“Of the three you are the most glib and yet the most searching. Yet you cannot see what is around you. You read the Holy Quran and yet the words of Allah still do not fall upon you,” said Dadaji.
Everyone looked at Musa, expecting a fiery outburst but, strangely, he was struck dumb, unnerved by his unmasking.
Dadaji continued and as before it was not clear whether or not he was addressing himself or Musa…
“Reading the Holy Quran and learning the sayings of the Prophet (peace be upon him) does not make you any wiser than anyone else.” Dadaji straightened and raised both his hands, his eyes intense. “Wisdom is on the other side of pain, not on the other side of a page. Wisdom is after experience. Relief is after hardship…Do you understand what I am saying Musa?”
“Yes Dadaji,” replied Musa.
Dadaji shook his head in disgust: “No you do not understand. You cannot understand.”
“What is it that you want?” asked Musa, very simply and very innocently.
“I want you to heed my words so that you may be saved. What is it that you want, Musa?”
“I want to be free. Free to feel what I want. Free to think what I want. Free to be happy. Free to be crazy. Free to love. Free to marry.”
Dadaji nodded, far from surprised. He lit another cigarette and breathed deeply.
“Who can give such freedom?” he asked, knowing full well the answer Musa would give.
“Allah,” said Musa.
Dadaji smiled at him, pleased with the confidence of his answer.
“Do you think Allah will grant you such things?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” asked Dadaji, with an air of polite curiosity.
“Because the Holy Quran states that Allah is the guardian protector of those who have faith and will lead them from the depths of darkness to the light,” said Musa, echoing the words of that gentler sage at the Madrasah.
“Do you think I am in darkness?”
“No, Dadaji, but I cannot see a way forward with your light,” said Musa.
Dadaji threw back his head and laughed.
“So certain are you of light and darkness. A suckling from yesterday.” He waved dismissively at Musa. “You are nothing but a slave to your own desires.”
“I am a slave to Allah,” protested Musa.
“Then do you trust in Allah?” smiled Dadaji.
“Completely,” said Musa defiantly.
Dadaji motioned Musa to sit opposite him. He reached forward and handed him the orange.
“Let us each offer a prayer. I will pray that you marry Iram and you will pray that you find love and happiness.”
Dadaji closed his eyes and raised his hands. Aboo and Amma raised their hands too then suddenly let them drop. And Musa’s prayer, when written, became a little tablet of faith that he always carried with him, right until the very day he died. Creased and crumpled it would become but the naked hope would always remain.
“O Lord of the Universe, God of worlds. You are the most Beneficent. You are the most Merciful. ToYou I offer this prayer because I know that only You can understand my prayer. O Lord I want so very much to feel like I am safe and part of my family. I want so very much for that tear I saw from Amma to climb back into her eye and never come out. O Lord I want to find love and I want to marry a woman who is beautiful and kind. I cannot see her in my life so lead me to her. Surely this is not too much to ask for. O Lord forgive me for saying this but I cannot but help notice that these things fall into the laps of plenty of people out there, infidels and hypocrites, without them even asking. I know that I will never be happy with Iram and she will never be happy with me so spare us both from this misery. Surely we both deserve to be happy. Amen.”
Musa finished praying and opened his eyes. He saw Dadaji looking at him and he saw his wet orange hands.
“If I had given you the rock to hold, would you have crushed the rock Musa?” he asked.
Musa did not answer but looked down at his hands, not remembering crushing the orange.
Dadaji continued, solemn and dignified: “Let us put our prayer to the test.”
He reached into his pocket and took out his rosary.
“There are thirty-three beads on this rosary. I give you one month of days in the pursuit of love. If by the end you have not found love, you will marry who I tell you to.”
He inched forward on the white cloth until his knees touched Musa’s.
“Do you agree to this pact Musa?” he asked.
Musa sat deathly still and silent.
“If you trust in Allah, what have you to fear?” said Dadaji.
