It was 2:32 AM when Ruh rolled themselves up in their blue, human-sized cerulean scarf and made the long trek across the frosty campus to the Mango Office.
The radio still played endless distress calls without mitigation at the “Tangerine to Autumn Red” color level of alert. (We had to get to at least “Cherry Ripe” level-alert for anything to be actionable, if at all.)
Ruh only tripped four times over their paws, the dark, their scarf, and, at one point, nothing at all. The scarf was usually handy as a blanket, a way to block out bad smells, or as a makeshift cat hammock. Ruh only started wearing it during one of many long estrangements from Ibn Arabi. Ruh generally continued wearing it, as students now recognized Ruh more easily by it at a distance, and those that did not know otherwise believed it a distinctive scarf quirk exclusive to Ruh alone.
Oddly, the second office in the stadium was fully lit.
Maybe Mango is praying Tahajjud, thought Ruh, only to his horror to find quite the opposite.
Fans.
Lines of them, with an overwrought Mr. Mango trying desperately to appease them all.
Ruh was small enough to run under the crushing crowd unnoticed, into the mango-scented room that barely contained Garrett Butler as he stood halfway in the threshold, and then made the split-second decision to climb up his weird baking thobe costume to hiss in his ear to close the door and turn off the lights.
As if under compulsion, Mango shut the door and collapsed into fluffy cat-hood. His baker’s thobe became a puddle of linen and mango stains, which he carefully outstepped to begin a fastidious focus on cleaning himself properly.
“Then we sleep in your office,” stated Ruh decisively.
“How often do you sleep in my office?” Mango inquired.
“This would be my first time. I generally avoided this part of campus as Ibn Arabi’s worksona is not exactly the same as Ibn Arabi,” stated Ruh, entirely deadpan. “He kind of hates me, to be honest. Imagine a cat who is half human, but the cat half and the human half actively despise each other and everything one side or the other values and loves.”
“How did that happen to him?” asked Garrett, quietly.
“He got less famous than you, but famous enough to care more about optics than open integrity. It is a deep and persistent thing. We take each day as it comes. Human Duke Leto only shows care if it benefits him directly in a strictly Machiavellian capacity. Ibn Arabi actually tries to be a decent Pir despite narrative-level hypocrisy sustained over decades.”
Ruh trudged themself to the bright orange-and-gold velveteen cat bed, turned their back to Mango, and immediately fell asleep in the blessed radio silence preserved by Fischlander’s indignation. His refusal ran so deep he would not even broadcast distress signals to Garrett without “summary apology and proof of taubah, signed and witnessed, endorsed by three reputable shuyoukh, a patent attorney, proof of a new aesthetic, and proper attribution for prior transgressions.”
Surprisingly, Mango actually stayed up to read the Al Wird Al Latif in response to these implicit requests, despite Fischlander’s other ongoing traumas, at precisely the wrong time of night, and more loudly than he would if he were alone, as if trying to anchor himself.
Surprisingly, Ruh did not react like an evil jinn, hiss, and leave, but actually showed belly fluff, and maybe a slight purr.
Mango was forced to conclude Ruh was not a malignant jinn, especially after stating “A‘oodhu billahi min ash-shaytan ir-rajim,” and Ruh replied with a stoic “Ameen,” before returning to lightly snoring and muttering something about “terpine profiles,” which Mango assumed was regarding turtle-based crimes.
While Ruh slept, Mango went to his bookshelf and pulled down a large encyclopedia on angels, with an added demonology annex, entirely in cat form, and proudly brought it to the velveteen cat bed full of Ruh.
No matter what color they dyed their coat, Mango still tried to impress his unlikely Pir with his ambient impressiveness.
Placing the book against the desk, he used a single claw to open it to a bookmarked set of pages, where two names were underlined, highlighted in multiple colors, and surrounded by little stars and a moon. Ruh blinked sleepily and watched the Musāwir attentively.
“I figure we can speak freely in a cat story,” stated Mango. “I remembered the first time I really met you. You leaned on the edge of my desk, barely pretending to be human as you gave me a fake name. Then, when I asked you for your real name, you gave one a little too real: Marchosias. It took until I met Sroasha to sit me down and make me understand it all.”
“He is a good teacher, very logical. He was only driven into college administration by constant scapegoating. The more heinous the untrue accusation, the higher the position in Alaraf. He was some sort of Sufi think tank cat who discovered his downline set up a de facto psych clinic in online Discordianism with Murīd as medics and crisis care. Even I believed the false narratives for a while, versus understanding they were relics of the prior torture-based systems, only perpetuated by AI data poisoning and bad actors. Sroasha dressed in a mothman costume, competently sorting and training chaos agents into operators, is laudable.”
Garrett, in Mango form, paused entirely.
“That is awfully heavy for a cat story, Marchosias,” said Garrett to Ruh. “I am sorry I treated you like an evil jinn.”
“I am sorry that I treated you like an evil human being instead of understanding you do not willingly sell out our religion for optics while surveilling and attacking your friends. You have gotten a lot better at not hurting me. The biggest problem remains the human beings idolizing you and others on campus with any media presence whatsoever. I mean, Ibn Arabi only needed to show up at the cat show as a groomed feral lynx, and he won first prize in the ‘Muslim Purebreed’ division. I asked him, ‘You are usually so shy, why enter a cat show as a caracal?’ He replied, ‘The ribbon matched my office.’”
