Hasan Ali lowered his spectacles to the tip of his nose. Everyone knew that whenever he had something important to say, he didn’t look through his glasses – they were lowered. And above that, were his bare eyes with which he looked blinkingly. He said, ‘Comrade, our party asks us to avoid religion. But we need people’s support. We have to resolve the problems people face. Isn’t that so? You people should make the public aware. Obtain a certificate from some Maulana or Mufti. It would be very good if you can bring a certificate from Furfura. After that, start the writing on the walls using that dictum. Campaign among the people and win them over to our way of thinking.’

So that was done. An affidavit was obtained from a renowned Pir. Thanks to Hasan Ali’s strategy, they now had in their hands the exact answer to what they sought to know. ‘Shuffling the ownership of property donated to the mosque for personal interests is illegitimate, selling it is a very big sin.’ This certificate was retained like arms. When a Pir-Mufti had declared that forcibly occupying mosque land was illegitimate, a large number of virtuous folks were ready to protect that property. Apparently they were also willing to martyr themselves if necessary!

It was about ten or eleven in the morning. Maulana Tahirul was sitting on a chair in front of his room in the mosque building. A few men and women were around him, a ten- or twelve-year-old girl was in front of him. The girl had caught the seasonal flu. But she may have been possessed by a jinn or ghost. Tahirul was after all an expert teacher now. Phoonk! He was blowing on the girl repeatedly, splashing drops of water on her. The others were observing him curiously. She would possibly get well.

Just as he finished, he spotted Abid Sheikh at a distance. He seemed to be coming towards him. Since his arrival in Sadnahati, Tahirul had fathomed how much power various people wielded. Who should be given greater importance, who ought to be flattered. So he talked to them accordingly. He hurriedly asked the people to leave. When Abid Sheikh came up to him, he greeted him warmly. He enquired, ‘How are you, Abid Bhai?’

‘I wanted to meet you. I need to find out something from you.’

‘What is it about? I’ll try to answer to the best of my ability.’

‘Tell me something, can anything that is used in the mosque, like the PA system, or the carpet, be sold?’

‘No. That’s impossible. Even a single brick belonging to the mosque cannot be sold.’

‘What about land and property?’

‘Never. But it could be leased out. It can be rented out, and that too only for the income of the mosque. Fi sabilillah, for Allah’s sake. But not to be sold. Never!’

‘So you’re saying it can’t be sold?’

‘It can’t. It can’t be sold or gifted. After all, the property belongs

to Allah!’

‘But that’s what’s about to happen in Sadnahati.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘You know Salaam Miya and Kalu Miya, don’t you? They are crooked fellows. They are scheming to sell off land belonging to the mosque by recording it in their own names.’

‘Which land is this?’

‘It’s the vacant field beside the road. Everyone knew it to be Jamila Begum’s father’s land. Actually, that’s not correct. It belongs to the mosque. The deed is there.’

‘Is that so? That’s the only vacant field in Sadnahati. That land must be worth a lot! Who is this Jamila Begum?’

‘Kalu Miya’s cousin. She is dead. It’s also been recorded in the name of Riziya now. She has a two-thirds share of the property, meaning that girl is the owner of twenty katthas, or one bigha.’

Tahirul turned a bit grave when he heard that. He resorted to caution. His image of unbiasedness ought not to be destroyed under any circumstances. He said, ‘Look, this is an internal matter of your village. There’s no point in telling me about it.’

‘You are the imam of the village. Isn’t it something you ought to know about?’

‘Yes. I’ve noted it.’

As soon as Abid Sheikh left, Tahirul’s mind was astir. He became very thoughtful. The land was in the name of Riziya? That preoccupied him for a long time. After a while, a conviction was born in him that he was truly an expert. Allah was taking him very slowly towards the fulfilment of his dreams. All his prayers were being granted on the soil of Sadnahati.

