He came down with a scarf in his hands.
“Just close your eyes and relax, baby.” Using the scarf as a blindfold, he gently covered her eyes and tied a knot at the back of her head. He then took her by the hand and led her to a sofa.
“Just lie back and open your mind. Let it loose baby.”
Shabnam did as she was told and quickly her body became limp.
“That’s it baby. You’re getting the hang of it. Are you seeing your grandfather now?”
She shook her head.
“You see. I told you. Ain’t nobody coming between us. Now I got a little surprise for you. Just wait here!”
Shabnam nodded, wondering if he was going to surprise her with another one of his stupid gifts. Sometimes he gave her bits of jewellery that were so expensive; she knew she could never wear them without attracting attention from her friends and family and so she would lash out at him for being such a thoughtless bastard.
“Just lie still now, baby. Let your mind go free.”
Shabnam felt something icy at the base of her neck moving upwards and before she knew it Leroy had guided whatever it was into her mouth. She squawked and spat out an ice-cube. Enraged, she sat up, ripped off the blindfold and slapped Leroy hard across the face.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she snarled.
“I’m kinda losing the mood here, Shabnam.”
“I’m sorry I wanted this to happen today but something is wrong. Someone is fucking with my mind, or maybe my mind is fucked up. I don’t know. But I swear to God I keep seeing my grandfather. You think I’m making this up don’t you but I’m not I swear to you I’m not. I don’t want to be like this with you. I don’t.” Her voice shook with tears.
Leroy grinned.
“I got it. You know what we can do. We can go down into the basement. Man, it’s so fucking dark down there you can’t even see your hand in front of your face, let alone your granddaddy. It’s a little cold but hey at least we’ll be together. Together forever, you get what I’m saying baby!”
Shabnam shook her head vehemently and wiped away the tears from her face.
“I am not a rat, Leroy. And I will not get down and dirty in any fucking basement. Not for you or for any fucking man.”
“I’m sorry Shabnam. I just–”
She cut him off with a dismissive wave of her arm.
“I need to get going now. Do you mind lending me some money for a taxi?”
“OK, you win,” he said dejectedly. He passed her his wallet.
Remembering that she had missed her brother she asked,” I’m a bit short so do you mind if I take £50?”
“Sure, not a problem,” said Leroy. He suddenly felt very tired.
She blew him a quick kiss as she left.
Leroy looked mournfully at the door. As he bent to pick up the plates he felt his phone vibrate.
“Hello,” he answered morosely.
“Wassup Leroy, you sound like shit!”
“Ah…Cupid has got his foot right up my ass.”
17
Musa was preparing for a second session at the Islamic Centre and had spent the past hour preparing a PowerPoint presentation using a laptop borrowed from Babarr.
When the three groups of men were seated, he introduced the evening.
“Assalaam-u-alaikum my dear brothers. I am glad to see so many of you here again. Tonight the subject of our discussion is a very famous person who has done a great deal for Islam. Tell me, has anyone ever heard of Abdullah Yusuf Ali?”
“He wrote a translation and commentary of the Quran–”
“Correct. Abdullah Yusuf Ali was one of the first commentators of the Quran in English. Now brothers, I want you to turn your attention to the screen.”
Musa pressed a button on the laptop and an image of an austere-looking bearded man with fierce eyes and a black turban filled the screen.
“Remember this image,” said Musa. He pressed another button and another image filled the screen. That of a craggy Indian man dressed in a suit and tie. The man’s eyes were sad and tired and he had a faint moustache. His swarthy face seemed frozen in a gentlemanly effort to smile.
“Now brothers, I have shown you two pictures and one of them is of Abdullah Yusuf Ali. Can anybody guess which one?”
“Sure can bro. It’s the guy with the beard. The other guy looks like one of them fifty years on,” said one of the rude boys pointing to the coconuts.
There was some jeering and the raising of two fingers but one of the coconuts frowned and stood up. “I actually agree with him. The other guy just doesn’t seem to be the Islamic type.”
Musa smiled, “In fact Yusuf is this guy.” He pointed to the picture of the man in suit and tie.
“He doesn’t even have a beard. How can he be fit to commentate on the Quran?” asked an appalled Holy Man.
“Let me tell you some facts about Abdullah Yusuf Ali. He was born in 1872 in India. Does anyone know what it was like for Indians at the time of the British Raj?”
“It wasn’t good,” answered a rude boy. “We’ve all heard about General Dyer and the Amritsar massacre, and the way men and women were forced to walk about on all fours as if they were dogs.”
“Yes, that is true. But what some of you may not know is that the British rewarded loyalty and Abdullah Yusuf Ali was amongst those who were intensely loyal to the British,” said Musa.
This annoyed a coconut who asked,” How is any of this relevant? I mean where are you heading with this?”
“It’s extremely relevant. Abdullah Yusuf studied law at Cambridge. He was one of the few Indians to be accepted into the Indian Civil Service, an organisation which basically ruled India. He also married an English woman who did not convert to Islam.”
“He married an English woman! Any of our parents would kill us if we did the same thing. They would tell us to convert her or to get out,” said an astonished rude boy.
