Chapter V

Ammi

Waiter on Wheels stops taking orders at 11 on Fridays, and the guys start drinking as soon as they get back to the office around 11:15. Some have started earlier: Jason with vodka in his 7-11 slurpy cup in the 1990 fire-red Camaro, Doug with whiskey flask in the middle console of his 1988 Cutlass Ciera, Lew with Coors Lights poured into a thermos buried in the bowels of his Dodge Caravan. Everyone is checked out by 12:30 a.m. or so.  

It’s 1:30 when Ali drives home, tired and slapping himself to stay up. On 355 by the McDonald’s where he has to turn right on Christopher Avenue he cuts too early and jumps the curb with his front and then rear wheels, misses the stop light at the corner, lands back on Christopher. Lucky he has a pickup truck and high ground clearance. Lucky the cops aren’t by the McDonald’s where they normally hang.

When he pulls into the lot by their one-room apartment he is grateful to find the handicap spot open. The bright streetlight ten feet to the right of his parking spot, by the maple tree that covers their second floor bedroom window, lights up the cabin. He unscrews a plastic water bottle and splashes his eyes, stares at the light and smacks himself three times on the right cheek. The maple tree is full in summer, but the streetlight still streams through the leaves into her bedroom, where she leaves the window blinds open. Probably so she can see approaching car lights reflected on the full-length, cracked Goodwill mirror. On the mattress bed, with her back to the wall and facing the mirror she will be praying, sleeping, praying, and hoping it’s Ali every time the mirror lights up. He is the only one she has left here in the United States, and though she prays every day for the life of her firstborn, Gul Muhammad, somewhere deep inside her a kernel of fear throbs. And grows. He pops a mint to wake up more. 

 Soft Veena is playing on the boombox he bought for her. Raag Yaman. He doesn’t really know classical music, just enough to recognize the Raags she loves and plays often. The kitchen is in front of him, the living room to his left. The living room light is off, but the white overhead kitchen light beams a soft path to the dark bedroom. He takes his shoes off. His shadow crosses over the only picture in the living room: the framed image on his left, of his serious twelve-year-old brother Gullu, who asked his teachers to call him Gul Muhammad, not Gullu, and his father sitting side by side on a rock by the Bagrote river. A Dutch mountaineer took the picture, stayed with them a night, mailed it to his father’s cousin in Gilgit city. He stops and makes himself look. Ali was on a higher rock, not in the picture, but his shadow on Gullu’s face makes Gullu’s expression darker. He doesn’t remember his brother smiling very much. His father looks concerned. Do they already know something?

As he enters his mother’s room the music lulls him back to gentleness. The synthesizer lights on top of the boombox flicker a ghostly blue dance low on the white wall, just above the baseboards. He walks across the bedroom to his right and pulls the blinds to shut off the streetlight, walks to her and sits cross-legged on the mud brown carpet by her mattress where, legs folded beneath, her red 33-bead rosary wrapped around her right palm, softly, under her breath, she repeats her Zikr. He lets his head fall on her lap, closes his eyes, feels against his face the soft silk of one of the two black salwars his father bought for her 20 years ago. He feels on his cheek the careful stitches on her thigh where she mended the Osama tear. She puts her left hand on his head and continues her Zikr, her voice as gentle as her fingers combing his hair. Raag Yaman on Veena and his head on ammi's lap and he could die happy.

When she is done, he is alert and rested, and he looks into her luminous green eyes with love and gratitude.

Salaamalekum, ammi. Sorry I’m late. 

Ali’s father’s native language was Shina, and his mother’s is Punjabi, but Ali and his mom speak Urdu with each other. She speaks Punjabi only to her brother in Lahore when she calls him on Saturday nights using their home phone and the scratch off Raza Direct phone card. And then she laughs and is happy, and when Ali gets home she tells him about her little nephew and niece.

