How to Fight Islamist Terror from the Missionary Position

by Tabish Khair

  But even when they were at opposite ends of the room, there seemed a current between them. I recognized it: there was a time when my ex and I, in the earliest weeks of our relationship, had felt something similar, much weaker but similar, about each other. This was before time had interfered, with its slow erosion of the cliffs of certainty, its full storms and hollow caves. But never had I shared something exactly like this with my ex or any woman I had been in love with. I would have been envious if I did not love Ravi like the brother I never had.

  Ravi and Lena moved in tandem, even when they were in different groups. They had ears for each other while they were holding a conversation—easy, attentive, graceful—with other people. Even their backs had eyes for each other.

  They were both highly polished in their social skills: people who were born naturally elegant and had honed their elegance to perfection. Ravi, in his own couldn’t-care-less way, with his clothes just a bit but stylishly awry, his long hair ruffled and loosely curling; Lena in her closely coiffured and dressed, highly reserved manner, everything always in place.

  I remember thinking: they will probably stay elegant, in different ways; Ravi with quicksilver ebullience, effusively, Lena with icy calm, on the deck of any sinking Titanic.

  They circulated and conversed with ease, plastic glasses of wine poised, sparkling. With my prior knowledge, it was difficult to understand how the company around us failed to see what I saw. Even though Lena and Ravi were excellent conversationalists, with a dozen languages between them, it was obvious to me that their conversation assumed a special sparkle only when they were in the same circle.

  For me, though, infected surely by Ravi’s enthusiasm and sense of wonderment at what had happened between them, it was like a miracle gone unremarked: as if someone was walking on water while people went about their barbecue parties all over the beach, poking sausage and salting steak on their grills, and guzzling down beer.

  THE SUN ALSO RISES

  Ravi snuggled comfortably into the Native American blanket that he often used for a shawl indoors.

  “You see, bastard,” he said, “you as a bloody Mussalman from the Land of the fucking Pure have only two options in the lands of Unbelievers if you want to intrigue a damsel in distrust. Either you talk about how you, at the age of fourteen, broke into your piggy bank and stole money from your traditional dad’s wallet to go whoring, or you talk about how you grew up praying five and a half times a day and admiring the mujahideen until, O Heart, O Torn and Riven Heart, as recently as a year ago you began to lose your faith—but, alas, not your confusion or anger. Give ’em either of the two narratives, and they’ll beat yuh to the draw when it comes to dropping yer respective panties. But lookit yerself! Look at yourself, you sad unpackaged commodity! You talk about your schooling, which is like their schooling; you talk about your parents, who are like their parents; you talk about your life, which is like their life. They look at you and expect something else. You look like you are something else. And then you go ahead and disappoint them. And you, a fucking scholar of literature who should know better! Shame on you!”

  “What about you, Ravi? How come you have been getting away with having more of their lives than they do themselves?”

  “Not any more, bastard: I am a one-woman man now. It’s only Lena for me. Never thought I would be like that, damn it, but I have no desire even to look at another woman.”

  “Still,” I insisted, “let’s consider your checkered career until you saw the, ahem, golden light.”

  “Ah well, it is different with me, Ignorant Human,” he replied, sipping his coffee. “You see, I’m not just a wyrd buggah; I am a Hindoo from Inja. I can dance to the tune of a hundred instruments on the thousand arms of my million gods, half of them hermaphrodite. Moreover, thanks to you fundamentalist bastards, I am Prester John these days.”

  “Prester John?”

  “Don’t tell me you ain’t never heard of Emperor Prester John, you half-injun?”

  I had come across the name in books, but could not recall the connection.

  Ravi continued in his oratorical mode, which had increased in scope and vibrancy ever since he dropped all his “plain” girlfriends for Lena: “You have missed something. See, this is the twelfth century, if I remember correctly. Ok? Twelfth century. Europeans are frightened of the Saracens. Suddenly, good news: it appears that on the other side of the Islamic threat there is a powerful Christian emperor, Prester John, just waiting to join forces with European crusaders. Hallelujah! For centuries, he is there, on the other side of every Islamic threat, real or imagined, about to come to the rescue of Christendom. Only, poor Prester John never existed.”

