Solace

“Rozaiba beta! It’s time to wake up!”

My eyes fail the fight to remain closed. I can hear the muezzin just finishing the druud-o-salaam before he begins waking those who are faithfully asleep.

“Are you awake?” my Ammi continues to ask as she stands in the doorway casting a shadow stretching toward me, nudging me, waiting for an affirmative answer.

It is a morning ritual I no longer complain about. She can see I have no interest in prayers. But she hopes I will once again find God and pay homage to faith like I did, not many years ago as a little boy, the pride of her eyes, running towards the mosque.

I feel angry that I have to submit to faith for no other reason than to please. But the alternative feelings of guilt would be greater as I don’t want to disappoint her. I end up doing both.

The fragrance of my favorite breakfast, aaloo ka paratha lures me into the kitchen where Mom is expertly twirling the paratha on the pan as the fumes rise into the air. No one cooks like Ammi, I admiringly say to myself.

“Did you read the Qur’aan?” she asks with a slight frown.

I am initially annoyed but then defiantly say, “I didn’t have time.”

“You have plenty of time to watch TV before breakfast!”

Then with a soothing and concerned expression she continues.

“Why don’t you realize beta, there is great solace in prayer!?”

I chose not to argue. I know though that at some point I will have to make myself clear to her. I’ve had enough of faith!

But this is not a story about my religious journeys. It is about the discovery of our hidden desires and of how they lay mischievously dormant, knowing full well that they will be discovered and embraced in due time, try as we might to run away from them. It is about the nuances of love that blind reality leaving us mystified only to open our eyes when we are ready to realize. It is about Rabia.

I am a senior transfer student and clearly have difficulty finding my way around the high school. I end up in the wrong classes. I find myself being ostracized from fellow classmates for not being able to fit in. Not only do I not have the comfort of years of bonding as the other do with each other, I don’t have the financial resources to entertain and perhaps win over friends. I feel like I am an unwanted student here. The library is my only abode.

“Can I borrow your book?”

I turn around and see her with a questioning gaze.

“I didn’t know the answer to this question on the story ‘The Kabuliwallah’.”

It’s the first time I’ve had the chance to speak to her. It is the first time I’ve noticed her really. Rabia always seems busy – either with studies, with the mentally handicapped kids she spends time with or the various charity groups she is actively seeking to collect funds for. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never seen her around much outside class.

Wearing an abaya and a hijaab, she is also the most conservative one- rather the only conservative student.

We begin to spend time together during the lunch hour in the library. Idealism inspires her, and every now and then inspires me. I explain to her the symbols of Faiz’s poem ‘The Street Dogs’ and why Junoon’s song and video for ‘Talaash’ are a call for revolution. Her enchanted look inspires me to elaborate these nascent ideological views and at moments like these it seems we can go on like this day after day.

For class group assignments I can always walk over to her and she’ll make sure I am allowed into the group thus helping my circle of friends to grow. She even takes the time to help me study for my exams.

However, what she most likes to talk about is Islam. Gradually as our friendship develops, her conversations become more and more about religion. Perhaps this is not the case and I only notice this as I am now becoming comfortable with school and do not find her company and help so necessary though I confess I feel the most comfortable in her presence. Anyhow, I am beginning to find her a very annoying.

For her, life seems to revolve around religion.

She even has a prayer for the Pakistan cricket team!

“Offer this prayer when you go watch the match.” And she recites it to me.

OK. Pakistan does beat New Zealand, but that’s not the point!

“Take a look at this! Ahmed Deedat’s ‘Al-Qur’aan: The Miracle of Miracles’!” she says excitedly while sitting down next to me displaying a luminous smile through her luscious lips. She begins to flip the pages of the pamphlet where the author is once again making the faithful proud by citing what are supposed to be facts indicating the righteousness of the religion.

It is getting too much for me. How can she get so riled up about such nonsense?

“Why do we always- always- have to talk about religion?” I say in a frustrated voice surprising her as well as myself.

She lowers her eyes in confusion while adjusting her hijaab. After a pause, with bewildered lips which I imagine are slightly trembling she asks,

“What do you want to talk about?”

Frustrated, impatient and feeling very insensitive, I blurt out

“Why don’t we talk about the shape of your lips? They really are beautiful.”

Now we are both confused. I can see her blush and I’m sure I am mirroring her. Never before have I been so grateful to the bell signaling the end of the lunch hour.

I decide to make a forceful effort to join the rank and file of the established order of the school with their notorious ostentatious partying ways, loud sexually explicit jokes and confident mocking remarks of teachers and the less-able students.

“Mr. Shahbaz couldn’t teach to save his life!”
“Is Miss Saima having an affair with him?”
“Mrs. Baqar needs to stop putting on so much make-up!”
“Yaar is Humanyun gay or something?”

I explain to myself that such talk is part of the many compromises I have to make to fit in and I do my best to pretend I agree.

Overtime I am able to avoid Rabia whose khutbas (I’ve become very harsh towards her) are very rather repulsive.

I have to work hard to show that I can fit in. Because I do not have the money to flaunt, I come up with alternative ways to impress my fellow seniors.

“Ammi, I’ll drive the car to school today. Dad’s not here and we shouldn’t inconvenience Uncle,” I make an excuse. She looks at me with a worried expression.

“Those roads are very dangerous beta. It’s not a good idea for you to drive yourself.”

