Fiction: Farook’s memories resurface as he prepares to bury his father behind a mosque

“Another one goes to hell,” murmurs the young khattib, throwing a crumpled scrap of paper away. He has just done his duty of informing the people in the Jama’at about the death that had happened barely an hour ago. Though he does not know the deceased person, he knows he would not make it to heaven. Men who don’t come to mosques or respect the clergy won’t pass the Judgement test, and they won’t survive the narrow bridge either. These are certainties, and not lies like science, the khattib knows it for sure.

Turning the saliva-reeking mike away, he runs his slender fingers through his unhealthy beard, pondering for a minute over the dangers of science and logic, and how hundreds of men fall into that trap, like ephemera insects slamming into flames. Barefoot, with the white mundu tugging well above his ankles, he walks across the oval hall of the mosque, treading gently on the palm mats laid out for prayers. On reaching the door, he lets out a suppressed burp, loud and long, reliving the taste of the tuna curry and beans thoran he had for lunch.

The crumpled ball of paper falls on the grass outside the mosque, and…

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