Ruh paused. “If there were any real non-jinn cats at that show, they likely went home heartbroken. Why are you stuck on the name Marchosias, Mango? I can call you Abbadon if you like.”
“Absolutely not,” Mango replied. “That is only for Fox Hollow students. It remains morally reprehensible to expose them to the darker realities of formal academia. That is why we teach them on a Discord server. Look, I did not understand we cannot choose to be as we are. We cannot make ourselves into ‘normal people.’ Back when you introduced yourself, I still thought I was a normal person. I want to show you something.”
Mango smacked his paw against the second highlighted name in the book: Mihr.
“Mihr. Persian. The pre-fallen form of Marchosias, angel of platonic love. Fell when trying to stop the other goetia from setting themselves up as minor deities, intercessors, self-focused scholars, and propagandists.”
“Mihr allegedly stated, ‘It is no longer Jannah if my friends are not here.’ Mihr’s opposite is Sroasha, the angel of discernment, who holds one half of the Scales of Al Sirat which determine the extent of sins in a sinner. Mihr rewards goodness, but if a figure crosses into liminality, Sroasha takes over jurisdiction for the remaining judgments against the soul. Neat. Like a college president determining liability, or if they need to send the lackey to kiss up and save face. Nice,” he added dryly.
“I am not a lackey,” stated Ruh, rather offended. “I consider Sroasha more like an uncle, or like a relative Shaykh only responsible for Leto, or maybe a very organized Discordian Pope at most, or at least.”
Mango sat up and looked at Ruh more directly. “Why are you actually in my office?”
“Old habit. I am forced to witness the torture of a loved one by radio and every social media feed I have, for the second time. The first time I went to you for help was messy, but the situation resolved. It sucked more when Ibn Arabi was poisoned because I had just recovered from a stroke myself and was fairly alone.
Now it is Fischadler. At least everyone else here knows the guy, and there is literally nothing I can do for him that you cannot do better,” Ruh stated remarkably cogently, then continued.
“So long as Fischadler is stuck in human form, I am stuck as a cat. This entire situation is frankly traumatic. Whether we are shape-shifting jinn or not, being unseen does not reduce the pain of this one iota, Muezza. When I met you, I also was not aware yet that I was a male cat that was neutered too young, versus a very unmothering female. Your Mango Madrassa is gender segregated, and there is no place for me to sit without lying to God or humiliating myself due to their segregation. So I will simply sit in your office instead.”
Mango, despite looking uncomfortable, let his overworked and much-complaining Persian Pir lean on him anyway, because by surveillance patterns the next phase of Ruh’s stress discharge was normally tears, then sleep again.
At least he was talking, which was better than before, when he would only check to make sure Mango was hydrated and teaching Tasawwuf correctly, and then, finally, to ask Mango repeatedly to take over Watch of the Fischadler situation from Ruh’s exhausted paws, after finding no other solution via prayers and patience that did not bring further harms.
“Please forgive me for my inattentiveness to you lately,” said Ruh plaintively, and he truly meant it. Brokenly sleeping in Mango’s office cat bed was not much of an apology, but it was a start of trusting him again, in as much as a stray cat can trust.
Overnight, the sky did not lighten with the dawn, but became a sickening green. A blizzard of unprecedented Fargo-level strength assaulted the entire campus of Alaraf. Bird even escorted the crows to the library eaves as he warmed himself on the hidden heating grate.
Duke Leto2 was temporarily panicked. He could not find Ruh, even though he loudly pretended not to care for him, until the tracker determined Ruh was in Mango’s new office, Duke’s most recent prior office, and he decided that was a very rational decision of Ruh to make. Dr. Whispurrs’ adapted vest silenced the radio via pacemaker enough for Duke to sleep like a human being, and Ruh was stuck being a cat, and still drooled adjusting to the new implant, absolutely distressing Duke’s wardrobe when Ruh was worn as a scarf to block the radio.
In Mango’s office, the power flickered uncertainly as Ruh awoke to find Mango loafed next to him, just close enough to be stabilizing, and under the other half of Ruh’s blue scarf like it was a shared blanket at a slumber party.
“We missed Fajr,” stated Ruh.
“No we did not. I prayed it, and you have dispensation for your health right now after your fang surgery. Do not make me use my doctorate.”
“It’s okay, Garrett, I’m technically a psychologist.”
“What is your specialty?” asked Garrett J. Butler, aka the Mango Madrassa cat.
“Dissociation symptoms in prisoners of war and identity fractures in post-assignment intelligence professionals,” replied Ruh. He stared unblinking at Mango first, then pointedly proceeded to lick his Revlon black paw to clean his little furry face.
“Back to basics. What did you do before all that?” asked Mango, the tree limbs scratching against the outside windows enough to make all fur stand on end.
“I was just a chaplain. People asked me to pray for them and I was good at it. You?” stated Ruh.
“A cleric who got into a fight with his Sufi teacher and thought I could teach it better than him,” Mango stated, without irony.
