IAWOKE UP AROUND NOON from the dreamless slumber of the dead. My head felt like it did after an all-night party. I dragged myself to the bathroom, emptied my bladder, then stole a quick glance at myself in the mirror. I looked like I had been in a fight; dark circles under both my eyes made them look bruised and swollen. My cheeks were sunken and hollow beneath a stubble that was on the verge of downright pious and fully legal. I was starving.
Ghulam Rasool delivered a tray with a hearty breakfast to me, consisting of French toast, a glass of milk and tea. I ate in bed as he hovered over me. With his hands around his waist, the old man watched with obvious approval as I feasted on this manna from heaven. My praise of his cooking skills brought smiles of delight to his care-worn face and I had to plead with him not to bring me another stack of the dessert-like confections.
‘Hajji sahib is expected sometime this evening, saab,’ he informed me, dusting the crumbs off my bed and into the tray with a small whisk.
As soon as he was gone I went back to sleep. This time, however, my sleep was cluttered with dreams which were chaotic, vivid and populated with the usual suspects. From time to time Laila entered my dreams wearing various dresses, masks and makeup. And Sophie was always strolling in a meadow, always being stalked by some unknown man. I was awakened at dusk by the sound of my father’s voice.
‘It’s just the jet lag. Get him some more tea.’
Startled, my eyes shot open and I instantly recognized his six-foot frame outlined dimly in the doorway. He stepped into my room and his loose white robe flared as if on some unseen currents of power he carried about his person. He had gained some weight but not much, and his fist-length beard, once jet-black, had become a wizened gray.
Though obviously older, my father’s face was almost completely devoid of wrinkles and his eyes possessed the same penetrating glare that had always made my heart sink. Suddenly, it seemed as if I had never left home. I was once again the same eighteen-year-old kid. I jumped out of bed the same way I used to—terrified when he would walk into my room unannounced.
He stopped at the foot of my bed, his eyes scanning me from head to toe like a laser beam.
‘Salaam, Abba,’ I muttered, scratching my chest and feeling a churning in my stomach. ‘It’s been such a long time.’
‘Ismael! How did the miracle happen?’
‘What miracle, Abba?’
‘Wali told me about what happened the other night but he is given to exaggeration. Tell me, did it really happen?’
‘I know my Quran, Abba,’ I said, feeling a prickle on the back of my neck.
‘You’ve always been full of surprises—you haven’t really changed, Ismael.’ There was a faint smile on his face and I detected just a hint of warmth in his otherwise cold stare.
A rustle behind my back made me turn around and I was startled to see a large, brown long-haired cat standing on my bed, sniffing my pillow. My heartbeat quickened and sweat beads poured down my forehead. Pir had said that the Khalifa was using his specially bred cats to extract the deepest inner thoughts from anyone he was suspicious of. I held my breath and tried to keep my mind as blank as possible.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Abba said, looking at the cat affectionately. ‘Nofel is a good cat.’
Nofel growled and pushed my pillow onto the floor, revealing my Quran and headband. Abba stared at these items, his eyes narrowing. ‘So what are you reading these days?’ Abba asked, picking up the Quran and flipping through its pages. He parted his lips and I heard a sharp intake of breath.
‘What a magnificent copy you have in your possession, my son!’
‘It’s great to see you, Abba,’ I said, thrusting my hand toward him.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, ignoring my hand, his eyes locked on the book.
‘Oh, you know, I got it from this antique store down in the East Village in Manhattan. It’s owned by a Moroccan friend of mine.’ I stammered. My arm had started to shake.
‘Never seen anything quite this beautiful,’ he whispered seemingly to himself. His eyes glittered with undisguised greed as they darted, almost snake-like, over the book’s surface.
‘It’s my constant companion in this transient world of ours, Abba. By the way, I’ve got something really nice for you.’ I was about to withdraw my hand when he reached out and gave it a hurried squeeze.
Damn! I shouldn’t have said anything about his gift. Since Wali had no recollection of our visit to Fortress Stadium, this could complicate things.
