The Garden of My Imaan

by Farhana Zia

  “So he doesn’t know his geography either. You should still tell on him!”

  Marwa shook her head. “Sometimes things like this will go away if we don’t make a big fuss.”

  “Who told you that?” I asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “My dad,” she said.

  I couldn’t understand how she could be so calm. But I did understand the hurt.

  “You know, this is the first time we’ve really talked since I came,” Marwa said.

  “You’re wrong,” I corrected her. “It’s actually the second time.”

  “And it always seems to be about him,” she said, waving a thumb in Austin’s direction.

  “Yeah!” I said. “We do have that moron in common.”

  “We have a lot more in common than that,” Marwa said with a smile. “Eid too. Eid’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “I know,” I said. “I can’t wait.”

  “We’ll be wishing each other Eid Mubrook pretty soon,” she said.

  I nodded. “And you wished me Ramadan Mubrook not too long ago, do you remember?”

  “Of course, I do!” she said. “You weren’t as talkative back then.”

  The bell sounded and we took our time walking back. I was sorry that recess had ended.

  December 3

  9:00 p.m.

  Dear Allah,

  I can’t wait for Eid! And Marwa was right—it is a pretty good feeling to know I made it through Ramadan! I was afraid that if she asked me how many days I’d fasted, I’d be embarrassed to tell her. But now I’m thinking there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Eighteen days may not be as good as twenty-nine or thirty, but it’s better than six or seven or even my eight of last year.

  I hardly think about her hijab now, except when I wonder how she can tie it on so perfectly. It stays in place all day and she always looks so nice. My scarf always slides off when I bend down to say my prayer at the Islamic Center. It’s no use asking Mom what to do; she’s not much better at tying it than I am.

  Marwa likes the outdoors too. It’ll be fun to walk the trails around the lake with her next summer.

  Yours truly,

  A

  PS Marwa reminded me that I wasn’t very friendly earlier. I didn’t know how to answer.

  PPS It makes sense to me now that a hijab can be a part of a person. Anyway, what’s in our head is more important than what’s on it. Right?

  Eid

  The excitement and mad rush started pretty early in our house on the morning of Eid.

  “OCD’s hogging the bathroom again,” I muttered. “She’s been in there almost an hour.”

  “Do you think she’s sleeping in the bathtub?” Zayd whispered.

  “Mom will be mad that we’re still in our pajamas.” I put my ear to the door, trying to figure out what our great-grandaunt was still doing in there. “I’m going to knock.”

  “Is she snoring?”

  I knocked on the bathroom door. “Choti Dahdi! May we have our turn, please?”

  The toilet flushed and OCD opened the door. “Aii!” she said, looking down at me crossly. “You vhant break the door?”

  “It’s my turn.” I squeezed past her.

  Back in Zayd’s room, I slipped quickly into my new green shalvar khameez with pink and blue trim. Zayd put on a pale gold brocade shervani and white churidar pajamas. He had combed his hair down severely; he actually looked cute.

  “Where’s the darn shoe polish?” Baba growled.

  “We’re going to be late for prayers at this rate!” Mom scolded him as she rushed down the hall.

  OCD emerged from her room dressed in a long abbayah, her prayer beads spinning in her fingers.

  “You look very glamorous, Choti Dahdi,” I said.

  She looked puzzled until Zayd explained that “glamorous” was a compliment. “You look very nice,” he told her.

  “Thank Ooo!” she said, grinning. “Thank Ooo!”

  Finally, we were all ready. We threw our winter coats over our splendid Eid attire, piled into the van, waved to Amma and Badi Amma, and headed for the mosque. I felt a little sad that they weren’t coming with us. My great-grandmother was getting too old to be out in the cold and my grandmother was staying with her.

  We arrived at the Islamic Center with only fifteen minutes left to spare. The parking lot was overflowing, so we had to park on the street and walk a long way in the snow. The lobby was so jam-packed, there was hardly an inch left to maneuver, and the prayer hall was filling up really fast. We removed our shoes and hurried to find good spots.

