He learnt that Kamal Jethu’s namaz-e-janaza would take place today after the Zuhr prayer at midday. Suman knew that Zuhr referred to the noontime prayer. The ceremony was preceded by gosol, the ritual bathing of the dead body, and then swathing it in a kafon, or shroud. Through the day, he sought to learn about everything.

As the morning advanced, some musulli prepared to bathe the dead body carefully. Suman took in from afar the sight of the bathing, with bucket after bucket of water being poured. The body was adorned with perfume and kohl. It would be shrouded in a length of white cloth. That was the kafon. Suman knew that. But he didn’t know about the skill that went into cutting the length of cloth for the kafon. Not everyone could do that. The muezzin, Rahmat Saheb, could cut the shroud cloth. He was called. Rahmat prepared such a magnificent garment with three folds, devoid of any stitching, that it left Suman overwhelmed.

The cemetery of the Lashkars was close to the house. Suman was very keen to witness the digging of the grave. He walked there slowly. The moment he entered the cemetery, the notion he had had since his childhood made his hair stand on end. As a boy, he believed that when a Hindu died, his soul turned into a ghost, and when a Muslim died, it turned into a jinn. People had divided even the soul into Hindu and Muslim. As the thought occurred to Suman, he smiled inwardly. A sense of fear, or terror, was associated with the cemetery. So he never cast his eyes even at the small cemetery to the west of the bamboo grove that lay near his house. His Ma used to say, ‘Don’t go to those parts, Suman, there are evil spirits there!’ And whenever he caught a chill, his Ma would run to the Imam Saheb of the mosque to collect blessed water. And how astonishing! As soon as he drank the blessed water, his fever vanished, the terror passed. In his irrepressible curiosity today, that fear had vanished even without any blessed water.

A part of the forested land had been cleared to make way for a road. As soon as he removed his shoes and went in, he spotted Maruf. Suman felt emboldened to see him. There were about ten youths there. All of them had bathed and purified themselves before they started digging the grave. By the time Suman reached there, most of the digging had been completed. A narrow hole in the ground in which a person could lie on his back. It couldn’t exactly be called a hole. It was a rectangle, which was quite long. And it was about one-and-a-half-arm lengths wide. It was supposedly three-and-a-half-arm lengths deep. He couldn’t ask whether that referred to the dead man’s arm. There was such unthinkable care even in the digging of the grave. The walls on the four sides were absolutely smooth, not even a blade of grass inside. The immaculate cleanliness made the final dwelling place of the corpse sacred. Laths of bamboo of equal length had been cut and placed on the sides. Those would be used to cover the shrouded body. Earth would then fall over that. He found out from Maruf that each person would throw three handfuls of earth into the grave, and they would recite a prayer from the Holy Koran.

Meanwhile, preparations were under way for the funerary prayer. Suman attended that as well. It was a gathering of hundreds of people. Rows of people were standing in the Eidgah field. Everyone had caps on their heads. So many people, but no commotion, no shouting. Everyone stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for the namaz-e-janaza to commence. Suman wished he, too, could stand in the row to pay his respects to his father’s friend, Kamal Jethu. But he was Hindu. So he stood apart, at a distance, and watched. A powerful thought seized him. When people had taken his father for cremation, they had boozing parties near the crematorium precincts. Even his relatives had gone on a drunken spree. No one seemed to have any feelings. The boy who had just lost his father had been astonished at the sight. It had pained him immensely. The religion of the Muslims, however, was so full of restrictions! Despite having so many moral leashes, why were they like this?

He had grown up hearing so many negative things about Muslims since childhood. That they were bad-tempered, filthy, they consumed beef. The moment they got the opportunity, they were ready to slaughter Hindus. But, in reality, that didn’t seem to be true to him. Yes, they consumed beef, but nevertheless, he could find no evidence of what he had heard. Rather, they seemed a harmless and gentle folk. After all, it was to him that they came for filling up forms pertaining to the ration card, bank, etc.

