The party now felt the need for young, new leadership. Once young people who were as popular and capable as Maruf joined the party, it would be back on its feet again. So Hasan Ali voluntarily took on the role of Maruf’s guardian. He began explaining socialist theory to Maruf, telling him what class struggle was, what dialectical materialism was.
All the explanations only made Maruf smile contemptuously from the corner of his mouth. After all, Karl Marx was only a recent figure – who was it that had established real socialism across Arabia fifteen hundred years ago? Who had made the slave and owner sit beside each other? Who had made white and black folk embrace one another? Maruf wondered, perhaps it would be better to pull Hasan Ali himself into the religious mainstream. Having got involved with the ideology of an atheistic party, he had given up offering even the Eid prayer. People used him. His benevolent mentality pleased everyone. But no one had any doubt that Hasan Ali was certain to go to jahannam – Hell!
Maruf was sitting beside the selfsame Hasan Ali. He had to swallow Hasan Ali’s discourse like bitter medicine. His negative perception of Communism was so firm that it was like he was listening to Hasan Ali and yet not hearing him at all.
Actually Maruf wanted to reconstitute the mosque committee. That committee would induct a new imam, an imam who would be of a different bent. Progressive, and free of blind faith. Unadulterated Islam ought to become the fundamental doctrine of Muslims, not merely Sufism. Although it wasn’t that Maruf had a clear understanding in that regard. Nevertheless, it was only through release from traditional customs that Sadnahati would attain freedom. The freedom of the Muslim community. Such was Maruf’s thinking. In this battle, the principal weapon in their hands was the property deed of the mosque. Maruf knew that he needed a certain amount of power for this. Because the members of the mosque committee were of a Congress bent, he had come to Hasan Ali for secret talks only with the purpose of getting the power and assistance of the CPI(M) for his cause. He wanted to employ Hasan Ali’s diplomatic skills very carefully.
They went regularly to the Waqf Board in Kolkata. And in time, a complaint was filed, asking for the mutawalli to submit accounts of the mosque property, for two generations. Why had the mosque’s property been forcibly occupied? An explanation had to be provided. There was some minor trouble or the other every Friday. People were about to come to blows. And then, disregarding Maulana Tahirul’s counsel, Naushad Ali landed a slap on the face of Abid Sheikh’s brother, Laltu Sheikh. There was a commotion in the mosque compound. In all the swearing and ribald ranting, nothing anyone said was discernible. Abdul Chacha’s torn panjabi dangled. Small boys stood cowering in terror against the wall of the mosque. They couldn’t believe what they were witnessing. Amidst the clamour, Anwar Ali searched for his ten-year-old son; when he finally found him after much searching, he kept screaming out, ‘You little swine, where the hell were you? I’ve died a thousand deaths looking for you. Come on, let’s go from here!’
The boy couldn’t tell his father that he was getting a valuable life lesson from this mosque. For it was the very house of Allah that was in contention in the most dirty and violent battle the village of Sadnahati had ever witnessed.
Maulana Tahirul thought it appropriate to be like an eel amidst the slime of this battle. The job was his source of sustenance. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny his sense of responsibility as the imam of the locality either. Sound action was needed regarding this undesirable incident of slapping. Those on Abid Sheikh’s side were fervent in their demands for justice. The village was divided in two. Those on the mutawalli’s side and those on Abid Sheikh’s side. Maruf joined in the fray, in support of Abid Sheikh. But his father, Nasir Sheikh, was on the mutawalli’s side. A fallout of the alchemical concoction of religion and politics that had been created was the distancing of father and son. Brothers were separated. And both sides believed that they were right. It was one’s duty in Islam to speak the truth. No father or brother mattered when it came to the truth.
Tahirul was simply unable to comprehend the matter. Hadn’t the village become quite tranquil? How did such fierce hostility make its way back? Such instability? Abid Sheikh never used to come to the mosque even on Fridays, but now he was never absent on a Friday. What exactly was it all about? Did it signal a major crisis? Was it in fact a conspiracy against him by someone? Was Maruf involved in that? Various questions went round and round in his head. But he couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. Maruf had meanwhile resumed communication with him recently. They exchanged greetings and courtesies. Almighty Allah was the Lord of the future; whatever had to happen would happen. Reflecting along those lines, he stepped out after the Asr prayer for his class in Kalu Miya’s house.
A youth whom he didn’t recognize came and stood before him. His beard had just begun to sprout on his chin.
‘Assalamu alaikum, Hujur.’
‘Waalaikum assalam.’
‘Sir, I’ve come on behalf of the Bengal Imams’ Organization. I’m visiting the imams of all the mosques. I cordially invite you on behalf of our organization. We have a meeting in Uluberia next week.’
‘Who are the people in the organization?’
‘There are many. It’s Maulana Shah Alam who’s the secretary. He’s the one who sent me to you.’
‘He’s my friend. What’s the agenda? Unless I know about the objectives of the organization…’
‘This letter explains everything. But our main demand is that arrangements be made to pay a dole to imams. From the government.’
‘Why would the government of a secular country provide doles to imams?’