‘I’ve got everything I need,’ he said, smiling. ‘I still can’t believe you’ve really come back—to faith.’ Thankfully, he didn’t seem too interested in his gift.
‘I missed being with you, Abba,’ I said, feeling the cat’s furry torso against my legs.
‘Ismael, please say something believable,’ he said, staring at the cat.
‘Abba, would you please ask Nofel to leave the room?’ I asked, holding my breath.
‘So you missed being with me?’ He let out a laugh and shooed the cat away.
‘I swear by Allah…’
‘Do not try to fool me, Ismael. You are known to swear falsely.’
‘Abba, people change—and twelve years is a really long time,’ I said, feeling a sudden cramp in my stomach. ‘How’s the family? Where is everyone?’
‘Alhamdolillah. Everyone is well.’ He handed back my Quran. ‘For the most part, I’m in Islamabad these days. I have two houses there now; one for Farzana and one for Rukhsana.’
He had always been unapologetic about his love for women, especially really young ones. It made me wonder just how many times my father had married and divorced in my absence.
‘Any more kids, Abba?’
‘It hasn’t been the will of Allah—so far. Man can only try,’ he said with a shrug and then added, ‘I’ve never once thought you’d see the light of faith.’
‘Who can question Allah’s will?’
He opened his mouth to reply but before he could utter a word the maghrib azaan filled the air. These were the loudspeakers of a dozen neighborhood mosques which were soon joined by even more mosques that had turned the call to prayer into a senseless wall of meaningless noise.
The power came back on just as the azaan stopped. Abba walked over to the light switch by the door and flipped it on, making me feel exposed in the bright light hanging over my head. My stomach churned once again and I desperately wanted to run to the bathroom.
‘Where did you go last night, Ismael?’ Abba demanded, his eyebrows raised. ‘I was told you didn’t return until one in the morning.’
‘I just wanted to drive around and see Lahore. Get some fresh air, you know. But the roads are pretty bad.’
He looked directly at me. Nofel, rubbing its body against his legs, stared at me with its large, unblinking yellow eyes.
‘Hmm. But why didn’t you take Wali with you?’ I felt like I was undergoing some kind of interrogation. Though I couldn’t tell if I really was or if this was just the old man’s way.
I shrugged and kept my mouth shut while forcing my mind to be completely blank.
‘It’s time for maghrib,’ he snapped. ‘Why don’t you take a quick wash and join me in the drawing room for the namaaz? Don’t be late.’ He opened the door and walked out, Nofel at his heels.
‘Sure thing,’ I muttered under my breath, as I dashed to the bathroom.
I took a hurried bath and put on my freshly laundered robe that Ghulam Rasool had hung next to my bed. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for the leisurely bathroom time I was longing for.
Putting my headband on, I went to the drawing room. There, by the fireplace Abba, Wali and Ghulam Rasool sat on their respective prayer mats waiting for my arrival, their heads covered with white skullcaps. They stood up as I entered the room, their curious eyes staring at my headband. Thankfully Nofel wasn’t around.
‘It’s a substitute for the cap,’ I said, touching my forehead to soothe their obvious anxiety over my headband.
‘Sirji, faith requires complete covering of the head while praying, otherwise it can easily leak out. Especially through such a big hole as that American style cap you’re wearing,’ Wali declared through pursed lips.
He turned without waiting for my reply and started intoning the niyyath, the pre-namaaz prayer in Arabic. My father nudged me towards the prayer mat placed in front of the other three.
‘Ismael will lead the prayer tonight,’ Abba announced.
‘Subhan-Allah!’ Ghulam Rasool cried. ‘I am a happy man who has lived to see the day when our Ismael saab will lead the prayer.’
Reluctantly I stood on the leading prayer mat and assumed the role of the imam. They all stood behind me in a line, their shoulders touching. The mushroom cloud in the painting loomed imposingly over my qiblah, the direction of Kaaba. My stomach cramped violently a couple of more times as I waited for Wali to complete his recitation. Just then I deeply regretted having postponed my private gastrointestinal ministrations when I had the chance.
