I DARED TO CALL HIM FATHER
Chapter 4. The Encounter
My car idled in the driveway, Manzur stood at the driver's door which he kept closed until the last moment protecting the car's warmth against the chill of that autumn evening. His darkeyes were still questioning my decision, but without comment. I got into the warm car, settled be hind the wheel and drove offinto the twilight, the Bible on the seat beside me.
Everyone knew where everyone else lived in this village of Wah. The Mitchells' home stood near the entrance of the Wah ceent works from which my family derived part of'its income. It served as the center of a strange little community about five miles out side of town. The homes had been built as temporary quarters for British troops during World War II. I recalled from the few times I had ventured into the area that the drab, uniform houses had lost most of thei whitewash; their tin roofs showed signs of much patchwork. A strange mixture of expectancy and fear filled me as I drove along, I had never been in a Christian missionary home before I was hopeful of lear ning the identity of my mystery man, John the Baptist, and yet I feared a certain- what should I call it, "influence?" from those who might answer my question.
What would my forebears think of this visit to a Christian missionary? I thought, for instance, of my great-grandfather who had accompanied the famed British General Nicholson through the Khyber Pass in one ofthe, A fehanistan wars What shame this visit would bring on my family! We had always associated the missionaries with the poor and social outcasts. I imagined a conversation with an uncle or aunt in which I defended myself by telling them of my strange dreams. "After all," I said in the scene I was playing out in my mind, "anyone would want to find out the meaning of such vivid dreams.
As I approached the Mitchells' area in the dim light of early evening, it was just as Iremem, bered it, except that the look-alike bungalows seemed, if possible, even more drab. After search ing up and down narrow lanes, I found the house near the cement works, just where I thought it would be, a small, whitewashed bungalow, sitting in a grove of shisham (rosewood) trees. As a Preaution Istarted to pari some distance away until caught myself. I wasbeing far too afraid of what1 my family thought. So parked squarely in front of the house, picked up the Bible and I moved quickly toward the front door. The vard Tnoticed neat and the screened verandal was well maintained. At least these missionaries kept their place in good repair.
Suddenly the house door opened and a group of chattering village women from the minority Christian community fled out, dressed in the typical shalwar qamiz, a loose pajama-like cottor outfit, with a dupata, a head scarf. I stiffened. They would know me, of course; neariy everyone in Wah recognized me. Now the story would be gossiped all over the area that Begum Sheikh hag visited a Christian missionary!
Sure enough, as soon as the women saw me in the light that came from the Mitchells' oper front door, their chatter ceased abruptly. They huried past me to the street, each touching hand to forehead in the traditional salute. There was nothing I could do but continue toward the door where Mrs. Mitchell stood staring out into the dusk.
Up close she looked just as I remembered her, having seen her at a distance about town, young, pale, almost fragile. Only now she was wearing a shalwar qamiz like the village women As soon as she saw me her mouth fell open "Why, Begum Sheikh!" she exclaimed, what? ... But ... come in," she said. Come in.
I was glad enough to step inside the house, away from the village women's eyes, which I'knew would be fixed on my back. we went into the living room, small and simply furnished. Mrs. Mitchell drew up what appeared to be the most comfort able chair for me near the open fire. 1 glanced at the confusion in the middle of the room, which Mrs. Mitchell began to attend to.
She explained that she had just completed a Bible study with some local women. Then she gave a nervous cough . would you like tea or coffee, Begum Sheikh?" she said, brushing back her hair. "Neither," Ireplied. "Ihave come to talk, not to drink tea." Ilooked about. "Where is your husband?" "He's on a trip to Afghanistan."
I was sorry, The woman standing before me was so young, Would she be able to answer my questions? "Do you know anything about God?" I asked suddenly.
