Kauthar Page 2

  And in this calm, her life plays out in front of her eyes one last time. A single image and yet innumerable tiny ones. The big picture is static, framed as if it hangs in a museum where it has always hung and always will. The little ones are moving, rolling past, unfolding in front of her, flickering. This is Lydia’s life: every event, every person, every place, every thought, every dream she has ever experienced, spoken to, seen, thought, dreamed. She is allowed to glance at everything one last time, as an observer. She is allowed to experience it all one more time, not sequentially, as a succession of finite moments, but as a single endless moment. Her life, her being, is being revealed to her, in eternity, for eternity. And she knows, afterwards, that she will have to go. The last deed that remains to be done. And it is an unbounded, calm, immeasurably light feeling.

  Only He knows what comes after. I will leave my body behind. Soon. Very soon. I am lying in the middle of a desert. Nothing but sand all around me. Dry, yellow sand. There is nothing I can hold on to, no beginning, no middle, no end. What am I doing in this desert? How did I get here? I don’t know, but I have to get out. Because of my love for Him. I would like to whisper, I love You. So that He might lift me up, away from here, into the Other. Into His reality. But my lips don’t move. Can’t move. My body can’t perform this movement any longer. Can’t perform any movement. Because it is torn apart. To what extent, I do not know. I can’t see anything either. I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed. I think they are closed, but maybe it only seems that way to me and the outside world sees them as open. It doesn’t matter. No one can reach me any more. In a moment I will be dead to these people. My body is dying and my soul has to be freed. This is how it is written. It can’t be otherwise.

  Air rushes into Lydia’s lungs. She starts breathing again. And the picture, her life, shatters. Just fragments. She bends forward, presses her fist into her stomach, her forehead touches the ground. She coughs. Her face is bright red. Marcus is still circling the playground. Kathy is still sitting on the middle monkey bar.

  ‘Are you OK? Do you want me to hit you on the back?’ Kathy asks.

  Lydia shakes her head, waving her hand in the air. Everything is fine. She feels silly, even though neither Marcus nor Kathy have realized what really happened. Marcus is still talking about his willy; Kathy is still giggling and teasing.

  And Lydia bends forward again.

  And my forehead touches the floor and I press my hands flat under my shoulders. I tuck my toes in and pray: Subhana rabbiyal a’la. Subhana rabbiyal a’la. Subhana rabbiyal a’la. Three times. Glory to my Lord, the Highest. Glory to my Lord, the Highest. Glory to my Lord, the Highest. And the breath that I take in with these words fills my chest, I feel my heart as light as a feather and I feel the air that travels from my chest into my stomach and to my spine. The path from the playground to here was long: from the playground, where for the first time I fell into the most God-fearing position, where I prostrated myself in front of God without knowing what I was doing. My movements came from my deepest unconscious, born out of my soul’s desire to prostrate itself in front of the Creator. My childlike soul apprehended then what my head would understand only years later. In the playground, in front of the monkey bars on my knees, I met the Creator Himself, came closer to Him than ever again since. The calm that I perceived then, the quietness that surrounded me, is not from this world, has nothing to do with this life. Peace was upon me. A peace which can stem only from devotion to God. He is all-knowing and wise. He knows His creatures. But we no longer know Him. If only I had understood then what had happened to me: that I had recognized God and fallen to my knees in front of Him. He didn’t take me in. You didn’t take me in. Why not? Was it because I was a child who didn’t yet turn to You knowingly?

  And I sit up straight. Allahu akbar. For a moment I remain on my knees, only to prostrate myself once more in front of You, Allahu akbar. No, I am not throwing myself down. Instead I slide down slowly, I bend my head, I lower my body; my hands are touching the ground, fingers slightly spread. An elegant, gracious movement. A dance performance. A gymnast’s routine. Out of the corner of my eye I see the women to my right and left. Eight or ten women. We are all part of the same movement. I see Rabia’s hand next to mine, her pale fingers with the beautifully manicured nails, unvarnished. How often have I seen this hand touch the ground next to mine, felt her body bend in submission next to mine? How often have I secretly admired her flawless movements in honour and praise of the Almighty, the Most Beautiful?

