Sequoia Valley: Imperfect (Free Preview)

2

As Jâsim neared his destination, dread coursed through his veins. Whenever he was tempted to stop or turn back, he remembered his mother’s sincere words from the night before and pushed on.

“You’re a good kid.”

“I’m proud of you.”

She wasn’t supposed to be proud of him. He had no right to her pride and admiration. His mother thought he was a good kid—but yesterday he hadn’t been good. He hadn’t gone to the masjid for a single prayer with the exception of Fajr; and when his mother had sent him for Maghrib, he had wandered around just long enough for her to think he had attended. He had later done the same for ’Ishâ. No, he wasn’t good at all. He had intentionally missed prayers and hadn’t even bothered to make them up. That was not the behavior of someone good.

The sky was still dark and the stars twinkled. Moonlight, as well as street lamps, illuminated his path as he walked the short distance to Masjid Abû Hurayrah. The darkness made him think of evil, of the black spots forming on his heart for his sin of deception and intentionally missing prayers. It made him feel worse.

It was those feelings of guilt that pushed him to keep moving forward when the masjid appeared in his line of vision, even when he thought of Imâm Hassan and wished to escape. Among other boys and men coming to the masjid for prayer, he went up the steps, removed his shoes, and entered the musalla. Before he even wished to seek him out, his eyes found the imâm, standing nearby the mihrâb conversing with a tall, bronze-skinned, dark-haired man of slender build whom Jâsim recognized to be one of the regulars of the congregation.

Far too soon for Jâsim, Imâm Hassan noticed his presence. He knew the instant it happened. The man’s countenance changed from the polite friendliness he used with men to the familiar tense and stern expression that seemed to be reserved for Jâsim; and before he could even prepare himself, the man marched over, looming over him like a warrior ready to crush his opponent.

“Finally decided to show up?” he barked with no effort to keep his voice low, bringing the attention of every boy and man in the room on them. “What would your mother think if she knew you’d be missing your prayers? Have you no shame, yâ walad?”

Jâsim had spent hours thinking of the right words to say to make his apology. His mother had been right, of course— going into the masjid painted like a young child who was unaware of the value of the masâjid and the importance of salâh had been inappropriate and disrespectful. So he had spent most of his time coming up with the right words to show he was sincere in his apology and acknowledged his mistake; but at that moment, as he was attacked by the harsh words that spilled from the man’s lips, everything he had planned to say fled from his mind. He couldn’t even remember why he’d thought he should come.

It wasn’t fair that the man rebuke him for something he was partially at fault for. A boy could not come to love the masjid if the men who ran it were bullies; and Imâm Hassan was one of the biggest ones Jâsim had ever met. He made the kids at school known for tormenting their peers look like angels. Jâsim thought he’d rather spend a day in the company of Terrence Crawley, star quarterback of the high school football team and the meanest guy in school, than five minutes in Imâm Hassan’s. That didn’t speak well for someone whose responsibilities included shaping the youth of the next generation and fostering their love and dedication for the masjid and the deen.

It wasn’t even enough for the man to scold him. He had to humiliate him, too, by making certain every ear in the room heard that Jâsim had avoided the masjid yesterday. Those who had already arrived and seated themselves heard clearly; and those who continued to filter in through the door had probably caught some of the accusations. Some looked away and pretended not to hear at all; a few stared in disapproval; and several looked on with pity and sympathy.

Imâm Hassan had been trying to bend Jâsim to his will with his loud voice and looming presence for too long. Jâsim decided he was tired of being belittled and looked down upon by someone who wasn’t even related to him and had no real authority in his life and how he lived it. It was time he stood up for himself—so he did.

“Kind of hard to want to come here with someone like you in charge.” The words were spoken before Jâsim realized he was saying them; and by then, it was too late to take them back. Since he’d already spoken what was better off not said, he continued, “Maybe I would have come if you weren’t here. I can’t be the first boy who doesn’t want to come here because of you.”

Hassan’s already ruddy face reddened. Jâsim thought it likely he may explode. That would certainly put him in a flattering light in front of his congregation. The thought made Jâsim hope he would. If enough men were aware of Hassan’s true nature, maybe he’d be replaced with someone better and kinder, someone who didn’t make Jâsim feel like dirt whenever he spoke to him.

But apparently Hassan had a better control of his temper than Jâsim had thought, or at least he did in front of an audience. His eyes narrowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, too quiet for the rest of the men to hear what Jâsim was sure to be a threat, “I’ll take you in hand one day, yâ walad. Just wait. It’s only a matter of time before your mother realizes she cannot possibly raise you by herself.”

The implication of Hassan’s statement wasn’t lost on Jâsim. The man was interested in his mother. It wasn’t an odd or unexpected discovery. He wasn’t so young that he was unaware Sumayyah did in fact receive attention from men, even if she ignored it. He knew men found her attractive—some of the bolder ones stared, until he glared at them so hard they had to look away. He’d learned that from Khâlu Badr. He’d seen him do the same thing multiple times whenever he caught a man looking at his sister.

Hassan was not the kind of man Jâsim wanted for his mother if she ever decided to remarry and definitely not the right person to take the place of his absent father. Dread coursed through him at the very thought. Hassan was hot-tempered and mean. He would torture him for the rest of his life, and his cruel streak could end up hurting his mother, too. No—the man would not marry Sumayyah. He would make sure of it.

Jâsim refused to show his fear or uncertainty to the enemy though. He forced a smile to his lips. “Maybe not, but we don’t need someone like you. My mother can do much better.”
Hassan’s eyes flashed. “We shall see about that, Jâsim.”

Jâsim decided he could take no more of the man’s presence, so he pivoted and walked away.

“Skipping prayer again?” Hassan called after him. “This just proves my point, doesn’t it?”

Hot, intense rage boiled in Jâsim’s blood. He knew if he stopped, if he turned back, he would say things in Allâh’s house that should not be said, so he kept walking. This time, at least, he was leaving of his own will.