TO GET TO THE AIRPORT I had taken the Air-train from Manhattan to JFK. Throughout the ride I couldn’t help but marvel at the newfound clarity of my vision, the vividness of colors, this certain sharpness about the world around me, which I had never appreciated before. The weather was perfect and I was dazzled by the luminous edges of the clouds under the shocking blue of the sky, the radiant city skyline receding from my view, the untold stories etched on the human faces, the gestures betraying people’s inner thoughts and the stark three dimensionality of space which I had ordinarily taken for granted, wrapping everything in its fold.
Feeling giddy from my heightened senses, I arrived at the airport two hours before takeoff. The flight was completely booked. A burqa clad airhostess stood at the doorway of the wide-bodied Airbus A500. Peeking through the narrow slit in her veil, her big black kohl-lined eyes looked resplendent. I froze, hypnotized by the beauty of those luminous orbs, wondering if the original purpose of the burqa had been to enhance the power of a woman’s gaze. A nudge on my back made me step forward. What was the old saying about eyes? Souls? They sure had that right.
The woman looked at my boarding pass and pointed me towards the business class section with nothing more than a sweep of her eyes. Reluctantly, I headed toward my seat but couldn’t help turning back a few times, hoping to catch another glimpse of her.
The piercing loveliness of those eyes had looked right into me. I was overcome as if by some strange potion. Unfortunately, she had moved on to the next passenger who hadn’t even glanced at her veiled face.
There were about twenty or so comfortable, dimly lit private cabins on the aircraft, each stocked with the predictable amenities. The air smelled of fresh roses, with a hint of cinnamon. I slipped into my own cabin and took off my backpack. Inside, I detected a waft of jasmine. Either my olfactory senses had been heightened like everything else in my perceptual field or the atmosphere was exactly the way Khalifa Air had intended it to be. I wasn’t quite sure.
I turned around and froze. A full-lipped girl in glossy red lipstick, wearing a red airline cap stood smiling at me. She was probably in her early twenties with long silky straw-coloured hair trailing down her back to her waist. She wore a tight maroon-coloured suit, but no blouse under her jacket. By the time she spoke, the eyes of a certain airhostess in the economy class were nothing more than a distant memory.
‘Good evening, sir. My name is Alina. I’m at your service for the duration of the flight,’ she said, reaching around behind me, touching the middle of my spine with her fingers.
‘What’s going on here?’ I stammered, realizing I was holding my breath for several moments. I felt ashamed for uttering such a dumb response to her greeting.
‘I understand your confusion, sir. You’re flying with us for the first time. Is that correct?’
‘Right.’
‘Sir, this is the business class. Burqa-wearing hostesses are for the economy class only.’
‘But aren’t we all flying to the same country?’ I asked, as I eased into my seat. Again, I vaguely detected the stupidity of my question.
‘Sir, I’m from Latvia and am with a company hired by Khalifa Air to serve the business class. We aren’t required to cover up, sir, because we aren’t Muslims.’ Her lips almost touched my ear lobe. My heart fluttered imagining the scope of the ‘amenities’ that were to unfold once we took off. The whole thing was so far out.
‘What would you like to drink? No alcohol, of course,’ she said softly. I scratched my chin and looked into her eyes, thinking my journey had perhaps kick-started on a wrong note. I wished lust had been the last thing to focus on, or at least until I landed in Lahore.
‘I’m fine for now,’ I said, looking around to see whether our conversation was being overheard.
‘Are you by any chance a Shia, sir?’ she said, lowering her voice further.
‘Why do you ask?’ I was struck by the oddity of her question; and a little apprehensive.
‘Well, if you are, and would like to enjoy our complimentary full-service spa, you can register for the Mut’ah contract for the duration of this flight. Fourteen hours to be exact. I can bring you the register if you like. It’s kept in the cockpit.’
‘I’m neither,’ I mumbled. I couldn’t believe what she just said. Mut’ah or temporary marriage had been allowed in the Shia sect of Islam where the duration of such contract had to be specified and agreed upon in advance.
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘I’m neither a Shia, nor a Sunni.’ I tried to figure out the practical ramification of this obscene perk reserved for the business class passengers.
‘Well, sir, for this flight, you’re required to be one or the other.’
She had to be kidding me. Was this a test of some kind? Suddenly America seemed located in another time, a place where I once used to live a long time ago.
‘Would you help me decide?’ The girl had surely charmed me so I surrendered to the game. I was curious to see how far this would go.
‘I personally don’t like the paperwork, sir, if my humble wishes are to be considered,’ she said with a playful toss of her golden hair and a smile that was anything but submissive.
‘Well then, let’s fly Sunni!’ I said, replying to her smile with a grin.
‘An excellent choice, sir! Once we take off you’re invited upstairs for some relaxation and a massage.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ I said, smiling and admiring the view as she turned and slipped out of the cabin.
The entire flight was resplendent with the wonders and unexpected amenities of exceptional quality. I didn’t even want to guess how much all cost whoever was footing the bill. But one thing was certain: I had failed my first test when it came to conquering my lust. Though I successfully refrained from having the ‘full-service massage,’ I succumbed to the happy ending part of it. For the rest of the flight I had a nagging feeling that I shouldn’t have done that. After all, I was on the Path to High Knowledge, and indiscretions had no place in such endeavors.
