Chapter 26

TARIQ AND THE IMAM

15th of Sha’baan 1417

(December 26, 1996)

In the cool Lahorian hotel room, Tariq Bengaliwala held the precious, miniature Imam in his arms. The baby was wrapped in a soft woolen blanket. The baby did not stir but slept soundly, his eyes closed. Tariq noticed how the dead and the newborn were similar in their stillness. He was afraid of dropping the poor infant by mistake. He brought the baby to his breast as a mother does. He did not see this baby as a human being, like his son Khozem or his wife Samira. This baby Imam transcended the mere folly of mortals. He looked into his tiny face and understood that this indeed was the face of God, the face of Allah, brought to earth in human form, and within this small, breathing being, sleeping as the world kept spinning, as chaos brewed on every frontier of the Islamic world, he found an ounce of hope that things would turn his way, that things would finally work themselves out just as Imam Shabbir Hussein had planned.

He looked to Vasilla who sat on the bed and stared out the window. Vasilla did not respond to Tariq’s quick show of admiration and affection. Tariq brushed his fingers against the features of this young newborn: his tiny ears and sprouts of dark hair, his small lips as tender and soft as the warm sands of Iran. Along his face he pinched a fragile chin. Tariq’s worrying flurried into the air, and as the worry escaped, he smiled again and rubbed his forefinger along the baby’s cheek. How soft that skin, a skin soon to be weathered by the wind and cold of the Americas, a skin that would one day be kissed by a beautiful Arabian bride.

Tariq hoped to watch this child’s full life unfold. This precious Imam, crafted by the gentle hands of Allah, sent down to earth and placed within the womb of a poor cleaning woman, represented not only the fate of Islam but also the fate of Tariq himself. Tariq saw his own life returned to youth, a time of imagination, wonder, and amazement. This Imam would experience this, and all the while he would be protected by the full powers of Tariq’s office. Every cry, every scream, each success and failure would be carefully monitored.

Tariq chose first rate adoptive parents for him, but a brief thought entered his mind like the flash of Lahorian sun between the curtains. Tariq wanted to keep this Imam to himself. He wanted to hold him forever in the comforts of his arms and forget about his responsibilities, forget about murdering more Hidus and keeping strict watch over his son in Cairo. He suddenly saw these activities as failures. A quiet guilt surfaced.

Tariq had wondered in solitude why the world must be the way it is. Why must men have so many flaws and short-comings? But this small package would send messages of perfection across the globe. This child would be perfect, he thought. This child shall never stray from the appointed path. He would pray with others in duty, and he would serve Allah and deliver his message with all the might in his small body. Such a package would strike fear into the hearts of men. Such a glorious little package held the fate of all Shia Islam. This small package would preserve the traditions of all the peoples of Islam who knelt before him. Oh how could anyone not have faith? What is faith but a true extension of Allah?

In the Lahorian hotel room, Tariq had wondered where his faith was leading him. He believed the All Mighty worked towards some fantastic end, and no matter how many Hindus he had killed at that terrible emergency meeting, no matter how he had killed Rashida, he knew Allah had the killings arranged. The killings helped this small bundle he held in his arms. Oh glorious day, the Imam had finally arrived, and Khozem would be his servant from afar. How could anything possibly go wrong?

Tariq treasured the silence of the baby Imam’s slumber as well as the silence of Vasilla’s absent mind. Tears welled in Tariq’s eyes, tears of relief stemming from years of frustration and tense emotion, like the violin strings which break from playing too hard. This new Imam would lead the righteous and conquer the pagans. This Imam would be the greatest Imam, the Twelfth Imam, to suck up the West drunk with its false power. ‘So very tiny,’ thought Tariq.

He had much work to do. He had been asked to tour Indonesia but was reluctant. His mind would never focus on the task. He could never leave his post until his son Khozem finished his training.

He decided to send Vasilla to New York. Vasilla would watch and guard the baby Imam. As soon as Tariq arrived home in Mecca he would pack his bags and fly off, sit and kneel and pray in front of a chanting crowd, brown automatons bowing and kneeling and hanging their paltry lives on his every word. He preferred the solitude of the hotel room. In solitude a man touches the inner most part of his being, and once that entity is touched there is no longer an acceptable return. He held his faith. The plan had been successful.

He noticed Vasilla with tears in his eyes. He assumed they were tears of profound happiness. Imam Shabbir’s plan was now set in motion. Every deed, every thought, every action would now be utilized for the preservation of this Imam. He would work not for himself but for this small bundle.

“Vasilla,” said Tariq. “I’m sending you to New York.”

“Where?” asked Vasilla through his tears.

“To New York. To the United States.”

“But I know nothing of New York.”

“Then you’ll learn. Don’t argue with me.”

“Yes, your holiness.”

As the blazing sun began to set, they checked out of the hotel room and flew back to Mecca. Tariq was happy to make it home. He reluctantly passed the baby Imam to his wife who immediately showered it with affection. The baby was placed in a small wooden crib in their bedroom. Tariq prayed in the living room and said the verses forcefully as though a new spirit had grown inside of him. He then retreated to the bedroom and gazed upon the baby Imam in his crib.

“What will you name him?” asked Samira softly.

“We’ll name him Mustafa.”

“Why Mustafa?”

The view of the grand mosque no longer fascinated him. Instead he attached himself to this small divine creature.

“He’s so beautiful,” said Samira.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful,” said Tariq.

“How long will he stay?”

“Not long. The adoptive parents are flying in tomorrow.”

“From where?”

“The United States.”