It was after a long time that he remembered his Ma and brother and sisters whom he had left behind in the village. But his brother had discontinued his studies and started working. His sisters had come of age. One of them had a psychological disability. His touchy mother probably didn’t even remember him. Did his mother feel the lack of filial love? He had left his mother’s bosom in some distant infancy. Could he provide the comforts that he ought to give her as a son? He could very well have been sending money every month towards their household expenses. But did he keep in touch besides that? He remembered the saying that an offspring’s heaven lies at the feet of his mother. All of a sudden, this saying interrupted his thread of thought. He had been laid up in Sadnahati for the last seven or eight months. How were they? Tahirul was alarmed by an inexpressible pain near his chest. He would meet the Mutawalli Saheb today itself. He would take a week’s leave and visit his village house.

Tahirul had visited every household on the occasion of Shab-e-Barat. But he had not been inside Haji Saheb’s house. They had arranged for the recitation from the Koran in the outer sitting area. Tahirul went to meet the Mutawalli Saheb. It was a large mansion. Next to the sitting area was a huge garment factory. The main entrance was past the factory. There was a lot of vacant space inside, surrounded on three sides by their living quarters. Haji Saheb was right in the first room. In the mosque, this old widower murubbi looked like a very ordinary musulli. As Tahirul stood in his majestic mansion, he was filled with a sense of reverence. When he entered, Haji Saheb had just finished his bath and was putting his clothes on. He had been tying his lungi on his waist when he looked towards the door on hearing the greeting. He was surprised to see the Imam Saheb at his door. He seemed to be a bit embarrassed that he could not offer his five prayers of the day with the assembly in the mosque. He showed Tahirul a chair to sit on, and he too sat bare-bodied on a comfortable sofa. He then asked, ‘Hujur, tell me what’s the matter?’

‘Sir, I came to enquire about you! How are you?’

‘I’m in the way Allah keeps me in my old age, my dear. I can’t go to the mosque any longer.’

‘Yes, Sir. There’s also another reason why I came.’

‘Tell me.’

‘I need a week’s leave. I am very worried about my mother.’

‘Yes. Do go. After all, you’ve been here for a long time! You ought to be worried, my dear.’

After that, he lowered his face a bit and said in a stage whisper, ‘What can I tell you, I’m telling you, get married and come here with your family. After all, you are—’

Tahirul interrupted him, and said somewhat enthusiastically, ‘You had told me before, but actually my head was not in the right place then. I had not been able to think about it that day.’

‘Is your head in the right place now? If I tell Kalu Miya, he won’t say no. After all, they are looking for a match for Fulsura.’

Tahirul was silent. A teenager brought tea. He sipped the tea. After that he said, ‘Chachaji, you are like my Abba. Whatever you thought was certainly for my good. But if you made the proposal to Salaam Miya instead of Kalu Miya…’

Looking at his pursed face, Haji Saheb smiled wryly and said, ‘You’re feeling shy, aren’t you? Fine, instead of speaking to the girl’s father, I’ll talk to her uncle instead. The two brothers have reunited now. There’s no problem.’

Tahirul was unable to explain to Haji Saheb that he hadn’t ever thought about Fulsura. The man seemed to be simple and guileless to Tahirul. He wouldn’t understand roundabout, knotty things. Tahirul thought it would be wise to be direct. But he was overcome by shyness. His secret desire would be revealed to the mosque’s mutawalli. It might lead to an adverse impression about his character. Considering all this, he halted. He could think of no reason for his inability to mention Riziya. So he consoled himself and only asked for permission for a week’s leave. Tahirul knew that these senior musulli had a very lofty view of imams, they thought they were veritable angels. So if someone fell in their eyes, for however trivial a reason, they lost the capability to be imams. Lack of confidence could descend upon him at any moment. That’s why he couldn’t speak frankly about Riziya. He set himself afloat in the flow of events, leaving things to the Unseen, and emerged from the Mutawalli Saheb’s mansion.

twenty

‘How will there be place for so many of the musulli in the mosque during the month of Ramzan? There will be large crowds then. Can’t we put up a tarpaulin shade outside for a month, Rajek Bhai?’

