The Taqwacores (20 page)

Umar told us that Sayyed had keys to the masjid in Rochester and we could borrow them for
i’tikaf.

“No women, though.”

“Umar,” replied Rabeya, “I’m from Rochester—I used to go to that masjid all the time.”

“Rules of the mosque. No women.”

“Oh right, there’s that hadith—how’s it go? ‘The woman, the dog and the ass all interrupt prayer.’ That’s a good one.”

“And I don’t want the
liwatiyyah
coming either.”

“The wha—”

“Muzammil Sadiq,” said Umar. “Muzammil from the
ahlul-Lut
. Nothing personal against him, if he says
la ilaha illa Allah
he’s my brother but I don’t want him there.”

“Why not, if he’s your brother?” asked Fasiq.

“Because what if I fall asleep?”

“I think he’ll manage to control himself,” moaned Rabeya. “I mean, it’ll be tough because you’re so fucking hot, Umar. Maybe if you tie him up before you fall asleep, then you’ll be safe.” Umar rolled his eyes.

“I think Muzammil would feel unsafe if your hating ass were there,” said Jehangir. “How do you like that?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“Well nobody’s fitting in your fuckin’ pickup,” Jehangir countered. “So if we’re taking my car, Muzammil and Rabeya are in the jamaat.”

“Mash’Allah,” replied Umar.

“No,” said Rabeya. “I’ll respect the rules of the masjid. It’s bullshit but you don’t know who else’ll be there.”

“Okay,” said Jehangir. “But Muzammil’s in.”

“Fine,” said Umar. “Maybe it’ll help him.”

“Help him with
what?’
snapped Rabeya, but Umar ignored her as he walked away.

 

 

“No beer,” said Umar as we loaded our bags in the trunk, glaring straight at Jehangir. He looked at Fasiq. “And no weed.” He looked at Muzammil. “And no... uh... no gay material.”

“Damn!” said Muzammil with obvious sarcasm. “I was just about to ask if we could swing by the campus an’ pick up all my big stacks of fag porn—because, you know, that’s what I usually do in mosques.”

“Hilarious,” Umar replied.

“Sometimes I bring my Zionist cohorts and some pigs—”

“That’s enough.”

“What time is it?” asked Fasiq.

“Almost eleven,” said Umar. “We’ll be there around midnight, insha‘Allah wa Ta’Ala.”

“Not bitch,” called Fasiq as he climbed in the back.

“Not bitch,” called Muzammil, leaving me stuck in the cramped middle.

Jehangir drove. Umar sat shotgun with Sayyed’s directions in hand. We took the 1-90 East, going by the sci-fi lights of an airport runway, green and red and white. Then it was a lot of nothing.

“Did I ever tell you about the masjid I saw out in Montana?” Jehangir asked.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, squeezed in tight with my hands on my knees.

“It was right on this road, the 90... I pass by a barn with a giant rusty crescent on top of the silo. On the roof a giant ‘Allah’ in Arabic, and in English it says ‘MASJID AL-TAQWA.’ So I pull over, hop the fence and run through a cornfield. Kind of had to. The imam was real cool. He was from Yemen, I think. He had a beard, kufi, flannel shirt and blue jeans dirty from the knees down with dirty work-boots at the door because I think he was still a real-deal farmer.”

“What was the inside like?”

“Weird. Kind of a barn and kind of a masjid. Had a mihrab and even a minbar. Nice carpets. But you could tell it used to be a barn. I don’t know.” Jehangir put in a tape. The Jim Carroll Band’s “People Who Died” came on. With nobody talking and nothing to look at, my only mental stimulation was the darkness and the song—the darkness dramatized by road lights and car lights, the song energetic in sadness, vibrantly mournful—and I couldn’t help but imagine that this car ride to Rochester, to a masjid, five young men seeking Allah in what looked like a movie... and maybe that was why Allah made us, just so He could curl up on the Couch with a bowl of Popcorn to watch little ants find Him... and I was being stupid. Jehangir got off at exit 46, the suburb Henrietta which he informed us was named after the daughter of Sir William Pulteney. Then we got on 390 North. Took the third exit, ended up on 252 East and within a mile or so we were on the right street. And there it was. As Umar turned the key I couldn’t help but feel
like we were doing something wrong. We had among us a mohawked drunk fornicator, a mohawked pothead, a homosexual and me, whatever I was. Umar was the only
real
Muslim, the only one who could have hung in the old days of Hijras and Badrs; and even he was covered with stupid tattoos any scholar would call
haram
regardless of what they said.

