But his dear wife paid no heed to him. Rather, she excitedly said, ‘Listen, a bhabi from my father’s village went to Ghutiari Sharif this year as well. She had one this time, you know! They had a son! The Pir’s blessings!’

‘But you’ve already been there once. You sat with your hands dipped in the Pir’s pond. A flower came floating into your hand. But did anything happen?’

‘Come, let’s go to a majar again. Shall we go to Berachampa this time? Or to Patharchapri? A very enlightened Pir! If we really…’

‘No. There’s no point going so far away. Just pray to Allah. Pay obeisance to the names of Pirs and Prophets so that Allah may be pleased with you. If you have a son, that’s very good, but don’t worry if you don’t. Even the sons of Allah’s Prophet didn’t survive.’

The new majar in Sadnahati still looked bright and sparkling. After the Jumma prayers on Friday, all the menfolk from the Haji household went to visit the tomb. Those who were dear to Haji Saheb also did that. Kalu Miya, Rajek Sheikh, Nasir Sheikh, and so on. It was good to visit it from time to time. Thoughts about the afterlife arose in one’s mind.

A tea shop had been provided to the old Chacha who had been assigned the responsibility of maintaining the majar. After all, how long could he just sit, like a watchman! Although the graveyard was almost desolate, some people came to the area because of his shop nearby. They sat on the machan and gossiped. He had to keep some items of daily use in the shop, in case anyone needed something. After the Friday Jumma prayer, Chacha, too, opened his shop. He sold

paan–beedi–cigarettes, gutka–paan masala. The environs of the majar were turning into a regular market; its solitude was waning. A vegetable-seller arrived on a cycle-van; he too set up shop. A man had made arrangements to start a telebhaja shop just beside Chacha’s tea shop – his own place. Let him do that, it was just as well. There wasn’t a single shop on this side of the road because of the vast graveyard. Very few people came to these parts. One got an eerie sense even in the daytime. But now on Fridays, and every evening, there was quite a crowd. In between his shopkeeping, Chacha observed whether anyone did anything unbecoming. His eyes were ever alert.

The gate was beside the shop. Not the gate of the majar, but the one to enter the graveyard. One had to go through that first. The gate of the graveyard was always open. There were arrangements to ensure that cows and goats couldn’t enter. There was a winding road from the gate to the majar. Haji Saheb’s grandson, Sharif, had fondly planted a row of beautiful plants. All those plants obtained from a nursery were very small now. Chacha watered them in the evening. The plants seemed to burst into smiles on receiving that water. They took on a fresh appearance.

Whenever an in-law or a guest visited Sadnahati for the first time, they were brought to Chacha’s shop for tea. It was a secluded, shady spot. Chacha made nice tea and showed them around Haji Saheb’s majar. This was the noteworthy thing about Sadnahati now. The visitor expressed enthusiasm. Chacha then poured an infusion of strong tea liquor into the cup – into his words as well. He said, ‘Everyone has a grave, but not everyone has a majar, dear brother! Our Haji Saheb was Allah’s protector. You are sitting beside the majar of a protector of Allah!’

If that visitor was a young man, he was no longer loud, and his speech turned respectful. He stopped using the word for the secret ‘act’ with which every few words of his speech would have had been punctuated until then. Allah would not tolerate any untowardness in front of his protector. He knew that, and heeded it. After all, he was a Muslim too!

Terpol Haji’s son, Jasim, had returned to the village a few days back after qualifying as a doctor. The boy who had studied in the Al-Ameen Mission was quite modern-minded while also being religious. He was the one who used to visit Haji Saheb to check his blood pressure. Jasim could not attend the funerary prayer; he had his examinations then. It was morning, and Jasim was standing at Chacha’s tea shop and gazing at Haji Saheb’s tomb. But it wasn’t just a tomb! He gazed for a long while at this new monument in the village. The majar was really lovely. Some work still remained. He heaved a deep sigh. Jasim’s life had been spent away from here. Many people in the village didn’t recognize him. Seeing him gazing raptly at the majar, Chacha asked him, ‘What are you looking at, son?’

