"Talashnama" by Ismail Darbesh

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?’

‘Of course I have to. But I don’t consider marriage as my duty right now!’

‘It may not be your duty, but it’s definitely called for, isn’t it? You go on about the shariat, but you don’t have a beard – what kind of talk is this that you won’t get married? Aren’t these a part of the Prophet’s ideals?’

Maruf was silent after such a rebuke. He didn’t want to upset his Abba much. Or perhaps he was defeated by his father’s logic. He would slip away quietly from there.

Nasir Sheikh was frightened as regards his younger son. Would his son finally become a renunciant? It was his elder son Faruk who looked after the business affairs. Nasir had observed Maruf’s thoughtful nature ever since his childhood. For the life of him he could not figure out how the son born to him had become such a bibliophile! It occurred to Nasir that this was his Pir Saheb’s blessing. Maruf was not becoming worldly. If one had to be a businessman, the foremost requirement for that was being realistic. But Maruf didn’t have the slightest interest in that. From time to time, Faruk objected. He said, ‘Abba, what do you think about Maruf? Do you think he can do anything? He has no interest in business. How can I manage such a large-scale business all by myself?’

‘All by yourself? Why all by yourself, son? There are so many people working there! I haven’t become so old yet that I can’t carry on. And is Maruf really absent? Of course he’s there! Let him be as he is. Once he’s married, everything will be fine, just you see!’

‘I get it. So you won’t tell him anything, right? Let me tell you, it’s your overindulgence that allows him to think charitably about the whole world while doing nothing at home.’

Nasir Sheikh accepted his elder son Faruk’s complaint. He felt a kind of helplessness. But he hid that from Faruk and said, ‘After all, Maruf has been like that since he was a child. Let him be as he is. It’s not like he is doing anything bad. See, my son, he’s my lost treasure. Don’t you remember? He returned twice from death’s door. If your Ma was alive…’

He heaved a deep sigh. His wife had died as she gave birth to their younger daughter. A few years later, the elder daughter too died in the same way, at the time of her baby’s birth. That’s why Nasir Sheikh’s filial love was fierce. Faruk realized that telling him anything was meaningless. He didn’t say any more. It was not that he didn’t love his brother too. All he was trying to do was pull his truant brother back to the mainstream.

‘Terpol’ Haji had a proper name – that was Maqsood Lashkar. He had performed Haj thrice. So he was a ‘triple’ Haji. Whenever Maqsood Bhai spoke to anyone, he reminded people that he was a triple Haji. But he pronounced the English word ‘triple’ as ‘terpol’, which meant ‘tarpaulin’ in Bengali. That was the name people knew him by. In the midst of conversation, he would say, ‘I’m Terpol Haji, no lie emits my mouth.’ No one ventured to probe into whether this was a verbal tic of his, or whether he truly never lied. But regardless of whether Terpol Haji’s life was true or false, there was something for which he had drawn everyone’s attention. Maqsood Bhai was the only person in the village who was educating all his three sons in the school run by the Al-Ameen Mission. He believed that if there had to be real improvement in the lot of Muslims, such educational institutions were needed. His elder son had cleared the Joint Entrance Examination and was studying in medical college. If he qualified and graduated, he would be the first ever doctor in this dorji or garment-makers’ locality.

