Without a moment’s hesitation, Maruf got ready to offer his apologies. The murubbi folk had been invited for iftar, they watched from a distance. Maulana Tahirul had been observing everything from his room. He wanted to see how far matters would go. Maruf sensed that perhaps some people wanted this to snowball into something big. He suddenly held Alam Miya’s hand and apologized. And then he looked in the direction of Rajek Sheikh and said, ‘I shouldn’t have raised my hand, Chacha. Please ask him to forgive me. But he insulted me in front of everyone.’

‘Stop that! Why would he insult you?’

‘He insulted me for no reason at all. Ask anyone here. Because I asked him not to use the mic in the dead of night to sing his ghazal. Can you tell me whether that’s right? People are inconvenienced, and especially elderly folk, isn’t it? Besides, he called me a munafiq. Just think about it, a munafiq! That’s a very serious thing.’

Alam opened his mouth now. He shouted out, ‘Will you tell him now why I called you that? Aren’t you the one responsible for the trouble in the village over the land belonging to the mosque and the Miyas?’

Rajek Saheb was a murubbi. He too knew that it was Maruf who had first raised the issue of the land belonging to the Miyas. But he could not accept the use of the word munafiq. How would someone feel if his own nephew was called a munafiq? His blind support towards the Sheikh family was at work. Perhaps he may well have sided with Alam, but the fact that he was singing ghazals to fasters while not observing the fast himself seemed even more intolerable to him. And so, he took Maruf’s side at once. He said, ‘So Alam Bhai, what did he say wrong? Why don’t you yourself think about whether you should wake up the fasters for sehri?’

Alam Miya had not expected that at all. He was defeated, in public, in front of everyone. His complaint was not false; would he still be denied justice? But he was silent – because he did not want anyone else to know that he had not observed the fast today. Alam realized that what Rajek had said signalled the same. He now made light of the matter. He only said before leaving, ‘All right, what more can I say? Allah will be the judge!’

It was only Allah who sat in judgement. He was the greatest judge of all. People merely arrived at a temporary resolution when there was a problem. But the fundamental problem arose when people took the responsibility of justice into their own hands.

twenty-four

Tahirul did not have any classes during the month of Ramzan. He had not been to Kalu Miya’s house after returning from his village. Once the Asr prayer in the afternoon was over, there was a lot of work for the womenfolk of a household. Most households had joint families. The food items for everyone’s iftar had to be arranged. Various kinds of fruits had to be cut and sherbet had to be prepared. There was ghugni-muri – puffed rice with a spicy pea-curry – and different kinds of telebhaja. All these were essential items for iftar. Despite so many alluring items within hand’s reach, the self-restraint exercised by the women when they were ravenous after fasting all day, was something beyond the imagination of menfolk. A problem arose when it came to checking if the salt in the dish was adequate. Small children were looked for then. They did the tasting. There were doubts whether they were correct. If the food was unpalatable during iftar, then the pious menfolk would be furious. And if the woman in question was not one’s own daughter but a son’s wife, they said, ‘I say, Bouma, did your parents forget to teach you to cook as well, dear?’ The daughter-in-law could only be silent then. She didn’t feel like eating anything after that. If it was a sensitive daughter-in-law who had only recently arrived as a new bride, salty tears rolled down her face. She could not accept that the salt was inadequate. And if it was one’s own unmarried daughter, they asked, ‘What’s this, dear, what will you do when you go to your in-laws’ house? Don’t you have to learn to cook well?’ The girl would then lower her head meltingly in delight and shyness.

So Tahirul had a month’s break from his teaching chores. After all, amidst the bother of all these different tasks, when would the girls study? They felt restless and fidgety after the Asr prayer. This was the time for study in their daily routine. But now that routine had been suspended. The thought that something remained to be done occupied their minds all the time.

He had not seen any of their faces in the last fifteen days. His heart was dejected unless someone’s lustrous, smiling face was glimpsed, and her velvety voice heard. He felt stricken all the time by an inner emptiness. If this could be called love, then Tahirul had certainly fallen in love. After returning from his village, he had thought he ought to visit Kalu Miya’s house to find out how she was. But he fell into a quandary, he couldn’t go.

