REALIZING THAT I HAD BEEN in sajdah for an unusually long time, I stood up. Abba had already finished his prayer and had left his spot. I was curious to know if that beautiful white cat was in any way connected to Pir.
‘It took me quite an effort to find a willing candidate for Nofel,’ Pir said, responding to my unformed thought. ‘Now, no more questions.’
‘Thanks for sending your jinn cats,’ I whispered, but I could tell that Pir had gone offline.
As he broke the connection, I heard faint voices behind me. Hearing my name, I turned and saw Mufti, General Hajjaj and Abba deep in conversation about twenty feet away. Sensing that I was looking at them, they stopped speaking. Then Abba said something to Mufti, pointed at his chest with his finger and took off in my direction. My heart sank seeing the angry look on Abba’s face. Mufti must have said something compromising about me. Whether Abba believed it or not was something yet to be determined. Mufti and General Hajjaj had become a threat faster than I had anticipated.
As Abba and I made our way back to the assembly, which had swelled considerably since we had left, he touched my arm.
‘Mufti thinks you’re a spy,’ Abba said grimly. ‘And General Hajjaj seems to agree.’
I shook my head and didn’t say anything.
‘I’m serious,’ he said tersely.
‘He just doesn’t like me for some reason.’
‘Just say it’s not true,’ he halted in his tracks and gave my arm a squeeze, all the while staring into my eyes.
‘Abba, please! Do you really think I’m a spy? Why would I be?’
‘I don’t know what to think anymore, Ismael. Just don’t embarrass me in this place. That’s all I ask.’
‘Abba, I’m sorry I asked you to bring me along. I was better off in Lahore.’
He opened his mouth to say something but became distracted by a sound rippling through the congregation that was sitting shoulder to shoulder in seven perfect rows in front of the sculpture of the Holy Book. Abba seated himself next to the last man in the front row and gestured for me to sit next to him. To my dismay, both Mufti and General Hajjaj, who had been walking parallel to us all this time, hurried to join the end of the second row, positioning themselves right behind me.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the assembly. The chandelier dimmed, softening the room with a golden glow. Everyone stood up and looked expectantly toward the entrance of the hall.
Leading the procession that appeared at the entrance were a dozen or so masked gunmen who marched crisply, machine guns angled across their bodies and pointing toward the ground. Then a lone figure walked in carrying a black briefcase in his right hand. He was of medium height with a plump body, wearing voluminous black robes and a huge black turban.
‘Long live al-Amir ul Momineen,’ the crowd chanted in unison, punching the air above their heads.
‘That’s Khalifaji,’ Abba whispered sharply in my ear.
Khalifa had a brown shawl draped over his shoulders and glided over the carpet with such fluid motion that he appeared to be floating a few inches above the ground. He was trailed by a dozen men in plain khaki robes and stiff, green peaked caps, their chests medalled and their collars decked out with bronze stars. They were pushing six flatbed trolleys piled with large black suitcases and boxes of various shapes and sizes.
The next wave in the procession consisted of another team of masked gunmen. As the procession drew closer, the crowd parted and the welcoming chant was replaced with the shouts of ‘Allah Hu Akbar’. Following Abba’s lead, I threw my arms in the air and roared the battle cry.
Standing this far from the centre, it was hard to see Khalifa’s face. All I could see of him was his big black turban bobbing among the curtain of arms. He took his position in the centre of the first row of the assembly, flanked by his masked bodyguards.
I had to move several steps to my right to accommodate these new entrants. The men in the khaki robes pushed their trolleys around the crowd, parking them beside the exquisite marble mihrab. The chant died away as Khalifa seated himself on the carpet, folded his legs under him and laid his hands on his thighs.
‘What’s in those boxes?’ I whispered to Abba, as the men unloaded the carts.
‘Only Khalifaji knows,’ Abba whispered back.
