Free Beyond Belief: Islamic Excursions Among the Converted Peoples (Vintage International) by V.S. Naipaul Page A

lasted a little too long before he said, “Uncooked.” As though carrying on the joviality and the racial game; but then he let the matter drop and left the Oklahoman to his socks and shoes.
    The conversion ceremony was to take place in a room downstairs. It was small and low and air-conditioned, with walls faced with gray marble. The marble had disquieting mausoleum suggestions, and the room felt quite cold after the glare and reflected heat of the exposed big courtyard and steps. It was furnished like a lecture room of sorts. For the principals of the ceremony there was a high platform with hardwood benches or forms back and front of an altar-like table, with microphones; for the witnesses, on the floor, there were rows of classroom-style chair-desks.
    The bride-to-be—for whose sake the Oklahoman was converting—was the niece of a businessman who was also a well-known poet. Poetry here, for the most part an amateur activity, was much respected, and the people gathering in the marble chamber reflected this mixture of culture and comfortableness. Whispers subsided. The hissing of the air conditioners, always there, but now suddenly dominant, appeared to act as a fanfare for the ceremony.
    When the shufflings were done, Imaduddin, with his glasses hanging down stylishly from his neck, appeared as a central figure on the platform, on the far bench, against the gray marble wall, below an elegant brass plaque with black Arabic lettering. He sat between two men—beginning to chant from the Koran, against the air-conditioner hiss—and faced the Oklahoman and his bride across the table.
    They, the couple, had their backs to us, together with their witnesses, one on either side. The bride, Indonesian-small, looked eager and feather-light in a yellow gown and a reddish headdress. The Oklahoman, white-necked below his flat black cap, was broader, stolider. His blue trousers looked American; his green batik shirt—it might have been a gift or a new purchase—did not, on him, suggest frivolity.
    When the chanting ended, Imaduddin, smiling at the Oklahoman, said to him in English, “We welcome you back to Islam. Back to Islam, because in our belief everyone was born as a Muslim, without sin. You have come back to Islam because you have opened your heart to the truth. In everything submitting yourself to the will of God. Islam means submission.”
    Then it was time for the Oklahoman to make his declaration. He said first of all that he was speaking in conscience and without duress. He sounded shy. He had no pronounced Southern accent, and for a big man his voice was light, never rising above the hiss of the air conditioners. Thismight have been because he had his back to us, and perhaps also because he didn’t have Imaduddin’s microphone skills. He spoke the words of his convert’s declaration first in Arabic—this would have been a further reason for his shyness—and then in English: “I testify there is no other God than Allah and Mohammed is his last prophet.”
    Imaduddin said, with something of his lecturer’s jollity, “Ah.” As though what had just been said hadn’t, after all, been so hard. Smiling, and still with his jollity, he said to the Oklahoman, “You want to change your name?”
    The Oklahoman didn’t have time to answer. Feminine voices called from the floor in English, “Yes, yes.” And, “Better.” And, “Much better.”
    Like an impresario, Imaduddin asked, “You like the name Mohammed?”
    The Oklahoman liked the name.
    “And Adam?”
    That name was liked, as was Khalid.
    “So,” Imaduddin said, “Mohammed Adam Khalid, you are reborn as a new Adam. I hope you will be happy with the new name.”
    The main part of the ceremony was now over. The bride-to-be’s family took over. They wanted the change of name and they were happy. Mr. Khalid, the Oklahoman—a gentle, small face on his big body—came down from the platform and there was a general kissing and embracing. The women in the