American Dervish: A Novel (34 page)

Imam Souhef began the proceedings by holding his palms up before him and reciting the short Arabic text that composed the traditional Islamic marriage sermon. He offered this
nikah
khutbah
to a group of Pakistanis—all listening with their eyes lowered—in its original language, which none of them understood. With his brief address finished, Souhef turned to Rafiq.

“Since this is the second marriage of your daughter, I am not required by Sharia to ask your permission to wed your daughter, Amina Ali, to this man, Sunil Chatha.”

Rafiq nodded. Souhef turned to Sunil.

“Have you brought with you the
mahr?
”

“I have, Imam.”

Sunil pulled out a thick, brick-shaped envelope and laid it on the coffee table before them all. The envelope wasn’t sealed, and the open flap revealed that it was filled with hundreds.

Souhef turned to Mina. “Are you satisfied with your choice?” This was the cue for Mina to address Sunil with the Arabic formulation she’d last spoken six years prior, to her first husband, Hamed.

“
An Kah’tu nafsaka a’lal mah’ril ma’loom,
”
 
she said, the words lightly slurring on her lips.

Souhef then glanced at Sunil, his attention prompting the groom’s response to his bride:

“
Qabiltun nakaha.
”

Souhef nodded. He reached out, picked up both pens, handing one each to Sunil and Mina. “With witnesses present, the bride has given herself in marriage and accepted the
mahr,
and the groom has accepted the bride. Please sign the contract.”

Sunil scratched his signature across the bottom of the papers, then pushed them across the table to Mina. She took a moment before setting her name—with a loopy scrawl—under his.

“You are husband and wife,” Souhef said, standing. “We will now give the new husband and wife a moment of privacy.”

With that, Sunil set Imran down beside him and stood. He reached his hand out to Mina. She rose and he led her into the bedroom.

Imran whined as they walked off. Sunil stopped in the doorway and addressed his new son in a firm tone: “Give your mother and father a moment to be alone,
behta.
”

“Okay, Dad,” Imran replied, quietly.

Once they were gone, Rafiq stepped in and sat beside his grandson on the couch. The envelope of money—twenty-five thousand dollars in cash—was still sitting on the coffee table. He reached out and stuffed it into a pocket in his coat. Then he looked over at Ghaleb—who was watching him—and offered a grateful nod.

When I returned, the ballroom was abuzz. On the dais to the left, Sunil and Mina sat side by side, dressed in crisp, shimmering white
shalwar
suits. Sunil was wearing a tall golden triangular hat. Mina was wearing a gilded scarf, and her arms and ankles were covered with golden bangles. Beside the two of them sat Imran, dressed in the same shiny white fabric, and wearing a small golden
topi
of his own. Imran was eagerly watching as the wedding guests approached the bride and groom, rolled bills in hand, circling the couple as they twirled the money and muttered blessings, finally handing the cash to the groom. Sunil met each offering with a smile. Mina’s eyes had an odd, lackluster look.

“There you are!”

It was Mother. She was wearing a pale-yellow
shalwar-kameez
and a brown shawl across her shoulders. She looked exhausted. “Where were you?”

I hesitated for a moment. “With Hamza,” I finally said.

“Hamza?”

I looked around. Hamza had drifted off and was now standing beside his father at one of the tables. I pointed. “Over there.”

Mother looked confused. “Where is your father?”

I didn’t reply.

“Weren’t you with him?”

“He left. He said he had to make some calls.”

“
Calls?
What kind of calls?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’ve been to hell and back the last hour and he’s making
calls?
Who is he calling? Hayat, where
is
he?!”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Well, go find him! And get him back here!”

I wasn’t going to go back and get him. And I wasn’t about to tell Mother where he was. So I just stood there with her, the hordes of well-wishers twirling money at the couple on the dais gathered before us.

“Go on! Go! What are you waiting for? Go find him!” she said, pushing me away. “Calls… ,” she muttered to herself as she walked back to the women’s side of the room.

