PIR PUL SIRAAT AND HIS TWO CATS disappeared beneath the ledge where Tarzan and I stood watching below. Down in the court, the tight-rope exercises continued. Somebody hoisted a bicycle up to one of the boys on the tight-rope. The kid put the bicycle on the rope, and with one foot on the pedal he rode for a few feet, then crossed his other leg over and pedalled with both feet.
‘Where did Pir go?’ I asked Tarzan.
‘He’s gone to change.’ he replied, tossing his burlap sack to the ground.
My underwear had begun to dry out, but not without leaving me with a sense of gnawing guilt. This Hoor Afza fiasco had turned out to be a fitting tribute to my utter failure to overcome my weaknesses, the ones I had been warned about at the outset of my journey. The Path to High Knowledge had me entirely exposed.
‘Well, well! If I may have the attention of the gentleman from the Big Apple.’ A deep musical voice reverberated through the air. I looked out into the darkness to locate Pir, but didn’t see a thing. I turned around. He wasn’t standing behind me either.
Feeling unsettled, I turned around again and there he was, standing just a few feet from us, dressed in a luminescent green robe. Two boys, twins from the look of it, flanked him on either side. Their eyes danced in the flames of huge torches which they held aloft to light the way for their master.
Pir’s face, glowing in the golden light of the fire, looked like some sort of ritual mask, yet it was strikingly handsome. His lean frame, chiseled features and fine high cheekbones made it impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty years old. His trimmed beard with streaks of white gave him a dignified, almost academic air. But it was his eyes—two white-hot searing probes—which surveyed me from head to toe in one blazing sweep. I stood still, mesmerized by the shimmer of his robe. It was impossible to continue looking into those almost non-human eyes that bore into me and left me feeling more naked and exposed than when I had had my robe hoisted up around my waist in the car.
The red headband across Pir’s forehead bore the Nike logo and kept his long white hair out of his face. He wore a pair of earphones with two fine white cords disappearing into the side-pocket of his robe. I stepped forward clumsily, as if drawn toward him by a magnetic force. I was pretty sure he was seeing through me and nothing could possibly be kept from him.
‘I’m honoured to be here, sir,’ I said, gingerly extending my left hand, not wanting to touch him with my right which had dealt with the urgent needs of my swollen manhood.
He took the offered hand and gave it a brisk shake with no sign of awkwardness. Before I realized, it slid out of my grip like an eel.
‘This is an amazing place! Your boys are doing great on the ropes.’
‘It’s not a difficult skill to learn,’ Pir said with a smile.
‘Nothing’s difficult when you’re young, I suppose.’
‘Age doesn’t matter. It’s all in here,’ he replied and motioned, tapping his temple with his index finger. ‘Everything!’
‘I know what you mean. Surely nothing is out of reach of man, for he is the greatest of all creations.’
‘Greatest of all creations?’ he boomed. ‘I sincerely hope you don’t believe any of that bullshit.’
I remained quiet, having absolutely no idea what to say. Was he mocking me, having known my real inner condition?
‘Man’s highest achievement is to elevate himself to the moral status of the animal kingdom. He must learn the nobility that’s natural to all animals except man,’ he said, staring into the flames.
‘I’ve never heard of a noble monkey. Or a noble cat. Or even a dog.’
‘Just because you haven’t heard of it doesn’t make it any less true,’ he looked at me without blinking. ‘One pack of wolves doesn’t punish, persecute or kill another pack of wolves because they eat a different kind of meat.’ His voice was firm, yet calm. ‘Or have a different colour of fur.’
Feeling at a loss for words, I glanced at Tarzan who had a mischievous look on his face and seemed to be immensely enjoying Pir’s interrogation of me.
‘All of man’s so-called higher intelligence,’ Pir continued after a pause during which he just stared at me until I began to squirm, ‘is wasted searching for newer and better ways to destroy everything that exists. No animal is capable of the level of moral depravity that is the trademark of humanity.’
Sweat poured down my forehead, my mind grappling with the shock of meeting with Pir Pul Siraat. Thankfully, he turned toward Tarzan before I could come up with a response.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’ Pir said, stretching his open hand toward Tarzan. Without saying a word, the boy pulled the briefcase out of his sack and placed it in his master’s hands.
Pir turned the briefcase over and examined it from all sides. The strange twins moved closer to him to provide more light from their torches.
