COPYRIGHT
prelude
The mosque is the House of Allah. It lies at the very heart of the lives of the Muslim community. The identity, prosperity, and spread of all the Muslims in the world centre around this court of the Lord of the Universe. All their hopes and anxieties, their wants and fulfilments, joys and pains revolve around its minarets.
The currents of eternity flow with great vigour. As time goes by, more and more weeds sprout in the garden of religion. And so, many people descend to the sphere of religion in order to clear those weeds. But the weeds don’t die. It’s as if their seeds are to be found in every pore of society. There is still one sphere in the world now in which one can easily pass off darkness as light and light as darkness – and that is religion. The light of religion is not exactly clear, it’s incomplete and hazy. Can that light show the way? Besides, has anyone ever received absolute light? And yet, why does the earth itself carry on with half daylight and half night? Why is a side of the moon in perpetual darkness?
Religion exists. The light of religion exists. The mosque exists. The imam and the devout too exist. The azan still sounds today, calling the faithful to prayer five times a day. That melodious vocal strain comes wafting from far away. The womenfolk in Muslim neighbourhoods cover their heads with their scarves in reverence.
It was the hour for the Fajr prayer now. A time in between darkness and light. Concluding the prayer, Imam Saheb turned his head to the left and recited the salaam. Kalu Miya, one of the musulli – those who came to the mosque regularly to offer prayers – also turned his head leftwards for the concluding salaam, and observed that Haji Burhanuddin Saheb, who was the mutawalli, or the trustee, of the mosque, was sitting right next to him. As soon as the prayer ended, their eyes met. Kalu Miya smiled furtively and signalled that he had something very urgent to discuss. Haji Saheb nodded in acknowledgement. They always had something to discuss. In fact, their discussions were so important that they could get by without completing the remaining sunnat and nafl parts of the prayers at some hours of the day. That is because their discussions were religious discussions – discussions about the mosque, discussions about the errors and omissions of the Imam Saheb.
They emerged from the mosque and headed directly to Dilu’s tea shop. There was a separate place for them there. Although Dilu Bhai kept clay bhanrs for everyone, he had reserved porcelain cups for the murubbis, or elders. The respect they got from this shop seemed to them to be no less than a symbol of the Almighty’s magnificence. They talked as they sipped tea. Speaking very slowly and almost in whispers, Kalu Miya said, ‘We can’t have this Moulovi Saheb. Change the fellow. As it is, he’s paid a hundred rupees more.’
Gulping down a mouthful of hot tea with a slurp, Haji Saheb said, ‘Let me think about it a bit, Kalu. Where will I find another Moulovi Saheb out of the blue? After all, he has only one fault to speak of, that is roaming around the neighbourhood at dawn. And that, too, has apparently been advised by the doctor. He has diabetes, dear fellow, diabetes. It’s a terrible disease.’
Kalu Miya was astonished to hear that. He said quite emphatically, ‘Are you making light of his habit of roaming the neighbourhood at dawn? I say, you’re knowledgeable, so how can you tramp through the neighbourhood? Don’t our mothers and sisters feel embarrassed when they see him that early in the morning? Besides, I’ve also heard something else. Will it be appropriate to speak about that?’
Kalu Miya wanted to generate some curiosity about the matter – a forbidden curiosity. Haji Saheb stirred now. He turned his head to look right and left, and then, with great enthusiasm, leaned forward to listen. As soon as Kalu Miya whispered something, he seemed to jump up. ‘What are you saying, Kalu? I don’t understand it at all. He recites well and teaches well! We belong to the same silsila, I’ve seen him standing up to recite the praises of the Nobi, the Holy Prophet. To think that he was actually so crooked … Tauba, tauba!’ he added remorsefully.
There wasn’t a single mosque in the Muslim neighbourhoods of West Bengal around which differences, disagreements and ugly jealousies didn’t arise among the neighbourhood’s Muslims themselves. Everyone wanted to enter jannat-ul-firdaus, the Garden of Paradise, straightaway, bearing a tray of great piety. The craving for paradise was difficult to control; and so, who would take up the responsibility of the mosque was a moot question. Which group would possess the power to induct or expel an imam? A subtle contest was always on.
