I STOOD ROOTED TO THE SIDEWALK, unable to go inside. Who wouldn’t be a little jittery around that kind of merchandise? Wali had disappeared from my view.
The area was now quite crowded and outside the shop bearded men strolled along the sidewalk in flowing Arab-style robes with a keffiyeh and agal on their heads. Trailing a few steps behind them were their women, completely concealed beneath black burqas. The women outnumbered the men by ten to one. Some burqas didn’t even have a slit for their eyes, only small fabric screens.
I made a mental note of the surreal, or rather drastic, changes in the culture I had become immersed in since landing just a couple of hours ago. This was a brave new world of Islam, about which I hadn’t the slightest clue and which seemed ready to blow itself up any minute. I wondered what exactly this brand of Islam was, the ones being practiced in this godforsaken place. Where did it come from and how?
Wali appeared at the shop’s entrance and gestured for me to come inside. Before I could put one foot inside, I was knocked aside by a man, his wife and their three teenaged beardless sons. They streamed into the shop—the parents first, followed by the three boys about a year or two apart in age. I fell into step behind the last boy and entered the shop.
Lit by gas lamps, the shop was tiny and crammed, the items in each of the aisles stacked up to the ceiling. Martyr vests of all sizes and colours covered one wall and also hung from the ceiling on hangers.
The shelves overflowed with curious goods: stones, wicked-looking scythes, swords with Arabic inscriptions, curved daggers which had handles studded with jewels, tangled heaps of cheap-looking plastic tasbih rosaries, delicately carved glass perfume bottles, ammunition belts, plastic tubes, books on Islam, incense, bolts, nails, nuts and copper hooks all lying around in no visible order. It looked like the prop department of a very bad movie.
The owner was a large man of about seventy with tiny silver wire-frame glasses perched on the end of his nose. He sat on a three-feet-high wooden ledge, the size of a queen-size bed, amidst a pile of vests. Stacks of colourful prayer mats and rugs decked the periphery of the ledge. His face was scrunched in concentration as he absent-mindedly combed his fingers through his henna-dyed beard that trailed into his lap. He looked like a wild mountain warlord sitting in a teashop. I had to force my eyes away from this colourful spectacle before he noticed me staring at him.
The man was sewing what looked like finger-length red-coloured explosive tubes into the lining of one of the vests. Next to him sat a long glass counter with an old-fashioned cash register. Behind the counter stood a boy of ten or twelve who was sorting boxes of ammunition and eyeing all the new customers.
Between me, Wali, the family of five, the proprietor and his shop boy, the place felt uncomfortably crammed with people. Wali had made a place for himself at the far end of the counter by shoving a pile of vests out of his way. I squeezed past him and the tallest boy of the family that came in.
Wali pointed toward something behind the shop boy’s head. It looked like some sort of rock—flat at the bottom, roundish on top, dark rust in colour. It had sharp spikes on top and looked like a cross between a porcupine and a soccer ball. The shop boy took it down from the shelf, using both hands, and his face strained as if in pain.
Keeping the rock held aloft, the boy leaned over the counter as Wali took it from him and weighed it in his hand. Without any warning he shoved the rock into my hands. I gasped and almost dropped it on my foot. It must have weighed at least twenty pounds.
‘A perfect gift for your Abbaji,’ Wali announced proudly.
‘What’s this supposed to be?’ I asked, staring at him.
‘Sirji, it’s from Maidan-e-Arafat, the place where every soul will rise one day. It’s an imported item. The finest quality!’
‘So?’
‘Sirji, I think this is a most excellent present for your father. Tell me if I’m wrong, but what better present can there be than this rock for doing your wudu every day? It must have been around for thousands of years.’
The wudu or ablution with water before each of the five daily ritual prayers, or namaaz, was an integral part of one’s faith. But when water wasn’t available, a stone could be employed instead. In that instance one would touch the stone and follow through the same motions as if doing ablution with water. ‘This precious stone was touched by the blessed air of Maidan-e-Arafat. It’s from the place chosen by the Almighty, the very place where He will raise the dead when the horn is blown on the Day of Judgment,’ Wali explained.
‘Oh, I understand!’ I assured him. The last thing I wanted to do was to offend Wali again or, for that matter, anyone else in this shop.
The smell of danger floated in the air like incense; the unmistakable odour of ammonium nitrate that is used in explosive devices, mixed with the stench of my own fear-laced sweat.
‘But aren’t rocks and stuff used only when there’s no water available to do wudu? What’s that called? Tayummum, right?’
It felt good displaying what little knowledge I had. I moved the rock around, shifting its prodigious weight in my hands. The spikes bit into my palms and hurt like hell, but I somehow managed to keep a cheerful mask of curiosity on my face.