  Baba walked to the front with Zayd. OCD had me firmly by my arm. By chance I spotted Marwa in a far corner. Her eyes locked on mine. “Eid Mubarak,” I mouthed across the sea of heads and Marwa waved back. But OCD’s grip was like a vise and there was nothing I could do but follow as we searched for a place to sit. We found a spot and quickly made a dash for it.

  Everybody in the prayer hall began chanting the preliminary adoration. This was the part that always gave me goose bumps. The entire hall resonated as we said the words in unison.

  Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar

  La illaha il Allah

  Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar

  Walilahil Hamd

  We praised Allah, the Great—all together, with one voice and one feeling. At the stroke of nine, the Imam stood and made the call to prayer. The congregation stood, creating a rolling, muffled rumble.

  We all stood shoulder to shoulder in straight rows, waiting for our Imam to lead us into the Eid prayer. I looked around at all the women and girls dressed in their finery. My dupatta slipped from my head again and again. Choti Dahdi pulled it roughly back in place each time, hissing, “Hair is showing, hair is showing. Tauba, tauba!” When I pulled away, she threw me an annoyed look.

  After the short Eid prayer, the Imam delivered a long sermon. My mind drifted. I craned my neck to look for Marwa again, but Choti Dahdi gave me a jab with her sharp elbow. When the Imam finished, shouts of “Eid Mubarak! Eid Mubarak!” erupted from the audience.

  Everyone hugged, shook hands, and thumped each other on the backs. There was a lot of joy in the room.

  Baba pushed his way through the crowd, tugging Zayd along. “Eid Mubarak, family!” He beamed and threw his arms around us.

  We all returned the greeting: “Eid Mubarak!”

  I saw Nafees, Ama, Heba, and Sehr huddled together near the doorway. I waved and they motioned me over.

  “Where are you going?” Mom asked.

  “I’ll be right back, I promise,” I said and fought my way through to my friends. The crowd pressed around me and I didn’t see Marwa again. I was disappointed that I didn’t get to wish her a happy Eid up close.

  “You’ve got to hear what this one has to say,” Amal said after we had exchanged Eid greetings.

  “What is it, Nafees?” I asked.

  “Not here.” She looked up and down the hall furtively. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  We ran up to our Religion 2 classroom, which was empty and silent. Nafees perched on top of a desk, itching to tell her news, and Amal and Heba and I gathered around to listen. Only Sehr lingered by the door, looking glum.

  “What’s wrong with you today, grumpy?” I asked her. “Smile. It’s Eid, remember?”

  Amal nudged me. “Haven’t you heard?”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “She was minding her own business, walking—” Amal turned to Sehr. “Where were you, again?”

  “I was actually in the mall, with my brother,” Sehr said. “Some goon tried to pull off my hijab.”

  “Oh no!” I cried. “First your sister, now you! What did you do?”

  “I wanted to chase him down and punch him in the face, but my brother stopped me.”

  “That’s terrible!” I said. “Did you report it?”

  “The mall security people just blew us off,” Sehr said. “What do we have to be before they actually do something? Dead or something?”
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  “What about your parents?”

  “They went to the police, but a fat lot of good that did! They actually made us feel we were making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “There really wasn’t much the police could have done,” Nafees pointed out. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “Are you going to quit wearing it too, like your sister did?” I asked Sehr.

  “I’m listening to my parents, I guess, and putting it away for a while until all this craziness goes away.”

  That made complete sense. I would have done the exact same thing. But Amal still wore her scarf all the time. My eyes went to her automatically.

  “I know you’re all thinking I’m a chicken for giving it up,” Sehr said. “But believe me, when something like that happens to you, it’s very scary.”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything, honest,” I said. And then I gave her a quick hug.

  Nafees cleared her throat loudly. “Well, enough about scarves. Who’s interested in hearing about something more exciting?”

  “Oh right. This one has got herself a brand new boyfriend!” Amal announced.

  Nafees tried to look nonchalant, blowing on her fingernails and buffing them on her shirt.

  “Really? A new boyfriend?” I couldn’t believe it. “Another one? Already?”