  At the beginning, when I ask Rabia to show me how to pray, I just watch. Eventually I decide to stand beside her. I haven’t yet learned the words. I raise my hands when she lifts hers up to her ears, palms facing forward. Then I lower my arms to the sides of my thighs, following Rabia’s example, standing upright, waiting while she begins quietly to praise Allah. Her lips are moving, but no sound escapes as she asks Him to protect her from the devil, reciting the first Sura of the Quran. I have only a vague idea of the words of the Muslim prayer, but I want to imitate the movement. I want to see what it feels like. And in unison with my friend Rabia I bend my upper body forward and place my hands on my knees. Again I am waiting, but I have already learned that we won’t stay in this position for long. Ruku’ is followed by qiyam – to stand up straight. And then we lower ourselves on to our knees in order to bow down in sujud – the prostrate position. Ruku’, qiyam, sujud. These are my first words in Arabic. They are magic words, describing the skills required to perform a beautiful routine of submission, prayer and praise.

  My routine, which I have worked on for many years, has now been perfected.

  The day Rafiq approaches me, I am Kauthar. I have been Kauthar for a long time, all the time, returned home to where I belong, and my rules are the rules of Allah, and I follow His laws and His laws are lucid. If a Muslim man approaches a Muslim woman with a view to marrying her, his intentions must be honest. Because God doesn’t like hypocrites.

  ‘I am sorry to approach you like this. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Rafiq Ismail.’

  He walks towards me and stops about three steps in front of me.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  A strong nose, full lips, well-defined eyebrows and, beneath them, dark eyes with long lashes. He is clean-shaven, a few grey hairs at the temples, tiny wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. He is wearing a light-blue casual shirt, the top two buttons open, and a pair of beige trousers. A man, not a boy.

  ‘The first time I saw you was in the library where I was looking for some books.’

  His English is flawless, educated. He must have gone to a good school. No accent. Only a slight off-beat in the melody betrays the fact that English is not his first language. He looks straight at me. He is used to looking women in the eye.

  ‘Then I saw you again at the Islamic Centre, on the eve of Sayyida Fatimah’s mawlid.’

  So he is a Shiite.

  ‘And a month ago I spotted you for the third time. Here. I came to meet my friend Mr Alim.’

  Mr Alim is my teacher. A lovely man from Syria, probably in his late fifties, with a very nice wife who must be as wide as she is high. I like Mr Alim very much, even though he doesn’t think highly of his own religion, Islam. But he is clever and knows as much about Western literature as he knows about Arabic books, and he is a gifted language teacher.

  ‘When I saw you for the third time, I knew this was a sign from Allah. I asked Alim about you. He told me of your natural linguistic skills and how easily you picked up even a complicated language such as Arabic. He told me about your inquisitive mind and your devotion to Allah. But he couldn’t tell me if you are married. He thinks you are not, because no man ever accompanies you here or picks you up. Mr Alim knows that for a while now I’ve been looking for a wife. He knows I am choosy and he knows me well. He promised me that he would ask his wife to find out more about you.’

  And I reme
mber bumping into Mrs Alim two weeks ago.

  At the end of the lesson Mr Alim asks me to stay behind. He hands me another text to translate for practice at home. As I am heading out of the classroom, I nearly collide with Mrs Alim in the doorway. Mr Alim briefly introduces us. I leave them and walk along the silent, dark corridor. Suddenly I hear Mrs Alim calling after me. She hurries to catch up. Her husband still has work to do, she doesn’t have time to wait for him. Would I mind accompanying her to the bus stop? She doesn’t like walking on her own in the evening. Of course I agree. She puts her arm in mine. We are walking very slowly. She’s got something wrong with her foot, she explains, and because she rushed to catch me up it’s hurting again. We take the lift down, then we are heading towards Russell Square to the bus stop. She complains a bit about her foot, then she grumbles a bit about Mr Alim and says that he takes his teaching more seriously than his marriage. She laughs and asks if my husband displays similar tendencies. I shake my head.