Pir then turned the briefcase upside down and the bundles of banknotes fell out at his feet. I then noticed he was wearing black military boots. He tapped the empty briefcase with his knuckles and examined it closely.
‘What happened to the lock?’ he demanded, scouring Tarzan’s face with a fiery glance and sniffing the briefcase.
‘I don’t know. Probably got damaged by the blast,’ Tarzan replied, glancing at me for a second. I kept a straight face and refused to meet his eyes.
‘Probably got damaged by the blast?’ Pir cried, looking around. ‘So there was nothing else in it besides the money?’ He let the empty briefcase fall onto the pile of money lying at his feet. Clearly he knew the boy had tinkered with the lock.
Tarzan plunged his hand into the sack again and brought out a faded brown leather pouch with straps, like the kind travellers wear around their necks for carrying travel documents. I felt my own pouch, which I had tucked under my robe. It was there; my US passport was still on me.
‘This may be what you’re looking for,’ Tarzan said.
Pir’s nostrils flared briefly as his eyes fell on the pouch Tarzan pressed into his large hand. One of the twin boys whispered something in Pir’s ear and the old man smiled and looped the string of the pouch around his neck.
‘You’re sure there wasn’t anything else in here?’ Pir glanced at me this time but I just shrugged. Could he possibly be looking for the book, the one I had left back at the hospital? I had suspected it to have been blown out of the briefcase along with the banknotes. I decided to keep that bit of information to myself for the moment.
Just then someone called Tarzan’s name from the courtyard below and broke the heavy silence around us.
‘Go. Your friends are waiting for you,’ Pir said. ‘Just remember: I want you to spend that money you’ve got tucked under your robe wisely. That’s your whole year’s salary.’
‘What money?’ Tarzan asked. His voice was calm and his face showed not even the slightest trace of guilt. Damn, the guy was good.
‘Get lost!’ Pir yelled and Tarzan took off like a horse bolting from the starting line.
‘Sir, Pir will take good care of you!’ Tarzan yelled to me over his shoulder with a smile. Then he was gone, swallowed by a knot of noisy young men.
Pir smiled, looking me in the eyes. ‘My lieutenant!’
‘I’m not sure I’d promote him any time soon, though,’ I exclaimed.
‘I don’t do promotions,’ he said firmly.
‘He’s a smart kid.’
‘Indeed. He found you much faster than I’d anticipated,’ Pir said as we started walking. ‘Let’s talk in my room.’
‘What do you mean he “found” me?’ I sensed there was a hell of a lot more going on here than was obvious. Anything seemed not only possible, but guaranteed in this strangest of all imaginably strange places.
As we walked side by side, the torch-bearing boys walking along with us held us within a golden halo of dancing light. The heat from the flames brushed my body with pleasurable warmth, and I was lulled into a sense of delicious peace.
Pir pulled the pouch out from under his robe and opened it.
‘Here, I believe this is yours,’ he said, slapping my wallet into my hand.
I stopped in my tracks, shaking my head.
‘That lieutenant of yours appears to be adept in quite a number of fields,’ I said, taking my wallet from Pir’s hand. ‘Do you by any chance have my cell phone in there too?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, shaking his head in mock pity. ‘But then, had my lieutenant not picked the pocket of the pickpocket who picked your pocket, you wouldn’t have your wallet either.’
‘If I may ask, sir, why exactly am I here?’ I was now sure that Tarzan must have been tracking me since I left the airport. But how did he manage it, given the fact that he had no transport?
‘You mean, why are you here right this minute?’ Pir asked, bringing me back from my ruminations.
‘Yes, at this very minute,’ I said.
‘You’re here because of me.’
‘And what exactly are you here for?’
‘I’m here because of you,’ he replied, a shadow of mischief appearing and quickly vanishing from his face.
‘Okay, then,’ I continued, intrigued yet rapidly tiring of our little word game. ‘Why are both of us here at this moment?’
‘Now that, my dear Ismael, is a most excellent question,’ he said, stabbing the air in front of my face with his fingertip. ‘We are both here because of Khalifa.’
‘That I’d already figured out,’ I said. ‘It’s not what—’
‘I know you’ve got a lot of questions, Ismael. But you won’t be able to understand the answers if they’re given to you at the wrong time. For now, you have to trust that you’re among friends.’
The words of that strange, ancient-looking man with the bright eyes whom I had met in my Ayahuasca vision rang in my mind like the tinkle of his bicycle bell: Babu, you’re going to help us clean up a big mess.