Yes, there were some families where illiteracy and poverty seemed to have become a tradition. Generation after generation had been unable to escape this curse. Suman had seen for himself their acute penury. Besides, on account of illiteracy, they did not plan their lives. No financial planning, nor any family planning either. As if they lacked that sense. Their sense of hygiene and cleanliness was limited. Yet they were Muslims, Islam was their religion. And it was this religion that taught one cleanliness the most.

When he was in school – it must have been when he was in Class Eleven or Twelve – quite a few Muslim boys used to wash themselves after urinating. Many people used to laugh at them. Some of them used a clod of earth. Everyone used to annoy and tease the Muslim boys. But Suman could never support them. The more unyielding they were, the more Suman felt a sense of guilt within. He used to gaze helplessly at his Muslim friends then. They used to argue that if one washed oneself with water after urinating, one stayed clean and avoided infection. Modern science said the same. But their science was confined only to them. No one wanted to hear about it.

Suman remembered another funny thing. In order to purify oneself, if water was absolutely unavailable, one resorted to earth. That was called kulukh. Among the Muslim boys in his class, Hakim was a bit of a rogue. One day, several boys pounced on him too. ‘You have to tell us. What do you do with the clod of earth?’ Suman would never forget the answer the annoyed boy gave. He said, ‘Listen, after all we eat cow fat, that makes us terribly horny. From time to time, we hit the rod with a clod to calm it.’ Everyone stared wide-eyed and speechlessly at him. Having lost in regard to masculine bravado, their faces had turned ashen. And Hakim had looked at all the Muslim boys, winked, and smiled faintly. They never had the guts to ask the question again.

This was where Suman stumbled. He was just not able to figure it out. Why was there such a difference between theory and practice when it came to a particular people?

The namaz-e-janaza was over. Following the shouldered bier was a procession of people. Some remained behind. Maulana Tahirul, the imam of the mosque, and quite a few others. Seeing Suman standing motionlessly, Tahirul waved at him. Suman went up to him. He said, ‘He was a really nice man, you know…’

Sensing sadness in Suman’s words, Tahirul said, ‘What were your relations like with Kalaam Chacha?’

‘Good. He was my Baba’s childhood friend. Achchha, what do you think? Will he go to jannat?’

‘If he was a believer, he’ll surely go.’

Suman pondered. He said to Tahirul, ‘This matter of faith seems extremely puzzling, you know.’

‘Why? Why do you think that way? Allah is one and unequalled. He has no heir. Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) was a messenger sent by him. That’s it. Accepting this is called faith.’

‘Does one go to heaven if one accepts that? In that case, none of your Muslim folk will go to hell. After all, all Muslims accept that, and believe it too.’

‘No, it isn’t as simple as that.’

Observing Tahirul and Suman conversing, Maruf suddenly appeared beside them. Addressing Suman, Maruf said, ‘Hey, it’s afternoon. Did you have your bath? Have you had lunch?’

‘I don’t care for lunch. But I’ll have to bathe. Would Ma let me enter the house otherwise?’

thirty

‘That’s why they say that a marriage will take place only when the marriage-flower blooms. Or else, no matter how many people come to see you, it simply won’t happen. Do you get that? Fulsura’s wedding-flower has bloomed now.’

Riziya burst out laughing at Reshma’s dictum. She said jestingly, ‘Is that so? Tell me, Bhabi, what’s the colour of the flower?’

‘Hey! So it’s a joke for you! Fine. But your turn will also come. Just think about it. There were five visits in all to see me. Someone said I was a bit plump, someone said I was dark-skinned. Tell me, Rizi, am I dark-skinned? It’s just a slightly dark shade. But finally, your Dada suddenly liked me. And I was married in two weeks. Hee hee hee!’

‘That’s why I’m grateful to Nazir Da, or else where would I have got a Bhabi like you!’

Reshma seemed to be pleased to hear that. She too replied in jest, ‘Your marriage-flower has bloomed too, it’ll take place very soon. Just you see, you too will get married in a trice. There’s a special joy in that, you know. Not knowing anything before that. But it’s great fun when your life takes a new turn, all of a sudden.’