All these things prevailed in the village of Sadnahati as well. Kalim Mirza, Kalu Miya, Haji Saheb and so on felt a sense of satisfaction at having got a taste of this little bit of power over the community. Muslims had no place of their own in any public offices or in any courts of law; they had become debarred entities in the politics of West Bengal. They were kicked around like a football, from the feet of one party to those of another. They were not to be counted among the doctors in public hospitals, or the teachers in schools and colleges; neither were there writers, littérateurs or artists in the community. And the numbers of those who were present were so insignificant in terms of the population that there was nothing to be proud about. But would that douse the passions of the people lusting for power? Given time and the right opportunity, that passion raised its head somewhere else. Where there was no competition from non-Muslims. That’s why, in thousands of villages like Sadnahati, the most certain address to enjoy power was the mosque and its elementary school, the khareji madrasa. That’s where they resorted to their crablike nature, and flourished.
The mosque being in the hands of the mutawalli appointed by the Waqf authorities often meant that it became like someone’s paternal property. In this state of affairs, there was no accountability to anyone, other than to Allah, as regards the fish from the pond, and the coconuts, bamboo and so on growing on the land that belonged to the mosque. Year after year. A permanent arrangement! That’s why the mosque became the very lifeblood of many.
It’s the sand that always seems hotter than the sun. Many people in the neighbourhood were like that sand. The heat transmitted by Haji Saheb warmed them. Every now and then, their empty pockets filled up. And those who lacked pockets, opened out their prayer caps and blew inside them, as if to keep whatever was tucked inside safe.
But all such talk was seen by the general folk as being that of detractors, the talk of munafiqs, or the hypocrites who roamed around in the nooks and crannies of the village of Sadnahati. Such talk was not to be heeded. Because everyone knew that each one of the elders who occupied the first row of the musulli was a parhezgar, a virtuous one. The first row of the prayer gathering was apparently the row for angels. And so how could some people’s comments about all these angels tick?
For a thousand years, the villages and small towns of West Bengal had lain adorned like a colourful necklace. In some villages, there were more Hindus, while in others, there were more Muslims. Even if the people of these two faiths lived side by side in Bengali films, somewhere in the subconscious, a fine dividing line had been created. And yet, there were also villages where the entire community was Muslim, but like oases, a few Hindu families stuck on there for ages. They couldn’t be identified by their attire. Sadnahati was such a village. In this predominantly Muslim village, there were ten or twelve Hindu families. The local people called them the Jogi Bamunpara folk. The sons of the Jogis went around wearing checked lungis. They had good relations with every Muslim household. The wedding ceremony of Akhil Nath’s daughter took place in Altaf’s courtyard. Muslim boys fell in love with the girls of Jogipara. Akhil’s youngest sister, Sujata, was married to Alam Chacha. That happened a long time ago. A Hindu’s daughter had now become a Muslim’s mother. There were quite a few instances of such events. But until now, no one had ever heard of any youth from Jogipara wooing a Muslim girl. They didn’t dare. After all, they were a minority in the village of Sadnahati.
In every society and country, minorities live in fear. They live out their lives like tiny mice out of a feeling of inferiority. They tremble in fear all their life. Ever thinking that at any moment they would confront the angry eyes of the majority community. And yet they survive. They adapt and survive.
i
now
one
A few people had been running around desperately since morning. Going first to the local police station and next to Howrah General Hospital. And then to the Howrah police station. After having collected the necessary papers from there, they were now in the morgue in Mullick Fatak. That’s where Suman Nath’s body was lying. The post-mortem had just begun. Raju Dom had drunk a whole lot of liquor and then lain on his back in front of the morgue. Even he found the thought of a three-day-old, decomposed corpse distasteful. But once he was enticed with the offer of some extra money, his drunken stupor seemed to vanish. The police had informed the family after finding Suman’s address in the wallet in his pocket. He had been missing for three days, and his body was found in a clump of shrubs beside the railway line. Abhijit, Montu, Santanu, Suraj, as well as some local leaders had arrived to collect the body. Only the Creator knew when, at which precise moment, a person would be assigned value. Even though this terrible news had reached Sadnahati via Suman’s wife’s folks, no one felt perturbed. But the sense of smell of political leaders exceeded that of even dogs. They could divine the flow of events in advance. The Hindu voters of the Jogipara hamlet in Sadnahati had always come to play a decisive role in determining the electoral outcome.
And so, people from both the political parties had devoted themselves to the task of collecting the dead body. The party that could take back Suman’s body would garner sympathy votes. After all, the Panchayat elections were imminent.
It was the light of late afternoon outside the morgue. There was a bunch of youths there. Not a trace of any grief on their faces.