She smiles softly, does not return the greeting, does not say: What is this sorry. You have become too American. With her finger tips she combs back his straight long black hair. Your scalp is dry, she says. Bring the almond oil from the kitchen. Maalish karvao. She rubs her flat palm on his head, a little rough on the dry skin. Go. Bring it. He just turns to her in love. Small circular bags under her eyes from worrying and not sleeping, and although she is still beautiful, she has gained a little weight. He sees in a painful flash that she looks tired and in her forties, and she will be alone for the rest of her life. And he turns to the side, pushes it away.

How many times do you do Zikr, ammi?

During the day? Only 100.

Even at work? After every prayer?

Usually. It only takes five minutes.

What do you say?

You know what I say.

But you change it.

She smiles because she knows he is making conversation. And she has to humor him.

I like to change it.

Just now you were saying alhamdulillah.

Yes. That is my favorite.

And Subhanallah. You say that a lot.

Yes.

Why do we say these?

She smiles. Ali. Have you forgotten everything?

I nod. And smile.

She smiles and shakes her head. She knows I have not.

Because meditating on gratitude makes us happy.

Gratitude for what?

For you, for Gullu, for this life, for this beautiful country that gives us so much.

So first you say the Shahada?

Yes, of course. First you submit. Everything begins with submission to Allah T'alla.

And then for Zikr you only say the other two?

Yes. Your Peer sahab told me to say those. He said those would bring my heart joy.

Mine too!

She smiles. Of course. It brings everyone joy.

And how many times do you do Zikr at night, ammi? For Maghrib.

It depends.

On what time I get home?

Yes.

How many times tonight?

She pauses, thinking. After I prayed, I did Fikr for a while and then Zikr 10 times. So I did it 40 times, I think.

So 4000 in all. Do you fall asleep sometimes, in the middle? When I listen to that music I fall asleep.

Not often. I used to, during Fikr. But now I don’t.

What is Fikr, ammi? Peer sahab never told me.

You were just a baby. How could he?

Nine when we left Gilgit. Not a baby.

Eight?

Eight when Abbu died. Nine when we left Gilgit. Fourteen when we came here. In 1994.

Fikr is concentration.

How do you do it?

You focus on your heart.

Your heart?

Don’t ask me all these things, Ali. I’m not a Peer.

Whom should I ask?

Maybe read a book. Or follow some Peer.

There are no Peers here. Only our masjid maulvi. And he puffs his cheeks and waddles his head like a penguin walking to make her laugh.

But her eyes are closed. You choose, she says. My father followed the Chishti Tariqa.

And our Peer Sahab?

Your Peer in Nagar Valley? Your abbu’s friend? He was just Peer of our family. Only we called him Peer sahab.

But he was a real Peer, ammi. He was so wise.

Of course, beta. He was our Peer.

What Tariqa was he?

He studied all the Tariqas. But he didn’t belong to any one Silsila. He was an outcast.

Was he an outcast in our village because he was Ismaili from Hunza, and we are Jaffariya?

No. She smiles. Where did you learn all these words? Everyone was accepted in our village.

But not you.

A shadow passes over her eyes, disappears almost immediately.

I was accepted, she says simply.

Not now, ammi. That’s why we left.

She is quiet. Looks away.

Where do Tariqas come from, ammi?

They trace their lineage straight from Rasulullah, peace be upon him.

Why are there different Tariqas? We all have the same God. The same prophet.

Because people are different. Because your way is different from mine.

Who was your first teacher, ammi?

My grandfather, Peer Hazrat Rehmat Khan. He was a great Peer in Lahore.

And she sits up a little straighter, and she is proud. Even though she knows that he knows, and he asks only because he loves to see her happy.

And Hazrat Sahab taught you the Veena. And to meditate on music?

Yes. As he taught my father.

Where did it start?

I don’t know. Many generations.

Does mamujaan play?

She stops and smiles a sad smile.

