I HAVE TRIED a hundred times to remember our final conversation. I had been stressed about so much that night—entertaining the guests, speaking with Hadia’s in-laws, paying the caterers and photographers. You were missing. Layla and Huda were distraught. Layla asked me to go look for you. I didn’t know what I’d find. I was mainly afraid I wouldn’t find you at all. And I don’t know how it is possible but I felt a force pull me as I walked through the hallways until I reached a back door and something told me to open it, and I found you there, slumped over on a bench, your suit jacket missing.
I sat by you. You did not stir right away. I don’t remember exactly what we said to one another. And maybe it does not matter. You were upset. You realized what you had done—that you could not conceal how much you had drunk, and could not come back inside. I held you. You let me. You were mumbling about the story of Imam Hussain as a child, and I was touched that you had remembered it, even as I felt uncomfortable that you were drunk as you spoke of it. You said to me, Baba, what if we were meant to look closer? You called me Baba that night. I’ve looked closer, Amar, I have looked, and I have looked again, and I have exhausted myself looking. For his beloved grandson, out of his love for him, even the Prophet of Islam could pause the single most important requirement of faith, regardless of how many watched. What were we meant to learn from this that we had failed to?
I couldn’t understand what you were saying half the time you spoke. But just the drink? I asked. Nothing more? And you swore. And believing you, I was relieved. I had to go back. I did not want to leave you. I looked up and I thought, God, help me be strong. Help me do what is required of me in this moment. On one hand my family waited for me to complete my daughter’s wedding and on the other my son was letting me hold him. I had a lot of cash that I had to pay the photographers with, I gave it all to you. You tried to give it back, knowing it meant I would leave soon. And maybe you already knew then what I did not, that I would not be seeing you again after that, because just when I stood, you held my arm and though your face had matured you were still that boy who looked back at me when I sat you in the barber’s chair, a look that said please, don’t go. I was still your father. I would always be. I sat down again. I know I have failed you as a father in many ways. But when I look back on that night, though there is much I cannot remember, and though I was painfully aware I was in the company of a man who had been drinking, I am proud of myself for not letting that thought keep me from sitting next to my son. Once, Imam Ali had been with his companions when a drunk man had staggered by, and a companion had pointed to him and said look, there he goes, the town drunkard. But Imam Ali said two things: first, that we must imagine for one another seventy excuses before landing on a single judgment, and also, on that night, he told his companions to refrain from condemning a man, even as he staggered by showing proof of his sin, because they could not know if he would repent when alone, or fathom what existed in his heart.
You held on to my sleeve and said things I did not understand. And then all at once I did understand: you were saying good-bye. Not only in this life, but in the next, warning me that you would not make it to heaven, that our souls would not reunite there. Of all my mistakes the greatest, the most dangerous, was not emphasizing the mercy of God. Every verse of the Quran begins by reminding us of God’s mercy, I tried to tell you that night, and you nodded, but how can I know what you heard or what you would remember.
Amar, here is what I tried to tell you, and if you ever come back, I will tell you again: what happens in this life is not final. There is another. And maybe there, we will get another chance. Maybe there we will get it right. I will see you again someday. I believe that. If not in this life, then in the next, the angel will blow into the shell, the soul of every being that ever lived will rise, and our sins will be accounted for, and our good deeds too. You might have made mistakes in life, but you were kind to each of God’s creatures, you were considerate and you were compassionate, in ways that I did not even think to be. Alone we will all be made to cross the bridge as thin as a hair and as sharp as a knife. Alone we will be judged. Some of us will go to heaven right away, and others will have to repent, the hellfire cleansing us of our sins first. And if what we have been taught is true, I will not enter without you. I will wait by the gate until I see your face. I have waited a decade, haven’t I, in this limited life? Waiting in the endless one would be no sacrifice. And Inshallah one day, I know I will see you approaching. You will look just as you did at twenty, that year you first left us, and I will also be as I was in my youth. We will look like brothers on that day. We will walk together, as equals.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THANK YOU, first and always, to my parents, Mirza Mohammed Ali and Shereen Mirza, whose way of loving, seeing, and being taught me everything: for believing in me, standing by me, and expanding your hearts each time I tested your limits. To my brothers, Mohsin, Ali-Moosa, and Mahdi, for your unwavering loyalty and confidence in this novel. Knowing you three always had my back gave me the courage to take risks and stay true to myself. Thank you, Mohsin, for your ability to understand with nuance and empathy—I know these characters, and myself, better because of it. This book is born from my love for you all: us, reenacting scenes from The Lion King and Jurassic Park, climbing to the top of the world, Mumma Baba calling us back home.
Thank you to my dada, Mirza Mohammed Kasim, my first champion and my dearest one, who throughout my childhood told me one day he would see my name in print. How I wish you could have been here to see it. To my number one amma, Meher Unnisa Begum, who once described her first voyage to the UK, looking out at the endless sea and thinking she was like a woman in a novel: for your bravery and resilience. And to my dadu, Shams Kasim, who prayed more for me and this book than I’ve ever prayed for anything: for tracing each Ya Ali, and for your steadfast belief, which captivated my imagination more than I know.
Thank you to my extended family for your love and support, but especially to my beloved mamu, Hussain Mirza, and my incomparable phuppojaan, Nishat Nusairee. For reminding me that what is essential is unchanging, thank you, Khayam Mirza, Aliza Mirza, Zainab and Laila Khan, Samana Khan, and Mirza Mohammed Kabah. Thank you, Ummul Nusairee, for being the sister I never had, and for never telling.
I am grateful to UC Riverside’s Honors Program and Creative Writing Department. I will never forget the generosity of Charmaine Craig and Andrew Winer: thank you for nurturing what you saw in me and this book. Thank you to Sherin Barvarz, for your wisdom, humor, and lifelong friendship.
I am deeply indebted to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, which was home for as long as I lived there, and to my incredible teachers: Lan Samantha Chang, Ethan Canin, Marilynne Robinson, Paul Harding, and Karen Russell. Thank you, Connie Brothers, Deb West, and Jan Zenisek. Sam Chang, thank you for that first call, and for all you did after to ensure I could write this novel. I am grateful to Garth Greenwell, whose friendship warmed even the bitterest of Iowa winters and whose sharp insight shone a light on these pages. I cannot overstate my gratitude to D. Wystan Owen, whose generosity, intelligence, and close reading was an immeasurable gift and guide for me. And my fondest thanks to Hannah Rapson and Ida James: for welcoming me into your beautiful lives, and for the peace of my time with you, the porch and patio where I worked on so many of these pages.
Thank you to the Marble House Project and the MacDowell Colony for providing magical spaces in which to work and the James Michener and Copernicus Society of America for their support.