‘Yes. And you?’
‘I am too. I’m at the Siddiquiya Hifzul Madrasa in Madhupur.’
‘Oh! Achchha, how many students are there now in the Koran memorization department?’
‘I don’t know that. I don’t teach there! I make collections. I’ve been to Sadnahati as well a few times. I have offered prayers behind you too.’
‘Collection’ was the name of a profession. The government did not care much about Muslim educational institutions. It had been the same in the past. All the madrasas in village after village ran on the donations and benevolence of Muslim folk. The institutions carried out the task of collecting these donations very diligently. Collectors were assigned to do that. The main qualification for that was the person’s voice, speech and diction. The more he could invoke the fear of the grave, and of Hell, the more the collection would be. But it wasn’t possible to know how much of that fear he himself possessed. They went from village to village in cars fitted with microphones and loudspeakers. The collections were good. The collector received a percentage of that as his remuneration. It wasn’t a bad job. There were many who were in this profession. One only had to know in advance which sect the village folk owed allegiance to – whether it was Furfura, or Tabligh, or Azangachi. Speeches were made on the mic accordingly, together with songs in praise of the Prophet (PBUH). Many educational institutions employed very poor students for this job. They went around with a billbook in hand, and a bag for rice. They had to do this if they had to continue their studies free of cost.
Tahirul asked him eagerly, ‘How much do they pay now for the collection?’
‘It used to be twenty-five. It’s thirty now. Rent and fuel for the vehicle are on the committee.’
‘Oh, so that’s quite good! Alhamdulillah! Then why these special prayers?’
‘This gives a nice amount in a lump sum. The money comes in handy for a lot of things. But otherwise, it’s Howrah district that I keep track of every year. By the wishes of Allah, I get by too.’
In a small room beside the House of Allah, two scholars in service of Allah’s religion were discussing the livelihood and earnings provided by Allah. Abdul Chacha returned. He only wanted to earn merit for himself by serving all these scholars. That’s because he was not concerned about livelihood and earnings. All he was concerned about was beheshat – heaven.
As Tahirul sipped tea, he asked, ‘Bhai, I didn’t get your name.’
‘Sorry. My name is Ansar Ali Paik.’
‘Fine. Ansar means “assistant”. Do you know what “paik” means?’
‘Yes. Lathiyal, one who fights with a staff, a soldier. That’s our surname.’
‘So it means that you are an assistant soldier. Will you assist me if required?’
‘Of course. We’ll certainly help one another.’
Both of them began laughing at that. Scholarly folk were laughing. Abdul Chacha, too, began laughing, imitating them. But because he was no scholar, his laughter was not as laden with meaning.
twenty-three
Amar nobi sarkar
kende kende jarejar
ummat ummat bole holo bekarar –
sehrir somoy holo
otho rojadar!
My Master, the Prophet,
melts in tears
His heart’s perturbed for the ummah –
It’s time for sehri
Awaken fasters!
A Ramzan ghazal was playing very loudly over the loudspeaker. As soon as the month of Ramzan arrived, the television and radio sets in most households were switched off in honour of the grandeur and magnificence of the month. But something had to be playing close to the ears of the workmen in the garment factory. They could not do anything unless they were compelled to. That was the year-long routine. But during this month of fasting, that habit changed a bit. All these ghazals were played as an alternative now. They couldn’t exactly be called ghazals, though; these were Islamic lyrics sung to the tune of Hindi songs.
Those ghazals played now in the dead of night. The objective being to awaken the fasters. ‘Sehrir somoy holo, otho rojadar!’ This task was performed by Alam Miya every year. Actually, Alam Chacha liked to sing. It was because of his singing that he had obtained the love of Sujata, and they came together. Apparently they had seriously taken singing lessons together at one time. A Hindu girl could well take singing lessons, but why was she so attracted to the songs of a Muslim boy? Music was the shoytan’s art, the fuel of hell. Alam’s father and uncle had at least tried their best to protect him from hell. They had given him a stern warning: either stop singing or leave home. Alam left home with Sujata’s hand in his. Of course, there were no more singing lessons after that. Perhaps he was saved from a certain descent to hell. But talent doesn’t relent easily. It was said that, like dysentery, talent too could not be suppressed. It wriggled out every now and then. That singing talent rushed out and took the form of this ghazal now. That was how his artistic being was expressed.
A few years ago, Alam had formed a sehri committee with a band of boys. Their job was to wake up before dawn and then fulfil the responsibility of sleep-awakeners by going round the village, into each and every one of its streets, its lanes and alleys, singing the ghazal in chorus. But no one wanted to rise so early now. Alam Chacha made everyone hear all his self-composed ghazals this one month of the year, using the mic belonging to the mosque. Some praised him, while some were disgusted. He had been using the mosque’s mic for the last three years. The committee didn’t say anything. They thought waking up was a good deed. The loud ghazal sung by Alam Chacha penetrated the impenetrable darkness of the wee hours of the night and entered the ears of sleeping folk. At first their benumbed brains couldn’t take that, there was terrible rage. And then, realization dawned that Alam Chacha had begun his famous ghazal, that he wouldn’t stop now.
Alam Chacha did not sing in the tune of any popular songs, he only used the tunes of old Hindi films. Perhaps the local youths had never heard those tunes before. But upon hearing his ghazal, the aged Abdul Chacha couldn’t help singing to himself –
Leke pehla pehla pyaar
Bhar ke aankhon mein khumaar
Jaadunagari se aaya hai koi jaadugar
But after that, he stuck out his tongue in remorse and said, ‘Tauba, tauba!’
It was not just the fasters who were woken up by the sound of this vocal artist in the dead of night, almost everyone in the nearby villages woke up too. Both Hindus and Muslims. Alam Miya was the husband of Suman’s aunt, Sujata. They had run away from their respective homes and got married. Now he was the best jamai, or son-in-law, of Jogipara. Because he was always beside them, through sickness and sorrow, they seemed to have forgotten that he was actually a Muslim.
But Suman hadn’t forgotten. It amazed him, and he wondered what had made his aunt love this man and leave her community. He could find no answer. But Alam was of a poetic nature; he was civil and polite. Whenever he encountered Suman, he enquired, ‘What’s the news on the job front, son, got something?’ It didn’t affect their prestige in Sadnahati, but they lost face among their relatives in other villages. ‘Is Alam your in-law? So you lot are Muslims! And are you so lowly, so timid, that you treat that nede like an honoured jamai?’ How could Suman respond? He stayed silent. He was angry with his aunt inwardly.
Many people were infuriated by Alam’s ghazals, but not on account of the ghazals themselves – it was because of the time of the day. Muslims could not say it out loud. They were afraid of bearing false witness. They knew what a virtuous deed waking up fasters for sehri was, but the thought that since so many people were inconvenienced, it was a sin rather than a virtue, was beyond them.
The political leader from the next village, Pradip Das, had requested some people, ‘Can’t you avoid using the loudspeaker?’ The azan was a different matter, there was no objection to that. But this was just too much. The people heard him but were silent. As soon as he left, they discussed the matter among themselves. ‘Doesn’t their sleep get disturbed when the recitation of the name of Hari goes on round the clock? The bloody tribe of non-believers only looks at our religion. I didn’t say anything just because he is a big leader of the party, or else…’
