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    “Insha’Allah,” I replied smiling, thankful for all the handy Islamic phrases I could draw from when there was nothing else to say.
    “Rochester’s Muslim community is overwhelmingly Pakistani,” she added.
    “Really?”
    “Sure.”
    “That’s cool.” Just then I wondered of Rabeya’s heritage. She had no accent, was never heard speaking another language and the ethnically ambiguous shade of her hands did little to help. Somehow, the topic never came up and it made sense not to ask.
    “The Islamic Center down on Westfall,” she continued, “that’s like the main masjid in town—the one the local news always goes to during Ramadan or to clear up the whole Islam and Terrorism thing. It’s like eighty percent Pakistani but there’s over thirty groups represented in the leftovers.”
    “Wow.”
    “Yeah, and then there’s also a Turkish mosque and an NOI one, and I think one that used to be NOI but isn‘t—like maybe they’re one of Warith Deen Mohammed’s—”
    “Acha,” I replied.
    Amazing Ayyub stormed the kitchen looking for a rematch, knocking my tea over and sending me to the floor.
    “Oh my gawd!” he shrieked in imitation of a TV wrestling announcer. “Amazing Ayyub has ’em! Oh my gawd folks, we’ve never seen anything like this before!
    “Yusef Ali’s gonna tap, folks! Yusef Ali cannot withstand this punishment!” The primary punishment, of course, was the smell of a dirty shirtless Amazing Ayyub on top of me. I freed my left arm and wrapped it around his head, clinching my hands together and squeezing. Then Rabeya came over, jumped up and did a mock-elbow in the center of Ayyub’s back. In enough cumbersome
fabric to clothe a family, she grabbed hold of Ayyub’s waist and tried to pull up while my chinlock anchored him to the floor. “AHHHHHH!” he screamed comically. “YOU’RE GONNA PULL OFF MY FUCKIN’ HEAD!” Then Jehangir came in, black suspenders hanging at the sides of his red plaid pants, and of course he jumped on too with an effortless tackle on top of Rabeya, who still had Ayyub by the waist, who was still on top of me, and I still had my hold on Ayyub, and Ayyub pulled at Jehangir’s stray suspenders and there we were, me at the bottom of a crazy pile of goofy laughing mumins and it might not have made sense anywhere but on that dirty kitchen floor.
     
     
    It was Fasiq’s turn to give khutbah that week, which I think inspired Umar’s particular gruffness on Friday, as though he were preparing to be offended hours in advance. About two dozen people came in through the front door, causing Umar to remark that in the old days women used the back.
    As the worshippers filtered through to make sunna salaats in the crowded living room and neighboring family room, one kid I recognized from my classes asked Jehangir about the spray-painted flag.
    “It just means ‘anarchy,’ y’akhi,” Jehangir half-whispered.
    “But Saudi is where Islam is practiced the most purely,” the kid replied. “Anywhere in the world you go, they will say look to Saudi for the real Islam.”
    “Al-hamdulilah, brother,” said Jehangir, never one to argue such points. “But the Saudi government, you know, they—”
    “But it’s still Allah’s Name on that flag,” the kid interrupted. “You spray-painted on the shahadahtain.”
    “Staghfir’Allah,” said Jehangir. “I’m sorry bro, I didn’t realize.
It wasn’t meant in that way.”
    “Mash’Allah,” replied the kid. “You know, I am not trying to cause trouble—”
    “Mash’Allah,” said Jehangir.
    “But you know, it is just a good thing, a good practice to, you know, respect the Name of Allah.”
    “Of course,” Jehangir replied.
    The living and family rooms—which had no door or wall dividing them so only a difference in carpeting distinguished them as separate—were packed to the point of physical discomfort where sujdahs jammed your elbows into your ribs and you