Chapter 4

THE PLAN

15th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(September 28, 1996)

Syedna Tariq Bengaliwala, surrounded by his bodyguards, began the prayers within the Al–Azim mosque, leading two thousand believers in prostration towards Mecca. The high tones from the muezzin’s voice calling everyone to prayer overwhelmed even the bodyguards. Their duty to pray without restraints overrode their duty to guard Tariq with the closest attention.

They bowed their heads to the ground and kissed their prayer cloths in unison. Blank faces and moving lips, aligned in neat rows and columns, matched the muezzin’s accelerated pace. Engraved within the four marble walls surrounding the mosque were the flowing verses of the Qu’ran. The high dome of heavy white marble reverberated the strong sentiments of the muezzin’s song. Its clarity pressed the believers to pray harder.

Tariq prayed for the mujlis to end. He thought it useful to encourage Allah to make room in his tight schedule. A shift had been willed in the social order of the religion. Praying for patience seemed quite useless. He had done so a number of times while touring through the Indian provinces of Maharashtra and Kashmir.

The Imam was dying a slow, cruel death outside the Indian borders. He must have selected a son as a successor, but even something as simple as that could not be counted on. The prayers alleviated his struggling. Surely Tariq had faith in them and never gave up his praying during every spare moment of the crisis. But the timing was off. The Imam was dying as he barely shed his youth.

Tariq first met The Imam in Delhi four years ago: A tall, muscular young man with a fine beard of black. Instead of introducing himself through the traditional salaams, this young Imam gave him a firm handshake and a relentless look of confidence. His eyes neither shook nor retreated as they melted into Tariq’s own. His bold talk of strengthening the faith while promoting the highest unity among the believers ignited a stream of fantastic thoughts. Tariq felt young and jubilant around him. As a young man, Tariq had these same dreams of a powerful Islam. Within this young Imam he found renewed hope of thwarting the false pride ballooning within the Western heathens. Every minute counted.

Tariq muttered the last verses of prayer and faced the followers. With a nod of Tariq’s head the muezzin yelled through the microphones “Syedna Tariq Bengaliwala.” The believers stood and answered “Zindabad!” With this shouting of “Long Live!” and then with Tariq’s name volleying back and forth, he grew sick of these faceless men in the front and women in the back crying with fierce devotion. The muezzin calmed them for Tariq’s sermon.

With a rehearsed patience he stood before hungry eyes and open ears as they settled on the marble floor. He turned towards the archway beyond which stood a wall of bright sunlight. Shielding his eyes, however, he hurried through it with his bodyguards. Surprised and confused that Tariq neglected his sermon, the muezzin rallied the crowd again. The residue of their chants played in Tariq’s ears like some captured melody.

Outside the military personnel in khaki green with long rifles slung around their shoulders linked hands to keep Tariq’s path clear. Some of the smaller children snuck underneath their wall of held hands and pestered the bodyguards. Tariq had seen this too many times. He ordered Vasilla, his most able bodyguard, to remove them from the path. At the threat of Vasilla the children scattered. Vasilla caught one of them under the shoulders and deposited her gently within the swaying crowd.

Suddenly Tariq stopped cold. With reluctant eyes he looked to the right and left. They chanted “Zindabad!” for him with such resonance that it rung in his ears. The bodyguards braced themselves. He held his chest with his right hand and raised his left into the air, bent at the elbow, a salute blessing the entire throng of believers. To this show of attention the crowd roared. Their sway undulated. The massive crowd of brown faces and shining caps swirled and blurred, their arms waving in the air. Tariq closed his eyes to absorb their chanting. Through every pore it filled his body. He accepted this paltry reward for his life–long task of touring from mosque to mosque, using trained bows and memorized verses.

And their cheers in his vast but disciplined mind elevated him to a higher plane: to the Bridge of Destiny upon which he treads through delicate rose petals. A dense mist envelopes him, soothing and relieving his worldly anxieties. His garments fall to the floor, and the graying hairs on his body flush away. His wrinkles and blemishes disappear. On his face a beatific smile as the mist vanishes and reveals an infinite garden with trees, their trunks of gold and their branches of pearl, ruby, and emerald bearing thick, ripe fruit. In the distance he makes out a vast pond with its water as white as milk and an overwhelming scent of musk. On its banks sit fat and fleshy fowl whose necks are as long as camels’ necks. Not far from the pond a vast tent made of pearl. A chorus of seventy–two Houris from within the tent break the silence. Without garments they sing:

We are immortal.