  “Whoa … one question at a time, but the answers are yes, yes, and yes.”

  “Tell, tell!” Heba was practically shouting.

  Nafees beamed. “It was kismet. I didn’t want to go with my dad to the post office but he made me and … Bingo! Damien’s so cute, one hundred times cuter than Marcus! We exchanged phone numbers and my father was so busy with the oversized box he was shipping to Pakistan, he didn’t even have a clue!”

  “I bet he thought you were cute too, huh?” I asked. “Did you kiss yet? Did you?”

  “Of course we kissed,” she said.

  “In the post office?”

  “Don’t be silly!” Nafees snorted. “Much, much later!”

  Amal, Sehr, Heba, and I looked at each other. Nafees had done it again. How did she manage it?

  Zayd burst into the room. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” he panted. “You better come fast, Aliya! Mom’s really mad at you!”

  “We’ll talk next Sunday,” I promised Nafees. “I’ve got to go now.”

  “Not a word to anyone, Aliya!” Nafees called after me. “Not to your parents, not to anyone.”

  “I won’t tell,” I reassured her. “I promise.”

  I turned to Zayd and gave him a shove. “It’s Aliya Apa, dork!”

  On the way home from Eid prayers, sandwiched between OCD and Zayd, I thought about poor Sehr.

  “What’s the matter?” Baba asked, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Why you suddenly so chup chaap, hanh?” OCD asked, wiggling and crushing me some more. “Why you so quiet?”

  I told everyone about what had happened to Sehr and her decision to remove her hijab.

  “I don’t blame her,” Mom said. “These days it just seems to provoke people.”

  “Some people. Not all,” Baba reminded her.

  “Some is more than none. We were doing just fine until 9/11.”

  I didn’t know which way to feel anymore. At first, Marwa’s hijab had seemed like a red flag in the face of a bull—an invitation to anger and resentment. But now, I was beginning to wonder. More and more, Marwa reminded me of a ship that stayed true to its course, no matter how strong the winds or hard the rains. I reminded myself to write Allah about this in my next letter.

  OCD was doing her best to follow the conversation, but we talked way too fast for her. “Vhaat? Vhaat they saying?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  Obviously upset about being left out, OCD crossed her hands over her chest. “Nobody vhants to talk to us,” she pouted.

  I felt sorry for her. “I will,” I offered. “What do you want to talk about?”

  OCD sniffed and squirmed. She turned her body away from me and stared out the window.

  Her prayer beads brushed against my arm. “We can talk about these,” I said, trying to placate her. “They’re so beautiful. May I hold them, Choti Dahdi?”

  OCD turned to me. “Aii, why?”

  “I’ll be really careful. I promise.”

  She snorted but I could tell that she was feeling better.

  “Hold lightly, lightly,” she commanded, handing the beads over reluctantly.

  “I’ll be really gentle,” I assured her, but before I could get a decent look at them OCD thrust her hand out.

  “Time up!” She snatched the beads back from me. “When you marry, we put them in nice box with red ribbon to give to you as wedding gift.” She nudged Mom’s shoulder. “Did you hear what we told your daughter? We said we vhill give our beautiful beads to her on wedding day!”

  “Thanks,” I said. But would it have killed her to let me hold them a little longer?

  I didn’t talk to my parents about Nafees, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d kissed Marcus and Damien. As Amma might say, she was the honey—shimmering, gleaming and luscious—that brought the foolish fly; she was the biscuit that brought the frisky puppy. I wanted to be the biscuit. I wanted to be the honey.

  What did a kiss on the lips feel like? I put the back of my hand to my lips. I closed my eyes and imagined Josh kissing me. I got goose pimply. Was that how it felt? Suddenly, it didn’t matter that Nafees couldn’t go dancing in a club. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t buy music or wear shorts. I’d probably trade those things in for a boyfriend and a kiss on the lips in a second!

  “How’s your Steps to Success assignment coming along?” Baba asked, disturbing my daydream.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “It’s not due until April.”

