We ragtag men still see ourselves as part of the army, but it has been years since we had any contact with home. We have been wandering town to town all this time. Home may not even exist anymore. Who is to say that Urubash, the city of our longings, hasn’t already been cannonballed out of existence by our rivals? I am only the imam of this platoon, born during our journey with no past in the city. I know very little either way. Only months ago, I took over my father’s responsibilities after the old man left us during the crossing of a desert. I needed a few more years of apprenticeship, if anything, to gain a bit of respect from my people. I am so young the men pass dirty jokes to me and do not mind smoking in my presence. Huzoor, they mock me, Allah remembers us, does he not? And the naive marabout that I am, I only nod. I nod to everything I don’t understand, especially banter. But I know that Allah must have lost count of us. How many more years should we run across these lands before Urubash comes into view? The lieutenant, our leader, is a haggard old man who refuses to die. His legs are too bony, and he cannot walk. His sons carry him on a palanquin and feed him dry gourd, but oh my, the lieutenant, sir, he remembers everything! He has led us since the beginning, for some of us the beginning of time. Huzoor, he tells me, our spiritual guide, our light in this constant trek of darkness, our little beacon, please lead us the way, lead us to Urubash, the city of your father’s birth! I only laugh and answer, as always, Allah will show the way, I have hope in Him. He will lead us home. The lieutenant does a bit of theater. And where is home, young Huzoor? He has his hands over his head, staring far out. All I see is nothing. But something has to come out of nothing, and I cannot be annoyed with my leader. He has known me since my birth. What about that messenger from the town nearby? I ask, hoping to get information I can trade with soldiers later for cigarettes and stories. All in good time, young chap, we will be in a town in two days, and I will need you to bring solace to a few damned illiterates. I take my leave to perform ablution, knowing what is to come ahead. My late father serviced many of these people parceled throughout the land. These towns with their chipped-in mosques, often possessing just a single roll of carpet that stretched out miles beyond the small rickety structure of the prayer-hall, they will do anything to get their hands on a quality imam. They can usually be found housing undereducated mullahs or, worse, swindlers draining away the townsfolk’s money. Some lack anyone altogether. But the desire for salvation burns a dark burgundy into the hearts of these innocent daughters and sons of Adam. Whenever we go through a town, they politely inquire about the imam and whether I will have the time to bless them. I do want to conquer the popularity of my late father. I cannot be less likable. I want to be closer to my city, closer to Urubash, and once we are in Urubash, inevitable any day now, I will surely be allowed an audience with the King. The King himself, sir! The old man claims to have seen him once with his own eyes. That King may not be alive, but his successor is good enough, just as I am good enough in my father’s place—but nothing can be good enough compared to Urubash. Home is irreplaceable. Later that night, as we walk in the empty expanse, torches in one hand lighting up the white sands under our soles, the lieutenant signals me to get close. Come near and talk to this old man, Huzoor, he says, and I drag my feet in the warm dust and reach his palanquin. The rate at which we lurch forward, it is no wonder we do not go anywhere, but the litter can only move so fast. The lieutenant’s sons do not inherit his sturdiness. They are lazy and eat too much. But who am I to complain? At least they are doting on their father. Why else would any set of sons carry their father on their backs their whole lives? For a while I walk in rhythm to the palanquin, my own torch illuminating the damp contours of the box’s insides. The lieutenant lives squalidly. Toothbrushes and toiletries pushed to a corner with half-eaten bananas and pomegranates. He is a happy man, regardless. A delusional man, too, but for the sake of our own sanity we must surrender to his leadership. Say, young chap, you are a man now, a soldier in your own regard, do you not agree? Am I, really? How can I bring solace to soldiers by being one of them? I know the basics of combat, yes. It is necessary to know in case of an attack. But it has been generations since any whiff of an attack has been noticed. My father has taught me to fight nevertheless and so have the soldiers close to him, but this is not my calling. I am their chaplain. I am my father’s boy. The lieutenant, he merely smiles. Yes, sir. He takes me for an agreeable boy. Mashallah. I know you are a bright boy. You shine like the star I stalked back in the day in search of Urubash, before I realized that wasn’t getting us anywhere. I cough out impatience. Sir, I say, I should go back and finish my recitations. The lieutenant looks unnervingly at me and sniffs the air. You know, back in the day, back when we saw more fighting and the kingdom was fresh in people’s minds. Even in these great expanses, everyone knew who we were. They saw our neat and proper uniforms and paid due respects. Whenever we happened to cross a city, we would be guests of honor, we would have a banquet of fruits, we would have the pleasures of spice, but now our clothes are tattered and the hospitality is pathetic. As the lieutenant says this, I ready myself for his lecture. I have seen others go through this ordeal, and I only wish the dear leader did it after