When the whole assembly was seated, Imam, who had been missing in action along with Qadi ever since we arrived in the hall, stood up at the far end of the front row and made his way to the minbar just to the right of the book sculpture.
‘Masha-Allah!’ Abba said, beaming with pride. ‘Our own Imamji.’
Imam stood on the first step of the minbar and began reciting the Friday khutbah into the microphone in Arabic. This was the most boring part of the otherwise colourful Friday Congregation I remembered from childhood. Everyone enjoyed it when the imam entertained us with miraculous stories about saints and prophets, jinns and angels. Then he launched into the khutba and those who could get away with it caught a nap.
Meanwhile, the men handling the trolleys had taken out a couple of large-frame computers from the suitcases, along with rolls of cables, wires and motherboards. Another suitcase contained half a dozen laptops, which were turned on and booted up by a team of four men. The unpacking and setting up of the equipment continued through the drab khutbah. By the time it was over, two spotless white screens had been unrolled and applied to the two marble pages of the book sculpture. I marvelled at the incongruity of the display in here.
The screens matched the exact dimensions of the diagonally held panels, and hiding behind their opaque whiteness was the Kufic script of the surah Ar-Rahman, The Beneficent, engraved in gold. The rectangular column in the middle, separated from the screens by just a few inches and engraved with the name Allah, remained uncovered. The set-up reminded me of a giant white bird with its wings folded, preparing for flight.
‘Abba, any idea what’s going on?’ I whispered, sensing a rising anxiety coursing through the crowd.
‘Patience!’ he hissed, jabbing my knee with a bony finger.
Imam finished his khutba, stepped down from the minbar and waddled back to his place in line. Then Khalifa, raising his hand, gestured for Imam to halt.
‘I, the Amir ul Momineen, command you to lead the Friday Prayer,’ Khalifa said in a thundering voice.
With his hands clasped in front of his belly, Imam turned around and stood on the leading prayer mat, placed five feet in front of Khalifa’s spot, which was in line with the central column of the mihrab. An eerie silence gripped the room which was broken only by a loud beautiful voice uttering the niyyath, the intention, which came from somewhere in the back row.
Then everybody rose to their feet. The technicians stopped working and took their places among the worshippers. Imam said the takbir, touched his earlobes and began the two rakaat of farz, the obligatory portion of the Friday Jumma Prayer. I went through the motion of the namaaz without thought or feeling. All the apprehension was driving me crazy.
The namaaz turned out to be a brief affair, followed by a boiler-plate dua when everyone just sat with their palms up. Everything was business as usual up until this point.
As soon as Imam stood up and vacated the leading prayer rug, the techno-wizards resumed their work and the assembly erupted into hushed chatter. A wooden divan with a Persian rug and a pair of black cushions resting on one side was placed a few feet in front of the book sculpture while a wooden table holding a laptop was placed at the right side of the divan.
‘Abba, seems like we’re going to be given a presentation,’ I said, looking at the pen-sized laser projectors being affixed atop a pair of tripods placed in front of the screens.
‘It took us more than a decade to reacquire the capability,’ he whispered.
‘What capability?’ Finally, he was opening up.
‘To make bombs.’.
‘Really?’ I asked, feeling terrified of the prospect of Khalifa in possession of nukes again. And what did this have to do with the presentation? Though it seemed clear that at last the pieces of the mystery were coming together and my questions were being answered.
Many years ago, the nuclear stockpile of the country, along with its nuclear reactor, had been disabled by spyware launched from a foreign government. It had been all over the news at the time. No government had taken responsibility, but everyone suspected either the US or Israel—or both—of being the culprit.
‘None can defy the will of Allah,’ Abba said.
‘But how did we manage to escape detection, considering all these satellites spying over us day and night?’ I leaned into him and glanced over my shoulder. Mufti and General Hajjaj locked their eyes with mine, their jaws clenched with anger. They were watching my every move. Thanks to the background noise, they could not eavesdrop on my conversation with Abba.
