Night of Power, page 9
“Yes, sir, I saw everything.”
“Like trying to free a caged bird that refuses to fly. No man can manage a woman like her, that is for certain. And it is not just her inability to cook properly, you see. There is a long list of other infractions: she won’t use toilet paper, she doesn’t know how to use a fork and knife, and worse still, she wears this.” Govindji tugged at Gulzar’s pacheri-scarf. “I have even tried to enlist the help of a missionary. Imagine me asking a missionary for his help. I thought perhaps a religious angle would help. Not that I…” he glanced back as if to check that no one was listening “…am a believer. But the women, they often are. They love religion, superstition. That sort of hullabaloo. See that,” he said, pointing to a framed photograph of the Aga Khan with his new European wife dressed in a pantsuit, the words WEAR SIMPLE COLONIAL DRESS followed by his signature printed beneath the photo. “The missionary gifted it to her, you see. You would think that would have made a difference. Nothing doing. Stubborn as a mule. Am I asking her to wear pants? Of course not! But some form of civility, please. What will people think, hanh? That I, Visram Popat Govindji, am married to some kind of savage? That I am some kind of backward fool? I even bought her a nice dress during a business trip to London. The latest fashion, I tell you. And what did she do with it? Added fabric to the bottom, turned it into a long dress, even extended the sleeves! I say, no gratitude in this woman whatsoever. Not one iota. In this, the European man has a clear advantage over us, Badur Bhai. Their women are educated, you see. They have class. Very good for business. The womenfolk chit-chat about this and that while the men discuss business. It is a perfect set-up. Your opponent lets down his guard at a social event—good food and drink in hand—thinking it is just a friendly gathering, when the main point is to a strike a deal. Imagine taking that,” Govindji pointed to Gulzar, “to a dinner party or a business luncheon!”
“Difficult, sir, very difficult.”
“No, this is unacceptable. A man of my position having a wife like her. Why can’t she adjust herself, hanh? Is this not a feminine trait? But she’s missing it—not just a little but kabisa. Something’s wrong with her, Badur Bhai. Something is off in her genetic makeup. This is the peril of ordering a bride, sight unseen. I trusted my agent. And therein was my number-one problem. I should have gone and checked for myself. Made sure I was not getting damaged goods. I specifically requested an adjustable woman. But the only way to get anything done properly is to take matters into your own hands. Isn’t that right, Badur Bhai?”
“Absolutely right,” Badur said, tucking his hands into his pants pockets.
“So what choice do I have, Badur Bhai? None whatsoever. I have the well-being of my son, my future progeny, to think of. What I need is a modern bride, one who will help educate my children. Build a future. I say, I have given her plenty of time to change. To become a modern woman.”
“True, sir, more than plenty.”
“Enough is enough!” Govindji called Jocelyn and the maid, Nelly, forward. “As I told you…” he said to them in Swahili.
The women flanked Gulzar, each one grabbing her by the wrist.
“What are you doing?” Gulzar said, trying to wriggle out of their grip.
They pulled her to the middle of the kitchen where Badur had already started laying newspaper on the floor.
Govindji lifted a kitchen chair and arched it over the air to Gulzar. He placed it behind her knees, then forced her down by her shoulders.
The women dropped down to the floor, one on each side of the chair. They pulled on Gulzar’s wrists and buckled her down.
“Okay, Badur Bhai. You can start.”
Badur plucked Gulzar’s scarf from her head and handed it to Nelly. He pulled her bun down. Bobby pins flew out like startled cockroaches and skittered over the floor. Gulzar’s thick black hair unravelled over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall.
Badur removed the scissors from his shirt pocket.
Gulzar flip-flopped in the chair like a fish out of water.
“If you resist,” Govindji said, “how will Badur Bhai do his job, hanh? You’ll be scarred. And there’s no point in scarring such a beautiful face,” he said, running the back of his fingers over her cheek.
“Why are you doing this? Please, don’t,” Gulzar begged.
“It is your own fault, can’t you see? Who asked you to be so stubborn? You are the one who wants to go back to India. So who am I to stop you? I will grant you your wish.”
“Send me back? But what will they say?” Gulzar began to cry.