I finish my recitations. Pay attention, young Huzoor, he says, it is understandable. So long we have been in search of Urubash that we must be cycling back to the same miserable few towns! These days, we are lucky if we get to sleep free of charge at an inn. I don’t have to explain any of this to you, do I, boy? The lieutenant’s sons lay the palanquin down to have a round of sweets and tea. I kneel closer to my lieutenant so I can hear him better. His gruff voice, free-flowing during movement, gets troublingly quiet when he is static. The messenger from the town had a specific proposal for you, he says, a very rich man, royalty apparently, though I must say that claims of royalty this far out are laughable, but yes, this rich man is quite old and dying, and he wishes to seek your advice, and I already promised the messenger that he shall have the services of my imam, who may look young but has an experience of a lifetime under the aegis of his late father and knows the Quran by heart and the prophet’s sayings by heart, and he can calm the senses of any soldier and inject Allah’s fear into their bones—so why not in exchange of some much-needed money, which will help us wretched soldiers find our way back to Urubash! Royalty in our part of the world? I cannot believe what I hear. Can it really be, or did our lieutenant here get sold a set of imitation jewelry as real gold? I will try my best, I say. Is this distinguished gentleman really royalty? Our leader’s eyes shine into taut blackcurrants. Yes, that’s what he said, the messenger. Perhaps royalty so watered down it is embarrassing that he abuses it for little favors. Small town folk, Huzoor. They have no shame. He probably needs permission to marry a fifth time, the bastard! I smile at the lieutenant, hoping that he sees in my fidgeting the desire to leave. The night is now cold. If it were not for our scarves and sweaters, our bodies would have suffered slender cuts from the ripples of ice and wind. I think of asking for some tea from the sons, but I am too shy. An imam cannot be seen craving comfort. He should be happy with the little he is offered by his soldiers. If anything, he is their comfort. I am their resolve. I look forward to seeing the town, I tell the leader. And meeting new people. The sons lug the poles onto their shoulders and start walking again. Too bored of us, huh, Huzoor? It’s all right, we’ll be in Urubash soon. If our prince pays us well, perhaps we can bribe a few sorcerers and shorten the trip home, too. I nod and stop my walking, letting our leader move ahead, and as soon as I notice the younger soldiers, I jog back into the party’s rhythm. The men want to know what the leader has said, and I tell them. Their faces are full of exhilaration. They want to go home, but more importantly, they want to get new clothes and a haircut and a hot bath, and they want cigarettes and paper to write letters to their beloveds from towns they visited weeks or years ago. Two days pass like this. Endless walking punctuated by breezy tea breaks. Our platoon’s mood has risen considerably, and as we find ourselves at the town’s edges, the tired soldiers run toward the peripheral establishments. The old shops selling biscuits in soybean oil tins have laid out their benches for us to rest and commerce with them. Suddenly, we are bloated from drinking too much. We sit lazily and take in the peppery sun. When evening arrives, the messenger comes around and takes me, alone, he insists that I come alone, and we walk hurriedly, and he does not even ask for my name, but respectfully he says: Huzoor, after so long I am with a learned man, I will enjoy this walk of ours for days to come. I nod, rather benevolently, at him, and we keep walking, and I ask him where we are headed. There is a small hospital two roads down. We are going there. The mention of a hospital has me curious. I have been in one rarely, and in the last decade, none. Is our royal dying? Have I been brought here to listen to the weak, last breath of a rich man? The hospital is a few rooms of concrete with a hand-painted cloth for a sign board. Unusually, it is guarded by uniformed men, whose berets are bottle green and shirts bereft of collars. I have half a mind to ask about them, but my shyness takes over again, and I cannot form a question. The messenger talks animatedly with a worker from the hospital, perhaps explaining to him why I must be let in. They speak in my language, but their circuitous dialect makes it harder to gain anything useful. I can make out a guard adding, It’s night already, come in the morning, but the messenger is adamant, and I, too, am possessed by curiosity now. I must see this forgotten noble. What is he even doing, languishing here? The worker sighs and gives in, moving aside and letting us pass. A darkened corridor for a minute, then more guards. He is special around here, I remark to the messenger. Soon, light signals us to a small room, plastered in oatmeal yellow. There are strange instruments whirring and whistling on one end like a restless, exotic pet. The man lounges on a bed beside them, holding on to a few remnant pipes from the devices, as if grabbing hold of a leash. He wears a maroon suit. His few hairs are brushed back on an otherwise bald head. He seems at ease, perhaps in drugged euphoria. Seeing me he cries out: You’re here! You must save me, Huzoor. Save this old man, and you will be Allah’s favorite! I ask him, How can I save you, save you from whom, sir? He jerks up straight. Beckoning me near. From them, he says. I am a prisoner here, Huzoor. Save this old King. Yes, King! I don’t usually brag, but I was once a King. I still am, for you can never stop being a sovereign, no matter how many coups and forced abdications