by Ayad Akhtar
“You led prayer with the Prophet? Jeez. That is so cool… I heard that if you see the Prophet in a dream you’re gonna go to heaven.”
The conversation was only making me more uneasy. More than ever, I wanted the dream to mean what Hamza was saying, but I knew it didn’t.
We wandered farther on, toward the railing along the lakefront. “So what’d he look like?”
“Who?”
“Who do you think? The Prophet.”
I waited.
“Sorry,” Hamza said, adding, “Peace be upon him.”
“I don’t know. He looked good.” Then I added: “He had a gap between his front teeth.”
“I’ll bet he was a badass,” Hamza said, nodding. “That’s what my dad always says. That if the Prophet was still around, we’d be running the show. Like Bo Svenson on Walking Tall. You ever see that show?”
I shook my head.
“He’s this sheriff and all he has to do is carry a stick and everybody listens to him. My dad says that if the Prophet was alive today—sorry, peace be upon him—then we wouldn’t have any problems in Israel. He says Palestinians are babies. They want someone to take care of them. The Prophet would never let anybody—sorry, peace be upon him—the Prophet would never let anyone treat him that way. He would have taken over Israel by now if he was around.”
I heard what he was saying, but I wasn’t really listening. We were looking out at the lake now. Its surface rose and fell gently, like a slow steady breath. It was beautiful.
“Pretty cool,” Hamza said. “It’s one big lake. Sure looks like an ocean to me.”
“I guess.”
“You cold?” Hamza asked.
“Kind of.”
“We should go back. My dad’s gonna be pissed if I’m gone too long.”
“Hold on,” I said as he pulled away. “Is it true what he was saying about putting your dick in a girl’s mouth?”
Hamza nodded. “Sounds weird, doesn’t it? What’s even weirder is some guys put their mouth in a girl’s slit. They stick their tongue in there.”
“They what?”
“I saw it in a magazine.”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear any more.
We made our way back, approaching the restaurant into which the blond woman in the overcoat had disappeared. I stopped at the window and looked inside. There she was, standing at the bar. Beside her, a man was seated, his arm around her waist.
It took me a moment to recognize it was Father.
He was listening as she talked, every part of him leaned in toward her. He sipped at a drink, nodding. He looked happy. They both did.
And then he kissed her.
As if sensing something, Father stopped. His gaze turned to the window. Our eyes met. He froze. Then the woman turned to look. I recognized her now. It was the nurse from the hospital room. Julie.
“What are you doing, Hayat?” Hamza asked. “Why are you standing there?”
“Let’s go,” I shouted, starting briskly back toward the hotel.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Hamza asked as he scurried after me.
I charged ahead, my heart darkly drumming in my ears. We were already most of the way back to the Atwater when I heard Father’s voice behind me: “Hayat!”
Hamza slowed and turned.
“Let’s go,” I said.
“Who’s that?”
“Who cares!?” I yelled, marching ahead.
“Hayat! Come back!” Father’s voice cried out again.
I didn’t stop. “Go to hell,” I muttered to myself as I went through the hotel’s revolving door.
As all of this was happening, Mina was being married in a hotel room on the tenth floor. The tale of her dramatic afternoon nuptials would become part of her legend, an episode Mother would recall and recount for years to come.
It began with a headache.
Shortly after getting to her hotel suite that afternoon, Mina started to complain she wasn’t well. Her head was hurting. She was feeling dizzy and light-headed. At some point, she asked Mother to open a window. Mother did. Then Mina asked her for a glass of water: “But cold, bhaj. Very cold.”
Mother took the ice bucket from the bathroom and headed out into the hall to the ice machine. On her way, Najat’s door opened abruptly, and Najat appeared in the doorway, completely covered in her black burqa.
For a second, Mother was startled.
“Which room is it, Muneer?” Najat asked. She was holding a bag filled with Mina’s bridal jewelry.