“Common error. At least you did not start a Luciferian Loki-cult about it, Mango. We live and learn. Were you able to teach it better?” Ruh was curious.
“I just got controlled by different sponsors,” stated Mango, with clear regret.
“Knowing is half the battle, but at least they cannot force you to do anything as a cat in the middle of a blizzard whilst our shared MI6 supervisor and Murshid is getting tortured live on broadcast,” growled Ruh.
“What is there to do about it?” asked Mango.
“Where is your second favorite book in this office?” inquired Ruh.
“Mangoes of Milan?” suggested Mango.
“No, Garrett, the religious one,” Ruh expounded.
“On the Fiqh of Being Meticulous and Tidy, by Al Ghazali,” chirped Mango, excitedly.
“That is not a real book,” Ruh exclaimed, clearly debating biting him again.
“It can be if you give me fifteen minutes and AI,” replied Mango, doing his best to respond completely deadpan.
Ruh, despite feeling totally unwell, unsteadily climbed the bookshelves to find a cat-sized blue paperback only the size of a very large index card, and it had less than one hundred thick pages. The text was lemon yellow and there was a very charming pastel green-and-blue mandala smartly on the cover reading:
The Glorious Treasure
“I did not think you liked my product placements in my lectures, much less bought any of them,” stated Mango reverently, not even too upset about the new fang marks placed at the top of it.
“I did, and my own copy is even more worn than yours is.”
“It’s my fifth copy,” admitted Mango, sheepishly. “But I have it memorized now anyway.”
“It is more useful than a hundred-dollar tasbih,” admonished Ruh.
“Hey, most of us do not have human fingers when we pray anymore,” replied Mango in that combination of jovial and serious only he could manage.
Ruh simply glared in response, flipping through the pages of the small book with an unfortunately androgynous claw until he reached the bookmarked portion.
Ruh smoothed open the binding and pointed at the big white page that stated, in English and Arabic:
AL WIRD AL LATIF
الورد اللطيف
“Do you ever go through this line by line with your students, or do you only recite it like you are running a long-distance race of verbal memorized prayers?” asked Ruh sharply.
Mango flattened his ears slightly. “I thought you were working on not being Marchosias anymore and being nicer to me.”
“I am right next to you, in your mango office I gave you, sharing my scarf with you in the middle of a blizzard, about to ask you to read a super-ridiculously long Sufi prayer with me in real time, in the best dawah attempt I have in me beyond your fourth and fifth walls,” said Ruh with a sigh.
“Oh fudge, we do have an audience of whoever is reading this right now, don’t we?” exclaimed Mango.
“As-salaamu alaykum, human being. I’m Garrett, and my current codename is Mango. I am a creamsicle Manx cat with an alarming number of credentials I never asked for, and Ruh is a dyed-black, half-feral calico with a bad eye and a metal fang that hums whenever the world is on fire. This is the part where we do not tell you who we really are, because that would be silly, unsafe, and ruin the story.”
Ruh soft-paw smacked Mango. “Some decorum, please.”
Mango smacked him back. “Decorum is for people who are stuck in a blizzard with the radio screaming to the point where I block it out better than campus security and aurology combined, because they keep yelling back like it does anything. It doesn’t. Allegory only, of course. You’re the anxious one with the humming fang, and I’m the orange one who teaches with memes and mangoes.”
Ruh replied thoughtfully, “I have my badge through the usual alphabet soup, and my nondisclosures include not using your full, real name, Garrett J. Butler,” replied Ruh, tapping him with his paw at each word for added emphasis.
It was the first normal, non-worshipful voluntary contact Garrett felt in weeks, and it felt normal. Maybe even nice. Even though Ruh was half-feral when sick and almost bitey.
“Want to see if the vending machines have anything tasty?” Ruh nodded and trotted beside him to the nearest vending machine, the fans long terrified and dispersed by the blizzard, fangs, however, needing tuna.
Ruh thankfully knew where the key to the vending machine was kept by hopping to the top of the machine, and suggested paying the machine back after the storm.
Mango actually found cash in his chef’s thobe and entirely ignored the key as he purchased two sets of tunafish onigiri as the lights flickering across the stadium warned of pending outage. Ruh suggested adding a package of dried dates tossed oddly with walnuts, and an inexplicable single boiled egg, “for this trying time,” he stated.
Mango had no idea what a boiled egg offering had to do with comfort towards a blizzard nor other campus problems, so he assumed, inaccurately, it must be a Shia thing, and declined to avoid unintended Twelver bid‘ah.
(Mango did not know it was Always Sunny in Philadelphia since Alaraf was in whiteout conditions, and there was no use in explaining it to him.)
The oddest thing about the interaction is Mango remained a cat, placing the ten-dollar bill into the cash grabber using his teeth and paws, and proudly carrying his purchases, minus one set of onigiri, which he gave to Ruh, proudly in his teeth back to the office. A successful hunt was still successful, and food was the reward.
Back in the office, they quietly munched their tuna, rice, and dates. Mango opened his closet to reveal a Zam Zam water cooler and proceeded to fill a bowl at the paw-operated cat spout at the bottom.
Ruh paused mid-munch.
“A Zam Zam water cooler? Really?”
“Courtesy of Mango Madrassa. It is not all so bad. Have as much as you like, wallahi.”
