by Nawaaz Ahmed
A stream of questions eddies in Tahera’s mind: Why her? Why now? What is being asked of her?
“How long have you been thinking about this?” she asks.
“A couple of months.”
“Since Ammi’s diagnosis?”
Seema nods.
“What about the father?”
Seema bites her lip. “I don’t want him involved.”
“I don’t know,” Tahera says.
“I don’t know what to say,” she says.
“I’ll have to talk to Ismail,” she says, finally.
What she notes: a hint of a teardrop clinging to her sister’s eyelash. It trembles there gathering mass before it embarks on its perilous way through the lit and glowing air.
30
At the fundraiser that evening, Arshad is Superkid in his royal-blue kurta pajama and his crocheted white prayer cap. He’s miraculously at hand whenever someone is needed—to carry messages between organizers, to track down particular members of the community, to guard the video camera during the videographer’s breaks. Now he directs attendees to the spaces for various events, now he hands out pens and ink and paper for the calligraphy competition, now he works the slides on the laptop during Imam Zia’s speech about the future of the center. He’s a whirlwind in blue, streaking through the swelling throng, the men in suits and salwars and jeans and caftans, the women churidared and jilbabed and abayaed and hijabed, the young boys and girls dressed to their parents’ tastes in bright and shiny traditional outfits of every gaudy hue.
He has time for little else the first half of the evening—no time to hang out with his friends, to be dejected about not winning a prize for his recitation, to keep an eye on his sister. Thankfully, Amina is under Najiba Aunty’s care, playing with her friend Taghrid.
After the isha namaz there’s only one event left: the Quran Jeopardy! Originally his father was supposed to conduct it. Arshad had helped him put the quiz together, and he’s excited. But Ismail has since assumed post outside to supervise the activities in the lot, and the role of quizmaster has fallen to Imam Zia. Three contestants have been selected: the father of Arshad’s friend Jemaal, a senior from his school, and his mother’s business partner, Khadija Aunty.
Imam Zia, elegant in his navy blue robe (blue like his!) begins with a disclaimer in his rueful British accent: “Pardon me if I botch this, I’m not too familiar with this American format of answering with a question. And as I didn’t prepare this quiz, I may not even know all the answers myself. But, ah, Brother Arshad, over there, definitely does. A round of applause for him, please, he helped create this quiz.”
The audience claps, turning to look at him, and he’s thrilled at being singled out for praise, and for being addressed as “Brother.” It almost makes up for his failure at the recitation competition and for missing all the fun earlier.
But what could be more fun than the contest that unfolds? His father could never have been as entertaining as Imam Zia, who is funny and can quote from the Quran and narrate incidents from the Hadith to support the answers. He teases the participants good-naturedly, especially the two males, when they get an easy question wrong.
Once he tsk-tsks when nobody gets the question right, and he points to Arshad and says, “Why, even a twelve-year-old knows this!”
Arshad is called to shout out the answer: “What is iqra?” He adds, “And I’m eleven.”
“Yes, iqra! To read, to recite—the very first word of the glorious Quran as revealed to the Prophet, peace be upon him, by Allah subhanahu wa ta’ala’s messenger, the angel Jibreel. That is the first command that Allah bade the Prophet, and all Muslims. But more than just to read—to understand the Quran, to follow the Quran.”
Every time after that, when the contestants are stumped, Imam Zia eggs the audience to chant, “Even an eleven-year-old knows this.” And Arshad gets to call out the answer.
He roots for Khadija Aunty, admiring the competitive spirit with which she responds to the clues, eyes flashing like the sequins in her hijab as she pounces on the buzzer. But unfortunately, she makes as many mistakes as she gets questions right, and the senior from his school ends up winning.
Afterward, his father compels him to return home with Amina, though he wants to stay to help with the cleanup. Amina is tired and falls asleep almost immediately once Najiba Aunty takes them home. Arshad is too keyed up for that. He practices his recitation in the living room, working on the ayats he’d stumbled over during the competition. He’d recited surah Al-Qiyamah, his all-time favorite.
