“But you still haven’t answered my question. If the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him) was against the idea of slapping then how come it’s in the Quran?” pressed the working girl.
“The Holy Quran was revealed to the Holy Prophet (Peace be upon Him), it was not co-authored with him. There’s a big difference. You also have to consider the society in which it was revealed. The status of wives in Arabia one thousand years ago was not the same as the current status of women in England today. A thousand years ago women were not thought of as equal to men. What is perceived as unacceptable now was not perceived as unacceptable then.”
“Women are still not thought of as equal now!” snorted one of the housewives.
Khadija had some more explaining to do. “I have read to you the same verse in three different translations of the Quran. One was from the internet, another was by an Egyptian born professor of Islamic Studies, and the third translation was made by an Indian-born Moslem, a brilliantly clever man who studied law in England and died here.
“The best way to stick up for yourselves and for your religion is to read what was meant to be a source of guidance for you. If you want to know the truth you have to be prepared to question what you believe and what you read. Just remember, for every answer that you like there may be an answer that you don’t like but our questions have just one purpose and that is to strengthen our belief. If you’re looking for a reason not to believe because it doesn’t agree with the way you live your life then, my dear sisters, nothing you read in the Quran will ever mean anything to you. You have to want to be a Muslim to be able to understand the Quran. And having a brown face and an Asian name doesn’t mean you will have the heart of a Muslim. That bit has got to come from you.”
Musa sat on a battered swivel chair in Babarr’s office in the Islamic Centre busily writing notes for his own session. Pausing, he studied the poster of Confucius on the wall. It was strange how oriental sages seemed to smile all the time whereas Hindu and Muslim wise men looked so doleful. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Confucianism was a philosophy and not reliant on the concept of a god, he thought. No god, no accountability and no accountability meant freedom from the terror of the Day of Reckoning. That presumably meant you could spend your time focussing on the present and if you concentrated on the right things and overlooked the rest, it was possible you could be tranquil pretty much all the time. This notion pleased him and he rocked back and forth in his chair, smiling at the Chinese sage.
Suddenly he heard footsteps and turned to the partially open door. He glimpsed a figure in black – Khadija.
“Assalaam-u-alaikum. Please come in.”
“Are congratulations in order?” she asked straight away, her eyes brimming over with levity.
“What? No, I’m afraid not.” He frowned. “How come you’re so familiar with my personal life?”
“You have some indiscreet friends, or friend,” she answered.
“You mean Babarr?” Musa shrugged. “With him you have to take the rough with the smooth. Anyway, you seem to be in very good spirits.” He pointed to a chair and Khadija sat down.
“I had a good session with the sisters. I really think they left feeling as though they learnt something.”
Musa considered this carefully. He hadn’t considered this after talking to the brothers as his mind was elsewhere.
“Are your personal commitments interfering with your duties?” asked Khadija, reading his mind.
“It’s only natural I suppose. Marriage is half of faith so in the pursuit of marriage you must devote at least half your mind.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it. But is it getting you anywhere?” Her voice was soft.
“No,” answered Musa glumly.
“Why do you think that is?”
Musa smiled at her curiosity.
“Maybe it’s because I can’t see what’s in front of me. Only what’s beyond me.”
“I think men look for the wrong things when they are searching for a wife,” she said thoughtfully.
“How do you mean?”
“You’re looking for beauty and you think that’s the same as purity,” said Khadija.
“Beauty would be nice,” he mused. “Beauty would most definitely be very nice but it’s not just about the face. I think there is a kind of beauty which can travel from the heart and light up everything along the way.”
“But that’s just a fantasy, Musa.”
He settled back in his chair. “I think everyone has a fantasy to help them through. Everyone needs something to believe in, something that can make tomorrow better than today.”
“But if you have faith in Allah, why do you need to dream?” she asked.
“It’s the way I am. I cannot change it. I’m not even sure I want to change it,” he answered firmly.
“So you’re going to keep dreaming that one day you will meet your beautiful perfect wife?”
“You sound as if I’m looking for a supermodel. I’m not. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can almost feel her presence. It’s like I can sense her nature, her purity, her essence.”
“How do you mean?” asked Khadija, controlling a rare urge to giggle.
His eyes closed, Musa rested his face in his hands and took a deep breath,” She’s beautiful.” He opened his eyes and looked pointedly at Khadija. “Sorry, but it’s true. She’s kind and gentle. She is patient but she can also be firm. She watches more than she speaks. She is sensitive but not emotional. She is brave but not brash. And when she smiles it’s like you’re seeing the sunrise for the first time. Does what I say make you want to laugh?”
Khadija stood up quickly, embarrassed. “No…I have to get going now. I almost forgot what I came here for.” She picked up a folder which Babarr had left for her on the desk. “See you later.”
Musa had closed his eyes again.
“Goodbye.” His voice sounded slightly strained and far away as if it was struggling to catch up with his vision.
Khadija looked back through the office door and watched a dreamer float on the crest of his own fantasy while sheltered by his own hope. Saddened by what she saw she walked away.
16
Shabnam lay staring at her bedroom ceiling as she did so often when troubled and felt that the ceiling must be etched with the sum of her aspirations, thoughts and desires from adolescence to adulthood.