  “So?” I did not get the connection.

  “So, over the centuries, a large number of Europeans have needed this mythical Prester John. Sometimes, when they get really desperate, they even Prester John a Muslim people, as they did with the Arabs when Lawrence of Arabia was waging his jihad against the Ottomans. Lately, behold, O Fanatical Believer, ancient Hindoo Inja is the new Prester John: the great non-Muslim ally on the other side of the crescent! We are in, old boy; they actually smile at Indian passports at Customs sometimes. The first time it happened to me, a few months after 9/11, I almost fainted with the shock. Our chances to lay la lasses increased triple-fold after 9/11. Provided we do not tie a turban around our heads, as some silly Sikhs still do, and get them all confused because they have seen cartoons depicting your Mohammad in a turban.”

  The history lesson about Prester John that Ravi had poured into my ears emanated mostly from his desire to fix me up with a girlfriend. He had always wanted to do that, ever since I got divorced. Most of it was concern for me—he suspected that I still missed my ex-wife. He was probably right: my divorce had been a difficult decision. I had still been partly in love with my wife, but I could no longer ignore the fact that, while she wanted children immediately, I had no desire to become a father.

  The fact that we had tried naturally for a couple of years had been easy for me to overlook. But when she started insisting on us going to the clinic—there was nothing “wrong” with either of us, as the doctors told us, but she did not want to wait any longer—it made me face up to my own reluctance. I could no longer ignore it. Neither could I ignore my deep dislike of the clinic: it seemed to me, and still does, that we were forcing nature, when nature actually had not given us any real ground to use force against it. My wife had disagreed.

  That morning with the plastic container and the patrol car had made up my mind, but my wife had not been able to accept the decision. I did not blame her: after all, it is the woman who bears a child, carries it around for nine months, suffers changes in her own body. And when we finally got divorced, I was saddened. My wife too, I am sure, but she felt that my refusal to return to the clinic was an indication of my lack of love for her. I wasn’t convinced of that; she was. It made it easier for her to leave.

  Ravi knew all this; Ravi and I seldom had secrets from each other—or, given the aunts in Ravi, at least I didn’t have secrets from him. He must have felt that I needed a girlfriend. The sporadic dating I did was not enough, as he told me, and he never understood why I was so careful about entering another relationship.

  “What are you waiting for, you Paki?” he asked me. “A houri from fucking paradise?”

  I thought that his concern about my love life would diminish after he had hooked up with Lena. But now that he had himself found someone whom he obviously saw as a “houri from fucking paradise,” he grew even more concerned. He wanted to fix me with a partner. There was always a romantic in Ravi, buried under a few tons of skepticism and irony: I am sure he liked to imagine us together, as paired couples, going for trips and walks and treks in the glorious Danish summer that was now around the corner.

  “I don’t believe in houris or paradise,” I replied.

  “Well,” he mused, “don’t be so bloody sure of it: I thought so too until I met Lena. But anyway, what’s
wrong? Why is it you have not found any pretty pige, merry mademoiselle or fine fräulein yet? What is so fucking wrong with all these lovely young ladies you have dated and dropped?”

  “Nothing, Ravi. They were all lovely young ladies. They were just not my type.”

  “You mean there is no one in this fucking country who has ever moved your fancy? You know you are one picky Paki, pardner!”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  “What is it that you mean, then?”

  “Have I told you this joke about the man who was looking for a perfect girlfriend?”

  “Don’t switch the topic, bastard!”

