Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [75]
“That’s my favorite line!” she exclaimed.
“Mine too.”
Then we became quiet as if we had each confessed a tremendous secret.
I was relieved when another student rose and introduced the forum. For an hour or more I sat thinking of Kara as ideas about women and religion were exchanged around me. I didn’t contribute anything to the discussion, but she talked several times, each comment revealing both character and intelligence.
“I’m going to go over to the cafeteria for a burger,” she said when the forum was over. “Want to come?”
“Sure,” I said, overriding my own intentions. “I’ll have some fries and a shake.”
Worried that a Muslim might see me with an immodest girl, I led her toward the back of the cafeteria. Still, despite the paranoia, I was sure that I wanted to be in her company. She was beautiful and intelligent and I wanted to impress her. As we ate, we talked about Islam. Our eyes kept connecting throughout the meal, and her easy smile made my heart beat faster. After we finished eating, we walked around the city, sharing a cup of chai at a Starbucks and another one at a Suheir Hammad poetry reading at NYU. Hours later we came to a stop at the university gym, where we planned on parting ways.
We stood looking at one another for a long moment. Then, just as I was about to walk away, Kara grabbed onto the buttons of my coat.
“Amir?”
“Yes.”
“I have to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
‘ “When his wings enfold you, yield to him, though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.’”
I stood dumbstruck. I recognized the words as a verse from Gibran. It was from the same section—Love—as the one I had quoted. The verse plummeted into some unexplored part of me like a pebble thrown into a lake from a great height. All this time in New York I had felt so lonely. Now here was a Gibran-quoting beauty who understood Muslims and was interested in religion. I felt an overwhelming desire to touch her. I wanted to make her mine. I wanted to kiss her mouth and taste Levantine leaves.
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. As she moved closer, I pulled away. I invoked Islam and Muslims and marriage and responsibility and the tortures of hell. Then I turned and ran in the other direction, chanting the Verse of the Throne as loudly as I could.
I left a broken button behind.
A few days later I went to an MSA meeting in the prayer hall. The brothers—sincere, severe, serious—sat in a semicircle facing the window, with me at one end. The sisters—soft secretive silhouettes—made a semicircle on the opposite side. The brothers actively looked away from the sisters so that everyone could see how hard they were trying to avoid getting tempted and ending up in hell. The sisters adjusted their hijabs to cover as much of them as possible so that everyone could see how hard they were trying to make sure they didn’t inadvertently send brothers to the fire.
Just as the meeting began, the door was flung open and in walked Kara. She didn’t have on a chador or a scarf. In fact, she was wearing tight jeans and a tank top. Her breasts were prominent, the cleavage at least as deep as the Prophet’s trench around Medina. She walked over and sat down on the floor next to me.
“Hey, you,” she said, bumping shoulders and smiling.
I was filled with dread. I scrunched away as if she were diseased. Her presence and her close proximity were reprehensible. I knew that the MSA sisters would look at us and assign her immodesty to me. The brothers, meanwhile, would act like nothing had happened, which was worse.
For a few tense minutes I tried to remain composed. Then, unable to bear the weight of eyes that consciously averted themselves, I asked Kara to step outside with me.
“You coming here was a very bad idea,” I said, once we’d escaped into the hallway.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just had to see you.”
“You need to go,” I ordered, punching the down button on the elevator to expedite her departure.
When the summoned car arrived,