When he was a young man he used to play beautifully.

He allows her her memories. Then asks. Ammi, what did you learn from our Peer in Gilgit?

Your Peer in Gilgit was your father’s friend. He told me to focus on my breath. He said Fikr is to make your breath into a swing and if you can swing for 10 minutes, you will be able to focus on Allah when you do Zikr.

Like the tree swing in our home?

She smiles. Yes. But his way didn’t work for me. It put me to sleep.

Ali laughs. He loves this story.

I would think of my childhood swing in Lahore, which was a wooden swing in a small courtyard inside the home, not the old tire on a tree you had, and I would remember how my father would play the Veena inside, and I would listen to my father while I read and slept on the swing.

And you would fall asleep, Ali says.

She laughs and laughs even though she’s told it so many times. When he brings her back to Lahore, her eyes, her voice light up with joy. And he experiences her rooh, her joyous essence. He loves nothing more than to see that force of joy.

So how do you stay awake?

I don’t play on swings any more. She laughs merrily again, and he is so happy.

What do you do instead, ammi? He moves to a pillow, beside her on the mattress, where he can see her more easily.

I just focus on my heart like my dada jaan showed me. And I think of you and your brother.

For how long?

He said to do it for 10 minutes.

But you do it for more?

If I am waiting for you. What else would I do!

How many times?

I don’t know.

And you drink lots of chai!

Yes, she laughs. But it is love that keeps me awake.

He takes her soft palm and puts it back on his head where she plays again with his long hair.

Your scalp is so dry. Bring almond oil from the kitchen, and I will massage your head.

The music stopped, he says.

Yes, get up and get oil, and put the tape on the other side.

Kara said a Sufi came to her college, to her religion class.

Who is Kara?

Conor’s sister.

Ammi looks down at Ali’s face silently until he finally turns to look up at her and smiles. Then she laughs.

I want to meet this Kara.

He said that the Rasulullah said that one hour of meditation is better than one year of prayer.

Who is this Sufi?

Some white guy. Brownie? Browning. He said his Peer was Hazrat Inayat Khan. From India. He is from the Chishti Tariqa.

That’s wonderful. Your nana and your par nana in Lahore were also from the Chishti Tariqa.

She said Hazrat Inayat Khan played the Veena. Like you.

What else did she say?

The Sufi said there are four main silsilas in India and Pakistan — and one is based in Multan and the other in Ajmer.

Yes, the Suhrawardi Khandan is in Multan and the Chishtis are from Ajmer.

Do they speak Multani like naani?

She laughs again, merrily, and maybe she stretches it so she can soak in the joy of her mother’s presence.

I suppose so. But don’t make fun of your naani. Everyone in Multani speaks like her.

Like a Jhangi? He smiles. And she laughs and laughs. You don’t even know what that means, Ali.

Can you belong to many Tariqas ammi?

Of course. You learn about them all, and you choose your own path.

I like your path, ammi.

My path is different now than it was when I was young.

Did you change when you married my father?

In a way, but more so after he went away.

What did you learn from our Peer in Gilgit.

Breathing.

Breathing?

Yes, I learned to pay attention to the breath while doing Fikr.

Is that a Shia teaching?

It is actually a Chishti teaching. And I think also a Naqshbandhi teaching.

Was our Peer in Gilgit Naqshbandhi?

No. The Naqshbandhis are Sunni. Our Peer was Shia Ismaili, and your father’s family was Shia Jaffariya. But he studied all Tariqas of Sufism.

Can a Shia be a Sufi?

Yes of course. Where you were born, most Sufis are Shia.

What about Christians? Like Conor.

The Chishtis allow non muslims.

Ammi, I fall asleep when I try to focus on breathing.

Then you can try music.

What is that?

Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya found his path to Allah T'alla through music.

Yes, that is my way, ammi! Ali is excited.

Yes it is, meri jaan. Now go flip the tape so I can hear Raag Yaman.

