Chapter 23

TARIQ RETURNS TO LAHORE

11th of Sha’baan 1417

(December 22, 1996)

In the hotel room Tariq asked Vasilla to lead afternoon prayers. Vasilla tried to remember some of the verses. Nothing but whispers came from his mouth. But Tariq knew Vasilla was slow, and maybe being slow was a virtue. The bodyguards outside were quick in their deductions. But slowness yielded a bodyguard of great loyalty. Vasilla would stand by Tariq. He relied on Tariq for all the answers, even the answers the Prophet had already given the common man.

“Tell me the truth,” asked Tariq, “did you pray while I was away?”

“Yes, my holiness.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” my holiness.

“Then recite.”

“Allah is most great. Allah is most great...”

“You dare recite without ablution?”

“I’m sorry, your holiness.”

“Forget it. I don’t know when you’ll ever understand prayers. Don’t worry about them for now. I will hold you responsible if you do not learn within the coming weeks. Understood?”

“Yes, my holiness. Please forgive me.”

“Only Allah can forgive you. Don’t worry about that now. We will pray together later. We are here on a very important task, Vasilla.”

“Is it to pray better?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about that now. The woman, Vasilla. This Fatima. Have you been down to the slums?”

“Yes, I’ve been down there almost every day.”

“Did she take notice of you?”

“I think so. I find her very pretty. She’s kind of fat too.”

“Fat? A woman of the slums? How can she be fat ... unless, yes Vasilla, she has to be fat. She’s pregnant.”

“What child is this, my holiness?”

“You will never understand unless you pray. Once you do it routinely, everything will be made known to you. Understand?”

“Yes, my holiness. Should I get her?”

“Not yet. We must plan this out. Does she know who you are?”

“I don’t think so. I was careful. Since I am bigger than most of the slum people, they are afraid of me. My clothes are much nicer than theirs, so they stare a lot.”

“Did you notice anyone living with her?”

“They all live together, my holiness. The shacks are the size of their bodies. But I know where this Fatima lives. It’s not such a long walk.”

“Vasilla, you have done well. Right now I want you to stay away from the slums. We must wait until she gives birth.”

“And how long will that be, my holiness?”

“Soon. Giving birth takes time.”

“What shall we do now?”

“You will stay in the hotel. Here you will learn how to say prayers without my help.”

“Yes, my holiness. But what about you?”

“I must perform a funeral.”

“Who has died, my holiness?”

“Stop asking questions. Pray first, and then you shall learn. Do you remember Drakni Drive, my boy?”

“No sir.”

“Someone of great importance has died. I shall conduct a funeral. You did well Vasilla. For once you are using your mind. Finding this slum woman is a miracle. You should be proud of what you’ve done.”

“Oh my holiness, I thank you, I thank you. May you live long...”

“Unbind me! We are not finished!”

After blessing Vasilla, Tariq sped away with his bodyguards towards Drakni Drive. Tariq trusted Vasilla again and felt at ease. He left him a Qu’ran, a step by step praying book, and money to pay for the room.

The orange orb hung low in the sky. It settled on the horizon as Tariq traveled to Drakni Drive. His urge was to say his prayers out of routine, to celebrate the victory of the evening over the heat.

The breeze carried a brutal warmth he should have been used to. Imam Shabbir Hussein’s home emanated the smells of a dead man. The pungency had increased ten fold. He pinched his nose. Vultures circled overhead. A flock of ravens flew from bush to bush. Tariq carried a white sack filled with white cloth, vials of non alcoholic perfumes, and instructions for burial.

He knocked once, then twice.

“Ah, my prayers have been answered,” cried Shrika.

“How can you stand it?” asked Tariq.

“Even death is holy, my holiness.”

“Death, yes, but this smell? How can you stand it?”

“It doesn’t bother me. For years before my dear Imam employed me, I used to smell this smell every day. In a strange way it reminds me of my younger years.”

“Oh Shrika, only you could find holiness out of something so repulsive. How long has the body been out?”

“At least a month.”

“I should have made it here earlier. Did you disinfect the body?”

“I followed Imam Shabbir’s instructions. He said not to touch the body. Wait for the bavasaab to come.”

“Oh Shrika, how dare I question you. First, I want every window open.”

“And what of the animals outside?”

“At least open one window. I’m about to faint.”

“Yes, my holiness. The body is in the next room.”