‘Khalifaji always thinks beyond the obvious,’ Abba said with a broad smile on his face. ‘He is the man who possesses special knowledge and strange powers.’
The chatter died as Khalifa rose to his feet, the briefcase still clutched in his hand. Flanked by his bodyguards, the man glided toward his throne and placed the briefcase on his lap. One of the khaki-robed technicians adjusted the microphone height for him.
Despite appearing a bit stooped, Khalifa was an imposing figure. His lush black beard reached the middle of his broad chest and was dramatically marked by a four-inch wide stripe of white running from his lower lip to the beard’s pointed tip. He craned his neck forward, throwing a sweeping glance over the crowd.
Without the customary prayer: In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful, Khalifa began to recite the holy scripture. And as soon as he did, the same text started running across the upper portion of my visual field. I saw he was reciting from the last third of the surah number 9.
I wished that Pir could add on a translation feature to this clever programme.
Khalifa paused, closed his eyes and murmured something under his breath. Glancing at the audience, he resumed speaking in his native tongue in a clear and measured voice.
‘All praise be to Allah, the Lord of the universe, without Whose command not a leaf would move. I, al-Amir ul Momineen, the commander of the faithful, Khalifa of the Caliphate of Al-Bakistan, hereby declare that those who are present under this magnificent roof at the grandest of the houses of Allah outside Hijaz, the blessed land of Saudi Arabia, have been chosen to witness and be part of the miracle allocated to me by the Most High for the purpose of bringing an end to an era.
‘I, al-Amir ul Momineen, Khalifa of the Caliphate of Al-Bakistan, have been given the task of ushering the faithful into a new epoch to be marked by a worldwide jihad against the followers of the Great Deceiver, ad-Dajjal. On this blessed Friday, in this holy mosque, by the grace and will of the Most High, we intend to set forth a chain of events whose impact will continue until the world enters into yet another era—the time of peace—when the faithful will have conquered the world and declared Allah its sovereign ruler.’ He paused, his eyes sweeping the hushed crowd like a beacon. Then he threw his right hand into the air. ‘Begin!’ he cried, tossing a glance over his right shoulder.
Suddenly the screens sprang to life with multiple images of the Faisal Mosque. The screen on the right displayed an aerial view of the mosque and seemed to originate somewhere in the adjacent Margalla Hills. The screen on the left was divided into four equal squares, each showing a close-up of the gleaming point of one of the four minarets. It was only when a helicopter flew across the right screen that I realized the images were live.
As I leaned into Abba to ask about the metal coverings of the minarets’ tops, Khalifa began speaking again. ‘How many of you know what is going to happen today?’
Everyone raised his hand, except me. Khalifa’s head moved side to side as he surveyed the crowd. It stopped when his chin touched his left shoulder and his eyes fixed on me. My pulse quickened and my breath caught in my throat as he slowly raised his finger and pointed directly at me. My back stiffened when our eyes met. I was a rat caught in the gaze of a cobra.
‘Wonder of wonders! Hajji Ibrahim’s own son, Ismael, the carrier of light,’ he cried out, like it was an auspicious declaration. ‘This young man seems to be the only one who knows that he does not know. The rest of you know nothing.’ His voice thundered.
A nervous murmur rose then and fell as hands were retrieved from the air, heads turned in my direction and glances directed at me like arrows from all sides. Holding his head high, Abba put his hand on my thigh. The warmth from his palm felt pleasant and comforting through my robe. Mufti and General Hajjaj whispered behind my back, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Khalifa looked over his shoulder again to where the men were still busy working on the computers and other devices. I exhaled and thought about Pir. I needed help. Where was he?
‘Are we ready?’ Khalifa addressed the men at his back. They nodded and Khalifa turned around and brought his lips to the microphone.
‘This auspicious occasion requires me to offer my deepest regard for those who are not with us anymore. May Allah grant them the highest Jannah!
