by Nawaaz Ahmed
Mother and daughter curl toward each other in the dark of the room, their bodies adjusting to the space occupied by me, their faces almost touching.
“What is it, Ammi?” Seema asks, the words whispered to Nafeesa’s clammy forehead.
“Forgive me, Seema,” Nafeesa says, her fingers tracing—awkwardly given the constraint of closeness—Seema’s face, the bridge of her nose, the springy curl of her eyelashes, as though she needs to make sure that Seema is here.
Forgive her for what?
For everything, for all that she should have done but didn’t, for all that she did but shouldn’t have.
For not having understood, for still not understanding fully—
Nafeesa is both coherent and disjointed, forthcoming and hesitant, precipitate and pensive, the bridge of her words sometimes stretching across silences, sometimes hanging midair unfinished.
Seema responds with caresses and kisses, with noises of encouragement, not wanting to say anything for fear of upending the moment and bringing it to an end. A trembling half joy, a shimmering sweet sorrow fills her. She has never felt this close to her mother before, never before seen her as an equal in regret and pain and heartache. That long-ago night with her father in Chennai is forgotten. Any lingering resentment toward her mother dissipates.
Tomorrow, she promises herself, with Fiaz and Leigh there, she will tell Ammi everything. Her apprehensions for the future fade away, as a glimmering optimism takes hold, even as she recognizes how little time together she and Ammi really have.
17
I take it all in, hungrily, greedily: Nafeesa’s remorse, Tahera’s fears, Bill’s disillusionment. Arshad’s anguish, Seema’s optimism. America’s turmoil. As if I need to inhale this world into the very cells of my body, every element of it simultaneously, before I can bring myself to take a single breath of its air.
I taste most sharply my could-be brother’s anger and despair. For isn’t Arshad someone in whom my to-be mother had seen a possible model for me, convincing her of my viability? A child who seemed so sure of himself and his place in the world that she could picture him rising to meet the world hand to hand, eye to eye, the kind of child she could picture herself raising.
The kind of person she’d believed herself to be before that fateful evening in Chennai, when her performance had failed her. And ever since, she’s been convinced she’s merely going through the motions, performing a pale simulacrum of herself.
If I could give her that moment of radiance. How differently the world would have unfurled for her. I reimagine that evening, seeing it as she imagined it would play out. I become the audience she desired, willing to be captivated by the power of her performance, waiting to be converted by the persuasiveness of her words:
Abba, you taught us to look beyond subsistence, beyond what is needed to keep mind and body together. You taught us to probe the universe for hidden truth and beauty, to seek sustenance only in the true and the truly beautiful. You taught us to question everything else—rituals, tradition, faith, ties. You taught us to embrace everything that life challenges us with: we are to always strive beyond what we are capable of, beyond what we cling to for comfort.
You taught us to love: to love those discoveries that bring unexpected joy, to love those moments that press us to the brink of new discoveries, to love those beings who make each moment burn and crackle with the promise of illumination. You said that it’s precisely there, in these moments, that true poetry resides.
I love someone like that—beautiful, wise, brave, strong. In their presence the universe reveals its hidden beauty, in their presence the universe shines with a new light—
Isn’t someone like that worthy of love? Isn’t love like that worthy of our deepest gratitude?
18
The city sinks into the night.
Blessed Sleep, quiet defender of the still midnight: Close, with your careful fingers, our gloom-beleaguered eyes. Protect us with your watchful attentions, lest the fugitive day slip in and even at our pillows inflict many wounds. Save us from ravaging consciousness that roams ready, with sabers drawn.
Seal us in. Root out treachery. Expel from us our treasonous minds.
19
Imam Zia speaks: How magnificent the universe is, my brothers and sisters. So vast that no human being can take full measure of its vastness, so beautiful that no human eye can perceive its every beauty, so mysterious that no human mind can comprehend all its mysteries.
Yet every part of the universe—from a massive galaxy to a minute neutrino—follows every law that has been prescribed for it by the creator, Allah, the Exalted in Might, the All-Knowing. Every part of the universe submits to the will of Allah, which is the essence of Islam, and thus every part of the universe is Muslim.
The stars are Muslim, the sun is Muslim, the moon is Muslim. Does not the Quran say, “The sun runs his course for a period determined for him: that is Our decree. And the moon—We have measured for it mansions to traverse till it returns to its withered state, like a stalk of date. It is not permitted for the sun to catch up to the moon: each swims along in its own orbit according to Our law”?
And here on earth, every mountain is Muslim, every ocean is Muslim, every river is Muslim: they all follow the natural laws that have been laid down for them. Every animal is Muslim, every tree is Muslim, every bird is Muslim: from birth to death every organ, every tissue, every cell in their bodies follows the laws that have been designed uniquely for them. Can the nightingale sing any other song than has been ordained for it? Every note that it sings has been written for it. It can no more change its song than it can shed its wings.
But what of man? On the one hand, every man is born Muslim, because every part of his body, from the nails on his toes to the hair on his head, is regulated by Allah’s laws. His heart is Muslim, his brain is Muslim, his tongue is Muslim: his body is bound to follow every law that Allah has decreed.