I went out into the hall. I thought about sitting on a couch in the lobby, but then I remembered the young man in the tuxedo. So I headed for the back of the hallway, to the marble steps where Farhaz, Hamza, and I had sat earlier.

After a few minutes, I heard something behind me. I turned and saw Farhaz and Zakiya coming downstairs from the floor above, holding hands. The smile on Zakiya’s face vanished the second she saw me. She snatched her hand away from Farhaz’s.

“Where’s Hamz?” Farhaz asked.

“Inside,” I replied, curt.

“I have to go back,” Zakiya said. “My parents are gonna kill me.”

“Suit yourself,” Farhaz said.

Zakiya hurried down the steps.

“So what’s the word?” Farhaz asked, taking his time to descend the staircase.

“Huh?”

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing.”

He shrugged and walked past me.

The room was filled with the smells of
biryani
and curries. Caterers stood along the back, ready to serve the meal. At the other end of the room, up on the dais, hefty Souhef stood with a microphone to his mouth, reading from a piece of paper.

“The Prophet, peace be upon him, said that among the most perfect believers are those who are best and kindest to their wives.” Souhef looked up with a smile. Gentle laughter passed through the crowd. He pointed his finger, playfully. “Yes, brothers. It’s true. Even lifting a morsel of food to the mouth of the wife grants the husband a reward in the Hereafter. According to the Prophet, peace be upon him, the mercy of Allah Ta’ala flows down from heaven when a husband looks at his wife with love and pleasure.”

I was making my way across the room to the ladies’ side, where the women were sitting, children in their laps or at their sides, in
chador
shawls, head scarves,
dupatta
s. Mother was the only woman not wearing something on her head, and with no trace of a smile on her lips.

Souhef turned to address Sunil directly now.

“When a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…”

Souhef stopped and waited. Then he repeated it:

“I said, when a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…”

This time Sunil picked up on the cue. There was more laughter—mostly from the women’s side—as Sunil reached out to take hold of his wife’s hand.

“When a husband takes his wife’s hand with love…,” Souhef said now for a third time as he resumed his address to the crowd, “a couple’s sins fall from the gaps between their fingers. Love between a husband and his wife is a great purification.”

Mother eyed me as I approached her table. She wasn’t paying any attention to Souhef. “Where’s your father?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I looked everywhere.”

“Bastard,” she muttered under her breath. “That bastard…Fine. Go sit with your Rafiq-uncle,” she said, waving me away.

From the dais, Souhef continued: “Our Prophet—peace be upon him—once said that when a man enters his home
cheerfully,
Allah creates, as a result of his happy attitude, an angel who says prayers of forgiveness on behalf of the man until the Day of Judgment. That’s the truth, brothers! May we love our wives. And may love prevail between our happy bride and groom.”

There was hearty applause.

As I made my way back to the men’s side, I noticed Sunil watching me. He leaned over and spoke something into Souhef’s ear. Now Souhef looked over at me as well. He stepped forward again, his lips to the microphone.

“Brother Sunil reminds me that we are honored by the presence of a couple of very special young men here today: Farhaz Hassan and Hayat Shah.”

Hearing my name, I stopped.

“Both young men are very dedicated young Muslims and I think we should honor their commitment to our
din
by bringing them up here for a moment. Farhaz? Hayat?”

Again, there was applause. Farhaz stood up at his table—he had been sitting next to Hamza—and started to weave his way to the front of the room.

“You, too, Hayat,” Souhef encouraged, waving me forward. “Come on up.”

I followed Farhaz to the steps along the edge of the dais, stumbling up nervously behind him. I looked down at Mother. She was staring off vacantly, muttering to herself. I looked over at Mina. She was watching me, blank. I smiled, but her expression didn’t change.

Up on the dais, Farhaz took a place at Souhef’s side, and I took a place at Farhaz’s. “These young men are truly better than us. Young Farhaz is only fifteen, and he’s already a complete
hafiz.
And Hayat here… How old are you, Hayat?”

“Twelve,” I offered, my voice quavering.