“Aye-ya-ya. No need to cry. I am doing this for your own good.” Govindji then turned to his accountant. “Begin, Badur Bhai.”
Mansoor cupped his hands over his face. “Mamma,” he whispered into his palms, rocking back and forth. “Mamma.”
The sound of scissors clipping in a frenzy filled the kitchen.
“Excellent work, Badur Bhai,” Govindji said when the sound stopped.
Mansoor opened his eyes to see his father standing by the chair, the accountant wiping the scissors clean with a towel. A carpet of hair surrounded the chair. Jocelyn brushed hair off her cheek. Nelly wiped the back of her wrist across her lips.
“Now they will believe you,” Govindji tapped Gulzar’s head, her hair shorn to the scalp in the custom of widows. “I’ve done you a favour, can’t you see? You can tell them I am dead. You are a widow and that is the reason you are back.”
“Anything else, sir?” Badur asked.
“Just the papers.”
“Right-right, sir.”
“Please, can I hold my son?” Gulzar asked, her hands folded in a lap of hair.
“Yes, of course.” Govindji turned to Mansoor. “Go to your mother.”
“Come to me, babu,” Gulzar said, her arms outstretched, her voice breaking.
But Mansoor did not recognize the person in the chair. Where was his mother? He scanned the room frantically, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for her. She had vanished. In her place: a man in his mother’s dress. The image terrified him.
“Go, son.” Govindji lifted Mansoor off his chair and placed him on the floor. “Go say goodbye to your mother.” He pushed him forward.
Mansoor ran to his ayah.
Badur removed an ink pad and a set of forms from his canvas bag and smoothed them out on the kitchen table. Nelly held Gulzar by the elbow and helped her to the table like a nurse escorting a patient after surgery. Badur lifted Gulzar’s hand, which hung limp in his. He pressed her thumb to the ink pad, then pushed it down on the port papers.
Later that day, Badur accompanied Gulzar on a train to Mombasa where he ensured she boarded the SS Bombay, reversing the trip she had made across the ocean four years earlier. Soon after the ship set sail, Gulzar jumped overboard and drowned. “That’s too bad,” Govindji said when he was told the news. “She was a good woman.”
Weeks later, a new wife arrived, this time hand-picked by Govindji himself, this time from Uganda. She was fifteen years old.
“This is your new mummy,” his father said. “Say hello.” Mansoor stuck his thumb in his mouth instead. He wanted his mummy. The real mummy. Where was his real mummy?
His father yanked his son’s tiny wrist away from his mouth and held it up to his new wife. “Say hello or else!”
“Hello,” Mansoor whimpered and shook the girl’s hand.
* * *
“Anything else?” the waiter asks Mansoor.
It takes Mansoor a second to hear him, to reorient himself. He looks down at his half-eaten steak. Across the table, a bowl of granola and yogurt, hardly touched. “Just the bill.”
“Your son has already taken care of it,” the waiter says with a wink.
“No, no. I will pay.” Mansoor fumbles. His fists are wrapped in napkins, like bandages. He casts them off and they fall to the floor. He roots through his wallet, hands the waiter a credit card.
“But it’s already been paid for, sir.” The waiter hands the card back.
Mansoor refuses to take the card. “There has been some sort of mistake. This card is good.”
“It was a pleasure serving you, sir.” The waiter puts the card down on the table. “We hope to see you again soon.” He picks up Mansoor’s plate and leaves.
Mansoor puts his card back into his wallet. He gathers up both copies of his presentation, the two calculators, the two pens, the silver-plated business-card holder. With trembling hands, he drops them back into his briefcase. He leaves the cheque with his name on it where Ashif had put it, between the salt and pepper shakers. He weaves through the tables of businessmen. It’s the host who finally stops him from circling the lounge. He points him toward the elevator.
“That way down, sir.”