Tariq entered the room filled with big, fat flies and other insects on their way towards the prize: Imam Shabbir’s decaying corpse. Tariq covered his nose and coughed. A shroud covered the body. The insects had eaten through the shroud.

“Have you even checked the room in the last month?” he asked.

“Imam Shabbir told me to stay out until you came.”

“This is ridiculous. Go in there and kill those insects. It smells so bad.”

“I’ve got the solution. We don’t have insect spray, so I’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.”

Shrika ran a towel under water. He smiled mischievously.

“And what do you plan to do?” asked Tariq.

“Just leave it to me,” he smiled.

The snaps and whips could be heard. The effort was so loud that the bodyguards could hear it as well. One of them rushed in to see if the bavasaab was safe.

After fifteen minutes Shrika emerged from the room, his large towel covered with dead insects.

“There were so many, but the deed is done. Even the smell is gone.”

“Good. I can always count on you.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen making tea. It will help you.”

“First we need to wash the body,” said Tariq. “Would you like to help me?”

“Oh my holiness, as Allah hears all, I am so very pleased and honored to help you with the rites.”

“But where shall we wash the body?”

“How about the kitchen? There’s a drain in the corner.”

“You must call Sakina and tell her of the news.”

“What shall I say?”

“That her husband is dead. I have decided to bury Imam Shabbir in Lahore. I can’t risk anyone finding out. We would be attracting more zealots than insects.”

“The nearest cemetery is five miles from here.”

“Call Sakina and tell her to meet me there. Wait. Don’t call her just yet. I need to finish with the preparation of the body.”

The stench made him cough and water about the eyes.

“I can’t look at this,” said Tariq.

“Shall I do it?”

“No, I must do it. The burial must be perfect. On the count of three I will look.”

“My holiness, shall I get a pail for you?”

“A pail for what?”

“A pail for vomiting.”

“I’m not going to vomit.”

“Or pass out?”

“I won’t. I can handle this. We must not make a mistake. Ready? One ... Two ... and Three!”

Tariq pulled the sheet off like a magician. Shortness of breath, an erratic pumping of his heart, and a profound nausea touched him. He then dropped like a puppet. He awoke from his fainting as Shrika dripped ice water over his face.

“What happened?”

“You fainted, my holiness.”

“Get the disinfectant. I want this place smelling like roses, but don’t spray the body.”

“But that’s the part that smells.”

“Just do as I say.”

Shrika disinfected the room, and Tariq paced the hallway. Shrika opened the door a few minutes later.

“It is done, my holiness. The smell has been reduced. We can continue.”

To Tariq’s delight the smell became bearable. The body, a mere pocket of flesh, the protruding rib cage, the bluish tint of the face, and the matted hair were hastily arranged. They carried the corpse to the kitchen. They covered his privates with a hand towel. Tariq perused the instruction book.

“Okay, first we press the stomach.”

A white foam leaked from the mouth.

“This may be disgusting,” added Shrika.

“Silence. There is to be no talking.”

Shrika filled a pot with warm water. Tariq added to the pot a nonalcoholic perfume, which smelled like pipe smoke. Tariq performed an ablution on the body, washing it thrice and reciting:

“In the name of Allah, the beneficent, the merciful.”

Tariq rubbed the teeth and pressed the nose at its ends. He messaged soapy water over the flesh. He continued the wash with his eyes closed but opened them while washing the hair. Shrika dried the corpse and fetched five balls of cotton and stuffed them into each orifice. Tariq covered the body.

“It wasn’t that bad,” said Tariq, relieved.

“No, my holiness. A clean and dry body, and the soul will be released. What a special day this is.”

“Right. I couldn’t have done it without you. Call Sakina in Karachi and tell her of the news. We need to secure a plot.”

“Imam Shabbir has taken care of that, my holiness.”

“Good. Call Sakina and tell her to bring the baby Nisrin.”

The body was kept in the kitchen, and soon the house soon smelled like a thick forest.

So many uncertainties. Even Tariq knew thinking ahead never helped. Best to take things step by step. He wished his advisors knew of his worries. He could then blame them if things went wrong. He could tour without cessation, praising a ubiquitous power rather than moving about incognito like a manipulator and Spy, searching for an unborn child. For this he resented Imam Shabbir.

Tariq counted on Vasilla to deal with the most important task. This added to his unease. Why type of Twelfth Imam would he be? Maybe this Fatima is carrying a baby girl, not a boy.