‘Yes, you are right. We needn’t say anything more to Haji Saheb. If we tell Maruf’s father, he’ll do the informing. We just need to tell him.’

‘He’ll do that. Whatever else he might be, Nasir Bhai is really generous!’

This was a conversation between two members of the mosque committee. Nasir Sheikh’s main identity was as Maruf’s father. His devotion to Pirs, and his image of being wealthy were secondary. He had performed Haj five years back. There were many people in Sadnahati who had done that. But there was only one person who was known as ‘Haji Saheb’. He was the mutawalli Haji Burhanuddin. He had gone on Haj fifty years ago. No one referred to Nasir Sheikh as ‘Haji Saheb’. Of course, the other Hajis had various spoof names. Like ‘Terpol’ Haji, ‘Chhappa’ Haji, ‘Cutlet’ Haji and so on. But Nasir’s name was not among those.

Although Faruk was his elder son, no one referred to Nasir as ‘Faruk’s Abba’. They called him ‘Maruf’s Abba’. Every father knew what a matter of pride it was to be identified as one’s son’s father.

But for Nasir, this identity was often a matter of embarrassment. Although the entire village was affiliated to a specific silsila, Nasir Sheikh’s son, Maruf, walked a different path. Even if they didn’t say anything directly, many people looked at Nasir Sheikh with a frown on their faces. Some of them went so far as to say, ‘Nasir Saheb, I see your son has turned wise. You could have put him in a madrasa. I’ve heard he has the audacity to argue on religious matters. He doesn’t spare maulanas either!’

Nasir Sheikh was aware that such talk was actually a mild expression of reproach. He did not respond. He could understand that he was being looked upon with disdain. He felt pained inwardly at that. But what could he do! He always had to admit defeat in the face of his son’s knowledge. He also often had to accept what his son said. Even if such acceptance was logical, he could never communicate that to anyone else. At one time, Nasir Sheikh used to conduct a Urs-e-kul every year in the name of the Abdul Qadir Jilani, the great Pir of faraway Baghdad. That was stopped on account of Maruf’s prohibition. Every year, he used to invite the Haqqani Pir, whose disciple he had become, to his home for a feast. He lavished him with courtesy and hospitality, offered him a generous nazrana. It was essential for a murid to be courteous to a Pir. It was customary to serve and care for them in order to receive spiritual power. None of that happened any longer. The respect and courtesy towards the Pir and his descendants had weakened considerably. Consequently, the village folk viewed him somewhat differently. They regarded him with suspicion. Was he going his son’s way? Abandoning the silsila? Nasir Sheikh could neither convince them, nor could he prove his son unworthy. So he had to resort to financial means to eliminate the distance as far as the village folk were concerned. It was Nasir Sheikh who contributed the most towards mosque activities, sermons and religious gatherings. He tried his best to prove that he was one of them, no matter what his son did.

Nasir Sheikh was worried about Maruf. He was concerned about Maruf’s marriage. The fellow would calm down once the yoke of domesticity fell on his shoulders. The twenty-seven-year-old youth was still unmarried! Nasir had not forgotten that this was an essential duty of a father. As soon as he mentioned the subject of marriage, Maruf responded saying, ‘Arrange Amina’s marriage first, Abba, mine can come later.’ That made Nasir distraught. Marriage was a matter of great importance in Islam. Was it right for someone to neglect that? If there was any insistence, his son would get angry. ‘What is marriage?’ he’d retort. ‘Is it voluntary, or a duty? Or is it something else? Tell me, Abba!’

Nasir Sheikh could only mumble, ‘As far as I know, it’s a duty, my dear! There’s nothing wrong with you. But after all, you’re getting older. Don’t you need to get married and raise a family?’