Chapter 6

TARIQ RETURNS TO MECCA

17th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(September 30, 1996)

Tariq found himself coasting down a bare highway with his two bodyguards in the front cracking open pistachio nuts and drinking warm colas. He had fallen asleep on the plane from Lahore and moved in barren land between Jeddah and Mecca. He had missed both meals on the plane. The road was endless as he watched the car swallowing the blacktop. Every twenty minutes a service station passed with one or two cars idle in a lane of twelve to fifteen separate pumps. These service stations looked distinctly familiar.

He longed to see his wife and son again, but the highway went on for miles. No reason to rush the sure bet of beholding his beloved city as well, carved from the ashen gray mountains which guarded it.

Tan dust and chunks of tough rubble covered the sides of the highway. A fence soon ran along the side and over the low, emerging mountains. He thought it must have taken many pains to get the fence over the hills and back onto the highway. Lots of workers banging their picks into the rock. And they received at the most fifty rials for what they did each day. Hard work counted for little in this land. During the drive from the airport he remembered the men fixing potholes in the road, Indian and Pakistani Muslims in long lines.

Tariq only noticed them out of the mosques. Their old faces with deep lines, for instance. Only at places like airports did he find warmth in the simple, common people, the mother pulling her child by the arm through a difficult customs checkpoint, baggage handlers in slate-blue overalls dragging carts of luggage, strangers standing in boredom. And he glanced into their eyes and knew how these strangers were much like him. Ages ago he used to walk among the commoners. The changes of decades past hit him like the sunshine in the car.

The service stations came more rapidly. Vast spaces on the hills were cluttered with advertisements. Even on the most jagged of mountains large white letters spelled the brand names of audio equipment and wristwatch companies. Tariq reached into his seat pocket and pulled out his Qu’ran. He admired the worn, leather binding. Up front the bodyguards continued snacking, but they also listened to the local radio station which played sweet ghazals and religious chants.

They came upon the security check. Small speed bumps stretched in a simple pattern across the road. Just beyond the checkpoint a large sign, big and bold, read ‘Non– Muslims.’ This exit led to another highway which avoided the city altogether. A long, candy–caned gate blocked the path as three dark–faced soldiers with thick mustaches approached the vehicle. Their tight black belts held their shirts and trousers in place.

The darkest of them approached the driver and asked for paperwork. Tariq’s driver returned a smile to convey this absurdity. The driver merely flashed an identification card permitting their entrance into the divine city. The guard, however, did not let them pass so easily. He demanded the identity of the person in the back seat. Both bodyguards voiced immediate concern and threatened to have him removed from his post. Tariq with his thick bifocals stared back at the guard who popped his head inside. The guard looked too young to know any better. Tariq could have seen this guard as another parasite, nosing his way into higher affairs, but he raised no objection to this intruder, and the guard looked as though he had walked a woman’s boudoir. He apologized for the inconvenience. The driver took this a step further and made him promise never to handle another car in that manner. The dark–faced soldier waved the car through with a quivering smile.

The city slowly came upon them. White–washed apartments sprung along the highway. In the open spaces of desert the sides of white tents flapped. These tents were clustered by two’s and three’s in tight bunches with cars parked to their sides. While spotting these tents, Tariq remembered his camping days with his father on deep blue Wednesday nights.

His father lacked time for such outings but made exceptions for Tariq. He made sure Tariq was aware of his simple philosophy: to enjoy and respect all of Allah’s bounty, both the land and the dark of the sky. While the dark sky served as a barrier to the evil–doers, the stars served as thousands of peepholes for the angels. More than anything, these angels spied on those who sinned, recorded these sins on magic paper, and were rewarded for giving names and records to Allah. So if he remained a good Muslim, then by all means he should bask under the stars. If he had broken into the box of transgressions, then surely he would be discovered. There were no secrets to the open skies, and no one was immune.

Tariq smiled as the tents passed. The rubble of the land resumed. More apartment complexes signified the beginnings of the metropolis. Infertile landscapes transformed into lush lawns. Low homes reflected the intense Arabian sun.

More cars entered the road. There were no exits further down this long strip. There would be no further problems, he thought, for finally he was going home to partake in the Kaa’bah again with all its glory, to be part of his people again, and to see his son again, a miracle to behold, a male to preserve his line for generations.

