The Bamboo Stalk (25 page)

Babu didn't like Luzviminda criticising, and neither did Lakshmi. Babu said, ‘Mama Ghanima is an old woman, like my mother. If she was that bad I wouldn't have stayed in her house close to twenty years.' His wife agreed with him, so Luzviminda held her tongue.

 

17

One evening during Ramadan, just before the middle of the month, the family gathered at Grandmother's house for a special meal that comes between the
iftar
at sunset and the
suhour
before dawn. They called it the
ghabqa
. I was in my room with Inang Choleng. From behind the curtain over the window I could see the kids in the courtyard – the children of Awatif and Nouriya. In the meantime everyone else was inside – Awatif and her husband Ahmad, Nouriya and her husband Faisal, Hind, Khawla, Grandmother and her older grandchildren. The door bell rang every now and then. Lots of children gathered at the door, wearing special clothes. The boys were wearing traditional white thobes with sleeveless jackets; some had skullcaps on while others wore the same white headdress as the men. The girls were wearing different clothes: a light piece of cloth with golden decoration covering their heads and the top half of their bodies. All the children, boys and girls, had cloth bags hanging round their necks. Hind stood at the door with Lakshmi and Luzviminda on either side carrying large bags of nuts and sweets. The children sang in unison and clapped at the door. The songs ended with generous donations of nuts and sweets to go into their bags. The children kept coming to Grandmother's door for three days in succession.

A handsome young man, about my age or a little younger, dressed in a white thobe, walked past the children, kissed Hind and
greeted Khawla in the outer courtyard, then walked inside. As soon as he walked through the wooden door, there were cries of ‘colololooosh', a strange sound rather like the war cries of the American Indians – a shrill, high-pitched sound like a referee's whistle. Khawla told me later that he was Nouriya's eldest son and Grandmother's first grandson. She always celebrated his visits by making this sound and in her prayers she asked God to give her a long life so that she could live to see him married.

The family members disappeared inside. I was still behind the curtain, with Inang Choleng in my hands. Thank God her shell was too hard to break under the pressure of my hands as I watched my family with a heavy heart from my exile in the annex. Just being with them would have been enough. Their voices sounded loud and close by despite the distance: their laughter, the words I didn't understand, the ‘colololooosh' rang in my ears.

The glass door opposite the door to my room opened. It was Nouriya in a strange outfit, maybe special for the occasion: a dress with wide sleeves, blood-red with shiny yellow decoration. ‘Isa! Isa!' she started shouting.

I dropped Inang Choleng and didn't notice she had hit the floor between my feet. Nouriya wrapped up her call with a ‘
Taal
' and then went inside. I knew that word well. How could I forget it? She was inviting me into the sitting room to join in the party. Nouriya, who hated me, was calling me by name and inviting me in! I jumped for joy.

I don't remember the aluminium door to my room, or the inner courtyard or even the glass door that led to the sitting room. I just remember standing inside the sitting room with the door behind me. They stopped chatting and a sudden hush fell on the room. I felt as if I had been struck deaf. All eyes were
pinned on me. Grandmother took hold of the shawl thrown loosely over her shoulders and threw it on to her head. Hind and Khawla looked at each other in amazement. Awatif was aghast. Ahmad, her husband with the long beard, sprang to his feet and looked at me with sparks flying from his eyes. Faisal looked at his wife, Nouriya, as if seeking an explanation for what was happening. ‘
Salamuuu alekooom
,' cried the parrot. Then through the front door Nouriya's maid came in carrying a young boy. ‘Here's Isa, madam,' she told my aunt. Faisal stood up to take the boy.

Nouriya was flustered but handled the situation well. She passed me some silver bowls, then held out Faisal's car key and asked me, as if I were a servant, to put the bowls in the car. I took the objects with trembling hands and before I left Ahmad suddenly shouted some words at me that I didn't understand. He was waving his hands angrily and pointing at my aunts, but I couldn't make out a word of what he was shouting. Khawla ran towards the stairs. Awatif looked horrified. Speaking in English that wasn't very clear and that I understood only in part, she said something like, ‘You mustn't come in like that when there are women present. Next time knock on the door and wait outside. That isn't right. Do you understand?'

