‘Am I unclean that you’re driving me out? Is it only menfolk who can enter the mosque? Come now, come home, I tell you. Or else it’ll be terrible. You have nothing to do with prayer and fasting, and here you are lying in the mosque!’
After that, she spoke in a placatory tone, as if in explanation: ‘You’ve not eaten anything all night. I’ll explain everything to Riziya. I haven’t told her anything yet. Except that I am not agreeable. But does that mean that you’ll get angry, leave home, and come here like this? Think about the girl, Miya! Come, let’s go home. One shouldn’t talk so much in the mosque. Someone might see us.’
Through the gap in the door, Tahirul observed Riziya’s Chhoto Mami, that is, Salaam’s wife, holding his hand and exiting the mosque cautiously. He laughed inwardly at the conversation between husband and wife. So had the divine guidance that Salaam Miya supposedly received, which the musulli were telling him about after last night’s Isha prayer, not really happened? The Miya had simply got angry and gone to the mosque!
But one thing struck Tahirul. What would they explain to Riziya? Why had Salaam Miya got angry and taken refuge in the mosque? This was indeed an interesting problem! He ought to talk to Riziya about this.
As Tahirul pondered over such things, he remembered that he had to call out the azan for the Fajr prayer. He came out of his room, now fearless. He was not supposed to be afraid of a jinn. He himself was a perfect maulana who had attained the power to control jinns. The entire populace of Sadnahati believed that.
It was the month of Falgun. The air always pleasant, the weather always sparkling. It was this time that was selected for conducting an important ritual – the khatna. Villagers referred to that as ‘mosolmani’. It was customary to perform the khatna when a child was between three and five years old. It wasn’t a problem if the age was a bit more. The khatna had a special significance in the Muslim community. Maruf had no idea how the excision of skin had come to be called ‘mosolmani’. This was a ritual of Muslims, and this ancient ritual coming down from Prophet Ibrahim was also prevalent among Jews. So why was it called mosolmani? Did that mean that one could not be a Muslim unless he was circumcised? A discussion was going on in the Eidgah field on exactly this subject.
People came to this vast field around night-time to enjoy the breeze. This was the only place in Sadnahati where one could take in the fresh air. Small groups, each comprising like-minded people of the same age, sat in circles on the green grass. There were four people in Maruf’s circle. Farid, Maruf, Suman, and a friend of Farid’s from another village, who was also Muslim. The Eidgah field was their hangout.
It was Suman who had asked them the question, because he had received an invitation from Kalu Miya’s household – an invitation to the mosolmani feast. That was like a wedding feast. But the number of people attending was fewer. The custom of doing the akika and the khatna together was also prevalent. Animals were slaughtered at the akika. Two animals if it was a male child, and one when it was female. That also involved a feast at lunchtime, and at night, there was a discourse on the Prophet and lectures by speakers. Of course, Suman had not received an invitation for the night programme.
The following day, the male child bathed and, putting on a new vest and small lungi, waited for the expert hajam. The hajam and the butcher were supposed to be pitiless. Neither of them was affected by bloodshed. Bloodshed was their profession.
A person held the boy carefully. After that, using a sharpened razor, the hajam cut off with ease the skin at the top of the penis. The audience of family members recited the kalema then. ‘La ilaha illallah Muhammadur Rasoolullah.’ The little child burst into sobs. ‘Oh Allah!’ The only person who could be observed to be also crying then was his mother. But she stayed behind; she wept in secret. After applying medication with great care on the excised spot, the hajam exclaimed, ‘Why do you cry, boy? The mosolmani is over, it doesn’t hurt any more, does it? Go and lie down. It will heal. Do boys cry, eh?’
Suman asked, ‘Why do you people get circumcised?’ He really wanted to know. Farid replied, ‘Since you people are Hindus, you aren’t circumcised. But we are Muslims, so we have the mosolmani. That’s the simple truth! Is this any kind of question, Suman!’
Suman burst out laughing. He said, ‘You are a donkey, and shall always be one! How can Muslims have mosolmani? Were you all Hindus then before the circumcision? So do the religions depend upon that?’ And as he said that, he pointed towards his groin. Farid too began to laugh. He thought, yes, that’s right! How stupid of me! He praised Suman inwardly. That’s why he was fond of educated folk. He hung out with them. One could learn a lot thereby.
Suman was aware that the biggest problem among Muslims was that many people belonging to the community did not possess a thorough knowledge of Islamic law, rules and regulations, rituals, or even history. They were like this Farid. After all, not everyone was like Maruf, who could provide a simple explanation for everything.
The khatna created a permanent identity. This was something very normal. But why was it called mosolmani? Why was it accompanied by all these arrangements? After all, the khatna was not essential to becoming a Muslim. It was an important sunnat. Sunnat-e-Ibrahim. Circumcising male children was a ritual coming down from ancient times, a religious custom. But Maruf disliked the fact that this was observed with unnecessary expenditures.
Female children had their ears and nostrils pierced so that they could wear ornaments. But there was no fanfare on that occasion.