Tariq met the adoptive parents in his study the next morning as Samira prayed in the Kaa’bah. The husband wore a bright silk tie. He had a narrow face with highly defined cheekbones. A stringy moustache adorned his upper lip. A blue, pinstriped business suit covered him. His wife dressed in a colorful duppurta.

Together the couple did not look pleasing to the eye. They seemed odd, as the husband was thin in places, plump in others, especially under the chin. His wife was scrawny and emaciated. Tariq knew this couple was not very pleasing to behold, but they were wealthy and appeared very devout. Tariq knew, had they been beautiful aesthetically, they would have never been so devout. Not that religion attracts the ugly, but most who cling to the messages of Allah don’t exude such pleasing features. Tariq looked them over suspiciously. This couple may have been too young to be so devout. On paper they were ideal adoptive parents, but Tariq saw something quite different, as though this couple emanated a noticeable sorrow. Of course Tariq had to be extremely protective. He wasn’t about to relinquish the baby immediately. They both gave Tariq salaams. They sat in two cushioned chairs opposite his desk.

“I want to make it absolutely clear that this baby is the most important child to me. Not only do I consider him my flesh and blood, but also my superior. I’m not about to lie and say that this child means nothing, or that this child represents one baby out of six billion. No. This child represents our religion, our creed, and our faith in Allah. Allah alone has protected this child even before its birth. It has taken many pains and many lives for him to be with us. So let me be perfectly clear. This is not an ordinary baby. He is your baby, yes, but I am only loaning him to you. You will be his guardian and sponsor in the United States, and quite frankly I don’t think highly about your part of the world. Your part of the world has about as much morality as a rat in the gutter. This child must be protected from all of that. We will provide for his education, his clothes, his food. Never forget who guards him, because it is not you. It is I. If anything happens to this child, the responsibility will fall on your heads. I can’t express to you what this child means.”

The couple looked at each other in surprise, and then the husband said to Tariq:

“Your holiness, why choose us? America is a very different place. Are you sure we can handle such a task?”

“Do you pray the required times?” asked Tariq.

“Of course.”

“Do you contribute immensely to our Organization’s fund?”

“Yes, but...”

“In other words, and excuse me for interrupting you, are you devout Muslims through and through?”

“We consider ourselves Muslims through and through...”

“Fine. You have just answered your own question. You have been chosen over thousands of other couples. I personally decided that you would best serve this child.”

“The child is special, yes, but we didn’t count on him being so special,” said the husband. “Just to be honest with you, my holiness, maybe we are not the right couple. We had no idea what this child means to you. Again, America is a very different place. I guess I need to know why this child is so important. He’s important to us, because he is our son. But you make it sound as though this child is the king of some country,” said the husband grinning.

“Are you mocking me?” asked Tariq.

“No, your holiness, but in all honesty, maybe we are not the right parents for this...”

“So you are disobeying my request then?” asked Tariq with more force.

“No, your holiness, it’s just that ... it’s just that...”

“Just what?!”

“C’mon,” said the husband to his wife quietly. “I think we should go.”

The wife nodded in agreement. They stood from their seats until Tariq said:

“Wait, just wait, please,” and Tariq smiled cordially. “America must be a very different place, you’re right. Obviously my Saudi tactics don’t work very well with foreigners. I didn’t mean to build the child up so much, but please understand it from my point of view.”

“We’re just trying to be honest with your holiness,” said the husband.

“This child,” said Tariq softly, “is an Imam.”

“There are many Imams here and elsewhere. So what?”

Tariq controlled the urge to smack the husband outright.

“I know that,” continued Tariq, “but there’s a difference between the Imams who are everyday clerics, and a twelfth Imam spawned from the blood of our Caliphate Ali.”

“You mean?”

“Exactly. I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell you such a secret, but now you know. This child, Allah’s child, the greatest of grandsons of Ali, is indeed the twelfth Imam Al-Mustafa, returned to this earth in flesh and in blood.”

A silence crept into Tariq’s study. The couple neither moved nor uttered a word for some time. Tariq returned to his desk and sat in his chair.

“Can you at least see why this child means so much?” asked Tariq.

“Oh dear,” muttered the husband. “Why America? Why us?”

“Because this child’s father, the Eleventh Imam, Imam Shabbir Hussein, has decreed it, and I am here to carry out that order.”

“What if we can’t accept this child?” asked the husband.

“You have little choice in the matter, because you were picked from the best of four couples. You represent the best of the best, and I won’t settle for anyone else. I have more confidence in you now that you’ve expressed your doubts about America, and about being his guardian. You must take this child and make a home and a family for him.”

They again sat in silence. The intense Arabian sun flooded the small area. Tariq stared into the Kaa’bah again where a light crowd circumambulated the House of Allah. Scattered people lounged under the wide awnings of the grand mosque.

“There is one very important caveat, however,” said Tariq finally.

“Anything, your holiness.”

“I know America is morally bankrupt. I understand there is nothing of value there. I realize all those Westerners drink the blood of their mothers after butchering them. Believe me when I say that I understand America and their false Gods, so I say this to you with that truth and wisdom very clear in mind. Should you ever separate or divorce, the child returns to me.”

“I love my wife dearly,” said the husband as they clasped hands. “That will never happen.”

“I hope not, but if you ever divorce or separate, you will give the child back to me. Understood?”

This couple looked at each other in bewilderment, and Tariq wondered why the wife looked so sullen, almost withdrawn from the entire conversation. While it was customary for the men to talk business and the women to mother children, Tariq found it strange the wife had nothing to say. She merely looked at her husband in tacit agreement.

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