‘Will you tell me honestly what’s happened? Or else I’ll leave just now, I’m telling you. I won’t have any simui-ruti in your house! I won’t see the sari you bought!’

Reshma stared at her for a moment. Ever since yesterday, she had been feeling laden with grief inside, like a pomegranate tree drenched in morning dew. All it needed was a bit of shaking, and then the tears would rain down gustily. Riziya seemed to have done the shaking unwittingly. At the mention of the sari, Reshma covered her face with her anchal and began weeping. She blurted, ‘Eid is not celebrated in all households, pagli. The joy of Eid is not for everyone. I didn’t prepare any simui-ruti.’

Riziya was shocked. She asked, ‘Why? Did you quarrel again with Dada? What quarrel did you have on Eid day, dear?’

What quarrel! Why the quarrel! With what face would Reshma tell Riziya that! This wasn’t a quarrel that had to do with the secret tussles or love and intimacy between husband and wife. Even if she spoke about that kind of a quarrel, it actually had a ring of well-being. But this was a matter concerning their hapless fate. What was the point of telling Riziya about it? So Reshma wanted to conceal the matter entirely. She coughed to halt her sobs, wiped her nose. ‘Forget all that. Like to have some tea? Shall I make some?’

But Riziya had become despondent. She didn’t want to prolong the matter. She realized that there was no way she would have an enjoyable chat with Reshma Bhabi today. Although she had so much on her mind. So she listlessly put the make-up box she had brought into Reshma’s hand and said, ‘Give this to Nilufa. I’m off.’

twenty-eight

Sadnahati was like any other Muslim-majority village. There was nothing noteworthy here, nothing to invite people to see. Poor roads. It was difficult to fathom whether that was on account of government apathy, or because the village folk did not have any demand for that. If a traveller arrived at the Hindu hamlet and enquired, ‘Dada, is Sadnahati this way?’, the reply would be, ‘Just go straight ahead. Follow the tarred road, there’ll be a turning. The tarred road ends, and the bad road begins. The Muslim hamlet begins there.’

For a very long time, there had been no individual in this village whose name was discussed in other villages as well, one about whom the Sadnahati folks’ chests swelled in pride. Maulana Tahirul was their imam. Although he was not a son of the soil, he belonged to the village now. Tahirul had done something unimaginably audacious. And just as he had been hailed for his audacity, he had also given rise to a controversy in Sadnahati.

Every year, the Sadnahati Social Service Association organized a variety programme to mark Eid. What was that programme like? It was an anti-Islamic programme. People were rapt in song and dance. As the night advanced, indecency and rowdyism reached their peak. Most of the mosque imams were on leave at this time. But Tahirul had not left for anywhere. He was stunned to hear the lurid way in which the programme was being publicized.

After the Isha prayer at night, Tahirul was sitting with Hafez Ansar in his room and discussing the matter of the collection for the special night prayer. Tahirul had led the prayer for the final ten days. So he was entitled to a third of the amount. A lot of money had been donated this time. It seemed Allah had poured money into this locality of tailors. And behind that lay the Imam Saheb’s fervent prayers. Every Friday, they performed the monajaat ardently – ‘Oh Allah, shower your blessings on the business affairs of this village!’ Allah had evidently granted their prayers. The proof of that was now in the hands of the two imams. But just like the Muslims of Sadnahati donated generously to the mosque and madrasa, they did not think twice about spending on the indecent programme. Of course, many people were forced to donate against their will. The secretary of the association was so powerful that even the officer in charge of the police station seemed meek in front of him.

The orchestral instruments arrived from Kolkata. It was rumoured that apparently this year, not one, but as many as three female dancers were going to perform. The excitement in the hearts of the young men was of mountainous proportions. The special attraction was a famous singer who sang in the voice of Mohammad Rafi. In this regard, it was believed that Muslims were of a communal bent. It was not Kishore Kumar but Mohammad Rafi who they loved. But they didn’t look down upon Kishore Kumar on that account. Rather, they felt an allegiance to him, too, as Bengalis.