I nodded and said, ‘Very well, madam.' I went out into the inner courtyard carrying Nouriya's bowls. Babu, Lakshmi and Luzviminda were watching me in anguish from behind the kitchen window. I bowed my head and choked back my tears.

As I was putting the bowls in the trunk of Faisal's car, Nouriya came up to me, her eyebrows raised and her face flushed. She glanced behind to the door of the main house. No one there. She grabbed my shirt and pulled on it. She clenched her teeth and said, ‘Listen. This time I saved you by pretending you're a servant.
Next time I'll leave you to Awatif's husband and he'll slit your throat.'

I was so frightened my mouth was dry. I was trembling. The curtain on the upper-floor window overlooking the street moved. It was Khawla watching us from upstairs. Nouriya tightened her grip on my shirt and shook me. With great effort, I said, ‘But it was you who called me, Auntie.'

‘Shut up. I'm not your auntie,' she said.

I got the message. I dropped the word ‘aunt' before Nouriya's name ever since that night on the pavement outside Grandmother's house, or perhaps it fell into the boot of the car before I closed it on the bowls. Nouriya looked back again, checking that no one was there. ‘I was calling Isa my son, you idiot,' she said. She let go of my shirt and gave her parting shot: ‘Don't you ever speak unless you're spoken to, you Filipino!'

The trick took in Ahmad and Faisal, although they were surprised that Grandmother had brought a male servant from the Philippines, since it was customary in Kuwait for people to have male servants from India or Bangladesh.

In my room, I hugged Inang Choleng. I wept like a child in front of the small bottle I had filled half-f with the soil I had brought from my father's grave the day I visited the cemetery. I looked at the bottle as if asking the soil to bear witness to what was happening. I threw myself down on my bed and nodded off. I don't remember how long I slept but I remember I was woken up by the sound of the dawn call to prayer. I had been close to death in a horrible dream. I was in Mindanao and my arms were tied behind my back and my face was to the ground. Nouriya and Awatif were holding down my shoulders, pinning me to the ground. Grandmother was sitting at a distance under the tropical
trees with tears in her eyes but motionless. I was about to call out, to ask her for help, but someone pulled my head back by the hair. I looked straight into his eyes. It was Ahmad, Awatif's husband, and he was holding a knife. ‘Grand . . .' I shouted, but Ahmad slit my throat before I could finish saying Grandmother's name.

 

18

‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
.'

Besides being the start of the call to prayer, that's also the signal that it's time to start fasting. I woke up terrified, repeating, ‘Grandmother, Grandmother.' I was desperate for a drink of water. My throat was dry and I could feel my heart throbbing in my temples. I felt my throat with my fingers. No sign of blood. It was a nightmare, a sequel to the living nightmare that had taken place in the sitting room when I burst in without permission. I took a bottle of mineral water from the bedside table and gulped it down without stopping till I finished the bottle.

‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar.
'

When she first translated the words of the call to prayer for me, Khawla said they meant that God is greater than everything else in existence and mightier than anything you can imagine.
So if that's how God is, I should give up complaining to Inang Choleng and telling her my sorrows
. I picked the tortoise up from the bed and put it on the floor. I wanted to get closer to God, and as far as I knew, God resided in Awatif's heart, and at that time Awatif was far away in her own house with her husband Ahmad. But could God be far away too?
How can I open my heart to God?
I asked myself. ‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar.'
The phrase was repeated towards the end of the call to prayer.

I picked up my mobile phone and called Khawla. ‘I want to go
to the mosque,' I said. Khawla had just woken up to pray as well. ‘It's only a few steps from the house. Go before the prayers start,' she said.

‘Do I need one of those dresses that you and Grandmother and Hind wear when you pray?' I asked.

She burst out in giggles. ‘Go as you are, man,' she said. ‘But make sure you've done your ablutions.'

