Read Online American Dervish: A Novel by Ayad Akhtar - Free Book Online

water.
    Father loved her tea so much, he wanted to learn how to make it exactly as she did. I remember the afternoon he first stood beside Mina at the stove while she coached him through the preparations. When they were done—the cups were poured—Father, Mother, and Mina sat together at the kitchen table to taste the result.
    “Hmmm. It’s good, Naveed,” Mina said, sipping.
    “Not as good as when you make it,” Mother was quick to add.
    “It’s his first time, Muneer.”
    “First or last, I don’t know. I just know it’s not as good.”
    Father ignored her.
    “Too much cinnamon,” Mother said.
    Mina sipped, considering the flavor. “I don’t think so. I think it just needs to blend a little better. Maybe straining it into a pot to let it sit before pouring.”
    “But you don’t do that,” Father objected.
    “But I’m very attentive when I stir. Very slow.”
    “It needs more attention, is what she’s saying,” Mother added. Father ignored her, taking another sip. Mina turned to me, offering me her cup.
    “You want to try your father’s tea, behta? ”
    Mother put up her hand. “None for him.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “Too young. When you’re eighteen you can drink tea and coffee. Not now.”
    “But I’ve had it before.”
    “Since when?” Mother asked, surprised.
    “I’ve given it to him,” Mina interjected before I could respond.
    “Hmm,” Mother hummed, disapproving.
    I looked over at Imran. He was coloring in a coloring book, and had a glass of milk before him. Just like me. “I’m old enough,” I said.
    “According to the laws of what universe?” Mother asked.
    “Don’t make a big deal, Muneer,” Father said. “It’s just a cup of tea.”
    “He’s old enough to be praying. Why not a cup of tea?” Mina replied, glancing over at me with a look that made me realize what she was doing. I’d been begging her for weeks to teach me to pray.
    “Old enough to pray? Well, that would require Mr. Inattentive here to teach him,” Mother added flatly. In Islam, it was a father’s duty to teach his son to pray.
    “You, Muneer, are a total contradiction,” Father replied. “All your complaining about Muslim men, and here you are, criticizing me for not being Muslim enough.”
    “There’s no contradiction,” Mother said, tapping her finger nervously against the cup. “What’s wrong with Muslim men has nothing to do with prayers. It has to do with how they treat their women.”
    Father rolled his eyes and took another sip.
    “I’m happy to teach him, if that’s not a problem for you,” Mina said to Father.
    I brightened, turning to Father. But he didn’t look enthused. “You’ve already got him obsessed with that book. ”
    Like clockwork, Father’s lack of enthusiasm gave Mother her lead. “Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea!” she said brightly.
    Mina watched Father’s reaction to Mother’s sudden glee. “But I really don’t want to intrude…”
    “You’re not intruding,” he said. “If Muneer thinks it’s fine, go ahead. Teach him.” He turned to me. “But I don’t want to see you end up as a maulvi, Hayat.”
    Maulvi was another name for an imam.
    Mina chuckled. “It’s just namaaz, Naveed. I hardly think teaching him to pray is going to make him end up as a maulvi. Who would he become a maulvi for? This is not Pakistan.”
    “Trust me,” Father replied. “There are idiots enough here for someone to lead. You just haven’t met them yet. Chatha and all those stooges with their masjid on the South Side. Be grateful you don’t know any of them yet.” He turned to me again: “All I’m saying to you is: Don’t end up as a maulvi. ”
     
    It didn’t take me long to learn the prayer and its various intricacies: the texts, the movements that went with them; how many times to repeat each part; how to sit, right foot propped under one’s behind, left turned in and resting on its side; the seven points that needed to touch the ground when