I apologise if this post doesn’t read well for I have had to search deep to extract them from the swirling mass of memories buried within the temporal lobes. Much like Dumbledore’s pensieve.

Khaled was, I think, as much a victim of all this as I was. Being a fairly lower tier member of Wolfpack, I think he was set upon me to slowly recruit. Here is how the memories unfolded.

It was prayer time, again, I mean there are probably at the minimum 12 different prayers a Muslim could engage in within a 24 hour period; 5 obligatory and the rest supererogatory. I look up for some reason and catch the most cheekiest grin ever seen spanning the length of an impish face. The face was looking at me and the eyebrows  flicked up and down, twice. Obviously I smiled back or something. I had never actually spoken to him but I knew he was Khaled. He was always whizzing around the school, being chased for this, that and the other. Sometimes playful, often aggravated and occasionally flushed and dishevelled as he emerged from a tousle or two with some other boy (eye roll). The next time I recall being handed a chewing gum from him. “Here, have this”, he said smilingly one time during the midday congregational prayer. He took position in the row in front of me but to the left. I immediately chewed it. Like, was I still that easily swayed at the age of 12 or so by saccharine promises? So I was actually in prostration, and I had this chewing gum in my mouth. The Imam called out that “God is Great”, and we all followed suit in prayer. Now, one is definitely not meant to be eating when engaged in the Muslim worship that involves the prayer. During the prostration, I felt a foot nudge the side of my head. WTH, I slowly lift my forehead off the floor to see Khaled also in prostration but his face was turned and looking at me, as he retracted his foot. “Don’t chew, I can hear you, and it will break your prayer”, he mouthed to me. Obviously this is what he was saying, but I didn’t quite read his full lips correctly the first or second time so he actually got up and gesticulated. N.B. one is most definitely NOT meant to mouth, talk or gesticulate during the prayer, either! But how sweet of him to actually care that the chewing gum he gave me was potentially interfering with my worship. Clearly he was looking out for me. Cared about me.

We move on.

Friday midday sermon and prayer. I think some of my readers would be familiar with the scene of throngs of men (and women, but mostly men) gather in various prayer rooms across all work places. Some may even have seen worshippers spill out of mosques and onto the streets, in order to catch the congregational prayer.

Again, heat was radiating and my armpits were prickling with perspiration. Oh by the way, just so you know horses sweat, men perspire and women glow

