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?’
‘Oh him? Don’t you know him?’
‘No, I don’t. Who is he?’
‘Chhoto Mama. Fulsura’s Chhoto Mama. He’s an advocate in the Howrah court.’
‘Oh!’
‘Hujur, are you going to be here for a while?’
‘No. I have to leave. I think it’s time for the Zuhr azan. I’ll just dry myself a bit and then leave.’
Riziya paused there. She lowered her head slightly, flashed a wonderful smile and asked, ‘Did you like the gift?’
‘Mashallah! Indeed! Look, here are the panjabi buttons you gave me. I wear these on all my panjabis now. And did you like the churidar-kameez I gave you?’
‘I did. But how did you know that I like pink? I’m definitely going to wear it today!’
‘Really? It’ll look lovely.’