He longed to feel the embrace of his wife behind closed doors. Every grain of sand surrounding the stretch of road, every deformed rock reminded him of days when life was for the pursuit of Allah exclusively instead of the pursuit of other ambitions. So much hope within this city. He found temporary peace through the ghazals on the radio and beauty while passing under the towering arch upon which a sculpture of an open Qu’ran rested. A most glorious entrance, for once they passed, more advertisements were featured, so many that they filled every space on the black mountainsides. The houses grew more concentrated and abundant with clotheslines and antennae.

The highway narrowed at a series of traffic lights where small trucks and yellow cabs passed with a calm patience, the drivers humming the same ghazals. It fascinated Tariq to see a simple intersection.

Another checkpoint. A similar shack by the side of the road. The driver flashed the card and gained admittance without problem. The highway converted into an up-slant with an unbroken barrier down the middle. The city itself had been built upon the hills and was made of low valleys and steep mountains black as flint. The heavy displays in Arabic defined the avenue as more cosmopolitan. The street throbbed with shoppers. A steep incline forced Tariq to move back on his seat, thereby tightening his kurta uncomfortably. He jerked it free of his weight. While doing so he dropped his Qu’ran. ‘Don’t crack,’ he thought, while picking it up and kissing it.

They came to a residential community hidden among tall date trees soaking the sun. Along the road, thick cement walls girdled the properties. Only the rooftops could be distinguished, the second floor of these units like square blocks built upon the first. At the end of the road they confronted a solid iron gate which swung open at the touch of a remote. The home looked like an office building, white–washed with large windows on all sides shielded by blinders. White pillars streamed from the edge of the roof.

He expected someone to be home. Cars moving on the gravel were easily heard from within the home. He even waited in the car for a few moments, but no one came to greet him. He stepped into a warm wind under a clear sky, most of it azure save for the darker borders encroaching on the day.

“In the name of Allah,” said Tariq as he entered the home.

He faced a large room with a glossy wooden floor. Towards the East hung a large photograph of himself sitting upon cushions, thumbing his beads, looking into the air. He could not remember the moment his photographer had taken that shot, but he thought it must have been some time ago, for his beard was much shorter, much darker, and his face with fewer wrinkles. This photograph was taken in this very home, in front of close friends and dignitaries of the Arab world. Regardless, those times were less filled with worry. His family has no idea of his worry.

He took off his shoes and spotted the telephone in the far corner of the room. He knew it too early but checked his messages anyway. Vasilla had not called.

At the base of the living room walls thick, white pillows were propped. He dropped his sack by the door and sat behind one of them. He did not want to move, only wanted to rest, which seemed strange since he slept in planes and cars for most of the day. But he ran from those same electrified faces needing to touch him, needing one last blessing. Was this the satisfaction of his work? There had to be something more than the display of himself; more than the traveling salesman of a religion. He closed his eyes and later awoke with the sounds of keys at the door.

A black gown covered her from head to foot. As she removed the cloth, he could not mistake those darkish hazel eyes and flawless brown skin: the same woman he had married almost thirty years ago. He rose to his feet and approached her cautiously, not sure what procedure to use. She looked at him the same way. Tariq held out his hand to her, and Samira bent to receive it. He did the same salaams to her.

“After so long,” said Tariq, “my prayers have been answered. Finally I’m home, but I’m not staying for all that long, or at least I don’t expect to stay. I know it’s unfortunate, but I plan to make the best of it.”

Her face fired up, but she kept quiet and climbed the staircase, saving her words by biting her lower lip. She threw off her head–dress and left her veil on the railing.

“You knew the consequences long ago,” he continued. “You have always known them, so don’t go walking off. You made a commitment to me a long time ago.”

“To you, yes,” she replied. “Not to your position.”

“I came with that, and you knew the consequences. Haven’t you gotten used to it by now? It’s been thirty two years. I am the bavasaab. I have to tour these mosques. I may not like it, but it is what I do, and we cannot shy away from it.”

Samira moved down the second floor hallway and vanished into the bedroom. Tariq followed reluctantly and paused at the entrance. She removed her black shroud. A multi colored duppurta came into view. She removed her round glasses and looked into the mirror where she could see Tariq.