‘It took seven years, seven long, arduous years, and more than five thousand dedicated souls, to accomplish what you’re going to witness today. They were the brightest and the best that the Caliphate had to offer. This is a true miracle.’ Khalifa looked back and extended his arm toward the men setting up the equipment. ‘These are the few who have been left behind to complete the miracle.’
Khalifa looked at his bodyguard on the right. As if on cue, one of the men handed him a bottle of Paradise Water. A hushed whisper broke out behind me and Abba’s face was unreadable except for a blank incredulous stare. I leaned toward him.
‘Abba, do you know what he’s talking about?’ I whispered.
‘Five thousand men have been transported to Al-Jannah, and the very man who runs the transportation business for the Caliphate doesn’t know a thing about it,’ he said, sounding absolutely mortified, confused and even angry. His answer left me shocked. I swallowed several times and cleared my throat as I tried to digest what he had just said.
‘Abba, I thought you knew everything that was going on here.’
‘We were told it would be an underground atomic test somewhere in the desert of Sindh, to be broadcast live for a select few.’ Abba now sounded quite disturbed.
After taking several swigs from the bottle, Khalifa wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and continued. ‘Before we move on, it’s my duty to remind you: the higher one’s station is in the eyes of Allah, the harder it becomes to stay on course. If you find yourself thinking too much about the task at hand, remember this verse of our great poet, Hazrat Qibla Llama: Mad love jumped into the blaze without fear, while the Intellect stood by watching the spectacle from afar.’
Khalifa opened his briefcase and pulled out a black leather-bound book.
‘Have I ever told you a lie?’ he asked, bringing his lips close to the microphone.
‘No!’ the crowd roared in unison.
Khalifa nodded several times, then raised the book over his head.
‘I swear by the One in whose hands lies my life that this book contains the keys to al-Jannah. One key for each of you.’ He opened the book, and waved it in an arc over his head. ‘Oh you people, would you believe me if I were to tell you that the book which I hold in my hand is soaked with a powerful invisible energy?’
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ the crowd chanted.
‘Do you have faith in me that I will never lead you astray?’
‘Yes!’ This time the affirmation was even louder.
‘Would you all like to live an eternal life in al-Jannah and enjoy its delights?’ Khalifa asked.
‘Yes!’ Again the words were deafening.
‘Then know that each page of this book is laced with enough power to transport fifty of you straight to Paradise—no questions asked along the way, no meeting with Munkar and Nakir, no accounting of your sins, no walk on Pul Siraat, no fiery pits and no raging fire of Hell’s inferno. Just an immediate route to Paradise.’
He paused, took a swig of Paradise Water and glared at the stunned congregation. Abba’s jaw had dropped almost to his chest, his brows nearly touched his hairline and his eyes bulged. A combination of déjà vu and a flood of real memories overpowered me.
My mind raced over the image of Tarzan and his exploding briefcase in that bathroom in the hospital. Next to him, I had been holding a book just like the one Khalifa now raised in his hand. Shit! It was all making sense now.
‘Yes! Shit,’ Pir’s voice slid through my cranium. Before I could respond, Khalifa began speaking again.
‘Such is the reward for those who follow their Khalifa, those who believe in him. Why? Because they know that Khalifa represents the will of Allah. Now I’m going to ask the last row to stand up and come to me one by one to receive their ticket to Paradise. They’re to recite verse number one-one-one of the surah 9, which says: Indeed, Allah has purchased from the believers their lives and their belongings in exchange for what they will have in Paradise. They fight in the cause of Allah, so they kill and get killed.
‘After each one of you has received a ticket, let it rest on the palm of your right hand and wait for further instructions.’ Khalifa stood before the congregation.
I counted forty or so men who got up from the back row. With their hands clasped below their navels and their lips moving without a sound, they walked in a single file along the edge of the assembly toward Khalifa who received each man with a handshake. Then he tore little pieces of paper from the pages of the black book and placed one in each waiting palm.
