American Dervish: A Novel (7 page)

I fell asleep and dreamt all night of Mina’s hands turning the yellow-white pages of my new Quran.

The next night, half an hour before bedtime, I washed up, tied the muslin Mina had given me to my head, and went to see her, my new Quran in hand. Having spent recess at school memorizing the verses we’d gone over the night before, I recited them for her now from memory.

“How wonderful,
behta!
” She was so surprised. She took me into her arms, and all at once I felt it again: that exquisite shudder running along my limbs, up my back. “I have a feeling about you,” she said into my ear. “I have a feeling you might just end up a
hafiz
someday.”

4

A New World

T
he months that followed were witness to a series of spiritual experiences that would remain singular in my life, all revolving around the Quran and my evening study hour with Mina. I would leave her room feeling lively, easily moved, my heart softened and sweet, my senses heightened. Often, I was too awake to sleep, and so I took to my desk—white muslin still bound to my head—to continue memorizing verses. After long nights like these, the mornings were not difficult, as Mother warned when she would find me at my desk past ten o’clock. If anything, these mornings were even sweeter: the trees stippled with turning leaves and bathed in a glorious light that seemed like much more than just the sun’s illumination; the white clouds sculpted against blue skies, stacked like majestic monuments to the Almighty’s unfathomable glory. And it wasn’t only beauty that moved me in these heightened states. Even the grease-encrusted axle of the yellow school bus slowing to its morning stop at the end of my driveway could captivate me, its twisting joint—and the large, squeaking wheel that turned around it—seeming to point the inscrutable way to some rich, strange, and holy power.

At school—I was starting sixth grade—I would find myself, inexplicably, in states of eerie calm and awakeness. For hours, something as simple as the play of sunlight against the classroom’s green chalkboard could occupy me completely. Not to mention the food in the cafeteria. I recall sipping from my carton of milk one lunch hour, shocked. The full, creamy, comforting flavor seemed like a miracle. And while part of me wondered how it was I had never truly tasted milk before, another part of me had already concluded that these experiences had their source in my new contact with our holy Quran.

That October, during a game of touch football one afternoon recess, I ran downfield, looking back over my shoulder and up at the sky, where I expected to find the ball Andy—our quarterback—had told me in the huddle was coming my way. Instead, I saw something round and perfect, a brilliant white circle appearing behind a veil of clouds. And in the few seconds it took for Andy’s uneasy spiral to leave his hands and come floating toward me—and during which I realized it was the sun I was seeing—I found myself already lost in sudden contemplation. The ball fell through my grip. My teammates jeered. I smiled, sheepish, apologizing. But my remorse was mostly an act. My thoughts were focused on the recollection of verses I’d memorized for Mina earlier that week:

Consider the sun and its splendor….

And the day, that reveals it…

And the night, in which it hides…

Consider the sky and the One who made it…

And the earth, spread out before you…

As I made my way back to scrimmage, I gazed over at the school building, its single story of beige bricks fanning out beneath the rows of tall trees behind it; beyond those trees was Worth Park, and beyond that, the shopping center and movie theater and local pharmacy; and beyond that, forests and fields and who knew what else. I turned to the road lined with split-level homes. Beyond those homes were other homes, then a highway, and further homes upon homes. I looked up at the sky, its thin cloud cover against a blue ceiling hiding the way to the dark space I knew lay beyond, a vastness inhabited with glowing stars and turning globes, and—according to our science book—an ever-expanding universe.

I was suddenly awestruck by the thought of infinity. And not just of the universe I couldn’t see beyond the clouds, but of the world around me as well: the countless schools and trees and homes and people in them, and the countless kids on playgrounds, how many of them wondering—just like me at that very moment—about all the endless schools and homes and trees and all the infinite stars above unfolding forever…

It was probably not the first time I’d ever been moved to awe by such musing, but it was the first time I had a word to put to my feelings, a word I’d learned from the Quran:

Majesty.

It’s all God’s majesty,
I thought as I jogged back and took my place in the huddle.