Leroy was getting impatient. She knew that. Their relationship had reached a critical point and she sensed that he felt supremely confident in what he was going to do from then on: all he needed was that one signal of physical compliance from her and then she would be treated to a luxury cruise of physical pleasure.
The thought of doing it…actually doing it with him was quite exciting, she had to admit, although she would have shot herself before letting Leroy know. There was something else though – a feeling of shame, of betrayal, of leaving a part of you behind, even though you didn’t now want it to be a part of you. She could analyse that feeling until it became manageable and she could put it away into a little box to be kept in the back of her mind where all the anger and resentment lay, but it was still there, tugging at her like a slave chain.
Then again Leroy was her boyfriend and she was his girlfriend. He was attractive and sincere so it was only natural that their relationship should be consummated. They weren’t going to spend the rest of their lives together but the time they had together should be enjoyable. It could even work out to her advantage when she did get married; she would be familiar with the territory. She wouldn’t have to act all terrified and submissive like most Pakistani girls on their wedding night. She had heard how they put a scarf over their faces while their husbands climbed on them. Fucking ridiculous, at least she wouldn’t be like that. She would have the upper hand. That’s what mattered. She wondered if it would hurt – but hey, no pain no gain. She climbed off the bed, looked at herself in the mirror and went downstairs.
Dadaji sat cross-legged on his couch ro
cking to and fro gently as if listening to a divine mantra. As ever a cloud of smoke surrounded him, adding to his presence the way dry ice heightened the aura of a pop star.
Shabnam avoided him as a rule because he seemed to be able to see right through her. Sometimes she thought she could see sadness in his eyes when he looked at her, other times he would smile openly as if amused by her. Today there was no getting round sitting with him. She needed to get money from Suleiman and she would have to sit in the living room to wait for him as he came and went so quickly.
She tried to keep her focus on the job at hand. A strange notion came to her. What if she liked it so much with Leroy that she could never be satisfied by any other man? What if, when with her husband, she found her thoughts drifting to Leroy?
“The elixir of the forbidden has no equal.”
Shabnam jumped. She looked up and saw that Dadaji was watching her as if he could see the play of her emotions.
“Its sweetness will mark you forever. Its memory will darken you forever.”
“What are you talking about?” Shabnam was staggered that he should know.
“I have seen that look many times before. On the faces of other girls just before they enter the bedroom on their wedding night,” said Dadaji gently.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You, like your brother, are not led by what you know, but by what you feel.”
Shabnam struggled with anger and shame. She raised an uncertain hand to her forehead and was angered to find it moist with sweat.
“Your heart is torn between the fragrance of the forbidden and the odour of shame. Remember, the fragrance will lead you to a jungle. Once you enter it, you will never be able to leave.”
He dismissed her with an angry wave of his hand and an imperious,” Go now. What you do, do quickly.”
Barefoot and dressed in a thin white T-shirt with blue boxing shorts that hung precariously on his hips, Leroy opened the door.
“Shabnam. Come on in!” he smiled. “It feels so good to see you here. Man I am telling you. This is…” he waved his hands in the air as if trying to summon the missing adjective, “wicked! And it’s going to get better and better!”
She could have predicted that Leroy would live in a stylish loft conversion. The thick carpet was a rich blue, the elegant sofas were a deep burgundy and a glossy oak banister led to a galleried bedroom. At one end of the room was a huge flat screen television.
Leroy picked up a remote control.
“Shall I put some music on?”
Shabnam smiled and nodded and straightaway Leroy began to move to the sounds of a catchy Latino tune, edging closer to her. When he was no more than a few centimetres away, he arched his back and thrust his pelvis back and forth in time with the rhythm of the mambo. Shabnam, alarmed, stepped back and Leroy stood still.
“Sorry. Do you know the music? It’s by Tito Puente.” Leroy pronounced the name slowly and carefully as if this were a personal favour to the great Latino composer. “Whenever I hear his ‘Ran Kan Kan’ something in the music takes over and, like, before you know it I’m like hot, hot…hot! You ever get like that Shabnam honey?”
He sighed when he saw her expression. If he were an insect she would have trodden on him.
“Look Shabs, I don’t mean to embarrass you – it’s just that every so often something comes over me.”
“OK, OK,” said Shabnam irritably.
“That’s brilliant babe. You wanna eat now or…” Leroy’s voice trailed off.
“Now would be good, Leroy. You must be tired with all those hot dance moves,” said Shabnam light-heartedly.
He laughed in delight. Jokes were good. Jokes now usually meant making merry later. And not all that much later either.
“OK, please take a seat.” He pulled out two small steel-rimmed, green-glass tables. He then went to the kitchen, opened the oven and carefully took out two steaming trays.
“All right, what I got us here is my favourite Italian dish – brassyolee,” he called out.
“It smells great. What’s in it?” asked Shabnam curiously.
“Beef can be used but I bought us some pork fillets and they are covered in minced garlic and olive oil. Very healthy.”