We shall never die.

We are born to enjoy comfort,

hence shall never know hardship.

We are born of good cheer,

hence shall never be unhappy.

Blessed be the man to whom we belong

And he is for us.

From the seventh plane of heaven the angel Israfil descends and sings a variety of songs praising Allah’s name. The naked Houris and the birds from the adjacent bushes mix with harmony. Suddenly more angels descend from their lofty stories, all with pleasing, resounding voices. The garden is alive with the sight and sound of celestial creatures joined in celebration.

Tariq opened his eyes to a determined crowd struggling to get closer to him. “Quickly,” he told Vasilla as he spotted the white Mercedes with its white curtains. Vasilla held open the door. The crowd enveloped the car shouting “Zindabad!” with the same force. Sick of it all, Tariq closed his eyes to erase the sight. He caught cheeks and noses pressed upon the glass. With a quick swipe of his hand he jarred the side curtain. He looked up front. The windshield became a portrait of pressed hands through which he could make out a group of women begging for blessings.

“Run them over if you have to. We’re getting late!”

He heard the engine rev as people flew aside like cattle. The beating on the roof and the chanting ended as they broke through the gates of the Al–Azim mosque.

Vasilla progressed through the populated roads of Bombay Closer towards Sahar Airport. They could see another flock of believers waiting for the bavasaab. Vasilla parked away from the main terminal and took a rickshaw into the vortex of noise and tumult. Tariq wanted to enter incognito, but Vasilla found he would have to push the Indian authorities.

“You have to realize sirs, the bavasaab needs to board with the greatest speed, without the slightest delay,” said Vasilla. “He is on a very important assignment.”

The guards traded a series of crooked grins.

“We can’t leave like that,” said one of them. “We have to go through High Command. It will take some time.”

Vasilla reached into his pocket and revealed a thick wad of one–hundred rupee notes.

“In other words gentlemen, we need your help. Come quickly.”

The men followed.

When they arrived at the car, Tariq was perturbed by the delay. He examined their ranks stitched to their epaulets, their name tags, their berets tilted to the side. Tariq bumped into one of their suspicious faces. He chose to refrain from any insulting comments which might have eaten more time.

His eyes then jumped to the jumbo jets he loved as a child. At the age of four the expansive wings, the gusting engines, and the bulging front lend majesty to an object his father finds mundane. The emblem on the tail and the lettering across the vast hulk of steel add a divine splendor. It looms beyond human creation; not a toy, but a joy ride at speeds all too rare. He cries for a window seat. They pass the other machines idle at their gates. He waves to them and enters a mysterious pause. Then the might, the thrust, the rush tugging him across the runway. He whispers goodbye as he embraces an old truth: there is more hope in the journey than its destination.

At the age of fifty this still held true. Tariq’s destination was now confined to the vast crowds draped in their white kurtas and capped with stiff topees. Through each town the same scene: brown faces hypnotized, shouting comments of praise, always in submission. He dreamt of someday ending his tenure as bavasaab, shedding his uniform of Allah, freeing himself of all the mess. Or perhaps charging the cheering crowd, grabbing one of the believers by the shoulders, shaking him and shouting: “Just stop it. Hold your tongue. Save it for your creator! Save it. The day will come when you truly need your voice, and you will not have a chord left.”

His plane waited. He ended his study of the mud packed huts along the runway. As their van approached the tarmac, he couldn’t help but feel anxious. He detected a field of energy trapped at his fingertips and clenched his fists to rid himself of it. He wanted them to move faster. Some of this tension rubbed off on Vasilla who egged on the driver.

“Since we will not have time when we get down, we thank you men now for this great service,” said Vasilla to the Indian guards. “The bavasaab shall surely remember you in his prayers.”

They ignored Vasilla’s clumsy words. They drove past the main terminal. The flight crew waited below the airplane.

“May Allah be praised. We are so happy to have you on this flight. We know that it will pleasant. We can assure you peace and tranquillity.”

Tariq snuggled into his first class seat. He absorbed the occasional twangs of the sitar and the hollow thumps of the tubla. The air conditioners hadn’t been started. Although they tried not to disturb his peace, the flight crew crept by him one by one to get a quick look at the man whose photograph hung proudly in millions of Middle Eastern homes: a thick, flaxen beard of white flowing to his chest, his head covered by a thick turban, the irises of his large brown eyes surrounded by a white milky haze, and his heavy bifocals. He did not heed their stares. They looked innocent to him, like the small children at Al–Azim. He continued reading the Ou’ran with an air of righteousness. But between the heavy lines his mind wandered to the spacious city of Lahore and its hillside. The Imam waited for him, his urgent message sent a few hours ago.