‘Whatever you might say, maybe Fulsura is fortunate. But do you know something, Bhabi, doing anything in a hurry is the work of the shoytan. Mama is arranging the marriage in a hurry, but somehow, I feel it’s not right.’

‘You think too much because you’re an educated girl. Whatever the murubbis do is for the best. Tell me, am I not happy, dear?’

But Riziya was silent. She wondered what happiness actually was. If Reshma claimed that she was happy, then what was all the sadness in the world about? Just a fortnight back, she had witnessed tears in that household even on the day of Eid! So was she lying? Was she putting on an act of being happy? After all, Riziya wasn’t Reshma’s sister-in-law or an acquaintance from her native village with whom one could put on such an act of bliss. It was only with such folks that women constantly tried to prove that they were happy. Who smiled coyly even after being beaten by the husband and explained that they suffered a cut on their forehead from the corner of the cot while playing around. ‘Do you know, he was close to tears! He really loves me!’

Riziya thought, if Reshma was indeed happy, so be it. May Allah keep her happy. Did all women long for happiness like this? No, she didn’t want such happiness. She sought something deeper. She would become one with the person who was her life partner. Didn’t true happiness lie in that?

Fulsura was getting married. It was like ‘Come along, girl, you’re getting married’ – something that took place all of a sudden. The groom was a boy from the village of Nasibpur, which was quite far away. Apparently he was to be married in a week’s time. But the bride didn’t wait for the particular date. She hopped on to her lover’s motorbike and vanished, and then saw to completing the formalities. The wealthy groom had been offended by that. How would someone feel if the would-be bride eloped before the wedding? Such disdain for a groom like him? He decided stubbornly that he would definitely get married on the specified date. And that would be in this village of Sadnahati itself.

Needless to say, the girl with whom he was supposed to get married also belonged to Sadnahati. After his marriage was called off, he got in touch with Fulsura’s elder brother, Rahman Miya. They approved of Fulsura. Her father did not let go of such an excellent groom, whom they found almost by accident. The preparations for the wedding commenced three days later. Fulsura would be married without any dowry. So what was the problem?

Maulana Tahirul never ate in a household which had given or received dowry. Fulsura was his student. There was no dowry involved here. He had been specially invited. Such a major event undertaken in such a hurry! So Tahirul himself had taken on some of the responsibilities. Getting the Kazi Saheb to prepare the kabinnama, or marriage contract, taking care of the needs of the groom’s party. Some purchases too. Consequently, right from that morning, he had visited Kalu Miya’s house quite a few times. But none of those times did he encounter the one he desired. Among all the people from the other side, and all the invitees, he could not spot Riziya. When Tahirul entered the house at ten in the morning, he observed a group of women who had dressed Fulsura up in a yellow sari with a red border, bringing her to the courtyard and seating her on a chair there. No one seemed to notice him. After all, Tahirul was not there as an imam but as a member of the household. There could be no formalities and courtesies in the midst of preparations for a marriage. Tahirul saw from afar that his Riziya was also there in that group of women. But she seemed to be somewhat indifferent towards him. If she had at least flashed him a sweet smile, Tahirul would have been pleased. All this running around on his part would have been worthwhile. After all, no matter who else knew, or didn’t, Riziya did know why Tahirul had left his room in the mosque to come here. Yet…

Preparations were on for the turmeric ceremony. One by one, womenfolk, young and old, took the mashed turmeric in their hands and applied it on Fulsura’s arms and forehead. And together with that, some humorous sister-in-law applied the turmeric on the face of the sister-in-law standing beside as well to kick up some fun. Earlier, wedding songs were sung in the Muslim community. But that custom was no longer prevalent in Sadnahati. Tahirul took his eyes away. All these un-Islamic rituals! Were Muslims supposed to do such things? He moved towards the cooking area. Biryani was being cooked in large copper cooking pots there. Quite a few murubbi folk were seated on chairs. Seeing him, Kalu Miya came to greet him. ‘Come, Hujur. Please sit on this chair.’

Kalu Miya then called out and asked for tea to be brought. He enquired, ‘Hujur, the paan-chini (betel leaf-and-sugar) ceremony hasn’t taken place. There hasn’t really been any discussion either. Can you please suggest what the mehr amount could be?’

