The Good Muslim Read Free

Maya couldn’t make out her features beneath the loose black cloth. ‘As-Salaam Alaikum,’ she said.
    ‘Walaikum As-Salaam.’
    The woman reached over and held Maya’s hand. ‘We mourn our sister,’ she said, then turned around and returned to her task, peeling cucumbers over a bowl of water. Maya stood and watched her for what felt like a long time. No one else spoke or addressed her. She picked up her things and left the kitchen. Where was Ammoo? The urge to see her became acute. Maya bent over the sink in the bathroom and splashed a few handfuls of water on her face. She retied her hair, practising the moment she would set eyes on her mother. When she emerged, someone was waiting for her in the corridor. ‘It’s time,’ she said, and led Maya to the living room.
    The burkha-clad women were busy rearranging the room. They pushed the sofa against the wall, lifted up the dining table and leaned it on its side. A photograph of her father was turned upside down. The watercolour painting Sohail had done of Maya when she was seven, her ribbons red and yellow, was covered with a pillowcase. As the muezzin began the call to prayer, they sped up, spreading white cloths on the carpet, lighting incense and filling a long silver container with rosewater. Finally, they pinned a sheet across the room, dividing it in half.
    Someone pushed Maya through the sheet and into the back of the room. ‘Please cover yourself,’ she said.
    Maya grabbed the woman’s elbow. ‘Where is my mother, do you know?’
    The woman shook her head.
    ‘Rehana Haque. This is her house.’
    The woman pulled Maya close, her grip tight. ‘Doa koro, apa,’ she said. Pray, sister .
    She could go out and look for her mother. Maybe she was at the Ladies’ Club, or visiting a friend. She might be at the graveyard, putting flowers on Abboo’s grave. But the room was too crowded now for Maya to leave. The women seemed to have multiplied, taking every inch of space on the carpet. They leaned against each other and held hands. Maya packed herself tightly against the wall. She heard the men shuffle in, shadow puppets on the sheet, their capped heads crowding the tableau. A man separated from the group and positioned himself in the centre of the room. He cleared his throat and began in a high, nasal voice: Alhamdulilla hi rabbil al-ameen. Praise be to God, cherisher and sustainer of all worlds. As he uttered this sentence, Maya saw her mother slip through the curtain. The breath stopped in her throat. She wanted to call out. She waved her arms. ‘Ma!’ she shout-whispered. Rehana looked this way and that. The Huzoor raised his voice. Ammoo fixed her gaze on Maya and stood still for a moment, her hands moving to her face. Maya felt a burning in her eyes and at the back of her throat. Another seven years passed. Then, a whisper of a smile. Ammoo stepped through the crowd, her arms outstretched, and before she knew it Maya was in the cloud of her, the coconuts in her hair, the ginger in her fingertips. ‘When did you come?’ she whispered. All the years between them, trapped in the amber of her voice.
    ‘Just now. What’s going on?’
    ‘Milaad for Silvi.’
    Of course. Silvi would have been buried within hours of her death, but this was her Qul-khani, the prayer to mark the third day of her passing.
    Seven months into her exile, Maya had written to her mother. I am not angry, she had begun . But I cannot come home.
    For almost a year Ammoo had not replied. Those months had felt endless, as she rehearsed in her mind the furious words her mother might say, wondering if the silence would go on forever, willing her own letter back. But when it arrived, Ammoo’s letter was packed with news, updates about the house, the neighbours, the garden. She showed no anger, but she didn’t ask Maya to return. And that was how they corresponded, exchanging elaborate pleasantries, long passages about the weather, telling each other everything and nothing.
    The Huzoor