were shining with sweat and that quite a few among them were struggling to slow their breathing.
He was puzzled, though not suspicious.
‘I think perhaps some of you worked too hard at break time,’ he said. ‘You are meant to work hard in madrasa, not in break time!’
It was meant to be a joke. But instead the boys were stirred into action, wiping their faces and sitting up straight as quickly as they could. Junayd began to wonder if he looked guilty and decided it was better to look at his feet. Then he remembered that looking at his feet was what he did when he was guilty. Not knowing where to look, he stared at Abdullah.
Abdullah was looking extremely guilty. Junayd wondered for a moment if Abdullah might confess the game to Imam Munieb. In the end he didn’t say anything, so their secret was safe, at least until the following week.
***
Over the next couple of months the boys played football in their madrasa break. They showed remarkable self-restraint in their football sessions, largelybecause of Khalid’s cautionary pre-match team talks, which were always delivered quickly (to maximise playing time) and with urgency (‘If we get caught, we can never play again!’)
***
‘You know, Fatimah,’ Imam Munieb told his daughter one Sunday lunch after madrasa, ‘I think those boys are really starting to learn something useful.’
‘Alhamdulillah, Baba,’ Fatimah replied.
Her sister Ruqayyah nodded her congratulations as she munched her cereal.
‘Mashallah,’ agreed their mother, Salamah. ‘You don’t just mean Abdullah then?’
Imam Munieb smiled.
‘No, although he is still top of the class, mashallah!
‘Alhamdulillah,’ said Salamah. ‘You know, it is easier for me with the girls too – especially since Fatimah started to help me with the teaching.’
‘Are you still working with the youngest children, ya habibti?’ asked the Imam, turning to his eldest daughter.
‘Yes Baba. I did some stories of the sahabah with them last week, just like you suggested. The younger ones really like that. I’m enjoying it, alhamdulillah.’
Ruqayyah smiled cheekily. ‘She doesn’t have a choice,’ she joked. ‘I’m not having my sister teach me!’
Fatimah gave her a playful nudge in the ribs and they both laughed.
‘Ah yes,’ said Imam Munieb, stretching his arms in relaxed contentment. ‘We’ve been enjoying stories of the sahabah too. It’s so much easier to cover subjects like that when the boys are keen, like they are now.’
He smiled peacefully.
‘Alhamdulillah.’
He had no idea that the peace was about to shatter …
3. Black Sheep
‘Saleem!’ came a voice from downstairs. ‘Saleem!’
Saleem sighed heavily.
‘Yes, Ubba?’
‘Saleem! Come downstairs now!’
Saleem trudged from his room and found his father glaring at him from the bottom of the staircase.
‘What is it Ubba?’
‘Heshe kita khorray?’
‘I’m … I’m not sure what I’m doing later. This and that.’
‘You will help me in the restaurant from four o’clock.’
‘I … I can’t, Ubba. I said I’d play football after college.’
‘I need your help in the restaurant,’ insisted his father. ‘I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.’
‘But Ubba, I told the guys …’
‘You told me you didn’t know what you were doing!’ interrupted his father. ‘It’s beginning to sound like the story of your life!’
Saleem threw him a resentful look and then quickly looked down at his feet.
‘Don’t look at me like that boy! You’re eighteen years old and you’re growing up to be a nobody! In Bangladesh eighteen makes you a man! Take a look at yourself, boy! Your brother Junayd is more of a man than you and he’s only twelve!’
Saleem was stung by his father’s words.
‘More of a man because he helps you in the restaurant, you mean?’
‘Kita khoss?!’ roared his father, bursting up the first few stairs. ‘What did you say?!’
‘Nothing,’ mumbled Saleem.
‘Kita khoss?!’
‘Nothing!’ he repeated angrily.
‘Don’t you raise your voice to me, boy!’
He paused, hunting furiously for the words with which to chastise his eldest son.
‘You’re bringing shame on this family, boy! Nobody in our family has ever been in trouble with the police before you! I’m ashamed of you! How can I tell your dadi about your behaviour? You’re a disgrace to the family!
‘And when I try to help you … try to involve you in the family business, give you some grounding … you throw it back in my face and go off to play football! You’re not a man, you’re a child! You’re meant to set an example for your little brother … what sort of an example are you, boy?’
‘What sort of an example am I?’ spat Saleem. ‘What sort of an example are you?’
‘I beg your pardon!’ shouted his father, shaking with rage.
‘I said what sort of an example are you? You’re always coming out with this right and wrong stuff … you’re right, I’m wrong … who says you’re right, huh?’
‘Who? Who? Allah in His Holy Qur’an tells us what is right and …’
‘Really?’ interrupted Saleem. ‘So what does Allah say about selling alcohol in your restaurant? And what did He say about missing your prayers so you can get ahead on chopping onions? I must have missed that bit in madrasa …’
Before Saleem