Tahirul kept dreaming of and making numerous plans concerning Riziya. He had also thought about proposing marriage to her directly. But that would seem frivolous on his part. The imam of the locality himself sending a marriage proposal. And for whom? None else but the girl whom he taught Arabic. The very thought made Tahirul turn back. That would be terribly immature. He could not forget that he was the chief imam of the Jumma Mosque in Sadnahati.

But Riziya certainly knew his state of mind. Wouldn’t an intelligent girl like her be able to? Of course she would. Tahirul thought that Riziya actually wanted some more time.

Haji Saheb, the mutawalli, visited the mosque after quite a long time. He didn’t usually come. The mosque was supposed to be extended, he had come about that. But who would he find in the mosque in the morning? He called Imam Saheb. The imam for the special prayers at night, Hafez Ansar, also joined them. As they walked around the mosque premises, Haji Saheb said, ‘My dear Maulana, this mosque here was built by my Abba. I’m planning to extend it eastwards. The mosque needs to be larger. A bit of demolition will be required. That’s what I’ve come to examine.’

‘That’s excellent, you can complete that!’

‘Nothing is completed, my dear Maulana, nothing. It’s all about demolition and construction. After all, a mosque was already there. Someone demolished that and built this mosque. And now I will demolish this and build it anew. The mosque is the House of Allah. It will remain until the Day of Judgement. It’s only the people who will change.’

Tahirul was charmed by this elderly murubbi’s words. He wondered how he could use the moment to raise his subject. He found the opening. He cleverly seized the opportunity offered by what the Haji Saheb had just said. ‘You’re absolutely right. After all, what is permanent? Take me, for instance. I am in your mosque. I am carrying out my duties as Imam. You people employed me, and so I’m here. But for how long? After all, I will have to leave, and someone else will then come.’

Who knows what the old man made of that! He responded at once. ‘Why? Have you done something wrong? Did someone ask you to leave?’

‘Oh no! Nothing wrong! How could anyone fire me! You’re the mutawalli, and you’re like a father to me. I said it just like that. As long as you’re there, who could…’

‘Ah. Hadn’t I already told you, son, to get married and settle here? But you paid no heed to that.’

Tahirul had laid out his bait perfectly. He was pleased to see that the bait worked. He smiled and said, ‘That’s exactly what I’ve decided. How can I disregard you?’

‘Really? But I heard that some folks came to see Kalu Miya’s daughter and that they liked her? They’ll be engaged after Eid. Why did you take so long to make up your mind?’

Tahirul was indifferent. Observing that the Hafez Saheb was not nearby, he bent a bit towards the mutawalli and said, ‘Isn’t there anyone else, Chachaji? Salaam Miya’s…’

Haji Saheb looked at Tahirul for a while. And then he said, ‘Yes, you’re right. In truth, I never thought about her! She’s a fine educated girl. The poor orphan girl will be settled. I’ll call Salaam Miya.’

‘Right. Whatever you think is best.’

‘You should have told me earlier! What was the girl’s name again?’

Haji Saheb couldn’t remember the girl’s name. Tahirul reminded him. He said, ‘Riziya. Her name is Riziya.’

‘Oh. I see you know her name.’

Tahirul replied shyly, ‘She too is my student. That’s why I know.’

‘Fine! Do you know, Maulana, there’s a lot of land that’s in her sole name. You can set up home on that. Shall I take it up?’

Tahirul smiled deferentially and nodded in consent.

After Haji Saheb left, Hafez Ansar asked him, ‘I heard something about marriage. What was that?’

Tahirul looked at him gravely. ‘Eavesdropping on other people’s private conversation is not legitimate.’

‘Private conversation? But you people were talking quite loudly. One didn’t have to listen in or anything, it was audible. Achchha, so it’s in Sadnahati that…’

‘You are an assistant imam. You’re younger than me. Why are you so curious?’

‘Hujur, a hafez and maulana have to lead their lives very thoughtfully. They have to think about every step they take. People like you are our elder brothers. We can only walk on the path you tread and show. That’s why I was asking.’

‘No, Hafez Saheb! This path is not so easy. You should rather go for collections. That’s a good profession. If you have to be an imam, it won’t do to have the five senses. You have to keep your eyes and ears very alert. Do you know how to oil?’

‘Oil? What oil?’

‘That’s what the difficulty is, Hafez Saheb! When will you realize that being an imam for one month’s Tarabi and being an imam for five prayers a day all through the year are not the same? You don’t even know how to oil? Do you know what oiling is?’