I took a deep breath and mustered all of my willpower to bear the burgeoning agony in my belly. I touched my earlobes and as soon as I said Allah Hu Akbar, the text of the Quran streamed across my eyes like a fiery ticker tape. Since I could shuffle the text with the force of my will alone, I chose some obscure verses to impress my father.
My pronunciation was flawless. Feeling happy that my stomach had eased up, I was doing the second of the three rakaat of maghrib when the lights went out again. On the third and final rakaat, I was struck violently by a renewed urge to run to the restroom. It happened when I was kneeling, my hands resting on my knees: a small amount of gas escaped me, despite my superhuman effort to stop it. It wasn’t loud, but it was clearly audible.
A commotion erupted behind me but I continued the namaaz as if nothing had happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wali standing beside me. Clearly, he had broken his namaaz.
‘Sirji, what are you doing?’ he snapped. ‘You have to stop praying! Once the wudu, the ablution, is broken, the namaaz becomes invalid.’
Startled, I turned around and saw my father staring at me angrily, his fists knotted and resting on his thighs. Ghulam Rasool had stuffed his skullcap into his mouth and his eyes bulged like he was in mortal anguish.
‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ I apologized. ‘My stomach hasn’t been right since I landed.’
‘Go do your wudu again,’ my father commanded like I was his servant. ‘We still have a few minutes before the time for maghrib runs out.’ Then he turned to Ghulam Rasool and growled, ‘Get your cap out of your mouth and light some candles.’
‘We’ve got to do the whole namaaz again, sirji,’ Wali said.
‘Who says we have to do the whole namaaz?’ Ghulam Rasool asked, as he lit a large candle on the fireplace mantel. ‘We have to do only one rakaat and we’re done.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Ghulam Rasool,’ Wali said, his voice trembling with rage.
‘Be quiet, both of you!’ my father’s voice boomed. ‘I’m not taking sides here. It’s best if we consult the book of Fiqah, and not go by mere opinions.’
As he walked over to the bookshelf in the far corner of the room I darted out and headed for the bathroom. After relieving myself, I was doing my wudu while squatting on the floor beside the water bucket when I heard someone clearing his throat in my head. I reflexively touched my headband.
‘Pir, is that you?’ I whispered.
‘Hope everything is moving along smoothly, Ismael,’ he said.
‘Kind of,’ I whispered, as I continued my ablution in the dark.
‘You can’t afford to be on your father’s wrong side, ever. Tell me what happened.’
‘A minor mishap but I think I can handle it.’
‘Good! Remember though, you really don’t have to speak out loud when we’re talking—just use your thoughts. It’ll feel awkward at first, like learning to ride a bike,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘But you’ll get the hang of it. And it’s safer too.’
‘Got it!’ I told him by projecting my thought.
‘Your father leaves for Islamabad tomorrow morning. Go with him and stick to him closely at all times. Do you read me?’ Pir asked.
‘I read you clear!’
‘We want you to be in Islamabad with him and your Quran should be with you at all times. Did you get that?’
‘Yes.’
‘The last time you went off course, you crashed in the Dump. There’s no margin for error this time,’ Pir said. ‘Do not try to contact me, instead you wait for my call.’
‘Yes, Pir,’ I replied, while washing my feet.
‘Ismael, think of this mission as traversing the Pul Siraat.’ And with that, Pir went offline.
I dashed back to the candlelit drawing room where Wali and Ghulam Rasool were engrossed in a heated argument and about to come to blows. They lowered their voices as soon as they saw me. My father sat on the carpet pouring over a large, thick book that lay in his lap. At his knee was a lit candle.
‘So what’s the verdict?’ I asked, taking my position on the imam’s mat once again.
‘Fiqah is silent on the matter,’ Abba said, with a look of resignation on his face. ‘It’s an unusual case since it involves the imam himself.’
‘Why don’t we do ijtihaad—decision-making through personal effort,’ I asked.
‘Ijtihad for a fart!’ Abba looked at me incredulously, shaking his head from side to side.
