The Reluctant Mullah

by Sagheer Afzal

  The lights were on, meaning that they were still there. Thank God, thought Shabnam. She pushed the door open and saw a man she did not know sitting with his feet on the desk wearing a magenta and black striped shirt and Armani trousers. It must be that bastard the girls called Stud Muffin and the men called Titty Soups.

  So the rumours about him were true. “He looks so good and dresses so nice that at first I thought he was gay. But then afterwards when we went upstairs…girl I’m telling you he is a walking talking Karma Sutra,” was typical of the comments she had heard.

  “You must be Shabnam.” He got to his feet and came round to the front of the desk. He studied her with his face tilted as if she were a rare breed of butterfly.

  “Do you know your name means Morning Dew?” he smiled. “Your father must have seen a row of petals in the early morning before he named you. Suleiman has mentioned you before, but for some reason he plain forgot to mention your beauty.”

  “Maybe that’s because he doesn’t think with his brain in his trousers…Titty.” Shabnam said his name with acid precision.

  Titty Soups laughed easily. “I see my reputation precedes me but don’t believe everything you hear. I do have some flaws you know,” he added in mock humility.

  “Yes I know. One of my friends used to be one of your women.”

  “Oh…who would that be?”

  “Rekha.”

  “Rekha? The name doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid. But then it takes someone pretty special to ring my bell.”

  “Yeah…like anything that walks and has a pulse.”

  “You know you have a fantastic sense of humour. I like that in a woman.”

  “Your conversation makes we want to puke. I want to get out of here.”

  “I can give you a lift in my Alpha Romeo, if you like?” What a flash git Shabnam said to herself.

  “I don’t think so. People might think I’m one of your whores.”

  “Not to worry, the windows have smoked glass. We could stop at my place for a cup of coffee, if you want,” he suggested.

  “Fuck you,” she said, leaving but as she opened the door, something made her turn to look at him. Titty Soups was smiling at her. She hated herself for the rest of the night.

  Back in his flat Titty Soups reclined in the Casanova armchair he had bought at a substantial discount because of a certain down-payment the sales manageress had received from him. Shabnam obviously knew of him – that was the price of fame – although he was still unable to recall Rekha. His memory was not as good as it used to be. Perhaps he was getting on. There was no denying that the slide downwards from his peak had slowly begun. He had tried to live as if he were to die tomorrow.

  He grimaced, Babarr was right. Going to that Diwali festival was a dumb idea. It was all getting to be tiresome. The thrill of the chase, the conquest, the brush off: you simply could not keep doing this shit anymore. Truth be told, the majority of women were beginning to bore him. The endless small talk, which he had perfected long ago, was beginning to sound flat and stale.

  The eyes of a girl told you far more than was gained from thirty years of small talk. He focussed, trying to decide whether or not Shabnam had given him the look. She really was a stunner. Was there something when she first saw him, the moment when the look was at its most potent? Yes there was, although she had very quickly switched it off; sometimes girls did that because they did not like the feeling of overwhelming attraction – this was particularly so with married women. With her it was more to do with her personality, she was one feisty little minx all right. Her conversation was aggressive, perhaps too aggressive. But as she was about to leave, she quickly looked at him and turned away, very annoyed with herself. He smiled…that was it…undeniable proof. She had been bitten by the Titty bug, but not smitten. No sir, she was fighting it. Why? He had probably treated Rekha like shit but he bet his sore ass that if he were to ring her she would come running.

  There was something else with Shabnam and he guessed she was going out with another guy. Yes, that was it; he had encountered that reaction from faithful girlfriends many times. Overcoming it was no real problem. He tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. The time had come to settle down and do the right thing. He was Pakistani after all and they did say marriage was half of faith. Shabnam had the requisite qualities of a good wife, she was beautiful and ballsy.

  His mobile vibrated in his pocket, it was a call from his latest. He dropped the phone into the bin. It didn’t really matter; it was pay-as-you-go and he had made a decision – it was time for a more permanent tariff.

  Dadaji was praying, his forehead pressed down on his prayer mat, but when he lifted his head turning to the left and to the right to salute the watchful angels, he became aware that he was not alone in the living room.

  “Shabnam, there is still darkness behind your eyes,” he said, without turning around.

  She opened her mouth to deliver her well-prepared tirade but no words came.

  “You are still a virgin,” he said softly.

  The calmness of his remark infuriated Shabnam.

  “What business is that of yours? Do you think I fear you? Do you think you can control me like you do my mother and father?”

  Dadaji chuckled as he struggled to his feet.

  “You are a part of my mark upon this earth. Every step you make in your life bears my imprint.”

  “I have no wish to be your mark. I am not ashamed of who I am. I am my own person.”

  “What are you, Shabnam?”

  “I am not a slave. I am not your puppet. I live my life by my rules not yours. I do not care whether you approve of me or not. I will do and say as I please.”