“Ammi, I’m old enough! When will you learn to trust me?”

After a pause she tells me to be careful and recites a prayer. I annoyingly grind my jaw at this but my heart is racing with excitement at being able to take the car.

“After school, come straight home OK?”

“OK!” I yell as I rush out the door.

I eagerly wait for school to be over. Throughout the day I imagine the various situations that could arise and how I’d handle them. For every possibility, the conclusion would inevitably earn me ‘cool’ points.

“Yaar, Rozaiba brought his car today. He says we should roam around in our cars after-school!”

They look to me to confirm this.

“Aray, race-aain lagain gay!” I arrogantly proclaim.

A ‘triple’ date is mentioned as a possibility and taken up instantly by all. I am filled with excitement – about the date I will have but more importantly by the prospect that this will finally cement my place amongst the coolest of the colleagues. I can already see my name etched in the star walk to be admired by the future progeny.

“Yaar, that’s a great idea!

At the end of school, we all get together and decide to race across the newly constructed Main Boulevard and then meet at Copper Kettle for dessert.

“The one to get there last pays for all of us!” says one of my new friends with a grin.

Everyone firmly agrees! I gulp but don’t say anything. I don’t even bother to calculate the possible cost for feeding everyone.

I hope I am not the last one, I say to myself. It’s too late to call it off.

“I’ll ride with you Rozaiba!” exclaims Amna the notoriously hot female as she ties her hair into a pony tail. I don’t know whether to take this as an indication of an achievement in status among friends or as something that will only further complicate matters for me.

“Show us your driving skills! I wanna win!” she firmly exclaims in her seductive tone.

We take the cars out of the parking lot and in no time are off toward our destination. The roads are crowded at this time of the day but I can see my friends steering their cars through the dirt paths along the road in order to get ahead. I am left with no choice but to follow.

“Why is this seat so uncomfortable? Can’t you turn up the air conditioner?”

There is no freon but I turn up the fan speed hoping she will not ask again.

I am already behind everyone. The others are speeding away zig-zagging between traffic and cutting lane signals.

“Let me guess. You’re letting everyone take a head start right?” Amna remarks sarcastically.

After a nervous grin, I hit the accelerator.

We are now cruising at an unconceivable speed. Amna is calmly enjoying the ride, while I am sweating like crazy.

I cut a red-light and can now see the others stuck in traffic ahead of me. I catch a tight opening on the left side from which I can squeeze through and take the lead. Amna sees what I’m trying to do and as we pass our companion’s cars, she mockingly waves to them while sticking out her tongue. I am feeling very proud of myself.

I take the car onto the dirt-path normally used by motorcycles but suddenly have to stop after I realize that there is not enough room to get through. Behind me the motorcycles are impatiently honking for me to continue. Amna too cannot understand why I have stopped.

“Hurry up will you!”

I lean over the steering wheel to get a better look and press the accelerator hoping for a miracle.

The left wheels slip from the edge of the dirt path gently sliding down and begin to take the car with it. I jerk on the brakes but it’s too late. The car is now on its way to over-turning. I hear Amna scream. I hear myself curse my luck.

The next thing I know, the car has calmly turned upside down caving in the roof. Amna has fainted. My head is at a weird angle but I am still holding on to the steering wheel, ready, as if at any moment I should get a chance to continue the race.

I don’t care to recall much of what happened next…

I am seated on the edge of a sofa at home and Dad is standing over me, furiously grinding his teeth. He has already launched numerous attacks with his hands. My face must be of a very different hue. My back is extremely sore.

Mom has watched the proceedings yet has said nothing. Though she has been thanking Allah that I was all right after the accident, she doesn’t realize that I’m going through worse pains from the beatings by Dad. Instead she is waiting for this part of the punishment to be over so that she can get me to place my hand on the goat’s head before it is sacrificed as sadqa.

Dad continues to vent his anger.

“Ullu day pattay! What the hell were you doing racing around in the car! Does your father have a car factory that you can do as you wish with them? How the hell will I get to work now?!”

Dad proceeds to holler.

“You are not some Minister or Brigadier’s son who can afford to show off! If you want to compete, compete with the others in studies! Do you understand?”

“Daffa ho ja maeray koloan!” he yells after a pause. Before he decides to again free his temporarily restrained hands, I quickly try to leave the room. Before I am out, I hear Mom reminding me of the sadqa.

Though I am battered physically and emotionally, hearing her, I want to scream out

‘The hell with sadqa!!”

I arrive at school the next day in an auto-rickshaw. I know my school mates see me get out of the three-wheeler and are secretly laughing at the sight. Everyone knows what happened. I can count on Amna having exaggerated everything to the nth degree. I am too depressed and in despair to be concerned about the demise of the high-flying image I had tried to project in the status-conscious environment.

I spend my lunch break in the library with my head in my arms resting on the table.

I hear a soft voice inquiring if I’m all right. I look up to find Rabia in a dark blue hijaab with a concerned expression, standing in front of me carrying the class literature book pressed against her chest.

“You can always talk to me you know.”

I stare into the innocent expressions of her eyes and I have this sudden urge to embrace the source of these words with my lips. At that moment, I feel a tremendous sense of rejuvenation and the energy I imbibe emanates from her presence. I want to take the place of the literature book she is carrying…

Sitting down, she goes on to comfort me saying the important thing is that I’m all right. She says that I should do sadqa and offer prayers.

“There is great solace in prayer.”