The Day When God Died

Did you know that we have been living without Him for the past few days? Could you have ever imagined that He would go away so quietly? I know that you don’t believe me but ironically I can only swear to Him to assure you that He is dead. I even know the exact date and time when He died. It was Friday, December 22, 2000 at exactly 8:22 p.m., when an angel told me that He was no longer with us. Can you imagine that He died just two days before the Christmas?

Okay, before you hit the ‘Back’ button on your browser let me tell you how’d it happen.

It was the last working day of the year, and also the coldest. It was one of those gloomy Michigan-winter days when you think that the snow would never stop falling. It has been snowing for the past three weeks and if it weren’t for trees everything seemed to be buried under a white obliviousness. Most of the people, at office, deserted around lunchtime; and around mid afternoon, when office started looking like a ghost town, I decided to take off too. Instead of going back home, I went to the nearby Mall. That is where an angel met me and told me about the sad news.

I have an innate fear of the news of someone’s demise. Now that I live afar off from my loved ones, such news hit me like a sledgehammer. I dread it when phone rings late at night. When I wake up, I find myself soaked in sweat feeling that my heartbeat might break my ribcage. By the time I get to the phone it stops ringing and the message goes into the answering system. Sometimes I come back to the bed without daring to check the Call-Answer and sometimes I just sit there watching the light blinking on the phone. It pains me that neither I can go back to sleep nor I find enough courage to listen to the message. Finally after sitting there for a while and drinking a cold cup of milk I muster up enough courage to turn the answering machine on. Almost all of the time it is a wrong number.

I am not only terrible at handling the bad news but delivering the news of someone’s death is also an onerous task for me. I am inapt at it. Therefore, Dear Readers! Please forgive me if you find my narrative a little distasteful.

I vividly remember my first experience with the news of someone’s death. I was probably in grade 6 when my cousin Parvez and I went to get a haircut at M. Aslam Hair Artist & Garam Hamaam. I also remember that it was a similar gloomy winter day. It was overcast for days and it seemed that it would start raining at any minute. It was quite cold too. There were a couple of customers sitting in the barbershop who were probably waiting for their turn to take a bath. The shop was warm and cozy, and the glass door was foggy with the steam emanating from the hamaam. M. Aslam Hair Artist asked my cousin, first, for a haircut.

“No, could you just shave my underarm”, Parvez said.

Parvez lifted his shirt above his head. I looked at his pectorals with envy. He was like a big brother to me and at that time he was my role model. I promised myself that I would buy a pair of dumbbells and an Arnold Schwarznager poster with my pocket money and if need be I’d sell all my kites and glass marbles to my friends.

The hair artist quickly and masterfully shaved his underarm with a sharp razor.

I was the next victim. I didn’t have underarm hair yet. Aslam scanned my hair critically and charted out his plan of action in his mind. When he was tying a white sheet around my collar I started looking around through the mirror in front of me and through the corners of my eyes.

“What’s the news, Parvez Sahib?” he asked Parvez who was reading the newspaper.

“Saudi Arab ka baadshah mar gaya hay bhai” Parvez replied.

At a very early age, I learnt a valuable lesson; never start a political conversation with a barber. Once it starts, it cannot be stopped. When barbers talk on politics their tongues usually work faster than their scissors. I was looking at the sign reading “Siasi guftagoo say parhaiz karaiN” when a guy from the hamaam came out and joined the conversation. Soon there was a heated debate in progress. M. Aslam Hair Artist was determined to prove that the longevity of Arab Sultans was due to Hakeem Saeed’s secret potions.

I was too young to take part in that conversation so I started checking the hair styles on a framed poster on the back wall through the mirror; Wahid Murad Cut: Rs. 10; Soldier Cut: Rs. 5; Shaggy Cut: Rs. 12…..There was a framed certificate hanging on the wall right under the disclaimer ‘YahaN par paaoN kay nakhun aur zair-e-naaf baal nahiN kaatay jaatay’.

‘I will keep that in mind’ I thought. At that very moment the door burst open. I tried to see through the corner of my eye; it was my younger brother panting and trying to catch his breath.

