The Sweetness of Tears by Nafisa Haji Read Free Book Online

House of the Prophet, stealing what little the modest household had in the way of possessions. In the end, it was the women from the enemy camp who took pity on them, bringing food and water on the Night of the Destitute. Later, the women and children who survived, along with Husain’s eldest son, who had been too sick to fight, were chained and bound and led through the streets of Kufa, and on to Damascus, where Yazid held court, beaten whenever they cried in sorrow for the beloved bodies they left behind.
    This, you understand, was the House of the Prophet! It was attacked from within, not by some invading force. Betrayed by its own people, men who called themselves Muslims, followers of the same Messenger who had carried Husain on his shoulders as a boy. It was the worst kind of tragedy. One that originated from inside.
    And then, when the chants, the beating, the frenzy hovered for a few moments at the edge of hysteria, I would feel the fresh, soothing drops fall on my head, my face, my eyes—drops of rosewater that rained down on us, dampening the fervor of the crowd instantaneously, prompting loud salawat s from cooler heads at the outskirts of the crowd, which turned, in some mysterious choreography, and faced one of the walls as my grandmother, Dadi, in a voice still heavy with the tears that continued to make tracks down her face, would begin a long recitation in Arabic that was familiar, the language of prayer, but not our language—full of salaam s, the Muslim greeting of peace, interspersed with some of the names that had been chanted moments before with such passion. In the middle of these salaam s, all the women would turn together, to change the angle of where they faced, and then turn back again to stand the way they had when they began—turning directions to match the locations of where the people they saluted were buried. Some in what is now Iraq and in Medina, the City of the Prophet, in the Arabian Peninsula. And one in Iran, which is why the women turned during the salutations.
    When the majlis was done, the solemn fog of grief that still filled the room lifted slowly at first. Women greeted each other, the ones who had not had the chance before, those who’d come early meeting those who’d come late with kisses and hugs. Eventually, smiles were seen and laughter heard, from faces still wet with tears. While tea and snacks were served, my mother would take my hand and lead me to the altar, praying silently, touching the various objects there with a hand she then kissed. Sometimes, my mother would give me some money, a few rupees, to place in front of one or other of the symbols on the table—like the water bag—to be collected later by Dadi, for alms. I never hesitated about where I placed the money she gave me—in the cradle, a miniature one made of silver, only big enough for a small doll.
    That is Ali Asghar’s cradle, my mother told me, who was Imam Husain’s six-month-old baby. That is where the infant slept as his mother rocked him and watched over him when her milk ran dry, from lack of food and drink, and she saw that he was dying. Before Imam Husain went forth to battle, she begged him to take the baby to the enemy forces, to ask that they quench the innocent infant’s thirst if no one else’s. So, Imam Husain took Ali Asghar to the battlefield and pleaded with the enemy soldiers to take pity on Ali Asghar’s innocent thirst. In case they thought it was a trick to gain relief for himself, Imam Husain laid his baby on the burning sands of Karbala, inviting someone from among them to take the child themselves to give him water. As savage as the hearts of Yazid’s soldiers were, some among them began to cry, remembering babies of their own, safe and sound, far away at home. Seeing this, quickly, the commander of Yazid’s forces ordered his best archer, Hurmula, to shoot an arrow into the baby’s throat. The first arrow missed its mark when Imam Husain picked up Ali Asghar in his