She sank down into one of the cane chairs and looked at me strangely. The oniy noise in the room was the low hiss from the flames in the fireplace. Then she said quietly, Tm afraid I don't know as much as my husband knows about God, but I do know Him"
What an extraordinary statement! How could a person presume to know God? Just the same the woman's odd confidence gave me confidence, too. Before I quite knew what was happening, found myself telling her about my dream of the prophet Jesus and the man named John the Bap tist. Strangely, I had difficulty controlling my voice as I related the experience. Even as I told her I felt the same excitement I felt on that mountaintop Then, after describing the dream, I leaned forward. "Mrs. Mitchel, please tell me, who is John the Baptist?"
Mrs. Mitchell blinked at me and frowned. I felt she wanted to ask if I had reallv never heard of John the Baptist, but instead she settled back again in her chair. " well, Begum Sheikh, John the Baptist was a prophet, a forerunner of Jesus Christ, who preached repentance and was sent to prepare the way for Him. He was the one who baptized Jesus and who pointed to Jesus and said. Look, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world "'
Why did my heart skip at the word baptized? I knew litle about these Christians, but all Mus- lims had heard of their strange ceremoy of baptism. My mind flitted to the many people who were murdered after their baptisms. And this also happened under British rule when supposedly there was freedom of religion. Even as a child I had put the two facts together: a Muslim was bap- tized, a Muslim died.
I looked up. Howlong had we been sitting there silently? "That is what I was afraid of," I said "What were you afraid of?" she asked "I was afraid that John the Baptist was pointing me to Jesus. If I choose Jesus, 1 lose every thing!
"Mrs. Mitchell," I continued, my throat tight, "forget I am a Muslim. Forget the problems we have with Jesus being called the Son of God. Forget about our believing that the Bible has beer changed. Just tell me one thing: What has Jesus done for you?"
The room was quiet again. Mrs. Mitchell seemed in no hurry to speak. Then she told me what God had done for her and for the world by breaking that dreadful deadlock between sinful man and Himself by personally visiting this earth in the flesh, as Jesus, and dy'ing for all ofus on the cross.
There was another long silence. Finally, hardly believing my own ears, I took a breath and heard myself saying quite distinctly, "Mrs. Mitchell, some peculiar things have been happening t our house lately. Events of the spirit. Good and bad, both. I fel as if I werein the midst ofan immense tug of war, and I need all the positive help I can get. Could you pray for me?"
The woman appeared startled at my request. Then, collecting herself, she asked if I wanted to stand up, kneel or sit down as we prayed. I shrugged, suddenly horrified. All were equally un thinkable. But there was this slender, youthful woman kneeling on the floor. And I followed her!
"O Spirit of God," said Mrs. Mitchell in a soft voice, "0 God, Iknow that nothing I can say will convince Begum sheikh who Jesus is. But Ithank You that Your Spirit can take the veil off our eyes and reveal Jesus to our hearts. 0 oly spirit, do this for Begum sheikh. In Jesus'name Amen."
"Yes, God, that is exactly what ] want," 1 added, We stayed on our knees for what seemedlike forever. I was glad for the silence, for my hear was strangely warmed. At last Mrs. Mitchell and I arose.
"Is that a Bible, Begum Sheikh?" she asked, nodding toward the little gray volume that I clutched to my breast in one hand. I showed her the book "How do you find it?" she asked. "Easy to understand?" "Not really," I said. "It is an old translation and I am not at home in it.' She stepped into an adjacent room and retured with another book.
"Here is a New Testament written in modern English," she said. 'It's called the Philips trans lation. I findit much easier to understand than others. Would you like it ? "yes;" I said, not hesitating "Thank you And now I think Tve taken too much of your time" '
Start with the Gospel of John," Mrs. Mitchell advised, opening the book and placing a bit of paper in it as a bookmark. "That's another John, but he makes the role of John the Baptist very clear."
Then she told me a story from the Bible about wise men from the East who had sought and worshiped the Messiah, then had a dream to avoid Herod, the Gentile ruler, on their retur home.
"God does speak in dreams, then!" I exclaimed. 'If the Bible tells about God speaking ir dreams, then I'know He has spoken to me in my dream. I don't usually dream, Mrs. Mitchell, but ] had another dream that I don't understand. I know it has something to do with Jesus, too.