Although Tahirul was talking to Hafez Ansar, his ears were straining to hear the announcements of the variety programme. ‘Joyful news! Joyful news! It is our pleasure to announce the all-night variety entertainment programme organized by the Sadnahati Social Service Association on the occasion of Holy Eid. The dancers performing in this programme are Miss Mou, Moushumi Das and Miss Priya…’

Tahirul could simply not fathom how in a Muslim locality, everyone could enjoy watching women dancing for them in public. He remembered the Okaj fair of Arabia fifteen hundred years ago, in the era of darkness. A culture of such sinful denigration of womanhood had developed there as well. After all, the movement of the Prophet (PBUH) was against such ignorance. It was through the axe-blow of tawhid at the very root of the depraved culture that world revolution was proclaimed. Witnessing the same ignorance in Sadnahati now was an affront to Tahirul’s defiant spirit. He felt like vandalizing the whole thing.

Tahirul took leave of Hafez Saheb and set out. He met Maruf’s friend Farid on the way. Taking Farid along, he suddenly arrived at the venue of the variety entertainment programme. Although some people in the crowd there noticed him, most did not. The programme had reached a crescendo. He saw many locals in the rapt audience; they also visited the mosque regularly. Tahirul was not bothered the least bit about that. He pushed his way through the crowd and advanced. A teenage girl was dancing on the stage, to the accompaniment of a song. That sight, in psychedelic colours, entranced the audience. So they failed to notice Tahirul. Ignoring the organizers, Tahirul suddenly went near the stage. Those who spotted him were astonished and embarrassed. The unexpected arrival of the Imam Saheb left them bewildered. As soon as Tahirul hopped on to the stage, the music stopped. And when the girl came to a standstill, the audience looked on in stupefaction. Everyone returned to their senses after the light-man turned the light from psychedelic to white. ‘Hey, it’s the Imam Saheb of the mosque!’

All of a sudden, Tahirul picked up the mic being used on the stage and began speaking. ‘Are you all surprised? There’s nothing to be surprised about. You must give me a chance to dance on this stage too. I want to be with the people of Sadnahati village. If those of you who are the organizers of this programme go to hell, why should I be spared? Am I not your imam? Why should you go alone?’

The frenzy of a few moments earlier was suddenly stilled. The whole venue became silent. Not a word on any lip. Using the opportunity to speak as loudly as possible, Tahirul said, ‘Nara-e-takbir!’

The people present there still seemed to be under a spell. No one responded to the slogan. He issued the call again. Only a few people chanted in reply, ‘Allahu Akbar!’

‘Nara-e-takbir!’ he called out again. This time, the Imam Saheb got quite a significant response. And something untoward happened just after that. The secretary of the association, Rafiq Ali Sheikh, saw this as a terrible arrogance on the part of the Imam Saheb. As he tried to snatch the mic away, he said, ‘What madness is this?’

‘It’s you who’s responsible for this madness. Is this the social service of your social service organization?’

The mic was still operational. All the village folk overheard their argument. The audience now split into two. As soon as an uproar ensued, Farid somehow managed to rescue Tahirul and bring him outside. Rafiq Ali was screaming then, ‘Do you think because you’re the imam, you’ve bought us? The mullah’s ambit is only till the mosque! He steps outside the mosque and tries to be a leader! Huh. No one’s leadership will work in Sadnahati, I’m telling you!’

Needless to say, the variety entertainment programme was almost foiled. It concluded after a few songs in the voice of Mohammad Rafi. But where were the listeners? Seeing that something had gone wrong, the singer forgot all about Mohammad Rafi. He began singing a song of Shabbir Kumar so that the Muslim audience would calm down.

‘Mubarak ho tum sabko Haj ka mahina … Madine wale se mera salaam kehna…’

Abid Sheikh and Hasan Ali were the happiest about the thwarting of Rafiq Ali’s programme. A lot of people who had supported the Left for long had lost their footing and gone the Trinamool way. Abid Sheikh and Hasan Ali now said to them pitifully, ‘The CPI(M) is an orderly, value-driven party, do you understand? This rise of the Trinamool Congress is only because they are winning youngsters over with temporary gimmicks. Didn’t you see for yourself? Do you know what the state of the community is because people have fallen into the clutches of Rafiq Ali Sheikh? The Maulana Saheb of the mosque himself had to come on stage.’

The truth was that the CPI(M) did not possess the power to resist Rafiq Ali and his ilk. Imam Saheb had fulfilled that task with a single shove. They went on praising him. Loud, heated arguments continued through the night. But no one on any side could directly badmouth Imam Saheb. The reason was that the imam of the mosque had not done what he had for any personal reason. He had done it on behalf of the religion and the community. And when it came to religion, whatever else there may be, there could be no badmouthing. Because all of them were supposedly upright believers of Islam.