The Sunday Quran class when he’d first heard Imam Zia recite the surah, he’d felt his limbs tingle the moment the opening word, la, resounded, in what seemed to him not Imam Zia’s usual voice but verging on a cry: No!
Thereafter, each ayat seemed to reach toward him, a solar flare that surged with each prolonged vowel, seeking him out as if to sear him, receding only when sounding the final rhyming syllable. It started up again with the next ayat. He’d felt himself grow feverish. Even the ayats with only short vowels were awful and awesome, the flare engorging itself with each percussive rhyme, as if pumping itself up in preparation. Finally, at the word raq that concluded one ayat, Imam Zia sustained the vowel so long that the flames succeeded in reaching Arshad. He’d felt burned, branded, effaced, and ecstatic.
Later, during the tafsir, listening to Imam Zia’s explanation of the surah, he’d marveled at how, even without knowing its meaning, he’d been so affected.
Do you think Allah cannot resurrect you from the dead? No, He can reassemble the very tips of your fingers. On that day, when every eye will be astounded, when the moon turns dark and plunges into the sun, every disbeliever will ask, “Where can I hide?” But there is no place of escape. Only with Allah will you find refuge the day of Qiyamah. Allah alone is the cure that day—raq!—Allah alone is the healer.
He’d vowed to master the surah. Its terrible beauty, and its power to call to Allah anyone who listens to its recitation, proof of Allah’s glory and compassion. But he’s only now comprehending the immensity of the task ahead. The competition has laid bare his shortcomings. He’s far from catching up with some of the other participants, some only slightly older than him, let alone matching Imam Zia.
It’s beyond midnight when his father’s car pulls into the garage. “You still up, buddy?” Ismail asks, coming in and hanging up his keys.
“I didn’t win anything for my recitation, Abba,” Arshad says, stopping the practice track he’d been listening to on his MP3 player.
“It’s okay, I’m sure you did very well. It’s not about winning.”
Just the consolation Arshad expected. Yes, it’s not all about winning, but surely there’s some value to becoming perfect. Isn’t it every Muslim’s responsibility to learn to recite the Quran correctly, and beautifully, and doesn’t such a recitation hold the power of swaying unbelievers’ minds, guaranteeing him a place in Jannat? Abba knows too few of the rules of tajwid to even be aware when he commits a basic mistake. Last night, Abba hadn’t stopped him a single time, though he’d obviously flubbed many phrases. Ammi would have made him repeat them and helped him practice better. If only she’d been in town. Abba hadn’t even come to watch his first public recitation, only Amina had.
Arshad follows his father upstairs to check on Amina, and then downstairs to the kitchen. Ismail pours a glass of milk for Arshad and orange juice for himself. Son and father stand in the dark in mostly companionable silence, sipping from their glasses. Through the window they can see the deserted street and the lit fronts of their neighbors’ houses, the purple glow of the skies beyond. Everything is peaceful, as though the calm and quiet in their neighborhood extended everywhere.
“Everything went well, Abba?” Arshad asks.
“Masha’Allah, everything went smoothly,” Ismail replies. “We raised more money than we expected. And Imam Zia told me what a big help you were all evening. Your Ammi will be very proud.”
“Nothing
bad happened,” Arshad says. But it’s more of a question.
“What bad could happen?” Ismail says. “When there’s Allah to guide and protect us?”
Arshad knows why his father spent the evening outside, monitoring the parking lot. The world he’s seen on TV and on the internet is hostile. The nation is at war with them. Even their president, who claims to support them, thinks nothing of ordering drones to drop bombs and kill their people all over the world, under the excuse of fighting terrorism. Arshad has read on various internet sites—at his school library, since browsing is not permitted at home—that President Obama has sent more drones than any previous president, including George W. Bush, and has increased the size of American troops in Iraq and Afghanistan. Arshad imagines with a shudder a missile tearing through the air and their mosque exploding in a blast of light and fire.
