The Study Circle

by Haroun Khan

  The body arrived from the hospital. Shams and the mosque official gently lifted the body onto the table. Shams felt some shame as he struggled to lift his father’s torso. His father’s corpse was extremely heavy, a result of those last few years of ignoring all his loved ones’ health warnings. His father had had a passion for gulab jamuns, the sweet and oily sweetmeat. Shams remembered him always slipping him some after work, and winking. A trusting code between them that he was not to tell Mum. When working he also used to surreptitiously discard his pack lunch, of lentils and a simple unbuttered chapatti, to indulge far too often in the fried chicken from next to his place of work, one of those that were called something implausibly southern American. He saw it as one of his few pleasures. Shams’ mother would always find the branded red and white sachets of wet-wipes in his pockets, but no amount of encouragement or admonishment swayed him.

  Shams expected to see a lifeless grey cadaver lying on the table but his father merely looked asleep. Not quite at peace but at rest. Helped, he removed his father’s outer garments. They ensured that his private parts were not revealed by placing a large white cloth over the lower part of the body. Carefully, they washed the body with warm water, softly pressing the stomach to ensure that anything foul was expelled. Shams’ hands flinched as they touched bare dead skin. He could not not shed tears. His swollen head ached, and at times he had to stop, but he contained himself, wishing to finish the washing with some dignity. At these times the Imam’s assistant took over, or guided his hand, offering soft words of solace and comfort, reminding him that this is the final destination of all of mankind. As friends would say at times of calamity, ‘Inna illahi wa inna ilayhi raji’oon’ – ‘Surely we belong to God and to Him shall we return.’

  They proceeded to wash the body in the manner of ablutions before prayer, taking special care with the nose and mouth. They then washed his father’s hair, still strong and full, grey with black flecks. They spread lightly scented oil over stiffened skin. After drying, they shrouded using three white cotton sheets. It was done.

  They waited for duhur to finish before starting the janazah. The word had gone out, and the mosque was busy with extended family and the local community. Some had traditional words, some hugged him, some avoided his gaze, not knowing what to say or how to respond. Shams was grateful to all for their attendance. Some inappropriate comments were par for the course, and expected. One uncle told Shams how the family in Bangladesh would be angry that the remains had not been repatriated. All he could reply was that this was the example of our prophet. We are buried where we die.

  The Imam led the prayer, standing by the middle of the body. The funeral prayer differed from normal daily prayers in that there was no bowing and prostration. Another defence against idolatry. Once finished the men set off for the burial plot. This graveyard had special dispensation for burial without a casket, so the shrouded corpse was taken out and placed in a dug out indent within the sidewall of the grave. The people who had followed the procession then proceeded to throw three handfuls of dirt into this final resting place. When they finished the gravediggers were left to complete the internment. He was gone.

  Shams had always been told to remember death as a guide, a marker for life. The prophet, peace be upon him, said, ‘At evening, do not expect to live till morning, at morning do not expect to live till evening. Take from your health for your illness and from your life for your death.’ He was not sure what to make of his father’s life, now buried in cold, rain-sodden ground in a small island off northern Europe. He had been born in a hot country, surrounded by people who, though changeable, were warm and sociable, people who cared for him – gossipy people who were always in your face and overly-worried about your business. Sharing people who touched, and joked, and sang about the minutiae of their lives. He had migrated to a tough and lonely nation for a life of struggle, in the hope that his progeny would have a chance for something better, to be more successful. Shams did not understand what that better and more successful part meant, and he wondered whether his father had ever known. Life in Bangladesh was indeed a struggle under the arbitrary whims of the powerful, and this had been swapped for living with people who had little understanding of him, who never really reached out to each other, but who had order. The swap of constant existential worries for some semblance of material wellbeing. Maybe this was better, however hard it had been. All Shams knew is that, ultimately, his father had been a good parent, one he had been blessed to have. Shams only hoped and prayed he would also have a child that would wash his body and bury him when he died.

  Shams shook the hands of, and hugged, the mourners who gathered around him. He struggled while watching the weeping of people who he did not recognise, who he did not know. He yearned for his opportunity to escape and mourn.

