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The ImamChapter 3 free porn video
MUSTAFA RETURNS HOME
12th of Safar 1436
(December 5, 2014)
Mustafa arrived at the Riverside Drive apartment a bit after midnight. He carried a small duffle bag with essentials for a seven day stay with his mother. He knocked on the door softly at first so as not to disturb the neighbors. He knocked a bit louder, and still his mother did not appear. His soft knocks turned into loud thumps, and in the adjacent apartment, a dog, a small one, barked excitedly. ‘She must be home,’ thought the Imam. He banged on the door again, this time with even more force. The dog barked uncontrollably. Suddenly he heard the locks unlatch, and in the doorway appeared his mother, Maryam. Her small face, grossly thin and hollow, showed dark rings under her eyes, and she wore a cotton night-suit which fell to her ankles.
She opened the door slowly. She said not a word, and by the threadbare shawl covering her head, Mustafa knew she must have been in the middle of prayers. His mother resumed her prayers as Mustafa looked on, not knowing her reaction to his return. She finished her prayers as a matter of course and approached him in the quiet, murky glow of the apartment, the lamp in the corner of the room casting strange shadows across the ceiling.
“You must ask Allah for forgiveness,” she said almost inaudibly, her finger pointing. Tomorrow we will go to the mosque.”
Mustafa wished he had stayed in Boston under the care of the psychiatrist who dismissed him. Although he had been alone in the colonial city, he felt more alone in the small New York apartment. His mother represented a twisted, misshapen loneliness far beyond being alone. Quite suddenly he longed for the television to keep him company. He sat on the loveseat and turned on the television with its imposing flickers of light erasing the stretching and ominous shadows. Maryam blocked his view.
“You dare watch TV at a time like this?”
Mustafa put his heavy arms around his mother. She wiggled free of his grasp and shouted: “You dare hug me, you dare come back after months of not knowing where you are, no number, no address, money gone from my purse, Mustafa this is terrible, it’s horrible, don’t come here like this, nothing doing, Mustafa. See how sick you’re looking, like a devil has gotten into you, that enemy is chasing after you, that devil is after you, and you must spit him out, because that devil is following you, I know him, and he’s following you.
“We must go to the mosque and see the amilsaab there, and only he can cast this devil out. You don’t know your prayers, you don’t do your Arabic lessons, I called the police and the missing persons bureau, I had no idea where you went or who you were with, it’s so terrible, and you dare try to hug me?”
Mustafa fell back on the love-seat and held his head in his hands. He saw his mother as a caricature, a big rat embracing something too old, too ancient. His disdain for everything Arabic intensified this image of her, a large rat waving the flags of the crescent moon, not necessarily fanatical, but clinging so hard to a God who never wanted to be followed and prayed to with such an abandon, as though prayer in itself was decadent and gratuitous.
There exists a greater humanity, he thought. He saw a fleeting spark of humanity buried deep within his mother, despite her fierce devotion to God, and her incredible selfish need for prayer, as though she hogged God and forced her version in His stead. Allah in moderation, thought Mustafa, as his mother blocked the television set, because within the straightjacket of excessively rigid religion humanity has little opportunity to blossom or bear fruit. The result must be ontology of thought and a barrier to new and innovative ideas which move us closer to Allah, not farther away in ignorance.
That night Mustafa lay under the covers moving about in every conceivable position. He wasn’t sure whether or not the illness kept him awake. He had grandiose visions of America being torn apart by an inevitable civil war, and his equally grandiose concepts of peace and love would somehow prevent such a war. He had little idea how to implement these concepts, as though they were opposed to anything real. He had nothing specific, only vague ideas which had no home.
He clutched his pillow while thinking of the next great civil war, as though such an idea was communicated telepathically, whether that communication stemmed from God or ordinary mortals. He envisioned the map of America with all of its states fitting cozily together like a giant jigsaw puzzle, and ultimately he saw the Western States splitting from the Eastern ones, as though there appeared a line dividing them, straight through the middle of Kansas, Nebraska, Oklahoma, and Texas, and thus a geological chasm along this line, a cluster of jutting rocks and soil as the country split into two separate entities. And this split grew wider, he saw himself stretched with his hands clutching the soil of the West and his feet embedded into the earth of the East, and his entire body, the only body, over this large split, and his valiant attempt to close the gap and make the vast country seamless.
