Translated fiction: 14-year-old Gibran’s conservative father wants him to get employed in a mosque

When I was reciting the sipaara after the Fajr namaz, Amma gave me some money and said, “Go, see if Kallu has opened his store and buy two eggs from him. Otherwise, what will I give Abba when he returns from the mosque?”

I ran to Kallu Chacha’s store, and when I returned home with the eggs, I found Nusrat sitting on my low stool. I yanked the stool from under her and she fell backwards.

Amma smacked me on my back and said, “Couldn’t you have taken it later?”

Nusrat had hurt her head. Rubbing it, she mumbled through her tears, “Someday, when you sit on my stool, I shall also pull it from under you just like this.”

We had four low wooden stools at home. Abba had made these from the gular fig tree that used to grow in our courtyard. He cut down the tree because boys would throw stones at it to get to the figs. He was no carpenter that all the stools he made would have come out alike or been stable. He had just chopped up the wood somehow and hammered in a few nails to hold them together. Amma had designated a stool for each of us, without marking them in any way. The stool that was the highest and broadest went to Abba. The one that was slightly lower than Abba’s, but was also stable, was given to me. The stool that Nusrat got was low and tapered on both sides. It looked like a small boat. Amma’s stool was the most unique. She appeared a bit lopsided when she sat on it.

Abba’s stool would lie vacant in his absence, waiting for him. Whenever he was away with the Jamaat for a few days, I’d hop and plant myself on it. I was very happy to sit on Abba’s stool and felt like a grown-up. When Nusrat got her chance, she hopped on to Abba’s seat too and teased me. But then I’d glare at her and she’d quickly get off. Amma always sat on her own stool. She said she had got used to sitting on it.

That night, I dreamt that I was sitting at the mouth of a cave, waiting for dawn so I could go in. But suddenly, somebody pushed me from behind and I fell into the cave. I kept falling. The dream was so scary that I woke up with a muffled scream and sat up straight. The room was dark.

Nusrat also sat up, perhaps woken up by my scream. She placed her hand on my shoulder and asked, “What happened, Bhayya? What happened?”

I couldn’t speak. I just wanted there to be light, quickly. “Light the lamp,” I managed to blurt out.

Nusrat knew where the lamp and the matches were kept. She could find everything in the dark. She swiftly lit the lamp and, bringing it close to my face, asked, “Bhai, did you see anything?”

When I told her about the dream, she laughed it off. “You climb rooftops and jump from heights chasing kites – all this comes out in your dreams. Recite the kalima and go to sleep.” She turned to blow out the lamp.

“Let it be,” I said, stopping her.

“All the oil will burn out by morning.”

“If you blow out the lamp, it’ll be dark again, and I’ll have another nightmare,” I snapped with irritation.

Nusrat placed the lamp in the nook and lay down on her side, facing me.

For a while, I kept an ear out for any sounds, expecting to hear someone walking or clearing their throat, but there was nothing. Still scared, I finally lay down, reciting the kalima over and over. I did fall asleep again, but it wasn’t like my usual sleep.

I woke up to Abba’s call in the morning but wasn’t able to get out of bed right away. Eventually, I had to, due to his repeated yelling. I felt very drowsy during the namaz and while reciting the sipaara. I thought of feigning illness to sleep some more, but didn’t, discouraged by the thought of being stuck indoors without kites. Amma would certainly say that if I was feeling unwell, I had no business being outdoors. That I must lie down quietly or sit and recite from the sipaara. So, I bathed and got ready for the Friday namaz. But sleep weighed me down so much that I felt like crying.

During the namaz, when we went into the ruku posture, half bent over with our hands on our knees, drowsiness swept over me and I fell on Abid Chacha, who was standing in front of me. He, in turn, lost his balance and toppled on Khalid’s grandfather. Abid Chacha got up and gave me a resounding slap on the nape of my neck. The worshippers who had said their salaam and completed their namaz turned to look at us.

Abba had also said his salaam. He quickly came up to Abid Chacha and asked, “What happened? Why did you hit him?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

By now, everyone else had gathered around. One or two of them smirked and giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. Imam Sahib had also appeared by our side.

“What a brat you have for a son! Is this what you’ve taught him?” Abid Chacha said.

“What has even happened, will you tell me first?”

“What happened was that the moment I bent into ruku, this rascal pushed me and I fell on Khaliq Chacha. May Allah be praised that I managed to steady him, or the old man would’ve broken some bones.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Abba slapped my face, even harder than Abid Chacha had hit me. Many times. My head whirled.

Through my sobs, I said, “I didn’t push Abid Chacha intentionally.”

Abba grabbed my ear and twisted it so hard that it went numb. Then he gave me another slap. “Get yourself home. I’ll speak to you again when I get there.”

When I got home, Amma and Nusrat were having lunch. Amma asked me to join them. Without a word, I went straight to the small kothari Nusrat and I shared and lay down.

After a short while, I heard Abba’s voice. “Where’s your darling boy?”

“What happened?” Amma asked.

Abba told her everything that had passed. “There’s no sign of your upbringing in this boy, or of his madrasa education. Forget the neighbourhood lanes, now he’s pushing and shoving his elders at the mosque. You tell me, how will I show my face there again? People will say the father displays piety while the son gains notoriety.”

Amma got up from her meal and came to my room. Without a word, she began to hit me. She struck me until she was tired, then sat down, panting and crying. Then she left, threatening that there’d be no food for me for the next two days.

Nusrat stood near the door, peeping in. I looked at her through narrowed eyes, expecting her to scold me as well. When I lay down again, she came and sat beside me. After observing me quietly for some time, she asked, “Bhai, shall I sneak in some dal and rice on a plate? You could eat it behind the bed.”

I was hungry but didn’t feel like eating. “I won’t eat,” I replied.

“What if Amma really doesn’t give you food for two days? Eat, or you’ll die of hunger. I’ll go see if she’s in her room, then I’ll bring it over quietly.”

Nusrat went away and soon returned with a plateful of dal and rice. She placed it next to me. “You eat, I’ll stand at the door. If Amma comes, I’ll alert you. You just keep the plate under the bed and lie down. I’ll tell her you’ve gone to sleep.”

At Nusrat’s urging, I ate the dal-rice and lay down.

When we were about to sleep that night, Nusrat asked, “Bhayya, why did you push Abid Chacha?”

“I did not push him, Nusrat! I dozed off and fell on him, but he thought I’d pushed him.”

“Abba was really angry. He said he’ll send you to a faraway madrasa if you continue to behave in this way.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I thought, if Abba were to send me away to a far-off madrasa, and if the teacher there, the hafijji, also turned out to be some nasty, grumpy, evil old man, then I would just run away to Mumbai and become a hero in the movies.

Excerpted with permission from Allah Miyan’s Workshop, Mohsin Khan, translated from the Urdu by Maaz Bin Bilal, HarperCollins India.