Everyone turned around and stared as if I had said something wildly inappropriate. Had I? I simply couldn’t tell in this place. I felt glaring eyes sweeping over me, judging my all-but-naked face with its pitiful little illegal beard.
‘Sirji has just landed from America,’ Wali announced, casting his eyes over the crowd. Sure, it was only eight people but it felt like an angry mob. ‘He is looking to buy a special present for his Abbaji,’ he continued as though a satisfactory explanation might determine if I were getting out of this place in one piece or not. ‘He forgot to buy something before he left America; so happy he was at the very thought of seeing his Abbiji after a long separation. Mashallah!’ he concluded.
I wasn’t sure if Wali was mocking me or just trying to be helpful. One of the teenage boys, standing right next to me, had slipped on one of the Mujahid vests. He had chosen a slick black number with crisscrossed red stripes and green tubes tucked neatly into loops sown into the webbed lining. I wondered if they were filled with some homemade explosives.
The shop boy placed a mirror on top of the counter and adjusted it so the boy could admire himself. The boy tried to turn around so he could look at himself from all sides, but he couldn’t budge an inch. He was pressed up against me tightly. I stood next to Wali and Wali was still pinioned against the wooden ledge next to the counter. The boy’s father nodded approvingly.
‘Cool design,’ the boy said, nodding and all grins. Was this kid real?
Wali distracted me as he whispered, ‘Sirji, no one uses water here for wudu anymore—not in Lahore. Not anywhere.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Why?’ I whispered.
‘Because there is no clean water available. The water out of the tap is all mixed up with the sewer. It stinks.’
‘So how do people get by without clean water?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what do they use for drinking and cooking?’
‘We use Paradise Water for that purpose,’ he replied. ‘And in the tap water we put pinky.’
‘Pinky?’
‘Gentian Violet, sirji. It kills the germs and most of the smell, but still doesn’t make it drinkable.’
My head reeled with the implications. I then remembered the huge bottle filled with clear water hanging from the ceiling at the airport labelled ‘Paradise Water: Your only reliable source of clean water, Khalifa Inc.’ Then I noticed something else in the air, something different from the smell of ammonium nitrate wafting off the Mujahid vests and permeating the shop; something ominous. I was brought back to my senses by a female voice.
‘Let’s try another size,’ the boy’s mother said to the henna-haired proprietor. ‘Show us some nice ones. This one is a bit tight around the chest—and look at the fabric, it feels so cheap. Surely you can do better,’ she said as though she had just suffered an unforgivable insult.
‘And I want a better price. This is too much for such shoddy workmanship.’
The old man grabbed a cane that was fitted with a copper hook at one end. Without bothering to stand up, he raised the cane over his head and started sorting through dozens of vests which dangled from the ceiling. His hook grabbed a hanger with the one of the vests.
He then released the hook and carefully eased the vest down the length of the cane a few inches at a time. It was quite an elaborate procedure, one obviously developed with great care over many years. I didn’t dare breathe until the vest was safely cradled in his lap.
‘Bajiji, we also make videos, for a nominal fee of course, in the next shop. You get a discount if you buy a vest from us. Just imagine your son opening his eyes by the exalted pond, Hauz-e-Kauser, filled with sweet water of Jannah. How blessed he is to be given water by the seal of the prophethood, Muhammad, peace be upon him, himself.’
All movement came to a sudden halt. Only the white, hot flame of the gas-lamp hissed on, unaware of the ominous silence. The rock I held in my hand slid a notch down along my belly while everyone closed their eyes and started moving their lips with ferocious speed.
I closed my eyes, but kept one eye slightly open to see what was happening. The shop boy was the first to go into sajdah and disappeared behind the counter. I was shoved back by Wali who was trying to make room for himself to do his prostration. The henna-bearded proprietor bent all the way down while still sitting on the ledge. He had his forehead rested on the tubes of explosives he was sewing into the vest.
The couple, both heavyset, somehow managed to maneuver themselves into a kneeling position. The two younger boys had already hit the floor, one piling on top of the other as their foreheads struggled to touch the cement floor. The whole thing looked almost choreographed.
The boy wearing the vest remained standing with his too small vest still zipped up and strapped in place. He shoved me out of his way as he scrambled toward the ground. The shove was very hard and I barely managed to avoid tumbling over and crashing on top of Wali’s spine—thanks to the weight of the rock pressed against my stomach. I looked around, desperate to find a way to get rid of the rock.
The countertop had no space; besides, it was glass and would never hold the weight of the rock without shattering. The holy rock from Maidan-e-Arafat suddenly grew heavier manifold and I had to bend backward to counter it. And I froze with panic when I looked down.