“Ten fourteen,” Mother told her, “halfway down the hall.”
Mother watched as Najat glided down the hall, her billowing chador shawl trailing behind her as she went. Najat stopped at the door and knocked. She disappeared inside.
When Mother returned with the bucket of ice, Mina was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. She was sitting on the couch, heaving as she tried to stand. Rabia, her mother, was holding her in place.
“But where do you want to go, behti?”
“I just need to leave,” Mina kept repeating. “I need to get out.”
“But to go where?”
“Anywhere…Bhaj!” she screamed suddenly when she saw Mother.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to get out.”
“Rabia, let her go,” Mother said sharply.
Rabia looked at Najat—who’d now removed her burqa—and Najat nodded. Rabia released her daughter, who then dashed to the window.
She stood against the sill, taking quick, deep breaths. Then she started to pull the window farther open.
Rabia shouted: “What are you doing?”
“Getting some air!” Mina shouted back. “I need more air.”
It wasn’t until Mina threw one leg onto the air-conditioning unit that Mother realized what she was doing. “Stop it!” Mother yelled, rushing to the window to take hold of her friend.
By now, Najat and Mother were both pulling Mina inside.
“I need to go out. I need to get out,” Mina kept repeating through her wheezing, labored breath.
She didn’t fight long. Najat led her back to the couch and Mother went to the bathroom to get Mina that glass of water. When she returned, Najat was already holding out a tiny, round powder-blue tablet on her open palm.
“What is it?” Mother asked.
“Valium.”
Mother offered Mina the water; Najat pushed the pill closer.
“Take it. You’ll feel better.”
Rabia, who had taken a seat next to her daughter, picked the pill from Najat’s palm and brought it to Mina’s mouth.
Mina gazed at her mother, her chest heaving. Then she closed her eyes and parted her lips. Rabia inserted the pill between her daughter’s teeth. Mina closed her mouth. Mother held the glass of water to her lips.
Mina sipped and swallowed.
“Give it ten minutes,” Najat said. “And you’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”
Mother turned to Najat and asked: “Where did you get that?”
“I always have it with me,” Najat said quietly. “I’ve been suffering panic attacks for years. I don’t know what I would do without it.”
Najat was right. It took ten minutes for Mina’s breathing to ease, and as it did, she started to feel better. She smiled as the women dressed her, and even smiled when, after a knock at the door—and after Najat stopped Mother from answering it long enough to disappear again beneath her burqa—Mother opened it to find the lanky, gray-clad Ghaleb Chatha standing there before her with his cadaverous gaze.
“Is she ready?” he asked.
“She may need a few minutes,” Mother replied.
“No, bhaj,” Mina said lazily from her place at the couch. “I’m ready.”
“Take your time,” Chatha said. “Just to let you know Adnan is ready for the nikah. We’ll need the witnesses, too.”
“Thank you, bhai-jaan,” Mina offered in a singsong tone.
Chatha stared at her
for a moment, sensing something. “Is she all right?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine, Ghaleb,” Najat said. “We’ll be right there.”
Fifteen minutes later, in room 1058, the short, unceremonious nikah took place. The participants gathered around the living room set: a couch, two armchairs, and a coffee table covered with a white cloth, on which a contract and two pens sat, as well as a copy of the Quran. Imam Souhef sat on a chair before the table. Sunil was on the couch beside him, Imran on his knee. Mina sat across from them, in an armchair. She wasn’t wearing a hijab, but a white silk chador shawl, which covered most of her body, leaving only her face and hands exposed. There were supposed to be two official witnesses, but since Ghaleb was the only male witness, it would take—according to Islamic law—two women witnesses to equal one male witness, so Mother and Najat were also huddled behind the couch. Just behind Souhef, Rafiq stood, watching nervously. Beside him, Rabia cried softly into a handkerchief.