As sweat gathered upon his forehead, he had not a clue as to what he should do. He only saw the States tossed into the ocean, nothing remaining but scortched and pock-marked earth consumed by rolling waters, and the crying and wailing of thousands of souls. He had to do something. He couldn’t just lie there. The sweat trickled down the side of his face. He was compelled to do something, but what? He lacked the courage to speak. No one else spoke. Instead they roamed the streets, the subways, and the bus stations in their apparent silence, no one understanding anyone beyond themselves, only roaming, stuck within their own self-involved worlds. They wandered and roamed beneath laden clouds.
The Imam could have prayed, but he saw prayer only for those who needed it most, as though Allah had mounds of prayers to sort through, prayers never answered or heeded or fully understood. To have many thoughts and to never act upon them is the role of the child, but to put thoughts into action is the duty of the man. Such was the Imam’s line of thought, although he had no control over them.
He wished he had a woman to comfort him, any woman. He never felt so much longing before. He again clutched his pillow and wished it were a woman’s tender body. The only women he had seen were the ones wandering the streets, some of them attractive. He admitted he knew very little about them. A cursory knowledge was enough to keep him going. Yet he still longed for one, someone his own age, a friendship perhaps which grows into something greater. His main attraction fell upon women who did not possess the same skin color as he. ‘How unfortunate,’ he thought. ‘I will be alone until such an attraction subsides.’ The Imam made lonliness an art form. He kept to himself and dreamed of meeting others. He wondered if women found him attractive, and asked: ‘What does a woman look for in a man? Do they want muscles, a slim waist, and a fondness for adventure? Do they crave youth and arrogance?’ Surely he generalized on these finer points, but his need, he discovered, was natural, not necessarily bestial, and a result of his own nature as a man so terribly alone.
Before drifting into sleep, which he welcomed, he labelled the onslaught of a civil war absurd. He blamed his mind and its sickness for placing him in the position of saving the entire country from the split. He intended to remain silent. He would not mention the coming apocalypse to anyone. How ridiculous to think of it in the first place, and no one would listen to him anyway.
His mother was by his side the next morning, urging him to get out of bed. She poked him gently in the ribs producing, not quite a tickle, but an annoyance which woke him up immediately.
“Cut it out,” he cried.
“Get up,” she said.
“There’s no reason to get up”
“We’re going to the mosque. I’ve laid out your clothes.”
Mustafa brushed the sleep from his eyes and found that he hated the idea. First, he would never understand what was said, and second, the only people there would be overly religious men and women on the verge of death. Third, he didn’t want to hang around with his mother who would force him to pray. He rolled over and shut his eyes. His mother poked him in the ribs again.
“I don’t want to go,” he cried.
“We must go, we must! A terrible enemy is following you...”
“What enemy? I don’t see an enemy...”
“Yes, yes, an enemy, and the amilsaab at the mosque will find this enemy and stop him from haunting you.”
Mustafa realized he had done little to please his mother, and perhaps by attending a function at the mosque he would repay her for the money he stole from her purse. Besides, maybe she would leave him alone with all this talk about some invisible enemy stalking him. He changed quickly into white, silk garments. He donned a skull cap which fit tightly over his head. Mustafa had rarely seen his mother smile, but a smile so wide amused him.
They caught a cross-town bus towards the mosque on Second Avenue. Mustafa was very conscious of his clothing. He removed his skullcap in the bus despite his mother’s insistence that he wear it. He saw all types of people on the bus and thought he must look very peculiar, even though he wore a winter’s jacket over his garments. His mother sat as he stood over her, clutching the hand straps and rocking with the motions of the bus. They arrived at a brown marble structure with a wide dome.