Chhappa Haji’s actual name was Alauddin. He was a man of very fine qualities. An aware citizen of a democratic country. He was always opposed to Abid Sheikh. He played a major role in making the Trinamool Congress victorious. He was a stocky man. His principal weapon was his indecent language. The great act that he had performed during the Panchayat elections was extremely significant for the country. He forcibly stamped the ballots on behalf of those who were late in going to cast their vote, or were certainly going to vote for the opposition. He believed that this was for the good of people. Standing in the queue unnecessarily was impractical. Didn’t people have other work to attend to? Besides, it was meaningless to vote for the CPI(M) now. A lot of people thought that was unacceptable. They opposed the action. The police arrived. There was trouble on this score during every election. Alauddin Bhai later, having entered the good books of the party, became a half-neta, and made a lot of money. He got contractor jobs from the Block Development Officer’s establishment. For affluent folk, performing Haj was a form of worship that was one’s duty. He fulfilled that too. And as soon as he entered the village upon returning from the Haj forty-four days later, his name changed at once and became ‘Chhappa’ Haji. ‘Chhappa’, meaning ‘stamp’, denoted the erstwhile forcible stamping of the ballot. But Alauddin didn’t like this name any longer. He had heard Maulana Tahirul say that it was written in the Hadith that no one ought to be called by a bad name, that it was a sacrilegious act. He had told many people about the Hadith that he had learnt about from Imam Saheb. But despite that, the name that he had been stamped with could not be erased from Chhappa Haji’s person. He was remorseful now. He read the Bengali translations of the Koran and the Hadith. That is why the mocking name pained him, and learning about the Prophet’s (PBUH) Hadith in this regard from fifteen hundred years ago pleased him enormously. Allah’s Prophet had said that no one should be called a derogatory name. But these bastards’ offspring didn’t know that. Even if they did, they didn’t comply. Alauddin often went around saying such things.

Of late, he was very intimate with Maruf. People could not figure out whether this was initiated by Chhappa Haji himself or by Maruf. It’s not that people needed to figure out everything under the sun, and so one more person was observed to have joined Maruf’s group. One who apparently said, ‘We won’t follow anything but the Koran and the Hadith.’

Although no one said anything to Maruf, the likes of Chhappa Haji, that is, Alauddin, or Farid, had to confront various kinds of questions. People joked about and ridiculed them.

There was an announcement in the morning made through the PA system in the mosque. ‘Respected village folk, a special announcement. Abdul Chacha’s mother has expired. Her namaz-e-janaza will take place at the Eidgah ground after the Asr prayer.’

Many people gathered there to recite the funerary prayer. Her bier had been carried on shoulders and had been laid on the ground in the field. Rows of people were standing in front of the bier. The Imam Saheb delivered a brief speech. ‘Everyone ought to forgive the dead person, if that’s necessary. And express your intention to pray – Nawaitu aan usallia lillahi ta’ala…’ Alauddin had never been able to learn to recite the niyat, or intention to pray, in Arabic. He got it all mixed up. He inwardly suffered an inferiority complex on this account. Maruf had told him it was utterly pointless to utter the niyat in this way. All one had to do was to have an inner resolve. Alauddin felt a sense of relief after that. Not many people knew this. He thought people ought to be informed. That’s why after the conclusion of the namaz-e-janaza, he said to a person standing beside him, ‘This prayer that everyone will now recite together is actually bedaat, it is not in accordance with the Koran and the Hadith.’

The man got annoyed at this. He shouted out, ‘Have you lot come to teach us religion afresh? Fourteen generations of my forefathers have been reciting the prayer after the namaz-e-janaza. And now he says, “This won’t do!” Bedaat indeed!’

Allaudin explained, ‘None of this is there in the Koran and the Hadith. I recited prayers at so many funerals when I went on Haj. Where? There was none of this there. This is actually bedaat.’

‘Did you manage to read the whole of the Koran and the Hadith? Why are you comparing us to the Arabs? Isn’t their religion different?’

But before Alauddin could say anything, some boy from the crowd sang out in ditty, ‘O byata Chhappa Haji, kore shudhu dhappabaji.’ This fellow Chhappa Haji, only bluffs his way to glory.