‘Have you any idea about how much Waqf property there is in West Bengal? Are you aware of what the income from that amounts to? The demand will be to provide the dole from that income. After all, this won’t be spent from the government’s coffers.’
‘All right, give me the letter. I shall attend, Inshallah.’
After the youth left, Tahirul didn’t dally any longer. He made his way hurriedly to Kalu Miya’s house. The boys and girls had arrived, and were waiting for him; he was indeed a bit late today. He had just sat down in his place when Kalu Miya cleared his throat and greeted him, elongating the syllables. Tahirul returned the greeting equally courteously and looked at him curiously. Kalu Miya said, ‘There’s something I wanted to discuss with you. Can you please come to this room, Hujur?’
‘Certainly. Let’s go.’
As soon as he entered the room, Tahirul saw the mutawalli, Haji Burhanuddin Saheb, sitting there. He smiled warmly and said, ‘Come, come. I wanted to speak to you, so I came here after the Asr prayer. I wanted to ask you about what you have decided.’
‘I don’t follow you. Can you please tell me the specific issue on which you are asking about my decision?’
‘Hadn’t I spoken to you about starting your family the other day? Don’t you remember? When I visited your room—’
They were interrupted. Even before Tahirul could recollect, Fulsura arrived with a tray full of cups of tea. With her arrival, Kalu Miya swept the subject under the carpet and began talking about something else. ‘So is the mosque meeting taking place on Wednesday? We’ll sit immediately after the Isha prayer, what do you say?’
Was he hiding something from his daughter? Or was he pretending in front of Tahirul?
Tahirul sat dumbfounded at the sudden change in the subject. Fulsura had normally never appeared before Tahirul without her hijab. But when she entered the room today, saying her greeting and bringing the tea, there was no veil over her face, rather her lips were curled in a smile. This was the first time he saw Fulsura’s entire face. The smile didn’t last very long in the presence of the two murubbis. Was Tahirul thinking something? The smile on Fulsura’s face didn’t rock him in any way.
In order to avert the whole subject, Tahirul responded to Kalu Miya’s query. ‘Yes, a meeting is indeed required. An assistant imam is needed for the mosque. I was thinking of making a request to you people.’
‘Why? Why an assistant?’
‘Say if I go somewhere, and am delayed, then he can conduct the prayer.’
‘That can be considered. But you didn’t say anything about the other matter. You didn’t respond at all.’
‘What can I say?’
‘Hujur, let me be frank with you – you’ve seen Kalu Miya’s daughter, Fulsura. Do you like her? Actually, I called you to show you the girl. After all, you’ve seen Fulsura from close quarters. She’s a very nice girl. She’ll make a good match for you.’
And as he said that, he began laughing. The laughter sounded ugly to Tahirul. Realizing what it was all about, he turned grave. Without giving any answer, he merely offered his greeting and left. He didn’t feel like teaching now. He didn’t like Fulsura. He began walking towards the mosque. Haji Saheb seemed to have been a bit offended about that. He had spoken to Kalu Miya the other day shortly after making the proposal to Maulana Tahirul. Did the Imam Saheb dislike it when an uninvited person tried to get involved in his personal life? But he was astonished at the fellow having the audacity to disregard him.
And when it came to Kalu Miya, he agreed at once. If he got Imam Saheb for a son-in-law, his status would be enhanced too; and if he could get his daughter married to a good man, he would be able to live in peace for the rest of his life. So he didn’t dawdle over giving his consent to Haji Saheb’s proposal. And so, according to plan, this bit of play-acting today. Eager to know the outcome, Kalu Miya entered the room, only to find that Imam Saheb wasn’t there. When he asked Haji Saheb, he too ignored him completely. He left the room slowly. Failing to fathom anything, Kalu Miya was left bewildered.
twelve
Tahirul met Suman’s brother, Abhijit, on the way. Jogipara’s Hindu folk too were in the habit of calling the Imam Saheb to blow blessings on them. They partook of telpora-panipora with great devotion. They tapped against their foreheads, in obeisance, the bottle containing the water that had been blessed in the name of Allah, and drank that, chanting ‘Durga! Durga!’
‘Sir, you have to come to our place! For quite some days now, Ma has been asking for you to come to blow blessings on her. Will you please come?’
Tahirul had time to spare. The azan for the Maghrib prayer was still a long time away. He had never been to a Hindu household in Sadnahati before. He agreed. He said, ‘Come. Let’s go.’
It was nearby. And yet one could clearly discern that this was a Hindu hamlet. There was a small Shiva temple adjoining Sushil Nath’s house. The houses were sparklingly clean. In every household, a plastered sacred pedestal had been installed and a tulsi plant put there. There were also some other flowering plants. A bunch of incense sticks dangled from the pedestal. The fragrance of the incense soothed Tahirul. Our Prophet (PBUH) used to love fragrances. He loved such cleanliness and tidiness, and yet Muslims failed to give any importance to even such small things, and so Tahirul pondered. There were many pairs of footwear outside Suman’s veranda. Hearing the sound of a commotion, Tahirul enquired, ‘What’s up? Why so many shoes?’
