YESTERDAY WAS STUCK IN MY MIND and I had been whistling the haunting tune throughout my leisurely walk home. I halted as I stood at the front door of the one-room apartment I occupied, courtesy of the university apartment housing of Columbia. The door was ajar. Someone had broken in. I entered slowly and looked around. Finding no sign of activity, I tiptoed further inside, tensed, ready for either fight or flight.
The place smelled of cinnamon and tobacco, though not my cinnamon and tobacco. Instead of stealing anything, the intruder had left a Styrofoam cooler on my kitchen counter. It was the kind used to ship medicines on icepacks.
A large brown manila envelope with my name scrawled across it in a heavy black marker lay beside the cooler. Inside the insulated container, wedged between two icepacks, was a finger-sized plastic vial filled with a pinkish fluid. Its label read ‘Single Dose OPV’. The brown envelope contained a business-class ticket on Khalifa Air’s Flight 786. The flight departed at 9.00 p.m. from JFK on Monday, the following night. My eyes narrowed as I read the destination: Lahore, Pakistan, arriving 6.00 p.m. on Tuesday night. It was a one-way ticket. In the envelope was also a bundle of worn Dirham bills, ninety-nine of them; about a thousand dollars’ worth. There was a handwritten two-page note in a beautiful flourished script too.
Dear Ismael,
Knowledge, like a rare metal, is a precious commodity and the price to gain the direct knowledge of Paradise and Hell is way too steep to be afforded if you are a mere mortal. However, there are methods known only to a select few—called the guides—who alone can unravel such mysteries. They exist to help those who seek with sincerity and unwavering intention. The time has come for you to prepare yourself for the most important journey of your life. You will be contacted once you arrive in Lahore.
Your father is a well-connected man and a highly regarded entrepreneur in the Caliphate. Obviously, his business is now a household name. We know that the two of you are estranged. Please understand that regaining your father’s trust is the path to the success of our mission, a mission whose details will only be revealed to you when you are prepared to take action—at the right time, at the right place.
You are to call your father tonight at midnight. It will be 9.00 a.m. where he is. Let him know that you will be flying to Lahore to see him and that you have missed him very much. The two of you have a lot to discuss.
There are some basic reminders: your greatest enemy will be fear, and your greatest distraction will be desire or lust. Doubt causes paralysis and resentments shackle one with chains. Anger burns what is vital and impatience slows things down. Curiosity can have you killed. To succeed, you must learn to conquer these conditions that afflict other people. You will be tested at every step of the way.
If you have understood the above and still wish to continue on the Path to High Knowledge and undertake such a demanding journey, you must take the polio drops after reading this note. Your immune system needs to be optimal by the time you land.
Do not attempt to overthink or make sense of matters from here on for it may prevent you from choosing the right course of action at a crucial point in time. We will be monitoring your progress closely once you land. Failure is not an option and obedience thwarts many a catastrophe. Your success will ensure your entry into the most ancient circles of the Elite.
Pir Pul Siraat
P.S.: Arrangements have been made to make you completely debt-free, hence financial issues should be the last of your worries.
At the bottom of the note was Abba’s mobile’s number next to his name: Hajji Ibrahim. He hadn’t changed his number in all these years. Maybe that was a good omen.
Bloody hell! I let out the breath I had been holding for the last few seconds and continued to stare at the note, numb with shock. This couldn’t be happening. It seemed like some kind of over-the-top spy movie.
I read the note several times, my confusion mounting each time. Pir Pul Siraat. What a weird name! Pir meant guide and Pul Siraat that mythical tightrope. I had always imagined it to be a steel cable that hung high above the fire pit of Hell which, after death, every believer had to traverse barefoot. Most would fall off, except the true believers and those who died in the way of Allah: the martyrs. I had imagined seeing lush rolling mounds of green as far as the eye could see on the other side, and beyond that would be the real Paradise.
The more I tried to make sense of this baffling missive, the more restless I became. I paced back and forth in my tiny apartment as my mind raced over the possibilities in play. Then a thought occurred: I was doing exactly what I wasn’t supposed to be doing—trying to make sense of things, things I supposedly couldn’t understand anyway. How about: let’s see what happens?
Morning gave way to noon and by then I had read the note so many times that I memorized it. The writing radiated a power that made me feel small and greatly agitated. Unable to sustain a state of hyper-arousal, my wakefulness progressed to the point of collapse. As soon as I hit the bed, I was taken by a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I woke up, the room was dark. Feeling disoriented, I glanced at my watch. It was 10.30 p.m. I bolted upright, thinking that the note and its accompanying items left on my kitchen counter by the intruder must have been part of an ongoing vision from last night’s trip, the lingering effects of the sacred vine.
But the cooler was still sitting there on the counter and lying next to it was the opened manila envelope. A feeling of enormity and inevitability began to envelope me.