  “Is that all you are? A child that cries no to everything and everyone around her? If that is so then your pride in yourself is shallow. Just like your mark on this world.”

  “Who are you to judge me?” her eyes blazed with anger.

  “Pain, hardship and sacrifice have given me my judge’s robes. Do you have such robes? Yet still you judge. But you judge the way a spider builds a web. Not knowing how frail and flimsy his creation is, yet all the time imagining himself to be the most important thing in his world. You cannot stand tall in water, Shabnam.”

  “How tall did you stand when your wife placed your baby daughter next to you and you pushed her off your string bed and broke her arm? How tall did you feel when you beat your son till he was senseless and then refused to pay the doctor that treated him?”

  Dadaji was silent for a few moments and Shabnam’s heart leapt in triumph.

  “Yes, I did these things…Sometimes a man cannot give that which he did not receive.”

  “Yes, that is so true, Dadaji. You made my father what he is. But maybe I am a better person than you because I would never treat any child of mine the way you treated your children and the way my father treated me.”

  “The bond between parent and child is mystical, Shabnam. Maybe my children feared me more than they loved me. But the fear of someone who fears only Allah will guide you far more than the love of any adoring father. That is why I command the devotion of my children. I am the one who gave them knowledge of right and wrong. I am the one who planted the seed of faith in their hearts.”

  “Your children never loved you!” cried Shabnam.

  “You are wrong,” bellowed Dadaji. “Fear did not make your Aunty, whose arm I broke as a baby, wash me and bath me when I was ill with malaria last year. Fear does not make your father massage my feet with oil every night. But what do you know of such things? What do you know of poverty and its stench? What do you know of raising six children when you have nothing? I am the blanket which shielded them from a world which turned the poor into beggars with rotten teeth and bent backs. As I have lived I have learnt. You! A brash babe with so much certainty! The world in which you reign exists only in your mind. In the real world, your path in life begins from mine. And while you are on this path, learn these things. Hate does not inspire de
votion. Cruelty does not inspire obedience. Neglect does not inspire loyalty.”

  “It doesn’t inspire mine,” said Shabnam.

  “You glory in your defiance and take pride in your argument. It is these things that caused the downfall of Satan.”

  “Are you saying I am evil? Just because I stand up for myself?” Shabnam laughed scornfully.

  Dadaji shook his head slowly. “Within you there are the seeds of evil but there is also a strain of shame. As long as there is shame, decency will never be far away.”

  “Would you be saying this if I were a boy? Would you ever give this lecture to Suleiman?”

  “Like you Suleiman lives in a different world. Unlike you, he is haunted.”

  “Haunted by what?”

  Dadaji waved her question away.

  “Listen. Who is there in this world who takes pride in your decency and grieves at your evil? No one but your parents, your family. As time goes on, purity is leaving this world. People no longer fight against the whisper of evil. Instead they long for its madness. Evermore people rush to their own destruction. People like you who crave illusions. The pearls of youth which you so desperately seek; excitement, adventure, these are nothing but cheap trinkets. You will weaken yourself if you try too hard to claim them. I know of the lust inside you. You long for its fire but you are afraid of its smoke. Fight it. For once you give in to it, it will forever stain your heart.”

  He paused for a moment and then added gently, “Construct your decency again, Shabnam. Once you have done this, your anger and bitterness will disappear. You will be clean again.”

  The gentleness of his voice began to disarm her and for a fleeting second she felt tranquil. But then the defiance which was at her core took over and she turned on her heel, slamming the front door behind her.

  Amma emerged from the kitchen. “One day she will never come back.”

  Dadaji roused himself and looked kindly at his niece. “The path of every child follows back to their parents. They will all come back to you one day.”

  19

  When they had last met in Babarr’s office, Suleiman had seen something in Musa’s expression – a certainty and an excitement which came from being listened to and understood. These were emotions that he had never experienced, not at home, not even in a mosque. As he walked down the street, he had never before felt so full of longing. A middle-aged woman smiled at him as she made her way into the local church and that moment of simple contact prompted him to follow her. He felt on edge, almost fearful, as he walked through the open doors into what appeared to be an empty space.

  At the far end was a huge stained glass window which depicted a woman dressed in blue with white doves hovering above her. Pillars ran along either side of rows of wooden pews and between two pillars was a statue of Christ with one hand raised, his eyes both eloquent and sad.

  Dadaji had eyes like that, he thought. And the raised hand. It seemed to say so many different things; an instruction to patiently persist, a command to resist, a warning to desist. He stared, spellbound by its inferences.

  “Can I help you?”

  A kindly voice with a distinct Irish accent broke the spell. Unable to speak, Suleiman stared at a small bespectacled man in a long black robe.

  “Have you come for confession?”

  Suleiman shook his head, not quite knowing what this meant.

  “But you would like to talk to somebody?” The priest smiled.

  “It’s a bit hard to explain,” responded Suleiman awkwardly.

  “Is it to do with a woman?”