Shabnam walked into the kitchen and gazed at the braciola. Instinctively she wanted to say that it was against her religion to eat pork but that statement in itself seemed stupid and shallow. Why refuse to eat pork and then have a bout of steamy rumpy-pumpy with a man you knew you were never going to spend the rest of your life with? If you were going to do one damnable thing, what was the harm in doing two, or even three or four?
“You don’t like pork?” asked Leroy, stricken.
“No…no. I love pork. Pork comes from pigs and who doesn’t like pigs?” Shabnam laughed loudly enough to disguise her anxiety.
“I don’t like pigs. They keep arresting my friends!” Leroy snorted. “Would you like a pre-dinner drink?” he asked.
“Sure, I’d love one.”
Leroy took a bottle of wine from the fridge and pompously declared,” Pinot Blanc. Accept no other with pork.”
He raised his glass, adoration in his eyes. “Here’s looking at you kid.”
Shabnam glanced at the liquid in her glass, took a deep breath and gulped it down but why was Dadaji looking over Leroy’s shoulder with a wry smile? For once his eyes were clearly visible and were filled with an amused indulgence.
“Phew–”
The exquisite Pinot Blanc, which began life as a bunch of grapes in France and briefly spent some time in the mouth of Shabnam, ended up on Leroy’s face.
He blinked several times in disbelief.
Shabnam was horrified at what she had done. Dadaji was no longer there. Only Leroy, sodden with wine.
“You never told me you didn’t like white wine.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Oh my God Leroy, I’m so sorry I don’t know what happened. It’s like I saw…”
She put her hands to the side of her head. Leroy, however, laughed as he wiped his face with his T-shirt.
“Ah well…shit happens. At least I won’t have to wash my face tonight.” He winked at Shabnam.
“Why don’t we eat…yes…let’s eat,” she suggested nervously.
“Excellent idea. Let’s get ready to party!”
He carried two plates of braciola from the kitchen to the two small tables and they sat on the floor to eat. Leroy cut a piece of pork and delicately played with it. The music had become a gentle soothing rhythm and he swayed his head, letting the moment fill with a lovely languid ease. He sighed happily and looked at Shabnam with a homely smile.
“If only every moment in life could be like this. A good meal, a beautiful woman and nice music.”
Shabnam tried to smile as a thin bead of sweat began to trickle down her forehead. She pierced a piece of pork, sniffed it, opened her mouth and placed it on her tongue. She closed her mouth and exhaled in relief. Nothing had happened. The stress of the past few days had taken their toll, that was all, that was why she thought she saw Dadaji just now. She was not going mad. It was all going to be okay.
But no, there he was again. Dadaji was standing behind Leroy. He placed his hands on his hips and shook his head disapprovingly.
“Kachoom!” Out came the piece of pork but she managed to hide it in the folds of her shalwar. Leroy, immersed in the delights of his own cooking, did not notice. He had almost finished eating when he looked at Shabnam’s ashen face.
“Shabnam honey, what’s wrong!”
“I…I…I…” She pointed to the place where Dadaji had stood just moments before.
“You’re not hungry. No worries.”
He took her hand, smiling reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid sweetheart. The first time is always scary. But then afterwards, it’s just like riding a bike then you’re on a motorbike and finally it’s like you’re in a Lamborghini. It’s all good darling. I swea
r to you, it’s all good.”
He began stroking her hair and as he did so Shabnam came to her senses. She frowned at his caressing hand and opened her mouth to remonstrate but then she saw the piece of pork – surely Leroy would notice it. What could she do to save her embarrassment? She gazed at him, wanting to fix his eyes on hers. For Leroy the moment had come at last. Quickly and decisively, he pressed his mouth over hers and, moaning with desire, he let his tongue run over her teeth. She felt herself respond and closed her eyes. Catching their breath they paused and, as Shabnam opened her eyes, there was Dadaji again. This time he was watching them with an expression of polite curiosity. He raised a finger as if he was about to ask a question. Shabnam screamed.
“Oh my God. He was here. I saw him. He was right here!”
“Who, baby who?” asked Leroy looking about distractedly.
“My grandfather. I saw him. I swear to God I saw him.”
Believing she was still nervous, he played the game and looked around. No one.
“I think it was a false alarm, sweetie!”
He took Shabnam in his arms and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Don’t worry. Ain’t nothing gonna stop us now.”
“No…Leroy, there’s something wrong. I keep seeing my grandfather. It’s like every time we’re together, he pops up from nowhere! I’m not lying I swear to God. Perhaps I’m going crazy!”
Leroy placed his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed.
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” His own voice surprised him. It was so hoarse and bashful.
“I know what to do! You wait here for a second.” He quickly ran up the stairs.
Shabnam shook her head. It was all falling apart. Her carefully constructed schemes were all collapsing like a ton of shit around her. Maybe someone had cast a spell on her; she had often heard Amma talk about such things. It was that bastard Dadaji! Always sitting on his ass with that rosary clicking away like a fucking machine gun. He had definitely done something. She knew he had always had it in for her. He wanted her to be like a doormat so that every other Pakistani male could wipe their feet on her. She clenched her jaw. She would get her own way. She was going to do it today. She was going to give Leroy the ride of his life.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 17
