The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  Khadija

  A daughter’s words swallowed up in a father’s rage. A daughter’s truth lost in an ethos where ignorance was crowned.

  33

  Aboo knew he had been in the wrong about Suleiman and that he had to make peace with his father. They were alone together waiting for the rest of the family to gather for a meal; Shabnam and her mother were in the kitchen and Musa and Suleiman had yet to arrive.

  He brought his hands together in a plea for mercy and said, “Please forgive me, I feel I have brought shame on you.”

  Dadaji smiled,” In my time a father planned and his sons obeyed. In your time a father plans while a son dreams and a son plans even while his father dreams. In every age for every plan and for every dream the plan of Allah shall always reign supreme.”

  After Musa and Suleiman arrived and had greeted the two women in the kitchen, the doorbell sounded.

  They heard voices and Shabnam came into the room.

  “There’s someone to see you, Aboo. Shall I let him in?”

  Aboo sighed wearily: “Now is not the time but yes, let him in.”

  Musa, standing in the kitchen doorway, recognised who it was at once although he did not know how. It was something to do with the way he walked in, just like the young man he used to see when he was a toddler, always coming and going and walking around him. Musa felt a latent memory of dislike.

  “Javed…my son.” Aboo began to weep. Amma and Suleiman stood transfixed.

  “It’s been a very long time,” said Javed. “You’ve grown up Musa, you probably don’t even remember me. And Shabnam, you’re beautiful…”

  He fell silent as they gazed at him.

  “Why are you here?” asked Shabnam angrily.

  Javed smiled nervously. “I’m a father now and I want my daughter to know her family. Liz said that I should make the first step.”

  “Liz. An English woman!” gasped Aboo.

  “A father,” exclaimed Amma. “When did you marry?”

  Javed laughed uneasily.

  “What do you do?” asked Musa suspiciously.

  “I have an import and export business. Tiles and jeans, mostly. I’ve been doing that for a long time now. I have two shops in the city centre.”

  “You’ve been living here all this time!” exclaimed Amma.

  Suleiman laughed quietly. “Well, Aboo. What do you think now? Musa has betrayed the family by refusing to marry Iram and now your son has a child with an English woman.”

  “What is done is done. There is no point in going over the past. He has come back and that is the most important thing.”

  “No it is not,” said Amma. She walked over to Javed and slapped him hard across the face. The she grabbed him by the lapels and was about to spit at him when Aboo came between them.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he demanded but Amma ignored him.

  “Thirteen years! You have been gone for thirteen years. We didn’t know where you were, or what you were doing. We didn’t know whether you were dead or alive. And all this time you are living in the same city. Did the thought of your mother never come to you? Or your father? Do you see that, Javed?” She pointed to his poem. “He never let me take it down. After every morning prayer, he looks at it. Every day for the past thirteen years he looks at it. And you come here now after all these years!”

  She turned on Aboo, angry tears streaming down her face. “Do you remember how you hit him when you found out that he was sleeping with girls? Do you remember the day he left? Your beloved first born who you could never be bothered to find all these years. You said I spoilt him and made him the way he is.” She pointed an angry finger at Aboo, “It was you who spoilt him. It was you who could never say no to him. It was you who became angry whenever I tried to punish him. You made him what he is!”

  “Stop, Amma!” shouted Suleiman. “He doesn’t understand a word you are saying. He doesn’t understand Punjabi any more. Ain’t that so, Jav?”

  In one fluid movement, Suleiman grabbed Javed by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him forwards so that their faces were almost touching.

  “You can understand me now can’t you? Listen to me very carefully before you call me Sal. Five years ago you were walking with a guy through the fish market in Hayworth. I was right behind you. You walked and then you stopped and then you turned your head a little and then you walked on. Is that true or is it not?”

  Javed nodded, his eyes wide in his red face.

  “Did you fucking see me or not?” roared Suleiman.

