“Enjeela, look.” Laila tugged on my arm again.
A few feet away, near the row of seats adjacent to the concourse, the polished policeman who had spoken to us in that room stood talking to Padar.
“Come on.” I rose, and we sidled up next to Padar. I slipped my hand into his, and he clenched his warm palm around mine.
The policeman held a fistful of plane tickets. He tried to hand them to Padar, but Padar held his free hand up, palm out, not willing to take them.
“Listen, Officer, we are Muslim, and we need to pray. My family always attends morning prayers. You must let us go to the mosque.”
For the first time, the put-together policeman appeared a little confused about what to do. He looked down at me but wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“It’s not right that you refuse us. I have taught my children always to pray, and here we come to your country—”
“I have not refused you,” he said with a crisp tone. He glared at Padar. “I have not said what I will do.” He glanced up the concourse and turned half away from us with his arms folded tight against his chest, as if he looked for an answer from somewhere. “You want to pray, then you shall pray. But I insist you take these.” He handed the tickets over, and Padar took them. Then he handed over some bills. “This was left over from your purchase. I am expecting you and your family to be on that flight today at noon.” He turned to Padar. “There will be people expecting to greet you in Kabul. Do you understand me, Mr. Ahmadi?”
“Perfectly.”
“I will escort you to the taxi stand. The Baitul Mukarram mosque is a few miles from here. It is a most magnificent complex of buildings, one that often swallows people whole who do not know it well. But I’m certain a man of your intelligence will find his way around.” His stiffness seemed bred into him. He turned and marched away.
“Quick, gather your things,” Padar said to us. “Hurry, hurry.” We all ran to our things. I hoisted up my small suitcase and hitched up my backpack, slipping into the straps.
“Hold hands,” he commanded. He took mine, Zulaikha clasped my other one, and we descended an escalator, turned to the luggage area, and headed toward the glass doors leading to the street. The police colonel waited for us at passport control, at the very same booth of the big guard who had assaulted us so viciously yesterday afternoon.
When the officer appeared, the guards snapped up, standing at attention. He waved us to the front of the short line. We came up behind him.
“They are leaving,” he said, a stout look on his face. “They are going to Baitul Mukarram for morning prayers.”
“Yes, Colonel.” The guard stood aside to let us through. Padar stationed himself across from him, and we passed between the two men, who never ceased eyeing each other.
Before Padar passed through, the colonel spoke, his dark eyes set on us. “You will return for the flight, Mr. Ahmadi, inshallah.”
“Yes, Colonel, inshallah.”
After Padar stepped a few feet beyond the customs booth, he turned back, held his hand over his heart, and said, “As-salaam alaikum.”
“Wa alaikum as-salaam.” The police colonel pivoted briskly and headed back up the concourse. We hustled out the glass doors into the golden sunlight. The morning air smelled of exhaust from the idling taxis and buses, with a noticeable tinge of freedom around the fringes of the cool air.
The Baitul Mukarram mosque was a white slab of marble that rose prominently from the earth and shimmered in the morning light. It was one of the largest mosques in the world, and it sat in the middle of a teeming Dhaka. Padar explained that it was constructed as a cube to mimic the famous Kaaba in Mecca. As our taxi from the airport wended its way through the dense traffic of exhaust-spewing trucks, endless cars, rickshaws, and numerous oxen carts, the white cube continued to rise above all of the other buildings and loomed dominant in the sky as the taxi drove up to the massive east entrance. It was one of the most beautiful mosques I’d ever seen.
My sisters and I retrieved our chadors from our backpacks and covered ourselves. The driver stopped far down the curb where a space opened up, and we climbed out. Padar paid the fare, and we all lugged our suitcases up the walkway. A wide marble courtyard sprawled out from the entry arches and led to the interior prayer spaces.
We were soon enveloped in a crowd heading into prayer. Men and women mostly wore shalwar kameez and all the women wore chadors, even the children. The cube itself was nine or ten stories high, and the entrance arches were halfway up the face of the stone edifice. An attendant pointed to where we could leave our luggage. The women streamed to one side, the men to the other.
“Meet me right back here at the pillar by your luggage when prayers are over,” he said, pointing out the spot. “Don’t leave the mosque without me.” He stared right at me. I promised him I wouldn’t. “It doesn’t matter how long you have to wait for me, don’t move. We’re safe inside here. No one will bother us. Not even the police. Do you understand?” We all answered yes. He let us go, and my sisters and I headed off with the other women to pray.
We spread our prayer mats behind rows of women reciting their prayers. I knew mine by heart and went through them quickly. As I prayed, I remembered a Hafiz poem Padar always recited.
I recited this poem in my head all the way through the service. Soon women rose to their feet and began rolling up their prayer mats to leave. Working our way through the stiff crowd, holding hands, we found the pillar, where we waited for Zia and Padar.
Worshippers poured through the exits to the east, the north, and the south. Padar and Zia emerged, and we followed Padar out onto the large marble veranda that swept around the building. People lounged around in groups, talking and waiting. He led us to gardens made of wide lawns and roses and bushes of every kind, meticulously trimmed and maintained. We strolled along the paths until we found a stone bench by a fountain, where I sat with my sisters. Zia and Padar sat cross-legged on the grass in front of the pool of water at the fountain’s edge, and we ate the snacks we’d stowed in our backpacks the night before. The trilling water hitting the stone soothed us. I felt myself unwind a bit. The tranquility of the moment belied the agony I had felt just hours before.
“The colonel wanted us to return, didn’t he?” I asked.
“Yes, he did,” Padar said. We all looked up as a knowing smile crept across his face. “Inshallah—if Allah wills it. God often puts these choices before us. I don’t believe for a moment that it is the will of Allah we return to Kabul to be handed over to godless murderers.”
“If we change our mind, we change our life,” I said, repeating something that he had recited to us many times.
“Bravo, my little poet,” he said, smiling at me.
The only sound in the garden was a gurgle that I could have sworn turned into laughter that spread across the entire area. The air suddenly became light and sweet-smelling.
“If you look for love and hope in this world, you will find it. Look around you. Look where we have ended up.” He spread his hands out wide to indicate that we should take in the breadth of the garden, as if this ordeal was all part of some grand scheme designed so we could witness this patch of serene beauty. Always a silver lining in Allah’s mysterious ways. That same hand that slaps down some, blesses others.
“Are you aware that gardens such as these are constructed in a certain pattern?”
“Like a poem,” Laila said.
He nodded. “In a way. These gardens are said to resemble the pattern of heaven.”