The day I became a Muslim

The day I became a Muslim
At an Indian mosque on a blazing summer afternoon, a moment that I had only dreamed of came true.

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By Zachary Karabell

Dec. 11, 1999 It was hot. It was hot like no heat I had ever experienced. Hot to the point where nothing else registered. I later learned that it was 125 degrees that afternoon, and the humidity was high, as it often is in northern India just before the monsoon arrives in mid-summer. Words like sauna come to mind, but that doesn't do justice to the feeling. As my pores expanded, and drops of sweat evaporated before they had a chance to trickle down my body, I entered an altered state. At least, that's what I'd like to believe, because that afternoon, 12 years ago, I might have become a Muslim.

I'd fled the heat of Agra for the nearby village of Fatehpur Sikri. Agra is deservedly famous for the Taj Mahal and the Red Fort, in which the builder of that building, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, spent the last years of his life in prison staring at a sliver of the resplendent Taj, the mausoleum constructed for his beloved wife, Mumtaz. But only a few miles away sits a village that was once the marvel of the world.

Constructed over a period of five years by the emperor Akbar in the late 16th century, Fatehpur Sikri was meant to commemorate the miraculous pregnancy of Akbar's barren wife. In desperation, he had gone to visit the holy man Selim Chisti, who would in time become the founder of a Sufi holy order that bears his name. After being blessed by Chisti, Akbar and his empress were rewarded with a son. In thanks, Akbar built a glorious city of palaces and mosques, which flourished briefly and then fell into disuse after the emperor's death. His grandson Shah Jahan surpassed the wonder of Fatehpur Sikri with the edifices in Agra, and today, all that remains of the former glory of the village are a palace and a magnificent mosque called Jami Masjid. It is there, in the room of the imam, that a book sits with the name of the believers, and one of those names may be mine.

The mosque is designed in the "medresa" style, with a vast courtyard flanked by colonnades and symmetrical towering arches in which students would study the Koran during the years when the mosque also served as an Arabic university. In the middle of the courtyard is a shrine to Saint Chisti, made of cool white marble, and women come from the surrounding towns to tie little pieces of clothing to the grates of the shrine. They hope that some of the saint's posthumous holiness will give them an added edge in the fertility game.

Contrary to what some of the locals in Agra had told us, Fatehpur Sikri was no cooler. Granted, there was a dilapidated ice cream cart in front of the entrance to the mosque, and I watched in fascination as a withered old man churned a wooden handle and then proudly showed us a goop that he called ice cream. I was so thankful for the wisps of ice cold air that I bought a few servings and asked him to keep the lid off as long as possible.

After a futile attempt at sightseeing, we retreated to the shade of the colonnade and planted ourselves there. I had no intention of moving until the sun went down, and as the afternoon rays burned, I couldn't have moved even if we had wanted to. The stone in the central, exposed courtyard had become dangerously hot. Having removed our shoes at the entrance, I could no longer cross the courtyard to exit.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember I was surrounded by a group of about a dozen young men seated in a circle. Bearded, studious, they had clearly taken to heart the Persian inscription on the side of the gate overlooking the town: "He that standeth up to pray and his heart is not his duty, does not draw nigh to God but remains far from Him. Your best possession is what you give in alms; your best trade is selling this world for the next. Said Jesus -- on whom be peace -- the world be a bridge, pass over it but build no houses on it. He who hopes for an hour may hope for an eternity. The world is but for an hour; spend it in devotion. The rest is unseen."

Though the men in the circle were speaking Urdu, I could make out the occasional word in Arabic, and noticed that they each carried a copy of the Koran. A slightly older man seemed to be leading the discussion, and given his demeanor and the white skull cap, I assumed that he was their imam. As their teacher cum prayer leader, he asked questions, elicited responses, posed challenges. I had spent a portion of my first years in college studying Arabic and Islam, and I found the scenario fascinating. Here I was, half a world away, in the middle of something I had only read about. It was Islam in practice, and I was hooked.

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