Chapter 9

MUSTAFA CONFRONTS THE TRUTH

17th of Safar 1436

(December 10, 2014)

The truth hit the Imam in waves. He returned home with his mother after the dreadful commotion at the mosque, his eyes filled with angry tears. He saw his mother as another person entirely, as though his days with her had been some terrible hallucination. He considered his trips to the psychiatric wards in a similar light. He had questions, large ones, but knew not who would provide the answers. For hours he stayed in his room with the door closed, away from his mother. He had left the mosque after giving a strong speech, like the actor, who after a stunning performance, leaves during the fanatical applause.

The snow beyond his window fell rapidly, filling the sidewalks and dusting Riverside Drive. He looked through the window, not moving a muscle, only staring vaguely at the absent-minded snow. He thought he should pray, but had little idea what he could possibly say to his Creator. The fear. People now knew him. He had been exposed to the entire mosque, and certainly he would be followed, because people actually believed in the unfortunate spectacle. His paranoia grew with each unique snowflake.

He knew he had enemies by default who would want him dead. He did not know whom to trust anymore. He could not even trust his own mother who had lied to him his entire life. A torrent of yesterdays flashed in his mind, especially the yesterdays of incarceration. He dismissed such thinking a while ago, blaming mental illness. Was it all true? Still no answer save a slight wind rattling the window, and the snow falling imperceptibly as though it shared his fear and utter desolation. The snow seemed to whisper that California was a dream indeed, that loneliness, a state of being he easily grasped, would unfold in added dimensions, that responsibility towards Allah would somehow govern and direct his days from now on, this same Allah against whom he had resoundingly rebelled. At the heart of it all, however, he missed the life he once had, although the pains great and the pleasures few. It was over, and the end must also signify a new beginning, but a beginning where? A beginning for whom? A beginning with a people about whom he knew absolutely nothing, the same people he had abandoned? Islam?

He knew very little, and what he did know angered him. In a land full of options, every escape route sealed shut like the light which escapes from being buried alive. For hours the snowflakes took him into a deep trance, and a sharp knock at the door brought him out just as quickly. He opened the door and found the big, husky Vasilla, his head covered with snow.

“May I speak with you a moment?” he said.

“Come in,” whispered the Imam, holding the door wide.

Vasilla ducked beneath the threshold.

“Quite a time at the mosque.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“It was all arranged. Sooner or later you would have found out. I’m sorry it had to happen this way, but now you know.”

“What do I do now?”

“Well, this too has been arranged with the blessings of Allah and his holiness Khozem Bengaliwala.”

“Who is Kho- Kho-, who’s that?”

“He is your servant, as you are his master.”

“Wait right there! I’m not anyone’s master. I wish to break whatever arrangements you people have set.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Vasilla quietly.

“I don’t think you understand. I want no part of this.”

“You must be feeling much right now, but soon the feelings you have will fade. Besides, tonight we’ll be traveling, the both of us to Mecca. There we will meet your bavasaab.”

“Mecca?” laughed the Imam. “I don’t even know where Mecca is.”

“Saudi Arabia, your eminence. The Land of Allah, built by the Prophet Abraham and his son, Isaac.”

“And I suppose we’ll leave tonight?” he laughed. “If you for one second think I’m leaving this room, you’re out of your skull, my friend. I hardly even know you. One minute you’re up front praying, and the next minute you’re kissing my hand...”

“Don’t you wish to meet your real parents?”

This simple question struck a sensitive nerve.

“How long will we be staying,” he asked eventually.

“No more than two days. You’ll be back on American soil before you can say ‘God is great.’”

After careful deliberations, the Imam agreed. His mother enthusiastically supported his decision. He and Vasilla left on an early morning flight. He carried a knapsack. He did not even change his clothes. He was silent for the entire flight, lost in thoughts of his real parents and who they might be. He was not excited, only confused, for his real loyalty rested with Maryam, and he confirmed this repeatedly, as though his mind may change at any moment. He was sucked in by the even simpler promise of a speedy return to America.