Imam Souhef began the proceedings by holding his palms up before him and reciting the short Arabic text that composed the traditional Islamic marriage sermon. He offered this nikah khutbah to a group of Pakistanis—all listening with their eyes lowered—in its original language, which none of them understood. With his brief address finished, Souhef turned to Rafiq.
“Since this is the second marriage of your daughter, I am not required by Sharia to ask your permission to wed your daughter, Amina Ali, to this man, Sunil Chatha.”
Rafiq nodded. Souhef turned to Sunil.
“Have you brought with you the mahr?”
“I have, Imam.”
Sunil pulled out a thick, brick-shaped envelope and laid it on the coffee table before them all. The envelope wasn’t sealed, and the open flap revealed that it was filled with hundreds.
Souhef turned to Mina. “Are you satisfied with your choice?” This was the cue for Mina to address Sunil with the Arabic formulation she’d last spoken six years prior, to her first husband, Hamed.
“An Kah’tu nafsaka a’lal mah’ril ma’loom,” she said, the words lightly slurring on her lips.
Souhef then glanced at Sunil, his attention prompting the groom’s response to his bride:
“Qabiltun nakaha.”
Souhef nodded. He reached out, picked up both pens, handing one each to Sunil and Mina. “With witnesses present, the bride has given herself in marriage and accepted the mahr, and the groom has accepted the bride. Please sign the contract.”
Sunil scratched his signature across the bottom of the papers, then pushed them across the table to Mina. She took a moment before setting her name—with a loopy scrawl—under his.
“You are husband and wife,” Souhef said, standing. “We will now give the new husband and wife a moment of privacy.”
With that, Sunil set Imran down beside him and stood. He reached his hand out to Mina. She rose and he led her into the bedroom.
Imran whined as they walked off. Sunil stopped in the doorway and addressed his new son in a firm tone: “Give your mother and father a moment to be alone, behta.”
“Okay, Dad,” Imran replied, quietly.
Once they were gone, Rafiq stepped in and sat beside his grandson on the couch. The envelope of money—twenty-five thousand dollars in cash—was still sitting on the coffee table. He reached out and stuffed it into a pocket in his coat. Then he looked over at Ghaleb—who was watching him—and offered a grateful nod.
When I returned, the ballroom was abuzz. On the dais to the left, Sunil and Mina sat side by side, dressed in crisp, shimmering white shalwar suits. Sunil was wearing a tall golden triangular hat. Mina was wearing a gilded scarf, and her arms and ankles were covered with golden bangles. Beside the two of them sat Imran, dressed in the same shiny white fabric, and wearing a small golden topi of his own. Imran was eagerly watching as the wedding guests approached the bride and groom, rolled bills in hand, circling the couple as they twirled the money and muttered blessings, finally handing the cash to the groom. Sunil met each offering with a smile. Mina’s eyes had an odd, lackluster look.
“There you are!”
It was Mother. She was wearing a pale-yellow shalwar-kameez and a brown shawl across her shoulders. She looked exhausted. “Where were you?”
I hesitated for a moment. “With Hamza,” I finally said.
“Hamza?”
I looked around. Hamza had drifted off and was now standing beside his father at one of the tables. I pointed. “Over there.”
Mother looked confused. “Where is your father?”
I didn’t reply.
“Weren’t you with him?”
“He left. He said he had to make some calls.”
“Calls? What kind of calls?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve been to hell and back the last hour and he’s making calls? Who is he calling? Hayat, where is he?!”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, go find him! And get him back here!”
I wasn’t going to go back and get him. And I wasn’t about to tell Mother where he was. So I just stood there with her, the hordes of well-wishers twirling money at the couple on the dais gathered before us.
“Go on! Go! What are you waiting for? Go find him!” she said, pushing me away. “Calls… ,” she muttered to herself as she walked back to the women’s side of the room.
I went out into the hall. I thought about sitting on a couch in the lobby, but then I remembered the young man in the tuxedo. So I headed for the back of the hallway, to the marble steps where Farhaz, Hamza, and I had sat earlier.