Alauddin’s countenance changed colour. He looked for the face in the crowd. He had fallen into a terrible fix ever since he became a Haji. He could no longer employ his terrific vulgarity like before. So he left the gathering and went away. He didn’t even wait to drop earth on the grave. Harbouring a hidden sense of humiliation, he skirted the crowd of musulli and departed hurriedly towards Maruf’s house.

twenty-one

Riziya was getting ready to go to college. Apparently she had to go today. She looked lovely in the long orange-coloured kurta she had worn over white pyjamas. Having just passed out from school, the pleasant-natured Riziya had a kind of look of purity on her face. Like a freshly bloomed shiuli flower on an autumn morning. Having been preoccupied with a few tasks since morning, she had been delayed. It was a long way from Sadnahati to the road on which the bus plied. And then the private bus service to Howrah Girls’ College. She usually went by a Trekker or an auto from the village. But all public transport services had been halted today on account of some problem. Yet she had to go. Salaam Miya called out to his nephew and summoned him. Raqib Miya had bought a motorcycle, a second-hand one. The old Hero Honda bike looked nice, but with age, its fuel consumption too had increased a lot. Raqib was worried about that. People likened it derogatorily to the makal fruit, which was lovely-looking but had an offensive smell. He never thought about whether they said that about the bike, or whether it was aimed at him. Raqib did not allow anyone else to use his bike. On Salaam Chacha’s request, he was going to drop Riziya at Howrah. He wasn’t reluctant to do that, rather he seemed to be quite eager. He had arrived with the motorcycle as soon as Salaam Miya had informed him. But Riziya turned recalcitrant the moment she spotted him. There was no way she would go with him. The more firmly she refused, the more desperate her uncle Salaam Miya became. He pleaded, ‘A fine mess this is! What’s your problem? Why won’t you go with him? I tell you, go. Is he a stranger?’

‘I won’t go. There’s no need to tell you why I won’t go, Mama. I won’t go with him. That’s all! I’d rather walk. But I won’t go with him.’

Their houses were next to each other. They saw one another every day. Raqib was Fulsura’s brother, he was Riziya’s cousin. He was much older than her. They had all grown up together. Riziya hated Raqib. She respected Rahman like an elder brother, but she never addressed Raqib. She didn’t speak to him either. No one ever worried their heads over this state of affairs between two people within the same family. That was how they had grown up. And the more Raqib brought disgrace and disrepute for his wrongdoings, the more pleased Riziya was. She thought to herself, look at him now, what a fine son you have! After all, it was Riziya that her Boro Mami, or elder aunty, had once blamed. Had Riziya forgotten what she had said?

There was an incident behind how matters stood now.

It had happened when Riziya had just stepped into pubescence and her budding breasts hadn’t yet swelled. She was plagued all the time by all the hatreds and fears of that age. A forbidden, curious panic occupied her mind. She had been jolted then. Her Boro Mami didn’t say anything to the one who was to blame, but although Riziya was not to blame, she had to countenance her aunty’s frown of displeasure. Boro Mami had also quarrelled furiously of her own volition with Chhoto Mami, the younger aunty, that day. She seemed to be on the warpath in order to cover up her son’s fault.

Riziya’s growing, restless body used to say something else then. That was the law of the age. That was what attracted Raqib, who tricked her and took her to the attic – and Boro Mami had observed that. Raqib’s Ma was always blind to her son’s doings. She heaped all the blame for her son’s misdeed upon Riziya, and went and complained to her sister-in-law. Chhoto Mami then said, ‘Why do you try to cover the fish with the spinach, my dear? Don’t I know your Raqib? This little girl of mine and he … Chhee, chhee! And then you come marching in to fight? Aren’t you ashamed?’

‘What? A little girl indeed! Don’t we know why you show such pity for her? Are you trying to pass her off as your own? Is this girl dearer to you now than my son Raqib? She’s already been spoiled by you at this age!’

Chhoto Mami was not able to tolerate such talk any longer. This poor girl was not to blame for her mother’s death, was she! She lashed out with quite a battle cry and said, ‘I don’t understand all that, but I’m warning you, if your son ever sets eyes again on my Riziya, just see what I do. I’m silent only because it concerns a girl. I’m not going round telling everyone.’ As she said that, she turned her face away contemptuously. She whispered under her breath, ‘Comes and fights about a worthless son! Chhee, chhee!’