Suzanna

Like all occasions where God is present, this ceremony was a sombre one. Like the one held two years back in a small London flat, like the one last month in a loft in Soho, like the one held in the monsoons in the jungles of South India. And now today, Tuesday, it was at an abandoned room in the middle of a typical market selling dried meats, unleavened breads, dried fruits and nuts, and the sticky sweet tea that the tribe seemed to subsist on. Home Sweet Home (written in an unknown script, of course). The dusty room had one rickety table and one walk-all-over-me mat. The leader sat on the browned mat. His grey beard filtered the setting sun’s light into midnight black beams, his skin scared the dust motes away, and pious words drooled out of his mouth. In dribbles that drowned the screechy sounds of the city out.

“Will your cousin be joining us today?”, asked the leader. Raoul-el-hal looked nervously around before answering in a child’s voice, “He’s still at the training camp, and will return only after winter.” The leader didn’t bother with a reaction. Instead, he turned his attention to the newest recruits lined up against the peely wall. Nervous teenagers, long dangly arms, fire in their souls, big eyes that housed God in them. Willing to give their lives for a cause. Dying to prove they’re all God’s children. He took out a sharp knife. A well-loved knife that looked as happy as a well-used book. Warmed by the leader’s robes, blessed by God, and envied for what it does to the newly initiated. With its hooked nose, he cut into each tender arm. Not one flinched. They held their soft heads high, and swept back their burnished locks, looking proud. And immensely blessed.

The fighter planes weren’t cutting edge. The newly-initiated crew still wore their robes beneath the jackets and straps and phones. They didn’t say a word to each other. They spoke only to one person. God. Blinded by his light, they flew higher and higher towards him. Not questioning, not looking ahead, not looking back. The words of the leader echoed in their ears as they approached the glass. “God willed it. He has called you. Now go.” Raoul-el-Hal said God’s name as he felt his body being hurled with his machine into a large body of glass.

Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

“These moths are smashing into the window glass like they’re on some mission, no?” said Ayesha to Imran as she sat looking out the window at the starlit sky.

And the next morning the maid found a tiny moth just outside the ledge wearing a tiny helmet.


(Long skinny poster on a window)