My other dream about the perfume salesman seemed so ... bizarre. But as had happened several times already in this strange evening, I found myself filled with a boldness that seemed almost to come from outside of me, and I told her about my dream and asked if she could explain this dream for me
She thought for a moment. '1 can't think of an explanation right now, Begum sheikh, but FIl pray and ask God to show me." As I drove home, I experienced for the second time that same fragrant Presence I had sensed in my garden earlier that day!
When I got home that night, I read a little out of the portion of the Bible called the gospel of John ,in which the writer talked about John the Baptist. This strange man clad in camel hair, who came out of the wilderness, calling people to prepare for the coming of the Lord. And then, there in the safety of my own bedroom, , seated on my divan, surrounded by memories and traditions that were four or more centuries old, a thought slipped sideways into my mind, unbidden, un wanted, quickly rejected. If John the Baptist was a sign from God, a sign pointing toward Jesus was this same man pointing me toward Tesus, tooi Of course the thought was untenable I put it out of mind and went to sleep That night I did sleep soundly, As the muezzin called me to prayer the next morning, I was relieved to find myself seeing things clearly again. What a bizarre series of thoughts I had toyed with in the nightl But now as the muezzin reminded me where truth lay, I felt secure again, away from these disturbing Chris- tian infuences.
Raisham came in just then, not with tea but with a note, which she said had just been de- livered to the house IE was fom Mr. Mitchell Alit said was: "Read Second Corinthians, chapter 2, verse 14." I reached for the Bible she had given me and searched until I found the chapter and verse Then, as I read, I caught my breath:
Thanks be to God who leads us, wherever we are, on Christ's triumphant way, and makes our knowledge of Him spread throughout the world like a lovely perfume!
I sat there in bed and reread the passage, my composure of a minute a go shattered. The know, ledge of jesus spreads like a lovely perfumel In my dream, the salesman had put the golden dish of scent on my bedside table and said that the perfume " would spread throughout the world." The next morning I had found my Bible in the same spot where the Perfume hadbeen laid! It was alltoo clear. Ididn't want to think about it anymore. Ring for tea, thats what Imust do Ring for my tea and bring life back int o it s proper focus quickly before something else went awry.
Even though Mrs. Mitchell had invited me back, I felt it best not to return. It seemed prudent, logical decision that I must now investigate this Bible on my own. I did not want tobe pushed by any outside influence.
However, one afternoon Nur-jan rushed into my room with an odd look in her eyes. "The Padri Sahib and Mrs. Mitchell are here to see you," she gasped. My hand flew to my throat. Why would they come here? However, quickly composing myself, Iasked the maid to bring them into the drawing room.
David Mitchell, a lanky man with crinkly eyes, radiated the same friendly warmth as his wife The t wo seemed 8O happy to see me that forgot my discomfort over them coming to my house.
Mrs. Mitchell started to shake hands, then at the last minute threw her arms around me in- stead. I was stunned. No one outside the family, not even our closest friends, had ever embraced me in this way before I stiffened but Mrs. Mitchell appeared to take no notice of my reaction. I found-- in retrospect, I have to admit- that this display pleased me. There could have been no sham in her greeting,
I'm so happy to meet 'the Flower Lady," David exclaimed in a jovial American accent I glanced at Mrs. Mitchell and she laughed. "I should explain. When you came to our house I wanted to let David know right away by telegram for we had often talked about you since we visited your garden last spring However, I didn't want to use your real name, to protect you. As I was wondering how to refer to you in the wire, I glanced out my window and saw the flowers that had g grown from the seeds your gardener gave us. The name came to me Flower Lady; and that became our code name for you.
I laughed. 'Well, from now on, you can call me Bilquis." "And please," she said, "call me Synnøve."
It was a strange visit. I suppose I was half-expecting pressure from the Mitchells to accept their religion, but nothing of the sort occurred. we drank a cup of tea and chatted and at this time I did question Jesus being called the "son of God," for to Muslims there is no greater sin than to make this claim. The Quran states again and again that God has no children
"And this 'trinitv'?" I asked. "God is three?'
