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nd I curse him； but he says you cannot be here； he says it in English； his voice polite but firm。 You must wait； he says； leading me back to the waiting area； and now the double doors swing shut behind him with a sigh and all I see is the top of the men s surgical caps through the doors narrow rectangular windows。
He leaves me in a wide； windowless corridor crammed with people sitting on metallic folding chairs set along the walls； others on the thin frayed carpet。 I want to scream again； and I remember the last time I felt this way； riding with Baba in the tank of the fuel truck； buried in the dark with the other refugees。 I want to tear myself from this place； from this reality rise up like a cloud and float away； melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far； over the hills。 But I am here； my legs blocks of concrete； my lungs empty of air； my throat burning。 There will be no floating away。 There will be no other reality tonight。 I close my eyes and my nostrils fill with the smells of the corridor； sweat and ammonia； rubbing alcohol and curry。 On the ceiling； moths fling themselves at the dull gray light tubes running the length of the corridor and I hear the papery flapping of their wings。 I hear chatter； muted sobbing； sniffling； someone moaning； someone else sighing； elevator doors opening with a bing； the operator paging someone in Urdu。
I open my eyes again and I know what I have to do。 I look around； my heart a jackhammer in my chest； blood thudding in my ears。 There is a dark little supply room to my left。 In it； I find what I need。 It will do。 I grab a white bedsheet from the pile of folded linens and carry it back to the corridor。 I see a nurse talking to a policeman near the restroom。 I take the nurse s elbow and pull； I want to know which way is west。 She doesn t understand and the lines on her face deepen when she frowns。 My throat aches and my eyes sting with sweat； each breath is like inhaling fire； and I think I am weeping。 I ask again。 I beg。 The policeman is the one who points。
I throw my makeshift _jai…namaz_； my prayer rug； on the floor and I get on my knees； lower my forehead to the ground； my tears soaking through the sheet。 I bow to the west。 Then I remember I haven t prayed for over fifteen years。 I have long forgotten the words。 But it doesn t matter； I will utter those few words I still remember： ？？La iflaha ii Allah； Muhammad u rasul ullah。 There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger。 I see now that Baba was wrong； there is a God； there always had been。 I see Him here； in the eyes of the people in this corridor of desperation。 This is the real house of God； this is where those who have lost God will find Him； not the white masjid with its bright diamond lights and towering minarets。 There is a God； there has to be； and now I will pray； I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years； forgive that I have betrayed； lied； and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need； I pray that He is as merciful； benevolent； and gracious as His book says He is。 I bow to the west and kiss the ground and promise that I will do _zakat_； I will do _namaz_； I will fast during Ramadan and when Ramadan has passed I will go on fasting； I will mit to memory every last word of His holy book； and I will set on a pilgrimage to that sweltering city in the desert and bow before the Ka bah too。 I will do all of this and I will think of Him every day from this day on if He only grants me this one wish： My hands are stained with Hassan s blood； I pray God doesn t let them get stained with the blo