Nazir brought down the bundle from his head and stretched himself. After that, looking at Maruf, he said, ‘We’ll make you stand for elections this time, Maruf Bhai. You are the only one I know who is a truly good man.’
Nazir’s words struck Iqbal Ostagar. Although Nazir was not supposed to have any say regarding who would be made to stand for elections, or whose name ought to be proposed. But Iqbal Ostagar had some power. So he said quite enthusiastically, ‘That’s right, Maruf. If you stand for elections, this Iqbal is willing to lay down his life for you! There won’t be a single opponent. Just you see! Will you stand?’
Maruf often received such proposals. So he wasn’t so overwhelmed by their appeal. He laughed. He said, ‘No. I don’t understand anything about politics. It’s not possible for me, Bhai.’
Iqbal Ostagar was about to say something. Maruf interrupted him and asked him to start the vehicle. He added, ‘You’ve got to reach the haat early, or else, if there’s a traffic jam on the way, you’ll be late. Get on!’
Maruf’s mindset was a complex one. No one could gauge that from seeing him. He had a peaceful disposition, but a host of questions agitated his mind all the time. It was as if he was unable to correctly discern the cadence and beat of life’s truth. His empathy for his community, his knowledge and dedication were among the aspects of his character. Because he was born and raised in a Muslim society, he had various kinds of doubts. How the various kinds of divisions in the community, and the conflict over what was shariat and what was not, could come to an end – he thought unceasingly about such matters. And yet he did not want to make things more complicated for himself by getting into the maelstrom of politics.
Most of the traders in Monglahaat in Howrah were Bengali Muslims. The rest had their origins in East Bengal. All of these latter people, who had come from East Pakistan (and later from Bangladesh too), were big traders now. They had sold off their village homesteads and come over to West Bengal. They possessed a lot of money. Thanks to the benefaction of the state government, it didn’t take them long to attain stability. The government was sympathetic to the refugees. But they were not able to integrate themselves completely with West Bengal. One of the reasons for that was the language they spoke. They had not given up their mother tongues. However educated the refugees were, they retained an East Bengali accent in their speech. And because of this, they were easily identifiable as formerly belonging to East Bengal.
Maruf’s shop was in New Monglahaat. Most of the traders there were from East Bengal. As soon as he heard their speech, Maruf remembered the history that he had himself never witnessed. The partition of the country, East Pakistan, the birth of Bangladesh, and so much more. The plight of the minorities was almost the same in all countries and at all times. Maruf had spoken to many people and learnt that most of them had come away to India principally for economic reasons and on account of social values. They couldn’t have engaged in business there, rather, they had to live in constant fear. India was ten times larger than Bangladesh. More developed, and certainly a Hindu majority. So they always had a strong attraction. Maruf had good relations with all of them. They were followers of the Boishnob sect of Hinduism. They greeted one another saying, ‘Jai Radhe!’ Some said, ‘Jai Nitai!’
Parimal Saha was a wise man. His shop was next to Maruf’s. Maruf learnt a lot of things from him. Whenever he had time to spare, he went and sat with Parimal Kaka. He said, ‘Unless Nitai, or Sri Chaitanya Dev were born, there would have been almost no Hindus left among the Bengalis. Do you get that! Everyone would have flocked to embrace Islam and become Muslim. After all, most of the Muslims in Bengal were converts. They converted to escape the curse of caste discrimination and the oppression of the upper castes. But Sri Chaitanya Dev halted that reaction. He put an end to all caste discrimination, and created a space where brahmins and untouchables could sit together. As a result, low-caste Hindus found dignity. At the same time, the tendency to convert also declined. Without faith and love, people can never be free, you know. That’s why he was a Mahaprabhu.’
Hearing Parimal Kaka speaking, Maruf remembered something Zaman Saheb had said in a speech. He had said, ‘At various times, various individuals were promoted in the interest of damage control in Hindu society. For instance, in order to arrest the trend among the newly educated Bengali Hindus to embrace Christianity, Keshub Chandra Sen was brought into the picture.’ The schoolteacher, Zaman Saheb, who was a relative of his, knew much more than Parimal Kaka.
