‘But what?’
‘Isn’t your son in that group? Doesn’t he hang out with them?’
Iqbal suddenly became agitated. He said quite emphatically, ‘No, he doesn’t. Wouldn’t I thrash him with my shoe and break his face if he engaged in such rowdy song and dance? I’m his father, wouldn’t I punish him? I’m not that kind of a father!’
‘Hey! Listen, aren’t there two TVs in your house? Go and destroy them first. Is there a single house without song and dance nowadays? I believe your wife can’t sleep unless she watches her serial! Leave those hellish things behind, and then speak! You are a fine father indeed!’
Iqbal Ostagar did not debate any further. He left, saying in a stage whisper, ‘Coming to me with his fatwa business! Huh! Rubbish!’
Chandraat also saw the womenfolk in soirée. The unmarried girls from nearby got together, they chatted and gossiped among themselves. And young adults talked about their new clothes. Each year, a garment with a new name arrived in the marketplace. This time around, the market had been captured by the ‘Madhubala’ churidar-kameez. Those who couldn’t buy that felt a bit inferior, and then rushed home to prove that their own churidar-kameez was no less in any respect. They took out a few clothes from the shelf in the cupboard and then showed them to everyone. They had an exhibition among themselves, of who got how many things, the colours of the garments, their embroidery, price, and so on.
But for how long would they flaunt those clothes? They felt unhappy. After all, they were not permitted to go to the Eid fair. On the morning of Eid, after dispatching all the children and menfolk to the prayers, they began dolling themselves up. They went in a group to visit old friends whom they met once a year. They looked like a carnival of many-hued butterflies. The colourful clothes lent a new dimension to the streets of Sadnahati. Everyone was in a cheerful state of mind. There was feasting in every household. The beautiful mehendi artistry rendered on Chandraat on the hands of the womenfolk drew everyone’s attention.
Among the womenfolk, everyone was obsessed with clothes. Fulsura suddenly squinted in Riziya’s direction and asked, ‘Hey Rizi, how many churidar-kameezes did you get?’
‘Why? Just two. Didn’t you see them yesterday?’
‘No. Three.’
‘What? Ask Mama. I only bought two.’
‘I saw the packet in Ayan’s hand, you know! He didn’t want to show it to me at first.’
And then, in that gathering of so many women, she whispered into Riziya’s ear, ‘It seems to be a very expensive churidar-kameez! Tell me, who gave it to you?’
Everyone sat gazing at them curiously. A look of helplessness was visible on Riziya’s face. All her secretiveness would be exposed. She felt uneasy. She felt terribly angry with Fulsura. After all, Reshma Bhabi and Fulsura knew about it. When they knew it, where was the need to make an announcement? She somehow managed to halt Fulsura through signs and gestures.
In fact, she had received the churidar-kameez sent by Tahirul just a little while back. She was overwhelmed at once. The light pink was her favourite colour. How did Hujur find out about her preferences? Once she was alone, she had worn it and stood in front of the mirror. She liked how she looked. She had wound the odna around her head like a hijab. And then she told her reflection, ‘Nice, Rizi! You look just like a Hujur’s bibi!’
Riziya knew that if she displayed that churidar-kameez in the gathering of womenfolk today, it would be the cynosure of all eyes. So she kept that a secret.
Could the joy and glow of the holy Eid penetrate into every strata of society? Joyless darkness was supposed to prevail in many lanes and alleys. But it was in order to bring joy to all those places that Islam had provided for giving fitra, or donations to the poor. That was what zakat was given for. But fitra had to be given prior to the Eid prayer. This was the right of the poor and destitute. Each one would get some foodgrains. Although the Muslims of Bengal donated the equivalent value in money, instead of foodgrains.