“Bhai Jaan! Aapkay abbu mar gayay haiN, Mom has called you immediately” he finally managed to say those words.

My mind went numb. Barber’s scissors and heated debate stopped simultaneously. Within a fraction of a second the neurons in my brain started opening and closing the ‘AND’, ‘NAND’, ‘NOR’, and ‘OR’ logic gates. The brain was analyzing the words uttered by my brother. The analysis went something like this: Since my brother said the words ‘aapkay abbu’ and not just ‘abbu’, therefore, it means not our father; thus it conclusively means Parvez’s father was dead and not mine.

My brain calmed down a bit and I felt a shred of obscene mirth peeking from a murky corner of my heart. All of those feelings came and went in a zillionth of a second. M. Aslam quickly did my sideburns and we stepped out of the shop. As we turned around the corner Parvez started to sob.

‘Ulloo ka Patha’ I thought about my brother; bonehead should have said ‘aapkay abbu ‘faout’ ho gayay haiN’.

Sometimes I think how forgetful and oblivious we are of such news that change our lives forever. When I was walking in the Mall that day, I had no idea that I was about to be made aware of the biggest news for the mankind. I was as unaware as Parvez was, on that fateful day, years ago.

The Mall was full of happy Christmas shoppers, hectic parents, ambitious children with starry eyes, happy couples in each other’s arms, and horny teenagers. Busy salesgirls were punching their cash registers relentlessly; and everything was on sale. It is a great experience walking among so many happy people, all alone, quietly, as if you are reading the narrative of a bazaar in Arabian Nights. You feel that you are there but actually you are not.

There were three African women walking in front of me in their colorful traditional dresses. They were laughing, making fun, and jostling each other. They seemed like really good friends. I was compelled to walk behind them because they were blocking the whole passageway with their exorbitantly large bodies. People coming from the front were also squeezing their way between them and the walls. While waiting for that avalanche to give me way, I started thinking about the man whose birthday brought such happiness in so many people. One can count the number of such men on the digits of one hand, whose birthdays bring such joy and they are celebrated with such zeal. They must have done something very good for the people; may be that is why they are still revered even though centuries have gone by.

A loud laughter from those African ladies broke the train of my thought. I felt that the pendulum like motion of their enormous derrieres had mesmerized me. I shuddered with an unprintable thought and stopped at a Salvation Army stand.

A volunteer in Santa Claus’s uniform was jingling a bell at the stand. I would say that despite her funny hat, spectacles, and red uniform she was an exceptionally gorgeous girl. I took a $5 bill out of my wallet and put it in the bowl while she was looking. As I did that, an ugly voice from a dark chamber of my heart shrieked “Aha! So you think that you did Him a favor, don’t you?” I tried to ignore that voice and diverted my attention to the girl.

“I think your boyfriend has lost some serious weight.” I said to the volunteer.

“What?” she was perplexed.

“His dress fits you very nicely” I pointed at her red dress.

She chuckled and shook her head as if she was saying ‘silly’ and started jingling her bell.

“Whenever a bell rings, an angel gets his wings” I remembered the famous line from the timeless classic, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’. Now I wonder whether the angels were still getting their wings at that time because…… you know…..

I felt hungry when I reached near the Food Court.

“‘Tis the season to be jolly, Fa La, La, La, La……” my favorite carol was playing on the central sound system.

The Food Court was also full of people. I was famished after fasting all day and the flavor and aroma rising from different shops made me salivate. Sometimes I ponder and wonder if this feeling of hunger is His gift or a test. How good it feels to eat the most ordinary food when you are hungry and when you are not even the best cuisine doesn’t look interesting. I can never get the images of starving Somali children out of my mind whenever I think about food. I bought fish and chips from Fat Tony’s Fish & Chips and looked for a vacant table. I finally got a seat next to a young couple with a child.

