Children of Dust (10 page)

The existence of the demonic
madrassa
that was recruiting boys all over the country was big news for a little while. But after making a striking impression, it was just as quickly forgotten. No one in Sehra Kush could conceive of industrial
madrassa
s like that.

I couldn’t forget about it, though. I stayed awake many nights wondering what I would have done had I ended up at a place like that. Would I have been able to run away? I knew the answer was no. I would have been too afraid to try to leave. I then imagined all the pain that Ittefaq had put up with while he was there, and it made me sad. I stared at the sky and wondered why Allah wasn’t nice to some people. I wondered if perhaps it was the case that Allah singled out some people for happiness and some people for suffering.

At night on the rooftop of the house, I stared at the stars. They were little specks, scattered like gravel across the sky. Where there was a cluster of stars, I imagined that it was an angel, resting. Where there was a shooting star, I imagined that it was the angels firing at Iblis, trying to keep him from coming too close to heaven. I imagined the angels looking at me. Did they see me and think, “Look, there’s a speck of dust?” What about Allah? Why couldn’t I penetrate this blackness He kept between Him and me? What would He say when I asked Him why he was so willing to let people be beaten?

Eventually I turned over and went to sleep. Allah was Light. What did little specks of dust matter to Him?

The angels must have heard my doubts, because they soon paid me a visit.

W
hen he was a child, the Holy Prophet once found himself alone with a number of angels. They took him out into the desert one night, cut open his chest, drew forth his heart, and then—with a bottle full of milk from Paradise—washed all the blackness from it, and that is why Muhammad was the most pious and honest human being ever.

I wasn’t the Prophet, so my angels were punitive.

Some afternoons I used to sneak out to a house near the
madrassa
where some of the students and older kids from other neighborhoods went to hang out. The owners, whose son was a ringleader in the group, tended to go off and visit their neighbors, leaving the whole house to us. It felt like a sort of playground. We sailed paper boats into the
nali
, shot
buntaz
with precise finger strikes, played games of seven stones, and even sometimes went to the roof and flew kites.

One day I noticed that there was a room in the back of the house whose shutters were closed. It looked as if it was locked from the inside, but there was a strange glow coming from within that drew me to the room. I went over and started banging against the door.

“What do you want?” said a voice.

“Let me in.”

“No!”

“Let me in or I’ll get everyone else and we’ll break down the door.”

“Everyone can’t play this game!”

“Then just let
me
in. I won’t tell anyone about it.”

The door opened and I passed through. Once inside, I locked the door. Except for a sliver of light that slipped through the top window, the room was dark. A copy of the Quran wrapped in pink cloth was sitting atop a dresser. There was a prayer rug, a corner of it rumpled as if someone had slipped on it. The room smelled musty, of feathers and wet dust.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed an area of intense brightness in the center of the room. I rubbed my eyes with my palms and then blinked rapidly. Before me were two golden youth, luminescent and shiny, nearly translucent, with wings of light from whose tips milklike
nur
dripped to the floor. One of the youth was standing while the other was on his knees.

Squinting harder, I realized that I was seeing something I had never seen before: angels.

“Do it the right way, Mikail,” said the youth who was standing, his enormous wings expanding and retracting.

“I’m doing it like you said, Jibrail.”

“Do you know better, or me?”

“
You
do. Definitely you.”

Mikail was kissing a curving feather on Jibrail’s body. It was of a pale golden color and it looked like an unearthly writing utensil. It was long and smooth.

“You,” Jibrail said, turning to me suddenly. “Come here and show us yours.” His eyes were piercing and powerful. There was no mercy in his voice.

“We’ll show you ours,” said Mikail with a suggestive smile.

Unable to resist their authority, I went close to the angels. They separated from one another and enfolded me in their wings. I felt pressure on my shoulders as I was pushed down to the floor. Before long I had Jibrail’s feather in my mouth. He gave officious instructions that echoed ponderously in my head.

After a little while, Mikail pulled me up and stood behind me. I could hear his breath full of conspiracies. As he spoke, his wings
wrapped around me and got caught on my clothes, tugging at them. “I must dip my feather into you,” he told me. I could neither agree nor disagree. It wasn’t my place to talk. As Mikail slid the curved feather into my body, it caused me to wobble forward, which in turn made him take quick little steps and follow me around the room.

I felt neither pain nor fear. My eyes turned to the singular slant of light cutting a corner of the room, and I became lost in observing the little particles floating aimlessly. I could see each little atom, tumbling on its axis in the sunlight, doing headstands and cartwheels, dancing in place, tiny, so tiny—as if the motes weren’t dust, but children of dust.