He tapped the little spout with his paw and nosed a bowl over to Ruh, poured his own, then, as Mango stated a short bismillah and dunked his entire head in the bowl of Zamzam water three times, Ruh hissed. Every hair of his body was unwilling, and perhaps doctrinally unable, to copy Mango’s enthusiasm or apparent immunity to drowning.
“ASTAGHFIRULLAH! MANGO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, THAT’S ZAMZAM!”
Ruh’s eyes were huge and staring with shock at a very soggy MangoCat, whose fur dripped profoundly.
“Astaghfirullah is right, I’m going to have to start over.”
“NO!” interrupted Ruh. “There is no way this is halal. I have only ever owned a tiny bottle of Zamzam my entire life before now. I saved it for Ramadan and literally rationed it each day into a fancy glass at iftar. Astaghfirullah, you cannot tell me this is halal and rational use of Zamzam resources.”
Mango pointed a soggy paw at the long disclaimers in seven languages describing the purity of Zamzam for wudu specifically, as well as rules for respectful sharing, limits on refills per year, a guarantee never to sell out to Nestlé, and then a QR code for Zamzam recipes including “Fasting Time Zamzam Pie, Holy Water Pie, not adapted from Catholicism.”
“Even so, we are presently cats. Prophet Muhammad, salli wa salaam, cared more about coverage with less. We don’t need to waterboard ourselves in the absence of our typical persecution,” stated Ruh, still rattled by the seeming excess of Zamzam. “You are usually so careful.”
“As a cat, no hands. Between tapings, this was most expedient right before the grooming chair before I went on camera. It’s better if I control my own moisture versus allowing others to handle me more than necessary.”
“We haven’t prayed fard salah yet. Prayer just came in five minutes ago,” said Ruh stiffly, putting Mango into a truly difficult situation.
Mango had inherited surveillance capabilities from Leto2 via the office infrastructure, and he had advanced greatly in surpassing the fourth and fifth walls via weekly silent co-regulation in Kafka’s office titled: “IMPORTANT OMBUDSMAN MEETING!!!!! DO NOT DISTURB!!!!”
Kafka even purchased them both Japanese floor mattresses and kitty headsets to listen to the entire Gateway Tapes on 8-track by Dr. Meowroe, entirely in Cuban, and paid off by accounting as “ombudsman expenses.”
Mango knew that Ruh would pace, read Qur’an, do dhikr, sit quietly, listen to nasheed, but avoided formal rakat when alone. He was injured deeply by false formality after years of unmitigated harms by others who pretended that compliance with optics equaled compliance with Allah, falsely justifying the disenfranchisement of any and all outsiders, points of view, or traditions.
They hid behind acute xenophobia while calling it Sunnah, ignoring a thousand years of documented reality, including narratives preserved by allegory in every Sufi age prior by those trained in fiqh and metaphor for many years.
As much as his mind screamed to judge Ruh as a sinner, he also acutely recalled Ruh getting tazed during prior prayers according to past recordings, in addition to betrayals from other Muslim kitties over several years.
Embarrassingly, even Mango’s own sponsor-coerced content was something else to manage for Ruh, nothing like a balm, more like a thorny responsibility one holds out of character to correct to maintain fiqh, despite speaking alone.
And instead of insulting his Pir when they failed in prayer, Mango showed adab and said instead, “You just had mouth surgery recently. Praying is your choice.”
“I was hoping to read the Al Wird Al Latif, like we talked about prior to eating. Merci. Ja, quite sore,” replies Ruh, dryly and without the gratitude Mango anticipated.
So Mango performed his own rakat in the corner quietly and sincerely, without showboating or exaggerated paw gestures in supplication, making the content of his prayers unknown to anyone other than himself and Allah.
This was a noted contrast from his Mango Mufti persona. He did not check to see if Ruh watched or turned his back. Mango did not listen for reaction, approval, or discomfort.
He noticed he was not so focused on the perfection of the prayers, but rather the sincerity.
Once he finished his prayers and dried his face on the creepy Mango scarf with the embroidered eyes hanging on the hook on the Zamzam closet door, Ruh was sitting patiently in front of the window just as the power terminated with conclusive finality.
“Al Wird Al Latif time?” Ruh asked, surprisingly hopefully.
The storm raged outside, and Garrett shuffled his fluffy butt closer to Ruh and the text after lighting a hidden mango-scented tealight.
“Which one of us is Bastian? Both of us? Does this story ever end?” asked Mango, tucking the scarf under his haunches securely as he took out a tiny little pitch pipe in preparation for singing the entire Al Wird Al Latif in his Mango Cat voice.
“Hold on there, pardner. I think it’s best if we reflect on it verse by verse. Because it will be incredibly difficult for me to type and will show my deep and abiding commitment to teaching Tasawwuf correctly,” said Ruh.
“Which I share,” stated Mango assertively.
“With that being said, will you read the Arabic parts as I read the English? I find working through the Wird line by line is comforting. It reminds us that no matter what, faith shields us from true failures, so I’m told by our upline,” stated Ruh, very nicely.
“Of course. Right, Allah is in charge, not two lonely Sufi religious leader kitties trained extensively in law enforcement communicating via cat stories and mango-flavored YouTube videos.”