“Twelve. And how far have you gotten in the Holy Quran?”

“Eleven
juz.
”

“Mashallah,”
Souhef said.

There was a smattering of applause.

“In the
nikah khutbah,
there is a passage from
Surah An-Nisa
, and our groom had the wonderful idea for these young men to recite a bit of it for us here. How does that sound to you boys?”

“Fine,” Farhaz replied with a shrug.

I turned to Farhaz, nervous. “
An-Nisa
? Which one is that?”

“Starts at the end of the fourth
juz.
”

I didn’t know where the official
juz
breaks were. To keep track of my progress, I’d come up with my own system of dividing the number of pages I’d memorized by thirty to have an idea.

“Which number
surah
is it?” I whispered.

Farhaz looked annoyed. “It’s the fourth
surah.
Do you know it or not?”

I nodded, relieved. I did know it. But only by its translated title, “The Women.”

Souhef handed the microphone to Farhaz. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. After a short silence, he brought the mike to his mouth:

Ya ’ayyuha an-nasu attaqu rabbakumu al-ladhi khalaqakum…

I was stunned. I had no idea he knew the Quran in Arabic. The sounds he made—the shifts and turns of phrase, the elongated vowels, the shocking breaks and swallowed consonants—came through the speakers with clarion authority.

…min nafsin wa idatin wa khalaqa minh zawjah wa baththa minhum rijl an kathr an wa nis’an wa attaq…

I felt myself shrink.
You were wrong about him,
I thought as I listened in awe.
This is better than your dumb dream with the Prophet.
I looked over at Imam Souhef. He was smiling. Behind him, Sunil beamed with pride. Mina, too, was watching, but with a vague expression. Farhaz paused. I looked away, my gaze wandering to the entrance.

There, leaned against the double doors, was Father. His arms were crossed. He was staring right at me.

Souhef stepped forward and took the microphone from Farhaz. “Wonderful,” he commented to the room. “Just wonderful.” The applause was swift and strong. Farhaz was glowing.

Souhef turned to me, still speaking into the microphone: “Hayat? Do you know
An-Nisa
?”

I could feel my heart beating through my entire body, down into my toes and fingertips. I nodded. The imam smiled and handed me the microphone, but it slipped from my grip, screeching. I wiped my sweat-drenched palms on my pants and reached down to pick it up. The room full of faces was watching. I looked over at Father again, surprised at his expression. It wasn’t angry. It looked helpless.

“
Surah
An-Nisa.
‘The Women,’” I began.

In the name of God, the Benevolent, the Merciful…

Mankind! Do not forget your Lord, who made you from a single soul,

And from it, carved its mate,

And brought forth the many men and women.

The sound of my own voice coming through the speakers gave me confidence. I closed my eyes to shut the thought of Father out. I went on:

Fear God, in whose name you make demands upon each other.

Honor your ties of kinship.

Truly, God watches over you!

I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. I looked up. It was Souhef. “In Arabic, son,” he said quietly, correcting.

“I don’t know the Arabic. I only know the English,” I answered. My mouth was close enough to the microphone for everyone to hear.

“You only know it in English?” Souhef seemed confused. “Who’s teaching you?”

“I’m teaching myself,” I replied.

“Really?” Souhef asked, surprised.

I nodded. Beside me, Farhaz snickered.

“Mashallah,”
Souhef said now as he patted my head. He took the microphone from me. “We have a very original young man here,” he said to the crowd, “memorizing the Quran in English. He will be our first English
hafiz,
brothers and sisters.”

Souhef paused. Hushed whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Let’s give these holy boys another round of applause.”

I looked over at Father. He was still standing by the double doors, watching.

“You’re a
moron,
” Farhaz said to me as we moved to the steps. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it doesn’t count if it’s not in Arabic?”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t believe me? Ask him.” Farhaz looked back, pointing at Souhef.

I turned to the imam.

“What is it, son?”

“Farhaz says it doesn’t count if I didn’t memorize the Quran in Arabic.”