Chapter 5

NASIBA

14th of Safar 1436

(December 7, 2014)

The Imam Mustafa woke up the next morning and spotted his journal book across the room. He believed writing would ease his painful memory of the sudden outburst at the mosque. ‘No one will ever read this,’ he thought. ‘No one in their right mind will know what I’m going through,’ and before his mother called him for breakfast, he wrote in his notebook and directed his puzzling and confusing thoughts towards Allah himself.

‘Why am I damned?’ he began. ‘Why am I filled with such falsehoods? I’m placed on this earth for no reason at all. I have no money. I don’t have an education. The only stuff I see is the stuff in my mind. The floating image of this slinky gyration, sometimes in motion, and for some reason all that I perceive must be false. I hardly know how to read, and writing this becomes difficult, because I lack the brain power to do anything for the common good, and here I sit at this cramped table, my mother most likely sleeping, and the morning light blares through my window like some forgotten tune. Why, dear Allah, must the light always be followed by darkness, and then light again? Why must I love so completely every single man and woman, and then suddenly I am forced into darkness, the darkness of petty hatreds and intolerance? The hatred within my soul hates completely, and yet I love completely, as though half of me loves, and the other half hates. Why am I confronted with such terrible extremities? Why am I confronted with this one involuntary word?

‘Someone once said to me that that specific word sums up all the bitter years of insult and struggle in America: “the slave-beatings of yesterday, the lynchings of yesterday, the Jim Crow cars, the only movie theaters in town with its signs saying FOR WHITES ONLY, the restaurants where a man, just because of skin color, could not eat, or the jobs he could not have, the unions he could not join. That damn word in my mind like the word ‘Jew’ in Hitler’s Germany!” And yet I walk down the street and pass a man of darker skin, and suddenly that word jumps into my head. When it comes into my head it seizes me like a hand chopping at my throat, and so badly I want it to go away like a bad dream. Don’t you see that I only want to put good in this world, not hatreds or falsehoods? Everything seems to be divided, one group goes this way, the other group goes another, never meeting, only thinking about one another and creating false conceptions of each other, never learning, only seeing and smelling and judging, because it’s impossible to know completely, and yet I love completely and hate completely, and there is no escape from this cycle of pleasure and pain. If I cannot love completely I shall perish and die, if not by your hand, then by mine. You dare make me think those terrible thoughts, and if those thoughts continue I will die by my own hand. Because of it, the darkness blots out the sun, and the cold murders the warmth. The trick is to stick with love and its principles, but I never knew it would be this difficult. You have taken an idea, a simple word, which I loathe, and turned it against me, such that the word I loathe becomes a part of me like the love I once had which vanished. You call it the devil, while I call it a component of this terrible human nature. Well, my dear Allah, I’d rather be a plant or a flower which grows in accordance with the sun’s rules, not yours. Yet even a flower must yield to the cold and darkness. Or why couldn’t you have made me a fly who sees the swatting hand or the tail of a horse? By putting that dreadful word within my mind you have made me the idiot of all life’s beings, the lowest creature on the face of this God-forsaken earth. Did you do this just to humiliate me? I never expected to be perfect, and I’m far from it, but surely you could have made an exception, knowing how I am unable to live when I encounter these involuntary thoughts. Damn this. I am unsure whether You are the demon or the demon is You, because most of the time I really can’t tell the difference. You fill me with love, and you take away that love with petty hatreds, so offensive that love ceases to exist. And you call yourself a God? If you created Man in your image, how dare you insult our intelligence by calling yourself beneficent and all-knowing and perfect? Please, don’t strike me down for asking questions, because I am human, and being human means that I have questions of the important sort. Please don’t strike me down, for already you have damned me. Now that I search my mind, however, there is one small exception to this terrible and oppressive hatred: A woman.

