“It’s Friday today. Have you forgotten?” Jamil asked with his white prayer cap and a strong smell of perfume.
“Ever since I arrived here, I lost track of time. I’m just counting down the days left before I go back home.”
“Well, quickly. Just take a short bath and wear something nice.”
They sat there on the masjid with large arched windows after offering Salatul Masjid. The Imam talked with feelings and cadence during the sermon. Of course, Raza did not understand what he was saying. He heard him read an ayat or more but most of it he wasn’t familiar with the meaning. He noticed during the sermon that most of the men in front of him were teary-eyed and crying softly. It was a pity he didn’t understand what it was all about. It wasn’t like he could talk at that moment and ask Jamil about it. After doing the congregational prayer, people rose slowly and those near the door went out first. The crowd finally dissipated through the huge door and Jamil and Raza followed.
“Don’t you know that the first masjid in the Philippines was built somewhere on this island?”
“Really? Where is it?” he asked, amazed.
“It’s on a different barangay—another village, I mean.”
“Have you seen it?” Raza asked absorbingly.
“Once. But it was probably renovated; I mean it’s not probably how it looked like when it was first built. I think”
“I’d like to see that. Can we go there?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a long ride from here. You’ll need a car or something,” said Jamil, shrugging his shoulders.
“That’s a pity.”
“But you may plan for it if you want to come here again.”
“Well, I’m not quite sure I’ll be coming back here ever again.”
“Is that so? That’s a pity,” Jamil said dejected.
“I didn’t understand what the khutba was all about. I noticed many were crying at some point,” Raza admitted suddenly.
Jamil tapped his chin with his finger, thinking. “It was a mixture of things, but it was mainly respect for parents.”
“Really?” Raza suddenly missed his parents. He wondered what they were doing and if they even noticed his absence or went on as usual.
“What did the Imam say about it?” Raza asked interestingly.
“…That your mother carried you in difficulty for nine months; she bore you in difficulty; and raised you in the same difficulty…That your father works hard everyday to bring home food and other necessities for the family and when he gets home he looks after you too. Yet, we the children had the nerve to get mad at them when we are being told what to do and not to do. They do everything for us out of love, not asking anything in return; yet when we do something, oftentimes it either is compulsion or in exchange of something we want,” Jamil murmured with a sad look on his face.
Raza didn’t know what to say.
“The Imam said we should take care of them and treat them well because they are two of our doors to Paradise. Imagine how close the doors are from us but we do not see. We know it’s there but we continue to get stubborn with them,” Jamil continued, his voice almost choked with tears.
Raza listened guiltily. It surely hit home.
“How big their love for us is. If we only know what is behind every reprimand, we wouldn’t dare argue. They are our doors to Paradise, and if they knew where it is, they would have opened it for us. The least we can do is to be dutiful to them.”
They both fell silent. Raza felt a prickle at the back of his eyes. Time seemed to have stretched as they walked back home.
Jamil stopped in front of a picket fence. “You want to come in?” Jamil asked, pointing with his thumb to the house behind the fence. He nodded in answer. Jamil opened the gate for him.
The house had a porch where two plastic chairs waited.
“Have a seat,” Jamil offered and went inside to get something.
Raza sat and looked around. The door opened to the living room with mismatched sofas and chairs. The coffee table was covered with red crochet tablemat. Jamil appeared later and procured a folding table and set it in front of Raza. He went back and came with a tray of two tall glasses of juice and a plate of sweetened bananas and two forks and sat on the chair next to Raza.
“You shouldn’t have bothered.”
“It’s the least I can do. I hope you don’t mind we’re outside. The house is not really tidy,” he explained uncomfortably.
“Is your mom inside?”
“What? No, she’s…not here. My aunt’s in the kitchen and I told her I’ve got a visitor.”
“Is your mom working?” Raza grabbed a fork and ate some of those sweet bananas.
“I don’t have a mother anymore,” Jamil started uneasily. “She passed away before I even turned two.”
Raza immediately gulped what he was eating and said sincerely, “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.”
“It’s alright.” Jamil looked at the fence unseeingly.
“Do you miss her?”
“Always. I could barely remember her, but somehow I feel like she’s been with me all my life. My aunt—her sister became my second mom. She treated me like her own child and I’m thankful that I have a mother figure in her person.”
“How about your dad?” Raza asked curiously and with that, Jamil flinched.
“He’s…working,” Jamil answered cautiously. Raza waited for him to say more but it seemed Jamil was only willing to share that part.
“You seem to be a very good son,” Raza observed.
“No. Don’t say that. I’m just trying hard to be like one.”
Raza drank his glass of juice and didn’t notice Jamil shifting uneasily on his chair.
He had already eaten half the plate of bananas when a girl appeared on the gate. She looked from one face to the other and for a moment stood frozen on the spot. She walked slowly to the both of them and said something to Jamil. He shook his head and the girl felt relieved. She introduced herself, “I’m Sarah. Jamil’s cousin” She wore a black veil and long sleeve dress and a long floral skirt.
“I’m Raza. Nice to meet you.” She smiled at him then went inside the house. He heard her talk with another woman inside the house—a little excitement in their voices.
“For a moment, I thought she was your sister,” Raza confessed.
“Well, she’s more like a sister to me already.”
Raza suddenly remembered to go home when he noticed that the plate of bananas was reduced to a plate of sugar glaze. He bid goodbye to Jamil who told him to come anytime he wants to visit.
YOU ARE READING
The Journey Back
Spiritual"What?... I don’t want to go there. Is this some kind of sick joke?” Raza is a typical muslim teenager who grew up in a place where everything seemed 'instant' as he described it. But a deal with his father had sent him packing to a tropical islan...