Chapter 14
LAYLA ARRIVES AT JAMATKHANA with Shamma and Almas for the Night of Power on the northeast Calgary Ismaili mini-bus, which brings community members, mostly seniors, to and from jamatkhana for their morning and evening prayers. She tucks her chin to her chest, against the cold wind, and shuffles to the entrance of the prayer hall. She wishes Mansoor would come to jamatkhana with her. It would give him some peace of mind. But he hasn’t been in years, decades even. She recently suggested that he should at least come tonight. “Lailatul Qadr is no ordinary night,” she reminded him. “Our prayers tonight are equivalent to one thousand nights of prayer.” Mansoor just laughed. “Sounds like Ali-Baba and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights!” he said. “What kind of a fool believes in that hocus-pocus?” Layla continued, undeterred. “It’s the night Allah seals our fates for the coming year. We have to pray and ask for mercy and forgiveness.” “Oh-ho, Layla. How many times can I tell you? Religion and story. They’re one and the same thing. Fiction. All fiction.”
The prayer hall is simple but elegant. The colours, too. Sandstone and cedar. The minarets are shaped like peaks instead of domes, an ode to the Rocky Mountains in the distant horizon. Soft lights cast a pale, soothing glow over the hall, which is full but not yet at capacity. Many more will arrive after evening prayers when the night formally begins at nine o’clock, and by midnight, the hall will be jam-packed with followers eager to take advantage of the night’s most powerful prayers. The seniors sit at the back of the hall in chairs designated for them. The rest of the congregation sits on the carpet. Men on the right, women on the left. The leaders of the jamatkhana, two married couples, are on the carpet, too, but behind their phats, low tables at the front of the hall that face the congregation. Mukhi Sahib and Mukhiyani Ma, Kamadria and Kamariyani Ma. On their tables, a feast of offerings, including the platters of food Mukhiyani Ma ordered from Layla.
Close to midnight, Mukhi Sahib asks the congregation to stand for the midnight prayers. The congregation rises. Layla, too, her rosary beads in hand. A young woman with golden hair, dressed in a brilliant blue shalwar kameez, weaves through the congregation to the podium at the front of the hall. She turns to Mukhi. He nods. She presses her palms together in prayer and begins. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. The congregation joins in, their voices building, like a wave, louder and louder, until they are swimming in sound.
Some leave after the midnight tasbih ends at one. Volunteers in their smart blue uniforms parcel out cashews and coffee beans to help those who remain stay awake. The night is spent with prayers interspersed with breaks, devotional songs, and waez-speeches from missionaries. By now, some have stretched out their legs, covering their feet with shawls. Others have their children at their sides, fast asleep under blankets. At four, the lights are dimmed and the congregation begins a silent meditation followed by regular morning prayers at five. Then, breakfast is served in the social hall. Some don’t stay for breakfast, eager to get home to sleep or to get to work. Layla sits with the seniors, dunking mumri into cups of steaming chai. When they finish, they begin their procession to the jamati bus.
Snow swirls around the lampposts of the jamatkhana parking lot. In the distance, across Deerfoot Trail, the red light at the top of the Calgary Tower blinks on and off, like a lighthouse in a dark sea. Their bus driver, Al-Karim, who is a member of the Volunteer Corps, stands at the steps of the bus and offers his hand to those who need it. “Work, No Words.” That’s their motto. The Corps do so much good seva-service for the community, but they never tout their virtues to the world like a salesman hawking a product. God is watching, and that is enough. Once everyone is inside, Layla asks Al-Karim to help her with her cellphone. She’d noticed a message on it but didn’t know how to retrieve it. The phone was a gift from Ashif after he bought a new one for himself. He insists that she use it whenever she wants. Call long distance. Call anyone you want. But she keeps it for emergency purposes only. She does not want to waste her son’s hard-earned money. Besides, she doesn’t know how to use all the features, even though he had explained them to her. But how many new things can you learn in one lifetime?
“Of course.” Al-Karim dials into her voicemail for her then hands the phone to her.
She hopes it is Ashif who’s called. Maybe his plans have changed and he’s coming home again? Or maybe he wants to tell her how his breakfast with his father went yesterday.
A woman’s voice booms into her ear. “Hello, this is Sunnydale Hospital. We’re sorry to leave this as a message. We’re calling to inform you that Mansoor Visram was admitted to Emergency at four this morning. When you come to the hospital, please check in with Patient Services on the main level. Thank you.”