Did you eat, ammi?

You know I didn’t. Did you?

Yes. He nods into the mattress.

Pizza?

Ali nods his head into the mattress. She knows the answer, and that’s why she didn’t ask as soon as he got in. He can smell the biryani she made, and she’s probably upset he ate meat that’s not Halal, but he gets hungry at 10 after not eating all day and they have undelivered pizza or leftovers at the office. She understands, but she still makes fresh food.

She reaches for her cup of tea, which is cold.

Don’t drink so much chai, ammi. He is muffled in the pillow. It will keep you from falling asleep. 

Gul starts the old smile when he says this but gives up. Chai helps me sleep, she says, with tiredness. You go to sleep. 

So Fikr is meditation?

What do I know about all that. I’m not a Peer. You should go to sleep now.

Kara’s teacher said that the Buddha taught people how to meditate on the breath.

Okay then meditate on your breath and then sleep.

I’m not tired.

Ha. You’ve been saying that since you were three.

How do you know? You only paid attention to Gullu.

She sighs. Put your neck back in my lap, Ali.

And her fingers slide back under his neck, and he sighs with happiness.

Ammi, I think you are my Peer.

She laughs. Peers are men, Ali. Don’t you remember?

Why, ammi?

You’re becoming so American, Ali.

But why, ammi?

I don’t know, Ali. Maybe because women have no time.

Ammi?

Bolo.

What is wujood?

It is union with the divine. The last stage of Fanaa. And I taught you and Gullu all this when you were eight. Did you forget everything?

But wujood also just means to exist.

Yes. Of course. And in union with divine, at every moment, you experience your existence.

Ammi, do Sufis dance in Zikr?

Who told you that?

Kara.

The Qalandariyas do. In Dargahs.

Is that haraam?

Her fingers stop suddenly. Who told you that?

There’s fear in her voice.

No one.

You just say your prayers. Okay?

Yes ammi. I will.

You don’t worry about dance.

I won’t. Please. His neck is throbbing again, and he puts his hand under hers to make her start again.

Don’t talk about dance at the mosque.

I won’t.

When he knows her eyes are closed he opens his to look at her face. With her fingers under his neck, she is again all love, again at peace. More than anything he fears her fear.

How should I do Fikr, ammi?

She breathes out slowly. I don’t know, Ali. All I only know that I focus on my heart and say Allah with my breath, and when I get distracted I go back to my heart and think of you and your brother. And then I am filled with love, and I can focus on Allah T’alla when I say his name.

And if you forget again?

Then I think again of you and your brother.

Ammi, when we say the Shahada it’s different from the Shia, no?

Yes, she says.

We say, lā ʾilāha ʾillā -llāh. muḥammadun rasūlu llāh.

 Yes. And the Shias say Alian Walliyullah.

Why don’t the Sunnis say that?

She laughs. You are Shia. First you tell me why you don’t say it.

Because you are not, and I learned to pray from you.

You also learned at the mosque.

But abbu never took us there. He wasn’t even religious.

I took you.

Yes, you took us kids to our Shia mosque.

It is the same God.

So in order to focus on Allah we must first focus on love?

Yes. Allah is love. He made the us all out of His infinite love. In order to reach him we must learn to truly love his creation.

That is my way also, ammi.

I know, Ali. Tu mera raja hai. You will be a doctor and heal the world.

Did you always pray so much, ammi?

She laughs. I prayed in the same way. But not always from the heart. My pain brought me closer to Allah T’alla.

Is that why Rasulullah suffered?

Perhaps.

Is that why we suffered, ammi?

Perhaps.

Ammi, why do we pray in Arabic? I always forget the prayers. Why not in Urdu? Or English?

Because Arabic is the language of the Qu’ran, the language of the Rasulullah, Sallallahu alayhi wasallam. Because the Arabic of the prayer cannot be translated.