On the other hand, Allah has bestowed on man a mind: a mind that can think and judge and choose. And with this mind, man has been endowed with a free will: he has the freedom to embrace or deny any faith, the freedom to live by any code of conduct, the freedom to react in any way to the conditions of his life. With this mind, he can choose whether or not to be a Muslim.
How can man’s mind and body be brought in harmony with each other?
Only if his mind consciously submits to Him whom his body already submits to intuitively. Man completes his Islam by surrendering back to Allah the freedom he has been given, by consciously deciding to obey the slightest of Allah’s injunctions.
Now his feelings are in harmony with his heart, his thoughts are in harmony with his brain, his words are in harmony with his tongue. Now his actions are in harmony with his body, and he is in harmony with the universe: he obeys with both his mind and body Him whom the whole universe obeys.
He has finally become a Muslim, in this brief life. And for that he will be rewarded for eternity in the afterlife, with everything his heart desires, with all the joys of Paradise.
20
John Keats speaks: Forgive me that I cannot speak to you definitively on these mighty things.
Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? No voice will tell: no God—no demon—deigns to reply, from heaven, or from hell.
You perhaps at one time thought there was such a thing as worldly happiness to be arrived at. I scarcely remember counting upon any. I looked not for it if it not be in the present hour—nothing startled me beyond the moment. If a sparrow came before my window I took part in its existence and picked about the gravel.
Man is a poor forked creature subject to the same mischances as the beasts of the forest, destined to hardships and disquietude. If he improves by degrees his bodily accommodations and comforts, at each stage there are waiting for him a fresh set of annoyances. The whole troubles of life are frittered away in a series of years, and what must it end in but Death?
The most interesting qu
estion is: How far, by the persevering endeavors of a seldom appearing prophet or philosopher, may mankind be made happy? Can I imagine mankind’s happiness carried to the extreme?
In truth, I do not believe in this sort of perfectibility. The nature of the world will not admit of it.
This is human life: the war, the deeds, the disappointment, the anxiety; the weariness, the fever, and the fret. All human, bearing in themselves this good: they are still the air, the subtle food, to make us feel existence, and to show us how quiet Death is.
Do you not see how necessary this world is to spirit-creation, to school an intelligence and make it a soul?
Intelligence there may be in the millions: atoms of perception—they know and they see and they are pure, in short they are God—but they are not souls till they acquire identity, till each one is personally itself, to possess a bliss peculiar to each one’s individual existence.
How are souls to be made then? How but by the medium of a world like this, effected by three grand materials—the mind, the human heart, and the world—acting the one upon the other for years?
The world is a place where the heart must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse ways, for the heart is the mind’s experience, the teat from which the mind or intelligence sucks its identity: as various as the lives of men are so various then become their souls, and thus does God make individual beings from the spark of his own essence.
I’m certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart’s affections—they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty.
21
The city sleeps.
Magic sleep, comforting bird: you brood over the troubled sea of the mind until it’s hushed and soothed. Night of silvery enchantment, full of tumbling waves and moonlight: we welcome your merciful renovations.
But: Dazzling sun, enduring lamp of the skies, that lures us back into the labyrinthine world—why must we show gratitude for your daily resurrection, our imprisoned liberty? What doesn’t unfurl beneath your burning light for many a day but withers and dies?
My mother’s last day on earth is here, and the sun will too soon rise over the hills of the East Bay to preside over it.
22
In some parts of the world, the sun has already breached in preparation for the new day. How effortlessly the sky appears to give birth to the sun, how willingly it allows itself to be transformed in return, from a speckled nighttime indigo through a burning daybreak orange to a jubilant sunlit blue, and how confidently the sun traces its arc through the sky, blazing its fiery path around the earth—the result no doubt of all that repetition and practice, the eons of strict observance of every natural law there is.
But my mother’s pregnancy has taken a turn that few other pregnancies do. The abdominal pain she’s been suffering from since yesterday is only the beginning. The medical term is placenta abruptio. The placenta that has kept me nourished and thriving, and is only to be expelled from my mother’s body in an act of afterbirth, has begun to separate from the uterine wall, even before I am delivered to the world outside. As if it’s in a rush to sever our connection.
I’m the first to sense this, a vague discomfort, as though there’s something in the fluid enveloping me that makes me screw my face up so, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed. My thumb—my left thumb, for I must be left-handed—has acquired a taste that I can’t find satisfying, no matter how much I continue to suck on it.
23
Wednesday morning: Arshad struggles through fajr namaz, unable to concentrate. Even after being up most of the night, he still can’t settle on which symptoms to fake to persuade his father that he must stay home.
Arshad has no experience faking illness. If his mother were home, he’d never have agreed to Jemaal’s plan—he has too much respect for her professional acumen. Fortunately, Arshad needs to convince only his father, who is usually preoccupied these mornings getting Amina ready for school.
