Khalid returned the greeting and shook Imam Abdul Bari’s hand.
“I was just about to take my tea. Will you join me?” Abdul Bari asked. Without waiting for a reply, the burly imam walked on graceful feet out of the prayer hall.
Once inside the office, the imam removed his blue robe to reveal a bright floral Hawaiian T-shirt and khakis. Khalid, used to the imam’s peculiar sense of dress, didn’t say a word.
Abdul Bari busied himself with the kettle and tea bags. “I don’t usually see you until the evening prayer. What brings you here so early today?”
Khalid lowered his head. “Just some trouble at work. My boss doesn’t like the way I dress. My co-worker Amir suggested I adopt some camouflage, but it feels dishonest.”
The imam handed Khalid a cup of weak tea and settled down in his swivel chair. “Honesty is an admirable trait,” he said carefully. “However, one of the cornerstones of a functional democracy is the willingness to accommodate. Does the thought of camouflage feel dishonest, or are you uncomfortable conforming to other people’s expectations of you?”
They drank their tea in silence while Khalid considered the imam’s words. Abdul Bari was better at giving advice than making tea, though he was generous with both.
“I don’t know,” Khalid said.
“It is always good to analyze your niyyah—your intention—before making decisions. The Prophet Muhammad, may Allah be pleased with him, said: ‘Actions are judged by intentions, and everyone will have what they intended.’ So be clear of your motivations, Khalid.” The imam set down his cup and clapped his hands together. “Perhaps what you need is a distraction. I have great news: Our mosque has been chosen to host the ‘Muslims in Action’ conference this year. I hope I can count on you to help organize? Our first planning meeting is tonight at eight.”
Khalid agreed to help, and their conversation moved on to other topics.
When he returned home, his mother was on her way out. She had a guilty look on her face, which she replaced with an imperious one.
“I am going to buy vegetables from Hakim bhai,” she said.
Hakim Abdul, known by everyone as Hakim bhai, owned the nearby grocery shop that sold essential items: bread, onions, garlic-ginger paste and halal meat. It was also the best place to hear neighbourhood gossip.
“I’ll go,” Khalid offered.
“No!” Farzana said. “You’ve been working all day. Aliyah said she would meet me there also.” Aliyah was Farzana’s new friend, a woman with grown-up children and time on her hands.
As Farzana peered into the hallway mirror and carefully pinned her bright-blue hijab, Khalid noticed a large gold bangle with red stones on her arm. The bangle had been a gift from his father years ago; she had not worn it since his death.
In their old neighbourhood, his mother had loved to chat with the other aunties. Maybe Aliyah would introduce Farzana to new friends among the coriander and lemons. Her absence would also allow him some time to think.
And to engage in his secret hobby.
Khalid moved quickly as soon as his mother was out of the house. He assembled everything he needed: onion, turmeric, chili powder, garam masala and chickpea flour. While canola oil warmed in a small frying pan, he chopped up onions using the special chef’s knife he hid behind the mixing bowls his mother never used. Khalid listened to a recitation of the Quran on his iPhone as he worked, mixing together spices and onions, dropping tablespoons of batter into hot oil, watching the onion pakoras brown and grow crispy.
Khalid loved to cook and feed others. When he was younger, he would make desserts and simple pasta dishes for Zareena. He subscribed to Gourmet magazine and watched Food Television. Lately his focus had been on Indian dishes. He was experimenting with different techniques to grind the perfect garam masala spice mix.
Farzana hated it when Khalid cooked. She claimed he left behind a mess, so he only cooked when she was out of the house, and he made sure to air out the kitchen afterwards.
The pakoras were delicious, and he made a note in his recipe book to add more whole coriander seeds next time. He read a new biography of Prophet Muhammad while he snacked. His phone pinged, another email from Zareena:
Hey K, guess what I’m doing? Cooking. I made breakfast. Then I made lunch. Now I’m making dinner. The fun never stops here. I can guess what you’re doing. You’re at the mosque, volunteering or maybe performing some extra prayers, am I right? My pious little brother, making up for the sins of the sister. Wish I was there to poke you and force you to do something fun!