‘Were you with Tarzan when he blew up the handle on the briefcase?’ Pir asked.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Was there anything else in the briefcase besides the money?’
‘I’m not sure. It was dark,’ I said, knowing he didn’t believe me. By now I was convinced that Pir was after the black book.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’ I asked anyway.
‘It’s the thing upon which Khalifa’s power rests,’ Pir replied. He led me through an arched doorway into what looked like a large rough-hewn cave strewn with tribal rugs across the dirt floor. Lit by dozens of candles set into small niches within the walls, the place was steeped in an otherworldly tranquility.
Pir gestured for me to sit down on one of the four chairs placed around a square wooden table in the centre of the room. As I sat down, my eyes fell on a red rose lying in front of me. Next to it lay a white porcelain ashtray.
There was a rustle over my shoulder which startled me and I glanced up. My breath caught in my throat as I looked into the eyes of one of the boys who was holding a torch over my shoulder. His eyes had vertical slits, just like the eyes of a cat. The boy averted his glance, looked straight ahead and walked over to Pir.
‘These are jinns,’ Pir said to me. He placed a hand on the shoulders of his twin boys and beamed like a proud father.
‘Jinns? For real?’
‘Yes.’
‘So all the big cats you see roaming around Lahore attacking people are jinns?’ I asked.
‘Very few of them. Most of those big cats owe their existence to Khalifa. He had them specially bred in the mountains up north.’
‘This is crazy!’ I said, recoiling in my seat, trying to fathom the logic behind this mass-scale production of giant cats. ‘Is he trying to compensate for the loss of all the dogs he had killed?’
‘Relax, lean back,’ Pir instructed. ‘You’ll feel a lot better after having a cup of hot tea; it should be here any minute now.’ He dug out a pack of Gold Leaf cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to me. ‘Would you like to smoke?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said, resisting a powerful urge to take one. ‘All I want is to know why I’m here. That’s all.’
The boy holding the torch behind Pir’s shoulder brought the flame closer to his master’s face and lit his cigarette.
‘You’re here to see your father, remember?’ Pir said, removing his earphones. He took a puff of his cigarette and nodded at the boy.
Both boys padded out of the room, leaving the two of us sitting face to face in the dim light of the candles. Pir tapped the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray and leaned back, eyeing me closely.
‘Ismael, you’re here for a very important reason. If you don’t successfully complete the task we’re about to give you, we won’t be able to complete ours.’
I remained quiet and tried to keep calm, but my breathing was shallow and fast.
‘Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said, feeling my heart pounding in my chest, my guilt lifting off of me like mist in the morning sun. Despite all my shortcomings I was still a candidate for the most ancient of the circles of the Elite.
‘Hajji Ibrahim, your father, is one of the Khalifa’s closest confidants,’ Pir’s eyes still locked on mine.
‘Not surprising,’ I said. ‘He was a businessman whose political ambitions were legendary and far-reaching. When I left home, some twelve years ago, he owned a chemical factory. But I suppose you know all this already.’
‘Of course. He’s still a businessman. But he’s branched out a bit in your absence and no longer confines his activities to the typical chemical industry,’ Pir said.
‘Not surprising. He was always an entrepreneur.’
‘These days your father’s real money and power is in manufacturing martyr vests. And as incredible as it may sound, it is currently the most lucrative business in the Caliphate.’ Pir broke out into a smile.
‘What?!’ I bolted up from my chair and stood glaring at him.
‘His company manufactures the most popular brand of these nasty little things, the Mujahid vests,’ Pir explained. ‘They’re in very great demand all across the country.’
‘You’re telling me…’ I stammered, and then stopped to shake the dizziness from my head. ‘You’re telling me that my father is the one who owns Mujahid vests, the suicide vests?’ My body convulsed inwardly with disgust. ‘I think I’ll take one of those smokes now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Please sit down,’ Pir opened the pack of cigarettes, slid one out halfway and extended his arm toward me. My fingers shook as I pulled it out of the pack. He held up his lighter, flicked it once and I drew in a deep drag.
‘I can’t believe it!’ I said, coughing out the smoke.
‘He produces the best martyr vests ever made,’ Pir said, his brows raised. ‘Please, I insist, sit down.’
Ignoring his request, I took another long drag from the cigarette. The smoke burnt my throat like acid and I went into a violent coughing fit.
‘Have some water,’ Pir was holding a glass up to me. I didn’t remember seeing any water on the table when I first walked in. I took a few sips and set it down.