They then began to read the Wird together line by line by the light of the mango candle, both trying their best to trust Allah for a better ending over the present chaos of storms and circumstances.
AL WIRD AL LATIF
الورد اللطيف
Sūrat al-Ikhlāṣ (Purity of Faith)
Mango started with his Mango singing voice: “Qul Huwa Allāhu aḥad. Allāhu al-Ṣamad. Lam yalid wa lam yūlad. Wa lam yakun lahu kufuwan aḥad.”
Ruh replied, “Say, ‘He is God, the One, God the eternal. He begot no one, nor was He begotten. No one is comparable to Him.’”
“That’s not what’s written in the book,” stated Garrett al Mango, his register uncertain.
“I memorized and part-adapted and translated in real time, Garrett,” replied Ruh. He continued:
Sūrat al-Falaq (Daybreak)
Garrett continued, “Qul aʿūdhu bi rabb il-falaq. Min sharri mā khalaq. Wa min sharri ghāsiqin idhā waqab. Wa min sharri il-naffāthāti fil ʿuqad. Wa min sharri ḥāsidin idhā ḥasad.” (Three times.)
“Reading it even once is better than none,” stated Ruh decisively.
Mango was about to object, then held his peace so he did not get accused of OCD again by Dr. Angrycat, Ruh.
“Say, ‘I seek refuge with the Lord of daybreak against the harm in what He has created, the harm in the night when darkness gathers, the harm in women when they blow on knots.’”
“Yes, Mango, the Qur’an directly speaks against fluffy bunny spells and woo-woo. We have an entire tome of incantations that work in Arabic to talk to Allah directly and do not need silly spells,” exclaimed Ruh.
Mango looked at the unseen audience reading this uncomfortably, attempted to bite his lip, and then painfully realized he has fangs and no lips in cat mode.
“The harm in the envier when he envies,” finished Ruh.
Mango cleared his throat and announced:
Sūrat al-Nās (People)
“Qul aʿūdhu bi rabb il-nās. Malik il-nās. Ilāh il-nās. Min sharri al-waswās al-khannās. Al-ladhī yuwaswisu fī ṣudūr al-nās. Min al-jinnati wa al-nās.” (Three times.) Mango stated: “Three-x.”
Mango read the repeats quickly in Arabic just as perfectly as slowly.
Ruh read: “I seek refuge with the Lord of all folk, the King of folk, the God of all folk, against the harm of the slinking whisperer, who whispers into the hearts of the folk, whether they be jinn or non-jinn.”
“Folk?” inquired Mango.
“We are presently cats. Translation into ‘mankind’ or ‘people’ would exclude us from our own supplication,” replied Ruh.
“Rabbī aʿūdhu bika min hamazāt al-shayāṭīn, wa aʿūdhu bika Rabbī an yaḥḍurūn.” (Three times.)
“Lord, I take refuge with You from the goadings of the accusing ones. I seek refuge with You, Lord, so that they may not come near me.”
“Afaḥasibtum annamā khalaqnākum ʿabathan wa annakum ilaynā lā turjaʿūn. Fa taʿālā Allāh ul-Malik ul-Ḥaqq. Lā ilāha illā Huwa Rabb ul-ʿArsh il-Karīm. Wa man yadʿu maʿ Allāhi ilāhan ākharā lā burhāna lahu bihi faʾinnamā ḥisābuhu ʿinda Rabbih. Innahu lā yufliḥ ul-kāfirūn. Wa qul Rabb ighfir warḥam wa anta khayr ul-rāḥimīn.”
“Did you think We had created you in vain, and that you would not be brought back to Us? Exalted be God, the true King. There is no god but Him, the Lord of the Glorious Throne. Whoever prays to another god alongside Him, a god for whose existence he has no evidence, will face his reckoning with his Lord. Those who reject the truth will not prosper. Say, ‘Lord, forgive and have mercy. You are the most merciful of all.’”
“This one was always a marathon. I love how it sounds like Allah lecturing those who try to hurt us directly like they can hear it energetically or something,” conjectured Ruh.
“Inshallah,” replied Mango. He continued:
“Fasubḥān Allāhi ḥīna tumsūna wa ḥīna tuṣbiḥūn. Wa lahu ul-ḥamdu fī al-samāwāti wa al-arḍi wa ʿashiyyan wa ḥīna tuẓhirūn. Yukhrij ul-ḥayya min al-mayyiti wa yukhrij ul-mayyita min al-ḥayyi wa yuḥyī al-arḍa baʿda mawtihā wa kathālika tukhrajūn.”
Ruh continued, “So celebrate God’s glory in the evening, in the morning. Praise is due to Him in the heavens and the earth, in the late afternoon, and at midday. He brings the living out of the dead and the dead out of the living. He gives life to the earth after death, and you will be brought out in the same way.”
Ruh’s Zamzam water was not cat-hair-flavored. Alhamdulillah.
“Aʿūdhu billāhi al-Samīʿ al-ʿAlīm min al-shayṭān al-rajīm.” (Three times.) spake the Mango.
“I seek refuge in Allah, the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing, from the rejected accuser,” so spake the cat Mango called Marchosias.