‘Oh nothing! I was looking just like that.’

‘Hmm. You can visit it if you want. But beware, son! Don’t bow your head. All that’s haram in the shariat!’

Jasim looked at him and grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

They were mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. No one in the locality would vouch for sweet relations between them. But however strained the relations were, they were similar in one respect – and that was lamentation for a son in the family. There were eight members in the family, with only a single male member: Nurul Huq alone. In regard to wearing amulets and talismans, these two women, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, became one. They discussed among themselves whether an evil eye had been cast upon either of them. They thought they ought to respect the homestead as well. The duo of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law began digging holes in the earth in the four corners of the homestead. Had anyone buried anything there? After a while, Nurul’s Ma’s hand struck some pieces of bone. After examining them closely, she said in astonishment, ‘Just see this, Bouma! Someone’s cast a spell with pieces of bone! That’s why I wondered why my homestead’s not blessed. Don’t the children of the sons of bastards who do all this die of heart palpitations? Does harm have to come only our way? What did we ever do to them?’

But she shouted and swore in vain. Nurul’s wife supported her, although she was inwardly unwilling. Wouldn’t there be bones around in a Muslim locality? Meat was cooked at home all week, and then there were bones from the sacrificed animal, especially since the slaughtering spot was only a hundred yards away. One would keep finding bones if one dug the earth. But she didn’t want to annoy her mother-in-law. Rather, this way, attention was diverted from her own supposed fault. So, she, too exclaimed, ‘Oh Allah! So that was it! I can’t believe it! You know, Ma, I think someone must have come at night and buried them here!’

After that, the two of them swore at their enemies to their hearts’ content. There was no quarrelling between them that day. At times, they became even closer. But none of the neighbours had any clue. They only saw the quarrels between the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law.

Nurul’s Ma had brought some secret news. It could even be that she had imagined the news. She pushed open the door in the middle of the night and called Nurul’s wife out. She had just dozed off, and her eyes were heavy with sleep. But she went out.

‘What happened, Ma?’ She looked at her mother-in-law with curiosity.

Nurul’s Ma whispered, ‘Hey daughter-in-law! Are you pure now?’

Nurul’s wife felt most embarrassed. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at her husband through the gap in the door. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Come, let’s go.’

‘Where are you taking me so late at night, Ma?’

‘To the majar. Who knows whose blessings please Allah!’

‘Which majar?’

‘Haji Saheb’s majar. Come on, get ready. I bought incense sticks. I’ve taken a bottle of water. Isn’t it Thursday today? It’s an auspicious day. Come, let’s go and offer vows there.’

The azan for the Fajr prayer at dawn had just concluded. Chacha would light the stove in the shop and then join the gathering at the mosque. The black coals would be flaming red by the time he returned. As he turned the light on, his eyes fell on the gate of the majar. Smoke spiralled up from a bundle of lighted incense sticks. The fragrance of the incense at this dawn hour pleased him. But he was stunned. What was this! Who had placed incense at the majar! A bottle of water was kept nearby. He thought he spotted some coins as well! He counted those – it was twenty-one rupees.

There was usually a bit of a crowd at the shop after the Fajr prayer. Many of the musulli observed the matter. Of course, they only saw the incense sticks. They didn’t pay that much attention. If people placed fragrances at a tomb or majar, what was wrong with that? After all, no one was committing any shirk.

As the morning advanced, Chacha headed to the market to buy provisions for the shop. He bought lots of things. He suddenly thought he could stock some incense sticks. Sending a customer away saying ‘no’ was not the sign of a good shopkeeper. He bought a few gross packets of incense sticks.

forty-four

Maruf had desires, but he lacked the means to realize them. He was pained to observe the degeneration in his community. Seeing the problems from close quarters left him feeling rudderless. Each person and family seemed to be crippled by the curse of illiteracy and poverty. It was as if a woodworm of decay was devouring the community from within. Maruf could discern its sound, but he was simply unable to ferret the pest out. He couldn’t figure out where it lay hidden. When one heard the sound of a woodworm boring its way into old furniture, finding it was a big challenge. Maruf seemed to be in a similar situation.