The word emergency shatters in her mind like an icicle. She drops the phone. It clangs onto the bus floor. She feels dizzy. “Ashif,” she says, as if that is enough to summon him.
Al-Karim retrieves the phone and listens to the message. “Don’t worry, Aunty,” he says, cupping her shoulder. “I’ll take you. Arzeen works at that hospital. I’ll ask her to meet us.”
She nods but her instinct is to call Ashif. She takes her phone from Al-Karim and starts to dial and then stops. She shouldn’t worry him uselessly. She will wait to find out what’s happened to Mansoor first. Please, Mowla, let my husband be okay.
* * *
The seniors file through the hospital’s revolving doors like schoolchildren through a turnstile. Layla tried to protest, but they insisted on keeping her company. “Vando-nye,” she told them. “I’ll be all right.” Shamma and Almas were with her. “No, no, mustn’t be alone,” one senior said, resting her hand on Layla’s shoulder from the seat behind, her fingertips stained with henna.
“Yes, exactly,” another senior added. “Strength in numbers.”
The seniors follow Al-Karim down a brightly lit corridor toward the hospital registration desk where Al-Karim’s wife, Arzeen, is waiting for them in green scrubs, the baggy top hiding the roundness of her pregnant belly. She waves at Al-Karim. “Hey, babe,” she mouths. He waves from the back of the group.
“Ya ali madad, Aunty.” She embraces Layla as far as her stomach allows and kisses her on each cheek. “Everything will be okay,” she whispers.
“Inshallah.” Layla clutches her bag. “What has happened to Uncle?”
“We don’t know yet, Aunty. We need to wait for the doctor.”
“Is Dr. Murji here?” Layla asks, hoping for an Ismaili doctor. Not that she knows him personally. But he is the vice-chair of the Ismailia Health Care Board, and, as part of his duties, he gives speeches at all the jamatkhanas on health issues affecting the community.
“No, Aunty. I wish he was working today, too. Another doctor will meet us soon.” Arzeen waves the group forward; her wedding ring glitters on her small hand. “Hullo, vinjay. Let’s go,” she says enthusiastically, as if she’s leading a tour.
The waiting room looks like a seashell with its long curved wall that separates it from the hallway. Pumpkin-coloured chairs circle the room. It is empty except for an old Sikh man who is lying down across three chairs. He unhooks his arm from over his eyes and looks up at them for a second before returning to his original position on his makeshift bed.
Community members settle in, taking up most of the chairs. Shamma removes a plate of tepla from her bag of naandi, the daily auction of food offerings at jamatkhana, and passes it around. Without being asked, Al-Karim takes orders for tea.
“Tim Hortons? Shabash. Would have brought a Thermos of chai from home had we known,” a senior says, shaking her head. All the seniors request double-doubles.
The sound of the large clock on the wall is a heartbeat that gets louder and louder until it feels like a pulse in Layla’s ears. She retrieves her cellphone from her handbag and wraps her fingers tightly around it. As she waits for news from the doctor, she thinks of the last time she saw Mansoor. Yesterday morning, on his way to breakfast with Ashif. He was in such good spirits. What happened to him after?
The attending emergency physician, a young man with dishevelled red-blond hair and a stethoscope folded into his jacket pocket, stands at the front of the waiting room. He holds a file splayed open in his hands. “Mrs. Visram?”
Arzeen holds Layla by the elbow as they follow Dr. Poole down a long corridor toward a room with the sign QUIET ROOM B. Why do they call it the Quiet Room? Is it to encourage people to keep their emotions in, silence themselves when they are being told the news? All Layla wants to do is to scream so loudly that her son will hear her.
The doctor holds the door open with an outstretched arm. Inside, there is a small white table with several chairs around it. Layla sits down, cradling her handbag in her lap. She places a palm over the bulge of her cellphone. Arzeen stands next to her, like a guard, her hand on Layla’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Visram, let me explain what has happened to your husband,” the doctor says as he pulls a chair next to her. “We’re not quite sure of the circumstances that led to his injuries, but we know that he must have been outside for quite an extensive period in these temperatures. He’s suffered from severe hypothermia. He wasn’t wearing proper clothing. He’s very lucky that he was found.”