“What’s most reprehensible,” she said primly, “now that I have realized it, is that you have started Khozem down that same road. You’ve never once thought about me. What about my well being? Trapped in this room with no one by my side, so much that I can’t sleep in it anymore. I have to stay in the guestroom where the bed is small. And not once did you care to call me. Not once. I remember you used to call me all the time from the road. Long conversations we used to have. We didn’t want to hang up the phone. And now I see you, no phone call, no nothing, and immediately you tell me that you can’t stay ... and you expect me to bow my head like the good wife?”

“I do expect you to bow and take it, but this is quite another matter. I get home after many long days on the planes and roads, and I expect nothing but relaxation. Instead I get nagging: ‘you’re never around,’ ‘what about this and that.’ You think I don’t know what’s going on? You think I know nothing of loneliness? I’ve been living it for the past four months. I see it in the eyes of those creatures at the mosques. They have nothing to cling to. The loneliness eats at them day and night, and they unleash it all upon me. And they look at me as the one who can show the All Mighty the suffering they bear. So don’t assume I am a novice to loneliness; I play it like an accordian. It’s part of me, and I certainly know it better than you do, so look at me.

“Now I have to leave soon, but I’m not letting it spoil the short time I have with you. Put it out of your mind. I’ll put it out of mine.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it isn’t,” as he moved closer to her. “But we’re going to try, aren’t we?”

“Sure we’ll try,” said Samira. “Not seeing you has had its effect on me. Khozem, of course, notices it, but he moves along in his studies waiting for the day you will send him in your place. It’s the day I dread.”

“But why? We’ll have more time together. Samira, if you think our family can one day be together as it was, then you are operating under some kind of cruel delusion.”

“So tell me about the trip, my darling. You must be tired?” said Samira finally.

“Oh the trip was usual, the same crowds and chanting. It doesn’t change much, but for the first time in a while I felt like leaving it, to run into the Organization and say goodbye once and for all.”

“But if you left, the direction of the religion would not be yours any longer. It would be up to someone else. Your right to choose a successor would be denied. Where would that leave Khozem?”

“You see, once you’re in, it’s very hard to find a way out. We’re in it until Allah takes us. That or get I shot by some assassin.”

“Don’t talk like that,” snapped Samira.

She checked herself in the mirror. She fiddled with the lipstick and a vial of mascara. Tariq wanted to continue, hopefully to find a way to leave his post.

“How’s Khozem?” he asked.

“Just fine. He knows you’re arriving today.”

“I wonder if he has kept up on current events instead of getting bogged down in study all the time.”

Tariq unpacked the light items of kurtas, pants, and handkerchiefs. His collection of skull caps were tightly run over metal bowls to keep their shape. He delved into a bag loaded with books in Arabic: The Hadith and the Sunnah and an unabridged Qu’ran along with two pairs of tangled tuzbee beads and a journal of his own. He placed all of it on the bureau where Samira would put them away later.

Through the oversized window he beheld the Kaa’bah below, surrounded by the mosque where the believers prayed on Persian rugs. In the middle of the grand mosque the black box, the House of Allah. A swarm of densely packed believers circumambulated this black cube and recited verses. At one of the corners, the black stone. He could see their palms raised high towards that corner. He heared the din of their celebration. As the fat sun set, the marble contours within the tall minurets were illuminated, giving definition to the zigzagging designs and the crescent green pieces marking the tops. The sight hypnotized him.

“So you have a taste of what’s to come, eh?” interrupted Samira.

“Yes, I must get down there,” as he shut the blinds. “It’s as intriguing as the first day I stepped on that cool marble.”

“And the Al Azim visit? I heard it was the largest ever, and there was no violence. It tells us the way our religion is going, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to discuss it, Samira.”

He moved to the window again and poked through the blinds. It was getting closer to prayer time, and on the street many lay their prayer cloths right where they were standing, some nuzzling as close to the walls of the mosque as possible. He could see Samira biting her lip in the reflection. He wrapped his arms around her wide shoulders. The act felt awkward to both, and Tariq fought the temptation to remove his arms, but he let them rest where they were, wanting to make an impression, so that it would not feel awkward.

“Sometimes I’ve had enough,” said Tariq. “I know I deserve at least a few days of peace and quiet before I start the touring again.”

“I know, believe me, I know,” said Samira. “It’s good that you’re home. I’ve missed you, although not much has happened. I’ve just grown older.”

“We’ve grown older,” corrected Tariq.

“We’re having mujlis soon, so you better prepare.”