I started this endeavour hoping that together we would go through the journey that has been the bane of existence for us as young men starting to feel attraction towards other such men. So why am I divulging my past interests? It’s the process of actualisation. When things are confronted they’re amenable to understanding, processing but also discovery. Discovery is probably the most important and exciting. For if I had not opened my heart to this process of coming to terms with sexual attraction for men, then would I have discovered the deeper tenets of my faith? Would  I have explored further the possibility of a practical way of living? The enrichment with knowledge. I promise you, I have never been more in love with my relationship with God. Truth will set you free is what they say. I looked up who actually said this and it was John 8:32 when Jesus was addressing the Jews who believed he was the messiah. OK so let’s process Sayful (sigh-ful; Arabic meaning sword).

So I turned my head again to the left and saw the almond eyes looking at me inquisitively, and then, the Cheshire cat broke into a half smile and nodded. I wasn’t hallucinating, was I?

That first walk into the madrasa (I know, a lot seemed to have happened in those few footfalls), I noticed him. His side profile initially; very fair complexioned, short cropped hair under the skullcap worn by some Muslims, he was talking to his teacher seated directly in front of him. As I walked past, his gaze turned to my direction and I saw these enormously almond shaped brown eyes framed by thick curly lashes. Camel level lashes. Hate him just for that alone, lol. His mouth was quizzical, pink lips that didn’t require Vaseline. Naturally being new and curious about madrasa I held his gaze, but obviously as the aforementioned descriptions betray, I was taken by his beauty. That’s not even an exaggeration, everyone knew he was too pretty to be a standard run of the mill Bangladeshi boy. He, in turn, looked back at me and watched as I continued walking. I am sure it wasn’t because of my looks, there wasn’t really anything spectacular about me I don’t think. It is strange, but as I write this part, I have come to realise that my personal preoccupations about my appearance in my late 20s and early-late mid 30s were/are about my face and body. But in madrasa, I was more about the personality, being presentable. I wasn’t that preoccupied by looks, save maybe my eyes and hair. Hair mainly just about if the fringe was uniform and if the sides were clean, and eyes, well, I always was fond of my own set of almond shaped doe-eyes.

Now Sayful was in the year above me, so he was a seasoned pro. Our classrooms were always adjacent and we were always in each others view, though out of ear shot. He was very likable, pleasant to all, and liked by all. Teachers and students alike. He was a typical boy; playful, banterous and masculine. He had this wide Cheshire cat kind of smile. Perfect pearly white teeth that made the lips even pinker. In class, I often took surreptitious glances at him reading – and he was devoted to his reading – and when he would be in some animated discussion with his teacher. It’s interesting that I don’t really recall seeing him at break times or lunch. Ah, I recall now, that’s because he was always up to something with the rebels. Too clever to be directly implicated but cunning enough to still be in the thick of things. OK so we officially never met for at least 2 weeks. Until one morning I looked his way slowly, secretly, from behind a pillar…and saw the large almond eyes looking at me surreptitiously. And he then quickly looked away. The heart was set aflutter. I think I let a few minutes pass and looked his way again to see what was up and Oh shit, why is he looking again?! You may empathise with me in reference to your own crushes, because all manner of silly rose-tinted thoughts were going through my head. I was talking to Rahi to my right, and he and I were jesting. At this point I wasn’t privy to Rahi’s personality nor the competitive hatred he was festering toward me. So I turned my head again to the left and saw the almond eyes looking at me inquisitively, and then, the Cheshire cat broke into a half smile and nodded. I wasn’t hallucinating, was I? He defo noticed me becauss he nodded again and mouthed ‘U orite?’. Yes, that is the exact spelling of his silent phonetics. I was excited and happy. By the way Sayful was taller than me, and his body looked a healthy normal under his jumper which was slim fit and a nice design. He had a sort of shrill bark kind of laugh and would tilt his head back and belt out his laughter as his eyes would clench shut tight. Honestly, he really was a beautiful guy. And praise be to the One whose creative licence knows no bounds. Another time it was a sunny day and the sun was pouring in through the windows high up in the ceiling. The particular position the sun was poised at, and it was directly on him. He was reading his Qur’an with purpose and without stopping or looking up, he removed his jumper and his skullcap came off in the process. His hair was thick and short and naturally spiked up at the front. He wore a white t-shirt, nothing tight or muscular, but I could see his athletic frame underneath. The sun shone on the white t shirt and illuminated him proper. I was actually drawn to him. He was bundling up the jumper and trying to extricate his lost cap from within, decided it was to no avail and discarded his jumper to the side. As he did this he looked up and at me, adjusted his t-shirt, and smiled at me with one corner of his mouth and shook his head as if to say ‘bloody sun, innit’, then went back to his recitation where I noticed his forehead crease softly as he read.