“Like trying to free a caged bird that refuses to fly. No man can manage a woman like her, that is for certain. And it is not just her inability to cook properly, you see. There is a long list of other infractions: she won’t use toilet paper, she doesn’t know how to use a fork and knife, and worse still, she wears this.” Govindji tugged at Gulzar’s pacheri-scarf. “I have even tried to enlist the help of a missionary. Imagine me asking a missionary for his help. I thought perhaps a religious angle would help. Not that I…” he glanced back as if to check that no one was listening “…am a believer. But the women, they often are. They love religion, superstition. That sort of hullabaloo. See that,” he said, pointing to a framed photograph of the Aga Khan with his new European wife dressed in a pantsuit, the words WEAR SIMPLE COLONIAL DRESS followed by his signature printed beneath the photo. “The missionary gifted it to her, you see. You would think that would have made a difference. Nothing doing. Stubborn as a mule. Am I asking her to wear pants? Of course not! But some form of civility, please. What will people think, hanh? That I, Visram Popat Govindji, am married to some kind of savage? That I am some kind of backward fool? I even bought her a nice dress during a business trip to London. The latest fashion, I tell you. And what did she do with it? Added fabric to the bottom, turned it into a long dress, even extended the sleeves! I say, no gratitude in this woman whatsoever. Not one iota. In this, the European man has a clear advantage over us, Badur Bhai. Their women are educated, you see. They have class. Very good for business. The womenfolk chit-chat about this and that while the men discuss business. It is a perfect set-up. Your opponent lets down his guard at a social event—good food and drink in hand—thinking it is just a friendly gathering, when the main point is to a strike a deal. Imagine taking that,” Govindji pointed to Gulzar, “to a dinner party or a business luncheon!”
“Difficult, sir, very difficult.”
“No, this is unacceptable. A man of my position having a wife like her. Why can’t she adjust herself, hanh? Is this not a feminine trait? But she’s missing it—not just a little but kabisa. Something’s wrong with her, Badur Bhai. Something is off in her genetic makeup. This is the peril of ordering a bride, sight unseen. I trusted my agent. And therein was my number-one problem. I should have gone and checked for myself. Made sure I was not getting damaged goods. I specifically requested an adjustable woman. But the only way to get anything done properly is to take matters into your own hands. Isn’t that right, Badur Bhai?”
“Absolutely right,” Badur said, tucking his hands into his pants pockets.
“So what choice do I have, Badur Bhai? None whatsoever. I have the well-being of my son, my future progeny, to think of. What I need is a modern bride, one who will help educate my children. Build a future. I say, I have given her plenty of time to change. To become a modern woman.”
“True, sir, more than plenty.”
“Enough is enough!” Govindji called Jocelyn and the maid, Nelly, forward. “As I told you…” he said to them in Swahili.
The women flanked Gulzar, each one grabbing her by the wrist.
“What are you doing?” Gulzar said, trying to wriggle out of their grip.
They pulled her to the middle of the kitchen where Badur had already started laying newspaper on the floor.
Govindji lifted a kitchen chair and arched it over the air to Gulzar. He placed it behind her knees, then forced her down by her shoulders.
The women dropped down to the floor, one on each side of the chair. They pulled on Gulzar’s wrists and buckled her down.
“Okay, Badur Bhai. You can start.”
Badur plucked Gulzar’s scarf from her head and handed it to Nelly. He pulled her bun down. Bobby pins flew out like startled cockroaches and skittered over the floor. Gulzar’s thick black hair unravelled over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall.
Badur removed the scissors from his shirt pocket.
Gulzar flip-flopped in the chair like a fish out of water.
“If you resist,” Govindji said, “how will Badur Bhai do his job, hanh? You’ll be scarred. And there’s no point in scarring such a beautiful face,” he said, running the back of his fingers over her cheek.
“Why are you doing this? Please, don’t,” Gulzar begged.
“It is your own fault, can’t you see? Who asked you to be so stubborn? You are the one who wants to go back to India. So who am I to stop you? I will grant you your wish.”
“Send me back? But what will they say?” Gulzar began to cry.