Arshad can’t decide between a stomachache and a fever—but what is he to do if Abba insists on checking his temperature? Also, he can’t overdo the symptoms: Abba may then decide to have him examined by Khadija Aunty or may choose to remain home to take care of him. This first hurdle must be surmounted if the day is to succeed according to plan.
“You’re daydreaming, or what?” Ismail taps Arshad lightly on the back of the head.
Arshad is still on his knees wondering which dua to pray for help with the day’s enterprise. Startled, he hurries through the rest of the tasleem, staggering to his feet afterward.
“You don’t look well,” Ismail says. “Go sleep some more, you can read the Quran in the evening.”
Fajr has brought some respite after all. Arshad returns to bed, heartened, after a glance in the mirror: he does look peaked and fatigued from the sleepless night. He may be able to get away with a low-grade stomachache, with generalized weakness thrown in for good measure. As though in answer to his dua, by the time he needs to get out of bed again, his body appears to have fallen in with his designs, sick with anxiety. He shuffles through his morning preparations, his sighs and groans are only slightly exaggerated, and when he doubles up clutching his stomach, the pain feels real.
Amina, his only audience, is easily convinced. “Abba, Bhaiya’s sick,” she runs downstairs crying, lending him credence.
His mother’s call, coming then, also ends up working in his favor: she’s not worried since he doesn’t have a temperature, she announces, and he’ll be fine if he stays home and rests.
Abba leaves him with solicitous instructions; Amina’s eyes brim with sympathy and concern. He’s reenergized when they depart, the feverishness his body had assumed fading even as his father’s car turns into the street. The ease with which the first hurdle was overcome seems auspicious.
While waiting for Jemaal, he makes a list of possible targets, looking them up on his father’s computer. When Jemaal arrives, Arshad feels once again the rush of blood through his body, making him light-headed with excitement and apprehension.
“Have you seen this?” Jemaal pulls up a video on a website. It features a boy about their age, speaking directly to the camera: “In recent weeks people may have been telling you what to think of us Muslims. They say that you should fear me. But I’m no different from other American teenagers—”
“What is this? We have to beg them to leave us alone?” It’s similar to a video his father has shown Arshad, My Faith, My Voice. “While they can do whatever they want to us? Are you chickening out?”
“Nah! I was just showing you what Sajjad and Bilal want to do. They’re all bull, no balls.”
“Let’s not waste time then. You were late.” Arshad shows Jemaal the list he’s made.
They argue about the criteria: the churches should be within bikeable distance, of course. But not too close to each other—this is Jemaal’s condition—to create a sense that their crusade is far-reaching.
Arshad proposes, as a symbolic gesture, the Episcopalian church opposite their mosque, though he worries that it might direct suspicion toward their congregation.
“Let them suspect,” Jemaal says, “they won’t be able to prove anything.”
They settle on it as their first stop. Jemaal picks the next one—a megachurch near the freeway that dwarfs the Islamic center being built. This is some distance away, so they decide to pick two more churches along the way, completing a circuit.
They look at photographs. A tall glass facade clinches one choice. For the final target, Jemaal says they need to include a Baptist church—he’s heard that Baptists hate Muslims the most. After poking around the internet, they settle on one that looks enticing with its row of blue stained-glass windows. It has the added bonus of being the oldest Baptist church in the city.
There’s one last decision to be made: What should they call themselves?
Jemaal suggests “The Avengers”—he’s a fan of Marvel comics. It’s Arshad’s idea to look to the Quran, and happily they soon alight on one they c
an both agree on: Ar-Ra’d. The Thunder. The name seems appropriate: it’s the title of the surah that speaks of unbelievers demanding of Allah signs of His omnipotence.
“The Thundering Avengers has a nice ring!” Jemaal says, but Arshad prefers the simple Arabic name.
Jemaal goes downstairs to pick rocks, while Arshad designs their “calling card.” They’ll make copies on sheets of paper that they’ll fasten around the rocks. Arshad has given up on including the surah—it seems blasphemous to allow parts of the Quran to be crushed, or trampled underfoot—so the sheets will simply contain the takbir, Allahu Akbar, and their group’s name.
Jemaal returns with his backpack loaded, he has chosen the rocks wisely: they fit easily in the palm, they’re neither too heavy nor too light, and they appear hard enough, unlikely to crumble. They wrap a sheet around each rock, two rubber bands per rock, and split the rocks between their two backpacks. They lock the house and leave on their bikes.
They arrive at their first target, stopping by their mosque, square and squat in the tarmacked parking lot, its green dome dazzling in the midmorning sun. Diagonally across from it, at the far end of the block, is the church, hunched in the shadow of oak trees on its small rectangle of a lawn, only its steeple rising above the foliage.
The two boys dismount from their bikes. No glass is visible from where they stand.
“Let’s go around,” Jemaal says.
They cross the road, get on their bikes again, and cycle slowly up the block and around the church. There are small windows on the side, but the prospect is disappointing and anticlimactic.
Ah! There, in the back—a large wheel window with amber glass set high up on the wall, probably directly overlooking the altar. But, they won’t be able to take a good shot at it from the road—they will have to aim from the lawn, directly beneath the window.