“We know all about Abdullah Yusuf Ali. He was a white man in a brown skin. He did not lead the life of a Muslim and his commentaries should be burnt!” shouted an outraged Holy Man.
“That’s where you’re completely wrong,” argued Musa. “At the time of the British Raj, there were a great many Muslims who were as fluent in English as they were in Urdu. And although there were a great many Urdu translations of the Quran, none of them explained or came close to explaining the truths in the Quran. But Abdullah Yusuf Ali was able to do this. Let me give you an example:
“‘Man We did create from a quintessence (of clay). Then We placed him as (a drop of) sperm in a place of rest, firmly fixed. Then We made the sperm into a clot of congealed blood; then of that clot We made a (foetus) lump; then We made out of that lump bones and clothed the bones with flesh; then We developed out of it another creature. So blessed be Allah, the best to create.’
“If you read his notes on that verse, they mention the way the zygote cell, the fertilised egg if you like, grows by division, eventually becoming a foetus. That’s the point I want to make: at that time there was no other Islamic scholar who could use his knowledge of embryology to explain that verse. And throughout his translation and commentary, he does it time and time again. For example when the Quran tells us that Allah taught the bee how to make its home, Abdullah explains in meticulous detail exactly how that happens. Before him there was no Muslim translator of the Quran who did that.”
“So the geezer had a library card. Big deal,” said Urfan.
“Why should we Muslims owe him a debt of gratitude? Most people who read his Quranic commentary can hardly understand it, especially his notes!” said a coconut.
“Go to any mosque in pretty much any country and you will usually find his translation. There may be better commentators who were more fluent in Arabic than him, such as Mohammad Asad, but you are still more likely to see his translation,” replied Musa.
“What happened to him, this granddaddy of coconuts?” asked a rude boy.
Musa sighed, “A
h…It was all very sad. His first wife, called Teresa Mary, had four children with him and then had an affair with someone called Obed Thorne. She had his child and poor old Abdullah Yusuf Ali had a nervous breakdown.”
“Serves him bloody right. If he knew so much about Islam, what was wrong with him marrying one of his own?” asked a rude boy.
“You’re missing the point again. At that time, the English way was considered to be the highway in life. So an English woman was supposed to be the ultimate. I bet he wet himself with joy when she agreed to marry him,” said a coconut.
“What I have never understood is why he didn’t bother to convert her,” pondered a Holy Man.
“The brother just explained it. Abdullah Yusuf Ali thought the English were an inherently noble race. He thought that their natural instincts were Islamic instincts like compassion, kindness and tolerance. He even called the Royal family ‘precious examples of purity’,” answered Musa.
“Sounds like the geezer had a screw loose. What about that shit in Amritsar and all those Indians being made to walk like dogs? Didn’t he see any of that?” queried Urfan.
“He most certainly did, but for some reason he was as loyal as a dog to the British,” replied Musa.
“That’s funny. A hundred years later and we’re in their country but no one wants to be like them.”
“You’re wrong. There are plenty of guys that want to be like them. It’s only Holy Joes like you that don’t. Those that do just don’t want to be Muslim at the same time,” retorted a rude boy.
“That’s right. And poor old Abdullah Yusuf Ali never did find any long lasting joy in the arms of a white woman. He married another English woman, Gertrude Mawbey who he called Masuma. They had a son, Rashid, but eventually they separated,” said Musa.
“At least he was pulling them. You gotta give the guy some credit for that,” remarked a rude boy.
“The only reason he was able to pull them was that he was probably more English than their own dads and spoke all posh and sophisticated. Women love that shit,” smiled a coconut knowingly.
“Maybe, but whatever his personal life was like, he was the British Empire’s number one man for representing their interests to Muslims. He travelled all over the world and everywhere he went he was treated like gold dust. He even opened the first mosque in Canada. But when the British left India he had no place to go,” said Musa.
“What about his kids?”
“His children from his first marriage ended up hating him. When he died he left them nothing.” Musa referred to his notes. “He wrote this in his will:‘these children by their continued ill-will towards me have alienated my affection for them, so much so that I confer no benefit on them.’ Most of his money went to a fund set up in his name to help Indian students at London University.”
“I can see why those children hated him. What the fuck did he expect? If you don’t spend any time with your kids and go around the world acting like a hotshot white man, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen. He had no one to blame but himself,” said a rude boy.
“Yes that is true. Children are your responsibility and they must be taught about their identity as Muslims,” agreed a Holy Man.
“I’m surprised he didn’t realise that. What’s the point of a good education if you don’t have enough common sense to see the obvious,” said a coconut.
All three groups were in accord, Musa noticed. He continued, “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, brother. One freezing cold winter poor old Abdullah was found by the police sitting in Trafalgar Square. His clothes were in rags and he had no money. They took him off to a council poor home. Shortly after this he got ill and he died in hospital. His death certificate stated that he was senile. Next time you pick up a copy of his translation you may want to say a prayer for his soul. Despite his intellect, his knowledge and his life experiences, he died without having a home or people around him that loved him. He knew so much about Islam and other religions but that didn’t help him become a happier or better person.”
