Ayub had been trained in warfare; in shooting while lying on his stomach, while running, while out of breath, while the target moved; he had learned how to wire bombs, to carry fertilizer in a sack, to explain himself if he were caught (seven years later, the organization was using Shockie’s old technique of pretending its members were farmers, for the simple reason that most of the Indian bureaucracy is sentimental about farmers); but it had all happened fast and it was a jumble in his head. He did not feel that any of these things had entered into his muscle memory. Afraid to protest—he knew he was still on trial—he called up Mansoor from a freshly purchased mobile when he got back to Azamgarh.
“Who is this?” Mansoor said, his thick, croaky voice coming on.
When Ayub revealed himself, he said, “Ayub bhai! Where have you vanished?” The strange thing about Mansoor was that, though he often looked moody and stormy—possibly on account of his flaming eyebrows—when you got to know him, he could be quite goofy and funny.
Ayub told him he was coming to Delhi—could he stay with him?
Mansoor was a little stunned by the request—didn’t Ayub have other friends? Besides, in the past few months, things had changed for him at home. His relationship with his parents had turned toxic. As he’d grown angrier with himself about sex, he’d also become more self-righteous, judging his parents for their greed, telling them they should abandon the case with the Sahnis. “We’re religious in action,” his father had said.
“That’s nothing without actually taking time out for God,” Mansoor rebuked him.
Mansoor himself prayed five times a day, sometimes adding on the optional prayer, and increasing the rakat in each prayer.
If he prayed just enough, he thought, he could blot himself out.
“Why not do programming instead of praying so much?” his father asked. “Prayer is for old fogies like me. Young chaps like you should be out and about, working hard.”
“We shouldn’t be so ashamed to be Muslims,” Mansoor replied.
“Arre, where’s the question of shame? We have our last name. We are Muslims. If we were ashamed wouldn’t we have long ago left India? I’m only saying—do you need to pray five times a day to be a Muslim?”
“When Mohammed flew to Jerusalem on the Night Journey, God initially prescribed fifty prayers a day for all Muslims. It was Moses who told him to bargain it down to five. So five isn’t that much. So it’s a bargain, which you would appreciate as a businessman.”
“But do you need to wear the gol topi?” his mother asked, pointing to his skullcap. “You’ll get unwanted attention. Nowhere does it say you have to wear one.” Mansoor had overheard his parents talking about how it was a trend that had started only in the past ten years, as the mosques were flooded with Gulf money. They also talked about how people now said “Allah Hafiz” instead of “Khuda Hafiz” and how the money exchangers all carried signage in Arabic.
“Actually I should have a beard too—I’m only wearing the gol topi because I don’t want to grow a beard.” (He was afraid he couldn’t.)
“These days to call attention to yourself for being a Muslim—” his mother began.
“But it’s exactly because of this kind of shame that I’m wearing it! We have to get over all this shame and fear!”
So—to introduce his most strident Muslim activist friend to the mix would only increase the turbulence. Besides, what would Ayub make of his house, how rich he was? It’s good, thought Mansoor. I’ll tell him about our property loss now. He’ll like hearing about it. “Definitely come,” he told Ayub. “Stay as long as you want.”
When Mansoor told his parents that a friend would be staying, they did not react either way. “Of course,” his mother said, sadly, coldly.
Ayub had by now learned about his mission: he was to go to Delhi, stay with Mansoor, check e-mail regularly, and await orders. “It will be a blast!” Tauqeer said in English, joking.
“Is there a chance this will get my friend into trouble?” Ayub wanted to ask, but he was fearful and resisted. His palms turned on like taps. Sweat ran down his forehead. He developed an itch on his scalp under his soft, sandy hair. He blinked hard, often, girlishly. His breath hung in an awful cloud in front of him.
Delhi was sedate at this time, mid-October. There had been a fire in a hospital and a train collision, but nothing major—the kind of clear news weather you needed for a blast.