There was terrible sarcasm in Jasim’s words. What was he saying? Maruf said to him, ‘Jasim, maybe that teacher of yours oversimplified matters. He is angry with scholars and maulanas for some reason. There is an apathy regarding madrasa education. But that’s not right at all.’
‘Are these arguments false?’
‘They are partly true. But that doesn’t prove that Islam hinders personal development.’
‘I am not blaming all of Islam. I’m talking about those who issue fatwas without a second thought. Besides, we are immature, how much do we understand! I heard it from an elder and said it. Please excuse me if I said anything wrong.’
Maruf gazed at Jasim. He wondered, does a mental transformation come about naturally in society? Or does it call for effort! How was Jasim’s teacher’s point of view beneficial for the Muslim community? He didn’t say any more then. He only responded, saying, ‘Hmm.’
And then, as Jasim was speaking, Maruf became thoughtful. Fatwas! In truth, there was no end to the complexities in community life that he had witnessed. They rose to leave. Haji Saheb’s venerable eyes gazed at the two young men of the new generation. He heaved a deep sigh and said, ‘Are you leaving, my boys? Go. May Allah grant you a long life.’
Both of them replied in unison, ‘Fi amanillah! So be it!’
twenty-seven
It was Chandraat, the eve of Eid. The Chandraat resounding with waves of joy. It was the final iftar of Ramzan today. Alvida mah-e Ramzan! Farewell, dear month of Ramzan! After the Maghrib prayer, there were heated discussions about the moon at every street corner. Calculating the cycle of the moon seemed too difficult for them. But Asmat Chacha was very deft in such matters. He muttered words like ‘krishnopokkho’ and ‘shuklopokkho’ (waning and waxing moon), ‘pratipad’ and ‘dwitya’ (first lunar day of the month, second day of the lunar fortnight), and so on, and the local boys gaped at him. They didn’t understand anything.
In Islam, the moon was important only to determine time. But Muslims seemed to have made the moon their symbol. There was a crescent moon atop the minaret, and on the green flag, a design bearing the crescent moon and stars at the entrance of houses, and it appeared in the mehendi artwork on the hands of a bride. There was no end to their emotions when it came to the moon.
Eid was the next day. But had the moon been sighted? Because there could be no Eid unless it was! The womenfolk of the households climbed up to their roof terraces and gazed at the sky in the west to glimpse a thin slice of moon amidst the clouds.
Someone said, bursting with enthusiasm, ‘There’s the moon! Just look beside the palm tree, you’ll spot it. It’s as thin as a string, oh Allah! I can see it clearly!’
Everyone shouted out. They bent in her direction and asked noisily, ‘Where’s the moon? Where?’
An elderly, grandmother-like woman believed them completely. She too extended her hand skywards to the invisible moon and kissed it, saying, ‘Subhanallah!’
In the Muslim community in West Bengal, there was a special committee to sight the moon – the Al Helal Committee.
The committee had only one task. They studied the sky once a year. As soon as they sighted the moon, they made an announcement: ‘Eid ul-Fitr will take place tomorrow, Inshallah!’
That announcement was broadcast in every mosque. Preparations for the joyful festival commenced.
This year, two people in Sadnahati performed itekaf. Itekaf was an important dictum of the Holy Prophet. Some called it the farz-e-kefaya. Meaning, if one performed it on behalf of a neighbourhood, all the others were exempt from the obligation. Itekaf was the name given to worshipping in seclusion in the mosque during the last ten days of Ramzan. The person had to remain almost mute for ten days. The worldly life became secondary for him then. At the news of the moon being sighted, the two individuals performing the itekaf too emerged from the mosque.
Shopping for Eid began right from the beginning of the month of Ramzan. Irrespective of the number of clothes and furnishings purchased, on Chandraat, one never failed to remember – ‘Oh no! But we didn’t buy a white sari for old grandma! And couldn’t you get the next smaller size of shoes for Mona? Will the simui-lachchha suffice? Could have bought a kilo more of the vermicelli to make the sweetmeats!’ After dusk, most worldly folk were busy.