He was served a gosh of some sort, a curried meat under brown gravy and green chilies. He delved into it. Upon descent Tariq caught the layout of Lahore with its buildings low to the ground. From a high altitude it looked like any other Pakistani city. He could not distinguish the automobiles on the roads but could make out the bland patchwork of agricultural territories.

He watched his bodyguards in the middle seats lapping at their food. They had been attending him for several years, selected from a small pool of experienced candidates. They accompanied him from mosque to mosque, ignorant of his business.

He forbade his advisors from joining him on the Indian tour. All matters regarding the faith were decided by him alone. Only Tariq communicated with the Imam. The Imam could summon Tariq upon whim. Tariq, however, was forbidden to call on him except in the gravest of circumstances.

The Imam sent him a series of letters four years back. The letters never said much and tapered off after a few months. These letters still befuddled him. The Imam’s wife, Sakina, had a baby daughter, not a son. At the time The Imam ruled out the next best alternative: to take a string of wives to conceive a male child. He cited the monogamy of the Prophet Muhammad towards his first wife, Khadija. Tariq ground his teeth at this.

Tariq hadn’t heard from him since and resumed full command of the Organization without his guidance. Although the Imam’s sickness was unfortunate and untimely, it would soon leave Tariq with full authority over the Organization and the order of clerics until a new Imam could be raised.

Tariq would have his hands full. The religion was being trampled by the loose values of the West, and at the same time the glorious Qu’ran was being portrayed as a handbook for towel–headed zealots holding the world hostage with terror and persecution. While most Westerners mocked Islam, the intellectuals labeled the faith a mystery to mankind, pervasive yet much too controlling for developed cultures.

Although Tariq felt it a necessity to sow seeds of Islam in the West, he also believed in unifying more the faith in the Middle East. He yearned to make it as strong as in the days of the Prophet, when the believers prayed the required five times a day, the women fully covered their charms, the children fulfilled the duties of Islam prior to other goals.

He gazed upon the mackerel sky from his airplane window. The formations wouldn’t catch him if he dove. Neither would the spirits of his forefathers. Upon his graduation from Al–Karim University in Cairo, Tariq committed himself to their traditionalist dogma. Islam was not in a popularity contest. The few who strictly submitted were preferred to the many who half–heartedly followed. Strong and wealthy Westerners lacked moral rectitude. They became nothing but fuel for the fire.

Tariq’s grandfather ran the Organization with similar philosophies. How Tariq remembered him! His grandfather worked with the Imam over issues of policy, interpretation of the holy scriptures, and educational initiatives. The current Imam didn’t do any of this. Tariq neither knew his position on important matters nor the ways he spent the Organization’s allowances. The Imam was unable to communicate, a recluse who might have been straying from the straight. But Tariq would never dare question the Imam’s authority, faith, and wisdom. It had never been done.

Still Tariq could get away with it if he wanted to. The Organization had to believe every word Tariq said. Even if the Imam did come out of hiding over a disagreement with Tariq, the believers would hang the Imam as a heretic in a public square. Without Tariq’s formal recognition, the Imam never existed. Tariq could betray the Imam at any moment and get away with it. But Tariq believed he would swallow fire in the next life if he ever betrayed him. He remained the weaker partner in a relationship solidified by Allah. Both were stuck with each other.

In his seat these thoughts stayed with him. He had no recourse but to wait and read the Qu’ran. It helped hinder his cycles of worry. He had memorized the whole of it as a young child. His reading was only a review. He could pick its verses from memory like wild flowers. But he was reminded of the Prophet’s advice: give up reading when the concentration wanes. He closed the leather bound book and brought it from his forehead to his lips. He could see the detailed features of Lahore stretched below him. Not as crowded as Bombay.

The low pressure in the cabin made his ears ache. “In the name of Allah,” he uttered as the plane touched the ground. A small security team escorted Tariq and his bodyguards to an alternate exit which circumvented the bustling terminal. Another curtained Mercedes awaited them. As Tariq slipped into the white leather seat, he felt the sun’s heat penetrating the windshield. He tapped on the window desperately and mouthed to Vasilla to hurry.

A strange pain in Tariq’s head spread to his stomach. It moved beyond nausea and crawled up his throat. His head burned as Vasilla started the car.

“Vasilla, the air conditioning.”

A dry heat poured from the vents.