To my horror, the detonation loop on the boy’s vest had got caught on one of spikes of the sacred rock in my hands. The boy, in his desperation to find a place to rest his forehead and without the slightest idea of what he was doing, kept tugging on the loop.
Clearly I was holding him back from doing his sajdah. I thought of dropping the rock, but it would have landed on the boy’s back, fracturing his spine. Smoke rose from the vest and a pungent odour filled the shop. I shut my eyes and prepared for annihilation. My mind sank into an image of space, a black, vast, cosmic wilderness.
But the blast and the cosmic wilderness didn’t arrive. I opened my eyes and everyone was still down on their knees. A thin ribbon of blue smoke rose from the vest close to the boy’s armpit. The ninety-nine seconds, provided each recitation of the first kalima took three seconds, seemed to have lasted an eternity.
My fingers, white-knuckled and locked onto the heavy stone with a death grip, cramped violently. Then everyone jumped up, patted their clothes and coughed as the acrid smoke clogged their throats.
Before I got a chance to put the rock away, vest-boy’s father slammed my head down on the counter next to the mirror. He dragged a monstrous dagger from somewhere inside his black robe and pressed it hard against my throat. This was getting old fast.
Following their father’s cue, the three boys drew out their own knives and pressed them to my throat. In the mirror I could see four furious sets of eyes and teeth glowering at me.
From under a pile of vests, the shop owner pulled out his own blade that was about the size of a bayonet and pointed it to my face, while the shop boy fumbled with a Swiss Army knife. I longed to let go of the rock but it would have smashed my toes; so I held onto it.
‘This kind of auspicious opportunity doesn’t arise every day,’ the father growled, locking his eyes with mine, his nose flaring. I almost thought he was about to start hyperventilating. ‘As soon as I knew he had come from America,’ he continued, grinning with twisted rage-filled delight, ‘I knew he’d have no respect for our religion. I think I’ll let Saad, my youngest son, enjoy the honour of killing you,’ he said, dragging his dagger away from my neck and nicking the flesh. I didn’t know what these people would do if they actually smelled fresh blood. I was terrified.
There was a sudden flurry of activity behind the father. The woman, his wife, had unveiled her eyes and shoved her sons out of the way. In her hand she clutched a huge butcher knife, the toka. Pushing past her husband as well, she advanced towards me.
Suddenly I realized the immense benefit of death by explosives. Maybe it was pretty painless. In a matter of seconds, you would cross over to the other side. I regretted not having a Mujahid vest of my own under my robe. I would have gladly taken every asshole slathered in this shop with me straight to Heaven, or even Hell for that matter, as long as they were going with me. It was such a stupid waste for my life to end here and now getting slaughtered by people I had always thought of as nothing more than angry villagers.
‘Now everyone, hold your horses, take a deep breath and listen to me,’ Wali shouted from behind. ‘It’s a fine thing to desire Paradise above all else, but you are just too eager to get there. You have all failed to notice that sirji, Ismael, couldn’t even find a place to do his sajdah. He kept looking for space for himself.’
‘Yes! Alhamdolillah! Wali is absolutely right. I was looking for a clear space,’ I said. ‘Also, what’s that weird smell and where’s all that smoke coming from?’
‘This smell is common in places where explosives are stored,’ the henna-bearded man replied with an impatient flick of his hand. At least he took his knife away from my throat and laid the wicked-looking blade down on the counter.
‘No, it’s more than just that,’ I said, trying to muster a little courage from somewhere. ‘Look what happened,’ I hissed, raising the sacred-rock with great effort and holding it under the medley of knives still rammed against my throat. The loop of the small-sized Martyr vest was still hooked onto the spike. They all stared at the rock, with their eyes wide and mouths gaping.
‘Corruption has eaten like a worm into the very bones of this nation,’ Wali moaned. He seemed genuinely disappointed. ‘They can’t even sell a properly working vest. Mujahid brand, my foot!’ The knives were lifted off of my neck and then they disappeared. Only the woman gripped her blade tightly and lunged like a tigress towards the shop owner to slide her huge knife across his throat. The man glared at the woman but didn’t flinch. I had the uncanny feeling that the owner could have taken this woman down any time he wanted.
‘So you sell second-rate merchandize in this store? Mujahid brand I doubt it. It’s good we found out before we laid down our hard-earned money. We’re going to report you,’ she roared in indignation. ‘All these vests are fake Mujahid brand. I could already tell that from the quality of fabric,’ she growled, pulling the vest off her son and shoving it into henna-beard’s hands. ‘Thieves!’ she continued with a shriek. ‘May Allah roast you in Hell’s fire! My son would have been humiliated with a misfire like this. What’s your name?’ she screamed, pressing the toka deeper into the man’s neck.