I got up and read the note once again, hoping new revelations would hit. Nothing. Everything was happening so fast. It was all so freakish and totally bizarre. Who really were these people and what did they want with me? It was clear that my encounter with Chacha Khidr wasn’t merely my mind conjuring under the influence. The note had blown me away. It had made a hole so big in my conception of reality that I felt bodily transparent.
Did they even pick the right person? Was I just being given a crash course in conquering my weaknesses, fears and doubts? Now I was impatient and curious as hell. Obedient I was not and Abba could testify to that. Free from lust, most definitely not, since I had gotten it genetically.
One thing was for sure: my long-repressed sense of adventure was out of the barn and kicking up its hooves. Pushing the envelope had never been something I was afraid of—even though it often ended in regret. The bottom-line was this: I was intrigued; hell, I was hooked!
There was something big happening here and I wanted a seat for the whole ride. Not to mention the debt-free deal which was, of course, way too sweet to pass up. More importantly, I wanted to find out what the hell my father had been up to these days. What topped the list was that he was the key to the success of my mission. Whatever that mission might be. It was time to take the polio drops.
I snapped open the end of the vaccine vial, took a deep breath, and emptied the contents into my mouth. A faint bitterness spread across my tongue. I opened the fridge and pulled out an icy bottle of Heineken and let the beer kill that unpleasant aftertaste. The next two took the edge off the growing sense of unease gripping me as I watched the hand of the clock edging slowly toward the fateful midnight hour and my phone call to my father.
I plopped down on my ragged loveseat in a horizontal position and stared at the ceiling, my head resting against the armrest. A spider lay motionless in its tiny hexagonal hammock, waiting for its wayward victim, a moth that circled overhead. The filaments of the web were radiant and I gazed in amazement.
The wind rose suddenly, howling and rattling the windows. I shivered, suddenly noticing the temperature in the room had dropped. Stepping over to the window I peeked through the blinds. There was something unsettling in the air. It was snowing and the sidewalks and parked cars that lined the street below were covered.
I returned to my loveseat and began watching the moth. It was banging against the walls every few seconds, but it managed to stay clear of the spider’s deadly trap. A part of me felt like that moth, about to be engulfed in the gossamer threads of an unseen world. But the other part of me was the spider, having been duly sent the nourishment I needed from the beyond. I emptied my mind and waited for midnight.
The moth was still fluttering around the room when my watch showed five minutes to midnight. It was unbelievable that I had been staring at the ceiling for the last hour and a half. It was time to call Abba. I felt rested, energetic and ready to take on my assignment. I took a deep breath and, studying the note, dialed Abba’s number.
‘Hello!’ he answered in the old, familiar, intense tone of his.
‘Abba? It’s—it’s Ismael.’
After a long pause I heard his breath becoming irregular.
‘I don’t know if I should believe my ears,’ he muttered. He didn’t sound particularly happy to hear my voice. ‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ he added, sounding anxious and distant.
‘I’m sorry, Abba. I’ve thought of calling you many times, but …’
‘But what?’ he barked.
‘Abba, I miss you,’ I said, drawing a deep breath and cringing.
‘Where are you calling me from?’ he demanded, sounding genuinely puzzled now.
‘New York City, Abba. I’ll be in Lahore soon.’
‘What? You’re coming to Lahore?’
‘Yes, Tuesday night. My plane lands at 6.00 p.m.’
‘Which Tuesday?’ he sputtered, his voice clipped and tense. ‘You never fail to surprise me!’ I now recalled that my father had never been particularly fond of surprises.
‘This coming Tuesday, Abba—in two days.’
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes. I just miss Lahore and I miss being with you,’ I said, gritting my teeth as I spoke. I didn’t remember having ever said this to him before, and it didn’t sound very believable even now.
‘Are you well, Ismael?’
‘100 per cent,’ I assured him.
‘It’s a very different place here, from what it used to be,’ he said. ‘I hope you know the requirements for the entry. They are very strict on immigration these days.’
‘I think I’ll be fine,’ I said, rubbing my cheek and feeling my week-old stubble. To get through immigration, the length of my beard had to be the size of a grain of rice. That much I knew, having read it in the news somewhere a while ago. ‘I’ll make it.’
‘I’ll send my driver to the airport. His name is Wali.’
‘I’ll just take a taxi, Abba.’
‘This isn’t the same place anymore.’
‘Oh? Is it really that bad?’ I was a little taken aback by the obvious alarm in his voice.
‘It’s bad all right, but it’s not terrible. Most of what you hear about our country is all western propaganda,’ he said. ‘The Jews!’
‘I know, I know,’ I said. ‘The Zionists.’
‘Zionists or Jews, they’re all the same. They’re the killers of our Prophet—disliked by the Almighty the same.’