“I accept,” said Musa.
“Let all bear witness to this pact,” said Dadaji.
Slowly, he offered his hand to Musa. Crimson passion met with old earth as they shook hands. Life had just begun.
8
“What have you done?” asked Amma desperately. Dadaji looked at her crossly, annoyed as always by the theatrics of women. He lit up a cigarette and breathed in deeply.
“What else could we have done? Your son was already in the grip of rebellion.”
“But still,” said Amma.
“Still what? Have you learnt nothing from what has happened? Events control us. We cannot control events. All we can do is go with the wind and see what chance is available to us when it changes.”
“How do you know it will change?”
“Events always change. No one knows whether for the better or for the worst.”
“What about Iram?”
“What about Iram?” repeated Dadaji angrily. He put down his cigarette and glared at his niece. “Iram is not the worry. The worry is your son, who has committed the Holy Quran to memory. Upon whose piety you hope to gain entry into Paradise. If Iram is in his destiny then there is nothing you can do to prevent it and if she is not then there is nothing you can do to make it happen. The lottery of marriages is known only to Allah.”
Amma fell silent. It was hard to say whether this was through chastisement or appreciation of the truth. Dadaji settled back on his sofa-bed and gazed out of the window which was what he usually did when alone.
In the days following the pact Musa and Shabnam became almost invisible. They would return home in silence, collect food from the kitchen and make for their rooms to eat alone. Only Suleiman appeared to be at ease in front of Dadaji. When he gave money to his parents or received orders from them, Dadaji seemed to look at him with a kindly eye. The biggest change though was in Aboo and this was what Amma had dreaded most of all. In front of his father and brothers he was always brusque and aloof towards her and now her importance diminished each and every day Dadaji stayed.
“I don’t understand how any of this happened. I worked so hard for my children…so so hard,” said Aboo plaintively.
Amma looked at him in disgust. That was another of his traits – maudlin self-pity in front of his father and emotional outbursts in front of his brothers. She knew Dadaji would become angered by this melodramatic remark.
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You have lived long enough to know that children come with their own dispositions and they live to make their choices not yours.”
“Do you think he will be successful?” asked Aboo.
“Where he looks for the wives, there are no princesses to be found. All you can do is pray that he will realise that in time.”
“What about Shabnam?” asked Amma fearfully.
“Shabnam will be less of a problem than Musa. Daughters are given to you to be raised. Nothing more. “
“I worry about Shabnam. Boys are beginning to look at her,” said Aboo.
Amma smiled proudly to herself and Dadaji laughed at the menace in his son’s voice.
“And do you think Shabnam is not aware of this?” Dadaji shook his head thoughtfully. “The wiles of women are indeed awesome.”
“The Asian boys in this country are all up to no good. You see them hanging around together in their groups trying to be
like black men. None of them work, yet they wear expensive clothes and drive flashy cars. These are the ones that bring pain to their parents,” said Aboo.
“How do you know Suleiman is not like that?” Dadaji asked.
“Suleiman comes home and gives money.”
“Is that all that matters?” asked Amma.
“It is important. He is the only son of ours that can support us. Musa will never be able to.” Aboo shook his head glumly. “He is an investment from which we may never receive our reward.”
Dadaji leaned forward, his eyes fierce and bright. “Musa can still hear the good in him though. He still likes to feel holy. As long as he has that your salvation is secure.”
Seven miles away, in Babarr’s office, another debate concerning Musa raged with greater fury and gusto, so much so that the fellow occupants of the Levenshulme Industrial Unit left their offices and stood listening in a perplexed huddle.
“Babarr you Neanderthal pig!! Wipe it off!”
“Where the fuck do you get off saying that shit!”
“Easy Shabnam! Every man’s entitled to his own opinion.”
“That’s not the opinion of a man. That’s the opinion of an asshole!”
Babarr stood at a whiteboard with a marker in his hand.