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I miss you. Also, can you do me a favour? Same as before, Western Union plz. You’re the best!
P.S. Boiling-hot showers and that crazy snowstorm every April, just when you think winter is over.
Khalid sent Zareena money every month, but lately her requests had become more frequent. He didn’t mind—he enjoyed taking care of her. It made her seem less far away. He missed having her in his life, even though it had been hard to keep her secrets.
The first time he had caught Zareena sneaking out, he was thirteen, his sister seventeen. It was nearly midnight, and he had been getting some orange juice from the fridge when he heard her light footfall on the stairs. She was just about to turn the door handle, shoes in hand, when Khalid spoke.
“Going somewhere, Zareena?” he had asked.
She froze, then turned around with a mischievous smile on her face. She was wearing eyeliner, which made her eyes look huge and smoky, and her lips were a shiny red. Khalid didn’t know Zareena owned lipstick, let alone knew how to put it on. His mother hated makeup on women and forbade it in the house. She was wearing a gauzy black hijab that barely covered her hair and a pair of jeans so tight they made her legs look like pipe cleaners.
The look on his face must have said everything, because she walked over to him, smiling as she swiped his orange juice.
“I’m meeting some friends,” she said, taking a sip. “It’s no big deal, but you know Mom freaks out every time I leave the house. I’m not asking you to lie for me. Just pretend you never saw me.”
“Where are you going at this hour? Will there be boys?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “No, only girls. I’m going to a sleepover. I’ll be back by Fajr. It’s no big deal, honestly.” Fajr, the dawn prayer. She would be out all night.
“Maybe I should come with you,” he said.
“To a house full of girls? What will people think?” she said, smirking playfully. “Then again, why not. My friends think you’re cute.”
Zareena’s friends were all popular and pretty, always smiling and joking. They made him nervous.
“No, that’s okay,” he said. “If you’re just going to a girl’s sleepover, there’s no harm. I won’t tell anyone. Just make sure you’re back by Fajr.”
“I’ll be back before Fajr,” Zareena said, grinning with happiness. On impulse, she gave Khalid a big hug. “Thanks, K,” she said. “I won’t forget this.” She smelled like soap and flowers. Was she wearing perfume too? She grabbed her shoes and ran out the door.
Khalid followed just in time to see her open the passenger door of a waiting car. It was dark, and he couldn’t make out who was driving. Thumping music spilled into the quiet street, abruptly cut off by the car door slamming shut. He returned to bed but stayed awake until just before dawn, when he could faintly make out the sound of a key in the door and soft footsteps climbing the stairs.
In the morning, Zareena beat him to breakfast, dressed in a shapeless black abaya with a black hijab and no makeup. She was chatting with their mother and didn’t give Khalid more than a cursory smile.
Lying for his sister made him uneasy, and that night wasn’t the only time. Later, after she was sent away forever, he felt awful about all those times he had kept silent.
His mother didn’t know he sent money to Zareena. She didn’t know they communicated. Khalid was certain Ammi and Zareena hadn’t spoken in almost twelve ye
ars, not since Farzana had flown her only daughter to India and returned two weeks later without her.
Khalid hated thinking about this, hated thinking about his sister. He should have told his parents what was going on. Maybe then Zareena would still be here, instead of on another continent, miserable.
Chapter Nine
Khalid returned to the mosque after dinner for the conference meeting. He was early, and headed to the prayer hall. He sat cross-legged on the carpet and leaned against the beige-panelled wall. The mosque was quiet and warm, and he felt cocooned in the peaceful stillness. His breathing slowed as he enjoyed this momentary respite from the world.
When he opened his eyes, a soft, golden glow engulfed the empty prayer hall. He checked his watch and stood up. It was time for the meeting to start.
A bundled shape on the other side of the room caught his eye. The bundle moved, and without thinking, he stepped closer. It was a young woman, fast asleep. Her face looked peaceful, and her even breathing matched his own.