  20.

  Rain drilled into bloated ground, rupturing the earth and splashing mud on his trainers. He scanned the headstones blighted by creeping fungus and tried to imagine what it was like to be buried. They were corpses, but he couldn’t help but imagine that they still felt the wet chill.

  Ishaq shivered, waiting for the crowds to dissipate, not knowing what he would say. He felt a tremor down his spine as he saw, through steel bars, Shams exiting the cemetery. He saw how he clocked him. He saw how he quickly put his head down, in the pretence of not having seen him. Ishaq should have left this for another time but the action angered him more than if Shams had come up to him and chatted away as if nothing had happened.

  He strode after Shams, brushing the mildewed railing with a hand, the metal spikes resonating to the impact of his fingers and dislodging raindrops that clung to his hand like glue. He put a hand on Shams, who tried to pull away, but Ishaq held his sopped jacket, forcing him to turn around.

  ‘Look, Shams, I’m sorry for your loss. To Allah we belong and to him we return,’ said Ishaq, knowing that he had to keep some calm and respect.

  Shams finally acknowledged him but remained mute, and continued to walk away. Ishaq stepped after him and stopped him once again.

  ‘Is that it? You aren’t going to talk?’

  ‘Do you think this is the right time, bruv? Look what happened.’ Shams looked tired and fraught, the rain washing away any tears but not relieving the strain. His eyelids trembled and he could barely look Ishaq in the face.

  ‘One thing I’m learning, Shams, is that there is never a good time. I’m truly sorry for what’s happened, but you owe me.’

  ‘No salaams, you just go straight in?’

  His hurt was obvious but Ishaq was hurting too. ‘According to your new friends people like me aren’t Muslim, so my salaams aren’t worth it. Anyway, not much peace about these days.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would do that,’ said Shams, his voice giving way to something approaching sympathy.

  ‘So you did hear?’

  ‘Seriously, by Allah, I did not mean it to happen.’

  ‘So it was just ‘one of those things’?’ Ishaq’s throat gripped in a hunter’s trap. ‘You never mean anything to happen but you’re still responsible. Don’t you understand that you told lies. You made stuff up, just to save yourself. Always looking after number one, even if it’s at other people’s expense.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. Please let me be. We can talk tomorrow.’ Shams moved but Ishaq had not loosened his grip. He made a feeble attempt to pull away but gave up all too easily, his papier-mâché arm flopping loosely, like it was unhinged.

  Marwane walked up behind Ishaq, coming from the burial. He prised the two apart and gave Shams a hug and a kiss on the cheek, before holding his face in his palms.

  ‘I had to ask around. You told people that Ishaq was spying and reporting on them. Why didn’t you ask him to his face? Or ask me. You know I would have helped you.’

  ‘I should have. I’m sorry.’

  Ishaq couldn’t understand what he was doing here. Marwane had elicited an apology but he could see there was no real
understanding. What was he expecting to happen? His friend’s father had died, yet Shams’ shifting behaviour, his hiding, had caused this. Shams’ capitulation, the lack of even some pathetic denial, upset him to the point that he nearly forgot why Shams was here at this graveyard. Nobody was ever culpable. Shams did not understand that Ishaq had a chance to do something more, even in a little way that could take them all forward and not just stagnate in this little pond. He just brought him down. Ishaq could not go forward with Shams holding onto his coat-tails .

  ‘I’ll tell you why you didn’t do that,’ Ishaq said. ‘Because you’re a coward. You crapped yourself and just chucked whoever was nearest under the bus, to save your pathetic backside.’ The rain increased in volume, washing down their faces, battering them down into mulched mud. ‘Man, what happened to you?’

  Marwane said, ‘Leave it out, Ishaq, he’s got your point. Just listen to him for once.’

  Ishaq raised his voice to overcome the pounding of the rain. ‘No, I’m not leaving it. Shams, I’m tired of all of this crap. You have no clue how much discipline it takes to get as far as you like to keep talking-on about. You always need looking-after. Always need, and never give back. Maybe we’ve all been too soft on you; always being there for you has made you soft. How do we know that it isn’t you who’s been talking to the spooks and pigs about us?’

