Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [42]
I went to the bathroom and slammed the door, thinking that if the door stayed closed for some time I would run out of air. While inside I realized that the bathroom had a big window that was always open, so the chances of suffocation were zilch. I also realized that going back outside to retrieve a tool with which to kill myself would take the fire out of my revolt.
“This bathroom will be my grave!” I shouted in a last-ditch effort.
Much to my satisfaction, I heard Ammi right outside the door. “No, my son,” she urged. “Don’t say such things!”
“You know what? Why should I wait till I’m suffocated to die? I’ll just drink this shampoo here and make it quick.” Just to show that I was serious I spilled some of it underneath the door.
Now Ammi banged on the door loudly. “I know I’m a horrible mother, but even horrible mothers don’t deserve to lose their children. Come out of there, my son!”
I was not hearing her. During the patriotic holidays, among the videos that Pakistani TV used to play to commemorate its military heroes was one about an Air Force pilot, Rashid Minhas, who flew his plane into the ground rather than let it be commandeered by an Indian. In the movie he recited the Throne Verse from the Quran before his crash. That scene was burned in my head. This, my last breath on this world, my rebellion against the institution of the madrassa, seemed like a dramatic moment just like that of Minhas’s last breath, and I began reciting the Throne Verse loudly. It made for a good soundtrack to suicide.
“Allah,” I sang, “there is no God but He. The living. The self-subsisting. The eternal. No slumber can seize him, nor sleep. His are all the things on heaven and on earth—”
Just as I reached the middle of the verse, Pops broke down the door and fell against me. After knocking the shampoo from my hand, he handed me off to Ammi, who wiped away my tears. Despite the rescue, Pops glared at me. “Something is wrong with him,” Pops said. “Fix him up and personally take him to the madrassa. Let’s get this matter resolved.”
Ammi went to the closet and put on her niqab. Then she took me by the hand and led me downstairs. When she saw Bilal hanging around—he’d stayed to enjoy the showdown, I guess—she told him to ride ahead and tell the qari that she wanted to schedule an emergency meeting.
Walking in silence, with Ammi holding my hand firmly, we went to Qari Jamil’s private quarters. As soon as we were admitted, Ammi began talking about my “depression” to Qari Jamil’s wife, of all people, as she served us iskanjwi made from stale lemons. In the background his daughter, Sameena, snickered at descriptions of me crying, cursing, and threatening death. I was embarrassed.
When the qari finally joined us, Ammi pulled her niqab over her face and repeated the story about my depression. She wondered if there was something “the learned qari” could do to cure me. As she spoke, the qari first smirked and then laughed outright, though there was no humor in the bloodshot eyes that speared into me. The more serious Ammi made my tantrum seem, the more sardonic became his grin.
“I will be sure not to let him take his life,” he assured Ammi. Then he draped an arm across my shoulders and took me for a walk around the grounds, massaging my neck with his thumb and forefinger. I turned to look at Ammi, but she had fluttered out of the house as soon as she was sure that I was in safe hands.
“So, you want to go off to Peshawar, eh?” Qari Jamil said. “You’re going to get on the lorry and fight the Soviets? That is very brave of you. Are you going to feed them bottles of shampoo and kill all of them?”
His sarcasm made me angry. “Yes,” I said, “but the ticket to Peshawar is eight rupees and I have only four. Why don’t you lend me the rest?”
He pretended that he didn’t hear my retort. “All so you don’t have to come here? Seems like you don’t like learning Allah’s book, my young friend. That’s not a very good Muslim, is it?” He