Chapter 9

KHOZEM GOES HOME

17th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(September 30, 1996)

On the day Rashida left, Khozem received a call from his mother asking him to Mecca. She said his father desperately needed to speak with him. Khozem chose not to question his mother. She urged him with an unbridled enthusiasm to make haste from Cairo as soon as he had finished judging the students.

Khozem packed his belongings, which included three pairs of white pants and kurtas, two formal skull caps, and his favorite Copy of the Qu’ran. He met with two bodyguards at the front gates of the university.

Before getting into the Mercedes, Khozem took a deep breath of the dry Cairo heat. He dreaded losing Rashida’s phone number. He focused on what his father would say. He heard the Indian tour worked out successfully without the expected violence and mayhem. Yet his thoughts of Rashida prevailed.

Vasilla did not meet him at the Jeddah airport as he usually did. Instead Khozem found a shorter, younger version of him standing by yet another white Mercedes. The two bodyguards who accompanied Khozem from Cairo and this replacement bodyguard made their way from Jeddah and through the busy Meccan. In the several months of being away from the ancient metropolis Khozem noticed not a single change. The older women in their black gowns waddled with their children, while the men in white robes and head gear darted about; a familiar scene which did not move him. Like the pilgrims circumambulating the House of Allah, the city revolved in a singular time. In the past and in its present it never needed adjustment. It refused change.

As Khozem watched the commoners moving, running, and conversing, as the car engine moaned while climbing the steep Meccan hillside, a simple truth eluded him: these mosques, these rituals, these pilgrims who came in the name of Allah, these palpable reminders of heaven and hell so unmistakably sacrosanct and untouchable were at the root of humankind’s gradual demise and destruction. Yet an idea so tiny and insignificant explained his mood entirely.

The customary scenes of the city vanished. The idea of talking with his father no longer stirred him. He yearned to be back in Cairo so that he could telephone Rashida. After reminding himself of his pledge to reform that wasted section of land called the woman’s college, he really did not care what happened to them. Besides, in no way could he undertake the task of reforming the women’s college without his father’s permission. He decided not to ask him about it.

The car pulled to the entrance of the two–story house. The intermittent sunlight forged weak shadows along the driveway. Khozem wore common dress for schooling and carried a notebook under his arm. He exchanged salaams with his father who greeted him at the door.

“It has been a long time, but I have become used to it,” said Khozem, blending the right mixture of nonchalance and sentiment.

Tariq cupped his hand and gave him a firm pat on the meat of his arm. Samira gave Khozem a tremendous kiss on the cheek after meaningful salaams.

“I have been touring,” began Tariq.

“And has that been the usual or something exciting?”

“The riots in India, although they did not affect us. That was on everyone’s minds. But really, I was not intimidated by it. I will have to decide how to handle the affair. But really that’s all. I did think of you often on the road, or up in the air most of the time. How’s the training going?”

“Smooth and steady, just as it has always been. No problems.”

“It’s good that I broke you away from Cairo for my period of rest. You are able to understand a bit of your future, and I am hoping that school is teaching you properly as it had taught me.”

“Yes, father. No problems with school,” replied Khozem.

This was far from accurate. Not once had Khozem fed him a truthful line. Per chance the day would come when he would have to tell his father that things were not going as planned, that he could not shake from his mind the appearance of a young Muslim woman. But such a lack of discipline would be a severe anomaly, a strong, perfect impossibility.

He was satisfied with the relationship as it was; a direct and to the point jumble of platitudes. But Khozem detected a change in his father, as though he held him in higher esteem.

“So tell me about the latest tour,” asked Khozem again.

“Same old mosques in the Indian provinces. The turnout gets bigger every year. The faith is getting stronger, the faith that you will be leading, and you are nearly ready.”

“I have many more years at university, father.”

He invited his son to sit in the living room. They leaned against firm pillows placed along the perimeter.

“See this picture?” asked Tariq pointing to his portrait. “That was taken nearly twenty years ago, before Allah brought you to this world. I remember praying to Allah day and night for a son to be delivered. He granted my request for a son, because he knew you would be chosen, one of two men in all of Shia Islam to lead us into the next millennium. One of the proudest days of my life.”

“What’s bothering you, father? You speak as though someone died.”

“As a matter of fact, things are changing, and these changes are happening quite quickly.”

“What changes? Things never change around here.”

“You must really like it in Cairo. I cherish those years of attending Al–Karim, although back then there weren’t many students to be judged. Son, I called you here because I have something important to tell you. It involves you more than it does me.”

“The Indian tour?”

“No, nothing like that. The riots did not affect us. I will have to do something to stop those corrupt Hindus. The Indian tour has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with what I’m telling you.”

“Then what can it be?”