  Shams thought about Mujahid. He didn’t want to make things worse. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I just don’t know, Shams, you’re flakey as hell. Don’t know what to make of you.’ Ishaq threw a dismissive hand and started to turn, but this time Shams stopped him.

  ‘You don’t understand. There’s so much against me. I’m never given a chance. Can’t you see that? You? Of all people?’

  ‘It’s the way it is. Just the way it is. And going on about it doesn’t change a damn thing.’ Shouting, Ishaq felt the dull pain on his upper arm reminding him. ‘Shams, this is what we’ve been born into. No escaping, no point complaining, no point moaning. How about just getting on with it? You’ve always got an excuse ready for your latest screw-up, always something that makes us forgive you, but there are no excuses this time.’ Ishaq only just managed to stop himself from saying, ‘Not even your dad dying.’

  ‘Please…I need help…I’m in trouble.’

  Ishaq flung a hand through the air in Shams’ direction. ‘Don’t talk to me about trou…’

  ‘C’mon, let him speak,’ said Marwane.

  Water formed creeks and crows-feet tributaries on Shams’ cheeks. He poured out the story of the deal with Mujahid and the dog trainer, and how it had all gone wrong. He pleaded with them, asking them if they could they get Ayub to talk to Mujahid, or lend him some cash to pay-off the white guy.

  Ishaq said, ‘Is that everything? Are you telling me everything?’

  Shams’ eyes shot upward in thought but, after a pause, he said, ‘Yes, that’s all there is…please…help me.’

  Ishaq looked back and forth between Marwane and Shams and shook his head in a slow arc, as if his head was tied by invisible restraints. He did not have the strength to break free.

  ‘No, not this time…You know, Shams, I’ve got a chance to do something more with my life. Something small that can take our people forward, but we’re always held back, held back by people like you. Hotheads. Shams, you bring me down, you bring us all down. One by one everyone gets involved, because you can’t control your tongue or hand, and then you expect everyone else to bale you out.’ Shams looked like an admonished child, his face sullen and red, droplets of rain and tears indistinguishable.

  ‘I’m your brother and you won’t help? You live in your head.’

  Ishaq couldn’t but laugh at Shams’ audacity. ‘Brother this, brother that – it’s only ‘brother’ when it’s convenient. You don’t believe me, but I’ve always had your back. So I’ve got a bit of ice in my veins. Maybe it’s the best way to be…selfish. Maybe what you call selfish is actually looking after yourself, and not being a burden on others.’

  ‘And that’s why no one likes you, Ishaq. You’re just like them, all of them. That’s why you have no friends. You’re becoming a loner. Even Marwane thinks so, ain’t that right?’ Shams looked to Marwane who refused to corroborate his claim.

  Ishaq looked at the boy before him, surrounded by the whipping of rain and crackle of leaves. ‘That’s right, I finally agree with you. Because everyone prefers a fuck-up. He’s interesting. He makes them feel better about their own crap lives. He doesn’t challenge people to raise their standards, or think. You’re like a loveable pet that poops all over the place, except this time you’ve taken one dump too many.’

  Bare trees bowed in the wind. Leaves slapped against their trousers. Some, green and lush, were nailed into the ground by rain, forced into a sludgy compost. A watchful bird on a gravestone took flight and sailed through the boys, the irregular flapping of its wings interrupting them.

  ‘You know what I was thinking, just before I was lying there thinking I was dying?’ said Ishaq. ‘You know what was going through my mind? What is bravery? If I fought, and killed, and died, is that brave? If I just accept it, and hope he lets us off, is that wiser? What is wisdom, or bravery, or cowardice? Maybe surviving is the ultimate bravery? But then, I thought, you know it isn’t the answer that’s difficult, it’s the whole bloody question. The question is always out of order, it’s loaded, and there’s never a right answer. It’s the question that should never be posed.’

  Shams looked at Ishaq, dumbed.

  ‘Just go. I’ve got nothing more to say. We’re done. Ask him for help for once,’ Ishaq said, nodding towards Marwane.