But most people in Pakistan don’t understand it.

The words still have power.

I will translate it into Urdu.

It cannot be done.

But ammi, I already forgot the Arabic. If it was Urdu I would remember.

You can practice with me.

But ammi.

Yes, Ali.

We are not Arabic.

So?

When I was in a car with Kara, she played the music from an Indian movie, and it sounded like this Raag. And it made me so happy.

She played Farida Khatun?

It was the same ghazal we heard in Lahore with mamu.

The Farida Khatun show?

The old lady who sang with a raspy voice.

She laughs. Yes that was Farida Khatun. She says it with so much respect.

You sing it, ammi. Your voice is better.

I can’t sing that now, Ali. She blushes. It takes a lot of practice. And my voice is nothing compared to Farida Khatun.

You will sing it better. And you will also be better than the man who sang it in the movie.

A man? Was he Pakistani?

I don’t know. It was an Indian movie. I’m going to watch it with Kara.

Where?

At Conor’s home.

He has a VCR?

Yes.

She is quiet and staring into the distance, and he knows he has to get her a VCR player.

Ammi?

Your abbu took me to see an Indian movie once, she says. Kabhi Kabhi. It was lovely.

To a cinema in Gilgit?

In Lahore. Where we met.

Ammi. In Lahore women wore saris. At the Farida Khatun show. She also wore a sari.

Yes. You remember! Your khaala wore a sari to the show. Before I was married I used to have two saris.

One of the Arab kids told told me people from Bakistan are not proper muslim because we don’t speak Arabic.

She laughs and laughs and then stops herself suddenly. Yes, they can’t say P. But he is wrong. The prophet, peace be upon him, said that no Arab is superior to a non Arab.

And no white man is superior to any black man, or vice versa, except if one is superior because he is more pious.

Oh mera raja! You remember!

Ammi, do Shias only pray three times?

Yes.

So maybe I should only pray three times?

Whatever you wish, Ali.

But you pray five times.

As long as you pray with gratitude.

But how can you feel gratitude, he thinks, when your Gullu is missing, he thinks. And your husband is gone.

In his truck a month ago Conor told him: I think I don’t know how to love. Because I never got to see love between my mom and dad. My mom didn’t love my dad. She was just afraid of him. I think in a way he loved her, but I don’t think she knew it. And then he couldn’t love anyone cause he was a drunk. Ali wonders how his abbu felt about his ammi. In the evening, in bed with Billi and Sunno, his father’s younger brother’s children, and Gullu, he would hear them in the next room, muffled by brick and mortar, his low voice and her giggle. And he smiles his happy smile and starts to drift off, for he uses happy memories to fall asleep.

Then he remembers what he had to ask her and fights himself awake.

Ammi …

Go to sleep, Ali. You have to work tomorrow.  

It’s okay. I’m not tired. He rises from the back, his neck open and light and amazingly pain free.

Ammi, how do you make it go away?

What?

You know. Everything bad.

I don’t know, Ali. Come. Drink some almond milk. I’ll heat it up for you.

She starts to get up. She has soaked the almonds in water until the skin peels off, then ground them into a powder. At night she would mix the ground almonds into hot milk for his father. But he stops her. He remembers the question.

Ammi? Just one more question.

And she just smiles. And he puts his head back in her lap and her hand on his head.

Ammi, this is what Leo asked me.

What did Leo ask?

He said, why do children suffer? He said ask your God why he makes children suffer. If he can answer me that I will become muslim.

She catches her breath.

The children in your class. The children that Conor works with. They suffer so much.

There is suffering everywhere, beta.

But why children, ammi?

I cannot answer that for you, Ali. She is almost stern, and he turns to her, mystified.

She is searching for words.

It is something you must answer for yourself.

For the first time, is she failing him?

But you have answered it? For yourself?

She pauses for a moment, nods slowly. Apne liye. Haan.

Do I have to get old and stop caring?

