  “What do you do?” asked Musa.

  “I’ve just finished my PhD in chemistry. Unfolding of Proteins,” he said proudly.

  Tahir began to talk about his research, how his interest in the double-helix structure led him to the intricacies of protein, how he started to understand its ability to synthesise with all chemicals, and an image lofty enough to make angels swoon wafted to the fore of Musa’s panic-ridden mind. Dinah Hijazi, that saintly sibling who cared for her brother, tied his shoe laces, ironed his clothes, and probably even went to the laboratory with him to inform him of that eureka moment when the protein finally unfolded. He could see it all now! His wife! That beatific personification of virtue. It didn’t matter how she looked. In all likelihood she had that inner radiance from which all beauty gushed like a fountain of petals. And he would stand tall and proud at the apogee of this paradisal flow, bathing himself in the exquisite tenderness of her care. Unbidden the picture took shape in his mind. Coming home from the madrasah or wherever it was he would be working, she would be awaiting him with a warm soft smile of welcome. Ah!

  Just then, the door opened and Musa’s heart leapt.

  “Is it OK to come in?” Such a cheery voice thought Musa. Could it be?

  “Yes, come on in,” answered Tahir.

  “Is that her?” asked Musa eagerly.

  “No. That’s Samira, my other sister,” replied Tahir.

  With an effort, Musa got up. He saw a grinning face and he saw the footsteps, faltering and hesitant whilst carrying a tray of steaming tea. Samira put down the tray carefully and smiled in his direction. She had black frizzy hair, a dark complexion that shone with sweat and she too was blind. She, like Shabnam, was traditionally dressed but her pink woollen tunic and trousers looked as if they had seen one too many winters.

  “Hello Musa. How are you?” she asked brightly.

  “Oh I’m fine,” he replied, trying to keep his voice smooth and his heart-beat steady.

  “Tahir’s not showing off is he? He can sometimes be a terrible show-off!”

  “No, not at all, far from it. Um…excuse me, I need to find my brother and sister.” Musa hurriedly brushed past her.

  “Your brother’s in the front room,” Samira called out after him.

  He found Suleiman holding a cup of tea but unable to drink as his face was just centimetres from that of a gaunt
old man. The father, perhaps. Only the back of his head was visible and a few white wispy hairs stood out along that smooth round brown skull.

  “You see my son it is like this. When I came to this country in 1964, I had nothing. Only a set of instructions of how to send money. And I think to myself, how am I going to support all my family. But then work was easy to find. And you know I worked eighteen or nineteen hours a day. No holidays. People said to me you need to be spending quality time with your missis.

  “So one day I said to my boss that I wanted to take a day off and I told him why. He says OK, he was happy for me and all my mates clapped when I left work but when I got home, you know what my wife says? She calls me a lazy bastard. I say, ‘I want to spend some time with you.’ And she say, ‘Don’t try to fool me, I know. God gives you night-time for that, day-time you supposed to work. Go back to work. Don’t be lazy. How do you think we will pay for the marriages of our two daughters if you don’t work?’ And I am very much surprised, but now I can see the truth. Daughters honest to God, they are a mercy but they are a burden as well?”

  Before Suleiman could respond, the old man launched into another monologue. Musa shook his head in dismay and went off in search of Shabnam. She was coming out of an upstairs room and was standing on the landing, a wide smile on her face and the rarity of this spectacle startled him.

  “Shabnam, come here!” he hissed.

  “What’s up?”

  “We have to leave. They’re all blind.”

  “Don’t be a schmuck. Sometimes it happens in families.”

  “What do you mean it happens? How does it happen?” exclaimed Musa.

  “If the mother and father are related then the genes are too similar, if you know what I mean. Don’t tell me you don’t know people like that Musa?”

  He scowled at his sister. “Let’s get the hell out of here! I’ve got a bad feeling about this place!”