  ‘I hope you don’t misunderstand me,’ she continues. ‘Mr Alim and I love and honour each other very much. We got married when I was fifteen and he seventeen.’

  ‘Mash’Allah. Allah willed it. Mash’Allah, ya tant,’ I call out to express my true admiration, but also because I know she is expecting me to say it.

  ‘Does your husband love you?’

  She limps along beside me, smiling. In our Western culture this small question, asked by the by, would most likely be interpreted as intrusive if not downright rude. Whether my husband loves me or not is a private matter. In the Islamic culture, however, such a question is fuelled by sincere sympathy, maternal concern, an older woman cares for a younger woman and wants to make sure that she is OK.

  I answer truthfully, ‘Unfortunately I am not married.’

  ‘Insh’Allah, soon, God willing,’ she replies, squeezing my arm gently. ‘It is not good for a beautiful young woman to be alone.’ The bus approaches. She takes my face between her hands, presses a wet kiss on my right cheek and then my left, and reassures me once more, ‘Insh’Allah, God willing, you will find a husband very soon.’

  Two weeks ago I didn’t think much about her last words. I took them as a polite phrase, as small talk, something she felt obliged to say but that was beyond her realm of influence. Now I smile as I remember this little round woman limping along next to me. I wouldn’t have guessed that she had such a crafty side to her.

  I say it out loud: ‘She didn’t look as crafty as that at all. I am impressed.’

  Even while I am still speaking I see the tension disappearing from Rafiq’s face and a broad smile appearing on his lips.

  ‘Well, she is an Arab woman.’

  For a moment we fall silent. I have averted my eyes once again and my thoughts return to Lydia, and how much Lydia would have loved to meet such a man. A man who had noticed her long before she saw him. She had grown in importance, been given a place in his life, before she even knew of his existence. Like a father who has a vague idea of his daughter’s life before she is born, who holds her in his arms as a baby, his eyes resting upon her, this beautiful female creature that he has fathered, the most beautiful female creature he has ever seen. And her eyes are still closed, but when she opens them she will see him, he who has already known about her for months. He who has already admired her all her life, in whose arms she will find protection, who will show her the world. All her life long Lydia has waited for such a man.

  And she feels his soft, full lips and thinks, he is forty-five, six foot tall, and weighs at least 16 stone, a mature man, a successful banker, and I am twenty-two, he could be my father. It is July – the notorious month of affairs in Paris, when men send their wives and children to the south of France on holiday, to the seaside or the countryside, in order to clear the way for a blonde, blue-eyed English tourist. And Claude is leaning across the little round table and the wicker chair creaks and he kisses Lydia. She hears the cars honking on the Rue de Rivoli. She observes how the red liquid sloshes about in the wine glass under his weight on the table and makes a bet in her head whether drops will spill on to the green tabletop. Still, she allows him to kiss her and responds to his kiss, because she doesn’t want to waste her time this week. They are three student teachers pretending to be into art and culture for a few days in Paris. Liz and Jane both have boyfriends, also student teachers, and Lydia has Pete, a handyman, a lovely bloke with a motorbike and huge hands, with whom she can only go to bed when she is totally drunk. But he adores her. She likes it that he adores her and is proud of her, and that he picks her up on his motorbike whenever she wants. And they speed down to London and back. Then they go to the pub and drink and afterwards retreat to the shed in the garden of the house where he lives with his mother. In the early hours of the morning Pete drives her back into Norwich, to the flat she shares with Liz and Jane. She takes a shower to wash off all the shame and disgust and then slides beneath the clean sheets, happy that she is finally alone. If only she had stayed at home that evening to revise and study, or gone netball training like Jane. But Lydia has never played netball. Or perhaps gone to the stables like Liz. But animals have always frightened Lydia, especially horses. Therefore maybe it’s best with Pete. He is there for her whenever she calls him. He finishes his job at five on the dot, he is a good handyman, a nice man who is also looking after his mum, who had a stroke far too early in life. And his mum has a little house that he will inherit one day. Lydia imagines that they will sell it and buy an old farm near the coast. And Pete will do up the farm and convert the barn too as a study for her. And Lydia will be the head teacher at a nearby primary school, and they will have two happy children, and Lydia will be happy, and once or twice a month she will visit Liz and Jane in Norwich to go to the cinema. Many people are amazed that Pete and Lydia are so contented, because intellectually she is miles ahead of him. But they are contented because he adores her. And without her he doesn’t know what to do, even now, after only two months of knowing her. He idolizes her and tells her that she could become a professor if she wanted to.