  Javed averted his eyes and Suleiman shook him and pushed him hard against the door. “Answer the question. Did you see me?”

  “Yes…Yes…I saw you,” said Javed. “Look, I was a different person then.”

  “Shut up. You lying piece of shit,” hissed Suleiman. “Do you know what I did that day? I followed you. You lived with a guy in Roxbridge Gardens. And you were there for a long time. I used to watch the men and the women go into your flat but you never saw me did you? You were having the time of your fucking life. The same old Javed, screwing everything that moved. Do you know why I stopped watching you? Because I realised what a pathetic bastard I was, waiting for you to notice me.”

  Suleiman pointed to Musa. “Do you know what he used to feel like when he was a kid wondering why you never played with him? I should have told him then that his eldest brother was a worthless bastard. And outside the church, when I was beaten up, you came charging in to help me but then you ran off, leaving me on the fucking ground.”

  His voice cracked and Shabnam took his arm.

  “Sal, it’s OK.”

  “No, it is not OK.” Suleiman glared at Javed and pointed a trembling finger at Aboo.

  “Every time he laid eyes on me, he was thinking of you. Everything I ever fucking did or said was compared to you, the bastard who ran off.”

  Suleiman turned to his father. “I stayed Aboo. I took your shit and I never left. I grew up without you ever talking to me. I did everything you asked but it never made any difference. He comes home and you accept him without question and say what is done is done and there is no point in going over the past. But you buried me in the past, Aboo. You buried me the day he left. I came home drunk and hurt and all you did was swear and hit me. You never bothered to find out what happened. I wanted to leave that day but I didn’t because of Dadaji. He’s been more of a father to me in one month than you were in my whole life.”

  “It will be different now, Suleiman. I’ve changed. I know what I did was bad but we can put it all behind us and I want my daughter to know her family. We can all move on,” said Javed.

  “I’ve already moved on, Javed,” said Suleiman, leaving the room. Musa and Shabnam, wiping the tears from her face, followed him.

  “Where are you going?” asked Javed.

  “We’re going to see if our brother is OK. Don’t ever come here again.” Shabnam closed the door behind her.

  34

  Dadaji sat surveying all before him with a wry smile. It was the day before Musa and Khadija’s wedding and Aboo and Amma were talking excitedly while Shabnam and Suleiman were for once happy just to sit and listen. Musa and Khadija sat on the floor by Dadaji.

  “Is it all settled then? Everything is ready?” asked Dadaji. At first there had been considerable opposition from Aboo and Amma when Musa and Khadija said that they did not want to be in separate rooms for the Nikah ceremony. In the end the mullah, a gentle young man, convinced them that their being together was perfectly valid. And then there were endless arguments about where the ceremony would be held.

  “Everything is ready Dadaji,” said Aboo. “We have sent out the invitations and made preparations for the reception. Everything is as it should be.”

  “That must be a first,” remarked Suleiman. “Khadija, have you heard from your father and brother.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from either of them. I’ve asked one of my friends if they could get hold of my brother but he’s nowhere to
be found. Nobody is answering the phone at home,” she said anxiously.

  “Let it be. Leave that battle for later. No point doing your head in about it now,” said Shabnam.

  Amma nodded her agreement.

  “Babarr has done a poster letting people know about the wedding. He’s put it all around the Islamic Centre so a lot of people are going to turn up,” said Suleiman.

  “How many people can the Medina Restaurant take?” asked Musa.

  “About three hundred,” replied Suleiman.

  “I want one nice picture of us as we are now,” stated Amma.

  “Dadaji does not approve of pictures,” said Aboo pompously.

  Dadaji disagreed. “Take one photograph of me with Khadija. Then do as you will.”

  Aboo looked stunned and then shrugged his shoulders. Suleiman took the camera from the book shelf and handed it to his father as Amma began to fuss.

  “Where will Khadija sit? She cannot sit next to Dadaji.” “Do you want to take off your veil, Khadija?”