BOOTY + BEAUTY = PERFECT WIFE
“Babarr, just wipe it off. Anything for a quiet life hey?” said Suleiman.
“The only thing I’m wiping is my ass. My opinion is just as important as everyone else’s.”
Babarr was holding the floor and was in his element. With his blue dungarees and shiny leather boots he gave every impression that he was the Jack-in-the-box who was born for this task. With him were Armila, Shabnam, Suleiman and Musa; on the board was Babarr’s succinct prognosis. They had gathered to agree on a plan, a way of progressing Musa’s situation. Armila was there at Musa’s request and she was fast becoming the most vocal member of the group. Shabnam had reacted with great surprise when she discovered that Musa had a female friend, and she viewed Armila with veiled distrust.
Suleiman sighed wearily: “OK people, just forget what Babarr has written and focus on the problem. And the problem is, how does Musa go about getting a woman? Best thing to do is this. Babarr you sit the fuck back down and anyone else who has an idea writes it on the board.”
Suleiman’s suggestion made perfect sense to everyone and Babarr reluctantly sat down. They looked at each other nervously, afraid of derision, afraid of showing their ignorance. Armila cast a furtive look at Shabnam’s traditional clothes – an elegant green top and cream shalwar. Her own black dress felt wildly out of place. Nevertheless she had something to add. She strode to the board and with firm definite strokes wrote EDUCATION.
Babarr snorted in contempt but heeded Suleiman’s warning glance and said nothing. Shabnam smiled wistfully at Armila as Babarr grabbed the marker and wrote LOOKS. Armila and Shabnam were enraged but they chose not to speak. Suleiman wrote DECENCY and then handed the marker to Musa.
“You have the final say Musa; make sure it’s a good one.”
Without hesitation he wrote PURITY.
For the first time in Musa’s memory, Suleiman smiled affectionately at him.
“OK. We’ve got something now. We want to find someone who’s got looks, decency and purity.”
Babarr stood up excitedly: “I know someone like that Musa.”
“Who Babarr, who?”
“Thing is Musa, I don’t think she’s got any degrees or anything. That OK with you?”
“No problem at all!”
“Well, she’s got beautiful fair skin and long thick hair. She lives with her stepmom who’s a real bitch and makes her do all the housework but she never complains.”
“Who is she?” asked Musa enthusiastically.
“Another thing with this girl is she is pure and kind even though her two stepsisters make her life a misery.”
“Who is she?” demanded Musa.
“Her name is…Cinderella. Yep, Musa, you got it, Cinderella is your ideal wife.” Babarr collapsed in gales of laughter.
Musa looked at him with contempt but Suleiman smiled.
“OK you asshole. Cool it. Let’s be serious now. C’mon I want to hear some real ideas.”
Babarr regained his composure. “Look, this whole thing is a crock of shit. I mean no way are you gonna get a woman with all those things, man it’s just too damn much.”
“At some point Musa will have to compromise, but until then let’s do what we can,” said Armila.
“I agree. You never know what’s around the corner,” said Shabnam.
“Hip fucking hooray. We all agree on something. But what now?” said Suleiman.
“We need to start looking,” said Musa.
“Yeah, but where?” asked Suleiman.
“On the internet,” said Armila. “Loads of people I know find their partners that way.
“That’s a good idea,” said Suleiman and he wrote her suggestion on the board.
“What about agencies?” said Shabnam.
“What agencies?” asked Suleiman.
“You know, Muslim matrimonial agencies and that Aunty bitch on Zee TV. Stuff like that.”
Suleiman nodded and wrote AGENCIES on the board.
“What about if we just asked around, you know like friends or girlfriends of friends or just girls…that sort of thing,” said Babarr.
Suleiman wrote CONTACTS on the board and asked, “Anything else?”