“Aye-ya-ya. No need to cry. I am doing this for your own good.” Govindji then turned to his accountant. “Begin, Badur Bhai.”
Mansoor cupped his hands over his face. “Mamma,” he whispered into his palms, rocking back and forth. “Mamma.”
The sound of scissors clipping in a frenzy filled the kitchen.
“Excellent work, Badur Bhai,” Govindji said when the sound stopped.
Mansoor opened his eyes to see his father standing by the chair, the accountant wiping the scissors clean with a towel. A carpet of hair surrounded the chair. Jocelyn brushed hair off her cheek. Nelly wiped the back of her wrist across her lips.
“Now they will believe you,” Govindji tapped Gulzar’s head, her hair shorn to the scalp in the custom of widows. “I’ve done you a favour, can’t you see? You can tell them I am dead. You are a widow and that is the reason you are back.”
“Anything else, sir?” Badur asked.
“Just the papers.”
“Right-right, sir.”
“Please, can I hold my son?” Gulzar asked, her hands folded in a lap of hair.
“Yes, of course.” Govindji turned to Mansoor. “Go to your mother.”
“Come to me, babu,” Gulzar said, her arms outstretched, her voice breaking.
But Mansoor did not recognize the person in the chair. Where was his mother? He scanned the room frantically, his eyes darting from face to face, looking for her. She had vanished. In her place: a man in his mother’s dress. The image terrified him.
“Go, son.” Govindji lifted Mansoor off his chair and placed him on the floor. “Go say goodbye to your mother.” He pushed him forward.
Mansoor ran to his ayah.
Badur removed an ink pad and a set of forms from his canvas bag and smoothed them out on the kitchen table. Nelly held Gulzar by the elbow and helped her to the table like a nurse escorting a patient after surgery. Badur lifted Gulzar’s hand, which hung limp in his. He pressed her thumb to the ink pad, then pushed it down on the port papers.
Later that day, Badur accompanied Gulzar on a train to Mombasa where he ensured she boarded the SS Bombay, reversing the trip she had made across the ocean four years earlier. Soon after the ship set sail, Gulzar jumped overboard and drowned. “That’s too bad,” Govindji said when he was told the news. “She was a good woman.”
Weeks later, a new wife arrived, this time hand-picked by Govindji himself, this time from Uganda. She was fifteen years old.
“This is your new mummy,” his father said. “Say hello.” Mansoor stuck his thumb in his mouth instead. He wanted his mummy. The real mummy. Where was his real mummy?
His father yanked his son’s tiny wrist away from his mouth and held it up to his new wife. “Say hello or else!”
“Hello,” Mansoor whimpered and shook the girl’s hand.
* * *
“Anything else?” the waiter asks Mansoor.
It takes Mansoor a second to hear him, to reorient himself. He looks down at his half-eaten steak. Across the table, a bowl of granola and yogurt, hardly touched. “Just the bill.”
“Your son has already taken care of it,” the waiter says with a wink.
“No, no. I will pay.” Mansoor fumbles. His fists are wrapped in napkins, like bandages. He casts them off and they fall to the floor. He roots through his wallet, hands the waiter a credit card.
“But it’s already been paid for, sir.” The waiter hands the card back.
Mansoor refuses to take the card. “There has been some sort of mistake. This card is good.”
“It was a pleasure serving you, sir.” The waiter puts the card down on the table. “We hope to see you again soon.” He picks up Mansoor’s plate and leaves.
Mansoor puts his card back into his wallet. He gathers up both copies of his presentation, the two calculators, the two pens, the silver-plated business-card holder. With trembling hands, he drops them back into his briefcase. He leaves the cheque with his name on it where Ashif had put it, between the salt and pepper shakers. He weaves through the tables of businessmen. It’s the host who finally stops him from circling the lounge. He points him toward the elevator.
“That way down, sir.”