  Ishaq walked away, his silhouette disappearing into the storm. Shams looked to Marwane who said, ‘Leave it a couple of days, Shams, let him calm down. I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘I don’t have a couple of days.’

  ‘You’re my brother. Always. But you do know you’ve done wrong? This is heavy stuff – you could have wrecked his life.’

  ‘How about you? Just a little bit of cash.’

  Marwane shook his head. ‘I’ve gotta go. See what he’s about. Keep your head down.’

  Shams stared as the two left, not sure whether he was feeling too much or too little. His sister was at the Mosque, amongst the competing moans and wails of grieving women doing their part, playing the act. He walked there, refusing a lift, feet dragging a trail. Dirt stuck to his foot, in the grooves of his sole; unable to shake it off, he tried wiping it, yet only succeeding in muddying his already marked hand.

  He met his sister and they went home together. She had been their father’s favourite, even if she had refused to acknowledge it. Their own Ishaq. Once, she had gone out with their father to buy groceries. As he examined some purple aubergines, for the first time she saw rows of unyielding wrinkles collapsing on his once flawless neck. She came back in tears and was never the same again, and then she left. For years. Maybe she had known something that Shams didn’t, that it was best to give up on sapping lost causes. No point having another’s inevitability take you with them.

  She had some posh office job somewhere and didn’t come back often. Her partner and friends were all white. He sat on the stairs while they talked in the kitchen. Shams could see that he was fearful of what might happen, her white knight. But the guy had never talked to him, so what was his fear? Shams did not know; the guy did not know.

  He listened as his sister talked and talked. As if this was a daytrip to real life. At the end, he asked, ‘So when you’re at some posh dinner table and they think you’re some brave Muslim woman who escaped from oppressive men…do you ever defend us? Do you look at things through our eyes or do you just let them feel good, damning us through ignorance? Do you let them know how it really was?’

  Uncertain, she paused, and then said, ‘I wanted a different life. I wanted at a chance at something different.’ Shams thought, So did I. He didn’t bother pressing further or asking for help, a
nd watched his sister leave.

  Now Shams was alone.

  21.

  Ishaq rocked back and forth. Shouts penetrated the room, of a woman hanging washing and debating with a neighbour. Something of ordinary life when all was anything but. The unrest had spread across the city and intensified in outbursts of wanton damage. Politicians stood with any community leader they could ferret out and assured everyone of the strength of British values. But people, especially the young, were ignoring them and went roaming, looking for trouble, whatever kind that may be; the world had opened like one giant fracture, the streets muttering a febrile chant, and they were responding.

  He assured his father he wouldn’t go out, and here he was stranded at the circle while it was all happening out there. Ishaq traced the line of the cut up to his shoulder, back and forth, the sermon thrumming in the background .

  ‘Brothers, we must look to the story of the Children of Israel. Allah, may he be glorified and exalted, sent them the great prophet Musa and released them from bondage. However, was this enough to be free? They were free from the evils of the Firaun, that tyrant, the Pharaoh. However, once Allah rids us of dictators then the work has just begun. Their bodies were free, but their hearts and minds were still those of slaves, still in servitude to fear. They were accustomed to simple thoughts of immediate need. Those of shelter and sustenance. When this was at risk, even after their victory, they panicked and turned to familiar Egyptian ways of idolatry and rebelled against Musa and Allah. In a crisis, they did not have the courage to abandon familiar ways.’

  The door creaked open, the hinges making a protracted squeal. Air scratched at attendees’ faces as shuffled steps sounded. Then he entered. Marwane and Ishaq exchanged looks. Marwane lent over to whisper something to Ayub but was stopped by a signal from Ishaq. Standing above everyone, all eyes upon him, all mouths now in locked silence, Mujahid tried to find a gap. There was no space available but he sat down anyway, pushing in with his shoulders, nudging those to his left and right. The circle broke. His neighbours recoiled, moving away to give the intruder his own space. Ayub did not break his flow as the rippled disturbance spread, only targeting his eyes as if he were solely addressing the interloper.