I made sure to enter with my right foot first. Immediately to our left was a wall of cubbies to house our shoes. To our right was the locked office. Umar took a pair of courtesy slippers and went into the bathroom. The rest of us walked straight ahead to the glass doors and unlit prayer room, careful there too to go in with the right foot.

Then the place was ours. It was wide, a decent walk from one wall to the other. Looked even bigger due to the super-high ceiling. I looked at the crazy haircuts and Jehangir’s spiked jacket. Invasion of the taqwacores. I pictured us in the Ka’ba fourteen centuries past, an army of maniacs and hooligans running around with baseball bats smithereening stone al-Lat and al-Uzzas with double-handed, out-the-park swings.

“Look how clean this place is,” remarked Jehangir, looking at the walls. At first he seemed unnaturally loud, but I realized that it was just the acoustics of the room and it didn’t matter because nobody else was there. “That’s why I love masjids. You go into a church, they bombard you with images of Christ and Mary and whatnot. Or a Buddhist temple, they got a gold Buddha as big as the whole room and there’s no escaping him. But you step into a masjid, bro, with these walls bare except for curvy calligraphy so complicated you can’t even read what it says, and it doesn’t matter who you are. There’s nothing in your way, nothing imposed on you.”

“The only thing that ever made me uncomfortable in a masjid,” said Muzammil, “was
people
. With the place empty, this isn’t half bad.” Fasiq went to the bookshelf, sorted through paras
until finding the Juz Amma, took it and sat propping himself against a wall to read—in the dark, until Umar came in and turned on the lights. At first he put them all on, then switched off a few.

“We should make two nafl rakats,” he declared. “Out of respect for the masjid.” We each took a corner of the wide open room. Umar prayed in the center of the room, directly in the lights. Jehangir stood towards the left wall. I walked up to what would have been the front row in a jumaa. Fasiq and Muzammil had dark corners. I later heard Umar say loud enough to be heard everywhere in the room, “now make your sunna for Isha.” So we did that. I think we all did. I felt like I had to, thanks to my brother Umar enjoining the right. Then Jehangir got up, went to the mihrab and flicked a switch on the wall to turn on the microphone.

He crooned it like a hammered Sinatra with matching face and posture.

“Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbarullaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbar; Allaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbarullaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahu Akbar!” Umar was probably ready to kill him but he did-n’t say anything, just silently mouthing the words.

We made a beautiful Isha. Jehangir led. I prayed between Umar and Muzammil and never felt anything negative flowing from one to the other. It was a good prayer. We were brothers with bare feet.

“Look up there,” said Fasiq. The women’s balcony. “Let’s check that shit out.” We headed for the door. “Staghfir‘Allah,” he added, realizing that he had said ‘shit’ in the masjid. We left with our lefts first and went up the stairs, finding a large open space with long tables leaned against the wall with their legs folded in and a mess of folded chairs. Chalkboards and a podium. “This is where they have their Sunday school and banquets,” said Fasiq. Then we stepped through another glass door and found the balcony. “We could spit on Umar from here... staghfir’Allah.”

“Salaam alaikum,” I called to our brothers below.

“Wa alaikum as-salaam, sisters,” joked Jehangir.

The upstairs also had a kitchen but all we could find in the refrigerator was a bag of chipatis and, covered in aluminum foil, a bowl of leftover
something
that Fasiq identified as “spicy-ass shit.”

“You’re not down with South Asian cuisine?” I asked, smiling.

“Man, I don’t know how you do it.”

Went back downstairs to find Jehangir sitting in the mihrab, forearms resting on his knees. Muzammil leaned against a wall in contemplation, of what I don’t know. Umar seemed lost in zikrs or du’as. I looked at Jehangir again. High orange mohawk, spikes, red plaid pants. Looked at the tiled mihrab around him and the prayer rug beneath.

“Come here bro,” he said, nodding to the bookshelves as he got up and walked over. He reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a flimsy booklet, the cover yellow with white creases and rounded corners.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“My gift to the masjid,” he whispered in reply.

Jehangir held it so I could see the cover and catch its musty attic smell.
The Punk
. “It’s a novel,” he explained. “The first punk novel. This kid Gideon Sams, he was like fourteen when he wrote it. He fuckin’ worked at his dad’s pizza place and dreamed of becoming a brain surgeon. Did his homework in a pool hall. Wanted to design a skateboard that he could pogo on. Look at that on the cover:
‘Romeo and Juliet’ with Safety Pins
. Haha. Shit. This book, man, it’s like reading a book by one of the old Sahabas.” Jehangir slid the thin volume among the paras that Fasiq had been sorting through before. “Who knows who’ll find it.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Hopefully someone cool.”

“Did that kid write anything else?”

“Shaykh Sams? I don’t think so. He died when he was twenty-six. I don’t even think
The Punk
was meant to be anything big, it just kind of happened. Alayhe salaam.”