Monglahaat, in Howrah, bore not just the history of Howrah district but also that of the frightening situation of the Muslims of North and South 24 Parganas districts. Most of the manual labourers and porters belonged to the latter two districts. Maruf observed them with amazement. They had been mired in poverty for centuries. Niyamat was one such man. His name was Mir Niyamat Ali. The titles of Muslim labouring folk were Baidya, Dhali, Paik, Gayen and so on. When Niyamat mentioned his title to them, that was with a deep voice. After all, they were Mirs. Maruf was amused by that. They seemed to have forgotten centuries of deprivation. Although they had been transformed into marginalized labourers from their

upper-class Ashraf origins, there was a lingering pride in Niyamat regarding his lineage.

Niyamat worked in Maruf’s shop as well. It was a Tuesday afternoon, the market was at an ebb. There were very few people around. About ten sackfuls of materials still lay in a heap in Maruf’s godown. The transport people had failed to arrive. Maruf always favoured Niyamat. The poor man had a large family, and he was extremely honest and hard-working. That’s why he had given him the task of carrying these ten sacks. The goods could not be loaded until the transport men arrived. They had to be numbered first. Meanwhile, Niyamat was becoming impatient. He was tut-tutting and glancing at his watch repeatedly. And then he said with great exasperation, ‘Dada, I have to be off now.’

‘Why, dear chap! Just a couple more hours, and then both of us are off. Didn’t you say that you didn’t get any work all day? Will you go home empty-handed?’

‘I’m happy with whatever Allah has in store for me. I’d better go. Call someone else. I don’t have any more time! I have to catch a train from Sealdah. Got to return to Lakshmikantapur. The trains are terribly crowded!’

‘What’s your great hurry? Why don’t you stay a bit longer, Niyamat! We can’t begin until the transport people arrive. You can drop these ten sacks. I’ll give you a thousand rupees immediately after that. Is that a meagre amount?’

But Niyamat was obstinate. He wanted to leave at once. He was only waiting for Maruf’s assent. Maruf was annoyed now. Didn’t the man have a sense of responsibility? Whom would he find now in a market that was nearly closed? He said, ‘Look, Niyamat, there are plenty of porters in the market. But why do I call you? Because you are poor, and a Muslim.’ And then, teasing him playfully, he said, ‘Even though you neither pray nor fast. Do you? Why do you think I call you and give you work? Because you are from our Imam Saheb’s village.’

Perhaps Niyamat was a bit embarrassed by that. In fact, Maulana Tahirul’s village was far away from his village. Someone or the other had recommended him to Maruf. That was the extent of his acquaintance with him.

Niyamat began trying to think of a justification for not observing prayers and fasts. And then he said, ‘I know that. I can’t fast when I work as a porter. I get very thirsty. And we are ignorant folk. What do we know of prayer?’

‘Forget about that. Why don’t you stay on for a while? You said you earned twelve hundred rupees in the last two days. How is that enough? If you stay on for a couple of hours, at least you’ll earn a thousand rupees. You’ll go back home with twenty-two hundred rupees. All right?’

‘No, Dada, I don’t want to disregard you, but I have a lot of work at home. My daughter and son-in-law are all coming to visit. I have to make purchases. After all, Allah granted me a thousand or twelve hundred rupees the last two days! That’s enough for me! I’m off.’

‘Why are you in such a terrible hurry?’

‘There’s a programme in my village! A Pirzada Hujur will be coming. It’s the biggest gathering in our village. Didn’t I tell you about it last week? I’ve been assigned the responsibility of cooking. So there’ll be a problem if I don’t go. Twenty-five pots of biryani will be cooked today. It must have begun by now.’

‘Is it only you who will do the cooking?’

‘Is it ever done by just one person? What on earth are you saying! There will be lots of people. I’ve been given the task of fetching things. Bringing water, firewood, and so on. I don’t know how to cook!’