On an elevated platform at a little distance sat two silent souls, in an unkempt state, in each other’s embrace. They were mother and daughter. The daughter was about nine years old. Further away was a paan-and-cigarette shop. That’s where a few boys from Jogipara were gossiping, puffing on beedis and blowing out lungfuls of smoke. Their attention was on the woman. Realizing that, she turned her face away.
‘Whatever you say, Montu, Kaka netted a real maal, her fucking fire’s still burning.’
‘It’ll stop burning now. It’ll be snuffed out as soon as the fire on Suman’s pyre dies. Oof! So much happened because of this girl.’
A boy who was younger than them asked curiously, ‘What was the incident, Dada? I remember something had happened when I was small, but I don’t remember what it was.’
‘You don’t need to know about that, boy!’ The man averted the query. He began soliloquizing: ‘Eesh! What’s going to happen to the woman now! Where will she go with this little child? How will she stand on her own feet?’
The post-mortem report was ready by now. The body would be released in a little while. Yes, Suman had committed suicide. There was a suicide note too. When the report was held out to Suman’s wife, she gave it to Santanu. Heaving a deep sigh, she tried to convey that it was they who would have to do all that needed to be done. Santanu was a friend of Suman’s brother, Abhijit. After that, no sooner had Suman’s wife turned around, holding her little girl’s hand, than someone called out, ‘Riziya! They’ll bring the dead body. You come along in our car.’
To her astonishment, it was Abid Sheikh. Iqbal Ostagar was standing beside him. She hadn’t recognized him because he had grown a beard. At a distance, Rafiq Ali was talking to Santanu and Abhijit. Rafiq belonged to a family of Sheikhs and was a very big leader of the area. Everyone called him Rafiq Ali. When Riziya was a child, she used to call him Rafiq Mama. She felt a surge of terror in her heart.
Riziya, aka Reena Nath, was a bit surprised to see Abid Sheikh and Rafiq Ali together. The two of them belonged to opposite poles of the political spectrum. Once her sense of surprise had abated, she heard her name being called out once again. It seemed Abid Sheikh was calling her. The moment someone called her by her original name – after almost ten years – the woman who was benumbed with grief seemed to be stricken by confusion regarding her own identity. Who was she now? Reena, or Riziya? She was overwhelmed by this crisis of identity for a little while. She was unable to think clearly. As soon as she returned to her senses, she tightened her grip on her daughter’s hand, followed Abid Sheikh and got into his car.
She kept guessing where she was headed now. Was the car’s destination Sadnahati, where she had spent her childhood and adolescence? The village which she had remembered almost every day for the last ten years. And every time she remembered the village, it was the tallest green minaret of the big mosque at Sadnahati that she visualized. The minaret which was visible from the roof of her house in Sadnahati, at which she gazed as she composed her dreams.
As she sat in the car, it occurred to Riziya that Suman had really gone! Hugging her daughter to her breast, she began to weep silently. In a tearful voice, she blurted out inarticulately, ‘Mama, will it be all right for me to go there?’
Abid Sheikh was sitting beside the driver. He turned his head around and said, ‘Don’t worry about anything. It’s not like that any more! Besides, aren’t we all there with you? Nothing will happen to you.’
Riziya could have smiled at these words. A contemptuous and hard-hearted smile. A woman who had just been widowed was not supposed to smile. Of course, she wanted to trust this man to an extent. After all, she had no other option besides that. Whether out of courtesy or because of the exigency, Riziya enquired, ‘Are my uncles still alive? How are they?’
‘Do you mean Kalu Chacha? It’s been about three years since he passed away. Salaam Miya is still around. He’s been bedridden for a long time. I heard that he’s unable to speak either.’
‘Oh.’
Abid Sheikh was not surprised to hear the ‘oh’ that lacked any warmth. It seemed he knew he would receive such a response, even though the orphaned Riziya had grown up under the care of Kalu Miya and Salaam Miya. He remained silent. He thought about many things. Suddenly, he turned his head around once again and said, ‘Riziya, forgive me, my precious. Forgive us. After all these years, I want to ask you something, will you answer me? Why did you write such terrible things on the outer wall of the mosque? Why do you
have such rage against Muslims?’
Riziya, aka Reena Nath, was at an utter loss at this sudden query. She had no idea what Abid Mama was talking about. For the first time, she began sobbing and wailing in grief. It burst out in spasms. Her child, too, was now weeping with her. She couldn’t provide any answer to Abid Sheikh’s question. Perhaps, she didn’t want to either. Why should she?