‘This is serious, Abba.’
‘I have no idea what Khalifaji is doing today,’ Abba said, his voice now filled with anxiety. ‘But I can tell you that this new technology often concerns an old-fashioned businessman like me.’
‘Abba, are we all going to die?’
‘Death comes at the appointed time—not a second late, not a second early.’
‘What happened to the minarets? What’s that metal on each of their tops?’
‘Khalifaji had them modified a couple of years ago. Don’t you think the sheen of the metal highlights them nicely?’
‘Yeah, sure. Nice work,’ I mumbled, wishing more than anything that Pir would just beam me the hell out of here.
It didn’t take long for the entire congregation to stand one at a time before Khalifa and receive his psychedelic benediction. From time to time, a chopper or two flew across the screen on the right, the one with the aerial view of the mosque. The screens showing the minarets against the clear blue sky were devoid of any movement. Staring at these four odd-looking metal-tipped spires on the screen, I pushed my thoughts to Pir.
‘Pir, what’s going on?’
‘You’re in a better position to see what’s happening. I’m just listening.’
‘We’re all getting ready to take off. I not ready to die another death.’
‘Once you’re a part of Chacha’s team, you’ll survive a hundred deaths.’
‘That’s good to know, but small comfort,’ I said, brooding over the meaning of his answer.
The front row now rose to its feet; I was the last one in line. Abba, having already received his portion, walked backwards towards his seat, lest he accidentally turn his back on Khalifa. Now it was my turn to stand face-to-face with al-Amir ul Momineen. His eyes had a hooded, dreamy quality, yet were flecked with a fierceness that made him look crazed and otherworldly. He looked at me without blinking, his lips stretching ever so slightly in a smile. He then extended his hand for a handshake. ‘So it was you,’ he whispered, giving my hand a painful squeeze.
‘It’s a great honour to be invited by Khalifa, al-Amir ul Momineen, on such an auspicious occasion,’ I said, to acknowledge his position.
He turned around and took his seat on the divan, then picked up the microphone to speak. I was left standing in front of the not-so-friendly crowd. I had not been dismissed, nor had I been given the key to Paradise.
‘Today, I’ve received two clear and righteous indications from the Most High. The first: the ababeels, which some of you might have seen on your way here today. Never before have they been seen in such large numbers. Remember, these birds once turned the mighty army of Abrah into pulp. Today, their presence in the vicinity of this mosque is the clear and precious sign we have been waiting for.’
Keeping his eyes on the crowd, Khalifa raised his hand and pointed toward me.
‘The second auspicious sign is this young man standing in front of you. He was shown to me in a dream; one in which he carried the noor in his hand, the light of Allah. By his presence here today, my dream has become a reality. Those who have eyes to discern the divine signs need no further reassurance that Allah has graciously accepted our hard work.’
He put the book down on the divan and struck the keyboard of a laptop in front of him.
Standing in front of so many people, all of whom stared at me, was an unsettling and terrifying experience to say the least. My legs felt like they were filled with lead and my mind was a chaotic frenzy of energy. It was almost impossible to think clearly. Everyone held their right hand in front of their navel, the stamp-sized ticket to Paradise resting in their palm. They looked to be in a trance.
Khalifa nodded twice at the men in khaki uniforms who were seated at the outer edge of the screens. The men, waiting for this signal, began to furiously type into their laptops; a hum filled the air. I felt a deep rumbling vibration under my feet as if the earth was being moved about by heavy machinery, far below us.
Vertical cracks appeared in the metal shields over three of the minarets. The fourth remained unchanged. These cracks widened and the metal plates moved away from the minarets like the petals of a flower. My heart began to pound as Khalifa’s voice boomed across the hall.
‘Today is the Day of Judgment for our enemies and our enemies’ friends. By the grace and decree of the Almighty, I, Khalifa of Darul Islam, declare Jihad against Darul Harb—the land of the infidels.’