Horrified by his reply, I remained silent.
‘Why are you coming?’ Now his tone was calm but deliberately so.
‘We’ll talk about it, Abba, when we meet.’
‘I won’t be in Lahore until Thursday. So you’ll have a couple of days to yourself to get settled in and recover from the jetlag. Wali and Ghulam Rasool will be in the house to look after you.’
I was happy to hear that Ghulam Rasool, the cook, was still around. His kind face, warm smile and the delicious food preparations flashed through my mind. I had never met Wali before.
‘Thank you, Abba—it’s very kind of you.’
‘It’s fine. It’s fine. Wali will pick you up from the airport. But please, and this is very, very important. You must remember: do not discuss religion with him, at all. Avoid the subject completely. In fact, do not talk to anyone at the airport. Understood?’
‘Yes, I’ll keep that in mind.’ A knot was forming in my stomach.
‘You can’t help it at times,’ he added more to himself than me.
I remained quiet.
‘Good, then, Inshallah, we’ll meet on Thursday evening,’ he said curtly. Then he was gone.
I guess it was really happening. I stared at the phone, thinking there was no way on earth that I could ever hope to gain my father’s trust, and certainly not on his terms. But his trust was deemed a critical key to this nebulous success I was tasked to so ardently seek. The thought of visiting my native country, now the Caliphate, filled me with a mixture of terror and excitement. Shouldn’t be a problem adjusting to the current norms, I consoled myself. After all, I did spend eighteen years of my life there—albeit as a rather poor example of a Muslim. I had never once set foot in a mosque in America. And if I still considered myself a Muslim, it was as a culturally self-hating Muslim.
I craved a cigarette. Though I quit a couple of months ago, I was really feeling it tonight. I got up and started to pace again, fighting the urge to go out and score a pack of smokes at the 7-11 down the block. Maybe I should get my laundry done. I needed a clean thawb for the trip. I discarded the idea because I knew if I went out I would be buying cigarettes. And then I remembered I had another similar robe somewhere in the back of my closet. I kept it as a souvenir since I had been wearing it when I left home: a faded blue denim jellaba splattered with a patchwork of red, green and yellow squares. Abba hated it.
‘Only a heretic would wear this kind of robe,’ he told me more than once, thus providing me with a good reason to wear it even more often.
I tried it on in front of the mirror. It used to hang loosely on me but now fit perfectly. With my stubble it made me look like a dervish. I could get a new one once I got to Lahore, but since I needed to change my attire before we landed in the Caliphate, I would have to carry it with me on the plane. Change the clothes, change the man, or woman. So went the prevailing mindset. I had heard stories of women flocking to the bathrooms during a flight to change their identities from chic urban dweller to pious Muslimah before landing on their grandparents’ home soil.
Since I had no idea how long I would be gone, I threw whatever I thought I would need for a week or two into my suitcase. By the time I finished packing I was exhausted. As soon as my body hit the bed I passed out.
I stood in a vast courtyard lined with white marble tiles. It was dusk and I was staring at a massive white tent in front of me. Four pencil-shaped pillars stood at the tent’s four corners. The place looked familiar, but I couldn’t tell what it was or where I had seen it before.
In my hand I held a weightless ball of white light. An intense glow emanating from the sphere filled the whole area with dazzling brightness. A man wearing a black cloak and black turban, his face concealed by a veil, approached me. He stopped twenty feet from me.
Against the light his shadow stretched from his feet to the top of the tent like a dark band. Suddenly, the sphere burst into brilliant streaks of white light—like laser beams they shot across the night as far as the eyes could see—and then with a grunt the man vanished like darkness at daybreak. I opened my eyes. I was perspiring profusely and my shirt was drenched with sweat. It was 1.00 p.m. Being a light sleeper, it was unusual for me to have slept for such a long time without waking up even once. Something extraordinary was in play here. Something inexplicable yet palpable.
For one, I was disoriented as to time, and second, I had this vision of the present moment like a portal into a timeless dimension, where a limitless worlds churned about, each being a distinct entity, each staying clear of the other, and I existing in all worlds simultaneously. I shook my head in an attempt to dispel this strange vision.
It must have been the after-effects of Ayahuasca. Sitting on the bed as I wiped sweat off my forehead and tried to clear my thoughts, the dream came back to me. It was still so vivid. It had all seemed so real! I could still see the huge courtyard, the white tent, the cold marble beneath my bare feet and the intense white glow of the sphere’s light upon my skin.
My curiosity to know the realities of Paradise and Hell had hit a new high. I wanted to know what mission Pir had been talking about, but worried whether I really was prepared for the weirdest of journeys one could possibly imagine. But I also had a certainty that by having the polio vaccine I had already accepted fate and taken the plunge.