There was one incident that Maruf would never forget. It was a Tuesday. The haat was in ebb. Almost all the shops were devoid of buyers. The toong toong strains of a khanjira from far away came wafting. A Boishnob clad in saffron stopped at Maruf’s shop and stretched out his hand for alms. He had a streak of sandalwood paste on his forehead, a string of tulsi beads on his neck, and songs of Radha–Krishna on his lips. He stood for a moment in front of Maruf’s shop, and then suddenly stopped his singing and sought to move away to another shop. Maruf was taken aback. What was wrong? He called out to him, ‘What happened, Dadu, won’t you collect your alms?’
The grandfatherly Boishnob returned. Smiling humbly, ‘Please don’t mind, son, I didn’t realize you were Muslim until I saw the picture of the Kaaba on the calendar.’
‘Don’t you take alms from Muslims?’
‘I didn’t come for alms, son. I sing the Lord’s name. The Bangaals respond cheerfully saying “Radhe, Radhe”. They give me a baksheesh. How would I please you?’
Maruf didn’t say any more. The Boishnob left. He returned after some time. He asked, ‘Do you want to listen to a song?’
‘Please sing it.’
The grandfatherly Boishnob began singing throatily –
Mon Bilaler azan shune,
dil kaabate nemaj poro –
oi kaabate sejda kore,
hoq potheri daman dhoro.
The mind hears Bilal’s azan call,
Pray at the Kaaba, O heart –
Prostrate at the Kaaba,
And walk the path of Truth.
Maruf listened to him in amazement. He was engrossed. He paid tribute to him with a baksheesh. The man left, but the song didn’t – it echoed in his head. He had wondered several times whether the song was completely opposed to the shariat. But the very next moment, he wondered, was this the real self-purification, the path to self-realization? If self-purification was necessary in order to establish good deeds and resist those that were wrong, that called for a certain power. What was the name of that power? Spiritual power, or political power? What power did the great sages employ to achieve social revolution?
Maruf kept thinking about a labouring man. Right at dawn today, Nazir had told him, ‘You are the only one I know who is a truly good man.’ Was that true? What was his heart like? Did it hear the azan call of Bilal, the Prophet’s own beloved muezzin who possessed a melodious voice?
thirty-three
Riziya confided in Suman when she encountered any problem. Suman tried to solve that to the best of his ability. She trusted him. Not just as her tutor – Suman was her counsellor, and a good friend. He had no small role to play in the fact that she was studying in college. It was Suman who she spoke to in regard to the land matter.
Suman’s Kaka, Sushil Nath, was a court clerk. Suman took Riziya to him. After listening to everything, he said, ‘Whatever you said to Rafiq was absolutely correct. You needn’t worry about anything. They have sold off all the land that rightfully belonged to your mother. This was the only plot that was left. I’ve told you this many times earlier too. Just don’t agree to anything.’
Riziya seemed to feel a bit emboldened at that. But she kept to herself why she did not wish to sell off the land. There was no need to disclose that. It was a personal matter of hers. Wasn’t she entitled to her dreams? Didn’t she too want to live a life of her own design? She had a secret relationship of love with Tahirul. And after all, that relationship ought to have an outcome. Hadn’t Riziya come to be aware of Tahirul’s heart’s disposition? Riziya wanted to set up home with Tahirul. That piece of land was the first tiny bit towards that. How could she ever sell off this sole means of fulfilling her dreams? No! She would never sell that land under any circumstances.
‘Are you there, Maruf, son?’
‘Yes, Abba. What happened?’
‘Rafiq Ali had come. He was looking for you.’
‘Why? Why was he looking for me?’
Maruf thought for a while and then answered his own question. ‘Oh! It’s election time again, isn’t it! I think it might be for that. Rafiq Bhai will be most solicitous with every family!’
‘No, it’s not about elections, he mentioned something else…’
‘What was that, Abba?’
‘It was about the land belonging to the Miyas. About which there had been trouble in the mosque.’
‘So what’s happened now?’
