After the prayer was over, many people tarried in the mosque premises. There was no meal coming in the afternoon. There was no hurry to go home. Each one was imagining the plans for the mosque renovation in his own vein. The mosque was to be expanded; it would be extended a lot on the north and south sides. Amidst various speculations, Maqsood Lashkar, who was well known as ‘Terpol Haji’, declared, ‘Where’s the need for such a luxurious mosque? I’m Terpol Haji, no lie ever emits my mouth. At the Fajr prayer, there’s only half a row or at most one row of musulli! Why such a big mosque then?’

His words found support at once. Affluent people had one advantage. No matter what they said, some flatterers gathered around them. Although they only provided momentary support. As soon as they left, they took the opposite line again. One such person said, ‘Haji Saheb is right. It’s a sign of the Day of Judgement, dear, do you get that! Can the Hadith of the Prophet be false? The mosques and the houses shall all be large but the number of musulli will be small!’

Terpol Haji squinted in his direction. Furrowing his brows, he enquired, ‘You’re in the committee, too, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, they’ve just put me there. If they are courteous and request me, can I say no? They put my name in the committee simply to lend support.’

‘Then why do you go on about the Hadith so much?’

‘It’s Allah who selected me for the work in Allah’s house. After all, it’s Allah who is the Honourable Lord.’

Terpol Haji left the place. He was muttering something. How could he tolerate it if someone bragged about honour in front of him! He didn’t think it was necessary to stay for the meeting to constitute the committee. It was lowly folk who had already been selected in advance.

The mutawalli, Haji Burhanuddin, had been unwell for a few days. After all, he was very old. He was the oldest murubbi of the area. He had sent word to the mosque to constitute a committee. This committee would oversee the work of mosque renovation. The mutawalli would give his consent to all the tasks. The committee would be constituted today after the Asr prayer in the afternoon. It wasn’t really constituting a committee, it would simply be announced. The work would commence after Eid.

Muslims had to save up an allowance for their afterlives. An important means of such savings was donating to the mosque. Painting the mosque every year, breaking down the old wuzu-khana, or washing area, and building it anew, and so on. Changing the design of the pulpit and so on. So much to do. Donations from the faithful folk were needed for all that. Such donations were not in vain. On the Day of Judgement, this donation would become a shadow of Allah’s throne and please you. That’s why beautiful mosques, with their minarets and domes, sprang up in every locality. The more mosques there were, the more were the number of sects. Let that be. Divisions and conflicts were the work of the shoytan, not of faithful Muslim folk.

Everyone in the locality was keen that young folk enter the committee. Old fogeys were out this time. But has any task on earth been accomplished by excluding them entirely? Hadn’t the light of the sun fallen on their eyes first? They were experienced, elderly people. And so it was decided that some people would be in the committee, just to lend support.

The name of Maqsood Lashkar, aka Terpol Haji, was not on the list. The main reason was that he was of a cavilling nature and terribly arrogant. Allah had bestowed him with everything; perhaps it was only the quality called humility that He had failed to provide him. Maqsood Lashkar was also a bit modern-minded. He was of the view that there was no need to spend so much money on the mosque. People remembered, they ought to, that this was a mosque. Muslims sacrificed their lives for the house of Allah, and he refused to give a bit of additional donation? He had been on Haj as many as three times for sure, but he could not abandon his miserliness. Although this was only the view of the nasty and the foolish. Actually, it was not that. What he wanted was a school in the village – a school of modern standards. But one couldn’t have a school merely by wishing for it. After all, he had no jinn, like in the Arabian Nights, who would appear with a terrifying laugh, once he rubbed a lamp, and say, ‘Mere Aka, kya chahiye, bolo’ (My Master, tell me what you wish for!), to which he would say, ‘Let there be a school!’, and that would immediately come to be. One could say a lot of things, but doing something was difficult. Who would provide the land for the school?

But no one said such things to his face. How could anyone insult someone like Terpol Haji! He was a distinguished person in Sadnahati by virtue of his son being the only one to study medicine. Everyone knew that this was no achievement of his. The credit went to the boy’s uncles. They were highly educated men from Murshidabad. They had moulded Jasim since his childhood and raised him. And now Haji Maqsood felt proud. That was natural too. Did being well educated in Muslim society mean only being educated in madrasas? Jasim was at home now for the Eid holidays. He observed prayers and fasts. People could go and meet him, to see for themselves whether he had learnt about Islam as well! Haji Maqsood was of the opinion that there was no boy in the locality who was as fine as his son. And, of course, neither a parent like him. No one liked to hear Terpol Haji’s self-praise. Behind his back, people gossiped. ‘We know your son is brainy. Everyone likes his own son and another’s wife. But do you have to go on bragging about that all the time, dear Terpol Haji!’