‘Come now! Please don’t mind. But after all, you are also a hafez. And yet I was employed to be imam for the night prayer. Do you think that happened without oil and oiling? I know that if one has to remain in this line, one has to know that art.’

Tahirul looked at him and smiled sweetly. But inwardly, he was a bit startled to see his own image in another.

The youthful Hafez Saheb didn’t have the courage to say any more. He had said something unintentionally. If the imam of any mosque also happened to be a hafez, he was the one who had the first right to lead the night prayer. He had accidentally admitted that he had snatched that right away from the imam through clever oiling. He was ashamed. Hafez Ansar took out a neem tooth-twig from his pocket and began brushing his teeth. This was a very important obligation. He purified his mouth intently.

twenty-five

It was not yet dawn. The call of the azan could be heard emanating from Nurul Huq’s house. Not the metallic sound of the mosque’s mic; the Fajr prayer had concluded a while back! So why this azan again? Riziya woke up. Hearing the azan from the house next door, she paused to think for a few moments before she understood what that meant. After all, Nurul Da’s wife was in the family way.

Apparently Nurul’s wife gave birth every year. But that wasn’t actually true. She had given birth to five children over the course of twelve long years. A child was not a danger, it was a resource – perhaps this couple were the greatest believers in that philosophy. They wanted to nip in the bud the slogan of Hum Do, Humare Do – ‘We Two, Our Two’. The fifth child was born today. From the outside, one could think a lot of negative things like this, but actually, the matter was different when seen from the inside. The funny thing was that even after having so many children, they were considered to be childless. They did not have a son. Who would carry the torch of the family! After all it was a male child who was a true descendant. That was Nurul’s Ma’s plaint. She cursed her daughter-in-law all the time. But at the same time, she hoped a male offspring would be born of her womb. Nurul’s wife lived a life of self-reproach. She was seized with a false sense of guilt. She thought that it was because of her that the family had no bearer of light. As if that was a vital duty of hers. She had failed in that duty. The poor thing cried in solitude. They had as many as four daughters. That’s why this serial endeavour had been continued towards producing a male offspring. They had visited the court of a living Pir, as well as the majar of a deceased one. She had worn amulets and drunk blessed water. That didn’t work. They had set a flower afloat in the flower pond at the majar in Ghutiari Sharif and then waited for hours. The flower was supposed to go around the pond once and return. But it didn’t, it got stuck. In order to console Nurul, his wife rose cheerfully from the bank of the pond. She had a flower in her hand. It was another flower that she had slyly carried, not the one of the vow. She put on a perfect act and reassured her husband. She smiled at her apparent success. Nurul saw the light of hope. He bought some of her favourite elephant-apple pickles from Ghutiari Sharif.

It seemed they were set on seeing the matter through. Riziya knew about all this. It was from Reshma that she had heard of it. All these private matters were gossiped about by womenfolk.

So Riziya sat up out of curiosity! There would surely be good news this time. Whose voice was calling out the azan so early in the morning? She was curious about that as well.

When a baby was born in a Muslim household, the azan was recited in its ear. So that from the moment of arrival on earth, the true Lord’s name could be planted in the tender heart. Only Allah would reign supreme in the throne of its heart. That baby became old in time, and when he was in a terminal condition, the Ayatul Kursi and the Surah Yasin were recited. But only Allah knew when and how the shoytan Iblis – the one who had enticed Adam and Eve to eat the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge – entered the life cycle of the Muslims, in this world of theirs that was directed towards Allah.

Riziya sat up in bed in nocturnal languor. She gazed through her swollen eyes. She asked her Mami, ‘What’s the matter?’ Mami answered from the kitchen, ‘Nurul’s had a baby again, my dear!’

She didn’t ask whether it was a boy or a girl. She hadn’t combed her hair. Her plait was a bit scraggy. She wrapped a thin odna over her head. After that she put a toothbrush to her mouth and walked slowly towards Nurul’s house. The womenfolk from nearby had gathered there. As Riziya reached the house, she heard Nurul’s Ma saying, ‘Hey Nurul, why did you call Maulana Saheb? Doesn’t anyone else know how to recite the azan? Why didn’t you call Fulsura’s father?’