In answer, David compared God to the sun that manifests itself in the three creative energies of heat, light and radiation, a trinity relationship that together makes the sun, yet singly is not the su. And then shortly afterward they left
Again for several days I found myself alone with two books-the Quran and the Bible. I con- tinued to read them both, studying the Quran because of the loyalty of a lifetime, delving intc the Bible because of a strange inner hunger.
Yet, sometimes Id draw back from picking up the Bible. God couldn't be in both books, I knew, because their messages were so different. But when my hand hesitated at picking up the book Mrs. Mitchell gave me, I felt a strange letdown. For the past week I had been living in a world of beauty not a visible garden created by me from seeds and water, , but an inner garden created from a new spiritual lawareness. first. entered this world of beauty ○ way of my two dreams. Then I became aware of this world a second time on the night I met the indefinably glorious Presence in my garden. And Ihad known it once again when I obeyed the nudging that prompted me to visit the Mitchells.
Slowiy clearly, over the next few days I began to know that there was a way to retur to my world of beauty. And reading this Christian book seemed, for reasons that I could not grasp, the key to my reentering that world.
And then one day lit tle Mahmud came up to me holding the side of his head and trving not to whimper. "My ear, Mum," he cried in a pain-filled voice. "It hurts."
I bent down and examined him carefully. His usual ruddy brown complexion had paled, and although Mahmud was not a child to complain, I could see the tear stains on his lttle round tan cheeks.
I put him right to bed and crooned softly to him, his black hair too stark against the pillow And then, after his eyes closed, I went to the telephone and rang the Holy Family Hospital in Rawalpindi. Within a minute Tooni was on the phone. She agreed that we should check Mahmud into the hospital the next afternoon for a complete examination the following day. I would be able to stay in a room adjoining hers and a maid would be given a smaller room adjacent to that.
It was toward evening when we checked into the comfor table arrangement. Tooni had the evening free to spend with us. Soon, Mahmud and his mother giggling over some pictures were Mahmud was coloring in a book she had brought him. I was propped up in bed reading my Bible.
I had also brought the Quran with me, but by now Iread the Quran out of a sense of duty, more than interest.
Suddenly, the room lights flickered, and then went out. The room was dark "Another power failure," I said, exasperated. " Did you see any candles?" In a moment the door opened and a nun stepped inside with a flashlight. '1 hope you don't mind the dark," she said cheerily. we'll get some candles shortly."
I recognized her as Dr. Pia Santiago, a slightly built, bespectaded Fiipino who was in charge of the whole hospital. We had met briefly on a previous visit. AImost at once another nun came in with candles and in a moment warm light flooded the room. Mahmud and Tooni resumed their coloring and I was left to make conversation with Dr. Santiago. I couldn't help notice her staring at my Bible
"Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?" Dr. Santiago asked.
"It would be a pleasure," I said, assuming it was just a courtesy visit. She moved a char neal my bed and with a rustling of her white habit sat down.
"Oh," she said, taking of her glasses and wiping her brow with a handkerchief, has this ever been a busy night."
My heart warmed to her. Muslims always had respect for these holy women who give up the world to serve their God; their faith may be misplaced, but their sincerity was real. We chatted but as the conversation continued, I could tell that this woman had something on her mind, was the Bible. I could see her glancing at it with mounting curiosity. Finally she leaned forward and in a confidential tone asked, "Begum Sheikh, what are you doing with a Bible?
"I am earnestly in search of God,"' 1 answered. A nd then, while the candle'burned lower,I told her, very cautiously at first, then with mounting boldness, about my dreams, my visiting with Mrs. Mitchell, and my comparing the Bible and the Quran.
"Whatever happens," I emphasized, 'I must find God, but I'm confused about your faith" I realized that even as 1 spoke I was putting my finger on something important "You sem to make God so ... I don't know... personall The little nun's eyes filled with compassion and she leaned forward.
"Begum Sheilkh," she said, her voice full of emotion , "there is only one way to find out why we feel this way, And that is to find out for yourself strange as that may seem. Why don 't you pray to the God you are searching for? Ask Him to show you His way. Talk to Him as if He were yout friend."