  “Listen. Ok? There is this man. He never dates a girl more than once. He goes on a date and never calls up that girl again. His doting mother is worried. She wants to be upgraded to granny. Go on, son, she urges him, find me a daughter-in-law soon. I will, I will, mom, the son replies, I am just waiting for my perfect woman. One evening he returns from a date and announces that he has found his perfect woman and that, actually, he is going to see her again the next night. Hallelujah, exclaims the mom. The next night she lights candles and stays up. The son is back early, looking morose. What’s wrong, son, says mummy, seeing her promotion to granny receding, I thought you had found your perfect woman. I did, mom, replies the son, but you see, she is looking for her perfect man.”

  “So, who is this perfect woman of yours who rejected you, you poor Paki?”

  “No perfect woman, Ravi; like houries, they do not exist… but of course, one meets women one likes who are obviously not interested.”

  “Nah!” he replied, shaking his head. “There are ways out of such dilemmas, mostly.”

  “For you, perhaps…”

  “For everyone. Now you name me one woman you like, even vaguely, and who you think is not interested.”

  I named one of his colleagues in the history department, a recently divorced mother of one.

  “Ms. Linen Marx!” exclaimed Ravi. “Never dreamed you fancied Miss Linen Marx!”

  Ravi always called her Miss Linen Marx because she wore only cotton and linen garments and was, according to Ravi, the only Danish academic under fifty who had actually read Karl Marx.

  He mulled over my revelation.

  “I see,” he hummed and hawed, “I see… Yes, bastard, that might be a hard nut to crack.”

  There, I retorted.

  “For you, bastard. Because you see, O Eng Lit Type, thou typically dost not usest thine imagination…”

  But he let the matter rest after that. Or so I thought.

  Great Claus had not forgotten his promise to thank us with a “pucca mughlai dinner” for the night he had spent in Ravi’s room. That month, he finally found a weekend evening—I think it was a Sunday—when Karim was not working and Ravi and I were free.

  It was uncommon to find Ravi free in the evenings now. He was usually with Lena. Sometimes, when they went out in a group, I would join them. But, by and large, our evenings out were getting to be rare. Not that I minded: he was so obviously in love; both of them were. And I was trying to complete an academic study: a book on the impact of English Romanticism on Urdu literature in the nineteenth century. With tenure not in sight, I knew that I would have to start applying for jobs soon—and I needed a second scholarly book to stand a chance anywhere outside Denmark.

  But that Sunday evening, all three of us were free and, as arranged, we knocked on Claus and Pernille’s door at six o’clock sharp. We were carrying a bouquet and a box of chocolates between us. As Karim was going to be there, we could obviously not have brought a bottle or two of wine. Claus insisted on cooking halal and not serving alcohol in the presence of Karim: it was not the first time Claus and Pernille had hosted a dinner for him. I am certain Karim would not have eaten with people who took such matters lightly.

  We had been to Claus and Pernille’s flat before, but only for a drink or a coffee. This was the first time we were able to lounge around and look at the flat. It was a tastefully furnished place, with sleek metal and glass furniture and a large shiny kitchen that drew sincere praise even from Ravi. There were batik hangings on the walls and expensive reproductions of paintings. Even I could identify one of the limited-edition reproductions—the large-skulled and bloat-bellied man in a watery setting was unmistakable—as a painting by Michael Kvium. Ravi, who knew more about Danish art than I did, located other names—including an original canvas by Martin Bigum, whom I had not heard of.

  Pernille and Claus had the kind of flat one associates with younger yuppie types, singles or willfully childless couples: immaculate, full of modern shiny furniture and expensive art objects. It seemed discrepant: they were people who had reared two children and, in their dress and appearance, looked like typical parents in their fifties. It was not the first time I wondered at the difference between what we seem to be and what we are to ourselves. Or is this too something that I think of now, penning down this account with all the advantages of hindsight?