I care more than you know, Ali. She is gentle, but there is an almost imperceptible shift in her, and he knows he has made her angry.

Then why, ammi?

Namaz parho, Ali. Paanch bar. Aur Fikr karo. Roz Fikr karo.

Leo nahin karega Fikr, ammi.

Nahin. Par tum kar sakte ho.

Leo accha insaan hai.

Woh to hai. Finally, she smiles.

Leo took her shopping before, all the way to Langley Park, to the Pakistani store. When Ali’s truck was in the shop. And he waited in his car when she went into the mosque.

I want to explain to him, ammi. I feel like it is my path to explain, to help people understand.

I don’t know if you can, Ali.

But ammi, if he is a good man why can’t I help him.

Maybe you can, Ali. But the answer cannot be expressed in words. It is not based in words.

It is based on faith?

It is based on submission to God.

And love. You are all love, ammi.

Submission opens your heart to love. And gratitude.

So you forget the suffering because you focus on love?

Because you submit there is no suffering.

But the children are still suffering.

Love can ease their suffering.

Leo will say you hide from suffering.

To find truth you must dive into suffering. You cannot reject it.

Is that why you work with kids who suffer?

To work with children is the greatest joy in the world.

Even when they bite you? He has seen the bites on her left forearm. And the scratches. Even though she hides them under her kameez, keeps her forearms covered under her dupatta.

She looks away and colors, as if she has been found.

Then with resoluteness, looking at him. Yes.

What do you do when they bite? I have seen the scars, ammi.

You enter the pain.

Do you think of Gullu?

I don’t. But you can.

Do you think of the suffering of the martyrs.

No. But you can.

What do you do, ammi?

I think of Rasulullah, peace be upon him.

About Ta'if?

She smiles so wide. You remember!

I glow.

And she smacks me lightly on the side of my head. Then why do you pretend to forget?

Because I love it when you teach me.

Why? I taught you all this when you were a child.

I loved it when you taught us children.

With her arms she hugs his head in her lap. And sighs. And for a moment she is lost in memory. Then she hugs his head again.

So listen again, she says, and settles back so his falls lower in her lap, and she puts her palms back under his neck.

When Rasulullah, sallallahu ‘alaihi wa sallam, went to the three chiefs of Ta'if to preach the values of Islam they listened to him. And they rejected him.

It was the year of sorrows.

His wife and companion of 25 years, Khadija, umm al-Mu'minim, was dead. He had loved her dearly.

His uncle and protector from childhood, Abu Talib, was also gone.

Rasulullah had left Mecca. He had no one to protect him. They said he was corrupting the youth.

And now in Ta'if, he went before the three chiefs.

And he preached to them about the oneness of God.

About the brotherhood of all men.

And about rejecting their idols.

And, Ali jumps in, they ridiculed him.

She nods.

And as the prophet and Zaid were were leaving, the unemployed louts of the town surrounded them. And stoned them.

And they chased them out of town! Ali is excited, and he realizes that his excitement is inappropriate.

She nods gravely. They stoned them until the blood ran down from their heads to their feet.

Until their shoes were filled with blood, he says.

She nods, continues. And chased outside the gates of the city, Rasulullah settled under a tree, and a gardener tended to his wounds. And covered in blood, and in despair he prayed to Allah T'alla.

And he complained.

Yes. He asked him why?

Why he tested him so.

Why he abandoned him.

In his moment of darkness, he could have left faith.

In pain and forsaken by all, he could have given up.

I would have.

She shakes her head.

No, Ali. You wouldn't. You're my lion.

He didn't give up. He prayed to Allah T'alla.

She nods, and lets him finish.

And he said: You leave me in the hands of these distant relatives. Who receive me with hostility.

She nods again. The people who stoned him.

But so long as you are not angry with me I do not care.

I desire only your satisfaction. Only your grace. Only your pleasure and your mercy.