The structure was surrounded by a wrought iron gate and outside stood a variety of believers, mostly African-American, waiting entrance. Mustafa had an urge to smoke a cigarette, but suppressed such an urge as his mother was with him. He searched for persons his own age among the sea of African-American faces. Some of these African-Americans looked buoyant and jovial, greeting each other with familiar salaams. He still searched the gathering, trying hard not to think involuntary thoughts. ‘To understand America, one must understand the African-American,’ thought the Imam, and he felt a strange but distant connection with these dark faces, dark in color and simultaneously radiant in light, as though they possessed a complexity or contradiction. His negative and involuntary thoughts subsided as he discovered a group of African-American women strolling to the slushy corner. He figured they were mostly his age, and they were dressed in long flowing garments, their heads covered by cloth. He edged near them as they walked through the initial gateway and under the wide dome.
“Come Mustafa, time for namaaz,” said his mother.
He had forgotten about her.
He followed his mother into the mosque, and once inside, she went downstairs where the women congregated, and he stayed on the ground floor. She said to him before descending:
“Follow along, bow when they bow, and pay attention, and soon that devil will not follow you.”
He left her smiling. He filled her quota of happiness for the time being. As she went downstairs, Mustafa forgot to ask about a prayer cloth. They had left in such a hurry. He stood in the small vestibule, and he tried to find his mother by peering into the basement. He saw a swarm of women and heard the din of their conversation. A woman came up the stairs dressed in white garb. There was not enough space for her to pass.
“Excuse me, brother,” said the woman.
He could only see her face at first: a smooth, soft face with crushing bright eyes and a row of straight, gleaming teeth. Through her loose garments which fell from her chest he made out a pair of firm breasts, and instantaneously his brief encounter with this woman stunned him, because he thought her attractive, and he never expected a woman so attractive to be, of all places, at a mosque. He had assumed quite falsely that young women so beautiful never frequented a place of worship, as they were out in some bar with bulky boyfriends sipping drinks and kissing and being taken home in luxurious automobiles, weekends at East Hampton beach houses, and inevitably sparkling jewels on their fingers. He envisioned them with rich and powerful men of high society, hoi-polloi and polyana, the women holding in their long and elegant hands glasses of red wine in some SoHo gallery with men of prestige and fame, and all of these women hid from him. They emerged with successful men walking with clasped hands when he was most alone, like in the middle of Manhattan resting on a strict park bench, noticing beautiful women walking to and fro, always in some direction, never dawdling or idling, caressed by arms of a man dangerous, cock sure, blatantly obnoxious, never the quiet man, only men which looked good and thought themselves talented, only men who loved many women at once, playboys with collared oxford shirts and mountain bikes, men with direction. He had seen many women walk along the avenues in black stretch pants and high platform shoes, as though they all flipped through the same magazine in a valiant attempt to look more beautiful than they already were. Never has a singular species, these women all about the city streets, most likely employed, and definitely in the arms of other men, provided such intense inspiration, as though the most gallant of poems never described or captured their innate artistry, their fluid movements, or their melodious tones. No matter how ferocious in their militancy or subdued in their vulnerability has this particular half of the human race pushed mankind to build edifices which touched the sky, launch ships, compete with their fellows, or simply look in the mirror each morning and brush strands of hair into place. Is it not odd then, that men bereft of women slowly tear themselves apart, and women without men mysteriously survive? Or that mankind by itself would disintegrate amidst squabble, conflict, and strife, while woman kind would evolve and sustain their beauty, no matter their jealousies, their angers, or fears?
The Imam saw her and was touched in this manner. He never expected a woman so stunning to appear, and at her passing his chest trembled and his heart sank to his stomach. He was compelled to meet her, but had little idea what to say.
He heard the adhan being called. He could not wait the entire time for this woman to return, so he reluctantly shuffled into a room full of African-Americans and tan-faced gentlemen sitting in positions on the plush carpet, and at the head of this crowd sat an amilsaab, his legs beneath the weight of his body, a microphone jutting from his mouth, his eyes closed.