  “Yes I suppose you could say that.” Suleiman shrugged and continued in a rush: “No. I… buy and distribute drugs.”

  “That is a most heinous sin.”

  Suleiman wondered what heinous meant but guessed it wasn’t good.

  “If I stopped it, my family would have no money. They all need a lot of money from me.”

  “Do they know what you do?”

  “My mum knows, don’t ask me how but she knows. My dad knows I’m up to something but he turns a blind eye.” Suleiman laughed.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Because he never really looks at me anyway. You kinda have to be there to get the joke.”

  “Are you a Muslim?”

  “No, but I am a Pakistani.”

  “What does your culture say about narcotics? Do you know of the evil they wreak?”

  “Yes I do know. I know they take away a person’s life. I know they will bleed self-respect out of a guy and I know that they turn women into whores.”

  “If you know this, then you must fight the evil in you that makes you distribute these drugs.”

  “What do you need to fight evil, sir?”

  “You need only sorrow and courage. Which of these two have brought you here?”

  “I don’t really know. A few days ago I saw this girl that I’d turned into a whore. And it hurt to see her, so I got pissed. And once I got pissed I started to cry but then afterwards I felt clean inside although it didn’t last.”

  “Is that why you are here?”

  Suleiman struggled: “I remember my younger brother told me that one time he went to a mosque and the mullah turned off the lights and said that everyone should think of their sins and repent. My brother said that within minutes everyone was bawling their eyes out. So I got to thinking maybe they were all remembering a time when they were like me or maybe they were just bastards anyway. I don’t know. The point is, when I cried and felt good inside afterwards, I thought to myself what does it take to feel like this all the time?

  “And another thing, my brother has respect because he is holy and honest…”

  “All you need is the belief that you can be different.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Is that what you needed to know?” asked the priest gently.

  “I think so…”

  “Forgive me, my son, but why did you not go to a mosque?”

  “I don’t think a mullah would understand where I was coming from. I don’t think he would be able to help me.”

  “And have I?”

  “Yes, you have… Thank you.”

  Suleiman quickly walked away.

  “Go with God, young man,” said the priest from behind.

  Suleiman turned and smiled. He raised his hand in farewell: an imperfect resemblance of the statue.

  20

  “However eagerly you may want them to, most men will not believe.”

  Musa read the passage from the Quran and waited for a reaction from his audience.

  A handful of Holy men nodded sadly. Others gazed tellingly at the rude boys who stared back defiantly.

  “Why do you think that is, guys? That verse is not an opinion, it’s a statement made by our Creator. Do you know there is a saying of the Prophet – Peace be upon Him – that on the Day of Judgement, nine out of ten people will be thrown into hellfire. Think about that! Ninety per cent of everyone who was ever born will be thrown into hellfire!” said Musa.

  “It is the way people are, brother. People will not recognise the signs of Allah. Everybody is too interested in chasing after money and material things,” said a Holy Joe sorrowfully. He directed a question at the rude boys. “Why is it that you people do not believe? Why do you do things that you know are wrong? Chasing after girls and going out to nightclubs?”

  “We do believe, geezer! Why would we be here talking about Islam if we didn’t? Besides, having a good time and enjoying yourself when you’re young is not anti-Islam. We still respect our culture and that’s what counts. We ain’t like them,” he pointed in the direction of the coconuts. “They act like they’re white and speak posh and look down on us even though we’re the same colour.”

  Musa sighed. This was becoming a common digression in their debates. “But that’s not what I’m asking. What I want to know is do you think that mankind was a failed experiment. In the Quran it also tells us the mountains were given the chance to have a s
oul and a personality, but they refused. Do you think they realised something that mankind did not?”

  “It’s all about free will. Men were born with the power to decide to do either good or evil. But to say that we are a failed experiment is a bit harsh. We do the best according to what we know. My father taught me from a very early age to respect education, to work hard and now I’m a barrister. Ultimately it all comes down to what you were taught when you were young,” said a coconut.

  “Are you saying that most men were not well taught when they were young, they were not guided properly, and that is what has caused their downfall?” asked Musa.

  “The point is, brother, men are not taught to fear their Creator. Without that fear you will always be led astray,” declared a Holy Joe.

  “So you can only believe and have faith if you fear Allah? If that’s the case, then that explains it all. People don’t like to live as if they’re scared shitless. In life you gotta be strong. If you act like you’re afraid then you’re gonna be the biggest loser there is,” said a rude boy.

  “Why do you bring your stupid macho shit into every answer? Your attitude is the reason why people don’t want to believe in Allah. You think you know it all and can do it all and the harder and quicker you knock someone down the easier it will be for you to step over them and get to your final destination. It’s not like that at all!”

  Seeing the Holy man’s fury, Musa stepped in with another question. “How many of you pray five times a day?”

  Only the Holy Joes raised their hands.

  “How many of you think about the afterlife or spend any time during the day remembering Allah?”

  The Holy Joes kept their hands raised.