‘A woman of darker skin, no, I will never use that word with her. She rises above all of my foul hatreds, and you shall not touch her with my hatred. She belongs to that small part of me who loves and loves completely, and maybe I’m asking for something beyond my control, but this particular woman is immune from this singular insulting word. If the word comes up, I will call myself similar words, because I am no better than the words I call others. And if these disturbances threaten my mind, then put me back in the institution with its calming white walls, padded of course; lock me up and lose the key, because already I’m nearing the breaking point, because I know no one but strangers, and strangely enough I feel more comfortable around strangers than people I know. Why is that? Please, do not make Nasiba a mere stranger. When seeing her, I am touched by your calming hand, and if You really believe in Yourself, You will turn Nasiba my way, because a man without a woman is a car without a road, and on this early morning I can think of no one else. This is what happens when you place a man on this earth without a woman. The man becomes too self-involved in his attempt to defeat his own hatreds. But please, I am not fooled. A woman may never cure the man from his own mind, but the woman may at least calm the mind, so that he may think pleasant thoughts instead of words, and I don’t want to hate anymore. Rather blind me with love, the love of this one woman, and I will never ask for more. You can at least grant me this as I have been through Hell already. Stuffed like a pig with involuntary thoughts. You have made sausage from my intestines and a delicacy from my knuckles, and I can’t handle it, this supposed gift, but a gift it will be if you make her love me, so that I may love myself again, because along this endless road my engine has fallen apart. Heal me with your light. Fill me with crafty words, because tonight I’m visiting the mosque, and I will go there everyday just to see her and not think of the insulting word, because this Nasiba defies this word, and if the river of this world swallows me, let it be with her.

‘Funny I hardly even know her, but she looks at me and smiles somehow; she smiles more with me than other men, I can tell, and if You grant her good graces I will forever be mindful of You. Have I ever asked of anything (besides world peace, an end to poverty, and the like)? In other words have I ever asked something for myself? Never. Not once. Whatever I had asked was for the greater good. Never had I asked selfishly or impolitely. I don’t understand the ways in which you work. Allah, grant me Nasiba.

‘Oh let me touch a woman, perhaps kiss her, smile with her, as the woman is the greatest cure-all. She is music and laughter, my fruit and my vision, for I cannot see passed her. I must have dreamt of her all night, because I woke up this morning with thoughts of her. Can you see me? Look upon me, I’m begging you. Without a woman I’m doomed, and I’ll include my moderation as payment. I will listen to this idiot amilsaab. Maybe I shouldn’t have said those things. Perhaps I unearthed within him words he had once believed. Are we living in a world of extremes, never that middle ground? I meant every word I said. And people called me vicious names because of it, but I am not insulted by them. The amilsaab had it coming to him. I will digest your crude verses. I will kneel before you. I will stop going to extremes and think more clearly, perhaps pragmatically. I will jump headlong into your reality. My imagination will be thrown to the dogs. I will stay with Muslims and fight for their causes, and if the Jew becomes the enemy in the Middle East, then I will treat them as enemies, because obviously that’s your will, and even though your will often sucks, I will swallow it like chlozaril. Is this what you want? I will give it to you, just let me have this tender Nasiba.’

He placed his pen down and closed the notebook thankful to be finished. He lay back in bed, his hands behind his head. He welcomed the augmenting light. His mind was clear and his purpose pure and directed. He knew now what he must do.

The day went by slowly, and the Imam spent most of his time within his small room, the notebook glaring at him. At times he regretted what he wrote. Being truthful to oneself often has that awkward effect, but he chose to let the words remain. His spirit was buoyed by the prospects of seeing Nasiba. His mother had told him continuously how excited she was that he was attending the mosque. She asked him repeatedly if she could accompany him, but Mustafa flatly refused and hoped she would not follow him, as that was her nature.

His mother irritated him throughout the long day. She served him four meals within five hours and talked of demons and enemies chasing him. Mustafa played it calmly without erupting into a fit of rage. When she flew into an unrestrained rant, he simply went to his small room and shut the door tightly. He even covered his ears. He kept away from the television, and its absence contributed to a general wave of dismay and loneliness, as though he were undergoing some panicky withdrawal. Yet after the boredom and agony of patience, the night soon came, and Mustafa prepared for the mosque.