The amilsaab rapidly sang the verses in Arabic. Mustafa sat at the back, under the echoing dome, and he shared a prayer cloth with a much older African-American who smiled politely and made space for him. He bowed when they bowed, not understanding the meaning of the verses, only copying what the others did, and for the time being he got away with it, despite the curious gaze of the person next to him. The cunning innocence, the grace and severity of the amilsaab’s verses, and the wrenching reverberations brought the believers to their knees over and over again, but he was not taken aback by it. He wasn’t fooled by it. He visualized his mother downstairs sacrificing herself to God.
After the final verses were said, the amilsaab spoke. He was a thin and older African-American with sunken cheeks and a thin, wiry beard that flowed to his chest. Mustafa felt his overbearing presence. When he spoke, no one moved. This amilsaab commanded their attention, and this command merited and pried loose a respect from the believers.
“Brothers and sisters,” began the amilsaab, “praise be to Allah and his divine messenger Muhammad for granting us another day of prayer. Every morning, afternoon, and evening is so glorious under the All Mighty, and his will is embedded within us through our deeds and thoughts, because He is most high and ever-present; in our hands when we labor and in our hearts where most of our ideas sprout. Dear Allah will you look after the suffering and the downtrodden. Never be deceived by charmers who promise bounty which Allah provides alone. Allah alone is worthy of all praise. It is He who sent down death and failure upon the greatest oppressors and the strongest of men and broke the necks and backs of the greatest men, the richest men, by putting an end to their lives. Even the greatest men, hoarding their wealth, objected to Allah’s promise of death and were cast into a pit and were tumbled from their palaces to the bottom of the earth, only to be eaten by worms and insects instead of eating and drinking among a convivial society of friends. There exists only one Lord, and none shares his supreme might and wrath. He has no equal, and His might is everlasting.
“Reflections of death must always be present in the minds of men and women. However long this life must be, no matter how great the possessions of this earth, death must always come and those possessions must ultimately be left behind. Thus, men should opt for something everlasting, as the height of foolishness is to opt for something fleeting. This is all but a waiting room, and our period on this earth ends with the arrival of the angels Nakeer and Munkir who examine the souls of the dead.
However prolonged this life on this earth may be, it is an earth upon which we were put as mortals. The only life which is immortal is our eternal life and Allah’s blessings. May the All Mighty Allah be kind to you. Be alert and beware! The case of death is severe indeed, and very often we fail to realize its severity. The man on the brink of death is in a critical condition. No one can help the man on the edge of death. He calls doctors and medical experts, but they offer little hope of survival. He mumbles, he recognizes no one, he hardly breathes, because his lungs ache, he cries aloud, he can’t speak, and then his eyes close for the very last time. His soul releases from his body, and heaven takes that soul into paradise, never to return. Each day we are involved in life, not death, and with the end of the New War we rarely talk of death. Half-measures do not avail us. We should remove the thoughts of our daily pursuits and think of death as though tomorrow it may arrive. Imagine the faces of the dead, and how the earth with its worms and grubs disfigure them, their muscled bodies disintegrating into dust. Everyone in this room will inevitably meet this doom. How high we raise our laughter! How deeply we partake in worldly pleasures. Yet everyone returns to dust. We must remember our Qu’ran:
‘No living being knows the time of its end.
Man makes provisions for a hundred years,
Yet knows not he might die the next minute.’
“We are each tainted with sin and wholeheartedly engrossed in worldly pursuits. We must rely on Allah, and by his good graces he will provide for us a life after this short one. If we are pulled too much by our earthly pursuits, the darkness of Hell shall cover us.
“Most of us often mention Hell while talking to other Muslims and know not how to achieve salvation from it. We must abstain from sin and our lusts so that we may perform virtuous deeds. Otherwise a Hell awaits us, and if a stone is thrown into hell it would take seventy years to reach its bottom.
“The sinners will be thrown into hell very thirsty; They would be ordered by angels to endure Hell’s fires. Then they would be dragged into Hell by their hair and feet. The feet and hands of the sinner would be twisted and joined together, and they will repent for not obeying their heavenly Father. Iblis, the Lord of Hell, will say: ‘It is no avail to curse me now, for Allah’s promises were true. I believed those promises and misled you, because I could not do more than this, and you followed me. You should curse yourself rather than me. Neither you are my protector nor am I yours. I myself am disgusted of your doing, because you used to make me a partner of Allah. Surely there is dire punishment.
