a roar. It turned on its headlights and made preliminary circles on the ground before it too jumped onto the wall. The weight of the car caused the entire tower to creak and groan. It strained against itself as if it were a mighty jinn trying to hold down a bad meal. The bikers crisscrossed in front of the car, teasing it, forcing it to follow them higher. Sometimes the bikers rode opposite from each other, giving salutes in our direction. Sometimes they were one in front of the other, the tires threatening to touch, evoking gasps from the audience. The drivers were men of momentum, artists of inertia, fearless and intrepid gamblers who put their lives in the palm of their hand. Their unbuttoned shirts fluttered like capes. They wore numerous taweezes of protection around their necks. They were desert superheroes blessed by the Quran.
Marjan, Ittefaq, and I also played joda-mitti , team tag, with other boys from the madrassa . Two people were “it.” Everyone else had a partner, and those pairs held hands. As long as you were holding someone’s hand, you couldn’t be “it.” Meanwhile, the “it” pair carried out a countdown. When it ended, everyone let go of their partner and tried to get a new one without getting tagged by the “it” pair. One day as we played joda-mitti I jumped from a raised porch into an empty lot and stepped barefoot on a shattered cola bottle. Blood ran everywhere, and the pain was fierce.
“You’re it!” Ittefaq said.
“I’m bleeding!” I objected, using my hand to stanch the flow.
“Doesn’t matter! Hazrat Ali’s arm was cut in battle, hanging only by a tendon. He stepped on it and pulled it off himself so that he could keep fighting.”
“Be a warrior,” Marjan told me.
With a deep breath, I let go of my bleeding foot and started chasing the boys. Dirt and gravel pushed into my wounds. I shook off the blackness that threatened to curtain my eyes. I had to be tough like my friends. It was the only way to survive.
16
B eatings were a regular occurrence at the madrassa . The first good beating I saw involved a boy who hadn’t washed his feet properly before prayer. Someone pointed out this oversight to Qari Jamil, and even though the student pointed to his wet footprints in the courtyard as proof of good intentions, he was made to bend over and was hit on the posterior.
My first beating came soon thereafter.
I had been doing so well with my lessons that when I finished memorizing my required ruku for the day, I usually flipped through the Quran for something more to memorize. Just to prove how good I was, I memorized some of the better known passages and quietly tested myself while waiting for my turn to recite. This project backfired.
As I was reciting one of my assigned lessons for the qari one day, I inadvertently began connecting that recitation to a verse from an entirely different part of the Quran.
Grabbing his stick, Qari Jamil interrupted me.
“How did you get all the way over there?” he asked. “That’s not even part of your lesson.”
“Mistake,” I said, retreating back to my study spot to review my lesson, trying to forget the extra verses.
After some review I returned to my place at the bench and began rocking and reciting. Unfortunately, I persisted in the error.
“You aren’t paying attention!” Qari Jamil exclaimed, fed up with my mistakes. “Come over here.”
I bit my lip. I knew what was coming. His fat hand hung in the air and drew me close. I thought if I just apologized he might let me go. “I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling as abject as I sounded. “I’ll get it right after more review.”
My apology didn’t cut it. I had to be beaten to assure the perfection of the Quran.
Qari Jamil pulled me by my ear and then slapped my head with his right hand, my eyes rattling from the blow. Other students who were hit sometimes developed red splotches in the whites of their eyes, and I wondered if the same would happen to me.
“On
Marjan, Ittefaq, and I also played joda-mitti , team tag, with other boys from the madrassa . Two people were “it.” Everyone else had a partner, and those pairs held hands. As long as you were holding someone’s hand, you couldn’t be “it.” Meanwhile, the “it” pair carried out a countdown. When it ended, everyone let go of their partner and tried to get a new one without getting tagged by the “it” pair. One day as we played joda-mitti I jumped from a raised porch into an empty lot and stepped barefoot on a shattered cola bottle. Blood ran everywhere, and the pain was fierce.
“You’re it!” Ittefaq said.
“I’m bleeding!” I objected, using my hand to stanch the flow.
“Doesn’t matter! Hazrat Ali’s arm was cut in battle, hanging only by a tendon. He stepped on it and pulled it off himself so that he could keep fighting.”
“Be a warrior,” Marjan told me.
With a deep breath, I let go of my bleeding foot and started chasing the boys. Dirt and gravel pushed into my wounds. I shook off the blackness that threatened to curtain my eyes. I had to be tough like my friends. It was the only way to survive.
16
B eatings were a regular occurrence at the madrassa . The first good beating I saw involved a boy who hadn’t washed his feet properly before prayer. Someone pointed out this oversight to Qari Jamil, and even though the student pointed to his wet footprints in the courtyard as proof of good intentions, he was made to bend over and was hit on the posterior.
My first beating came soon thereafter.
I had been doing so well with my lessons that when I finished memorizing my required ruku for the day, I usually flipped through the Quran for something more to memorize. Just to prove how good I was, I memorized some of the better known passages and quietly tested myself while waiting for my turn to recite. This project backfired.
As I was reciting one of my assigned lessons for the qari one day, I inadvertently began connecting that recitation to a verse from an entirely different part of the Quran.
Grabbing his stick, Qari Jamil interrupted me.
“How did you get all the way over there?” he asked. “That’s not even part of your lesson.”
“Mistake,” I said, retreating back to my study spot to review my lesson, trying to forget the extra verses.
After some review I returned to my place at the bench and began rocking and reciting. Unfortunately, I persisted in the error.
“You aren’t paying attention!” Qari Jamil exclaimed, fed up with my mistakes. “Come over here.”
I bit my lip. I knew what was coming. His fat hand hung in the air and drew me close. I thought if I just apologized he might let me go. “I’m very sorry,” I said, feeling as abject as I sounded. “I’ll get it right after more review.”
My apology didn’t cut it. I had to be beaten to assure the perfection of the Quran.
Qari Jamil pulled me by my ear and then slapped my head with his right hand, my eyes rattling from the blow. Other students who were hit sometimes developed red splotches in the whites of their eyes, and I wondered if the same would happen to me.
“On
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