Nothing else came to them. Contemplating the list, Shabnam shuddered at the coldness of such a clinical analysis. She turned to gaze at her younger brother and recalled something the guy she’d met at the party possessed in spades but which Musa did not.
“Everybody, I see a problem. Look at Musa,” said Shabnam.
“Stand up for a sec,” said Suleiman.
Musa warily did as he was told.
“Yeah I see it. Do you see it Babarr?”
“Yup.”
“What is it? What do you all see?” asked a worried Musa.
“What they’re trying to say is that you lack charisma,” said Armila gently.
“You look like a pussy,” confirmed Babarr bluntly. “To get a girl you gotta talk the talk and walk the walk,” he continued. “Ain’t no way you gonna get the woman the way you are now.”
“What can I do to change?” asked Musa.
“Listen Musa, Confucius once said to whip ass in real life is to whip ass for the second time around. Once in your head, second time outside your head. You gotta make it real inside your head,” said Babarr.
“How do I do that?”
Shabnam laughed. “Part of the problem is the beard. You’ve never shaved in your entire life. You gotta be clean cut.” She put her arm around his shoulders. “And the dress. You gotta dress smart, not prehistoric. Suleiman, take him across to Haji’s.”
“You ready to lose the beard Musa?” Suleiman asked.
“Yes,” said Musa.
“You absolutely sure Musa? There’s no going back.”
His beard, the mark of the mullah, the symbol of piety, would be gone. No more would people tag him with the label “virtuous”. The facial appendage that had grown in spurts had for a long time been commensurate with his faith. Now one would go and the other would stay, perhaps. Mutely, he nodded.
9
Haji’s Hairdressers, a family-run business, was started byYounis who by his own admission was no Vidal Sassoon. He was a barber and his repertoire was limited to just the one type of haircut – the skinhead look. The community had long despaired of explaining the demands of fashion to Younis; he would always listen to them politely and smile with tobacco-stained friendliness before proceeding to shave off their hair. Yet the customers still kept coming. This was partly due to his competitive rates but mostly to his zany anecdotal genius. The main source of mirth and banter came from the fact that Younis had two wives: one a cousin from Pakistan, the other a six foot feisty vixen from New Orleans
, and the fact that they lived under the same roof multiplied Younis’s reputation of virility and manliness. How could this wiry man of diminutive stature quell and control two such disparate entities? How was it possible to have such equable passion? It was noted that the children of the Pakistani wife called their mother Khala, or father’s sister, and the New Orleans wife Mum.
The New Orleans wife had just one son Shafqat, and he had followed in his father’s small but energetic footsteps although he had inherited his mother’s imposing physique. He it was who attended to Musa’s beard.
“You OK then, boss?” said Shafqat pleasantly.
“Mmm,” said Musa.
“You home for good then?”
“Nope, just the bad,” laughed Musa.
“Thought you lot were never meant to shave.”
“Times are changing Shafqat. Even mullahs have to change with them.”
“Can you be a mullah without the beard boss?” asked Shafqat politely.
“Well it’s all relative; it depends on who you ask and how much he knows about Allah.”
“You come back to get a woman then?” asked Shafqat after a long pause.
“Yeah,” said Musa wearily.
“You gonna get a Holy Jane type, you know the one that prays five times a day and all that?” asked Shafqat.
“Nope, most definitely not,” said Musa.
Shafqat looked surprised: “Why not boss?”
“Believe it or not Shafqat, they’re too opinionated. It’s like they all try to be men or better than men.”
“Nothing wrong with that boss, not much fun in them being women!”
“But you see that’s where you’re wrong. Women were created with natures that complement men’s. They were made to be feminine and gentle just as men were made to be strong and fearless.”
“You gotta lot to learn, you have,” said Shafqat gravely.
“I know but at least I’m in a better place to learn it,” said Musa.
“No arguing with that, boss,” said Shafqat.
“You know something, since leaving the Madrasah, I hardly ever argue now.”
The Reluctant Mullah Page 10