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Are You on the Straight Path? By Ahmed Khan I was having a hard time focusing on the icy road ... “Listen, dear!” Zarina, my wife placed her hand on the mouthpiece of the telephone, without turning. “Sudha is asking, can we drop her at the Bharatiya Temple?” “Sure, we would, but how would she come home? Doesn’t she know tonight is the Shabbarat? We would have to stay up and pray the whole night. There is a whole night program in the Islamic Center.” Zarina explained this to her on the phone, then turned towards me to say that Bharatiya Temple also has a lengthy program of Bhajans (religious songs). “She says anybody would drop her at the Islamic Center since they are only a mile apart. This way she would get the blessings of both. Actually, her husband is busy in surgery. He might come home quite late.” We lived very close by, in the subdivision of Warwick Hills, which was an affluent suburb of Flint, Michigan. The houses built around the Buick Open golf course were quite expensive, the starting at about a half million dollars. I had gotten that house because of work with General Motors. Like Zarina, Sudha was also a medical doctor, as was her husband who had become very busy because of his surgeries. Being from the same culture was a blessing. They were the same age and looked very much alike. However, to attend our cultural gatherings, we traveled 25 miles or so, to Troy, Michigan. And we always managed to go together. When we left, the snow had just started even though winter was still a few weeks away. As soon as Sudha entered the car, both doctors talked nonstop—talk of their work, their households, countries, etc. They knew that there were two willing ears. If it is snowing outside, there is pleasant warmth inside, Medhi Hassan’s melodious voice came from the tape player. And when there is no hassle of driving, then the travel becomes very enjoyable. Even though my ears were busy listening to their enticing stories, outside the view was getting foggier and foggier. I was having a hard time focusing on the icy road and keeping my car from skidding into the ditches on either side of Highway 75. When we left, the temperature was hovering around the freezing point. Under such conditions, the driving becomes very treacherous. The windshield wipers were trying hopelessly to clear the snow which was becoming ice. The highway was becoming deserted, as if the other drivers were all listening to the weather report which was advising people not to leave home and if they did, to turn back and stay home. Ten to twelve inches of snow was expected. Actually, we were so engaged in talking or listening to Mehdi Hassan that we forgot this important news. By the time we reached Clarkston, the winds had picked up and the temperature dipped down still further. When my car skidded, even the nonstop discussion was stopped. “Hey, Bhagwan (Hindu God), please protect us. Two tiny lives are in our bellies,” Sudha said. “It seems Allah (Muslim God) did not want us to leave our houses,” Zarina added. Zarina stopped the tape to listen to the weather reports. I was trying to wipe the inside of the windshield with my hand as the fog was getting thicker by the minute. The speed of my car was about twenty miles per hour, yet instead of rolling forward, it was skidding one way or the other. A huge Jesus Christ billboard on the other side of the highway bore the inscription, “Are You on the Straight Path?” “We are, Jesus, but our car is not,” Sudha quipped. “Sudha, these Christians are strange people,” said Zarina. “The entire week they would do anything, but ask for forgiveness on Sunday.” “So that they can start the same thing all over as the week starts.” I added, joining in their interesting observation. At that moment I saw a headlight right in my face. I slammed on the brakes and my car turned 180 degrees. If I had not released the pressure, the car would have gone into the ditch. The other car, however, was not so lucky. It had gone in the ditch. I carefully pulled my car back onto the pavement and stopped. “What happened, my brother? Why did you stop the car?” Sudha asked. “It seems a car has fallen in the ditch. You stay in the car. Let me check.” I left my car on the side of the road and climbed down. The headlights of the other car were still on and so was the engine. An old man had slumped at the steering wheel and was breathing slowly. His car had fallen from a height so the doors had opened automatically, otherwise it would have been difficult. I climbed back up. “What happend, brother? Is the driver still alive?” “No, sister Sudha. Perhaps he will die.” Then the greatness of their occupation rose up. “We cannot let him die. We must at least see him, Zarina.” They looked at each other. We were ill-prepared. Thin silky sarees. No gloves or overcoat. We had thought we may have to walk a few steps. That’s all. They tightly wrapped their sarees around the uncovered flesh and descended by placing their hands on my shoulder. I pulled the man out of the car and laid him flat on the grass. One put her hand to his nostrils to feel him breathing. The other tried to listen to his heart. I simply helped them in turning the old man, like an obedient servant. They removed his shoes and Zarina started massaging his feet while Sudha stated pumping his chest. They were talking to each other while checking his various organs. I was quietly admiring their skills. After a few minutes maneuvering, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes to see the two doctors’ lovely eyes on him. “Listen, dear. Lay him on his car’s back seat back and turn on the heater. He is OK now, but needs heat.” I obeyed. The old man looked outside the window and saw the billboard of Jesus Christ. “Thank you, Jesus,” he said. “You saved my life again like twice before.” I asked him how he came to be on the wrong side of the highway. He replied in his hoarse voice, “When I left home, I was alright. The weather was alright, so I proceeded to go to church.” He went on, “I have a heart problem. I had a massive heart attack. I started turning every which way because the traffic was heavy. I don’t remember how I came on the wrong side of the road. I only remember the headlights of your car. That’s all.” I explained to him that we were also going to our churches, and how his car plunged off the road. “If you say that, I will listen, but I have this strong belief that you are angels and Jesus has sent you to save my life.” He gazed at us in a strange way and we felt goose bumps all over. He looked at the billboard again and made a cross sign over his heart. Meanwhile I noticed a police car behind ours. I went up and explained the entire situation to the officer, who used his car radio to call an ambulance. Both doctors showed their identification, and a few minutes later and gave the essential information to the ambulance driver who would take the old man to their hospital. “It seems now you cannot listen to the Bhajans,” Zarina said. “And your prayers will remain due,” Sudha replied. Wherever we were going, it did not seem so necessary now. Even though the highway was drivable, on the side roads it would be impossible. We decided to to exit the highway and turn around. It was quiet in the car as both the women were thinking, and I recalled a poem I had read a long time ago. Its title was “Service to humanity is service to God,” and “Abu Bin Adham, May God bless your tribe.” The story which it told was this: Abu Bin Adham was a poor shepherd whose entire life was spent in the service of his tribe. He would take the animals to graze, visit the sick and wounded to console them, help the elderly to their places of workship, and tutor the children. One day he was tired and resting in his small, poorly lit hut when he saw a figure emerging in a dark corner. It was the figure of an old man with a white beard of a foot long or so. It seemed to Abu Bin Adham that he was built of fire. In one hand he held a roll of paper which went out beyond the room, through the window. In the other he was holding a peacock’s feather which he was using as a pen. He seemed to be writing on his paper. Abu asked who he was and what was he doing. He said he is an angel and God asked him to prepare the list of those who love God. Abu was a little hesitant. He could not see himself worthy of that list. He said if the angel had a list of those who love humankind, then write his name on that. The angel obliged and disappeared. The next day he was there again. This time he did not have a roll, but a small peice of paper. Abu asked what kind of list he was preparing then. The angel said he is not preparing anything, but he brought the list of the people who God loved. And you, poor old man, your name is on the top ... Suddenly I looked up. In the light from the billboard, the snowflakes falling resembled flowers showering down from the sky, and when my eyes focused on the eyes of Jesus, I thought he smiled a bit.
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