“I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. But
tea
is my one vice!”

I heard Mina say it so many times, but always with a sly half grin that made it hard to believe she really had any remorse. The fact was, her tea was exceptional: bold but discreet, with a sharp, clean bite that made one sit up a little straighter, abounding with complex and subtle aftertastes that drew one—as the flavors faded—to sip again. It was the result of a preparation that bore no resemblance at all to the steeping of bags in cups of hot water that my parents called tea. Mina’s was more like a stew: the loose leaves (Darjeeling or Assam, with a pinch of Earl Grey or Lady Grey thrown in depending on her mood), a crushed cardamom pod, a clove or two, a dash each of cinnamon and ginger powder, and a teaspoon and a half of sugar, all dropped into one part whole milk and one part water brought to a simmer over low heat. She stood over the concoction, attentive, turning it with a wooden spoon, moving the pot off the fire each time it approached a boil. She was waiting for the tea to turn a particular hue—a creamy, deep tan—before cutting the heat and straining the brew directly into cups she had lined along the stove. The aroma of milk and tea and sugar and spices was ample and sweet, and it always made my mouth water.

Father loved her tea so much, he wanted to learn how to make it exactly as she did. I remember the afternoon he first stood beside Mina at the stove while she coached him through the preparations. When they were done—the cups were poured—Father, Mother, and Mina sat together at the kitchen table to taste the result.

“Hmmm. It’s good, Naveed,” Mina said, sipping.

“Not as good as when
you
make it,” Mother was quick to add.

“It’s his first time, Muneer.”

“First or last, I don’t know. I just know it’s not as good.”

Father ignored her.

“Too much cinnamon,” Mother said.

Mina sipped, considering the flavor. “I don’t think so. I think it just needs to blend a little better. Maybe straining it into a pot to let it sit before pouring.”

“But you don’t do that,” Father objected.

“But I’m very attentive when I stir. Very slow.”

“It needs more
attention,
is what she’s saying,” Mother added. Father ignored her, taking another sip. Mina turned to me, offering me her cup.

“You want to try your father’s tea,
behta?
”

Mother put up her hand. “None for him.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Too young. When you’re eighteen you can drink tea and coffee. Not now.”

“But I’ve had it before.”

“Since when?” Mother asked, surprised.

“I’ve given it to him,” Mina interjected before I could respond.

“Hmm,” Mother hummed, disapproving.

I looked over at Imran. He was coloring in a coloring book, and had a glass of milk before him. Just like me. “I’m old enough,” I said.

“According to the laws of what universe?” Mother asked.

“Don’t make a big deal, Muneer,” Father said. “It’s just a cup of tea.”

“He’s old enough to be praying. Why not a cup of tea?” Mina replied, glancing over at me with a look that made me realize what she was doing. I’d been begging her for weeks to teach me to pray.

“Old enough to pray? Well,
that
would require Mr.
Inattentive
here to teach him,” Mother added flatly. In Islam, it was a father’s duty to teach his son to pray.

“You, Muneer, are a total contradiction,” Father replied. “All your complaining about Muslim men, and here you are, criticizing me for not being Muslim enough.”

“There’s no contradiction,” Mother said, tapping her finger nervously against the cup. “What’s wrong with Muslim men has nothing to do with
prayers.
It has to do with how they treat their women.”

Father rolled his eyes and took another sip.

“I’m happy to teach him, if that’s not a problem for you,” Mina said to Father.

I brightened, turning to Father. But he didn’t look enthused. “You’ve already got him obsessed with that
book.
”

Like clockwork, Father’s lack of enthusiasm gave Mother her lead. “Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” she said brightly.

Mina watched Father’s reaction to Mother’s sudden glee. “But I really don’t want to intrude…”

“You’re not intruding,” he said. “If Muneer thinks it’s fine, go ahead. Teach him.” He turned to me. “But I don’t want to see you end up as a
maulvi,
Hayat.”

Maulvi
was another name for an imam.