I fell. Fast. It just felt tight in my chest of what I recall of my memories. Tightness in the chest and always being nervous when he was there. What was he doing at lunch time? When he went home? One day it was half day for us – who knows the real reason, probably the science and maths teacher staged a strike and were not going to teach unless they got paid. There was some political stuff going on and Bigman promised the teachers would get paid…eventually. No, it’s nothing fraudulent or anything sinister, I just think that the poor guy was bankrupt from opening a school and trying to renovate it. Anyway, that half day as we were leaving, Sayful and I got stuck in the entrance doorway as we exited the building. We laughed and he let me through first. Then we were walking the same direction and he removed his skullcap and folded it into his back pocket. He tousled his hair with a hand and tilted his face up to the sun as it was beating down on us through a perfect clear blue sky. He looked my way and smiled that half smile and we kept walking. Some random inconsequential conversation transpired between us but I couldn’t care because at that time, the only thing that existed was me and him.

But, I knew….I can’t betray any of this to anyone. I cannot ever, never ever make these feelings known in public. At that young age, it was easy to conceal. It was relatively new, this feeling, and so my efforts were focussing on the feelings and what they could blossom into in my imaginings, and not about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point of my journey (more on that later, if I feel comfortable enough to share…).

Sayful broke my heart. His ‘interest’ in me was escalating

The pet(rol) shop boys and I went to the same madrasa and I had no idea. Shahi, myself and Mijanur were sitting indoors one break time, munching on our confectionary delights we had bought from the little tuck shop that one of the senior students had the responsibility of running in our madrasa. The shop was situated in a toilet with a moderately sized square window through which we purchased. And before you scream in horror at what in the E.coli was a tuck shop doing in a toilet, it was long unused. I mean, if Hermione was actually brewing potions to consume in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, then really what is the issue here? We heard a group of what sounded like men chatting and laughing as they came down the corridor. Turning the corner of the corridor, three very tall, handsome, pleasant, respectful looking students were walking behind a short, limping old man. “Ustadh, please come this way, I will set a seat for you here”, the tallest and oldest implored the old man. Ustadh = instructor/sensai. The three of them, like a well oiled rig, danced around the Ustadh, one of them laying a plump comfortable prayer mat on the floor in the corner, the second one proceeded to remove the Ustadh’s coat and scarf and drape it over his arm, the third one then kindly ushered him onto the prayer mat, and once seated, fussed over his Ustadh’s salwar kameez to ensure it wasn’t creasing. The first guy suddenly appeared with a hot cup of tea in one hand and a small plate of biscuits. These were the celebrity brands of my time – Nice, Rich Tea, Ritz cracker. With a final whoosh and a whirl, the three took their seats facing their teacher and in one smooth orchestrated motion they flicked their kameez’s back and sat poised, ready for instruction. Ustadh had this look of doting on his face and began to get emotional. He thanked them for their kindness and beamed when they implored it was their utmost pleasure. The thing is, in this institution, a young scholar-in-training is an apprentice to a number of teachers, but he would usually seek the counsel and teachings of one main teacher. There is a ritual of swearing allegiance to that teacher to receive instruction exactly as the teacher bestows and to then commit it accurately without fault or mistake to memory, finally, when he in turn becomes an Ustadh, to then pass onto his own young scholar. Another time, I walked past a classroom and those same three tall students were surrounded by others that were just like them. They all had huge, thick volumes of study books in their hands that they were pouring over and almost falling into. They were frantically mouthing and reciting the words before them. Some were sitting perfectly still, eyes closed, face upward and just the lips were moving as if whispering prayers to the heavens; others were rocking back and forth reading the same lines over and over until it was etched onto their retinas, their very hearts. Now these guys were scholars. These were the guys who actually embodied the idea of Islamic scholarly tradition.