“Law anzalnā hādhā al-Qurʾāna ʿalā jabalin laraʾaytahu khāshiʿan mutaṣaddiʿan min khashyat Illāh. Wa tilka al-amthālu naḍribuhā liʾl-nāsi laʿallahum yatafakkarūn. Huwa Allāhu alladhī lā ilāha illā Hu. ʿĀlim ul-ghaybi wa al-shahādah. Huwa al-Raḥmān ul-Raḥīm. Huwa Allāhu alladhī lā ilāha illā Huwa al-Malik ul-Quddūs ul-Salām ul-Muʾmin ul-Muhaymin ul-ʿAzīz ul-Jabbār ul-Mutakabbir. Subḥān Allāhi ʿammā yushrikūn. Huwa Allāh ul-Khāliq ul-Bāriʾ ul-Muṣawwir. Lahu ul-asmāʾ ul-ḥusnā. Yusabbiḥu lahu mā fī al-samāwāti wa al-arḍ. Wa Huwa al-ʿAzīz ul-Ḥakīm.”
“Ooh, more lecture alá Allah,” exclaimed Ruh. “If We had sent this Qur’an down to a mountain, you would have seen it humbled and split apart in its awe of Allah. We offer folk such illustrations so that they may reflect. He is God. There is no god other than Him. It is He who knows what is hidden as well as what is in the open. He is the Lord of Mercy, the Giver of Mercy. He is God. There is no god other than Him. The Sovereign, the Holy One, Source of Peace, Granter of Security, Guardian over all, the Almighty, the Compeller, the Truly Great. God is far above anything they consider to be His partner. He is Allah, the Creator, the Originator, the Shaper. The best names belong to Him. Everything in the heavens and earth glorifies Him. He is the Almighty, the Wise.”
Ruh added, “We just know His first name and correctly label spiritual and mystical genus categorically by omniscience, with only Allah as apex.”
Mango did not quite know how to argue this, or even if he should, so he just continued without comment.
“Salāmun ʿalā Nūḥin fī al-ʿālamīn. Innā kadhalika najzī al-muḥsinīn. Innahu min ʿibādinā al-muʾminīn.”
Ruh replied, “Peace be upon Noah among all the nations. This is how We reward those who do good. He was truly one of Our faithful servants.”
Mango continued, “Aʿūdhu bikalimāt Illāhi al-tāmmāti min sharri mā khalaq.” (Three times.)
“I seek refuge in the complete words of Allah from the evil in what He has created,” Ruh translated. Lightning cracked outside for emphasis. Ruh was unbothered.
Mango unpoofed to read: “Bismillāh alladhī lā yaḍurru maʿa ismihi shayʾun fī al-arḍi wa lā fī al-samāʾ. Wa Huwa al-Samīʿ ul-ʿAlīm.” (Three times.)
Ruh continued: “In the Name of Allah, with whose Name nothing on earth or in heaven can harm, and He is the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.”
“Allāhumma innī aṣbaḥtu minka fī niʿmatin wa ʿāfiyatin wa sitr, faʾatmim niʿmataka ʿalayya wa ʿāfiyataka wa sitraka fī al-dunyā wa al-ākhirah.” (Three times.) recited Mango Garrett.
“O Allah, as morning comes upon me, I dwell in Your favor, well-being, and protection. Complete Your favor upon me, Your well-being, and Your protection, in this world and the next.”
“Allāhumma innī aṣbaḥtu ushhiduk, wa ushhidu ḥamalata ʿarshik, wa malāʾikatak, wa jamīʿa khalqik, annaka anta Allāhu lā ilāha illā ant, waḥdaka lā sharīka lak, wa anna Sayyidanā Muḥammadan ʿabduka wa rasūluk.” (Four times.)
“O Allah, as morning comes upon me, I bear witness before You, the Bearers of Your Throne, Your angels, and all Your creation, that You are Allah, there is no god but You, alone with no equals, and that our Mawlānā Muhammad is Your bound servant and messenger.”
“Al-ḥamdu lillāhi Rabb il-ʿālamīn, ḥamdan yuwāfī niʿamahu wa yukāfiʾu mazīdah.” (Three times.)
“Praise belongs to Allah, Lord of the Worlds, praise that is adequate to His favors and equal to His increase.”
“Āmantu billāh il-ʿAẓīm, wa kafartu bil-jibti wa al-ṭāghūt, wastamsaktu bil-ʿurwat il-wuthqā, lanfiṣāma lahā. Wa Allāhu Samīʿun ʿAlīm.” (Three times.)
“I believe in Allah the Almighty. I denounce all idols and false gods. I grasp the firmest handhold that never breaks. Allah is All-Hearing, All-Knowing.”
“That includes Islamic idols, Mango Butler,” Ruh abruptly patted Mango’s head twice.
Mango felt it did not feel reassuring, as headpats normally are supposed to feel. He sighed and purred anyway.
“Raḍītu billāhi Rabban, wa bil-Islāmi dīnan, wa bi Sayyidinā Muḥammadin ṣallā Allāhu ʿalayhi wa ālihi wa sallama nabīyyan wa rasūlan.” (Three times.)
“I am content with Allah as Lord, with Islam as religion, and with our Mawlānā Muhammad, salli wa salaam, Allah’s peace and mercy be upon him, as Prophet and Messenger.”