But the association refused to view the matter in religious terms. They thought this was nothing but a conspiracy by Hasan Ali. So the attack was directed on them. An organization in the doldrums by the name of ‘CPI(M)’ had got a gust of wind on its sail and become relevant again. Many people had started speaking in their favour, like those who supported the Imam Saheb’s attack on the stage. But why would the mosque committee be in favour of such quarrels? Wasn’t he employed only to lead the prayers, and not create a revolution!

Right since morning the following day, the incident evoked a mass response. A few people from nearby villages, those endowed with thoughtfulness, arrived to meet Tahirul. The committee members surrounded Tahirul, seeking an explanation. ‘Why did you go to stir trouble there? Did anyone ask you to do that?’

Tahirul was silent for a while. And when he nodded, everyone was stunned. So was this indeed a controversy then? Who asked Imam Saheb to do such a thing?

‘Say the name. Who asked you to create trouble in the village? You have to tell us the name.’

Tahirul remained silent. Questions from various people floated towards him. Tahirul suddenly stood up and said, ‘Shall I tell you who told me? Do you want to know? Will you be able to fight against him? My Allah told me. My Prophet (PBUH) told me. Isn’t it one’s duty to oppose wrongful acts? Let me tell you again. My conscience told me.’

No one said anything after that. That was not just because of Allah or the Prophet, it was the crowd of people from other villages – their astonished queries. Is it true? Is the imam of your mosque so brave? In fact, their intervention led to the mosque committee reversing its decision. They, too, began to feel pride about their imam. It was also indeed a matter to boast about to people from other villages. Consequently, a lot of people came to know about Tahirul. His job became more secure and stable.

It was not only the menfolk among whom Tahirul’s audacious courage became the talking point, the womenfolk discussed it too. As Salekha’s mother was narrating it to Tanzila’s mother, Riziya was crossing the road regally with her bag on her shoulder. She was heading to college. She could hear their conversation clearly. Hearing mention of Hujur, she slowed down. She wanted to prick up her ears and hear every word that came wafting her way.

‘Really, after all these days, Maulana Saheb has done something worthwhile! What do you say, Bubu?’

‘Yes, you’re right. I’ve never seen someone with such guts. It’s been forty years since I came as a bride to this village. I never heard of a Maulana Saheb suddenly climbing on to the stage and protesting!’

‘You want to organize a programme, do so, but does that mean you get women to dance like that? Such things never happened earlier!’

‘It takes money to bring those commercial types. Did people have so much money then? Rafiq Ali Sheikh is a leader now. Does he lack money? But our Maulana Saheb has broken his pride.’

Riziya felt an indescribable pride as she heard them. She inwardly applauded Tahirul’s courage. She hailed him. At various times, she, too, had felt like protesting in this way against all the lawlessness and injustice in society! But she was a woman. Could anything come about by merely thinking about it? But what Hujur had done yesterday – Riziya thought that if she got such an opportunity, she would do it too. One could spend one’s whole life in the company of such a man of resistance. Hujur’s standing up to wrongdoing was imprinted on Riziya’s mind.

Rafiq Ali was Chhappa Haji’s first cousin. It was Chhappa Haji’s power that enabled him to win in the elections and become the deputy chief of the Panchayat. And it was because of this post that he was known as a political leader of the locality. Old Congressites had supported Rafiq Ali simply to oppose the CPI(M). Or else could Rafiq Ali, who had not even seen high school, have become a leader? After becoming the deputy chief of the Panchayat, he had granted many favours and opportunities to Chhappa Haji. Thanks to that, he built up a nest egg too during his three years in office. Now he was a Haji. He told everyone, ‘No more politics, it’s only the prayer party for me now. What is the point in getting involved with useless things! After all, one has to go to the grave one day!’

There were lots of complaints against the deputy chief as well. Discrepancies in relief supplies, dues owed to the road contractor for earthwork, nepotism … Rafiq Ali’s name had come up in connection with all of these. He was better known as ‘middleman’ Rafiq, rather than ‘party member’ Rafiq.

Land values were the highest in Sadnahati. A new settlement had come up even on the uncultivated land outside the village precincts. Getting the mutation done for all such lands and filling up ponds illegally were the tasks of the ‘syndicate’. Most of the buyers were non-Bengali Muslims from Bihar. The syndicate had come up to buy and sell these plots of land. Nobody could sell even the land they had inherited without the syndicate’s approval. Rafiq Ali could not handle all this by himself. That’s why some lackeys followed him around night and day. If Rafiq issued instructions for someone to be intimidated, they went and thrashed him a bit.