Haji Saheb had not been able to visit the mosque for the last few days. He prayed in his own room. In these final years of his, he was living with a lot of grief and anguish. No one really kept in touch with him. He sat with the account ledger of his long life and examined each transaction closely. Sometimes they balanced and sometimes they did not. Had he been able to fulfil the responsibility of a mutawalli that he had inherited from his father? Such thoughts pecked at him all the time. After the insults he had been subjected to by Hasan Ali and Abid Sheikh, there were many occasions on which he had thought that it would be best if he voluntarily gave up this post. But that would only lend credence to talk about embezzlement of funds. A fifth of the income of the mosque could be spent by the mutawalli on himself. Perhaps the accounts for the whole year were not in order. Perhaps there had been some misappropriation by committee members. One could not be certain about anything. But there had been a time when a lot of people used to borrow money from him. They ran to him in times of need and calamity, and he never turned anyone away. Many secret financial woes of poor folk had been solved with the help of the fund. Had he ever announced their names in public? Abid Sheikh was so vocal now, but if his father were alive, the number of times he had been able to buy provisions to feed his children with the money from the fund would be revealed.

He felt terribly lonely because he was simply unable to make it to the mosque. He woke up in the middle of the night. He had palpitations. He felt an intense dread within. Haji Saheb knew that this dread was actually the dread of death. He thought Angel Azrael would appear before him at any moment! And later, would he be able to reply correctly to the two angels at his tomb? Once he got through the test at the tomb, it would become easier to get through all the other places. His whole life had been one of dignity and honour, influence and prestige. And having arrived at his final days, he now had to be subject to the angry scowl on the face of Hasan Ali, the atheist without religion! He felt stricken by that.

Haji Saheb’s sleepless night was spent worrying about various things. He had not been able to keep the fast these few days – the doctor had forbidden him. However, he was really keen to do itekaf, that is, go into seclusion. He had sat for itekaf once, ten years ago. He used to think of himself as a man of another world then. Sitting under a mosquito net in a corner of the mosque, he would be rapt in worship. But he was homebound day and night now. He remembered the itekaf again and again.

Was it morning yet? There were curtains on the windows and the door. He looked at the clock on the wall in the hazy darkness. Not being able to make out the time, he turned to another side. Just then, someone opened the door and entered the room. ‘Dadaji, are you awake?’

Haji Saheb replied in a phlegmy voice, ‘Who is that? Oh, Jasmin? I couldn’t sleep all night.’

‘The doctor had given you sleeping pills. Didn’t you take one?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a headache? Shall I massage your head?’

Haji Saheb did not respond to any queries. He didn’t like to be fussed over. But right now, he did want Jasmin to massage his head a little bit. He couldn’t say that, though. Why couldn’t he?

Jasmin was his granddaughter-in-law. Wife of his elder son’s son, Sharif. A lot of wrong had been done to her initially. Haji Saheb too had been a part of the wrongdoing.

In Muslim society, on paper, there was no discrimination on the basis of race, or any division into high and low. But there was an unwritten differentiation. Jasmin’s father was a poor butcher. He had a beef shop in Haji Market itself. The girl used to assist her father in the butcher shop. She lent out money. Sitting in front of the cash box, she wrote down the loans and dues in a notebook. Everyone knew her. That lowly butcher’s daughter Jasmin had seduced a boy from the Haji household and got married at the registrar’s office. No one could accept such audacity. After much consideration and arbitration, she found a place in the house. But even if she got a place, she never got the status that a daughter-in-law deserved. Was becoming a daughter-in-law of a wealthy household an easy matter for a girl who had entered the house like a stealthy burglar? But now this girl was Haji Saheb’s main prop. Through her conduct, behaviour and caring service, Jasmin had steadily ensured a place for herself in the household. But that place was not that of a respected daughter-in-law; rather, it was as a ‘maidservant’ executing tasks.

Jasmin moved the curtains and opened the windows. The tender light of morning helped to clear some of the dark complications in Haji Saheb’s mind. When she climbed over the bed to lift up the mosquito net, he could see her from head to toe. As he lay in bed, he examined her. When the dark-skinned Jasmin spoke, her row of white teeth caught one’s attention. It suddenly occurred to Haji Saheb that she had been married for almost four years now. But why were there no children yet? He thought he ought to ask … But before he could, Jasmin interrupted his thoughts. ‘There’s a pill you have to take after eating. Shall I bring your breakfast now?’

‘Breakfast? Achchha, bring it.’

Jasmin swept, mopped and cleaned the whole room thoroughly, lit an incense stick, stuck it atop the cupboard, and left. Her deft touch made everything in the room look neat and tidy. This was her daily chore. Observing her doing her work with so much care, Haji Saheb was overwhelmed. He saw her every day, but he thought he was seeing something different today. After many years, he remembered his wife. Ah! Grant her a place in heaven, Allah! Sometimes something one saw every day took on a new appearance.