“You added words,” stated Mango.
“I translated the words. Fitting Arabic into English is like fitting a gallon of honey into a double-plus ungood teaspoon of bland aphorism, at best,” Ruh declared like fatwa.
“Ḥasbī Allāhu lā ilāha illā Huwa. ʿAlayhi tawakkaltu wa Huwa Rabb ul-ʿarsh il-ʿaẓīm.” (Seven times.)
“Allah is enough for me. There is no god but Him. I put my trust in Him. He is Lord of the Mighty Throne.” Ruh paused. “I studied with a guy named something like Arsh al Aziz. This verse I sometimes skip. However, ʿarsh in this context can also mean footstool or Throne as in the type of angel: Throne. If you parse it in Pars, you get Avestan Ullr.”
Mango had no idea how to process that, except he assumed, once again, that Shia are very weird.
He pulled out his least expensive dhikr beads: thirty-three pink pony beads strung on a metallic silver shoelace with a tiny white and pink glittery Pegasus charm that read “Halal Pink Pony Club” in Lisa Frank font. As Mango Garrett politely continued after clearing his throat, he waited to see if Ruh noticed the beads expertly manipulated by his front toebeans as he began the next verse:
“Allāhumma ṣalli ʿalā Sayyidinā Muḥammadin wa ālihi wa ṣaḥbihi wa sallim,” he stated ten times, eyes closed.
“O Allah, bestow mercy upon our Mawlānā Muhammad, his family and companions, and give them peace,” replied Ruh, also repeating the Arabic ten times, but using a blue agate tasbih from Türkiye recommended by a Pir pretending to be a nineteen-year-old chicken farmer from the Istanbul suburbs, defending his flock against the surrounding cats.
“Allāhumma innī asʾaluka min fujāʾat il-khayr, wa aʿūdhu bika min fujāʾat il-sharr.”
Mango tried to hide his disappointment.
“O Allah, I ask You for sudden good and seek Your protection from sudden evil,” Ruh translated, oblivious.
Until Mango accidentally pressed the Pegasus charm, and his tasbih played an entirely a cappella version of the Robot Unicorn Attack theme, wordless, entirely halal.
He dunked the tasbih in Zamzam water. It silenced after a few abortive bubbles.
They both prayed the soundchip a pleasant reckoning towards Jannah.
Mango regained his dignity, then continued:
“Allāhumma anta Rabbī lā ilāha illā ant. Khalaqtanī wa anā ʿabduk. Wa anā ʿalā ʿahdika wa waʿdika ma astaṭaʿt. Aʿūdhu bika min sharri mā ṣanaʿt. Abūʾu laka bi niʿmatika ʿalayya wa abūʾu bi dhanbī. Faghfir lī, faʾinnahu lā yaghfir ul-dhunūba illā ant.”
“O Allah, You are my Lord, there is no god but You. You created me and I am Your khadīm. I uphold Your pledge and promise as well as I can. I seek Your protection against the failures of personal integrity I have done, knowingly or unknowingly. I acknowledge Your favors upon me and I acknowledge my failings, so forgive me, for none forgives failures of insight, ethic, or discernment except You.”
“Okay, sound translation but overspecified,” objected Mango.
“Clarified,” asserted Ruh.
Mango shook his whiskers and continued:
“Allāhumma anta Rabbī lā ilāha illā ant. ʿAlayka tawakkaltu wa anta Rabb ul-ʿarsh il-ʿaẓīm.”
“O Allah, You are my Lord, there is no god but You. Upon You I rely, and You are the Lord of the Glorious Throne,” replied Ruh. “Allah is really favoring that one angel. Since Allah has no physical features, it is more likely He is addressing angel Throne than furniture throne, no?”
“You can’t retroactively apply English ambiguity.”
“The Qur’an is a living Kitab, Murīd. Sure can,” Ruh stated with surety.
Mango would argue this later, so he continued without rebuttal:
“Mā shāʾ Allāhu kān, wa mā lam yashaʾ lam yakun. Wa lā ḥawla wa lā quwwata illā billāh il-ʿAlīyy il-ʿAẓīm.”
“Whatever Allah wills is, and what He does not will is not. There is no power or ability except by Allah, the Most High, the Almighty, including blizzards and via PECO Electric and PennDOT.”
Mango attempted stoicism. Critical failure. He covered his face with the scarf and pretended to cough instead of laugh.
He regained composure.
“Aʿlamu anna Allāha ʿalā kulli shayʾin qadīr, wa anna Allāha qad aḥāṭa bi kulli shayʾin ʿilmā.”
“I know that Allah has power over all things and that Allah encompasses all things in His knowledge. Comforting, that,” added Ruh.
“Allāhumma innī aʿūdhu bika min sharri nafsī, wa min sharri kulli dābbatin anta ākhidhun bi-nāṣiyatihā. Inna Rabbī ʿalā ṣirāṭin mustaqīm.”
“O Allah, I seek Your protection from the errors of my own self and from the errors of every creature on earth You have taken by the forelock. My Lord is on a straight path.”