The day after Eid, there was a secret meeting at night in Rafiq’s party office. One of them said, ‘I don’t care if he’s a maulana or whatever, just give the orders and we’ll go. We’ll go and find out who the puppet-master behind the dancing Maulana Saheb is!’

Rafiq heard him in silence. He was in deep thought now. If things continued like this, his kingdom would be in jeopardy. He thought that perhaps it would not be correct to go against the Imam Saheb. But … Just then, another of his henchmen said, ‘Dada, shall I grab Maulana Saheb by his collar?’

Rafiq suddenly became furious. He snarled, and retorted, ‘Just stop that! Why should you grab Maulana Saheb’s collar? Did he do anything wrong? It’s we who did wrong. Do you think you’ll bring whores and have fun, and Maulana Saheb will remain silent? Whatever he did was right. Actually, we should apologize!’

Why did Rafiq Ali suddenly change colours? Everyone was silent. They could not figure out what to say. One of Rafiq’s lackeys was a bit intelligent. He was beside him all the time. Addressing him calmly, Rafiq told him, ‘Sadek, isn’t our Imam Saheb involved in some movement for a dole to be provided to imams? Find out about that and let me know by tomorrow about it. Find out the name of their organization, how many members it has and so on. I need to speak to Mihir Da.’

twenty-nine

The grandfather of one of Suman’s students died today. He had been very fond of Suman. Whenever he saw him, he would say, ‘You’re the son of a teacher, and now you’ve become a teacher, son! That’s very good, I’ll pray that you become very successful.’ He was actually Suman’s father’s childhood friend, Kamaal Lashkar. Suman addressed him as ‘Kamal’ Jethu. He never said ‘Kamaal’. Although Suman’s father was no more, he was still close to the family. That man had died today.

Suman used to be in for something come the month-end in his tuition class. The gentleman used to arrive exactly then to reminisce. He used to talk about how idealistic Suman’s late father was, how close they had been since their childhood. He used to say, ‘Do you know, son, your father and I used to roam around together, play together. No one could figure out who was Hindu and who Muslim. He continued his studies and became a teacher, and I sat with the sewing machine so I could feed myself. In the Upper Primary examination, your Baba came first and I was second.’ And as he said that, he laughed heartily. Then, at an appropriate moment, he proffered his granddaughter’s fees in his clenched fist. He knew that the fees in his fist fell far short. He would say, ‘Things are very bad for my son, Teacher, there’s no work! Please take this.’

Suman used to laugh. That was because he knew that the entire monthly fee had been given to him at home, but Jethu used to deduct some amount from that. He had paan, tea. Among the parents and guardians of the students, he was the one who visited regularly. Besides, since he was his father’s childhood friend, he went now and then to Kamal Jethu’s house too. So, Suman felt a bit sad at his death. He wouldn’t go anywhere today. He would only go to Kamal Jethu’s place. To see him for the last time.

Kamaal Lashkar had taken ill in the middle of the night. He died around dawn. It was a heart attack. There was no chance of taking him to hospital. Any dying creature would surely die, but it was difficult to accept the sudden departure of a person, who left his name and identity behind and lay transformed into a cadaver. In the morning, there was a big crowd of people who had come to pay him their final respects. Suman could not enter the house on account of the crowd. He was standing at an elevated spot. He suddenly remembered another death. It struck him that his father too had gone in the same way, all of a sudden. Suman was in school then. He remembered everything clearly. The expression of his father’s lifeless face. As soon as he remembered his father, his eyes became teary. The eager inquisitiveness of some people standing beside him … ‘Hey! Why is Suman crying? Isn’t he a Hindu? But the person who died was a Muslim!’

Despite living in Sadnahati, Suman had not been able to reach the innermost core of the Muslim community. After all, one couldn’t enter any space simply because the door was open! Just as the consent of the head of the household was required, the stranger too needed to possess a keenness to make his way inside. He never had that; it had never formed inside him. There was a barrier somewhere. He used to think, after all, what’s there to see!

Having come to this house today, Suman realized something. So much about the neighbours living so close by remained unknown. He had never been curious about the rituals undertaken by Muslims when someone in their community died. He observed the proceedings all morning. The plaintive wails of the womenfolk of the house, the spontaneous consolation offered by the menfolk – he observed it all. The empathy shown towards the bereaved family by relatives and friends – although Kamaal Saheb was no luminary in the community – touched Suman.