Some of my readers have probably even been one of those worshippers! Well in madrasa the fight for space was really something else. Worshippers used to arrive early in order to find a seat within the main prayer hall directly behind the Imam. But soon, even that wasn’t enough; they were arriving in the morning now! Like, are you now sitting in on my classes?? The prayer chaperone, equally, was something else, for that guy always found spaces into which we were shunted/forced/barricaded. The madrasa world’s answer to Dr Strange. No word of a lie, he conjured a cupboard from somewhere and had 2 students pray in it. When the madrasa was still being kitted up in the early days following its opening, there was a carpet rolled up along the edge of the hallway. You know what he did? He said it was wide enough for me to stand, kneel and prostrate on. A frikkin rolled up carpet! This one particular Friday, I arrived late from lunch break and the entire madrasa was just heaving with bodies waiting for the sermon to begin. I was like naah, allow this, I cannot be dealing with this, and just as I was about to duck back out again, he saw me, Dr Strange that is, and beckoned me to him, in the middle of the great hall, where he stood orchestrating. I was dreading where he was going to seat me this time. The balcony perhaps? No, wait, the loft, where the weird scratching noises begin just after the sun sets…I could see his displeasure at my uncharacteristic tardiness, so I didn’t argue when he pointed up this random staircase, “Go up there on that landing to do your prayer”, he got out through gritted teeth. “It’s a stair, sir, are you sure I will fit on it?”, I pleaded, incredulous at the fact he wanted me to perform a balancing act on a staircase with tiny steps, no balustrade, and already students were sitting on each step that lead up there. Having performed the world’s greatest tight rope act by a 12 year old, I eventually got to the top step and there was a landing. Phew. At least it was a square, like an actual shape that I could negotiate safely. It was dark, and uninhabited. Nobody used wherever this staircase lead to, and so the light from the floor below was dim by the time it reached where I was. I heard Dr Strange telling another student off for being late, and then cautioning him “Do not go up there silly boy, there is no space and Jubeyr is already up there”. So I turn to peer down and before I got a proper look I saw this body bounding up the stairs, he expertly negotiated the slalom of limbs and then leaped from the last couple of steps up to my landing, and in  one fell swoop gathered his legs and arms and sat perfectly cross-legged next to me. Well almost on top of me. Cheeky grin as ever, Khaled chuckled “Alright”, in his middle toned easy speech and did that eyebrow thing again. So bloody disarming. The sermon began, and we listened. I couldn’t quite make out exactly the moral lesson, probably something to do with behaving and not disobeying ones parents (the South Asians love that)…I looked over to see him looking at me again. Smiling. I smiled back. He looked forward again. Then he leaned back and relaxed his legs, which fell sideways and his outer thigh was up against mine. PALPITATIONS aren’t even what I felt. If the beads of perspiration dotting my forehead evaporated just as quickly as they appeared, I would have been grateful. Then he kinda leaned forward and to the side propping his elbow on a ledge behind us. This meant he leaned into me. Again, heat was radiating and my armpits were prickling with perspiration. Oh by the way, just so you know horses sweat, men perspire and women glow. He smiled, and I got the impression he knew what he was doing but I damned well did not let on that I knew he knew. His smiled widened as he reached his free hand….into his coat pocket and pulled out a boiled sweet. What was with this guy and offering me sweets at prayer times! I took it, but this time I did NOT eat it. We stay like that for 20 minutes, he occasionally stretched and yawned, looked at me, smiled; I on the other hand decided to mimic a statue. I could smell his aroma, or cologne, not sure, It was a bit like puberty, but he wasn’t smelly, but still smelt like that ‘boy’ smell.

“Jubeyr is it? Yeah, Dilwar told me who you were bro. I’m Imran. Siiick”, he cheerily offered his hand to shake mine. Imran was tall and of athletic build, tanned. He had a handsome symmetrical face with angular contours, and a nice smile. He wore non-descript clothes but always sporting a Varsity jacket. He had slightly bowed legs, big hands and muscular arms. He was extremely masculine, like it oozed from his every dimension; speech was slow and focussed at one person at a time, his reactions were efficient and deliberate, his voice was deep, and his expression was always feline. I just stared, but not because of any attraction, but due to his presence. Imran, most definitely, was not my type. He wasn’t bright at all, and was kept behind two extra years. He was always whispering things to his second in command  and younger brother- Aktar – whom always chuckled at whatever was whispered. Aktar was the polar opposite of Imran; still as tall, but every bit not the the alpha. Aktar was fun. His skull cap was worn slightly back which meant a tuft of fluffy soft hair poked out the front, he was thin, darker in complexion and more round in features. When Aktar laughed his entire face transformed into networks of laughter lines. Dilwar, was the youngest of the brothers and the most mischievous. His features were a blend of Myanmar meets Malaysia. This guy was extremely cheeky, bantered a lot with the teachers in Bangla, got on with virtually all the kids, took pride in his fashion and always boasted his watch collection. He would check his reflection in every reflective surface; he even managed to make a mirror out of mud. He sported silver chains tucked away under layers of clothes (chains of any variety were strictly forbidden for boys to wear said Bigman because it made you a gangster – I know, eye roll). Dilwar was in my year and so we had a few classes together. I was glad for him that he was pretty; there was literally no academic talent within whatsoever. As the months went by, and my notoriety grew still, these lot officially asked me to join the Wolfpack. “Khaled told us innit, and because we like you, I’m asking you to join our gang”, Dilwar implored. He wasn’t giving me a choice. “Make the wolf shape with your hands like this”, he said as he gestured his hands into a shape resembling something loosely canine, and he faced them toward me up in the air. Oh, OK, we were doing the Wolfpack high-five. OK wow, this was, Oh man, I saw them do this at break time, and everyone always watched. Like celebrities. I was going to be a celebrity. I WAS NOW A MEMBER OF THE WOLFPACK.