‘I don’t think I want to see my father after all,’ I coughed, choking a little as I struggled to control my breath.
‘Ismael, you’re not only going to see your father, but you’re going to convince him you’re now a true believer,’ Pir said. ‘A devout and pious Muslim son he can be proud of.’
‘Hah!’ I snorted in disbelief. ‘That mission is doomed from the get-go. It would never happen in a million years,’ I said in a hoarse voice.
‘Oh yes, it’ll happen all right,’ he countered. ‘And it’ll happen long before a million years has elapsed. We’re here to assist you and make damn sure it happens.’
‘So I’ve come all the way from New York to Lahore for this—to turn myself into a true believer?’ I asked. ‘What for?’
‘To gain his trust,’ Pir replied.
‘What makes you think I even want his trust? What if I refuse to accept this assignment? And what if I take the next flight out of this madhouse and return to New York?’
‘I’m not going to ask you again, please sit down, please,’ Pir said in a voice that would brook no refusal.
Shaking my head, I sank back into my chair, fuming from hearing of my father’s business.
‘You have to remember two things: first, as I said, your father is one of the most important men in the Khalifa’s inner circle. Second, he’s vulnerable when it comes to matters of faith. Nothing will please Hajji Ibrahim more than to discover his only son and heir has finally rediscovered his faith.’
‘But that’d be a lie!’ I cried, helping myself to another cigarette. ‘A great big fucking transparent lie. My father’s a lot of things. But stupid isn’t on that list.’
‘Remember Ismael, in love and war,’ he said with a curious twinkle in his eye. ‘How does the saying go? Nothing is true, everything is permitted?’
‘But I’m terrible at lying.’
‘You’re a hafiz, right?’
‘I was,’ I admitted, recalling those torturous years when I would get up before dawn and head down to the cold dank madrassa for Quranic lessons in a language I didn’t understand.
‘For you, the Holy Book is the quickest and most direct route to the heart of your mission: your father’s forgiveness and loving embrace. And by that I mean that you once again become an authentic and verifiable hafiz,’ he explained. The look on Pir’s face assured me he understood the irony of his words.
‘But that’s impossible! I’m meeting him on Thursday, in two days.’
‘You’ll be amazed by how quickly you can recall the whole book.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, blowing smoke over my shoulder. ‘I’ve forgotten even my basic kalimas—except the first.’
‘What would you say, Ismael, if I told you that by the time you get to your father’s house, you will once again be an impeccable hafiz?’ he asked.
Suddenly curiosity took hold of me, but with the realization that it could have me killed, or at the very least, have me do embarrassing things the way Hoor Afza did.
‘I wouldn’t mind having my memory improved,’ I said, feeling a surge of excitement. I was eager to experience the man’s powers firsthand.
Suddenly, the flames flickered and the tinkling sound of a bicycle bell filled the air. A movement caught my eye and as I turned I saw a man gliding across the room on a bicycle. I froze, feeling as if I was going to pass out. I was now looking at Chacha Khidr.
He was dressed in exactly the same clothes he was wearing when we first met in that empty green wilderness under the purple sky on my Ayahuasca journey.
He stopped a few feet from the table, jumped off the bike and kicked down the stand. He then approached me with an extended left hand and a wicked grin on his wrinkled face. The incredible brightness of his eyes was at such odds with his decrepit look.
‘Chacha Khidr!’ Pir cried out with delight. ‘We’ve been waiting for our tea for a long time now. I hope it’s still hot.’
I wanted to get up, but my legs were powerless, nearly buckling underneath me. I blinked, my mouth gaping open and my breath caught in my chest.
‘Babu Ismael, very glad to meet with you again,’ Chacha said in a crisp voice that could only have come out of the mouth of a very young man.
‘Same here, Chacha,’ I managed to say, taking his hand.
He then turned toward Pir. ‘It’s windy out there,’ he said, exchanging glances with Pir. ‘I almost got blown away by the winds,’ he added, taking a stainless steel thermos out of a wicker basket that hung from the bike’s handlebars. As he put the thermos on the table, he stared at me for at least five seconds, his mouth still stretched in a wide grin. His only incisor in his otherwise toothless oral cavity protruded from inside his lower lip like a shark fin. Definitely someone impossible to forget.
‘Welcome to Shah Jamal!’ he said. There was such warmth in his voice that I couldn’t help but smile and mouth my silent thank you.