I didn't know how to wash before praying. In fact I didn't even know how to perform Muslim prayers. I stood by the wall of the house looking at the mosque. It was a small mosque in the courtyard in front of a large building that looked like a school. There were many cars parked in lines outside it. People pray in Ramadan more than at any other time. ‘I'll wait till it's less crowded,' I said, and because I didn't know how to wash for prayers, I had a complete shower. I wanted to do my ablutions properly, as Khawla had suggested. I came out of the bathroom with my body in a state of ritual purity. But what about my soul?

All the cars were gone from the open space opposite the mosque, except for one or two. I walked slowly towards the door. There were shoes and sandals piled on top of each other at the foot of the door, and others arranged neatly on special racks. I stuck my head through the door. The people inside were barefoot. I took off my shoes and put them on one of the racks. As soon as I went in my bare feet felt a draught of cold air. I felt lighter than I had even been. I was almost flying.
Is this the mosque?
I wondered uncertainly. The floor was covered with carpets – light green carpets with dark green lines. There was a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling and although the mosque was air-conditioned there were fans attached to the walls. I stood in the middle looking around me. In front of me was the
mihrab
, a sort of alcove or niche like an arched doorway in the middle of the back wall. The area around it was highly decorated, maybe with Arabic writing. The mosque didn't have as much detail as you would find in a cathedral or a Buddhist temple. I was struck by how plain it was. There were some people sitting in a circle, talking in low voices. Some people were praying, bowing, pressing their foreheads to the floor as though they were kissing it. Other people were reading the Qur'an. In one corner there was a young man kneeling with his hands open in front of his face as he looked down. The feeling I had had in my feet when I went in came back as I walked towards the
mihrab
, but this time in my heart. I felt that my heart was naked, unencumbered by anything.

I stood inside the
mihrab
alcove, close to the wall. I could clearly hear my own breathing. I put my hands together under my chin. Then I remembered the young man in the corner. I opened my hands in front of me as he had been doing. I shut my eyes. ‘
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar
,' I said, ‘because You are greater and mightier than everything else, listen to my words. I'm not sure that my body is ritually clean, as Khawla told me it should be, but because this is my first visit to Your house, overlook my ignorance and accept my prayers.
Allahu akbar
. The Greatest. Your house seems plain, unlike how I had imagined it. My room, in the annex of the house close to Your house, is more elaborate and has more things in it. Although it's plain, Your house is beautiful and clean. Make my heart feel confident that You are there, because my heart is simple too and I promise You it is clean. Would You please dwell in it as You dwell in the heart of my aunt Awatif?

‘
Allahu akbar
. I feel You are close in a way I have never felt before, because we – You and I – are here alone. There's nothing to see in Your house other than Your spirit, which inhabits the place. There are no pictures of the Prophet Muhammad in gilt frames, and no statues. We don't need that because we are in Your presence and because You are God, the greatest.'

Someone's hand touched me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was a young Filipino who looked like he was in his early thirties. He asked me something in Arabic. I shook my head to show I didn't understand. ‘Are you Filipino?' he asked in Filipino. I nodded without thinking. ‘My name is Ibrahim Salam,' he said, introducing himself.

‘
Wa aleekum as-salam
,' I answered automatically. He laughed, then suppressed his laughter when he realised we were in a mosque.

‘What are you doing in the
mihrab
?' he asked me, as if it was a strange thing to do. ‘I was praying,' I said, full of confidence. The young man laughed, took my hand and led me over into a corner. He and I were the only people there, other than an old man reading the Qur'an in another corner.

He was a young Filipino in his thirties who had lived in Kuwait a long time. He had studied in the religious institute to which the mosque was attached. He had graduated in Kuwait and, although he no longer lived in the student residence halls near the mosque but had moved out to another area, he still prayed in the institute mosque because after prayers he was in the habit of meeting Filipinos, Indonesians and Africans who were studying at the institute. He was active in promoting Islam and worked as a translator at the Philippine embassy and as a correspondent for Filipino newspapers, sending them news from the Kuwaiti press about the Filipino community.