The Toronto Muslim Assembly employed a casual segregation policy. Unlike most other mosques, where men and women prayed in separate rooms and sometimes even on separate floors, the mosque had no physical divider. Khalid cautiously moved toward the women’s section.
The young woman was clutching a book in her hands, but he couldn’t make out the title. He looked away to avoid staring, but his feeling of peace was broken. His eyes were drawn to her for a second look, and he recognized her now: the girl with the red mug; the girl from the bar.
He wondered if she was following him.
Today she was wearing a blue hijab, dark blue cardigan and long black skirt. If she hadn’t shifted position when Khalid glanced over, she would have resembled nothing more than a pile of prayer sheets. Prayer sheets that softly hugged the sharp curve of her hips, outlining elegant legs hidden by dark fabric.
Khalid felt strange. His heart was beating fast and his mouth had gone dry. He didn’t intend to approach her, but his feet moved him even closer and he stood staring down at her. Sleeping Beauty, he thought.
She opened her eyes and they looked at each other wordlessly. Then she sat up. “Were you staring at me?” she asked, voice unfriendly.
“No,” he said. The lie came automatically to his lips. Lying inside the mosque! He was going to hell.
His heart was beating even faster now. Her eyes were two large pools of inky brown, and he couldn’t look away.
“I mean, I was about to leave and then I noticed you sleeping. I thought you were a pile of prayer sheets and was going to fold you and put you away. Then I realized it was you. A person, I mean. A woman. You.” He looked stupidly at her.
She seemed amused, but then her expression hardened and she stood abruptly. “I have to go. I try to stay away from the type of Muslim who stares at sleeping women in prayer halls.”
In her rush to exit, she left her book behind, a plain purple notebook, the type used by students. He picked it up to return it but sat down instead, his legs jelly.
AYESHA had grown up attending Sunday school and Friday prayers at the mosque, but she had not visited the Toronto Muslim Assembly in a long time. The prayer hall looked older and shabbier. The green-and-beige striped carpet was frayed at the edges, and there was a faint but distinct odour of socks. The walls had dents and black smudge marks made by running children. Still, the room retained some of the majesty she remembered, even if the crystal chandelier now looked like it belonged in a Trump casino.
Ayesha had been early for the meeting, and after she’d found a spot in the empty prayer hall, took out her purple notebook. But it was no use. She was too tired after her late night at Bella’s, and the confusing conversation afterwards with her mother and Nana. Instead her eyes had felt heavy and she slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, she felt rested and at peace. Her eyes had slowly opened to see a man standing in front of her, staring intently. He looked surprised but hadn’t looked away. I know you, Ayesha thought, half-asleep.
He had been wearing a rumpled white robe, the kind her Nana wore sometimes to Friday prayers. They locked eyes, and a hum of energy rose around them. With a jolt, she realized who the man was—Khalid, the bearded fundy from Bella’s!
“Were you staring at me?” she asked, jumping up quickly and straightening her skirt.
“No!” he said, looking guilty.
A smile had twitched at the corner of her lips at his blatant lie. Then she remembered she was sleeping in an empty prayer hall, and Khalid was a judgmental jerk and possibly a peeping Tom.
Now, as she hurried out of the prayer hall, she ran straight into a large man wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt. Flustered, she apologized. “Brother, do you know where the conference planning meeting will be held?” she asked.
“Assalamu Alaikum, Sister,” the man said. “You must be Hafsa. You look so much like Brother Sulaiman. I am Imam Abdul Bari.”
“No, I’m not . . .” Ayesha said, but the imam was gently steering her toward a conference room beside the main office.
“I am so thrilled to have an actual event planner help with our conference. It is so kind of you to donate your time.”
“Imam, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Ayesha was saying firmly when Khalid entered the room. “Are you following me?” she said to him instead.
The imam, who seemed to have selective hearing, offered Ayesha a chipped mug filled with a cloudy-looking liquid. She accepted the tea and scowled at Khalid.
The imam handed Khalid a cup as well. “Have you met Sister Hafsa? She’s the official event planner for our conference.”