Ghulam Rasool had stepped on his mat behind me. ‘Go ahead, saab. Let’s do one rakaat and get it over with,’ he said. ‘I’m not saying an additional one if it’s not needed.’
‘Sirji, ijtihad is not applicable in this situation,’ Wali replied. ‘The rules are already as clear as daylight on this.’
‘Why not look in the Fiqah to see if it’s okay to do ijtihad in a situation like this?’ I glanced at my father.
‘Time has passed for the namaaz-e-maghrib,’ Ghulam Rasool declared. ‘Look outside. It’s already night.’
They continued arguing over the cutoff point of when it is considered too late to say maghrib.
‘It’s not night as long as you can see a plucked hair held to the sky,’ Wali added.
I had the longest hair in the room so I plucked one and handed it to him. ‘Why don’t you go out and check for yourself,’ I asked.
‘Everyone, stop!’ my father stood up, his eyes flashing. ‘I say, there’s still time.’
Both Wali and Ghulam Rasool abruptly walked out of the room, heading in opposite directions. Wali went outside and Ghulam Rasool disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Islam is the simplest religion there is,’ Abba said to me. ‘Alas! Only if we know how to follow it properly.’
‘Exactly, Abba,’ I said.
‘Since we’ve got very little time left, maybe it is best if you do your own namaaz and I do mine; separately so we can finish it quickly.’
‘It’s all my mistake, Abba,’ I added sincerely. ‘If given another chance, I’ll make up for it.’
‘What happened was not a good omen,’ he said, pulling his mat away from mine. ‘You haven’t changed, Ismael.’
‘Abba, please!’
He said nothing but just started his namaaz five feet away from me so I followed his cue and began mine.
I was indeed walking on the Pul Siraat, where even a light gust of wind could initiate a hurricane and blow everything to hell. Having finished our respective namaaz, Abba and I remained seated on our mats, our hands raised in prayer, our lips moving without uttering a sound. Shadows danced about the room and the painting, making the canvas seem like a living, breathing tableau and no simple work of art.
Abba blew on his chest and rubbed his palms over his face as I copied his gestures.
‘That’s a great painting, Abba. It must have cost a fortune,’ I said. ‘A bit frightening, though. Where did you get it?’
He stared at the painting, rubbing his temple, as if considering what to say. ‘It was a gift,’ he finally replied. ‘A gift from Khalifaji to me.’
‘Wow! From Khalifaji! Really?’
He nodded his head in affirmation, his eyes shining with pride.
‘Who made it, Abba?’
‘A certain retired General—this was his last masterpiece before he died. I’m forgetting his name at the moment.’ I could tell he had deliberately censored that information.
‘Well, it’s clearly a museum-quality piece,’ I said.
He grinned and scratched his neck. He was about to say something when Ghulam Rasool entered the room rolling a cart of food topped with tea, samosas and shami kebabs. He must have been eavesdropping on our conversation.
‘Saab, your Abbaji is very, very close to Khalifaji—not many people are aware of that,’ he said, smiling with satisfaction, as though bathing in the glory afforded him by his master. Then he composed himself and began to pour tea into our cups.
‘You must be a very important person, Abba. You always were a leader.’
‘Tomorrow I’m meeting with Khalifaji in Islamabad’ he said, straightening his back.
‘Abba, didn’t you just come back from Islamabad? That’s a lot of travel.’
‘If you have a good car, the distance doesn’t matter,’ he said, his face tightening in a smug, self-satisfied smile.
‘Oh? What kind of car are you driving these days?’
‘Mercedes Benz SE505X, custom made.’ Lifting his eyebrows he stared at me, as if trying to read my reaction.
‘Abba, wow! That’s an expensive car.’
‘Bought and paid for by the state. I’m certainly not wealthy enough to afford it otherwise.’
‘Well, Khalifaji is very kind to you, it seems.’
‘Anyway, one day I’m in Islamabad, one day in Lahore. Khalifaji has entrusted me to communicate his messages in person with certain important people.’
‘I see.’
‘The Day of Judgment is upon us, saab,’ Ghulam Rasool interjected with excitement as he handed me a cup of tea. He then looked at my father. ‘Am I right, Hajji sahib?’
