Book
The following is a section from Chapter 12 of my book, Ibadaah - Dancing with the Devil.
An opening mind. There was a seal within my cerebrum and I had discovered how to explore what lay beyond. A doorway to another existence. The lounge floor was now a cushion of air. I was transforming. Becoming a light - a spirit. A tangible entity evolving within an alternative state of consciousness. Dynamic pulsating figures of eight creating swirls of colour all around me. Brighter and brighter. A continuum of light emanating from some heavenly station and enveloping me with warmth and solace.
A door opened in the distance.
Silent meditation interrupted - I willed the narrowing compartment of my mind to expand once again.
Gentle footsteps padded through the hallway and then, another door creaked open.
My earthly conscience could no longer be fought. Energy patterns diminished – replaced by the heightening sense of palms resting on thighs as I knelt.
A tall figure entered the lounge and watched me.
The retreating space continued its withdrawal and the hard floor began to bite at my bony knees and ankles. Opening my eyes slowly, I limited the influx of acerbic daylight.
Amir, stood awkwardly in the doorway scratching his forehead with his forefinger. "Baji, I didn't wanna interrupt but I'm really starving. Do you have the number of a local take away?
"Take away? You don't need a take away. You're my guest for the weekend!" I started getting up quickly. My legs reined me in, refusing to move with the agility I thought they were capable of.
"You're fasting, I feel guilty making you cook." Already my brother was pushing buttons on his mobile as if dialling a number.
My legs locked-straight but a threatening buckling sensation traversed them. Pins and needles. A clumsy stumble towards the doorway – right hand against the wall for support. "Don't you know people love to cook when they're fasting?" Hiding discomfort, "it fills them up. Besides, I need to cook for Aneela."
“No, I can’t let you cook,” he sat on the computer chair and began pulling on his trainers.
Even in the hallway I could hear his deep voice moaning about the state I was in. How much weight had I lost anyway? … What was I fasting for? … I was ridiculous ... God will send rain if he wants to … He doesn’t need me to fast …
Success. Destination reached. I added half a cup of sunflower oil to the stockpot after placing it on the hob.
Amir could put forward a convincing argument. But I had made a promise to God. This was the last week of my fasting for goodness sake.
I stroked the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon. Neat flakes of onion and garlic succumbed to the simmering mixture.
I considered – my word – was it worth anything if I didn’t keep it? I would keep my word. Would Allah keep His?
The sizzling sharpened. More water. The mixture screamed as if in excruciating pain before settling.
My thoughts drifted on the gentle shshsh sound; I was challenging Allah. Testing Him. I loved Allah. Allah loved me. But how much did He love me? Enough to make it rain in Ethiopia?
In spite of the tamed onions a belated stinging of my eyes dragged soul-less tears.
Tiny bubbles jumped around in the hot sauce. Minor explosions confined within an area of pi times r2; r being the radius of the pan. R is never large enough. The sauce always manages to spread thinly and then leap out when you least expect.
Mum used to teach me the preparation of some dishes. To my dismay, bubbling oil was crucial for any self-respecting curry. I was terrified of the oily mixture launching hot stinging bombs as if from a cannon. Hot spicy lava threatened to splash into my eyes and cause untold damage. No desire to experience a sensation combining both scorching and burning, an 8 year old Ibadaah would cover her eyes with her left palm and continue stirring with her right. All this, whilst stood on a chair maximising the distance between eyes and the simmering sauce.
“Well done. You’ve definitely finished cooking now.” Mum’s sarcastic comment as on one such occasion, the pot crashed to the floor. A sudden shower of orange rain.
Hmm – rain. Both mercy, or wrath unleashed. Inshallah – God willing, it would bring mercy.
What about the vision of Wrath I had had?
No, mustn't think about it. The sauce needs more water –
But I was shown clear evidence.
The steam twisted up out of the mixture.
Forget it. Forget it! Shaking my head as if centrifuging out negative thoughts I looked around. Diversion. What to do?