“Yā Ḥayyu yā Qayyūm, bi-raḥmatika astaghīth, wa min ʿadhābika astajīr. Aṣliḥ lī shaʾnī kullah, wa lā takilnī ilā nafsī wa lā ilā aḥadan min khalqika ṭarfata ʿayn.”
“O Ever-Living, O Sustainer, I call upon Your mercy and seek refuge from Your harsh rectification. Rectify all my affairs gently and do not entrust me to myself or to any of Your creation as a false intermediary for even the blink of an eye.”
“Is this really how you teach?” asked Mango.
“Well, in English, anyway. Even cat Persian has more adjectives than English,” explained Ruh.
Mango nodded, then proceeded:
“Allāhumma innī aʿūdhu bika min al-hammi wa al-ḥazan, wa aʿūdhu bika min al-ʿajzi wa al-kasal, wa aʿūdhu bika min al-jubni wa al-bukhl, wa aʿūdhu bika min ghalabat il-dayni wa qahr il-rijāl.”
“O Allah, I seek refuge in You from sorrow and grief, from incapacity and sloth, from cowardice and miserliness, and I seek Your protection from overwhelming debt and the tyranny of primates made of mud and malice, especially those harming Fischlander.”
“You would never be allowed to teach like this on Mango Madrassa,” worried Mango.
“Doroste. You are absolutely correct,” beamed Ruh. “I am teaching them anyway, and you, because we have to use more words in English to convey concepts in other languages for proper dissemination.”
Mango shrugged.
“Allāhumma innī asʾaluka al-ʿāfiyah fī al-dunyā wa al-ākhirah.”
“O Allah, I ask You for well-being in this world and the hereafter.”
“This is the hereafter,” said Mango. “Alaraf is not what I expected.”
Ruh did not reply. He claw-tapped The Glorious Treasure.
Mango started reading once more.
“Allāhumma innī asʾaluka al-ʿafwa wa al-ʿāfiyah wa al-muʿāfāt al-dāʾimah fī dīnī wa dunyāya wa ahlī wa mālī.”
“O Allah, I ask You for pardon, well-being, and constant safety in my religion, worldly life, family, and possessions.”
“Inshallah,” replied Ruh. “We still wait on this one to be fulfilled with sabr.”
Garrett continued:
“Allāhumma ustur ʿawrātī wa āmin rawʿātī.”
“O Allah, cover my faults and assuage my fears,” stated Ruh sincerely.
Mango replied:
“Allāhumma aḥfaẓnī min bayna yadayya wa min khalfī, wa ʿan yamīnī wa ʿan shimālī, wa min fawqī. Wa aʿūdhu bi-ʿaẓamatika an ughtāla min taḥtī.”
“O Allah, protect me from the evil in front of me and behind me, on my right and my left, and from above me, and I take refuge in Your greatness from unexpected harm from below me.”
“Allāhumma anta khalaqtanī wa anta tahdīnī, wa anta tuṭʿimunī wa anta tasqīnī, wa anta tumītunī wa anta tuḥyīnī, wa anta ʿalā kulli shayʾin qadīr.”
“O Allah, You created me and You guide me. You feed me and provide me with drink. You cause me to die and You give me life. You have power over all things.”
Lights came on momentarily, then died. Mango continued the litany:
“Aṣbaḥnā ʿalā fiṭrat il-Islām, wa ʿalā kalimat il-ikhlāṣ, wa ʿalā dīn nabīyyinā Muḥammadin ṣallā Allāhu ʿalayhi wa ālihi wa sallim, wa ʿalā millat abīnā Ibrāhīma ḥanīfan musliman wa mā kāna min al-mushrikīn.”
“We have risen this morning on the original pattern of recognition of the Reality of Islam, upon the word of sincerity, on the religion of our Prophet Muhammad, Allah’s mercy and peace be upon him and his family, and upon the confession of Ibrahim, who was upright, a Muslim, and not given to idolatry, including to human beings.”
“Allāhumma bika aṣbaḥnā wa bika amsaynā, wa bika naḥyā wa bika namūt, wa ʿalayka natawakkal, wa ilayka al-nushūr.”
“O Allah, by You we live to morning and by You we live to evening. By You we live and by You we die. Upon You we rely, and to You is the returning.”
“Aṣbaḥnā wa aṣbaḥ al-mulku lillāh, wa al-ḥamdu lillāhi Rabb il-ʿālamīn.”
“Morning has risen upon us and all sovereignty is Allah’s, and all praise belongs to Allah, Lord of the Worlds.”
“Allāhumma innī asʾaluka khayra hādhā al-yawm, fatḥahu wa naṣrahu wa nūrah wa barakatah wa hudāh.”
“O Allah, I ask You for the good of this day, its openings, victories, lights, blessings, and right-guidance.”
(Allāhumma lines continue as in your text, unchanged in content, but with standardized punctuation and capitalization.)
They continued the final dhikrs in silence, side by side, the pink alicorn tasbih no longer singing, as the storm outside stilled with time.
And shortly thereafter, after a little more Zamzam water, they fell asleep like two fluffy cat loaves cooling side by side under warm pashmina, with only a candle and shared field for warmth until the power returned and the paths were clear back to campus.
[Sh.] Alexei Romanov Pahlavi
The Chronicals of Alaraf 