He returned to his bike and pulled out two white china cups from the basket. I noticed a burlap sack, just like Tarzan’s, tied to the rear basket of his bicycle.
‘Chacha,’ Pir said in a scolding voice, ‘how many times have I told you to get a headlight for that bike of yours? I don’t understand how you can ride around in the dark.’
‘Headlight? What for? I can see perfectly in the dark,’ Chacha protested, standing his ground.
‘I know your eyes are good, Chacha, but get a headlight anyway. Not so much for you, but for everybody else; they’ll see you coming!’ Pir said, teasing the old man as he poured tea into our cups. The room was filled with the sweet fragrance of cardamom and a few other spices I couldn’t place.
‘How come you didn’t bring any biscuits for our guest from America?’ Pir asked.
‘How could I forget those?’ Chacha said, putting his hand inside the basket again and retrieving a pack of cookies. ‘I knew you’d ask me about biscuits. I brought your favorite brand: Barakat Biscuits.’
Chacha watched Pir peel back the wrapper on the biscuits and lay them on the table next to my cup.
I picked one up and took a bite. It tasted of coconut and melted in my mouth, leaving an indescribable taste on my tongue. I took another bite and then another. Pakistan, in the good old days, had been known for producing the best tea biscuits in the world. But this brand was like nothing I had ever had before.
‘Chacha, these biscuits are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,’ I said, wondering if he was some thousand-year-old jinn. He certainly didn’t look like he was from this planet. I had my suspicions about Pir Pul Siraat as well.
While we were enjoying our tea, Chacha Khidr walked to his bicycle to untie the burlap sack and dragged it over to the table. Holding it upside down, he let the contents tumble out onto the floor. I spewed out tea and biscuit from my mouth in a wide arc when I saw the pile of objects lying at Chacha’s feet.
They were the disassembled parts of a man’s body. A leg severed at the thigh, a shoulder attached to a piece of chest complete with jagged white ribs, a forearm with an attached hand whose middle finger still wore a ring with a large turquoise stone, a head with long curly hair and a hairy face severed at the neck and many other pieces that only a surgeon could hope to identify. The blood of the victim formed a dark crust over the torn edges of flesh.
I squeezed my eyes shut as my stomach heaved; I almost vomited. I missed Wali, his benign company and predictable ways. At least, relatively speaking, things made some kind of sense when I was with him.
‘Chacha, please be a little more sensitive in front of our guest,’ Pir’s voice was saying from somewhere far way and he sounded upset.
Do not attempt to overthink and make sense of matters from here on, for it may prevent you from choosing the right course of action, I chanted to myself silently, remembering the instructions from the note and hoping it would keep the meager remains of my lunch inside of me.
‘At my age, one doesn’t have time for such trivial pleasantries,’ Chacha’s voice grumbled from near his bike. ‘Our guest is a grown man. He can handle it. After all, he’s the one who will help fix it all.’
I opened my eyes, feeling an acute sensory overload and the short-circuiting of my mental circuitry.
‘There’s such a thing as being delicate and subtle,’ Pir insisted. ‘Ismael has just arrived in our country.’
‘Delicate and subtle! I am fed up with being delicate and subtle. It’s time for action. Military action.’ Chacha Khidr roared as he squatted on the floor and stuffed the pieces of carcass back into his sack. My mind, frozen with shock, had indeed lost its ability to think straight.
I watched in a daze as Chacha grabbed the severed head by its hair like it was a dead rat and flung it back into his sack. I doubled over, the bile threatening to pour out onto my lap.
‘Ismael, please drink your tea before it gets cold—and don’t mind Chacha Khidr,’ Pir said.
I obediently followed Pir’s command, hoping the tea would calm my stomach and wash away the taste from my mouth. But the memory of that hairy head wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Chacha, you may go now,’ Pir said, looking at the old man. ‘And please throw that mess of yours in the ditch.’
‘Not in the ditch—that would be a waste! I’ve got a much better place to dispose him,’ he said. The old man looked at me and smiled, baring his shark fin tooth over his lower jaw. ‘Call me if Babu Ismael feels like doing a little sightseeing.’
I had no idea what the hell these two disturbingly odd men were talking about. I just sat there, slowly sipping my tea and munching on more biscuits. When I put my empty cup down on the table, Pir refilled it immediately.
The tea and biscuits were the only decent thing that had happened to me since I arrived in Lahore. I felt a pleasant warmth spreading from my stomach through the rest of my body. It washed away my exhaustion, the anxiety and nausea as well as all my unanswered questions.