After the session had ended Musa returned the laptop to Babarr’s office. Khadija was sitting behind the desk, writing.
She looked up as he came in. “How did they take to the life and times of Abdullah Yusuf Ali?” she asked, amused.
Musa was taken aback at the realisation that she had been within earshot of the discussion. “How much of it did you hear?”
“A bit. You really felt for him didn’t you?”
Musa nodded. “Yes I suppose I did. You see the sad thing was that he really tried hard to link his knowledge to his faith, but he failed. He just couldn’t connect to the world beyond the page.”
Khadija leaned back in the swivel chair and tapped her pen on the desk.
“It tells us that in the Quran doesn’t it? ‘This is the Scripture in which there is no doubt, containing guidance for those who are mindful of God, who believe in the unseen.’ If you believe only in your own arguments and reasoning, then you will never get guidance. You’re a good example of that.”
“How so?” he asked tersely.
“Your quest for beauty. Would you ever agree to marry someone whose face you couldn’t see?” Khadija’s eyes twinkled when she saw how stung he was.
“No, most definitely not. But that’s nothing to do with a lack of trust or faith in Allah. It’s just a matter of choice. I believe that in certain situations the best veil is behind the eyes,” replied Musa.
Khadija did not reply but looked at him as though he were a child trying on a cap that was too big for him.
“You’re laughing at me aren’t you?” asked Musa.
“No I’m not, and even if I was how would you ever be able to tell?”
“What about you? Would you ever show your face to your husband or to a guy you might want to marry?”
Khadija looked at her watch and gathered up her papers before leaving.
“No I would not and no I have not.”
“How do you mean?” he asked
Khadija stopped by the door. “I’m engaged.”
“Oh…Who is he?”
“Why ask when you will never get to meet him?”
“Was it arranged or was it a love thing?”
Khadija walked off, laughing.
Musa stayed where he was, lost in thought until an insight unfurled within his heart, bringing him out of his reverie. The drop of rain as it descended to the barren earth, the gradual reducing of a mighty intellect to an abject vagabond: all was caused by the agency of Allah. The mysteries of matrimony, the miseries of incompatibility, the riddle of aspiration; all were written in a decree. He like everyone else stood beside the shore of that mystic sea, forever trying yet never knowing just what it was that was meant to be.
18
Titty Soups lay sprawled across a marble slab in the steam room of the Asian Aqua Experience of which he was part-owner. His lean, athletic physique was naked apart from a flimsy white towel that just covered the taut mounds of his buttocks. The air around him was heavy with the tang of eucalyptus and birch, and antique brass lights lazily stirred columns of air, steaming the frosted glass windows.
A buxom masseuse of possibly Russian extraction pummelled his back, looking ravenously at the white towel. As she worked she pressed her fingernails into the top of his buttocks, causing him to wince.
“Ouch! Hey would you ease up bitch? You’re not digging for gold!” complained Titty Soups.
“That’s where you’re wrong. She’s after the family jewels all right,” said Babarr with a leer.
“Fuck off!” grunted Titty Soups. He lifted his head and rested it on one hand and looked over to Musa and Babarr.
“What brings you two here?”
“I have been ringing you for the past four days but that numbskull of a receptionist you have did not seem to have a clue where you were. So I thought to myself, Titty’s with a woman. But after two days I said to myself no way is Titty with a woman for that long. So I thought the Child Suppo
rt Agency were after you again and you were lying low and then this morning I went to your restaurant and they told me you were here and so here I am!” said Babarr angrily.
“So what the hell do you want?”
“Some manners would be nice, you moody bastard! What’s eating you?” asked Babarr.
“I went to a Diwali festival in Leicester, if you must know.”
Babarr, startled by this announcement, asked,” What the fuck for?”
“I wasn’t gonna convert if that’s what you’re thinking. I was there to eye up the cheese and plant a few seeds if you get what I mean.” He winked at Babarr, looking for a second like his old self.
“But you don’t need to do that shit. Enough women throw themselves at you.”
Titty Soups settled his head down again.
“But they only want a way out of their low ceiling lives. They see a guy who’s got the looks and the money and they think hey we got ourselves the dream. We don’t have to live in our two by two rooms anymore. But that dream turns into a fucking nightmare when they get all clingy and then they start giving you the third degree every time you go for a piss and eventually you get so fucked off with them you want out. And that’s when all the shit starts! Those girls don’t let go without a fight. There ain’t no heavyweight boxer in the world that can go the distance the way these girls can. They find out where you live and then they find out where your mum lives and where your grandma lives in Pakistan and before long you start thinking death is better than this shit.”
“What do all these tramps see in you? I swear to God it beats the shit out of me!” mused Babarr.
“Dunno man. I was born pretty but I don’t believe that’s it somehow. I think lots of girls take me home with them inside their heads. You know something? This is no lie, but I swear to you that guys sometimes invite me around their house for dinner because they know their woman won’t be able to take her eyes offa me and then afterwards she’ll feel so guilty she’ll give him a bit of night-time dessert.”
The Reluctant Mullah Page 18