“Just drive, Vasilla, Drive!”

With his handkerchief he wiped the sweat from his brow and mumbled:

“I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed

Satan’s touch, pride, and poetry.

I seek refuge in the Lord of the Dawn,

From the evil which it has created,

From the evil of the sorceresses who blow knots

And from the evil of the envier.

I seek refuge in the Lord of Mankind,

From the evil of the slinking whisperer,

Who whispers in the hearts of men,

From among the Jinn and Mankind.”

He was oblivious to the rumble of the road.

“What’s wrong sir?”

“Oh Vasilla, just drive.” His stomach turned and ground.

“Allah there is no God but He, the Living, the Eternal.”

He closed his eyes as they drove through the inanimate streets of Lahore. The blurs of the eroded buildings fluttered by.

“Vasilla, stop by the side of the road.”

He opened the door. With a short heave and tears in his eyes, the plane food along with several cups of lukewarm tea tumbled out of him. The backlash stained his kurta. Vasilla handed him a pile of silk handkerchiefs and a small cosmetic mirror.

“I do not feel well. Stop by someplace.”

Before Vasilla parked in front of the hotel lobby, Tariq removed his turban so no one would recognize him. In the hotel room he washed away the dirt and vomit of the flight and changed into a fresh kurta. He sat on a comfortable double bed facing the balcony. The room gave him a limited view of a busy avenue split down the middle by a lawn of burnt grass. Imported violets and daisies, wilting in the heat, marked the edges of the road. Cars and rickshaws raced past.

His prayers seemed to be coming up blank, as though some spirit snatched them between the heavens and the earth. If Allah knoweth all, the Imam must be dying for a reason. Tariq had no right second–guessing his divine plan. From his handsack he pulled his tuzbee beads tangled from the flight. With care he ran them along his fingers and counted each ivory bead with his thumb while muttering healing words. Between the gathering of clouds growing dark and heavy in his mind, he understood he was being tested. He soon fell asleep with the beads in his hands.

He did not mean to sleep for so long. After hearing Vasilla’s thick voice beyond the door, he examined himself in the mirror and remembered the many faces crying at Al–Azim.

He imagined from the four corners of the globe all the Muslims gathering at the mosque of Namira on the ninth day of Dhul Hijja. White tents blanketing the tents of Arafat, pilgrims from all over the world in loin cloth hearing the mighty call of the adhan, stalking rocky terrain, calling the Lord’s name. The noon sun rises full in the sky as Tariq introduces the one true Imam of the Shias, the fruit of Ali. The leaders of all sects are present to recognize this one Imam as the closest human being to Allah. The Imam delivers a sermon which washes the sin from their souls and produces tears of joy for their rebirth. His soothing tones of glorious poetry direct the faithful. With a stern voice which ripples down the rocky crags of Arafat, The Imam vows to return each year until his son fills the divine office. In response they raise their hands in the air and rejoice:

Hallowed be Allah, and praise is due to Allah.

There is no God but Allah, Allah is the greatest.

The angels carry their energetic cries to the creator.

Tariq’s thoughts raced. He searched for his turban. He had left it in the car. He caught Vasilla lounging on the sofa. Tariq excused his laziness and dashed down the hotel corridor. Vasilla and the other bodyguards caught up. Behind the concierge’s desk in the lobby he spotted a large picture of himself in front of a swaying, chanting crowd. No one recognized Tariq, or else he would have been obliged to bless the hotel and all its staff. A feast would have been held in his honor. He would have been bound by courtesy to finish a full meal on his tender stomach and bless the entire feast.

He begged Vasilla to hurry. He gave the address of 116 Drakni Drive. Vasilla shot straight through the heart of Lahore. They ended up in a suburb. A vast hillside overlooked the mangled huts below. An old house with its beige exterior chipping and peeling baked in the sun. A steel entrance gate blocked the view of the property. Vasilla insisted he come for protection, but Tariq waved irritably, forbidding him to leave the car.

The air smelled of disease. The warm breeze lifted Tariq’s hoary beard as soft as yarn. The heat from the Lahorian sun wounded his face. A goat from the road vanished from the corner. The gate stood open, and Tariq stepped into a gravel courtyard with shrubs and short trees browning against the sun’s intense rays. Stone flags marked the pathway to the oversized door. Tariq kept his eyes fixed to the ground while humming a hymn he learned as a child. A leather tail with three gold bells stitched to it, this same leather tail he had given as a gift many years ago, was missing from the wooden door. He breathed deeply and knocked.