After a few minutes, I heard something behind me. I turned and saw Farhaz and Zakiya coming downstairs from the floor above, holding hands. The smile on Zakiya’s face vanished the second she saw me. She snatched her hand away from Farhaz’s.
“Where’s Hamz?” Farhaz asked.
“Inside,” I replied, curt.
“I have to go back,” Zakiya said. “My parents are gonna kill me.”
“Suit yourself,” Farhaz said.
Zakiya hurried down the steps.
“So what’s the word?” Farhaz asked, taking his time to descend the staircase.
“Huh?”
“What’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing.”
He shrugged and walked past me.
The room was filled with the smells of biryani and curries. Caterers stood along the back, ready to serve the meal. At the other end of the room, up on the dais, hefty Souhef stood with a microphone to his mouth, reading from a piece of paper.
“The Prophet, peace be upon him, said that among the most perfect believers are those who are best and kindest to their wives.” Souhef looked up with a smile. Gentle laughter passed through the crowd. He pointed his finger, playfully. “Yes, brothers. It’s true. Even lifting a morsel of food to the mouth of the wife grants the husband a reward in the Hereafter. According to the Prophet, peace be upon him, the mercy of Allah Ta’ala flows down from heaven when a husband looks at his wife with love and pleasure.”
I was making my way across the room to the ladies’ side, where the women were sitting, children in their laps or at their sides, in chador shawls, head scarves, dupattas. Mother was the only woman not wearing something on her head, and with no trace of a smile on her lips.
Souhef turned to address Sunil directly now.
“When a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…”
Souhef stopped and waited. Then he repeated it:
“I said, when a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…”
This time Sunil picked up on the cue. There was more laughter—mostly from the women’s side—as Sunil reached out to take hold of his wife’s hand.
“When a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…,” Souhef said now for a third time as he resumed his address to the crowd, “a couple’s sins fall from the gaps between their fingers. Love between a husband and his wife is a great purification.”
Mother ey
ed me as I approached her table. She wasn’t paying any attention to Souhef. “Where’s your father?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I looked everywhere.”
“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “That bastard…Fine. Go sit with your Rafiq-uncle,” she said, waving me away.
From the dais, Souhef continued: “Our Prophet—peace be upon him—once said that when a man enters his home cheerfully, Allah creates, as a result of his happy attitude, an angel who says prayers of forgiveness on behalf of the man until the Day of Judgment. That’s the truth, brothers! May we love our wives. And may love prevail between our happy bride and groom.”
There was hearty applause.
As I made my way back to the men’s side, I noticed Sunil watching me. He leaned over and spoke something into Souhef’s ear. Now Souhef looked over at me as well. He stepped forward again, his lips to the microphone.
“Brother Sunil reminds me that we are honored by the presence of a couple of very special young men here today: Farhaz Hassan and Hayat Shah.”
Hearing my name, I stopped.
“Both young men are very dedicated young Muslims and I think we should honor their commitment to our din by bringing them up here for a moment. Farhaz? Hayat?”
Again, there was applause. Farhaz stood up at his table—he had been sitting next to Hamza—and started to weave his way to the front of the room.
“You, too, Hayat,” Souhef encouraged, waving me forward. “Come on up.”
I followed Farhaz to the steps along the edge of the dais, stumbling up nervously behind him. I looked down at Mother. She was staring off vacantly, muttering to herself. I looked over at Mina. She was watching me, blank. I smiled, but her expression didn’t change.
Up on the dais, Farhaz took a place at Souhef’s side, and I took a place at Farhaz’s. “These young men are truly better than us. Young Farhaz is only fifteen, and he’s already a complete hafiz. And Hayat here… How old are you, Hayat?”
“Twelve,” I offered, my voice quavering.
“Twelve. And how far have you gotten in the Holy Quran?”
“Eleven juz.”
“Mashallah,” Souhef said.