Mina chuckled. “It’s just
namaaz,
Naveed. I hardly think teaching him to pray is going to make him end up as a
maulvi.
Who would he become a
maulvi
for? This is not Pakistan.”

“Trust me,” Father replied. “There are idiots enough here for someone to lead. You just haven’t met them yet. Chatha and all those stooges with their
masjid
on the South Side. Be grateful you don’t know any of
them
yet.” He turned to me again: “All I’m saying to you is: Don’t end up as a
maulvi.
”

It didn’t take me long to learn the prayer and its various intricacies: the texts, the movements that went with them; how many times to repeat each part; how to sit, right foot propped under one’s behind, left turned in and resting on its side; the seven points that needed to touch the ground when you prostrated yourself (both knees, both hands, the chin, the nose, the forehead); and the meaning of holding up your right index finger during the prayer’s final section: another way to remind oneself that there was no God but Allah.

I was a quick study, but Mina was insistent that the forms were not what mattered. And until I learned to understand what she called prayer’s “inner aspect,” she wouldn’t let me pray for real; I could only practice. I had to sit and listen to my breath, just as she had taught me to do that afternoon of the ice cream social. In the silence, she would make me focus on God. “Always imagine him close to you when you pray,” she explained. “If you think of Him as near, then that’s where you will find Him. And if you think of Him as far away, then that’s where He will be.”

One day Mina finally decided I was ready. Much to my surprise, Father—who actually seemed proud of me—suggested an excursion to the same South Side
masjid
about which he always complained. That way, he said, I could offer my first prayer with the congregation, just as he had done as a child. But that Sunday, when we got to the mosque, there was a sign on the door announcing flood damage in the basement prayer room; the day’s worship had been cancelled. We went back home, where Father had another uncharacteristic idea: that we create our own congregation by offering prayers together as a family. Surprised as they were, Mother and Mina both thought it was a wonderful idea. So Father and I tied muslin to our heads—Imran wanted to join us, so we tied a piece to his head, too—then laid out prayer carpets in the living room. Father and I stood shoulder to shoulder, and Mother and Mina prayed shoulder to shoulder behind us. Imran sat off to one side, happy to mimic our movements.

Afterwards, Mother was teary-eyed. Father pulled out his wallet and handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“You’re a man now. A man needs to have money in his pocket,” he said, clapping me on the back.

“Just because you have it doesn’t mean you have to spend it,” Mother interrupted.

“Let the boy be,” Father retorted, though more warmly than usual.

Mina took me in her arms, cooing her congratulations: “
Behta,
I’m so proud of you!”

“Thank you, Auntie,” I said.

“Did you do like I taught you? Did you imagine Allah before you as you prayed?”

I realized I’d entirely forgotten. Mina read the response in my blank expression.

“It’s the only reason to pray, Hayat,” she said. “To be close to Allah. If you just do forms, it’s useless. Even sitting quietly on the school bus and remembering your intention to be with God—even
that
is a hundred times better than just going through the motions.”

“Okay, Auntie,” I said. “I won’t forget again. I promise.”

For Mina, faith really wasn’t about the outer forms. She didn’t wear a head scarf. And since her troubles with food as a girl—she would stop eating when she was unhappy, and ended up in the hospital more than once because of it—she didn’t fast. But she still found a way to be true to the intention of Ramadan as she saw it: She would deprive herself of things she loved, like reading, in order to feel that quickening of the will—and the deepening of one’s gratitude—that she said were the reasons we Muslims fasted. Mina was an advocate of what we Muslims called
ijtihad,
or personal interpretation. The only problem was, the so-called Gates of
Ijtihad
had been famously “closed” in the tenth century, a fact I was aware of from a footnote in the Quran Mina had given me. The note explained that personal interpretation led to innovations, and that these innovations created chaos in the matter of knowing what it meant to obey God’s will. I asked Mina about it one day, and she explained to me—at teatime, with Mother at the table—that as far as she was concerned, these “gates” could never be closed, because they were the gates that led to the Lord.