Yes, she nods. He knew sorrow and suffering.

And yet he did not renounce his faith.

And, my Ali, she says now, looking into Ali’s eyes.

At some point in your life you will be so tested.

And when you are.

When you are most tested, sacche dil se Allah se dua mango.

Allah aapki mannat sunega.

Zaroor sunega.

This is the lesson.

And, I jump in, before he arrived at Mecca, the angel Jibreel came to him.

Yes. Farishta Jibreel came to him.

And, I say loudly again, Farishta Jibreel said I will bring the two mountains around the town together and end the town of Taif.

And, she says, smiling, the Prophet, peace be upon him, said no. Please no.

For they are the children of Allah, and their children may grow up to know Allah.

She smiles. Yes.

So when the children hurt me, I focus on what Rasulullah taught me. He taught me that when someone hurts you, focus on love in your heart and on God. And you will know his suffering.

You focus on your heart?

I find the pain in the heart of the child.

Ammi. Can you ever forgive the person who killed Abbu?

What is there to forgive?

He agrees. It is so easy to forgive when you don’t feel anger. But sometimes he feels anger. His brother had much anger. Leo has anger.

Ammi. I think Leo likes you.

She blushes. He’s not a muslim, she says.

Did you speak to Irfan mama? Irfan mama is her brother, and very religious. He is a politician, and in Lahore they lived in his home for a year, until they could not. Ali’s father never prayed, and it was so different at Irfan mama’s home where prayers started in the morning.

She lights up immediately.

No, but I spoke to Nikki and Bilqis. And to their mother because they were playing and didn’t want to talk to their Khala. She laughs.

How old is Nikki now?

She is 6. And she wasn’t even born when we left Pakistan. Bilqis is 10. It is Sunday there, and they were excited about going for a drive with their Abbu.

Ammi, do you remember when Abbu used to work on Sunny?

Yah Allah. Of course I remember that Datsun. She laughs loudly, despite her tiredness. Of course I remember that terrible car.

I loved that car.

Your stepmother.

They both laugh at the old joke.

Your Abbu loved that car more than he loved me.What made you think of Sunny?

Ha. That’s the first time you’ve said her name! You were so jealous you would never say her name.

Ha ha. What made you think of her?

He never showed me how to take out a radiator.

Maybe he meant to but forgot.

No. He never forgot.

Is it hard?

I don’t think so. I can loosen the bolts. I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to lift it out.

Can you get your friend to help? The nice man.

Conor?

Yes.

I don’t know. He’s very busy these days. I don’t want to ask.

How was work today?

Good. Slow. I went to a church.

A Christian Church?

Ali burrows deeper. Yes. But it was peaceful. It felt good.

Was there a priest?

No. I don’t think so. Maybe in the back. There was a cemetery in the back, with old graves. Ammi…?

Yes.

Where is abbu buried?

An involuntarily moan. Not now, Ali.

Does anyone tend to his grave?

Of course. Your father is Rehmat Ali. Everyone in Gilgit loved him.

Why ammi?

He knows, but he loves to ask.

Because he protected them all.

How?

He negotiated with the government.

But he believed the government.

Yes. He was too trusting. Like you.

And they betrayed him.

But she is far away. She has dropped their ritualistic perseveration on his passing.

Why?

They have their reasons. They don’t care about us.

And he was protecting people even when he died.

Yes. He told everyone in the city to run away, sent the inhabitants into the forests, away from the city.

But chachajan died with him.

And three others.

Because they wouldn’t leave him.

She nods, but he senses she is getting tired of the remembrance of the massacre, that the trauma is less fresh, and picking at the wound no longer opens it and makes her cry. And it makes him a little desperate. Because he can never let himself forget.

Ammi.

Bolo beta.

How many died?

Hundreds.

Ali Murtaza.

She nods.

Shehzad Hussain.

Yes. And Ehsaan Khan. Now let’s eat.