I watched him walk away and find a spot to lie down.

“Brother,” said Umar, gentle but firm. “It is good to lay with your head facing qiblah.”

“Right,” Jehangir replied, turning around with no tinge of hostility. It was a good night like that.

Among all the Qur‘ans and paras and hadith collections I noticed a magazine, the official publication of some prominent American Muslim group. Picked it up and flipped through the pages past big colorful ads for Qur’ans on CD-ROM and Islamic children’s videos, something about Chechnya, something about Bush and Iraq, something about Allah’s Name found in a watermelon, something about matrimonials. Islamic matrimonials. Brothers Seeking Sisters. Sisters Seeking Brothers. Parents inviting correspondence for Salafi daughter (Arabic origin), searching for a very pious Salafi with beard, and strong Iman and arabic origin... parents seeking correspondence for daughter in final year of university, studying software engineering; 5’5” with fair skin, wears hejab... Gujarati Parents invite correspondence for final year MD resident daughter, 28, 5’4”, slim, fair, beautiful. US born, raised with east/west values, preferred US born, never married and professional, in medical field... Egyptian parents seeking correspondence for their daughter, 30, 5’1”, caring, attractive, with master’s degree. Looking for USA born/raised professional between 29-36 years... Hyderabadi parents inviting correspondence for their doctor son raised and educated in USA. Specializing in Neuro-Radiology, age 34, 5’9”. Father, brother and sister all doctors. Girl should be educated, slim, fair, from a very cultured, well-to-do religious family... and so it went, column to column.
Preferred already in a strong engineering, medical or related occupation... son
in computer programming... preferred Hyderabadi professional... graduated Radiologic Technology, pursuing MRI certification... prefers someone in medical field... employed in computer field... seeking a US born/raised medical doctor/lawyer/engineerlCPA (24-30) for their US born/raised daughter... send resume and picture.

I looked at the pack of raving weirdoes with whom I shared the masjid that night, imagined us replying to these ads or better yet, showing up at the families’ doorsteps.

Hi, I’m Jehangir. I’m here to marry your daughter.

Hi, I’m Fasiq. No degree but I’m in pharmaceuticals.

Hi, I’m Muzammil. I hear your son’s a doctor.

As-salaamu alaikum, I’m Umar. These ads are haram!

Hi, I’m Yusef. Sunni, Pakistani origin, engineering student, good family.

 

 

Lying on the carpeted hard floor, the five of us shared those corny late night, male-bonding philosophy sessions and pulled it off surprisingly well. Umar was still Umar, but he didn’t seem as nuts as usual. Maybe in the masjid he toned down his act. Maybe in the masjid he just made more sense to the rest of us. We were spread out all over the room so you had to speak loud to be heard by someone on the other side. Eventually it just became too much effort and we either spoke only to the nearest brother or drifted off to sleep.

“Umar,” I said just before falling asleep, “is masturbation halal?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Rasullullah said it was better to fast... but you know what, brother? Allahu Alim.”

We were awoken by Umar’s eloquent Fajr adhan hitting us from every corner of the place at once.

“Was the microphone really necessary?” whined Fasiq. We pulled ourselves up and plodded to the bathroom, peed away the morning erections and washed our feet for prayer. Nobody wanted to lead so Umar got in front and Muzammil gave the iqama.

“Make your line straight,” Umar commanded. “Shoulder to shoulder, feet to feet.” We could barely keep our eyes open.

After Fajr Umar went to the shelves and grabbed Qur‘ans for each of us, failing to notice Maulana Gideon Sams. “Okay, we are turning to Suratul-Nur, the thirty-fifth ayat... aoudhu billahi mina shaytani rajeem, subhana kallahumma wa bihamdika wa tabara gasmuka wa ta’Ala jedduka wa la ilaha gayruk... bismillahir rahmanir raheem. Allahu nuru al-samawati wal-ardi mathalu nurihi kamishkatin feeha misbahun almisbahu fee zujajateen alzujajatu kanaha kawkabun durriyyun yuqadu min shajaratin mubarakatin zaytunatin la sharqiyyatin wala gharbiyyatin yakadu zaytuha yudeeu walaw lam tamsas‘hu narun nurun ala nurin yahdee Allahu linurihi man yashau wayadribu Allahu al-amthala lilnasi wa’Allahu bikulli shay‘in aleemun... sadaq’Allahul azeem. Now brothers, this is called the Ayat of Nur, or Light. Scholars throughout the centuries have tried to find the correct interpretation, but the true meaning is known to Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala and nobody else except as He wills. Brother Yusef, would you like to read the English interpretation?”