Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [74]
That was what Salman Rushdie was selling.
My revolt against secularism involved shelving Rushdie’s book in the art history section of the library when I’d finished reading it. That way no Muslim of a weaker constitution would encounter it, since Muslims—who considered images haram—didn’t usually study art history. Hiding the book was way better than burning it—which drew attention to it.
5
After rationality, the most potent weapon that secularism wielded was sex. It was a pious believer’s constant temptation, assailing from every angle, weakening us. My particular temptation was called Kara.
One day, when I was at the student center with Moosa Farid, we both saw a curly-haired brunette wearing a tank top.
“Damn,” I said suddenly, unable to control my tongue. “That girl has nice tits.”
Moosa stared at her also. “Wow!” he said. “And she looks Muslim on top of that.”
“I’d like to get on top of that,” I said, leering.
“We need to stop staring,” Moosa cautioned, suddenly remembering Islamic decorum.
“Right. She’s hot, but hell is hotter.” I turned away as I mouthed the slogan, but my eyes were drawn right back to her.
“Hell is way hotter,” said Moosa, sharing my weakness.
“I think we need to change that slogan,” I said. “Something like: sometimes hell is barely hotter.”
“Just lower your gaze,” he warned.
“I will when you do.”
“I don’t have to stop,” he said. “I’m still on my first look. You, on the other hand, broke the first look.”
“What do you think she is?”
“The embodiment of sin.”
“Ethnically, I meant.”
“Arab. Look at those thighs. Thick.”
“I want her,” I announced dreamily.
“I do too, but I’m not risking hell for her. An infinite number of virgins are waiting for me in the afterlife. I’m going back to the dorm.”
“Just a few minutes,” I said. “I’ll admire her for just a few minutes. I promise to make extra nawafil to ask God’s forgiveness.”
Left in peace to take in the scenery, I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts stayed pert and afloat and rippled when she laughed. As she looked my direction my heart lifted, but then just as suddenly I was filled with despair. Why bother trying to meet her? I couldn’t be with her in any case. She probably wasn’t a Muslim, which meant I couldn’t marry her—not because Islam forbade it, but because Muslims around me would censure me. And even if she was a Muslim, she was clearly wack, which would lead people to impute her wackness onto me.
Still, when she left the student center, I followed after her. When she turned into a lecture hall, I stepped closer to read the sign on the door. It was a student forum on women and religion. Interesting, I thought, and went in and sat down next to her, my heart racing, my conscience guilty, my body tingling.
She saw me looking at her and smiled. “My name is Kara,” she said, extending her hand.
I mumbled my name and stared at her hand—a lovely hand that Western manners would have me hold but that Islam forbade me to touch. It would take the fire of jahannum to erase the sin of shaking that hand. As for looking her in the eyes, I had to avoid that as well, because that would lead to a temptation one couldn’t resist.
“I don’t shake hands,” I said, with eyes downcast. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said, retracting but not offended. “I thought you might not. I grew up with Muslims. I’m Lebanese…but Christian.”
“Like Khalil Gibran?”
“You know the poet?” she asked, thoroughly pleased.
“I read his book The Prophet last month.” Then I recited a verse I remembered: “For even as love crowns you he shall crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.’” I didn’t tell her that I’d