  “I hope it’s turning into more than just one long gripe session,” Mom said.

  “Mo-om!” I cried. “That’s so mean!”

  “I’m just trying to be helpful, Aliya. I wish you’d take input with better grace.”

  “Exactly, Aliya,” added Zayd.

  “She’s Aliya Apa to you, mister!” Mom and Baba said in one big voice together.

  My grandmothers were waiting for our return with big smiles on their faces and hugs at the ready.

  “Where’s our Eidi?” Zayd asked, too eager for gift time—his favorite part of the holiday—to be polite.

  Amma and Badi Amma put golden envelopes in our hands. We ripped them open and found crisp dollar bills— twenty-one for each of us—for our college fund.

  OCD went straight up to my room; she hobbled back down the stairs a little while later. “Come here,” she called. “Juldi, juldi!”

  “Yes, Choti Dahdi, what do you want?” I sighed, bracing myself to run another errand for her. Lately she’d been wearing Zayd and me down with shouted commands: Bring this from my room! Take that to my room! Put this in my room!

  But OCD grinned broadly. “I don’t vhaant,” she said. “I geeve.” She thrust our Eidi in our hands—seven folded dollar bills. She cupped my chin in her hand, brought her fingers to her lips, and kissed them with a big um-mah! Then she did the same to Zayd.

  I felt guilty for thinking bad thoughts about her, so I ran to the kitchen to bring her a glass of water. “Here is some vhaater for you, Choti Dahdi.”

  Then it was time to open the pile of presents from our parents. I didn’t get designer jeans or an iPod or anything like that, but I did get a new cell phone, some jewelry, and a gift card to my favorite store. My very own cell phone! I couldn’t wait to show Winnie.

  Amma had everything under control for our Eid party. The plates and forks were lined up, the food had been spooned into large dishes, and the sheer khorma shimmied in a large bowl. Zayd and I asked for a little taste, but Mom shook her head. “It’s the only dessert,” she said. “I don’t want it eaten up before the party starts.”

  The guests ar
rived in spurts and I ran back and forth carrying all the coats and scarves upstairs. Each time someone came to the door, exuberant cries of “Eid Mubarak!” rang out. Everyone was thankful for a successful month of fasting. We had been good Muslims and upstanding citizens; we had curbed anger and temptation, read from the holy Quran, and given help to the poor by sending money to India. Now we were ready to celebrate!

  I stuck close by Amma’s side, helping with the food first and then with the heavily spiced milky teas we served after dinner. When it was time for dessert, I offered to take the sheer khorma to the table.

  “Don’t trip,” Amma cautioned. “Go very, very slowly, one step at a time.”

  “Geez, Amma,” I said. “I’m doing fine. Stop worrying so much.”

  At that precise moment, Zayd charged up and bumped my elbow. “Watch out!” I cried. The sheer khorma sloshed about in the bowl.

  “Careful,” Amma called. “Don’t spill, don’t spill!”

  “I’m not going to!” I shuffled forward, one cautious step at a time. “Why does everyone make such a big deal about things around here! Sheesh!” I made my way to the destination and set the bowl down carefully.

  Zayd crept up to the bowl and peered in. “Uh-oh!” He scrunched up his nose. “There’s a bug in the sheer khorma!”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yup,” he insisted. “I can see it.”

  “It’s a raisin, you idiot!”

  “No way! Raisins don’t have wings.”

  I looked again. What if my brother was right?

  Amma came running, armed with a wooden spoon. “Where is this bug?” she hissed.

  “There it is … see?”

  “It’s not a bug, mad boy!” Amma said. “It’s a raisin.”

  “It does look like a bug,” I said.

  “Raisin or bug, I am going to scoop it out,” Amma announced.

  “Ewww,” I said.

  “Ewww, nothing,” snapped Amma. “This is a lot of sheer khorma and it’s our only dessert.” She dipped the spoon into the bowl and lifted the bug out.

  Choti Dahdi hurried in. “Aii, vhaat happened?”

  “Nothing, Aunt,” Amma said. “It’s just that the children think this is a bug.”