This paid dividends. No-one messed with me, not even that Sayful. Pfft, please, as if I had a spare neurone thereafter to waste on him. Rationing my weekly allowance for the tuck shop was not an issue anymore; Imran always carried notes. And he always paid. “Jubeyr, bro, I seen this girl, in the park the other day. On Friday come with me, I want to talk to her, but I’m shy innit”, Imran took me aside and spoke slowly and clearly, but to the ground. “You’re shy? No way”, I laughed. “Nah it’s not just that, I have to be careful, if Bigman sees me he will tell my dad and I’m finished bruv. And also I have a girlfriend so she can’t know either innit, you get me”, and he chuckled. I didn’t get him I don’t think, not at that tender age anyway. After school, the brothers would wait for me and together we would walk to the train station. Don’t really know why I required the entourage but it felt nice to be accepted into this group. It was well into second year now and Khaled and me were becoming ever closer. I would tell him things and he would reciprocate. Thankfully nothing untoward ever happened, at least not in that predatory way. One time I had worn this new navy blue zip cardigan that was very well fitted onto my (then skinny) frame. It had bronze colour trim along the seams and an arm badge that said Lieutenant with an eagle emblem. Was really quite the rage. Fresh new comments circulated about me again, about how I was too good for school, about how I wore expensive clothes that should have been donated to charity instead, that if I wore such nice clothes to madrasa, imagine what I wore at home. Yada, yada, yada. I felt great in it, ngl. So we were on the train back toward central London. The Wolfpack would get off at Bethnal Green and I would continue on towards either Whitechapel or Liverpool Street to change trains, or, go direct to Euston Square. I liked taking the trains they would take as it meant more time with them…or maybe specifically more time with Khaled. Just quickly, as an aside, the other boys started a nickname for me and Khaled; Afa and Dulabhai, which in Bangla means sister and brother-in-law, respectively. Now, I wasn’t exactly camp, but I was effeminate. In fact, various historical accounts of South Asian populations often describe Bengalis as an effeminate race. So when we were talking, random silly boys at madrasa would walk past and whisper “Afa, dulabhai”, and smirk. Initially, I didn’t care. But eventually it got irritating. Imagine, being paired with Khaled time and again after the Friday sermons, up in that stairway, together, and often finding other pupils casting furtive glances towards us and smiling to themselves or sniggering. I don’t know how it was for Khaled, I never asked him. But me? I was so confused. Like majorly. Not being able to act on the fantasy playing out. Like, everyone was egging us on. It was well established now that me and Khaled were an item-not-item. Can you imagine if one day we just held hands…would they be surprised? So back to this train journey. We were running late, the boys all got onto the platform and as the buzzer was sounding to indicate the doors closing, they all stopped and held the doors of our carriage open…for me. “No, let Afa on first”, Aktar said. Not being able to focus on my initial reaction because I was responsible for holding the entire London Underground network up, I found a pair of seats at the end of the carriage. I think I wanted to see who would follow….and predictably, it was him. Khaled sat down next to me and as the others approached, Aktar ushered the others away saying “Oi, afa and dulabhai are talking”, and winked with his eyebrows, then faced away from us. As usual, I laughed it off, not wanting to show my displeasure. It was a bit sad the way they carried on like that. But what could I do? I was in the Wolpack now, and there was no way I would risk losing that. “I like your cardigan”, Khaled remarked quietly leaning in to tell me in a low voice, and then his hand came up and he was playing with the zip. I always wore my zip down mid chest. Not knowing how to react to this attention, I looked down and said thanks. “Are you in the army?”, he then said looking at the Lieutenant badge. “No”, I scoffed. The train hurtled through station after station and we sat there. He leaned back, one leg propped up on the opposite seat, the other stretched out in front and he had one arm resting behind me along the top of my seat.

“This is, Bethnal Green”, the eloquent underground lady said. The boys got off, and waited until the doors shut and the train moved off. Aktar shouted “Afa”, as the door was closing. His face was mocking. Choosing to ignore that prick, I waved at the others whom smiled and waved back, and Khaled, who smiled at me with those big brown eyes.

What was I meant to do?

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)

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…