  Though Claus made an effort to be hearty (and he had cooked up a tropical storm of north Indian dishes from a cookbook by Madhur Jaffrey), the dinner was less than cheerful. Their twin daughters made an appearance, but just at the dining table. They had always struck me as among those surprising kids that Danish families produce: the ones who do not seem to feel any need to rebel against their parents or their values. Denmark, Ravi and I agreed on this, is particularly good at this—and though Ravi considered it a frighteningly conservative aspect of the country, I was not so sure. It is rare today to find parents and children sharing a space not riven with tensions and silences. Surely there must be something to admire in that.

  But the dinner was shot through with tension. Much of it was aimed at Claus. The daughters hardly spoke to him over the table, and Pernille’s remarks to him were sometimes laced with acid. Claus’s usual repertoire of jokes—always well-meaning but seldom hilarious—fractured on the stone of his family’s refusal to be humored and Karim’s lack of interest in punch lines.

  “Why doesn’t the West eat with its fingers?” asked Claus, serving the Mughlai Murgh. He answered the question in the next breath: “Because its hands are not clean.” His daughters and wife did not even look up from their plates; Karim managed a feeble smile only in order to emulate our effort.

  Even Ravi, with the elegant magnanimity that enabled him to turn other people’s embarrassment into jokes aimed at himself, could not always save the situation. We left early.

  Going down the stairs, Karim Bhai, who knew more about our neighbors than he appeared to, commented on the matter.

  “I don’t understand Claus,” he remarked, “I do not understand why he is behaving like this.”

  I was surprised. It had appeared to me that poor Claus had been at the receiving end all evening, and that he had treated his family with much consideration despite the provocations. Karim Bhai obviously knew more, but he was not the type of person who would gossip. And Ravi, who might have drawn the information out of him on some earlier occasion, was too happily lost in Lena now to have much time for the inquisitive aunts in himself.

  We still had a lot to discover, and not least about Karim Bhai.

  Why does this memory come back to me, almost entirely, exactly in this part of my attempt to recollect and understand what really happened to all of us?

  I think I have already said that I almost never attended Karim Bhai’s Quran sessions on Fridays. But sometimes I waited for Ravi to finish with them, and once or twice—when we had appointments elsewhere—even went in to fetch him. This must have been one of those times. I am not absolutely certain, but I remember Karim Bhai—he always sat in the left corner of his sagging sofa—and a crowd of serious young faces around him. And I can, at this moment, distinctly recall what he was saying, as I waited for Ravi to get up and leave with me.

  “The Prophet, peace be upon him,” said Karim Bhai, with that irritating glaze in his dark-edged eyes that fellow-Muslims often get when
speaking of the founder of the religion, “had only one wife for years: she was about twenty years older than him. He remained faithful to her and he did not marry again until after she died, peace be upon her. In fact, for a long time, she was among the very few who believed in his message. You can say that she believed in the message of Allah before the Holy Prophet did himself, for when the Holy Prophet heard the message for the first time, he thought he was hearing voices. She was the person who convinced him that it was a genuine revelation.”

  “Women have a lot to answer for,” I whispered to Ravi in the lobby, who frowned and hushed me. No matter how flippant Ravi was about matters that concerned me, including the religion I was born into, he was always a very polite listener in the case of Karim Bhai.

  Karim Bhai was just as polite while listening to Ravi. With me, he showed some signs of impatience, subdued, betrayed only by the eyes flicking to the TV screen or the hands picking up a newspaper while I was talking critically about matters like the Islamization of Pakistan. But with Ravi, Karim would make an effort, focus on his words with his possibly kohled eyes, his forehead wrinkling sometimes in a bid to follow Ravi’s somersaulting conversation.

  What was he listening for in Ravi’s case? Those barbs about Western hubris that, though they came from a different source, soothed the Islamist in Karim? Or was he interested in Ravi as a person who could be converted to Karim’s cause, whatever that was? Or, and this polar opposite was possible too, was he observing Ravi as one would observe an alien from outer space?

  Or was it something simpler: Karim’s respect for someone who was from another culture, or class?