Trepidation

The house gleamed, but his heart trembled. What burden was hiding beneath the surface of a simple Suhba?

This morning, I woke up to Kashif incessantly pacing back and forth, looking for more things to clean in the house—slightly adjusting the couch cushion’s angle and wiping the dust off our bookshelves over and over again … was driving me crazy. Eventually, I had had enough and asked, “Babe, what the heck is going on? Why are you acting all weird?”

“Annie, you know we’re having company. Please! I don’t have time for this right now. Is the Biryani ready?” He replied.

“I told you it was ready an hour ago. Why are you so anxious?”

Kashif said dismissively, “Ok, good. Al-Humdulillah … Let me go quickly clean the bathrooms,” 

“Dude! You did that last night. Chill!”

You have to understand: my husband is a big six-foot tall Black man, and feigning nonchalance is a survival tactic of his existence, and I have never seen him like this before. I’m so confused because we have always loved to host and I don’t really understand what’s so special about today. Kashif said it’s called a “Suhba” or something, but … yea, it’s beyond my comprehension. 

Last month, Kashif went to visit Shaykh Jamil. He loves visiting the Shaykh, and I completely support that. Al-Humdulillah, I met Shaykh Jamil before and he’s amazing. And, more importantly, I know Kashif really loves the Shaykh, so I always encourage him to take advantage of those opportunities. But last month’s visit was different.

Maybe Kashif exaggerated? Shaykh asked Kashif how things were with the other students in our area and he said nothing was really organized. I mean, he’s not wrong, but the students in the area usually gather every other month or so. I always liked going to the gatherings. They remind me of the Milads in Pakistan my mom always spoke fondly of. Why did they need to be organized more formally?

Anyways, Shaykh Jamil told Kashif to organize the local students and gather once a month. He said to keep it simple—pray, do some dhikr, then eat and socialize. That doesn’t seem crazy to me, and definitely isn’t worth all this chaos and my husband acting like a madman.

“Kashif, babe, can you stop for a second please?”

“Annie, I really don’t have time for this. Seriously, I …”

“Babe, please,” I gently cut him off. “Just sit next to me for a second.”

In effort to calm himself, Kashif took a deep breat.  “We have guests coming any second now. Can this wait until later?”

“No. Kash. What’s wrong? What’s so special about today? Why are you so anxious?”

“Shaykh Jamil told me to do this, Annie!”

“I know. And?”

Speaking quickly, Kashid said, “Who the heck am I? I haven’t studied. I’m nobody. I’m just a regular Black guy. I don’t want to question Shaykh’s judgment, but …?!”

“Sooo …?” I interrupted. 

“So, Annie, I’m not you. I didn’t grow up in a culture of hosting Milads and whatnot. Also, Shaykh asked me! Why would he do that?! I wish he would have asked someone else.”

“You trust Shaykh, right?”

“Yes …”

“Then trust Shaykh,” I told him. “Shaykh gave you the responsibility for a reason. Trust him. And I believe he picked you precisely because you don’t want it.”

Kashif dropped his head in defeated frustration and took another deep breath.

I gently lifted his head up by his chin, and said, “Hey! I love you.”

He smiled gingerly, “I love you too!”

DING DONG!

“Oh no! They’re here!” Kashid exclaimed.

“Bismillah, baby. We goft this.”

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