Everything is possible – so they say. Trying to clean every speck of blood from the chicken - impossible. Mysteriously, blood seeps continuously from the marrow within the bones.
Mum used to cook chicken – patiently – as a 5 year old Ibadaah had a tantrum by the door. Cousin Hafeez had sneaked out and deprived her of a wonderful daytrip to the laundrette.
A wonderful patient mum spending most of the night sewing cardigans for extra pennies. Then, awaking early to iron our clothes, prepare breakfast and dress lazy children.
Aneela was dressing herself at 5 – not Ibadaah. Ibadaah's mum even pulled her socks on for her. Spoilt child was oblivious yet she had the best mum in the entire world.
About fifty yards in front I'd spot her – Mum walking home with Amir. That 5 foot 2 frame, carrying 10 stones of cushioning comfort. Oversized sleeveless cardigans that could only ever be fashionable in Mirpur and a forearm supporting a beige vintage bag were her trade mark.
My heart leapt from my chest, eager to fly.
Rina and Kosar, began to recognise Mum’s frame and would grab my arms. Teasingly restraining. Obstructing as only school friends do.
I always managed to struggle free, thrashing with the desperation of someone drowning. Nothing could contain me. My breath caught and my heart just longed to cling to some part of her – become her sleeve – her gold wedding bangles – the naara that thread through her trousers keeping them tied around her waist. Just to be close to the sanctuary that was mum.
Even at the age of 10 I was having prophetic dreams. One of my visions had previously been realised. A dagger wielding silhouette lashed in the darkness of my dreams. I found no escape from rage filled eyes. And the hands that raised bloody entrails tormenting the deepest enclaves of my mind – raised on a warm starry night.
Fear rested silently in the air as we all made our way home. Words were not spoken. But we all knew of the unpredictable terror that awaited us.
Mum was gaining strength against it, but she didn’t anticipate the irrepressible rage that would confront her without warning.
On the 26th of May 1980 the horror that shared our home launched a frenzied attack on Mum as she attempted to unlock the front door.
As the 7 inch dagger fell repeatedly, she attempted escape. Bang on doors. Scream for help. Beg for mercy. It was not forthcoming.
We clung in tight terror to Khalid’s wheelchair which Mum had pushed along on the journey.
Mum weakened. The redness which pumped through her veins stained the street. She lay supported by the steps of number 15 like a rag doll. Clutching her wounds. Unable to move.
Job done – wiping the blade with his tweed jacket sleeve, the man who was also my father calmly stepped around my brothers, sister and myself and entered our home – that was ours no more.
Allah took her 5 days after the wounds first began poisoning her blood. Allah only takes your parents when He wants to raise you. Personally. Himself. Give you suffering. Knock backs. No fixed abode. Mould you into the form he has foreseen for you. Isn’t that what happened to Joseph (PBUH)? Isn’t that what happened to Mohammed (PBUH)? He helps you become the person He wants you to be. Achieve your destiny.
Amir didn’t understand that. He hated Allah. Hated Allah for orphaning him. Couldn’t he see how much he had to be grateful for?
The front door slammed shut.
Why did Amir have to be so stubborn?
"Mummy?" Aneela walked in with Indian Princess Barbie. "Where's Mamu gone?"
"To the shop."
Sharp intake of breath, lips parted for her next question.
"Hurry back to your room. The onions will sting your eyes."
Salt, chilli powder and tomatoes – added on auto pilot were reddening the sauce. Now, I stirred in the chicken – gently – tenderly – lovingly but with a sadness. Heaviness of heart. The mixture frizzled soothingly. Therapeutically. Gradually the immiscible red oil separated from the denser watery fusion beneath. The subtle smell of spice that only home-cooked foods can generate played around in the kitchen.
This flavour filled sustenance was unappreciated preciousness. Like a diamond that disappears into nothingness if thrown amongst flames, the morsel of food is lost in our mouths. Yet, its energy goes on to fuel and heal us while we remain oblivious.
"Preparing food for others is worship in itself,” I recalled the words of the final prophet. How easy to please The Sustainer of the worlds.