The Empty Minaret

I was nineteen when I left Dhaka for a small town in Texas, but the memory of that night still clings to me like the damp heat of the monsoon. My name is Rahim, and this happened seven years ago, when I was twelve and still lived in the old family home in a village near the Padma River.

It was the last week of Ramadan, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of cicadas. My mother shook me awake at what she swore was 4 AM. ‘Rahim, get up, you’ll miss Fajr!’ Her voice was urgent, but I could barely keep my eyes open as I stumbled to the bathroom to perform wudu. The water was cold, and I let it run over my wrists and face, trying to chase away the sleep.

As I stepped out onto the dirt path that led to the mosque, I saw my grandfather, whom I called Nana, emerging from his small house next door. He was dressed in his usual white kurta, but something was odd. He held a cigarette in one hand, smoke curling upward into the dark, and a tupi was tucked into his right pocket. That was strange because Nana had never smoked in his life. He was the most devout man I knew.

I called out, ‘Assalamualaikum, Nana.’ He didn’t reply. He just walked ahead, his steps slow and heavy. I felt a flicker of annoyance, but I shrugged it off and hurried after him.

When we reached the mosque, the gate was locked, and the courtyard was empty. The sky was still pitch black, and my watch read 3:45. I had done wudu, so I sat on the steps, waiting for the imam to arrive and make the call to prayer. Nana, however, walked toward the restroom. ‘Nana, I already did wudu, you don’t need to,’ I called, but he ignored me.

Ten minutes passed. The silence was so complete that I could hear my own heartbeat. I began to worry. Nana was taking too long. I got up and walked toward the restroom, a small concrete building with a tin roof. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

The room was empty. The floor was wet, but there was no sign of Nana. No footsteps, no sound. I felt a chill run down my spine. I ran back to the mosque, calling his name, but the courtyard was still deserted. The imam had not come, and the gate remained locked.

I stood there in the dark, my breath shallow, when I heard a faint whisper from inside the mosque. I pressed my ear to the wooden door. It was a low, guttural chant, not in Arabic, not in Bengali, but something older, something that made the hair on my arms stand up. I tried the handle, but it was locked.

Suddenly, the call to prayer rang out from the minaret—but it was wrong. It was a distorted, twisted version, stretched and warped, like a tape played too slow. I looked up and saw a figure standing at the top of the minaret, silhouetted against the faint light of dawn. It wore a white kurta, and there was a tupi in its right pocket. It was Nana—but his face was not his face. It was blank, featureless, like a smooth mask.

I ran. I ran all the way home, my lungs burning. When I burst through the door, my mother was in the kitchen, making tea. ‘Where’s Nana?’ I gasped. She looked at me blankly. ‘Nana died three years ago, Rahim. You know that.’

I froze. I had attended his funeral. I had seen his grave. But that night, I had walked with him, talked to him, followed him. I didn’t sleep for days. I never went to that mosque again.

Now, in Texas, I still hear that imam’s distorted call to prayer sometimes, late at night, even when I’m in my apartment with the windows shut. And every time I close my eyes, I see Nana’s featureless face, and I wonder if it was really him, or something that had taken his shape, waiting for me to join him in that empty minaret.