I smiled. She might as well suggest that 1 talk to the Taj Mahal. But then Dr. Santiago said something that shot through my being like electricity. She leaned closer and took my hand ir hers, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Talk to Him," she said very quietly,"as if He were your father."
I sat back quickly. A dead silence filled the room. Even Mahmud and Tooni's conversation hung between thoughts. I stared at the nun with the candelight glinting off her glasses.
Talk to God as if He were my father! The thought shook my soul in the peculiar way truth has of being at once startling and comforting,
Then as if on cue everyone started talking at once, Tooni and Mahmud laughed and decided that the parasol should be colored purple. Dr. Santiago smiled, rose, wished us allwell gathered her habit about her and left the room.
Nothing else was said about prayer or Christianity. Yet I moved through the rest of that night, and the next moring, stunned. What made the experience especially mysterious was that the doctors could find nothing wrong with Mahmud and Mahmud kept saying that his ear did not hurt him one bit. At first, I was irritated at all the time and trouble this had taken. Then the thought occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, in some mystic way God had taken advantage of this situation to bring me into contact with Dr. Santiago.
Later that morning Manzur drove us all back to Wah. As we turned ofthe Grand Trunk onto our lane, I could see the roof of my home through the trees. Usually, I looked forward to home as a retreat from the world. But today there seemed to be a difference about my house, as if some thing special would happen to me there.
We drove up the lane, Manzur sounding the horn. The servants ran out and surrounded the car. "Is the little one well?" they allasked at once.
Yes, I assured them, Mahmud was fine. But my mind was not on homecoming formalities I was on this new way to find God. I went to my bedroom to consider all that had been happening.
No Muslim, I felt certain, ever thought of Allah as his father. Since childhood, I had been told that the surest way to kow about Allah was to pray five times a day and study and think on the Quran. Yet Dr. Santiago's words came to me again . "Talk to God. Talk to Him as if He were your father."
Alone in my room I got on my knees and tried to call Him Father." But it was a useless effort and I straightened in dismay. It was ridiculous. Wouldn't it be sinful to try to brin g the Great One down to our own level? I fell asleep that night more confused than ever.
Hours later I awoke. It was after midnight, my birthday, December 12. I was 54 years old. I felt a momentary excitement, a carryover from childhood when birthdays were festivals with brass bands on the lawns, games and relatives coming to the house all day,. Now, there would be no celebration, perhaps a few phone calls, nothing more.
Oh, how I had missed those childhood days. I thought of my parents as Iliked to remembet them best. Mother, so loving, so regal and beautiful. And Father I had been so proud of him, with his high posts in the Indian government. I could still see him, impeccably dressed, adjusting his turban at the mirror before leaving for his office. The friendly eyes under bushy brows, the gen- tle smile, the chiseled features and aquiline nose
One of my cherished memories was seeing him at work in the study. Even in a society where sons were more highly regarded than daughters, Father prized his children equally. Often, as a little girl,] would have a question to ask him and I would peek at him from around the door of his office, hesitant to interrupt. Then his eye would catch mine. Putting down his pen, he would lean back in his chair and call out, Keecha?" Slowly, I would walk into the study, my head down He would smile and pat the chair next to his. "Come, my darling, sit here." Then, placing his arm around me, he would draw me to him. "Now, my little Keecha,"' he would ask gently, what can do for you?"
It was always the same with Father. He didn't mind if I bothered him. Whenever I had a question or problem, no matter how busy he was, he would put aside his work to devote his full attention just to me.
It was well past midnight as I lay in bed savoring this wonderful memory, "Oh, thank You Imurmured to God. Was I really talking to Him?
Suddenly, a breakthrough of hope flooded me. Suppose, just suppose God were like a father. If my earthly father would put aside everything to listen to me, wouldn't my heavenly Father..
Shaking with excitement, I got out of bed, sank to my knees on the rug, looked up to heaver and in rich new understanding called God "my Father." I was not prepared for what happened.