Tahirul turned grave. Donning his imam image, he said, ‘The lower it is kept, the better it is.’

‘So, how much?’

‘Follow the Fatemi mehr. Whatever is the lowest equivalent amount at current market prices.’

A gentleman was sitting nearby. He was well dressed. His special feature was kneading tobacco in a peculiar way by bringing his hands together. Tahirul had observed that the man had been doing that ever since he arrived there. Although his clothes seemed to be of a modest nature. This man who was about fifty years old, suddenly asked, ‘Why is that? Why is it best to keep the mehr amount at the minimum?’

Turning his head towards the man, Tahirul realized that the question had been hurled at him. Imam Sahebs generally disliked questions. Because many people asked them questions not merely out of an urge to know, but out of sectarianism and to embarrass him. There were people who derived pleasure from arguing with an Islamic scholar. They were usually of a terribly ill-educated type. But this man didn’t appear to be like that. Tahirul couldn’t ignore him. He replied, ‘You surely know about Fatemi mehr?’

‘Please tell me.’

‘The mehr that had been fixed during the marriage of the Prophet’s beloved daughter, Fatema, is the best mehr.’

‘Hujur, you surely know that after the marriage of Fatema and Ali, many followers of the Prophet too had got married. So did all of them also follow those payment terms? What does history say?’

Tahirul was a bit startled. He did know that knowledge was not limited to mere conformity, as keeping a beard and wearing a cap might symbolize. Actually, he did not know the whole history. He wasn’t supposed to either. But he had to say something now, when so many people were present. So he drove the ball into the man’s court and asked, ‘Can you please tell me what you are trying to convey? Isn’t the Fatemi mehr mandatory?’

‘No, it isn’t. Those who consider it to be mandatory make a terrible error. Hazrat Ali was poor. He had sold his shield to pay his wife’s mehr. But the groom getting married today is a wealthy man. Should he, too, pay only the Fatemi mehr? Don’t you think this is evasion when you see it from the woman’s point of view? This is a fraud, which is perpetrated in the name of religion.’

‘But Islam is opposed to any kind of excess.’

‘Do you think this is that? The first level of the rights that Islam has conferred upon women, as far as claims from their husbands is concerned, is the mehr. That must be something that has a financial value, that is saleable. It can also be in cash. Not illusory professions of love and affection, or promises and commitments. The mohrana has to be something that has actual market value. So, a woman’s guardians need to determine the amount of the mehr accordingly. This is a fundamental right of the bride. Please don’t mind, but you people tend to avoid the issues that are truly significant and call for debate on issues that are insignificant. This attitude needs to change.’

Tahirul had an amazing skill. Of being able to escape adroitly, like an eel. Even though he wanted to refute what the man had said, he thought that he would lose face if he was defeated by this stranger. Rather, it was best to change the subject. A water pipe created the opportunity for that. The pipe was suspended overhead. It suddenly came loose and wet everyone in a blast of water. ‘What happened! What happened! Oh no!’ All of them were drenched. The gentleman went to Fulsura’s room. And Tahirul then discovered Riziya. She was standing nearby. She exclaimed, ‘Haay Allah! You’re completely soaked, Hujur! Please come to the room. I’ll give you a towel.’

Tahirul moved to the veranda of Riziya’s house, examining his wet panjabi bewilderedly. This part did not have the hullabaloo of a wedding in the house. He wanted to hang his panjabi out to dry in the vacant veranda. As soon as he took off the wet panjabi and hung it on the clothes string, Riziya came and stood behind him with a dry towel. Tahirul did not sense her presence. Within a few moments, Riziya experienced a new kind of sensation inside her. The sparkling white vest stuck to his back resembled the skin of a grape. His muscular arms, back, broad shoulders awed her. She had been acutely afflicted by a primaeval ailment. As soon as she returned to her senses, she was back to her usual self. She said, ‘Hujur, here’s the towel.’

As Tahirul took the towel, he asked, ‘Riziya, who is that man, dear? The one who was talking to me?’