He borrowed a bike from his Uncle Hakim and pedaled along the sandy road with occasional furtive glances from the villagers. He stopped by a school and left his bike under an acacia tree. The schools were lined in a U-shape. A flag waved on its tall post in the center of the Bermuda grass courtyard. It was summer vacation and weekend so he expected it to be deserted. To his surprise, there were sounds coming from several rooms. He walked over and saw plenty of the rooms were occupied with students and teachers.
He heard someone talking behind him and he turned around. A small middle-aged lady wearing a light green veil said something to him.
“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
“You English?” she asked, not quite surprised.
“Yeah, sort of.” He wasn’t certainly English. His mother was half American but not English.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” the woman asked curiously, her neck craned looking up at him. She sounded like a female version of Uncle Macky but he was glad she knew English.
“No, I’m just looking around.”
“New here?”
“I’m actually here to visit my grandparents. My name’s Raza, by the way.”
“I’m Maryam. I’m a teacher here. I live over there.” She pointed somewhere on her back where houses above the waters could be seen. “Wait, aren’t you the son of Zulfiqar from Singapore?” she asked, her hand clapped her mouth in surprise. He nodded with an awkward smile, and wondered how many people knew about him by now.
“You know my mother and your grandmother are best friends since they were young.”
“Oh,” was all Raza said.
“You’re very tall,” she said as she looked him head to foot and he was feeling more awkward as the time went by.
“You said you’re a teacher. What are you teaching?”
“English and Math,” she answered proudly. That explains it.
“I’m curious why there are classes here when it’s vacation time.”
“It’s a madrasa every weekend and summer. They learn Arabic and other things,” she explained.
Raza could see through an open door a teacher holding a stick and dictating something written on the blackboard to the students. In another room, the sound of children counting numbers in Arabic echoed in the courtyard.
Just then a little child went running across the courtyard and bumped on Ma’am Maryam. He hugged on her waist. He babbled on about something and did not want to pull away. Ma’am Maryam caressed his small head and said something to him. The child shook his head violently. She cooed him until he let go and she took him to one of the classrooms.
When she came back, she explained, “That was my youngest son. I told him to attend his classes but he wants to play all day. It’s very important. Not all of those students are kids, there are adults too.”
“How did you convince him?”
“I said I would cook fried chicken for him…”
“Fried chicken?” Raza asked unbelievably.
“That’s his favorite. We eat a lot of seafood and vegetables and he doesn’t like it much.”
Raza knew of a lot of people who would trade chicken for fish especially those health-conscious and trying-hard-to-diet people.
Ma’am Maryam clapped her hands loudly and Raza jumped in surprise. “I remember something,” she announced. “My mother wants me to give something to your grandmother. Can you do it for me, instead?” Raza looked at her cynically.
“It’s just some homemade biscuits. It’s not very heavy,” she explained as if the weight was what concerned Raza. Surely, he wouldn’t be snatched in the light of day or be caught by the police as some drug courier. Come to think of it, he hadn’t even seen one patrol car or police motorcycle in the place. He scratched his head and she might have noticed his reluctance.
“I’ll bring it here. You wait; I’ll just go back and get it,” she said and was gone in a flash.
Raza had no choice. He walked back to the acacia tree where the bike stood on its stand. He leaned on the tree trunk, arms crossed and waited.
She appeared on one of the boardwalks between the houses. She was carrying a red plastic bag on her hand and a purse pinned by the arm. She spotted him and strolled over.
Ma’am Maryam gave him the plastic bag. He scrutinized the contents and the aroma of sweet cookies wafted on his nose. They’re cookies, no doubt. He closed it tight and placed it on the bike’s basket and said, “Thanks. I’ll make sure it reaches Grandma. Is that all?”
“Yes,” she answered smilingly.
“Okay. I’ll be going then.” He gripped the handlebar and lifted its bike stand with his foot. Ma’am Maryam was still smiling and looking at him intently.
“You’re very tall,” she said absentmindedly.
“You already told me that,” he answered not wanting to sound rude.
“Taller than your brother.”
He wasn’t sure if he heard it right. “What did you say?”
“I said you’re taller than your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” he said irritated.
“But I thought…” she balked and her eyes grew wide. “I… was mistaken. I’m s-sorry. Goodbye,” she stuttered. He hung his head in wonder as she retreated and practically strode back to the houses. He thought the lady was just out of her wits and decided to set home. Then he saw something on the ground. It was a black purse studded with silver sequins. He picked it up and brushed dust from it.
“Ma’am!” he called Ma’am Maryam who stopped on her track and looked to his direction. She got that horrified look in her face. “Wait!” he called and set the bike gently on the ground but it made her even walk briskly to the maze of houses.
“What the…” He ran to catch up with the lady but she disappeared somewhere in the boardwalk that connected the houses from each other above the murky waters. He peered inside the square windows—the type that had hinges above and held open by a long sturdy piece of wood. The lady was nowhere in sight. She must have hidden inside one of the houses but why?
He noticed some people peering behind doors and windows. So he thought he could try asking. “Excuse me, do you know where Ma’am Maryam lives?” he asked this shirtless big guy through an open window. The guy knit his brows. “Ma’am Maryam? house?” He repeated.
“Oh!” exclaimed the guy. He nodded as if in understanding.
“Can you show me where it is?” The guy knit his brows again.
“Me,” Raza said touching his chest with his hand. “Ma’am Maryam. Friends. Go house,” Raza said stupidly with his hand gestures.
“Ah!” exclaimed the guy and Raza heaved a sigh. The guy signaled to wait outside and emerged with a shirt on. He was smiling as if something good just happened to him. Raza then followed the guy. They stopped beside a house with yellow paint and the guy pointed it. Raza nodded in understanding and the guy left. The door was open and there he saw Ma’am Maryam.
“You dropped your purse.” She looked surprised but hospitably asked him to come inside but Raza declined. She insisted, however he sit down for a while.
She served him coffee and cookies and Raza thought he had enough of cookies for the day. “Thank you for returning my wallet,” she said.
“Don’t mention it but why did you run away?”
“Did I? No, you probably saw it differently.”
Raza rubbed his nape and thought about it. “I guess so.”
He went back to find the plastic bag toppled over from the bike’s basket. Good thing it was sealed properly otherwise he would have found ants crawling inside it already. He pedaled home just as the students from the madrasa ambled out of the school courtyard into their respective homes for lunch, singing Arabic children songs.
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...
