Boy vs. Girl by Na'ima B. Robert Read Free Book Online Page B

The phone rang constantly with relatives and friends calling to share the good news. The mosque announced that they would pray the
tarawih
prayers that very night, after
isha,
the night prayer, in order to complete the thirty parts of the
Qur’an
before the end of the month.
    Faraz got ready to go with his father. He had a shower and wore fresh clothes and a white skull cap, dabbing some perfume oil under his chin.
    Farhana had wanted to go too but her mother said they had far too much to do at home.
    â€œBut Ummerji,” Farhana protested as her father and brother put on their coats, “I want to see what it’s like…”
    â€œThat’s for the men, Farhana,” her mum had said crossly. “We have too much to do here.”
    Faraz threw his sister a pitying look as Farhana scowled. “I don’t see why the men get to do all the religious stuff and we get stuck in the kitchen.”
    Her father frowned, surprised at his normally obedient daughter. “Farhana, that’s enough. You go and help your mother. We won’t be long.”
    And, with that, father and son left the house, joining other men from neighbouring houses to walk to their local mosque.
    Faraz felt the air buzzing with excitement – the men were jovial, expansive, calling out salaams and ‘
Ramadan mubarak’
. There were quite a few young kids and a few lads around his age, coming along with their dads, most of them wearing white skull caps and long
kamees
, their jeans tucked into their trainers.
    He recognised some of them from his
madressah
days, a few others from his school. Their faces were fresh, their clothes just like their fathers’.
    These ones aren’t on the streets yet – you can tell
, Faraz thought.
    They acknowledged each other with brief nods, a far cry from the handshakes and hugs of the older generation.
    As the mosque filled up, they began to file into rows behind the
imam
. Faraz followed his father towards the front of the building and they found a place right next to a pillar. They had just sat down when they heard a voice calling out behind them. They both turned.
    A tall young man with a full beard and shoulder-length wavy hair was making his way towards them. Faraz had never seen him before but immediately his eye was drawn to the sketchy Islamic geometric pattern on the front of his loose-fitting t-shirt. Sort of reminded him of classical Arabic calligraphy and graffiti at the same time.
    Dad’s face broke into a smile. “Ahh, Imran!
Asalaamu alaikum!
” He immediately rose and held out his hand to the newcomer.
    The young man grasped it firmly and shook it, his other hand on Faraz’s dad’s arm. “
Wa alaikum salaam
, uncle, so good to see you.” Then he lookedover at Faraz and his eyes lit up. “Is this your son, uncle?”
    Faraz nodded and held out his hand, mumbling his greeting.
    â€œ
Wa alaikum salaam
, bro, how’re you doing?”
    â€œI’m good,” was Faraz’s reply.
    â€œ
Alhamdulillah
,” smiled Imran.
    Dad turned to Faraz. “Faraz, this is Imran. We met when he came into the shop to ask permission to put up a poster for an event they are arranging in the city centre…”
    â€œYeah, and your dad gave me a hard time, he did,” laughed Imran. “He wanted to be sure it wasn’t something political, that we weren’t holding any anti-war rallies or supporting terrorism…”
    â€œWe have to be careful, you know,” explained his father, in a tone Faraz recognised as his ‘sensible elder’ voice. “Nowadays, you never know who is watching – and you young people have no sense. You end up causing trouble for all the Muslims in this country…” He carried on talking while Imran gave Faraz a knowing look as if to say ‘These oldies, eh?’
    Faraz smiled. This guy seemed all right. “What was the poster about then?”
    â€œWe have