Ayesha At Last(17)

As Khalid entered the building, his shoulders relaxed. His fists, which he hadn’t realized were clenched, loosened and he took a deep breath. He made his way to the large prayer hall, an empty space banked by ten-foot-high windows. The floor where congregants lined up for the five daily prayers was covered in two-foot strips of alternating olive-green and beige carpet. Brass wall sconces cast a warm glow, and an enormous crystal chandelier hung above the oak pulpit where the imam delivered his weekly sermons. According to rumour, the chandelier had cost over $100,000, a gift from a wealthy business owner looking for a tax write-off.

The prayer hall could hold more than two thousand worshippers, and on occasions like the twice-yearly Eid celebrations, the building strained with people packed into hallways, gymnasium and classrooms. But for the five daily prayers, the building sat almost empty.

The prayer hall was enveloped in the hushed quiet of an art gallery. An elderly man sat in the back corner, worrying tasbih prayer beads. A large man in a bright-blue robe sat beside the pulpit bent over a book, forehead furrowed in concentration. The man spotted Khalid’s approach and broke into a broad smile, calling out “Assalamu Alaikum.”

Khalid returned the greeting and shook Imam Abdul Bari’s hand.

“I was just about to take my tea. Will you join me?” Abdul Bari asked. Without waiting for a reply, the burly imam walked on graceful feet out of the prayer hall.

Once inside the office, the imam removed his blue robe to reveal a bright floral Hawaiian T-shirt and khakis. Khalid, used to the imam’s peculiar sense of dress, didn’t say a word.

Abdul Bari busied himself with the kettle and tea bags. “I don’t usually see you until the evening prayer. What brings you here so early today?”

Khalid lowered his head. “Just some trouble at work. My boss doesn’t like the way I dress. My co-worker Amir suggested I adopt some camouflage, but it feels dishonest.”

The imam handed Khalid a cup of weak tea and settled down in his swivel chair. “Honesty is an admirable trait,” he said carefully. “However, one of the cornerstones of a functional democracy is the willingness to accommodate. Does the thought of camouflage feel dishonest, or are you uncomfortable conforming to other people’s expectations of you?”

They drank their tea in silence while Khalid considered the imam’s words. Abdul Bari was better at giving advice than making tea, though he was generous with both.

“I don’t know,” Khalid said.

“It is always good to analyze your niyyah—your intention—before making decisions. The Prophet Muhammad, may Allah be pleased with him, said: ‘Actions are judged by intentions, and everyone will have what they intended.’ So be clear of your motivations, Khalid.” The imam set down his cup and clapped his hands together. “Perhaps what you need is a distraction. I have great news: Our mosque has been chosen to host the ‘Muslims in Action’ conference this year. I hope I can count on you to help organize? Our first planning meeting is tonight at eight.”

Khalid agreed to help, and their conversation moved on to other topics.

When he returned home, his mother was on her way out. She had a guilty look on her face, which she replaced with an imperious one.

“I am going to buy vegetables from Hakim bhai,” she said.

Hakim Abdul, known by everyone as Hakim bhai, owned the nearby grocery shop that sold essential items: bread, onions, garlic-ginger paste and halal meat. It was also the best place to hear neighbourhood gossip.

“I’ll go,” Khalid offered.

“No!” Farzana said. “You’ve been working all day. Aliyah said she would meet me there also.” Aliyah was Farzana’s new friend, a woman with grown-up children and time on her hands.

As Farzana peered into the hallway mirror and carefully pinned her bright-blue hijab, Khalid noticed a large gold bangle with red stones on her arm. The bangle had been a gift from his father years ago; she had not worn it since his death.

In their old neighbourhood, his mother had loved to chat with the other aunties. Maybe Aliyah would introduce Farzana to new friends among the coriander and lemons. Her absence would also allow him some time to think.

And to engage in his secret hobby.

Khalid moved quickly as soon as his mother was out of the house. He assembled everything he needed: onion, turmeric, chili powder, garam masala and chickpea flour. While canola oil warmed in a small frying pan, he chopped up onions using the special chef’s knife he hid behind the mixing bowls his mother never used. Khalid listened to a recitation of the Quran on his iPhone as he worked, mixing together spices and onions, dropping tablespoons of batter into hot oil, watching the onion pakoras brown and grow crispy.

Khalid loved to cook and feed others. When he was younger, he would make desserts and simple pasta dishes for Zareena. He subscribed to Gourmet magazine and watched Food Television. Lately his focus had been on Indian dishes. He was experimenting with different techniques to grind the perfect garam masala spice mix.

Farzana hated it when Khalid cooked. She claimed he left behind a mess, so he only cooked when she was out of the house, and he made sure to air out the kitchen afterwards.

The pakoras were delicious, and he made a note in his recipe book to add more whole coriander seeds next time. He read a new biography of Prophet Muhammad while he snacked. His phone pinged, another email from Zareena:

Hey K, guess what I’m doing? Cooking. I made breakfast. Then I made lunch. Now I’m making dinner. The fun never stops here. I can guess what you’re doing. You’re at the mosque, volunteering or maybe performing some extra prayers, am I right? My pious little brother, making up for the sins of the sister. Wish I was there to poke you and force you to do something fun!