CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

III THE CULMINATION

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

CHAPTER SEVENTY

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

ABOUT THE BOOK

ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND THE TRANSLATOR

COPYRIGHT

prelude

The mosque is the House of Allah. It lies at the very heart of the lives of the Muslim community. The identity, prosperity, and spread of all the Muslims in the world centre around this court of the Lord of the Universe. All their hopes and anxieties, their wants and fulfilments, joys and pains revolve around its minarets.

The currents of eternity flow with great vigour. As time goes by, more and more weeds sprout in the garden of religion. And so, many people descend to the sphere of religion in order to clear those weeds. But the weeds don’t die. It’s as if their seeds are to be found in every pore of society. There is still one sphere in the world now in which one can easily pass off darkness as light and light as darkness – and that is religion. The light of religion is not exactly clear, it’s incomplete and hazy. Can that light show the way? Besides, has anyone ever received absolute light? And yet, why does the earth itself carry on with half daylight and half night? Why is a side of the moon in perpetual darkness?

Religion exists. The light of religion exists. The mosque exists. The imam and the devout too exist. The azan still sounds today, calling the faithful to prayer five times a day. That melodious vocal strain comes wafting from far away. The womenfolk in Muslim neighbourhoods cover their heads with their scarves in reverence.

It was the hour for the Fajr prayer now. A time in between darkness and light. Concluding the prayer, Imam Saheb turned his head to the left and recited the salaam. Kalu Miya, one of the musulli – those who came to the mosque regularly to offer prayers – also turned his head leftwards for the concluding salaam, and observed that Haji Burhanuddin Saheb, who was the mutawalli, or the trustee, of the mosque, was sitting right next to him. As soon as the prayer ended, their eyes met. Kalu Miya smiled furtively and signalled that he had something very urgent to discuss. Haji Saheb nodded in acknowledgement. They always had something to discuss. In fact, their discussions were so important that they could get by without completing the remaining sunnat and nafl parts of the prayers at some hours of the day. That is because their discussions were religious discussions – discussions about the mosque, discussions about the errors and omissions of the Imam Saheb.

They emerged from the mosque and headed directly to Dilu’s tea shop. There was a separate place for them there. Although Dilu Bhai kept clay bhanrs for everyone, he had reserved porcelain cups for the murubbis, or elders. The respect they got from this shop seemed to them to be no less than a symbol of the Almighty’s magnificence. They talked as they sipped tea. Speaking very slowly and almost in whispers, Kalu Miya said, ‘We can’t have this Moulovi Saheb. Change the fellow. As it is, he’s paid a hundred rupees more.’

Gulping down a mouthful of hot tea with a slurp, Haji Saheb said, ‘Let me think about it a bit, Kalu. Where will I find another Moulovi Saheb out of the blue? After all, he has only one fault to speak of, that is roaming around the neighbourhood at dawn. And that, too, has apparently been advised by the doctor. He has diabetes, dear fellow, diabetes. It’s a terrible disease.’

Kalu Miya was astonished to hear that. He said quite emphatically, ‘Are you making light of his habit of roaming the neighbourhood at dawn? I say, you’re knowledgeable, so how can you tramp through the neighbourhood? Don’t our mothers and sisters feel embarrassed when they see him that early in the morning? Besides, I’ve also heard something else. Will it be appropriate to speak about that?’

Kalu Miya wanted to generate some curiosity about the matter – a forbidden curiosity. Haji Saheb stirred now. He turned his head to look right and left, and then, with great enthusiasm, leaned forward to listen. As soon as Kalu Miya whispered something, he seemed to jump up. ‘What are you saying, Kalu? I don’t understand it at all. He recites well and teaches well! We belong to the same silsila, I’ve seen him standing up to recite the praises of the Nobi, the Holy Prophet. To think that he was actually so crooked … Tauba, tauba!’ he added remorsefully.

There wasn’t a single mosque in the Muslim neighbourhoods of West Bengal around which differences, disagreements and ugly jealousies didn’t arise among the neighbourhood’s Muslims themselves. Everyone wanted to enter jannat-ul-firdaus, the Garden of Paradise, straightaway, bearing a tray of great piety. The craving for paradise was difficult to control; and so, who would take up the responsibility of the mosque was a moot question. Which group would possess the power to induct or expel an imam? A subtle contest was always on.

All these things prevailed in the village of Sadnahati as well. Kalim Mirza, Kalu Miya, Haji Saheb and so on felt a sense of satisfaction at having got a taste of this little bit of power over the community. Muslims had no place of their own in any public offices or in any courts of law; they had become debarred entities in the politics of West Bengal. They were kicked around like a football, from the feet of one party to those of another. They were not to be counted among the doctors in public hospitals, or the teachers in schools and colleges; neither were there writers, littérateurs or artists in the community. And the numbers of those who were present were so insignificant in terms of the population that there was nothing to be proud about. But would that douse the passions of the people lusting for power? Given time and the right opportunity, that passion raised its head somewhere else. Where there was no competition from non-Muslims. That’s why, in thousands of villages like Sadnahati, the most certain address to enjoy power was the mosque and its elementary school, the khareji madrasa. That’s where they resorted to their crablike nature, and flourished.

The mosque being in the hands of the mutawalli appointed by the Waqf authorities often meant that it became like someone’s paternal property. In this state of affairs, there was no accountability to anyone, other than to Allah, as regards the fish from the pond, and the coconuts, bamboo and so on growing on the land that belonged to the mosque. Year after year. A permanent arrangement! That’s why the mosque became the very lifeblood of many.

It’s the sand that always seems hotter than the sun. Many people in the neighbourhood were like that sand. The heat transmitted by Haji Saheb warmed them. Every now and then, their empty pockets filled up. And those who lacked pockets, opened out their prayer caps and blew inside them, as if to keep whatever was tucked inside safe.

But all such talk was seen by the general folk as being that of detractors, the talk of munafiqs, or the hypocrites who roamed around in the nooks and crannies of the village of Sadnahati. Such talk was not to be heeded. Because everyone knew that each one of the elders who occupied the first row of the musulli was a parhezgar, a virtuous one. The first row of the prayer gathering was apparently the row for angels. And so how could some people’s comments about all these angels tick?

For a thousand years, the villages and small towns of West Bengal had lain adorned like a colourful necklace. In some villages, there were more Hindus, while in others, there were more Muslims. Even if the people of these two faiths lived side by side in Bengali films, somewhere in the subconscious, a fine dividing line had been created. And yet, there were also villages where the entire community was Muslim, but like oases, a few Hindu families stuck on there for ages. They couldn’t be identified by their attire. Sadnahati was such a village. In this predominantly Muslim village, there were ten or twelve Hindu families. The local people called them the Jogi Bamunpara folk. The sons of the Jogis went around wearing checked lungis. They had good relations with every Muslim household. The wedding ceremony of Akhil Nath’s daughter took place in Altaf’s courtyard. Muslim boys fell in love with the girls of Jogipara. Akhil’s youngest sister, Sujata, was married to Alam Chacha. That happened a long time ago. A Hindu’s daughter had now become a Muslim’s mother. There were quite a few instances of such events. But until now, no one had ever heard of any youth from Jogipara wooing a Muslim girl. They didn’t dare. After all, they were a minority in the village of Sadnahati.

In every society and country, minorities live in fear. They live out their lives like tiny mice out of a feeling of inferiority. They tremble in fear all their life. Ever thinking that at any moment they would confront the angry eyes of the majority community. And yet they survive. They adapt and survive.

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