The day the leader was killed

Muhtashimi Zayed

Last night, I beheld, as in a dream, our master Abu Dharr. Worship endows me with a certain clarity of vision. But because I love the world, I cannot cross over to the other side. I am suddenly reminded of the following story: Muhammad Ibn al-Attar said: “Sheikh Muhammad Rahin one day asked me: ‘What is your heart like?’ When I mentioned this to our master Shah Naqshaband, who was standing there, he suddenly stepped on my foot and I fainted. In my state of unconsciousness, I was made to see all of existence concentrated in my heart. When I came to, he said: ‘If the heart is thus, how could it possibly be fathomed?’ That is why we are told in the Hadith: ‘Neither can my earth or sky contain me. But the heart of my faithful worshiper can.”

When I recall this story, I cannot help envying the saints and yearning for miracles. But here I stand on the brink of Sufism, clinging on to the joys of worship, content that it is there at the very heart of God’s world. My calm, contemplative vision bathes in the light of the Giver. Neither do I regret the stages of life through which I have passed, for each stage has bestowed upon me its own particular light. Do unto the world as though you were to live forever, and unto the hereafter as though you were to die tomorrow.

Around noontime, the doorbell rings. Who is it?

Today isn’t Umm Ali’s day. I open the door and in walks

Zeinab Hanem, Randa’s mother. I welcome her warmly.

I am amazed at her corpulence given her meager means.

She seats herself in the living room as I turn off the radio.

“I have no one but you, Muhtashimi Bey,” she says. I wonder what on earth has got hold of her.

“We are all in God’s hands,” I said.

“I should have been speaking to Fawwaz Bey and Hanaa Hanem, but they’re so busy working that they’ve no free time. And it’s no use addressing Elwan either. That’s why I’m resorting to your good offices.”

Now I understand everything even before she as much as utters a single word. She has come to discuss Elwan and Randa’s problem.

“I’m at your service, Zeinab Hanem.”

“You judge, Muhtashimi Bey. The girl is on the verge of utter ruin.”

“God forbid!”

“As far as we’re concerned, you people are our first choice, but for how long is she supposed to wait?”

I could sense danger encircling my dear grandson.

“Zeinab Hanem, isn’t Randa old enough and sufficiently educated to be able to distinguish between what is good and what is bad for her?”

“Love misleads, Muhtashimi Bey. And, nowadays, love has become a god. Was yours a love match, Muhtashimi Bey? Was Fawwaz Bey’s a love match?”

“But they believe in it.”

“Are we to let it ruin them both?”

I let out an audible sigh as one clearly helpless. With her double chin swinging up and down, she added:

“Let us then do what we can to save them, and may God help us. Maybe each of them will eventually find the person who suits him best.”

“Is Sulayman Bey of your opinion?”

“He’s her father just as I’m her mother. But we’re both sorry for Elwan. He’s a good boy and deserves the very best.”

“He’s also very unlucky,” I muttered as the discussion was coming to a close.

On her way out, she said:

“God help us! Remember, I’m counting on you.” What a morning! I have been forced to act as the harbinger of ill news to the one person dearest to my heart. I sank back in my seat in a state of profound gloom.

At lunchtime, I did not refer to the visit but waited until I could be alone with the young man in the living room. He had naturally not fathomed the meaning of my furtive glances.

“Will you forgive my talking to you about something unpleasant?” I finally asked.

He threw an apprehensive glance in my direction and sarcastically said:

“This is basically the way all stories go, Grandpa.”

“About Randa, Elwan.”

His handsome face was suddenly transformed as it lit up with feelings of love. I told him what had happened in detail. He clenched his fist and brought it close to his lips as he rested his elbow on an old table.

“It is as though I were a criminal wanted for murder, Grandpa,” he said.

“We should think calmly and courageously.”

“I’d like to have your impressions, Grandpa.”

“We’ve got to admit that they’ve got a point,” I said, becoming increasingly edgy.

“Randa’s not under age,” he said sharply.

“No, but that waiting seems endless.”

“I’m not to blame.”

“Nobody’s blaming you.”

“Is the final word theirs or hers?”

“Now it’s in your hands.”

“In mine?”

“Time is flying. You’re a reasonable young man and you can save her. You could even save yourself. It’s not only bad luck. It’s a long line of calamities: June 1967, the Infitah, Russia, the United States, and the kingdom of the corrupt.”

“And what if I insist on rejecting the idea?” he asked.

“Do what you think is right,” I replied.

“I promise to do just that, Grandpa,” he said somewhat vaguely, shaking his head.

Fawwaz and Hanaa were told about it that evening. Hanaa flew into a temper and said she had never felt

comfortable about that engagement and had unwillingly consented to it. As for Fawwaz, he said he had always warned his son that this would be the inevitable outcome.

“The engagement is an obstacle to both of them,” he said.

“Try to convince him, Uncle. He always resists us but gives in to you. If he had listened to me from the very start, we wouldn’t have reached this humiliating point,” said Hanaa, addressing me.

I was suddenly reminded of the glorious Sura: The foolish ones will say they were not turned around from the goal they had set for themselves. Say: To God is the East and the West. He guides whomsoever He wishes on to the right path.