Fiction: The Mudhim

   

The Mudhim wakes, his bladder full, and rests his rear on the bed, feet on cool blue linoleum. His back aches, a dull snarl of the bone. He glances at the clock on the chest of drawers – it's half past three. His wife snores gently behind him, he turns to see her modest chest rise and fall (he finds himself thinking) to the austere rhythm of a Maluud, the syllables stretched to their limit in elongated beauty.

He walks on soft feet to the toilet, a full bladder lending no urgency to his movements. After urinating, he goes to the basin and brushes – he still has most of his teeth. He spits several times into the bowl, rinses his mouth, then lathers his cheeks and chin with a bar of soap. He shaves with soft sweeping strokes and examines his face. His hair has thinned, but his skin is dark and smooth, only missing its youthful luster. His eyes bulge slightly in their sockets, the whites engulfed by a network of fine red veins. His nose is large and hooked – earning the rightful moniker 'Baazu’ at the madhrasaa all those years ago. 

Then, wrapping his mundu tightly around him, he walks on the rough cement floor of the toilet towards a white plastic tap, and loosens the screw to perform his ablutions. He will shower in the morning.

He enters the bedroom and looks at his wife with great tenderness. He will wake her once he returns from the mosque, as always. The Mudhim removes a fresh pair of trousers from the chest of drawers, then buttons up his long-sleeved shirt. He glances at the clock. It is precisely four.

*

Pools of white light rest on the street. He passes Moosaafulhu's house with its pale green door and wild jasmine spilling over high grey-brick walls, scenting this cool morning – an ayah of Allah's never-ending Love for all that exists, from faint glimmers of life in the depths of the sea to the lofty clouds of all men's dreams, he thinks and is surprised at the thought - he is merely a mudhim who leads the prayer at the small mosque in a corner of the southern ward. He is no poet. 

*

Inside the mosque, he walks across its thin, blue carpeted floor, to the caretaker, ordering him with a little jerk of his head to turn on the fans. Then, he moves to the Mudhim's area at the fore from where he will lead the congregation. It is flanked by two wooden cabinets that hold copies of the bound Quran, donations from the Islamic Council, to whom the holy books were donated by the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia with the warmest regards of the king. 

The Mudhim draws himself erect, his back seemingly rid of its ache, and recites, rotely, the pre-prayer duas and, imagining himself in the presence of the Most Merciful and Benevolent, wraps his arms just above his stomach with a barely audible 'Allahu Akbar.'

*

Leading the dawn prayer, the Mudhim recites surah Al-Qadr – its meaning he learnt from his son, a scholar of Islamic theology who studies in Egypt's famous al-Azhar university. The surah speaks of a night whose glory surpasses that of a thousand blessed months, a night filled with peace till the light of dawn. His voice is low, his cadences will remind one, if they knew, of the chanting (of buddhist monks) in Ceylon. No, the tongue of this slave of Allah has not yet been Arabised.

He likes the brief, mystical surahs the most. 

•

The Mudhim leaves for home unhurriedly for there is ample time for his wife to offer her prayers. Moosaafulhu stands at his door, a thakiha on his head, his moustached face crinkled in a smile. They shake hands. I overslept, says his friend and neighbour. Allah forgives sleep, the Mudhim responds. Moosaafulhu nods and asks the Mudhim to pass on his regards to his wife. They part ways.

--

The Mudhim is in his house. He shuffles past his son's room, now empty, and through the visitors' area with its two cane-backed arm chairs and high shelf for the new television. 

Twisting a heavy bronze handle, he enters the bedroom. His wife is still asleep. He goes over to her, brushes the grey hairs from her forehead, and calls her name. 

Her skin is cold.  

The Mudhim feels something constrict deep in his stomach and pressure mounts behind his eyes. He takes hold of her shoulder and shakes. 

A scream begins in the dark of the Mudhim's throat.

Then, he smells it – wild jasmine! It seems to emanate from his wife, from her grey streaked hair, her thin, brown-lidded eyes, her wide, sly mouth. The Mudhim's face almost touches hers as he inhales the sweet fragrance. 

Then, in a motion that leaves him winded, he is transported to a starlit beach of an unfamiliar island. He walks, the soil is powder beneath his soles. As he reaches the wet strip of sand by the murmuring waves, he spies her. She stands in profile in her bright green libaas, her dowry, the fabric tight around her generous rear. Her slender fingers beckon to him and they embrace. He looks into her eyes, kisses their lids. 

How do I do this? he asks her. Are my sins so great? She looks at him and glances up at the sky. He follows her gaze and his eyes rest on a sprinkling of stars. A sigh twined with diamond-bright chimes sounds in his ears. 

The stars! he exclaims, only now realising their significance. 

Your Lord has not forsaken you! Nor is He displeased with your actions!

This Ayah from Ad-Dhuha enshrouds the Mudhim like the gentlest mist and he weeps without restraint.