you undergo. I was once the King of a vibrant city, full of dahlias and spectacular views of nearby hills. My palace counted numerous ambassadors from cities all over the earth and, Huzoor, let me tell you, my library of Islamic texts was second to none! I was a great patron of the arts, and during my brief reign of seventeen years, calligraphy was a national obsession. Nervously, I ask if he is describing Urubash, but I only confuse him. I don’t know where that is, Huzoor. I don’t think that exists. I have a decent knowledge of all the important cities of these lands. At least, I did, until I was sent here and forbidden to venture out. Did you see the guards outside? They are everywhere, and they don’t let me leave this putrid clinic. I spend my last years here being lectured to death by communists, Huzoor. I don’t want the jewels or the embroidery of my past; I know Allah has taken that away from me. All I want is some peace. I want to die, my dear imam. Please give me permission to take a knife to my neck and slash this sagging skin and be rid of my awareness! He falls back on the bed, and one of the guards tiptoes in and scoops me out of there. That’s enough, he has to eat his dinner now, he says, and I walk out, disoriented and puzzled at the story he mouthed out, especially the part where he claimed Urubash may not be real. How can home not be real? The messenger finds me back on the street and escorts me back to my camp. He apologizes if his guest behaved rudely, and I assure him that he did not and that I wish I had more time with him. He nods, but he doesn’t say anything more. I am left feeling a little lonely. A feeling that does not subside when I see my old soldiers cheering at my return. They always want gossip, but I don’t say much. I ask to see the lieutenant, who is happy because his pocket is heavy. After much wrangling from his sons, I get a few minutes of my leader’s time. He is cleaning his teeth with ash and motions me enthusiastically to take a seat beside him. Is Urubash real? I ask him, point-blank, not knowing how to swivel to that topic slowly. He laughs, Of course it is, how can home not be real? But I look at him quite seriously. The old man says it isn’t. The lieutenant says, The old man is senile, did he tell you he was a long lost prince of the desert? I shake my head. He said he was a King. Our leader pauses his activity to stare at me. Well, there you go. That is all you need to know. He is cuckoo, my dear Huzoor. But we have secured our bag, and we must be off, off in search of Urubash. The next few months will be easier on us, you will see. All thanks to you! I nod, for I have been taught very little else, and I go back to my corner and try to sleep. The floor feels stiff on my back, and my head hurts from all the questions I have. Whom do I believe, and why do I even bother with this endless journeying, and should I just settle down at the next suitable town? Will I be allowed to depart, or must I flee, run away from the only people I have known all my life? Urubash has to be real, for if home does not exist, then Allah does not exist, and an imam who comforts soldiers on behalf of nothingness is an antiseptic, a temporary bandage, a tightening of a rag until the wound can be treated at an appropriate later time that never arrives. I understand that sleep won’t come to me, and I get up and walk out of the tent. I run as quietly as I can back toward the King, wondering half the time if I am tracing my steps accurately. I reach the hospital and find the guards sleeping. A cleaner sweeps the corridor with a bucket of black water. What do you want? Visiting hours are over, he says. I left my bag inside earlier. I need it, I’m leaving town tomorrow. I have started lying. What will become of me? The cleaner thinks for a parched moment. Come with me, he says, inviting me inside. He asks which room my bag is in, but I begin to walk away and head toward the King. There is a lone guard in front of the door. A sleepy boy who sees my clothes and recognizes I am an imam. He desires guidance. He wants to be closer to Allah, and I tell him I must see the King. He is sleeping, he says. He is unsure. He does not want to be a disappointment. The King has sent for me, I tell him with an air of confidence. He can’t be asleep, I say, but the boy disagrees. Yes, the man is sleeping. I checked just now. But I am this close to shoving him aside. He can’t be asleep. He has sent for me. I walk past him and into the room again. The King’s eyes jar open, and he sucks in smoke from a tube hooked up to his chest. Huzoor, you’re back! Are you granting me my wish? His eyes have begun to dazzle. You must answer me, I say, what happens when home does not exist? The King is puzzled. What are you saying, young Huzoor? You must come from somewhere. Why wouldn’t it exist? But I am adamant. I tell him he cannot die yet. I can’t let go of you yet. I can sense the annoyance in him. The King is too tired for debate. He stands up, but he is fantastically bent, and he can’t even look me straight in the eyes. Scoliosis, dear Huzoor, he explains, almost apologizing. He holds me with his frail hands and squeezes my arms. Huzoor, I understand this is disorienting. You are a young man. You are full of hope. You are strength. So what if this Urubash isn’t real? Why should it matter so much? He wishes I am calmed. Will you look at the state of this marabout now? The King struggles to arch his face up. He shows me his eyes, his eyes which have welled up. He is crying. I want to go home too, Huzoor, he says. You are not the only one. I can sense commotion outside. The guards may storm at any moment. I want to go home too, the King keeps saying. Say, my dear Huzoor, will you join me there, at home?