Chapter 14
LAYLA ARRIVES AT JAMATKHANA with Shamma and Almas for the Night of Power on the northeast Calgary Ismaili mini-bus, which brings community members, mostly seniors, to and from jamatkhana for their morning and evening prayers. She tucks her chin to her chest, against the cold wind, and shuffles to the entrance of the prayer hall. She wishes Mansoor would come to jamatkhana with her. It would give him some peace of mind. But he hasn’t been in years, decades even. She recently suggested that he should at least come tonight. “Lailatul Qadr is no ordinary night,” she reminded him. “Our prayers tonight are equivalent to one thousand nights of prayer.” Mansoor just laughed. “Sounds like Ali-Baba and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights!” he said. “What kind of a fool believes in that hocus-pocus?” Layla continued, undeterred. “It’s the night Allah seals our fates for the coming year. We have to pray and ask for mercy and forgiveness.” “Oh-ho, Layla. How many times can I tell you? Religion and story. They’re one and the same thing. Fiction. All fiction.”
The prayer hall is simple but elegant. The colours, too. Sandstone and cedar. The minarets are shaped like peaks instead of domes, an ode to the Rocky Mountains in the distant horizon. Soft lights cast a pale, soothing glow over the hall, which is full but not yet at capacity. Many more will arrive after evening prayers when the night formally begins at nine o’clock, and by midnight, the hall will be jam-packed with followers eager to take advantage of the night’s most powerful prayers. The seniors sit at the back of the hall in chairs designated for them. The rest of the congregation sits on the carpet. Men on the right, women on the left. The leaders of the jamatkhana, two married couples, are on the carpet, too, but behind their phats, low tables at the front of the hall that face the congregation. Mukhi Sahib and Mukhiyani Ma, Kamadria and Kamariyani Ma. On their tables, a feast of offerings, including the platters of food Mukhiyani Ma ordered from Layla.
Close to midnight, Mukhi Sahib asks the congregation to stand for the midnight prayers. The congregation rises. Layla, too, her rosary beads in hand. A young woman with golden hair, dressed in a brilliant blue shalwar kameez, weaves through the congregation to the podium at the front of the hall. She turns to Mukhi. He nods. She presses her palms together in prayer and begins. Ya Rahman, Ya Rahim. The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful. The congregation joins in, their voices building, like a wave, louder and louder, until they are swimming in sound.
Some leave after the midnight tasbih ends at one. Volunteers in their smart blue uniforms parcel out cashews and coffee beans to help those who remain stay awake. The night is spent with prayers interspersed with breaks, devotional songs, and waez-speeches from missionaries. By now, some have stretched out their legs, covering their feet with shawls. Others have their children at their sides, fast asleep under blankets. At four, the lights are dimmed and the congregation begins a silent meditation followed by regular morning prayers at five. Then, breakfast is served in the social hall. Some don’t stay for breakfast, eager to get home to sleep or to get to work. Layla sits with the seniors, dunking mumri into cups of steaming chai. When they finish, they begin their procession to the jamati bus.
Snow swirls around the lampposts of the jamatkhana parking lot. In the distance, across Deerfoot Trail, the red light at the top of the Calgary Tower blinks on and off, like a lighthouse in a dark sea. Their bus driver, Al-Karim, who is a member of the Volunteer Corps, stands at the steps of the bus and offers his hand to those who need it. “Work, No Words.” That’s their motto. The Corps do so much good seva-service for the community, but they never tout their virtues to the world like a salesman hawking a product. God is watching, and that is enough. Once everyone is inside, Layla asks Al-Karim to help her with her cellphone. She’d noticed a message on it but didn’t know how to retrieve it. The phone was a gift from Ashif after he bought a new one for himself. He insists that she use it whenever she wants. Call long distance. Call anyone you want. But she keeps it for emergency purposes only. She does not want to waste her son’s hard-earned money. Besides, she doesn’t know how to use all the features, even though he had explained them to her. But how many new things can you learn in one lifetime?
“Of course.” Al-Karim dials into her voicemail for her then hands the phone to her.
She hopes it is Ashif who’s called. Maybe his plans have changed and he’s coming home again? Or maybe he wants to tell her how his breakfast with his father went yesterday.
A woman’s voice booms into her ear. “Hello, this is Sunnydale Hospital. We’re sorry to leave this as a message. We’re calling to inform you that Mansoor Visram was admitted to Emergency at four this morning. When you come to the hospital, please check in with Patient Services on the main level. Thank you.”