“What would we have done if people had gathered outside the mosque?”
“What people?”
“Christians. White people.”
“Why should they gather outside our mosque?”
“They’ve been protesting outside other mosques. They don’t want us to build more mosques.”
“We’re not building another mosque. And even if they’d protested, we would have handled it.”
“How? What if they’d brought guns? Bombs?”
“Don’t be silly—nobody’s bringing guns or bombs.” Ismail gulps down the rest of his orange juice in one long swallow. “Finish your milk. You don’t need to be worrying about these things.”
Afterward, the two of them go upstairs, change into their pajamas, then end up in the bathroom brushing their teeth together. This doesn’t usually happen, except when Tahera is away. This fellowship is gratifying, yet Arshad feels a pang of discontent. Imam Zia’s praise has made the day, but the wish lingers that there had been a protest outside the mosque. Then he could have shown them how he would have handled it.
He falls asleep, gazing at the projected ayats and the glowing galaxies on his ceiling, willing himself to dream his favorite story about the Prophet. Riding a mare with wings of lightning, the Prophet follows the angel Jibreel from Mecca to Jerusalem, where he leads all the other prophets in namaz, and there in the seventh heaven, he confers with Allah in front of the radiant Sidra tree, which seethes and shimmers like a supernova.
31
Tahera is settled on the futon, wrapped in a comforter, ready to sleep. She has left the shades up so she can watch the fog descend upon the city. The lights smear, the contours of the city shift. Her thoughts pool and eddy in concert with the encroaching fog.
Her answer to Seema should have been simple. How could Tahera even think of not accepting her child? Isn’t it sunnah to raise her sister’s child—Prophet Muhammad, sallallahu alaihi wasallam, was an orphan and has promised Jannat to anyone who raises one. Surely, Ismail would agree.
Except that the child wouldn’t really be an orphan. (How horrible that she can contemplate her sister’s death so objectively.) Wouldn’t the child’s father be the best person to take care of him? But then Tahera can’t abandon her nephew to be brought up by Bill, in ignorance of Islam.
More tortuous thoughts: the child might be out of place in Tahera’s household.
He may look more like his father than Seema, perhaps bigger and darker than her own children, and she knows it shouldn’t matter, but will she be able to ignore the differences? Also, he would complicate their lives, for he wouldn’t be mahram to Amina, forcing the girl to wear a hijab at home, unless Tahera were to breastfeed him before the age of two. And what if Bill were to seek custody? Is Tahera expected to fight a custody battle? She doesn’t need additional struggles in her life.
Tahera is roused from her thoughts by a prolonged bout of timorous coughs from Seema’s bedroom. All evening her mother has been trying to suppress her coughs to clear her irritated throat, to avoid bothering her daughters, and now in her sleep, she seems to have lost her struggle.
Glad for any interruption, Tahera checks on her mother. But by the time she peers into the bedroom, the coughing has ceased. She sees, in the vague half light, her mother motionless, her hands on her chest, her body straight, a blanket neatly smoothed over her legs, as though laid out. Nafeesa’s mouth is slightly open, her head tilted back over the pillow. She doesn’t appear to be breathing.
Tahera freezes, waiting for some sign of life from her mother.
On the other side of the bed, Seema’s face is within an inch of Nafeesa’s neck, a hand resting on Nafeesa’s hip. Seema twitches suddenly, her fingers clutching at their mother’s sweater, causing Nafeesa to stir and, with eyes still closed, take Seema’s hand in hers, as though it were the most natural thing to do. She straightens Seema’s fingers, massages them, then draws Seema’s hand into a clasp by her chest. Seema whimpers, snuggling closer.
But instead of relief, say it is heartache and jealousy Tahera feels at this exchange. She would have liked to rush to her mother’s side, to hold her, to take Nafeesa’s hands in hers, to kiss each finger as she’d kiss Amina’s. But Nafeesa is holding Seema, and it’s Seema’s forehead she turns to kiss in her sleep. Tahera is merely an observer in the doorway.