  Khadija shook her head firmly.

  “It is not within you to be immodest. Remove your veil and sit at my feet Khadija,” ordered Dadaji and she did as she was told, embarrassed by the curious looks from the family.

  As Aboo fiddled with the lens, she tried to focus on the camera but found it impossible to hold her gaze. She looked at Musa and seeing those intense eyes and that lion’s mane of unruly hair she smiled and Dadaji felt her serenity. He followed her gaze and in the face of his grandson he saw the beauty of his hope and he felt in his heart the humble majesty of his grandson’s victory. A tear welled in his eye and coursed down his cheek.

  The camera’s shutter clicked. A light flashed. A teardrop froze in its path and a portrait of dignity and decency was born.

  A couple of hours later Suleiman was in the Medina Restaurant kitchen bossing the cooks.

  “Don’t use too much oil; I don’t care how pretty it makes the food look. And the sweet dishes, you can go for broke when it comes to them. Put in as much sugar as you like. What are you preparing for the vegetarians? And what about the fish? It must be fresh. Where did you buy the lamb? Are the spices freshly ground?”

  In a large conservatory at the back of the restaurant Babarr was planning the layout for the Nikah ceremony.

  “Now you gotta make the stage somewhere in the middle. And remember they’re not too hot on the idea of sitting next to each other. Make it really nice so that they are going to think this whole shebang cost a lot of money. And we need some music before the ceremony, something romantic, but it’s gotta be loud enough so that the two can’t talk to each other.”

  Babarr then addressed the waitresses he had taken on for the wedding and who stood nervously to one side. He had heard they were good at what they did; they were certainly very pretty, and they were all white.

  “Right ladies, you will each be paid extremely well for the work that you are going to do tomorrow. This won’t be like no other wedding you’ve worked at before. This is an Islamic wedding. All of you are going to be under a lot of pressure because there’s going to be guys, young and old, who are going to be giving you the eye. At the same time they will look as if they despise you for tempting them. And then their wives are going to hate you because they think you are flirting with their husbands just by walking past them. If the old guys have to wait for their food and you don’t come running every time, they’ll click their fingers. On top of that there’s going to be a few people who hate you because they think you’ve got no place being at an Islamic wedding but I’m sure you’ll be professional.”

  On the temporary stage Shabnam was busy instructing a smitten camera man.

  “Now remember. People are going to be watching your video carefully to see if they can grab a wife or a husband so what you do will have an impact on a huge number of people. You gotta make sure that you spend equal time on the men and the women. Zoom in on anyone who looks about thirtyish. Don’t give any camera time to anyone with kids. Some assholes will play up for the camera. Give them what they want and then afterwards delete the bastards. No close ups of my brother and his fiancée. When people start eating, zoom in on their jewellery not on the food. Follow me around and you die.”

  35

  That night Khadija dreamt vividly. The clouds were billowy balloons of red and blue and from them fell purple rain. Across a courtyard she saw a turbaned figure who sat gazing at a valley below. As she watched chaos left the rain and droplets fell in straight noiseless lines. She walked through the rain spinning in giddy joy until she came to Musa. As she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, he turned to look at her and she saw Dadaji, smiling and humble.

  “Dadaji, where is Musa?”

  “He will be with you in the blink of an eye,” he replied.

  Subsequently a stench of scorched earth swept across the courtyard and she felt only terror. Dadaji disappeared but then she saw Musa, his eyes filled with love. She stretched out her hand to him but as he stepped towards her a furious wind pushed against him. He struggled, his eyes burning with passion as he strained against the merciless wind. She could not bear it any longer and tried to run to him but could not. Again she heard Dadaji’s voice.

  “Let him be. It is his destiny.”

  And then she woke. She was in Armila’s flat and today was the day of her wedding. Beside her bed were her wedding clothes, given to her by Musa’s mother. She laughed out aloud.

