I take the opportunity to coordinate with my family back home, where my brother tells me the community has been flooding the mosque to do the Fatiha, which is held over three successive nights. It’s only to be expected—Dad was the cleric there—but still, it warms my heart. I look out the window to see what the hold-up is, and see that it’s just a long queue to fill up on diesel. Are you kidding me? We didn’t do this before it left the terminal? The driver notices my anxiousness. ‘Easy, kid,’ he calls back. ‘Just relax. I told you, we either get there or we don’t.’ A passenger in his forties, a cleric, like my dad, puts in his two cents’ worth. ‘Job, the prophet, was known for his patience,’ he begins. I am in absolutely no mood for a parable. Is anyone? Thirty minutes later, we are on the road to Mashhad again. It’s just the bus, the highway, the desolate desert and my thoughts.