Jibrail, meanwhile, stood back and watched. He had his head tilted and bore a curious expression on his face. When he saw me looking at him, he began laughing—a laughter that increased in volume until it was booming and loud, transforming into banging on the door, urgent and insistent. Someone else wanted in. I moved away from the angels to open the door. As soon as I ripped through the door, the unearthly visitors shrieked and hissed and then disappeared.

When I went outside, all the boys wanted to know what was happening inside, but I told them there was nothing to see, nothing to do. I went for a long walk up the canal where the buffaloes grazed. I didn’t know how to describe the feelings in my stomach. All I could come up with were analogies. I thought of the hollow feeling of forgetting my lessons and getting my hands beaten with a baton. I thought of the feeling of sickness that came with tripping and ending up with one foot in the cold
nali
. I thought of the feeling of feverish panic that had come over me when I had misplaced my new tennis ball and had searched for it haplessly for hours. That last memory came closest to my current mental state, so I went inside that memory to see if I could find a clue to what I should do now.

Ammi’s face shone through the haze of memory. “When you lose something,” she had said to me while I’d been looking for my lost ball, “recite,
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajioon
. “To God we belong and to Him we shall return.”

Sitting up next to the canal, clutching my knees against my chest, rocking back and forth, I began reciting:

That was also the prayer a Muslim made when someone died.

A
fter my meeting with the angels, I wanted to escape. One hot day I resolved to run away.

The city was hardboiled; the streets were deserted; a camel driver rested in the shade. Our cooler, the poor man’s air conditioner—a box-looking fan lined with roots and filled with water—rumbled loudly, producing a jet of damp air that felt like Paradise itself. On that terribly hot afternoon, I didn’t want to give up the company of the cooler.

“I’m not going to the
madrassa
anymore,” I informed the household in a loud voice.

Ammi and Pops reclined behind me on a
charpai
, nodding limply in the noontime lull. When I made my announcement they didn’t say anything, and this raised my hopes. But then, just as I turned onto my side to stretch out and sleep, Pops got up, grabbed me by the arm to yank me to my feet, and pushed me out of the room. “You aren’t welcome back until you’ve gone to the
madrassa
,” he said coldly.

I stood and stared at the closed door. Then, before the sun-heated floor could burn my feet, I located an old pair of
chappal
s and went to the bathroom to wash up. Because we got our water from a tank located on the roof—which heated up during the daytime—the water was boiling hot. With the hot afternoon
loo
blowing in from the dunes, the water felt even worse. Gargling with it almost made me throw up.

As soon as I finished, I heard a trilling bicycle bell outside. Opening the door, I saw that it was Bilal, a young orderly whom Pops sometimes hired on the hottest days to give me a ride to the
madrassa
. Feeling resigned, I swung my leg over and positioned myself on the crossbar of his Sohrab bicycle. As he leaned forward and pushed off, I felt his chest against my back. He smelled of sweat, adolescent cologne, and talcum powder. I knew that last smell well: expert carrom board players reeked of it. I knew that Bilal spent most of the hot days, days like this one, in the back of his father’s shop playing long games of carrom. He had invited me to play with him once, and I enjoyed using his donut-shaped striker to knock the little round disks into the four-holed game board. I knew that after he dropped me off he was going to go back and play—something I wanted to do as well—and the thought filled me with a mixture of hate and despair. Part of me wanted to cry and the other part wanted to hit him.

As we rode to the
madrassa
, Bilal saw something interesting and pulled up his bike at the curb.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Take a look.”

Coming up the street toward us was a bearded Gypsy in puffy clothes, with an assortment of red, blue, and green scarves wrapped around his body. He carried a stick upon which were bells, shakers, and drums. He held a chain in his other hand, and attached to it was a large black bear. The animal’s skin and face were scarred, making it look ferocious. A withered brown dog walked behind the handler and his bear, aimlessly following scent trails. The odd trio walked past us into the dusty ground within the
gol daira
. There the bear sat down on its haunches underneath a tree, while the dog lapped at crusty mud, searching for water.

I couldn’t get past the contrast between the two animals. The dog was small and meek; the bear was big and black.

“Why are they here?” I asked.

“There’s going to be a fight,” Bilal replied. “Bear versus dog.”

“Isn’t such a fight unfair?”