The word emergency shatters in her mind like an icicle. She drops the phone. It clangs onto the bus floor. She feels dizzy. “Ashif,” she says, as if that is enough to summon him.
Al-Karim retrieves the phone and listens to the message. “Don’t worry, Aunty,” he says, cupping her shoulder. “I’ll take you. Arzeen works at that hospital. I’ll ask her to meet us.”
She nods but her instinct is to call Ashif. She takes her phone from Al-Karim and starts to dial and then stops. She shouldn’t worry him uselessly. She will wait to find out what’s happened to Mansoor first. Please, Mowla, let my husband be okay.
* * *
The seniors file through the hospital’s revolving doors like schoolchildren through a turnstile. Layla tried to protest, but they insisted on keeping her company. “Vando-nye,” she told them. “I’ll be all right.” Shamma and Almas were with her. “No, no, mustn’t be alone,” one senior said, resting her hand on Layla’s shoulder from the seat behind, her fingertips stained with henna.
“Yes, exactly,” another senior added. “Strength in numbers.”
The seniors follow Al-Karim down a brightly lit corridor toward the hospital registration desk where Al-Karim’s wife, Arzeen, is waiting for them in green scrubs, the baggy top hiding the roundness of her pregnant belly. She waves at Al-Karim. “Hey, babe,” she mouths. He waves from the back of the group.
“Ya ali madad, Aunty.” She embraces Layla as far as her stomach allows and kisses her on each cheek. “Everything will be okay,” she whispers.
“Inshallah.” Layla clutches her bag. “What has happened to Uncle?”
“We don’t know yet, Aunty. We need to wait for the doctor.”
“Is Dr. Murji here?” Layla asks, hoping for an Ismaili doctor. Not that she knows him personally. But he is the vice-chair of the Ismailia Health Care Board, and, as part of his duties, he gives speeches at all the jamatkhanas on health issues affecting the community.
“No, Aunty. I wish he was working today, too. Another doctor will meet us soon.” Arzeen waves the group forward; her wedding ring glitters on her small hand. “Hullo, vinjay. Let’s go,” she says enthusiastically, as if she’s leading a tour.
The waiting room looks like a seashell with its long curved wall that separates it from the hallway. Pumpkin-coloured chairs circle the room. It is empty except for an old Sikh man who is lying down across three chairs. He unhooks his arm from over his eyes and looks up at them for a second before returning to his original position on his makeshift bed.
Community members settle in, taking up most of the chairs. Shamma removes a plate of tepla from her bag of naandi, the daily auction of food offerings at jamatkhana, and passes it around. Without being asked, Al-Karim takes orders for tea.
“Tim Hortons? Shabash. Would have brought a Thermos of chai from home had we known,” a senior says, shaking her head. All the seniors request double-doubles.
The sound of the large clock on the wall is a heartbeat that gets louder and louder until it feels like a pulse in Layla’s ears. She retrieves her cellphone from her handbag and wraps her fingers tightly around it. As she waits for news from the doctor, she thinks of the last time she saw Mansoor. Yesterday morning, on his way to breakfast with Ashif. He was in such good spirits. What happened to him after?
The attending emergency physician, a young man with dishevelled red-blond hair and a stethoscope folded into his jacket pocket, stands at the front of the waiting room. He holds a file splayed open in his hands. “Mrs. Visram?”
Arzeen holds Layla by the elbow as they follow Dr. Poole down a long corridor toward a room with the sign QUIET ROOM B. Why do they call it the Quiet Room? Is it to encourage people to keep their emotions in, silence themselves when they are being told the news? All Layla wants to do is to scream so loudly that her son will hear her.
The doctor holds the door open with an outstretched arm. Inside, there is a small white table with several chairs around it. Layla sits down, cradling her handbag in her lap. She places a palm over the bulge of her cellphone. Arzeen stands next to her, like a guard, her hand on Layla’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Visram, let me explain what has happened to your husband,” the doctor says as he pulls a chair next to her. “We’re not quite sure of the circumstances that led to his injuries, but we know that he must have been outside for quite an extensive period in these temperatures. He’s suffered from severe hypothermia. He wasn’t wearing proper clothing. He’s very lucky that he was found.”
