Darn! I can’t relax anymore. It’ll take exactly four minutes to pray the four rakats of Zuhr. I guess it won’t hurt to pray first and then rest.
I race through the prayer, the Arabic words a blur on my tongue. I’m on my third rakat when I hear a footstep behind me. It’s Layla coming to check if I’m praying correctly. I stiffen and slow down enough so that she can pick out the words of the prayer. Her ear is almost brushing my cheek, checking to see that I’m not just pretending. If I wasn’t praying, I’d push her away. She nods as if satisfied and takes a step back. I breathe a little easier. It’s time to bow down, on my hands and knees, my nose and forehead touching the floor. I can feel her come down beside me. She says, “Your nose isn’t touching.”
I can’t tell her it is, not while I’m praying. Besides, it’s useless arguing with her. If Layla believes your nose isn’t touching, then it isn’t. When I bow down for the second time, I feel a foot on my butt.
“Get your bum down!” she commands.
I hunker down, cramped and uncomfortable.
For a while she says nothing, and when I’m done the fourth set of prostrations and am sitting and finishing the prayer, she finally leaves.
There. I’m done. I tear off my scarf, and crash onto the couch. I don’t hate Layla, really I don’t. It’s just that I really don’t like her. I don’t like her a lot. A Muslim isn’t supposed to hate her sister. Layla would say it’s un-Islamic and she’d be right. She’s always right about these things. Oh, why bother with all that? I should be thinking about the play. What story to do, how to win the competition.
I picture myself the director, holding auditions like I’ve seen in the movies. Sitting three rows back in a huge theatre, in the comfortable darkness, while Kevin squirms on stage, trying to remember his lines. Sweat drips from his chalk-white brow as he squints past the stage lights, trying to gauge my reaction. I laugh a deep rich laugh, a benevolent, magnanimous laugh. I’m in the mood to be generous. Relax, I tell him. Just take it from the top.
But what play will we perform? Then I see the Quran. It’s to Muslims what the Holy Bible is to Christians and the Torah is to Jews. I don’t really expect to get an idea for a play. I just feel like opening it up.
Every night my father reads a section of the Quran to us and every night we hate it, except when he comes to the story of Joseph. The Arabic is almost poetry and even the English translation is rhythmic and melodious. The “thee’s” and “thous’s” of the Old English take me to another world. I’m enjoying the chapter, reliving the ancient story.
I barely hear Ami, my mother, come downstairs with the twins. Layla barges into the room again.
“What are you reading now?”
“For your information, I’m reading Quran, now leave me alone.”
“But there’s work to be done.”
From the kitchen my mother calls, telling Layla not to disturb me if I’m reading Quran and to do the work herself.
I resist the urge to stick out my tongue, but still Layla’s red face gives me a lot of satisfaction. I finish the story of Joseph by the time my father gets home. The ideas, images and language soak into me so that I feel if I just close my eyes I’d be back in time, in the rich, hot land of Egypt.
By the time I sit down for supper, I’ve decided what play we’ll perform.
Joseph, so handsome and good, able to interpret dreams, was everything I’ve ever wanted to be. Wronged by his jealous brothers and sold into slavery, but victorious in the end, what an adventurous life he led.
My father murmurs the brief prayer before eating – it means “In the name of God with the blessings of God” – and is just about to begin his meal, when I clear my throat and say in my most solemn, dignified voice, “O my father. Could we not have a more detailed grace before we eat of the food our Lord has provided?”
My father exchanges glances with my mother. Layla rolls her eyes and says “Oh, brother.”
I turn to her. “Verily, I but wish to share a prayer of peace and prosperity with the rest of my family.”
My father watches me, his bearded chin cupped in the palm of his bony hand, his black eyes twinkling. “Go ahead.”
The twins, little Waleed and Seema, nibble at their chapattis. I frown at them, but forgive them, they’re only five years old. I begin, ‘O gracious Lord of the Worlds. Grant us, thy servants, of Thy infinite bounty and wisdom in all our endeavors . . .” I go on for a while, ignoring my father’s rumbling stomach. Layla’s foot taps a beat on the floor. I would give her a dirty look, but I can’t catch her eye.
We’re having stewed chicken for supper. It swims in a hearty sauce of coriander and turmeric. The aroma of the fresh coriander leaves drifts up, enveloping us, tantalizing our nostrils, making even my mouth water. I try to focus on the words I’m saying, liking the way the language rolls off my tongue. I feel like the narrator in the movie The Ten Commandments.
Layla nudges me in the ribs after a while. I ignore her. Then she kicks me in the shin. I yelp an end to the prayer. Immediately, everyone attacks their food. I break my chapatti with dignity and dip it slowly into the curried dish in front of me. This was how Joseph would have eaten. And though I live several millennia after him, the food I eat is also similar to his.
After supper, while she washes the dishes and I rinse, Layla gives me a curious look. “What’s with you tonight? You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. Did something happen at school?”
I feel like I’m going to burst. I have to tell someone so I tell her about the play.
She stares at me, her mouth hanging open. “He asked you to produce a play?”
“Yeah.”
“He must have been desperate.”
I don’t say anything, but she reads my expression and says, “I’m only joking! Can’t you take a joke? Sheesh!” She scrapes some bones into the garbage can and soaps the dish. “What play are you thinking of doing?”
I take the dish she hands me, muttering, “Never mind.”
She stops scrubbing and looks at me. “You can tell me.”
“You’ll just laugh.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“You always laugh.”
She shrugs and continues scrubbing. “Suit yourself.”
We work in a heavy silence for a while. I keep glancing at her for signs of impatience. There are none. Calmly, she continues washing the dishes, scraping with her nail at a bit of crusted food, not caring in the least whether I tell her or not.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to tell anyone else. I want it to be a surprise for Ami and Abi.”
“Sure.”
“We’re going to do the story of Joseph.”
She stops washing, her hands submerged in the soapy water, and stares at me. “You mean the story of the prophet Joseph, peace be upon him?”
I nod.
“You can’t do a prophet’s story as a play. You can’t portray a prophet.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t done.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t be so stupid. That’s as bad as Charlton Heston playing Moses, peace be upon him, in The Ten Commandments. In one movie he’s Moses, peace be upon him, and in the next he’s a bank robber with a love scene. It’s disrespectful to Moses, peace be upon