“You have to understand,” Bilal said. “At one point the Gypsy probably owned three dogs to fight the bear at once. But I imagine that in
each fight the bear must have killed one dog, so now only this one is left. This one is probably going to get killed too. It’s supply and demand, after all.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a measure of hope. “This dog seems different.”

Bilal laughed. “You just
think
it’s different. Dogs lose; that’s just the way it is. It’s their
kismet
to be killed by the bear.”

We had hoped to stick around for the fight, but then we learned that the Gypsy was putting it off till later in the evening, when it would be cooler and more people would be around to make donations. “We don’t have time to wait,” Bilal said. He picked up his bike and we hit the road to the
madrassa
.

As I thought about the dog, my earlier sense of rebelliousness came rushing back to me. If that poor little dog, all alone, could stand up to a monster like the black bear, then I could stand up against Qari Jamil.

By the time we reached the
madrassa
, I was so empowered that I could think of a million other things I’d rather be doing. I could sit in front of the cooler. I could go and swim with buffaloes, or watch Indian films, or drink glasses of sugarcane juice spiced with ginger and lemon, or get a case of mangoes and soften each mango until it became
popla
and I could suck the juice out of it.

What I
didn’t
want to do was to recite the Quran in a room with no fans in the stale sleepiness of late afternoon. Nor did I want to be bent over in the rooster position and beaten. I missed the life I had before I was enrolled at the
madrassa
. The days of playing catch against my bedroom wall, dreaming of becoming an Iblis-fighting angel. The afternoons when I propped
charpai
s on their side and made a fort and called myself Saladin the Liberator, spilling oil onto the Crusaders’ armies, withstanding a siege by Richard the Lion-heart, and then doing diplomacy with him during which I met with his sister and impressed her with my warrior prowess by throwing her scarf high in the air and cutting it in two perfect halves with my scimitar. I wanted to live in my imagination—not as a spindly-legged spider in the Quranic cryptograms. I didn’t want to be a droning echo, stuck chanting a book in a language I didn’t understand. I liked the Quran at night, when Ammi told me stories from it—stories
about the Prophets. I didn’t like the Quran forced into my mouth on the authority of Qari Jamil’s big brown stick—a Quran to be chewed and vomited.

“Hey, Bilal,” I said suddenly. “Do you know what time the lorry to Peshawar passes by?”

“Before
maghrib
prayer,” he said as the shadow of the minaret fell across his face. “Why,
babu
? Are you planning on taking a trip?”

“Yes, I am. A long one.”

“Don’t bother,” he replied. “A lorry would never stop for a little one like you.”

“Not even if I stood in front of it?”

“That sounds serious!” he said, referring to my resolve. “You trying to run away or something?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Now?”

“No. Take me home first. I want to tell my parents why I’m leaving.”

W
hen I got home the electricity was gone, as was often the case at midday, and so the cooler was off and everyone was in a bad mood. Pops lay in bed while Ammi fanned him. They had just finished eating mangoes; a tray of emptied plates sat near them. Two steel glasses filled with
lassi
, a yogurt drink, sat tilted in a clump of sheets. The fact that they had eaten mangoes without me made me think they were decadent, and that upset me even more.

They looked up, surprised to see me at home when I should have been in school. “I’m not going to go to the
madrassa
anymore,” I announced, trying to sound even more definitive this time. “If you make me go, I’ll run away to Peshawar. I’ve learned where the lorry leaves.” I sat down and began drinking the leftover
lassi
. Even though it was warm and salty, it felt good going down. I felt in charge.

When I’d finished and had burped loudly, a slap hit the back of my head and sent me hurtling toward the door.

“I told you,” Pops said. “You cannot come home until you’ve been to the
madrassa
.” He wasn’t messing around.

Normally I would have cried and made a scene and ended up in Ammi’s arms, but this wasn’t a time for empathy. I had to up the ante.

“Well, that seals the deal,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to run away from home. I’m going to take the lorry that goes to Peshawar. Then I’m going to join the
mujahideen
and go into battle. That means you’ll never see me again. This is what you reap for sending me to that
madrassa. Khuda hafiz
,” I added in farewell.

“Come on, Abir,” Ammi said. “There’s no reason to run away. Just be a good boy and go to the
madrassa
.”

“No deal.”

Pops stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke up rigidly: “All right. Run away, then. We won’t stop you.”

“You don’t believe me, do you? All right. Forget running away. Instead of getting in the lorry, I’ll just let it run me over. Do you still want me to go to the
madrassa
?”

“Yes,” Pops said. “Do it.”