He donned his white garb and skullcap after an hour-long shower in which he prepared his greeting for the gentle Nasiba. He shaved closely. He checked himself in the mirror several times. When all was ready, he kissed his mother gently and took the cross-town bus for the mosque.

He arrived without trouble. The cold annoyed him, but otherwise all was ready. He promised to confront her immediately. He crossed the icy intersection, the winds blowing through his winter’s jacket. He saw a gathering of African-Americans huddling near the vestibule. He could not make her out at first, because the crowd was quite large, even more so than the night before. He noticed a few familiar faces, but no one said a word to him. When they saw him, they turned away without their expected gentleness.

He filed behind the gathering of dark faces. He crained his neck to see ahead of himself. The men and women entered at the same time, and the crowd was densely packed, making it impossible for him. He manouvered between shoulders and was tempted to call her name, but he refrained and approached her with stealth. He followed the believers through the vestibule and at this juncture the women went downstairs into the basement while the men stayed on the ground floor, like two separate rivers flowing towards the same sea. Mustafa quietly followed the women down the narrow set of stairs.

“Hey brother,” said an angry voice, “you’re going the wrong way.”

Mustafa feigned deafness. He followed the women a few steps more until one of them tapped him on the shoulder.

“I said, brother, you’re going the wrong way. You belong upstairs.”

“I’m trying to find the bathroom,” said the Imam, “I heard it’s down here.”

“The men’s room is upstairs, brother.”

Mustafa had been caught, and suddenly he felt the compulsion to confess his preposterous strategy of finding Nasiba. But he kept quiet and limited his confidence to this angry woman.

“Actually, I’m looking for Nasiba. Do you know Nasiba?”

“What do you want with her,” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m a close friend, and I want to say hello before the meeting, or the convocation, or whatever you call it.”

“There’s plenty of time after the prayer. Go upstairs, the adhan will be called soon. Prayer may help you.”

He wondered what she meant by that, but insisted on seeing Nasiba.

“Listen, I have to talk to her now, I can’t wait, this is a matter of importance.”

“You can’t see her now. Prayers are about to start.”

“To hell with prayers!” the Imam heard himself saying, and when he said this the entire congregation of women seemed to turn round and listen. “I must see her, please,” he said more quietly.

He followed the wave of shawl-wearing women pushing to the bottom of the stairs. There he stood looking frantically for her. The Imam remembered his journal and had faith the prayer would be delivered. He devised a plan of action, for he could not simply walk up to her and confess his deepest desires. And yet he could do no less, because plans and schemes failed him. Only women have this particular effect. The heart pumps so loudly that every believer can hear, and simple logic and rationality transmutes into a fire unquenched, and a longing which burns.

The Imam found a nook near the stairs and watched as these descending women gave him angry looks. They had heard about his defiance of prayer, but he meant every word of it. He searched for her, and the search became easier once they fell to the floor, one by one, as the adhan was called over the small speakers. The Imam did not fear the terrible faces any longer. He weaved between the believers and made it to the front of the room. He could see everyone’s face, although many peered in anger, even mockery.

“You can’t stand there!” yelled an older, chunky woman.

“Move away, we’re praying here,” said another.

And the Imam swept through their faces and discovered Nasiba sitting at the edge of the room staring directly into him. ‘Ah woman!’ he thought. ‘How lost man would be without thee. Whether you know it or not, you bring the sun on the cloudiest of days. You exude warmth in the most bitter cold. My blood boils, and my brain looks to the heart for answers. What has come over me? Where has my mind gone? I can think of no one else. I can’t speak. I can’t move. She’s staring at me, oh Allah, you exist within her. Oh my heart, think man, think. Just don’t stand here. Say something, say the first thing which comes to mind.’