Chacha Khidr tied the burlap sack back onto the rear of his bicycle and mercifully rode away. After drinking my third cup of tea, I leaned back in my chair, finally feeling completely relaxed. I had gobbled up half a dozen biscuits already and wanted more.
‘I’ve never tasted anything like that before,’ I said.
‘That’s because this tea and these biscuits are not made in this world,’ Pir said casually.
‘Then where are they made?’ I said, keeping my tone polite.
‘The Other Side.’
‘What’s the proof?’
‘You don’t need proof if you see and experience it first-hand.’
‘And how is that done?’
‘By learning how to tread the Pul Siraat,’ he said.
‘Oh, the metaphorical tightrope. And you’re the guide—Pir of Pul Siraat.’
‘There’s nothing metaphorical about Pul Siraat,’ he said, giving me a piercing look, his mouth stretched in a grin.
It was hard to digest what he was saying. Then a realization hit me: I was here primarily because of my intention, my own personal quest to know the realities of Paradise and Hell. I understood in a flash the words of Chacha Khidr when I met him for the first time: Your intention and ours have met across time and space and made this moment possible. I had begun to get a vague sense of the scope of my mission.
‘Unless you have direct experience, you can’t and won’t understand,’ Pir was saying.
Had I been utterly wrong all my life thinking Paradise and Hell as mere metaphors, figments of the human imagination? Was he training the boys down in the courtyard to tightrope across the fabled wire? It was a far out thought, but nothing seemed far out anymore in this strange land where talk of the next world was on everyone’s lips. Everybody was either dying to get there or helping others to. I longed for another cup of tea then.
‘There’s more in the thermos,’ Pir said, clearly having read my mind. As I helped myself to another cup, he continued to study me. Reaching into his pocket he brought out a palm-sized piece of perforated paper, similar to a sheet of postage stamps. He pulled apart one of the small squares and laid it on the table next to my cup.
‘This is your key to remembering the Quran, becoming a certified hafiz again,’ he said, tapping the tiny paper with the tip of his index finger.
‘What am I supposed to do with it?’ I asked, picking it up off the table.
‘Put it on your tongue. It may taste a little bitter at first.’
‘I don’t do LSD,’ I said with resolve.
‘It’s not LSD—it’s DSL. Think of it as a high-speed connection to your brain that will allow you to download the lost data very quickly,’ he said, smiling.
‘Pir, I’m not exactly looking forward to recovering any data from my past,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘We’re talking about restoring a particular kind of data, not your entire past,’ Pir said.
‘What if I develop a reaction to this stuff?’ I said, thinking of Wali. The poor old chap had been left with the car outside the shrine’s walls beneath a tree swarming with jinns. He had probably fallen asleep in the car by now. At least, I hoped he had.
‘I thought you’d welcome the opportunity,’ Pir said.
‘I’m not sure, Pir.’
‘You’ve forgotten your intention.’
‘But what does this have to do with my intention? I remember my intention.’
‘I thought you understood your purpose of being here,’ Pir said firmly.
‘Not completely.’ I marvelled at his ability to read my mind with such precision.
‘You wanted to know if Heaven and Hell existed. And you also know there’s a price for it.’
‘What if I can’t afford it?’
‘Obedience is all you need to afford it. You’ll do what I tell you to do; it’s the only way your intention and our task can move forward. You’ll have to trust me.’
I felt extremely alert, without a hint of fatigue or exhaustion. I steeled myself and looked at the tiny square of paper.
‘Thinking is the enemy of action,’ Pir reminded me.
He was right; ever since I landed I came to realize thinking was a pretty useless activity. If anything, mulling over each and everything that crossed my mind had only made matters worse and done nothing to alleviate my confusion and uncertainty.
I opened my mouth, pressed the stamp over my tongue and took the plunge of faith. After a minute or so the paper dissolved, leaving a mild bitterness in my mouth.
I sipped my tea and thought about my future as a hafiz. It was a dreadful one in which I would have to pose as a pious man of faith in order to gain the trust of my father, a man I never even wanted to see again. I was being forced to do something against which I had rebelled for as long as I could remember.
My part of the mission, it seemed, was becoming more despicable and offensive by the minute. I wondered what other terrifying commands and revelations were in store for me. There was no doubt in my mind that this strange and powerful man, Pir Pul Siraat, meant business.