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some of the finer distinctions between salaried people and fellaheen but I could tell at once, from his starchy blue jallabeyya and white net skull-cap, that Jabir’s uncle did not make his living from ploughing the land. Jabir’s introduction made things clearer, for he added the word Ustaz, ‘Teacher’, to his uncle’s name—a title usually given to men who had been educated in modern, rather than traditional, forms of learning.
    â€˜This is Ustaz Mustafa,’ said Jabir. ‘My uncle. He studied law at the University of Alexandria.’
    Ustaz Mustafa smiled and, nodding vigorously, he addressed me in classical, literary Arabic. ‘We are honoured,’ he said, ‘to have Your Presence amongst us.’
    I was dismayed to be spoken to in this way, for in concentrating on learning the dialect of the village I had allowed my studies of classical Arabic to fall into neglect. I stuttered, unsure of how to respond, but then, unexpectedly, Jabir came to my rescue. Clapping me on the back, he told his uncle: ‘He is learning to talk just like us.’
    Ustaz Mustafa’s face lit up. ‘Insha’allah,’ he cried, ‘God willing,he will soon be one of us.’
    I noticed that he had a habit of flicking back the cuff of his jallabeyya every few minutes or so to steal a quick look at his watch. I was to discover later that this gesture was rooted in an anxiety that had long haunted his everyday existence: the fear that he might inadvertently miss one of the day’s five required prayers. That was why he looked much busier than anyone else in Lataifa—he was always in a hurry to get to the mosque. ‘I have read all about India,’ said Ustaz Mustafa, smiling serenely. ‘There is a lot of chilli in the food and when a man dies his wife is dragged away and burnt alive.’
    â€˜Not always,’ I protested, ‘my grandmother for example …’
    Jabir was drinking this in, wide-eyed.
    â€˜And of course,’ Ustaz Mustafa continued, ‘you have Indira Gandhi, and her son Sanjay Gandhi, who used to sterilize the Muslims …’
    â€˜No, no, he sterilized everyone,’ I said.
    His eyes widened and I added hastily: ‘No, not me of course, but …’
    â€˜Yes,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘I know. I read all about India when I was in college in Alexandria.’
    He had spent several years in Alexandria as a student, he said; he had specialized in civil and religious law and now practised in a court in Damanhour. He talked at length about his time at university, the room he had lived in and the books he had read, and in the meanwhile two of Abu-‘Ali’s sons came up to join us, carrying a tray of tea.
    Soon, the conversation turned to village gossip and for a while, to my relief, I was forgotten. But Jabir was not going to allow me so easy an escape: he had noticed that Ustaz Mustafa’s questions had unsettled me and he was impatient for more entertainment.
    â€˜Ask him more about his country,’ he whispered to his uncle. ‘Ask him about his religion.’
    The reminder was superfluous for, as I later discovered, religion was a subject never very far from Ustaz Mustafa’s mind. ‘All right then,’ he said to me, motioning to the boys to be quiet. ‘Tell me, are you Muslim?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, but he didn’t really need an answer since everyone in the hamlet knew that already.
    â€˜So then what are you?’
    â€˜I was born a Hindu,’ I said reluctantly, for if I had a religious identity at all it was largely by default.
    There was a long silence during which I tried hard to think of an arresting opening line that would lead the conversation towards some bucolic, agricultural subject. But the moment passed, and in a troubled voice Ustaz Mustafa said: ‘What is this “Hinduki” thing? I have heard of it before and I don’t understand it. If