Reshma was in a crisis now. Nazir didn’t really have any money. He could not stitch any longer with half his finger gone. Reshma herself did embroidery work. Nazir did odd jobs for Iqbal Ostagar. He had left home a long time back, to go to Burrabazar, the wholesale market in Kolkata. He would buy about a hundred saris and lungis from there. Iqbal Ostagar would give his zakat tonight itself. But who would want to take the zakat sari? Professional beggars from regions bordering Howrah district arrived there. They came every year. They stood in a queue and collected the zakat. Nazir acted very bossy at this time. He managed the queue, kept a close watch so that no one could collect it twice.
The azan for the Isha prayer at night had sounded a while back. But Nazir had not yet returned. Reshma was anxious. She was anxious because they had not bought anything yet – not even a piece of string. Although clothes had been sent for the children by her parents. She was supposed to send a sari for her aged mother and a panjabi for her father. But when would she go now? The man had failed to be a true man even today. How could Reshma’s cup of joy be full unless the feeble light of Chandraat lit up her household too!
It was quite late when Nazir returned. He called out from outside, ‘Nilufa! Hey Nilu! Have you fallen asleep?’
The house lights had been turned off. Was there a power cut? A kerosene lamp was burning in one corner of the veranda. When there was no response, he called out, ‘Reshma! Why did you switch the lights off?’
He stepped up cautiously and pushed the door of his house. In the semi-darkness, he saw his children sleeping, but Reshma was sitting like a statue. Nazir went to switch on the light. Then he remembered. Oh no! The electric corporation had cut off their electricity two days ago.
As Reshma was silent even after his arrival, he asked her, ‘What’s happened to you? Looks like you’ve been crying!’
Reshma did not reply. After repeated queries, Reshma retorted testily, ‘Don’t you know what’s happened? Are you a child, huh?’
‘Tell me, what’s happened?’
‘It’s Eid tomorrow. Tell me which household skips making simui-ruti! What happens to us while you’re running behind rich folks? Weren’t you supposed to go to my parents’ house today? Let’s see what clothes you’ve bought. Where are they?’
‘Clothes? The children have got clothes from their Mamas. You told me that you don’t need anything this Eid. And I already have a lungi and a panjabi. That’s why I didn’t buy anything.’
‘A fine father you are! So you don’t have to buy the children anything because my brothers have given clothes for them! Did you get a sari for my mother? Do you want to end your self-respect as a son-in-law?’
Nazir smiled a bit now. He came closer and said enthusiastically, ‘It’s all there, pagli. I’ve brought everything. Come outside, I’ll
show you.’
Nazir almost dragged Reshma outside. Simui, flour, dalda, masalas – it was all there. From the other bag he took out three saris. Two for the elderly folk, of dull colours, the other one very colourful, with a border, a bit expensive. ‘One of these is for your mother. The other is for my mother. Go and give it to your Ma first.’
‘How did you buy them? Did you have money?’
‘No. But I didn’t buy them! The saris were given by Ostagar. There were some remaining. He gave them to me.’
Hearing that, Reshma’s face turned glum again. Keeping her voice down, she pointed at the colourful sari and asked, ‘And this one?’
‘That’s for you, dear! How lovely it is! You like it, don’t you?’
‘Such an expensive sari! Did you buy it? Tell me the truth, swear on Allah! Where did you get so much money, eh?’
Nazir was silent for a while, his eyes downcast. How could he say where he had got the money from! But on Reshma’s insistence, he was compelled to say it. ‘I bought it with Ostagar’s money. He had given it to me to buy one hundred saris. I bought ninety. I bought this sari for you with the money for the remaining ten saris. After all, you get a new sari every year. This year, even though you didn’t ask for anything, I was keen. That’s why…’
Now Reshma turned silent. In all these years of family life, she had never had to witness such conduct on her husband’s part. He had stolen! Blood suddenly rushed to Reshma’s head. She lost all interest in the sari and flung it away in a single motion. The sari fell on the burning lamp. At once the feebly lit room turned pitch black. Why couldn’t the faint light of the new crescent moon reach the room?