“Someone is about to die, my son, and I must remind you that what I say cannot be shared with anyone, neither your friends nor colleagues at Al–Karim. Not even your own mother.”

“I understand.”

“Son,” as Tariq gripped Khozem’s thigh,” in a period of two years you will take over my position. You will have full authority over all religious and organizational operations.”

“I don’t understand,” said Khozem.

“I don’t expect you to understand. It will take a few days, perhaps a few weeks for this to settle in. But I will give full power to you within the period of two years, maybe sooner.”

“But why? There is so much more I need to learn.”

“After you left Cairo I spoke directly to the dean of the university. What’s his name?”

“Dr. Farrukh.”

“That’s right. Under my close vigilance he will put together for you an advanced, very intensive curriculum for your training. He will compress ten years of study into two years of training.”

“I can’t handle that.”

“You can and you will. After completion you will be known as the youngest bavasaab ever in our short history. I, of course, will be guiding you once power has changed hands. I will bring you to our meetings, I am even going to select a wife for you.”

“A wife? What do you mean a wife?”

“Don’t be silly. You ought to know this. You will be married before you leave Al–Karim. Your mother is in charge of this. After today she will be accepting applications and photographs from prospective wives. This doesn’t excite you.”

“This is all happening so fast.”

“I know my son. It’s an equal mix of excitement and fear. Don’t let it confuse you. There are two years of training, long days and short nights. From it you will be fully knowledgeable. You will be ready to lead and prepare our soldiers of Islam.”

“Prepare what?”

“Don’t worry about that now. Go back to Cairo ready to work hard. I have told you enough. Let it rest for some time. The next two years are extremely important. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t, I suppose.”

“Good. Don’t be afraid. I will be there every step of the way. I won’t let you down, just so long as you understand what’s ahead. To celebrate this event we will go to the Kaa’bah and perform a small pilgrimage. I’m proud of you son. Very proud.”

Khozem ascended the stairs behind his slow father who seemed exhausted from relating the news. His room a few feet away from the master bedroom seemed smaller and unacceptable. The warm and bitter air engulfed him. He clicked on the ceiling fan which broke the heavy dust over his small bed, desk, and bureau. The breeze brought a window of serenity. Such information from his father’s mouth would have normally made him overjoyed and impatient, but instead he slipped into a blurry delirium. The dizziness and mental confusion forced him to sit on his bed. He put his head into his hands and admitted he did not want his father’s position so soon. Such a position, no matter how powerful and enviable, would control the rest of his days. His slow and steady movement towards adulthood, that cloudy, misty, grayish area between irresponsibility and sophistication had been reached by his sudden discovery that his days were now numbered.

His father knocked softly at his door. Tariq was covered with two pieces of white, seamless cloth: one for his upper body and the second for the lower. He had performed a detailed ablution, for his hair was neatly combed, and Khozem smelled a hint of cologne.

“What’s the matter?” asked Tariq. “You should have been ready by now.”

“Just a few more minutes, please,” as Khozem returned to normalcy.

Khozem performed a quick ablution. Through his conscientious scrubbing of hands and feet he tried to come up with seven prayers to complement the seven rounds of the Kaa’bah. His father would also wonder what verses he would use for the small pilgrimage. He came from the bathroom with white cloth covering him and an expressionless face, stoic almost, as he hid his uncertainty and worry beneath a decorum of an eager muslim supplicant.

Khozem met his father downstairs and was amused by the bodyguards, four of them, covered with identical pieces of cloth. They were clean shaven and solemn.

“Where’s Vasilla, by the way?” asked Khozem.

“He’s on special assignment. He’ll be back any day now,” said Tariq.

They walked under the hot sun. Because Tariq and his son wore only cloth without their caps, they were not recognizable to the inspired throng of Muslims. Tariq, Khozem, and the bodyguards entered at the rear of the mosque. Time afforded them a leisurely pilgrimage. With the bodyguards sandwiching them from the front and rear they opened their palms towards the corner of the black stone and cried aloud:

“Allah is the greatest.”

Each time they circled it, they cried the same greeting. Khozem knew his father would use his favorite verses while walking around the great, black fixture which, quite literally, commanded the center of attention. Some of the believers closer to the center read directly from the Qu’ran in their valiant attempt to curry favor with Allah. Khozem understood, however, that there were no specific supplications for this ritual. The verses people usually recited were baseless. He remembered well the prayers he used to recite. One of them came into mind as he crossed that specific corner. He whispered to the sky:

“Oh Allah, I seek refuge in thee from

incapacity, from sloth, from cowardice, from

miserliness, decrepitude, and from the torment

of the grave.

Oh Allah grant to my soul the sense of

righteousness and purify it, for Thou art the

Best purifier thereof. Thou art a Protecting

Friend thereof, and Guardian thereof.

Oh Allah, I seek refuge in Thee from the