You are an ocean in a drop of dew.

Chapter 7

WHEN LAYLA GETS OFF the phone, she’s upset. That was Mukhiyani Ma of Headquarters Jamatkhana. She had called to place her regular order, not only for her family, but also for her phat, the table of nightly offerings she’s responsible for. Today, she asked Layla if she could order her famous chicken samosas, too. Layla refused, but she persisted. “Please, Layla Bai, give me the honour. Just this once. Lailatul Qadr is such a big night and I really want something special on my phat.” She’s got such gall! Layla knows she shouldn’t be so disrespectful to a jamati leader, but she is annoyed with Mukhiyani Ma. How many times can she say no? If anyone should understand the value of a vow, it should be her. There were countless others who had asked her, too, but most people had the decency to accept her no graciously. Everyone knows that Layla has taken a personal vow to never make her chicken samosas for anyone but the Imam.

She had the privilege of cooking for Khudavind in 1992, his last visit to Canada. “He wants to eat my samosas, again?” she asked the councillor who delivered the good news. She could hardly believe her luck. It was hard enough to believe it the first time. In 1982, Layla won the chicken samosa competition during the Imam’s silver jubilee to celebrate the beloved Aga Khan’s twenty-five years since he came to the throne of Imamat, which was handed down to him by his grandfather, a direct descendant of the Prophet. The competition was sponsored by the Ismailia Council to ensure that the job, coveted by so many, was given this time to someone on the basis of merit rather than connections. They were in a new world now, and the Imam was keen for them to embrace a new philosophy: meritocracy. “Mediocrity?” she asked Ashif when she first heard the word. “No, Mummy. Meri-toc-racee.” He then tried to explain the meaning but she didn’t agree with the idea, not that she said anything. She hadn’t won the contest on skill alone. She knew there were greater forces at play.

A lacquered portrait of the Imam in a white polo shirt, next to an Arabian horse, hangs on the wall in the living room. A red-and-green rosary is strung around the picture frame like a garland of flowers on a Hindu god, despite the clear but gentle instructions at jamatkhana asking people to please let go of these old traditions. “We are not idol worshippers. We are Ismaili Muslims, not Hindus like our forefathers. And the essence of our faith is esoteric not exoteric.” Next to the portrait, mounted in a locked glass display box, is a white plate with a twenty-four-karat-gold fork and knife glued to it like the crossed swords of a royal shield. Underneath, the bronze nameplate reads MRS. LAYLA M. VISRAM, CHICKEN SAMOSA CHAMPION, SILVER JUBILEE 1982.

The Imam had been so impressed by Layla’s samosas that he sent her the plate as well as the cutlery he used to eat them. A divine gift! Normally, all items he touched would have been auctioned off to the jamat—like the Mercedes he was driven in, the throne chair he sat on during the ceremonies, or the silver knife he used during a cake-cutting ceremony. Not that any of the items (with the exception of the car) were ever used after they were purchased. That would be sacrilegious. Instead, the items were covered in plastic and placed on display in the homes of the winning bidders. Private museums scattered throughout the city, the country, the world. At first, Layla was hurt when she found out the Imam had not used his bare hands to eat her samosas but then she realized that it was not an insult to her but this is how he ate. After all, he was no ordinary man. He was the Imam! He carried the light of Allah in him. He must eat everything with a fork and knife. Just like the Europeans.