‘Ghulam Rasool, your eyes and ears are too sharp for your own good.’
‘Saab, I’ve been with you for the last thirty years. I don’t need my eyes and ears to know what is happening,’ he said, handing my father his cup.
‘What’s going on, Abba?’ I felt as if my ‘mission’ was about to be revealed at long last through this innocuous master-servant conversation and my heart started to thump against my ribcage.
Before my father answered, Nofel appeared in the room and curled up on the carpet beside him. The cat’s yellow eyes were radiant in the light of the candles and his tail swayed back and forth like a cobra. I immediately emptied my mind of all thoughts.
‘Help yourself to the shami kebab, saab. I’ve made them especially for you.’ Ghulam Rasool held a plate of warm round patties in front of my face, his eyes seeming to float above the plate in the steam. I could sense their mushiness and taste their meaty flavour in my watering mouth.
It was time to change the conversation lest Nofel tagged onto my stream of thought.
‘How’s your business these days, Abba?’
‘By the grace of Allah, business is very good,’ Abba replied, sipping his tea.
‘What kind of business are you in, exactly?’ I asked casually, as I poured green chutney over the kebab. I wanted to see if he would tell me the truth.
‘Transportation,’ Ghulam Rasool chirped, but my father threw him a cold stare.
‘A couple of years after you left,’ Abba began, as though launching into one of the great desert tales, ‘I bought a new chemical plant in Kala Shah-Kaku. A few years later, I added a garment factory to my holdings. And by the grace of the Almighty, we now manufacture and export quality products to China, Russia and to the far end of the Maghrib,’ my father continued, taking a bite of the samosa Ghulam Rasool placed in his hand.
‘Saab, orders have started to come from Europe and even America,’ Ghulam Rasool chimed in. ‘Why don’t Wali and I give you a tour of the factory, if that’s okay with Hajji sahib?’
The prospect of visiting a plant manufacturing suicide vests with Wali and Ghulam Rasool gave me the shivers. ‘Abba, I’d rather go to Islamabad. I came here to spend time with you and don’t want to be here in Lahore by myself.’
‘For that, I’ll have to get approval from Khalifaji,’ my father said, as he ran his fingers gently over Nofel’s spine.
‘Please, Abba. Otherwise I’ll be wasting my time in Lahore doing nothing,’ I said, biting into the succulent kebab.
He quietly sipped his tea, smoothing his eyebrows from time to time. He was thinking.
‘Please, Abba,’ I said again.
‘Ismael, I just heard you reciting the Quran with my own ears. Wali saw you doing the same thing the other night. Your turn-around is all the more mysterious and remarkable considering you’ve been living and breathing in the same air as the kuffaar, the infidels, for so long. And now you somehow defy all logic for having resisted becoming an infidel yourself. Not only have you apparently rekindled with something I was certain you never had to begin with, but you are able to do it so very, very well. This whole thing has to be a miracle; some kind of sign.’
As my father spoke, his eyes became teary, glistening in the dancing flames of the candlelight. He fell silent, looking up and staring at the painting, contemplating. He seemed to be trying to collect his thoughts and regain his composure.
Turning to Ghulam Rasool he said, ‘Go and see what Wali is doing outside. Tell him to prepare my car. We’ll be leaving for Islamabad early in the morning. And make sure you feed Nofel—he hasn’t eaten anything all day.’
Nofel trotted behind Ghulam Rasool as he left the drawing room. The front door of the house creaked open and slammed shut behind him. Once Nofel was out of the picture, I relaxed and let my thoughts wander beyond their self-imposed dark prison.
If the Khalifa was planning a spectacle, as Pir had called it, then Abba was part of it for sure. Whatever it was. My curiosity gnawed at me and I wondered what role I was supposed to play.
In all this darkness, there was one small, bright spot: a leisurely drive in my father’s custom-made Mercedes Benz through the 200 miles that snaked through the lush plains of Punjab and merged with the foothills of the Himalayas, the Margalla Hills. These low-lying hills, hardly reaching more than a thousand feet in elevation, provided a picturesque backdrop to the otherwise flat capital city.