I had slept through most of the latter half of the flight and was awoken before landing by my lovely Latvian hostess, Alina.
‘Sir, you may now change into your mandatory attire.’ She helped me to sit up. ‘We’ll be landing soon. I hope you enjoyed your flight. Thanks for choosing Khalifa Air.’ She slid my cabin door open to leave.
As she left the cabin I slid into my blue denim jellaba and prepared for touchdown into the land of my birth. The side-pocket of my robe, the only pocket, was large enough to accommodate my fat wallet and cell phone. I carried my ticket and passport in a neck pouch that dangled in front of my navel. I was planning to tuck the pouch under my robe once I was through Immigration and Customs. As the plane began its descent, I was flooded with the memories I had avoided recollecting ever since I left home.
I was eighteen when I left. That was twelve years ago, the summer of 2038 to be exact. My father, a mid-level bureaucrat-turned-entrepreneur with his hand in every pie, was fifty-two at the time and had just married Sophie, his seventh wife. She was a beautiful, willowy, fifteen-year-old girl from the Kalash tribe, which occupied the picturesque valley of Kafiristan in the shadow of the Hindu Kush range in the former Republic of Pakistan. Sophie was also my first love. It was a love that blossomed long before Abba ever laid eyes on her.
My father was always careful not to exceed the four-wife limit in order to remain within the good graces of the Sharia Court. My mother, Jannat was Abba’s first wife. Like so many, she had fallen victim to a perfectly preventable disease. Abba regarded the polio vaccination programmes provided by various global humanitarian agencies as part of a western conspiracy. A scientifically engineered genocide, he would call it.
I had met Sophie while Abba and I were spending the summer in Kafiristan the year before I left home. It was Abba’s third trip to the region and he had fallen in love with the idea of converting the whole Kalash tribe, the kafirs, or the unbelievers, to Islam. These hardy mountain folk were thought to be the descendants of the armies of Alexander the Great as he marched through the northwestern Indian Subcontinent toward the fertile plains of Punjab. His quest for immortality. The truth of this could be gleaned from the light-skinned faces, pale brown hair and blue eyes so frequently seen in the far-flung and isolated valleys of the North.
Under the inspired and persistent leadership of Abba, Kafiristan became Nuristan, the Abode of Light. This whole Kafiristan affair boosted Abba’s prestige in a land that was destined to become the Caliphate of Al-Bakistan. Most of the ancient tribe of Kalash had become extinct overnight. Those who resisted were killed. Many fled, taking refuge in the mountains. Women and children were captured and distributed as slaves among the affluent. Abba took Sophie for himself even though she never accepted Islam.
A month into her wedding, Sophie ran away in the middle of a dust storm that enveloped Lahore in an opaque crimson haze, bringing the city to a standstill for three days on end. She was never found despite Abba’s best efforts. She may have been gone but never from my mind, for in every woman I had since, I would look for her trace, her reflection, her taste.
She had the courage to bolt for freedom and she inspired me to do the same. It took me a month to muster up the courage before I, too, said farewell to Abba and his world. I had left without saying goodbye. He was somewhere in the north at the time. But I left him a courtesy note, letting him know he wouldn’t be seeing me for a very long time and not to waste his time looking for me. I said I would come back when fate chose and not a day before.
At the time I left home, Abba was living with his two wives: Safa and Marwa, his fifth and sixth wife. They were in their twenties and quite attractive. Up until Safa and Marwa, I had been an only child, the sole heir to Abba’s expanding fortune. Since I turned out to be a complete disappointment, Abba had desperately wanted another son in whom he could see himself. This son would be just like him—somebody who carried the mantle and furthered his mission to help spread the light of his faith, and in the process ensure him a suitable palace and a prime piece of real estate in Paradise. I had no idea if he had another child since my departure.
After saying goodbye to Pakistan, it took me two gruelling years across five countries and two continents before I arrived in the United States. I was twenty years old. As luck would have it, I won the Green Card lottery and became a legal resident the following year.
I spent most of the next decade in libraries doing a series of odd jobs to support myself through college. I dived deep into the study of religion in order to understand its science and the mysterious power it held over people like Abba and countless others throughout the centuries.
Abba saw me as a rebel without a cause; a pitiful excuse for a son who was sure to ruin his chances in the Next World. He often publicly voiced his regret at having invested so much time and energy in someone who turned out to be all but a complete failure.
When I was ten, my father had seen to it that I committed the whole Quran to memory and became a hafiz. For that he procured the best tutors money could buy and tolerated nothing short of perfection from me. By the time I became a certified hafiz, something great happened: my father’s growing political connections and popularity got him sidetracked.
Abba was seen less in Lahore, where he owned a chemical factory, and became far more visible in Islamabad. Freed from his watchful gaze, within a year or two I had all but forgotten most of the holy text.
He eventually found out about my lapses and had taken this neglect of mine rather too personally. To my father, and all men like him, this was an unpardonable sin of the highest magnitude and an affront to all things decent. From that point our relationship had slid downhill until it hit rock bottom, broken. It had never recovered.