The House of the Mosque Read Online Free PDF

obviously the first time he’d worn it.
    ‘Good evening to you,’ said the young imam.
    ‘Good evening,’ Shahbal replied.
    ‘My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ said the imam.
    ‘Pleased to meet you. How can I be of help?’
    ‘I’d like to speak to Imam Alsaberi, if I may.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but it’s late. He doesn’t receive visitors at this hour. You can see him tomorrow morning in the mosque.’
    ‘But I wish to speak to him now.’
    ‘May I ask what it’s about? Perhaps I can be of assistance.’
    ‘I’d like to talk to him about his daughter Sadiq. I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.’
    Shahbal’s jaw dropped. For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then he collected himself and said, ‘In that case you need to speak to Aqa Jaan. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
    ‘I’ll wait,’ the imam said.
    Shahbal left the door ajar and went into Aqa Jaan’s study, where his uncle was busy writing. ‘There’s a young imam at the door. He says he’s come to ask for the hand of Sadiq.’
    ‘He’s at the door?’
    ‘Yes. He says he’d like to speak to Alsaberi.’
    ‘Do I know him?’
    ‘I don’t think so. He’s obviously not from around here. And he’s not your average imam either. He smells of roses.’
    ‘Send him in,’ Aqa Jaan said as he put away his papers and stood up.
    Shahbal went back to the door. ‘You may come in,’ he said to the imam, and he led him into Aqa Jaan’s study.
    ‘Good evening. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ the imam said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
    ‘No, not at all. Welcome! Do sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said as he shook the imam’s hand.
    Aqa Jaan noticed that Khalkhal was indeed different. He liked the fact that, like the imams in his own family, the young man was wearing a black turban, since that meant that he too was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.
    Aqa Jaan had in his possession the family’s oldest genealogical document: a parchment scroll tracing the male line all the way back to Muhammad. It was stored in a special chest in the treasure room beneath the mosque, along with a ring that had once belonged to the holy Imam Ali.
    ‘Would you like some tea?’
    A while later Golbanu came in with a tea tray and a plate of dates and handed them to Shahbal. He poured the tea and placed the dates in front of Khalkhal, then turned to go.
    ‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ his uncle told him, so Shahbal took a seat in the corner.
    Khalkhal popped a date into his mouth and sipped his tea. Then he cleared his throat and came straight to the point: ‘I’ve come to ask for the hand of Imam Alsaberi’s daughter.’
    Aqa Jaan, who had been about to take a sip, put down his glass of tea and glanced over at Shahbal. He hadn’t expected the subject to be broached so abruptly, not to mention that a man didn’t usually come on his own to ask for a girl’s hand. Tradition demanded that the father of the groom did the talking. But Aqa Jaan was used to dealing with all kinds of people, so he replied in an even voice, ‘You’re welcome to my home, but may I ask where you live and what you do for a living?’
    ‘I live in Qom and I’ve just completed my training as an imam.’
    ‘Who was your supervisor?’
    ‘The great Ayatollah Almakki.’
    ‘Almakki?’ Aqa Jaan said in surprise. ‘I’ve had the honour of making his acquaintance.’
    When he heard the name Almakki, Aqa Jaan knew that the young imam was part of the revolutionary anti-shah movement. The name Almakki was virtually synonymous with the underground religious opposition to the shah. Though many of the young imams who studied under Almakki shunned politics, anyone who had been trained by him was suspect.
    Aqa Jaan assumed that the young imam, who wore his turban at a jaunty angle and doused himself with rosewater, was far from neutral. But he refrained from comment.
    ‘What are you doing at the moment? Do you have your own mosque yet?’
    ‘No, I’m a substitute imam in