Were there any instructions in the Koran and the Hadith regarding organizing such religious gatherings and feasts? Was it laid down somewhere that the kalema had to be collectively recited while the khatna was performed? If a non-Muslim surgeon performed this task in a hospital, was that wrong? Maruf told Suman whatever he knew about the khatna ritual. He also explained that it was a symbol of civility. ‘People cut their hair and their nails, don’t they? Why do they do that, Suman?’
‘That’s a different aspect. But I was thinking about something else. You know what, don’t you think circumcising a male child is like our thread ceremony? A father’s responsibility. When we have the upanayan ceremony, it is perceived as a second birth. That’s why a brahmin is called a dwija. The dwija are those who are born twice. The boy enters brahminhood. Although the two things are completely different, don’t you see a similarity at some level? Perhaps a Muslim boy becomes a Muslim through the khatna. Perhaps just like the gayatri mantra is recited for us, the kalema is recited for you people. These come from our imagination.’
‘Why do you always try to find parallels between these two religions, Suman?’
‘I feel happy seeing parallels rather than differences. It makes me think that we are all actually one. That’s all! We’re the offspring of Adam, whether Hindu or Muslim!’
There were two others besides Suman sitting there. They were Muslim, they had been circumcised too. Yet Maruf thought that they were probably astonished to hear their conversation. Although, of late, Farid had been doing a little bit of reading. Maruf wondered whether anything important could be achieved with people who did not possess a clear understanding of their own culture.
Maulana Tahirul was invited for the function in the Miya household. The arrangements for lunch were excellent. They had not invited too many people. So there wasn’t much of a commotion. Many arrived carrying gifts following the Zuhr prayer. They were giving the gifts to the boy who was going to be circumcised.
Both Maruf and Tahirul were present. Suman had just arrived. He was the only non-Muslim there. There were separate arrangements for him. But he did not want to sit separately today. Maruf knew that the biryani prepared with the forbidden meat was no longer unacceptable to Suman. But Tahirul didn’t know that. So he was a bit astonished. When they sat down together to eat, Maruf asked laughingly, ‘What are you wondering, Hujur? I doubt if you’ve ever eaten as many sheekh kebabs as he has wolfed down!’
Addressing Suman with an incredulous look on his face, Tahirul asked, ‘Do they know at home?’
‘My brother knows. Ma doesn’t.’
Punning on the words ‘sheekh kebab’ and ‘shikkha bhab’, meaning educated, Maruf said in jest, ‘Just like he has sheekh kebabs in his tummy, he also has an educated air. Many of us only have the sheekh kebabs, while there’s an acute lack of education. That’s the tragedy.’
Suman laughed at the joke. After all, he had read Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Chacha Kahini (Uncle’s Tales), in which the pun had been used.
Tahirul wondered why Suman had not been invited into Islam all these days. He ought to discuss this subject with him later. They began eating.
Kalu Miya came up to them to enquire whether they were being taken care of. Rahman, too, came, and was obsequious with Maruf. His fussiness was somewhat excessive. A pandal had been erected in the courtyard for lunch. The veranda of the house lay in front of that. Tahirul spotted Fulsura there. The girl appeared to be woebegone. After all, girls took on a radiant appearance after they were married. He had of course heard from Riziya about Fulsura, that there was a lot of unpleasantness in her household. That must be true – he couldn’t see her husband around. Had he skipped the event? Tahirul turned towards Maruf and asked discreetly, ‘Did you see the new groom, I mean Fulsura’s husband?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘I believe they are not getting along. That’s the bitter fruit of marrying them off in a hurry, you know.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I heard about it.’
They sat for a while after finishing their lunch, chatted about this and that. There were separate seating arrangements for the womenfolk. Tahirul glanced furtively in that direction as he spoke. Perhaps Riziya had not come here. Tahirul was aware that Fulsura was not on talking terms with her. So her absence was not unexpected. Thus he was free of the urge to see Riziya that he would otherwise have had. Kalu Miya had whispered something to Maruf, who then got up and left with him. Suman bid Tahirul farewell and took off. He said he was in a hurry. He could not afford to be late. So what was Tahirul to do all alone? He chatted for a little while with some people and then left.
The entrances to Kalu Miya’s and Salaam Miya’s houses were next to one another, and separate. As Tahirul was leaving, he spotted Suman talking to someone. Who could that be, standing in front of Salaam Miya’s door? He could see Suman, but not the person he was talking to. There was a cloth curtain at the entrance of most Muslim households. Someone was standing there, holding the curtain. As he got closer, he saw it was Riziya. Seeing him there, all of a sudden, she salaamed him somewhat surprisedly. As Suman was about to leave, Tahirul said to him, ‘You know what, you should become a Muslim, sir! That would be great!’
‘Meaning?’
‘Wasn’t Maruf saying that you’ve wolfed down lots of sheekh kebabs! That’s why.’
‘So what? I’ve been consuming that for a long time. Just ask Riziya. I’ve eaten beef in her house as well. Does one have to become a Muslim if one eats beef?’
‘I guess I didn’t say that merely because you eat beef. There are plenty of other reasons as well. Try to find educated people!’