‘I’ll be calling Khalifaji shortly, asking if I can bring you along,’ Abba said as he stood up. ‘I’ll be very busy tonight.’
‘Thank you, Abba.’
‘Perhaps he will let you join the Friday Prayer too,’ he added, without looking at me as he stood and walked over to get his shoes from the edge of the carpet.
I had no clue what day this was. I looked at my watch and noted it was Thursday.
‘What’s happening on Friday, Abba?’
‘Allah, out of His infinite mercy, has brought you here to be with me, Ismael, to witness history in the making.’
Something big was going to happen tomorrow, the very something Pir said would have serious consequences for this world and the Next. I also knew that without his mysterious book, Khalifa couldn’t move forward with his plans.
If tomorrow was to be his D-Day, then Khalifa must have got his hands on the second book that Pir mentioned had already been shipped. Was he planning a mass exodus to Paradise by having himself and his associates ingest the stamps, the so-called tickets to Paradise?
Or did he have something else in mind; something that sent dismembered body parts flying through the air and landing near Chacha Khidr’s ominous burlap sack? If that was the case, how was I supposed to stop him from carrying out his plans?
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the morning prayer, at fajr namaaz,’ Abba said, slipping his feet into his sandals. ‘Let Ghulam Rasool know if you need anything. I’m not going to eat dinner tonight; I’ve got a lot of work to do and many phone calls to make.’
‘I’m not hungry either, Abba. I’ll see you at the fajr prayer, Inshallah.’
When he left, I stared at the painting where it loomed darkly from the mantle. Was Abba in on Khalifa’s schemes? It seemed pretty obvious that the answer was a resounding yes.
The mystery surrounding my mission was now driving me insane. Sitting in my room I was wide-awake; my mind was afloat with inescapable thoughts, fears and misgivings. I needed a distraction to occupy my mind and soothe my jangled nerves. I decided to dive into the namaaz of ishaa—the longest of the five daily obligatory prayers.
I chose some of the longest passages of the Quran because I wanted Abba to peek in and catch me in my act of flagrant piety. It was well past midnight when I heard his footsteps and felt his presence at the door but I continued to pray without letting on that I knew he was watching.
He left without saying anything, returned an hour later and found me still praying. And I wasn’t even halfway done yet. He stood at the door for at least five minutes before wandering back down the hall. When he showed up again around two in the morning, I knew he had been moved by my reverence for Allah, though only slightly. Sitting with my legs folded under myself, I blew on my shoulders. I still had two final rakaat of nafil, considered optional but spiritually beneficial, to go before concluding my prayers. I looked at his dark figure standing in the doorway and felt thankful for not having eye contact with him.
Once I was done, he said, ‘In all my sixty-plus years of life, I’ve never seen anyone who’d spend so much time on one rakaat. Are you taking any medications, Ismael?’ Abba had always been good at sniffing out trouble.
‘Of course not, Abba,’ I said. This was a huge lie, though, considering the assortment of novel chemicals that must have been flowing through my bloodstream and bathing my brain at the moment.
‘Khalifaji would like to meet with you in person.’ His voice betrayed his excitement.
The news struck me like a projectile piercing through my forehead. For the next few seconds I couldn’t breathe. ‘Khalifaji wants to see me? Are you serious, Abba?’ I gasped.
‘Yes. He believes you’re one of the signs he has been awaiting; first shown to him in a dream.’
‘Me? A sign?’
‘Who taught you your faith, Ismael, in America?’
‘I’m my own teacher, Abba.’ I was feeling a surge of confidence. I would be going to Islamabad with him! One of the critical tasks of my mission had been accomplished, though I was far from winning Abba’s heart and mind.
I looked at him in a daze. He stepped forward and sat on the bed, staring at me with great interest. ‘No man can learn his faith with such perfection as you have without divine guidance,’ he said, studying me. ‘You have to tell me, Ismael, who brought you back to your faith? I must meet this man and kiss his hands.’