Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating(27)
It takes me a moment to digest that information. I can’t remember the last time Abba went to the mosque specifically to pray Maghrib.
“Why?” The question tumbles out before I can stop it. Abba doesn’t seem to mind though.
“I just think it’s important to go to the mosque during these times. To show that I’m very much a part of the community.” I’m not sure if showing up to the mosque for one Maghrib prayer will show that, when otherwise Amma and Abba only frequent the mosque for Eid prayers twice a year—if even that.
“Can I come?” I only ever really get to go to the mosque for jummah prayer while school holidays are on.
Abba’s face brightens at that. “Sure!”
A few hours later, we’re both climbing out of his car in the car park of the mosque.
The sun is low in the sky, and I’m a little taken by the way the mosque looks in the light of dusk. The minaret with the crescent moon is almost faded in the darkening sky, but there is something beautiful about the domed shapes that make up the building. All the Islamic motifs threaded through the architecture. A sense of peace takes hold of me at the sight.
“I’ll meet you outside the gate after the prayers, okay?” Abba says as he locks the car door.
“Sure,” I say. I think that by “after the prayers” he probably means after he’s spent long enough shaking everyone’s hands and networking.
We split up by the gates as Abba climbs up the front steps and I duck to the side to climb up toward the women’s section of the mosque. I slide off my shoes by the double doors leading into the balcony and slip inside.
The plush carpet under my bare feet feels comforting, familiar. It’s as familiar to me as the wood-paneled floors of our house. This space feels like the most peaceful thing in the world to me. There is something inexplicably wonderful about coming into this mosque. About the fact that everyone here is joined by one thing: our faith. About the azan, and praying namaz in unison. All of us together in our prayer—but separate too.
I find a space to sit near the front of the balcony. If I peek down, I’ll be able to make out the men below us. I can already hear some of their quiet murmurs, floating up. The men’s section is usually busy during Maghrib time. The women’s section …
I look around, and find about a dozen women scattered about the place. There’s a woman in a burqah and niqab with her palms joined in front of her face. She’s mumbling prayers into her hand and rocking back and forth.
On the other side of the balcony, two girls—who can’t be much older than me—in jeans and t-shirts are trying to pull headscarves over their damp hair. They’ve obviously just done wudhu.
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I hesitate for a moment before pulling it out. It could be something important.
There are a bunch of different messages on the group chat I have with Dee and Aisling. I muted them before coming here, but there’s a video call request coming through. I reject it, and scroll through some of their messages.
Aisling: which dress for the party tomorrow??
Aisling: [picture 1]
Aisling: [picture 2]
Dee: hmm definitely the second one!
Aisling: Maira??
Dee: I have a couple of dress options too …
The discussion of different dresses and accessories seems to go on for almost a hundred messages.
The azan begins, so I make sure my phone is in silent mode and slide it back into my pocket.
I’m waiting outside in the chilly air for a whole twenty minutes before Abba finally comes traipsing out. He’s deep in conversation with a man wearing a cream-colored panjabi and a white-patterned tupi on his head. After a few moments, Abba shakes his hand and heads over toward me.
“Sorry I’m a little late,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all. In fact, he’s wearing the brightest smile on his lips.
“Who was that?” I ask. If he’s a Bengali Uncle, I’ve definitely never seen him before.
Abba leads us over to the car, still smiling. “He might be my ticket to winning this election.”
“So … someone important?” I ask.” Is he Bengali?”
“He’s an Uncle. He’s been here in Ireland for a long time … longer than a lot of people.”
“So, he has connections,” I say.
We pile into the car and Abba starts the ignition, pulling out of the mosque’s car park. It’s almost completely deserted. It’s still a while until Isha prayer.
“If he puts in a good word for me, then I’m sure to have a lot of people in my corner,” Abba tells me. “He’s influential. That’s why it’s important to make the right connections, Hani. Remember that.” He says it as if I aspire to be a politician. Even Abba wasn’t really interested in entering politics until recently—until he retired early from the company he’d been working at for pretty much his whole career.
“So, do you think he’s going to help you?” I can’t help but ask.
Abba “hmms” contemplatively. “I think he’ll probably need a little bit more convincing. We’ll have to talk a little bit more. He’s a very devout person and has a lot of aspirations for Muslims in our community, so I have to convince him that I have our best interests at heart.”