  Khadija’s father picked up the telephone and as he waited for an answer he stared at the splatters of Abdel’s blood staining the floor and door.

  “Mukhtar Travel Agents,” said a voice.

  “This is Major Nawaz. Is everything ready?”

  “Yes, Major. Your ticket for Islamabad is waiting to be collected.”

  “Good, I’ll be there shortly.”

  “I will not go,” announced Dadaji.

  “You must come. Please!” urged Amma.

  “I will not go. That is final.”

  “Then I will stay here with you,” said Aboo.

  “No!” replied Dadaji firmly. “You must be there at the Nikah ceremony. Go now!”

  Musa smiled sadly. He knew why Dadaji was refusing to come. The idea of anyone marrying against his wishes still rankled. He had consented but his fierce proud nature forbade him from rejoicing in his grandson’s victory.

  “Let Dadaji be,” he said to his parents.

  Aboo shook his head.

  “So be it. Let us go,” he said.

  As they were leaving Musa heard Dadaji call his name. Telling Aboo and Amma that he would not be long he returned to his grandfather. In his white sherwani and baggy white trousers, he knelt at his side.

  Dadaji placed his hand on Musa’s shoulder.

  “Musa. Heed what I say.”

  Musa nodded and saw pain on his grandfather’s face.

  “There is never enough justice for all the injustices in this world so do not seek to find it. There is never enough pity in the human heart to compensate for all its cruelty so do not lower yourself to gain it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Dadaji forced a laugh.

  “You must go now Musa. Khadija awaits you even as she awaits me.”

  The glass doors of Medina Restaurant sparkled. Garlands of sweet-smelling flowers were strung around the walls and music was playing as the many guests arrived. Musa and Khadija’s romance had been the subject of much discussion within the community. Each and every guest rejoiced with them for in their hearts they loved a tale that had a happy ending.

  Titty Soups and Shabnam were sitting on a table with Armila and Suleiman. Titty gestured to the platform and said to Shabnam,” That will be us one day soon.”

  “I curse the day you came into my life. I curse the mother who brought you into this world and I curse your asshole of a father,” she replied and Titty Soups roared.

  Shabnam gritted her teeth. Nothing seemed to fluster him. No matter what anyone said or did, he woul
d take it all in his stride.

  “Well, look at Confucius,” laughed Armila as Babarr strode on to the stage wearing a gold brocade jacket with a mandarin collar and red buttons over snowy white pyjamas and black cotton shoes.

  “Assalaam-u-alaikam. Welcome to the wedding we’ve all been waiting for. My brothers and sisters, respected elders, I would like to tell you the story of how I first met Musa. It’s less than a year since Suleiman told me his kid brother had been chucked out of a madrasah and he needed a good kick up the backside. Could I help? Well, I said, bring him down and let me have a look at him. I can still remember the day he walked into my office and I thought nothing doing. But as soon as I got to know him, I realised that he was strong, he believed in his dreams and always backed himself to win no matter what the odds. And that is what sets Musa apart from everyone else. Now Musa soon had a mission. He wanted to get married to Snow White, he wanted the impossible, but he stuck to his guns and he has found his Snow White in Khadija. She is pure and decent and she respects herself and her religion. On top of that she’s got class and courage. You ain’t ever gonna find a better couple than them two. As soon as they walk in I want everybody to please jump up and start clapping. They’re gonna remember this moment and cherish it for the rest of your lives. Here they come!”

  An explosion of rapturous applause sounded as Musa and Khadija entered the restaurant and walked slowly to the stage. People stood up and whistled and showered them with red petals. As the petals rained down on them, Musa turned to Khadija. She was decked in red and gold and she wore no veil. Her eyes shone with an unconcealed happiness that filled him with wonder.

  The mullah began to recite from the Quran: “And it is God who has given you spouses from amongst yourselves and through them He has given you children and grandchildren and provided you with good things. How can they believe in falsehood and deny God’s blessings?”