Words come to Tahera unbidden: So she stood in her shoes and she wondered, she wondered, she stood in her shoes and she wondered.
The words from the past swell in chorus and spin around her. She shuts the door. That a door was as wooden. She heads back to the futon. That the ground was as hard, that a yard was as long. But how far it seems, as though with every step the distance grows larger. Or is she growing smaller?
It’s a nine-year-old who returns to the futon.
Is it too much to ask to be held, to be consoled, to be loved? Is it too much to ask that she not end up where she started—on the outside looking in?
32
Consider Tahera when she’s nine years old: standing outside her father’s study, peering in, as her father coaches Seema for her first competition in poetry recitation.
Tahera isn’t familiar with the poem Seema has chosen: Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper.” But here is their father, declaiming the poem, filling the study with its lush hills and shimmering valleys. His voice echoes off the walls and the shelves of books. He recites the poem in its entirety, then line by line, and Seema scrambles after him, trying to match his intonation and his pauses. He works on her enunciation, demonstrating the shape of the mouth, the position of the tongue, the force with which to articulate the consonants, how to linger on vowels and glide over diphthongs. Like so, he says, his hands molding Seema’s lips and cheeks. He patiently corrects her, making her repeat phrases, over and over, then lines, then whole stanzas.
Next, he shows her how to present herself: neck elongated, shoulders pulled down and back, hands held at the diaphragm, fingers hooked. He bends his knees to better match her height. Standing this way, they recite the poem together, and Tahera is transfixed by two voices that sound as one, word for word, pause for pause. And the words themselves—melancholy, chaunt, nightingale, Hebrides—so much mystery, so much magic! She silently mouths the words along with them, her voice tiny in her throat, her eyes fixed on their moving lips.
I listened motionless and still—
Until Seema, catching sight of her outside the study, says, “Abba, tell Tahera to stop making funny faces at me.” She shuts the study door in Tahera’s face, ignoring Tahera’s pleas: “I wasn’t making fun, I was just watching.”
—The music in my heart I bore, long after it was heard no more.
33
The day of the competition, the auditorium floor is a pool of blue pinafores, fluffy white blouses, and glossy black plaits of hair. At the back, in a row of cream wicker chairs, sit the Sisters of the Convent, in gray wimples and white habits. And sitting beside the headmistress, Sister Josephine, in the seat of honor in the center, in a brown suit and a peacock-green tie, is my grandfather, Dr. Naeemullah Hussein, benefactor of the school and personal friend to the h
eadmistress. He’s presiding over the event.
When Seema gets up on stage, it’s him Tahera watches, turning around and straining to catch the expressions on his face—encouragement, attention, exultation. When all the contestants are through, he takes the podium for his address while the judges finalize the winners.
“Why poetry?” he begins, then pauses. “We may as well ask, why life?”
Now his voice resounds in the auditorium, much as it had in his study while coaching Seema. This is Tahera’s first time listening to Naeemullah speak in public. There is a power to his voice, an authority that spellbinds her. But though she’s entirely focused on his words, her eyes fixed on him, much of what he says escapes her.
This is a father she doesn’t quite know, or recognize. A father who doesn’t seem to recognize her either, even when glancing in her direction, as if seeing through her, beyond her. She listens in feverish anxiety for elements she can identify, the parts of his life she’s familiar with: his family, his practice, their house and household. Instead, he speaks of Joy and Beauty and Truth, as though these were his family. He quotes many poets, but few she knows; nobody from her textbooks—no Walter de la Mare, no Christina Rossetti. Even his quotation from William Wordsworth is from a poem she hasn’t heard before: My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky . . .
This is the most accessible of the poems he recites. Tahera has seen rainbows before and thinks them lovely, but she can’t remember now whether her heart has ever leapt at their sight. She’d like to believe her heart capable of this. For there’s little doubt that her father isn’t merely reciting Wordsworth’s words but living them, reliving them.
“Or—let—me—die!” he proclaims, punctuating the line with pauses.