Khalid looked embarrassed and confused. He selected a seat far away from Ayesha and stared at his hands.
Ayesha put the cup on the conference table. “Imam, my name is not—”
A tall man in a tight black shirt entered the room, and Ayesha stopped speaking. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His long face was accentuated by sharp cheekbones and he had the jawline of a Disney prince. His tawny eyes contrasted with terra cotta skin, and his generous lips curved in a wide-open smile as he surveyed the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” the beautiful man said, his smile increasing the temperature in the conference room by several degrees. Even his voice was sexy, Ayesha thought, like drizzled honey. And he had big hands. She watched the beautiful stranger greet the imam and nod cheerfully at her with his perfect, manly chin. He even had a dimple. Seriously, who was this guy?
“Sister Hafsa, Brother Khalid, please allow me to introduce Tarek Khan, the president of the Muslims in Action organization,” Imam Abdul Bari said by way of introduction. “Let us open with a recitation of Surah Fatiha.”
Khalid recited the first chapter of the Quran in Arabic, his voice clear and deep, and not remotely as sexy as Tarek’s, Ayesha thought.
The imam continued. “Thank you all for attending our first planning meeting. Our mosque has a unique opportunity to host an important youth conference. I have asked all of you here today to form the central organizing committee.”
The imam’s words brought Ayesha crashing back to reality. She texted under the table.
Hafs, where are you? The mosque conference meeting started already, and the imam thinks that I’m YOU! Hurry!
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
I can’t make the meeting. Can you take notes for me? Don’t tell them your real name, it will be like Freaky Friday. Sooo hilarious! You’re the best! xxx
Ayesha sighed. Typical Hafsa. Why tell the truth when an entertaining lie would do? She opened her mouth to clarify her name when her eyes slid to Khalid. He was still looking down at his hands, a block of immovable, judgmental, unsexy concrete. A sudden impulse washed over her.
Hafsa had pulled so many pranks over the years. Her cousin was always laughing and having fun while serious, responsible Ayesha was expected to do the right thing.
But her fun-loving cousin wasn’t here today. Or was she?
Khalid paused in his contemplation of the desk to look briefly at Ayesha. The expression in his eyes was disapproving, and his words to Clara rang again in her ears: I stay away from the type of Muslim who frequents bars. I have no wish to be introduced to your friend.
Ayesha smiled grimly. If he doesn’t want to be introduced to me, that can easily be arranged. A spark of exhilaration filled her with heady spontaneity.
The imam asked everyone to officially introduce themselves. When it was her turn, Ayesha didn’t hesitate. “I’m Hafsa Shamsi,” she said, trying to sound young and vacuous. “I’m an event planner, and this is, like, my first event ever! I’m so excited!”
The imam and Tarek smiled, but Khalid gave her a strange look. She ignored him and reached into her bag for her notebook, but it was gone.
The imam continued. “The youth conference will be held during the July long weekend, which leaves us with only a few months to prepare. We will have to meet at least two or three times a week to ensure our success.”
Tarek opened his MacBook and turned on the LCD projector. “I have a short presentation prepared,” he said, smiling at the group, eyes lingering on Ayesha. He talked rapidly, moving through the slides. “Our yearly summer youth conference is aimed at ages eighteen to thirty, and we try to keep the sessions as small and intimate as possible, with lots of interactive activities. The big draw is the Singles Mixer on Saturday. Last year we had over five hundred people attend, and this year we are anticipating twice that number. We have access to many well-known speakers, including Sheikh Rafeek.”
“Brother Tarek, that sounds impressive,” Khalid interrupted. “But I’m unclear as to the purpose of your organization, and why you have chosen our mosque.”
Tarek looked at Khalid for a long moment without speaking, so long the silence became uncomfortable. “Muslims in Action is a grassroots organization that partners with local mosques to raise funds and encourage young people to participate in the community,” he said eventually. “Imam Abdul Bari tells me most of your congregation are middle-aged and senior citizens. It’s time to attract the next generation.”
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