“And then, the sinners will pray to Allah, and their prayers will be futile, for they will pray, and there will be a period of one thousand years before Allah responds, and Allah will say: ‘Welter in your cursed state, and don’t address me.’ The sinners in Hell would then pray for salvation and lament like donkeys.
“Then pious men would visit Hell, and the sinners would confront them and ask for entrance into Heaven. The pious man will say to them: ‘You are telling lies. We do not recognize you,’ and the gates of Hell will be shut on the sinners forever. These sinners in their material worlds have always been drinking, have disobeyed their parents, have indulged their families to do evil deeds, and consume usury. And of women, those who are seductive and wear transparent dresses, those who are clad but appear naked, those who have been especially arrogant will be gathered like tiny termites, as that will be the size of their bodies, and a fire of maximum intensity shall reign over them, and they will drink the excrement of the inhabitants of Hell.
“Hell is surrounded by four walls, and the length of each wall covers a period of forty years of continual walking from wall to wall. Hell has seven gateways, and one of these gates has been reserved for those who draw swords against Muslims.
At first the fires of Hell were red, and after one thousand years its red color became white. After another one thousand years the white flames turned black. The fire of Hell is black as the darkest night, and this particular fire is only the seventieth part of the fire of Hell. If we add sixty-nine degrees to our worldly fire, it equals the fire of this hell. Boots and shoes filled with this fire are the lightest punishments, and such a fire will cause the mind to boil. The sinner will take this punishment as the heaviest punishment, but really the punishment is the very first stage of the tortures.
“Hell has seven levels. The first level of Hell is reserved for Muslim sinners who were polytheists but simultaneously supported the Prophet Muhammad. The remaining six levels have been reserved for atheists, Jews, Christians, and other hypocrites respectively. Every level contains nothing but pain, tortures, and tormenting houses. Take the house of ‘Ghayy,’ where the occupants of Hell pray four hundred times a day for salvation from its tortures. Take another house called ‘Zamharir,’ the region of extreme cold. In the house of ‘Tubb-ul-Hazan’ there exists an overwhelming well which is filled with pus and poison. How about the towering mountain Sa’ud. It would take seventy years to climb this mountain, and Hell’s occupants would be thrown into the fire from its peak. Or a pond with water so hot that it burns the tongue and tears apart the human lungs, stomach, and intestines. Another pond gathers the sinners’ puss, blood, and sweat. Poisonous snakes and scorpions serve as the only wildlife. The bodies of the sinners would melt due to the excess of heat. They would melt, be reborn, and then melt again, and this cycle would be repeated seven-hundred times within one moment. Skin and flesh would burn repeatedly, and it is said that some sinners have skin which is forty-two yards thick. After the inhabitants are burned and re-burned, their hunger pangs would surpass all other tortures.
“The hunger pangs would never stop, and the sinners would beg for food, and they would be given a thorny plant known as ‘Zaqqum,’ and such a plant would get stuck in their throats. The sinner would cry for water. The water would be delivered from the well of ‘Tahim.’ Such water would cause their tongues to burn, their throats to break into pieces, and their intestines to be devoured and excreted through their anuses. The sinners would be so distressed that they would pray to Iblis for death so that their punishments would end. ‘You will always remain in Hell,’ will say the Lord of Death. And after a thousand years the Good Lord will say: ‘You have been condemned forever.’
“Then they will think that endurance will someday prove fruitful, and they will pray continuously for one-thousand years. They will receive no answer, but their bodies would be transmogrified into the shapes of dogs, snakes, and donkeys, and other wild, feral beasts. On the day of Resurrections all the inhabitants of Hell will look thus, and they would be trampled repeatedly. They will hear a roaring voice as Hell will be bursting with nothing but fury. The moment the sinners are cast eternally into Hell, they will yell and scream and ultimately yearn for a death they will never find.
Gigi
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