I want to see his grave.

Some day, Inshallah. 

How was your day? Did you go to Safeway? 

His eyes are closed, tucked in her lap, but he knows that she smiles that fleeting smile again. Yes. And to the Indian store. The man over there doesn’t like me.  

Patel brothers? 

Patel brothers was the only Indian store around, so he knows where she went, and why she smiled. Ali and ammi always smile at him, but the man behind the counter is never friendly, and after they leave she mimics him, and Ali laughs so hard. She rarely goes there. On Fridays, Ali doesn’t work the morning shift, and instead they go to mosque and then to buy groceries at the Pakistani store in Langley Park, 15 miles away, the only place around that sells Halal meat. But yesterday Ali had slept in, so she had to go to the Indian store. So they would have no meat until next Friday. 

He falls asleep but as she moves to rise he wakes, and he is still guilty about her loneliness and about his friends. So he asks.

How was work yesterday?

She works as a teacher’s aide in a class for kids with developmental disabilities, and the school is on Watkins Mill Road, about a 30 minute walk. On rainy or cold days she takes the bus. On good days she walks. In Pakistan, in their village in Bagrote Valley and when they moved to Lahore, she was a teacher for elementary school kids, but here she is a teacher’s aide.

Gul’s face brightens. It was wonderful! It was parents’ day. Six of the parents came. I have a two Indian boys, twins, and both their parents came. They told the kids to call me Mrs. Gul aunty. Ha ha.

Did you go to evening prayers yesterday?

Yes, but number 90 was late, so I missed the second bus. I got in after prayers.

Did he ask about me?

He was asking why you didn’t come in the morning. I told him you weren’t well.

Ammi?

Bolo.

Fikr is meditating on love?

Love for Allah. Come. At least eat a little halwa. Tomorrow is the Urs of our Peer. I made so much for you. Eat a little.

Ammi?

Hm.

Why do we celebrate when someone passes?

Only when a Peer passes.

Because he is finally one with Allah?

Yes.

But we mourn the passing of Imam Hassan?

Shias do.

Because they believe he was betrayed and killed.

Yes.

Ammi?

Was our Peer pure love?

And she laughs. Yes.

Is Allah pure love?

Yes. Allah T’alla is pure love. And all I know is to feel gratitude for everything he gives.

Then I will do Zikr on his name.

That’s how the Naqshbandhis do it.

Then I’m a Naqshbandhi.

So get up in bed and sit straight. Watch your breath go through your body. And when you exhale say Allah. Do it for five minutes. And she shuffles off the bed to the kitchen, to heat his milk.

So he sits up. But after a few minutes he starts to nod off.

He lifts himself straight and tries again.

But his thoughts wander.

He remembers how he kissed Kara.

Hands on their own laps. Lips in love.

Fikr on love. Pure love.

What are you dreaming of?

It’s ammi.

Nothing.

She is smiling. You were smiling in your sleep.

He makes himself get up. After he drinks the hot honey-almond milk he lays in bed and thinks of Kara. The strange day before.

The little plaque outside on a post, some letters partly erased by rain and wind, that looks like it was put up by some state agency.

Built 1798, St. Ignatius is one of the oldest Catholic Churches in Maryland.

When Lord George Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore was given a charter to settle the land from the Potomac to the Chesapeake, Maryland became the first Catholic colony. The first Catholic Mass in the United States was held in Maryland by Father A White.

And by the entrance a faded inscription in white marble on a rock. She holds up the flashlight.

On the day of the annunciation of the Holy Virgin Mary, on the 25th of March, in the year 1634, we offered in this island, for the first time, the sacrifice of the mass: in this region of the world it had never been celebrated before.

Come, says Kara, standing at the door.

I look behind me at the lot, at the two-lane road winding into the woods.

In the distance on the corner where the road curves into the floodplain forest, a road sign: SENECA.

Come, she says again.

* * *

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