A group formed of young men began its programme. Massive box-speakers and a ravaging DJ. Music blared from small pandals, loud enough to make one’s heart palpitate. Hindi songs began playing loudly. Like a sound-monster performing a dance of destruction. Alas! The joy of the holy Eid! It was clear that the shoytan Iblis had just been unshackled!
Tahirul was sitting in his room, irritated and angry, muttering, ‘Dunces! The whole lot of them! Chhee, chhee!’
Muslims consider the night of the twenty-sixth day of fasting, that is, the wee hours of the twenty-seventh of Ramzan, to be a very exalted night. Laylat al-Qadr. The night that was better than a thousand nights. The night the Koran was revealed. It was on this night that the special prayers at night concluded. Before the last monajaat, Imam Saheb delivered a sermon. Maulana Tahirul had instructed people repeatedly not to play music that day. And yet this music and song. Astonishing! Didn’t anyone keep their word? All his ire was directed upon the murubbis of Sadnahati. He resolved inwardly that this perversion of culture had to be stopped by some means or the other. And as he sat there, he decided on the people he would take this complaint to.
As he emerged from his room, he found a boy standing there. He recognized him. It was Riziya’s cousin. Salaam Miya’s son. Tahirul asked him, ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you standing here? Isn’t it Chandraat?’
The boy looked this way and that, and then held out a small packet that he had in his hand and said, ‘Aapamoni sent it. She told me to give it to you secretly, without anyone knowing.’
Tahirul’s thoughts now began to flow along another track, one that brought unimaginable delight. Riziya had sent him something? It was he who ought to have done the sending. The churidar-kameez was still lying in the same place. Without a moment’s delay, he told the boy, ‘All right. Give it to me.’
After that, he paused for a while, and then said to him, ‘I’ll give you something too, it’s a large packet. Won’t you be able to give it
to Aapamoni? But this should also be in secret, no one should know, all right?’
The boy was silent. He was in Class Six. He was aware of everything. But he wasn’t able to demand his fee from Hujur for undertaking this task. That’s why he was thoughtful. He mumbled dejectedly, ‘Give it then. Where is it?’
Tahirul fetched the packet and gave it to him. Then he re-entered his room in a state of great elation, latched the door and gazed eagerly at the packet containing the gift. Should he open it now, or later? Meanwhile, the music and songs all around made him restless. His curiosity got the better of him. He couldn’t help opening it. There was a white cotton-string cap, made by hand, a bottle of attar, a beautiful set of panjabi buttons, and written on a small chit, ‘A present from Riziya’.
He sat for quite a while with the chit, admiring the beautiful handwriting. This was a very personal moment for Tahirul. He was no maulana or hafez now, rather, a sweetheart’s lover. A Young Turk running at breakneck speed!
He put the invaluable gift carefully in his suitcase. And then he set out to meet the murubbis of the community. There was no way he would accept this music and song after going through a month of severe discipline. That represented the degeneration of the community. This travesty had crept into Muslim society, like it had into Hindu pujas and festivals.
He ran into Iqbal Ostagar on his way. He greeted Hujur as soon as he saw him. It was to him that Tahirul vented his anger. ‘What’s all this happening in the village? Such music and song? Can’t you hear it?’
‘It’s been going on for a long time, Hujur! Won’t the boys have some fun on the occasion of Eid?’
‘Having fun? What fun? What kind of talk is this?’
Perhaps Iqbal Ostagar felt a bit ashamed then. He lowered his head and said, ‘The boys work hard all year. They’re busy with their jobs all the time. They let their hair down for a couple of days at this time. That’s why we can’t forbid them, Hujur.’
Tahirul was speechless. He figured out that it was the doing of Iqbal Miya’s gem of a son. He wondered, what on earth is the man saying? Talking of letting their hair down as a parent? Chhee, chhee! As Tahirul was about to walk away, he observed that some more people were listening to them. He thought he had found out all he needed to. So, without saying any more to anyone, he walked away from there. Once he left, someone said to Iqbal Ostagar, ‘Whatever you may say, Bhai, you shouldn’t have argued with Maulana Saheb like that.’
‘Why? Did I lie to him? It’s best to speak plainly, my dear.’
‘Not lies. But…’