“You don’t care if I die?” I shouted. “Fine! I’ll kill myself right here. In this house. So that my blood is on your hands. I’m going to suffocate myself in the bathroom.”

I went to the bathroom and slammed the door, thinking that if the door stayed closed for some time I would run out of air. While inside I realized that the bathroom had a big window that was always open, so the chances of suffocation were zilch. I also realized that going back outside to retrieve a tool with which to kill myself would take the fire out of my revolt.

“This bathroom will be my grave!” I shouted in a last-ditch effort.

Much to my satisfaction, I heard Ammi right outside the door. “No, my son,” she urged. “Don’t say such things!”

“You know what? Why should I wait till I’m suffocated to die? I’ll just drink this shampoo here and make it quick.” Just to show that I was serious I spilled some of it underneath the door.

Now Ammi banged on the door loudly. “I know I’m a horrible mother, but even horrible mothers don’t deserve to lose their children. Come out of there, my son!”

I was not hearing her. During the patriotic holidays, among the videos that Pakistani TV used to play to commemorate its military heroes was one about an Air Force pilot, Rashid Minhas, who flew his plane into the ground rather than let it be commandeered by an Indian. In the movie he recited the Throne Verse from the Quran before his crash. That scene was burned in my head. This, my last breath on this world, my rebellion against the institution of the
madrassa
, seemed like a dramatic moment just like that of Minhas’s last breath, and I began reciting the Throne Verse loudly. It made for a good soundtrack to suicide.

“Allah,” I sang, “there is no God but He. The living. The self-subsisting. The eternal. No slumber can seize him, nor sleep. His are all the things on heaven and on earth—”

Just as I reached the middle of the verse, Pops broke down the door and fell against me. After knocking the shampoo from my hand, he handed me off to Ammi, who wiped away my tears. Despite the rescue, Pops glared at me. “Something is wrong with him,” Pops said. “Fix him up and personally take him to the
madrassa
. Let’s get this matter resolved.”

Ammi went to the closet and put on her
niqab
. Then she took me by the hand and led me downstairs. When she saw Bilal hanging around—he’d stayed to enjoy the showdown, I guess—she told him to ride ahead and tell the
qari
that she wanted to schedule an emergency meeting.

Walking in silence, with Ammi holding my hand firmly, we went to Qari Jamil’s private quarters. As soon as we were admitted, Ammi began talking about my “depression” to Qari Jamil’s wife, of all people, as she served us
iskanjwi
made from stale lemons. In the background his daughter, Sameena, snickered at descriptions of me crying, cursing, and threatening death. I was embarrassed.

When the
qari
finally joined us, Ammi pulled her
niqab
over her face and repeated the story about my depression. She wondered if there was something “the learned
qari
” could do to cure me. As she spoke, the
qari
first smirked and then laughed outright, though there was no humor in the bloodshot eyes that speared into me. The more serious Ammi made my tantrum seem, the more sardonic became his grin.

“I will be sure not to let him take his life,” he assured Ammi. Then he draped an arm across my shoulders and took me for a walk around the grounds, massaging my neck with his thumb and forefinger. I turned to look at Ammi, but she had fluttered out of the house as soon as she was sure that I was in safe hands.

“So, you want to go off to Peshawar, eh?” Qari Jamil said. “You’re going to get on the lorry and fight the Soviets? That is very brave of you. Are you going to feed them bottles of shampoo and kill all of them?”

His sarcasm made me angry. “Yes,” I said, “but the ticket to Peshawar is eight rupees and I have only four. Why don’t you lend me the rest?”

He pretended that he didn’t hear my retort. “All so you don’t have to come here? Seems like you don’t like learning Allah’s book, my young friend. That’s not a very good Muslim, is it?” He stroked my head while his other hand snaked to his pocket. “Well, you know what? You don’t have to read the Quran when you come here. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me!”

He produced a set of keys, sorting through until he found an appropriate one. Then he unlocked the padlock at the storage room with the bars on the windows and pushed me inside.

I was incarcerated.

H
ours passed. By now the courtyard of the
madrassa
was empty. The dusty, hot
loo
blowing off the desert broke its head against the bars. At a distance I could hear the noise from the people witnessing the fight between the bear and the dog.

With each roar of the distant crowd, I grew more unsettled. I yanked ineffectually at the bars. I kicked the door. I used a little wooden stick from the rubbish in the corner to poke at the cracking cement wall. I sat back and imagined what it would be like if I could just manage to escape.