The child was probably a year and a half old; an adorable little pooh bear. He was sitting on a booster chair and diligently eating a French fry. His face was covered with ketchup and bits of fry. He was squishing the fry, eating it, exploring it, and playing with it while his father was looking at him. At one moment his father bent over and planted a kiss at child’s cheek right where most of the ketchup was veneered. It is said that the expansiveness of a man’s love for his woman can be assessed by the extent of his love for her children. That man must be madly in love with his woman. The child started paddling his legs and waving the fry like a flag in the air. He was giggling. Sometimes a quiet kiss can do a magic which thousands of eloquently put words can’t. I looked at the woman. She had slowed down on nipping and started looking at her man with her sparkling eyes. I knew that she was going to remember that $3.99 dinner for a very long time. My heart almost caved in with joy and the serenity of that moment. I quietly thanked Him for letting me see the most wonderful gift that He has given us; the love.

Now, that I know that He is gone, I wonder if he’d love us, like that man loved his child. We were like His children, weren’t we? I think that He was a good father. He’d provide for us. Sometimes He admonished us for our unruly behavior. And sometimes He disappointed us. But we weren’t exemplary children either. We’d disobey Him, disrespected Him, and sometimes we ignored Him. I am not going to complain like a typical loser and blame all of my miseries and disappointments on Him. He was a good father. He was benevolent and merciful and I am gonna miss Him.

“I think of you in silence and so many times I’ve cried.

The call was sudden, the shock severe,

If my love could’ve saved you,

You never would’ve died”.

Perhaps we didn’t love Him as much as we should have. Perhaps he didn’t love us either as much as He should’ve. May be he died because he stopped being benevolent. Who needs such a God anyway who is not benevolent?

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock……” another timeless classic was playing at one of the shops.

My stomach was full and it was time to get into the shopping mode. I had my eye on one of the jet-black cashmere sport coats and I wanted to buy it so bad for the past couple of months. They had finally put it on sale. I took it off of its hanger and tried it on, in front of a mirror.

“Hmmm! Looking good” an ass-less Chinese sales girl was approaching me. I looked at the tiger in the mirror and gently nodded my head in agreement.

“You are looking good too, tonight” I flirted with her, wondering how the Wonder Bra works wonders.

She giggled.

“Hans gayee to phans gayee” I thought. But it was me who was ‘phans gaya’ because when I paid for the coat I knew that it was time to get back home.

Have you ever tried to visualize how angels look like? Most of the time I imagine them as eerie beings with light bluish see-through bodies, like Casper. Sometimes I imagine them as little babies with tiny little wings. Probably, my imagination has more to do with Renaissance paintings such as ‘First Kiss’ by Bouguereau, ‘Putti’ by Raphael, and ‘Butterfly’ by Gutmann. I imagine them as little Cupids with bows and arrows, hovering above us, fanning their little wings like humming birds. Most of the time I am comfortable with the stretches of my imagination, however, the only thing that bothers me about angels is that they tell Him every little thing that we do. Well come on, does the word ‘privacy’ mean anything to them or Him?

But that night the angel that I saw was in a form that I’d least expected.

I was zipping up my jacket and wearing my gloves when I saw him at the exit door of the Mall. The angel was not a Casper or a baby without diapers floating in the air with his little wings. He was in the form of a girl in her pre-teen years. She must be around 11 or 12. Usually at this age almost all children turn into little brats; uncontrollable and arrogant. ‘Angel’ is the last word that comes to mind when you talk about them. But she had such an innocent angelic face. She was leaning against the wall, looking outside, and watching sheets of snow falling. Her platform sneakers were covered with snowflakes and muddy slush. There were snowflakes on her shoulders and in her hair. She was a natural redhead. She was wearing one of those 60’s style bell-bottomed jeans with flowers and little cartoons; a style which is popular with all youngsters these days. Her pointy knee was ogling through her torn off jeans. Her nose was red and she was sniffling. As I put my cap on and started preparing myself mentally to get out and run like hell to my car I heard her voice “You got 20 bucks?”

That was an unusual request because teenagers usually ask for a quarter or a dollar at the most, and they immediately give you a reason with that. Usually they need some change to call their moms to pick them up or they need it for bus fare.

I stopped right in front of her. She didn’t say anything. That was again unusual. As I looked into her deep blue eyes, inquisitively, I felt that a blunt knife had cut through my heart.