The fragrance of the incense. He experienced a feeling of pure tranquillity. He thought, this is the life! The greatest attainment was human companionship. To retain one’s dominance over a long life and then bid farewell. But the body was reluctant. And it was in order to keep that body healthy that this girl was toiling night and day. He could no longer disregard Jasmin.

Of course, he felt ashamed now to be fond of Jasmin. Sharif was his grandson, and so when, out of the blue, he married this girl secretly, Haji Saheb had to hang his head in shame in the mosque precincts. With so many girls to choose from, did he have to go and like a girl from a butcher shop? One whose body still bore the stench of raw meat! A lowly butcher’s daughter! He knew, when one was in love, even a wraith was alluring. But a butcher’s daughter? He had taken out all his rage on her father that day, he had threatened to stop his livelihood. Today, that girl was his caregiver. An elderly widower badly needed intimate care. But now he felt – no, she shouldn’t do so much.

He did not display any fondness for Jasmin overtly. Everyone in the family seldom spoke to her. She always replied to questions gravely. She was reminded of her humble origins every day. Was this arrogance? Was this the illusory self-esteem of the elite? As Haji Saheb dwelt in his own thoughts, he suddenly began weeping in silence. Those were tears of remorse and repentance. He thought he ought to ask Jasmin for forgiveness. Or else he might be held back at the test at his tomb. He wanted to love her. He needed to give the girl something as a token of his gratitude. He decided to transfer ownership of three shops in Haji Market to her. He would definitely do that.

A long time went by. Jasmin did not come with his breakfast. She sent it through someone else. Haji Saheb felt a slight sense of hurt today, but he couldn’t express it. He constantly felt the anguish of waiting for the person whose proximity he enjoyed. This was the anguish of a helpless man who lived in solitude. But no one sensed that. After having breakfast, Haji Saheb walked for a while in his room. Almost at once, an inner transformation took place in him. He did what he had never done before. He suddenly shouted out, ‘Natbou! O Jasmin natbou! Can you please come here?’

There was a fondness in the cry ‘natbou’ – grandson’s wife; a kind of filial affection. Jasmin was overwhelmed to hear that. It was as if after a four-year-long struggle she had finally received news of victory. From the kitchen across the courtyard, Jasmin joyfully replied, ‘I’m coming, Dadaji!’

Having come to pay Haji Saheb a courtesy call, Maruf found a twenty-two-year-old youth measuring his blood pressure. Had he qualified as a doctor? As soon as he quietly went and stood beside Jasim, the latter raised his head and looked at him. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and greeted Maruf. Extending his hand after returning the greeting, Maruf asked him, ‘How are your studies getting along, Jasim?’

‘Alhamdulillah! What’s your news, Maruf Da?’

‘Everything’s fine. I came to visit Haji Saheb.’

He then turned towards Haji Saheb and asked him, ‘How do you feel now?’

‘Can one be well at this age, son! I’m happy that you’ve come to look me up. I feel blissful inside to see educated boys like you, dear. Just see our Maqsood Lashkar’s son has become a doctor. He comes every day to check my blood pressure.’ And then the old man began crying. He said, ‘Pray for me, son, so that I can go to the mosque again.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m giving you the main responsibility in the mosque committee. Did Kalim Bhai tell you?’

Maruf smiled when he heard that. Actually, he didn’t know about the committee matter. No one had told him. So he replied succinctly to the query with just an ‘Oh!’

When Jasim finished, they were about to leave together. Jasmin arrived with the breakfast tray. Both Jasim and Maruf were observing the fast. Maruf asked Jasim, ‘How much longer before you qualify?’

‘Another year. Then I’ll be an MBBS.’

‘Have you started practising already?’

‘A little bit. Abba has made out a routine for me. I visit Haji Saheb from time to time.’

Maruf felt overwhelmed to meet Jasim. The boy had left for his Mama’s house way back in his childhood. He had then joined the

Al-Ameen Mission. He had been a brilliant student. Maruf had heard about his outstanding performance in the Secondary examination. The very same Jasim had attained a top rank in the Joint Entrance Examination, and was studying medicine now. He felt respect towards him. Maruf thought, Muslim society needs lots and lots of doctors, as well as teachers, lawyers and judges. As Maruf was thinking along these lines, Jasim asked him, ‘Maruf Da, how much has your work advanced? That dream of yours?’

‘A lot actually. I’ll tell you all about it. Finish your studies first, and then I’ll tell you. We need intellectuals in our community, Jasim. We’ll be present in every sphere. We need thinking people like you in the community. We need artists, journalists and writers.’

Jasim was listening to him. He was a bit grown up now. He was old enough to express his opinions. So he said, ‘That’s not possible, Maruf Da. Muslims will not be able to advance in all spheres.’