“Dad, why are you coming with me?”, I asked him puzzled as we rushed out the house at 7am on the way to Euston Square station, my eyes stung from the crisp cold dawn wind and my breath froze into millions of tiny icicles in my lungs. “We are meeting 2 brothers today, at the petrol shop near the station, they go to the same Madrasa as you. And I think it would be better if you travelled together,  especially in the colder darker months”, Dad replied. I love my Dad, may he rest in peace. We walked past the station and toward the Shell petrol shop. There was a pillar by the counter, and before I turned the corner I saw a salwar kameez billowing in the displaced air of a bus as it drove past. The kameez was a long one, framing a very tall man who stood with perfect posture and a tall neck. The body turned and the face atop the neck belonged to one of the boys who were tender in their care for that Ustadh! No way, I low-key thought I had imagined their existence, but no, even Dad could see them. And that’s how they were named. It was my sister Shez who randomly one day came out with the name. As it turned out, they were absolute gems. Polite, considerate and above all, they were in Madrasa for the right reasons. Over time I had developed a strong friendship with them. They looked out for me in lunch rooms, in passing between classes, they enquired as to my welfare, if I had been doing homework etc, until one day I wasn’t that enthusiastic…

Sayful broke my heart. The level of his ‘interest’ in me was escalating. Now, I wasn’t ever going to go to a teacher and moan that he teased the way I walked. Or that when I was reciting, he commented why I had an effeminate way of enunciating. Why was this playground behaviour playing out? Duh! That was it, typical playground behaviour; boy likes girl, boy pulls faces at girl, boy pulls girls pigtail, boy smacks girl. Obviously I am not a girl, but that is the only reason I could think of as to why he was bullying me. On reflection, I did think whether he sussed I was into boys and therefore was enacting his own latent homosexuality in the form of bullying. He never outright was homophobic, and truth be told, I don’t think our generation rerally knew what the concept was at that age and indeed that era. So here I was, being harassed on a daily, it was just annoying, I didn’t like feel unsafe or such like, but just disappointed. He was a demon. One day, I had had enough, it was after the midday congregational prayers and Sayful was being particularly unruly. He had just regaled us with his recitation to high praise from Bigman and I know he was on a high. He saw me, and pulled a face and cocked his wrist in that stereotypical way to indicate campness and he placed the other hand on his hip. The boys in the vicinity started laughing at me. So I ran out. I got my trainers and was making moves to leave. Shahi came running after me, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to leave. It was humiliating. And then, it was as if my distress signal was being answered, because the petrol shop boys appeared! Out of nowhere, I whipped around and the taller of the brothers appeared and, registering my distress, immediately demanded that I explain. “I’ve been humiliated, I’ve been halliucinated, I’ve bee-“, I was shouting out, but he cut me off. “OK, let’s not go that far, I doubt Sayful could make you hallucinate”, he said calmly looking down at me quizzically. “First thing, you don’t want to run off like that; it won’t solve anything. And second, I will have a word with him”, he reassured me with conviction, and in that same fashion proceeded to the great hall to find Sayful. I had a protector. And that piece of shit never tried it with me again. I don’t remember how it all ended, I have repressed memories from that moment on. But I recall Sayful never ever making eye contact with me again. It didn’t matter because I had other things to contend with.

He appeared on my radar suddenly.

I looked up, and caught a smile from the boy with the big brown eyes…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles
• His-story
• Pluralism
• Prelude
• Revelation
• Turning point
• Uncategorized

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…