  ‘What kind of professor?’ Lydia asks.

  ‘A professor,’ he replies, slightly amazed by her question. Then he shrugs his shoulders. ‘A professor is a professor and you are so clever.’

  Finally she is lying in her bed, clean and pure, with only one wish: that the roller coaster in her head might stop and she might never drink again. Dear God, please. I promise never again. And she despises herself for sleeping with Pete. She imagines the old farmhouse near the coast and her study in the converted barn and how she will teach at the school and sleep with Pete every now and again, and how she will be happy because she has finally understood that this is what happiness means. Her stomach churns. Luckily she has already placed a bowl next to the bed. Afterwards she keeps very still. She feels lonely and guilty because Pete loves her but she does not love him. And she is disgusted by herself that she allows him to touch her, that she ever allowed a man to touch her. She would love to be a nun, clean and pure and innocent and in love with only Him. She opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. She tries to concentrate on the small lampshade which is visible because of the glow from the street light. The lampshade doesn’t remain fixed in one spot; it slips from her sight, spins and turns and dances around in circles there on the ceiling.

  But she doesn’t want to become a teacher, doesn’t want to live in a converted barn. She wants to escape the smallness, the narrowness. She wants to move. I want to move. Have I still got legs? Arms? I can’t see any longer, neither the world outside nor inside myself. I sit in front of a black hole, stare down into a deep shaft. I am sitting in the desert. I am on my knees. I bend forward to stare down into the deep black shaft in order to pray. Muhammad, peace be upon him, and all the other prophets before him – Abraham, Moses, Jesus – came from the desert. To each one of us He reveals signs, again and again, because He is all-merciful, all-patient, the father who knows about the bl
indness of His children. He is also the Wise One and so He knows that His children, especially the disobedient ones, will come to their senses with experience. Today, when clarity is upon me, I am grateful to Him. Infinitely grateful. And I fall to my knees in front of Him and I submit to Him, till my forehead touches the ground. For a moment I remain without thought, without words, without breath, so as to feel His breath penetrate deep inside me. And I am filled with the knowledge of His Love.

  Alas, I can no longer perform this act of devotion. I am lying paralysed on a dusty road, unable to move. Has my body been ripped apart?

  And I am back in the bed, and I still have arms and I still have legs, and my stomach is smooth and soft and closed, and I wish it would open up so that I could tear out all the ugly, disgusting, dirty stuff I put inside. I would like to die, so that everything can come to an end. And I would like to be clean and pure and innocent like a baby, a newborn, who has just come from Him and will return to Him.

  Lydia leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. Her hem rides up. She is wearing a tight skirt that finishes just above the knee, typical for Parisian women. She bought it yesterday at Tati’s and today she has put her hair up and tied a beautiful silk scarf around her neck, with the knot to one side. She is sure there is a Catherine Deneuve film in which she wears a scarf with her hair backcombed and up at the back. She takes the packet of Marlboro Lights between her thumb and index finger, places it upright and then lets it drop on to its narrow, long side. She says to Claude, ‘Let’s go.’