‘Bibiji, I’m sorry. I think maybe the vest got left out in the rain and was ruined by the water.’
‘I’m asking you your name,’ she roared through clenched teeth.
‘Muhammad Sadiq.’
As soon as I heard the name Muhammad, I immediately lowered the rock onto the floor, closed my eyes and plunged towards the ground. I was not going to miss my turn on the floor this time around. I said my kalima thirty-three times, as required by the law of the Caliphate. I counted them slowly and deliberately on my fingers.
When I stood up, I realized that no one had joined me on the floor. No one had attempted to prostrate. They all just stared at me. Without another word, the patriarch of the party shook his head in disgust and the family headed toward the door as they looked at me with palpable contempt. Then they all disappeared from sight.
‘How much for this beautiful sacred rock?’ I asked, trying to dissipate a cloud of embarrassment. I had done something incredibly stupid, that much I knew, but I couldn’t figure out exactly where I went wrong and how.
‘Twenty-five thousand Dirhams,’ the shop boy said. ‘You want me to wrap it up for you, sir?’
‘No, no, don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, peeling apart a stack of bills and realizing I was quickly running out of cash.
Once out of the shop, we took turns carrying the sacred rock to the car.
‘Oh, Wali. What a narrow escape!’
‘Death comes at the appointed time, sirji—no point wasting time thinking about it.’ He opened the camel’s hump and pushed my suitcase to one side. He then gently placed the rock into the boot like it was a sleeping infant and clicked the hump shut. ‘Sirji, you paid too much money for the gift—way too much.’
‘I had no choice after what happened?’
‘Sirji, you don’t go in sajdah when you hear the name of a regular person whose name just happens to be Muhammad,’ Wali explained in a serene voice.
‘What about now?’ I asked. ‘Right now you mentioned that name. What should one do in this case?’
‘That’s a very good question, sirji. I’ll have to ask Mufti Sahib. Let’s grab a cup of tea and watch a little bit of the game.’
‘Wali, I think we should push on,’ I whined. ‘I’m telling you I’m utterly exhausted.’
‘Sirji, if we watch the game inside the stadium, you’ll catch up on many important things going on in this country. What you must learn and understand very quickly. Otherwise you’ll remain confused as well as in danger for the rest of your trip. I’m under orders from your father to get you oriented and keep you safe.’
‘Wali, I need to think. I need to sit alone for just ten minutes and think in peace,’ I pleaded.
‘Thinking will get you killed here very fast. This is a place of doing; a place of action, sirji. Life is all about action. Thinking kills action,’ Wali explained, his voice now that of a stern but kind father or elder brother.
Wali’s words sounded shockingly familiar: ‘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.’ How the hell were Pir and company supposed to be monitoring my progress in this bizarre place, where I was darn lucky to still be alive—thanks to the kid’s counterfeit martyr vest that didn’t fit properly.
‘Tea is much better for you right now than thinking.’
I really needed to sit down and gather myself. I needed to figure out what the hell was going on and how to navigate through it all without getting my throat slit like an Eid goat. Why was all this happening to me? I knew at least part of the answer to that question: my father. He was the man to unlock this whole damn mystery for me.
I opened my wallet and took out a thousand-Dirham note.
‘I don’t have change.’ I figured it was time to count my remaining money. Having to pay twenty-five thousand Dirhams for a piece of rock that almost got me killed was nothing but a huge rip-off. No wonder I was seething.
Wali strolled away, presumably in search of his precious tea, while I looked around for a bench to sit down. But there weren’t any. I supposed that must be haram too. The area had no electricity and there was no sound of generators either. The glow of gas lamps imbued the air with a stillness but it was far from peaceful and relaxing.
The stadium’s interior, on the other, hand was aglow with floodlights mounted on huge poles. I sat down at the edge of the sidewalk, grateful for a place where I could rest my feet and think without the company of those who delighted in judging my right to continued existence at every turn.
Closing my eyes, I looked inward and tried assessing my bearings. They seemed to have gotten stuck in a maze with no outlets, a moth in a spider’s web. I skimmed over the entire text of the Pir Pul Siraat’s note from my memory and realized I was far from conquering anything that had been pointed out to me in that note. Never before had I experienced fear like now and I was overwhelmed with doubt. The ineffable mission I had been tasked with seemed like a cruel joke. How was I even suitable for it? I was resentful and angry at myself for not thinking this whole thing through before I snapped the vial of polio vaccine. But for some odd reason I remained curious—a trait that could get me killed—as to what Pir and Chacha Khidr were doing. Were they really even monitoring me in this mess. And how? Suddenly a thought occurred to me: I was thinking too much, thus preventing myself from choosing the right course of action.