The Amir Saheb, Haidar Bhai, sat for zikr late at night, with all the members of our group. I had sat down to write in a corner in the mosque. I could make out that he had severe objections regarding that. He called me for zikr. All I told him was, let me do fikr (thinking) first, and I will do zikr after that. I think that angered him. He hasn’t been speaking to me since then. But actually, I can’t do zikr in that way. I don’t understand what is to be gained by repeating some Arabic words again and again. Perhaps I haven’t yet attained the knowledge for that. Maybe there is a value to such zikr, which I am unable to perceive. I know something about the establishment of the Tablighi Jamaat. Maulana Ilyas had actually initiated a movement for prayer as the fundamental yardstick for attaining heaven. It was prayer that was the main difference between a Muslim and a non-Muslim. A movement for prayer – a religious movement. I support this movement. Because this is not merely a movement for prayer but the means to build the fundamental spine of a people. But that movement seems to have become a lot like a tradition, of observing some unchanging rules and principles devotedly. As if that observance implied the path to heaven. It’s very late now. We will depart tomorrow. I will end here today.

We set out after the Fajr prayer at dawn. Everyone had a bag in their hands, with essential items. In accordance with our schedule, we arrived at Panchla. This part of Howrah district has an importance. Panchla was not so far away. It was still morning when we reached. The population was predominantly Muslim. Seeing this group of seven, the local folk realized that we had come out on a Tablighi jamaat. On Rajab Ali’s suggestion, we decided to go to a tea shop for some tea. We observed that there were about four elderly people chatting as they sipped tea. One of them had a cap on his head. We greeted them. All of them returned the greeting. The one who was a musulli spoke to Haidar Bhai most respectfully. I couldn’t hear what he said. I had heard a lot of caustic remarks before I left on the jamaat. It was from within the Muslim community itself that the jamaat faced countless impediments. Many people made various comments, some said insulting things too. Those who were travellers on the path of labour of the jamaat set out with the required mental preparation. We were here with our dignity intact. Some of us had tea. Saidul Bhai had the habit of chewing paan. He bought some paans, put one into his mouth and began chewing it, and then he wrapped the others in a piece of paper and put it into his pocket.

After that we began walking towards a mosque.

The name of the village was Singdiyara. That was the official name of the place. I saw the name of the place on the way. We passed by Singdiyara Sporting Club. But people referred to the village as Singdara. And once that became common, some people abbreviated it to Singara. What was the name for this process of making difficult things easy? Whatever grammar might say, I think this has to do with human nature. Is it good to carry out such simplification in all spheres? What about all the complexities of life? From the beginning of civilization until today, people have learnt to make difficult things easier. It was like a labyrinth. It was as easy as it was complex. The process of making the difficult easy has been continuing for time immemorial, and the world has been carrying on with an admixture of good and bad. As I was pondering over these strange things regarding worldly matters and we entered the village, I noticed a Hindu mutt. A few broken pedestals and memorial stones were lying here and there in quite a large vacant green, with tulsi plants on them. Two small temples under a banyan tree surrounded by its aerial roots. Just beside that was an eight-roofed structure. The desolate place was provided further shade by two peepul trees. And behind that, beside a canal, was a crematorium. The name of the mutt was Singdiyara Mahananda Mutt. I was struck by how apt the name of the mutt and crematorium was.

My companions must surely have been busy earning merit through prayers as they walked. Because this seven-person band of ours was advancing almost in silence. No one was talking to anyone. A question popped up in my mind suddenly. But I didn’t think there was anyone appropriate to ask it to. The question was about the ‘soul’. The subject of the soul was a very important one. According to the Koran, Allah the Guardian had instructed the Prophet that very little knowledge about the soul had been conferred on the offspring of Adam. I have a lot to learn. There are so many things that I don’t know.

We reached the end of the Hindu hamlet of the village. Beyond that was a narrow bamboo bridge. After that began the Muslim hamlet of Singdara. The mosque was a bit further on.

Haidar Bhai and I were discussing why most Muslim hamlets were situated at such a distance from the main road.

I told Haidar Bhai what my thoughts on this subject were. The Muslims of Bengal were actually the original inhabitants of all these areas. Like in our own Sadnahati. And history also tells us that most of these people were low-caste Hindus, or Buddhists, who had converted to Islam. It wasn’t only them, we were in that category too. All were landless labouring folk. They were oppressed terribly by the upper castes. They comprised the majority of the population. But they had been defeated by a small number of the upper castes. They were objects of hate. Such slavery had remained invisible for generations. But the invisible folk demanded freedom. They demanded peace. They demanded recognition as humans. When Islam’s pleasant breeze of equality arrived at their doorstep, they embraced the religion. And so – perhaps Haidar Bhai didn’t exactly like what I said. Of course, there was a reason for that. Haidar Bhai was under the belief that all Muslims were of high caste. That they were all nawabs and badshahs, the descendants of Pirs and auliyas. That was why all of them belonged to the ‘general’ category. But how could Muslims be of high or low caste! He had an argument about this earlier. So I think he was displeased as soon as I began talking about that. He began talking about something else.

The moment one entered a Muslim hamlet, one knew who it belonged to. I saw a sample of that after we had walked past vast vacant tracts. A densely populated and noisy settlement lay here. Narrow, dirty roads. The stamp of underdevelopment was visible everywhere. It looked like a by-election had concluded recently. The flags of the two contending parties were everywhere. As if it was some kind of flag contest. I saw the campaign-writing on the walls. I was right. A sudden by-election for the Panchayat Samiti. Both the candidates were non-Muslim.

There were no earthen houses in Singdara. But the ‘houses’ had not come up in a well-planned way either. Single- and two-storeyed ‘houses’ had come up in places in the settlement that consisted mostly of tile-roofed huts. Those houses were painted in garish colours. I observed people at work on the verandas of the houses along the road. Cottage industry. The principal livelihood of the people of Singdara was zari-making. Four or five people were working with their heads bent over each wooden frame. Some of them greeted us when they noticed our band. Some others looked away and returned to their work. Observing their sidelong glances, I realized they were trying to avoid us.

We went directly to the mosque. It was not yet time for the azan to be called out for the noontime Zuhr prayer. Observing the indifferent attitude of the Imam Saheb, I realized that one need not be worried about hostility towards the Tablighi Jamaat. Nor was there any warmth. The mosque was not a large one. From its very appearance it was clear that it had not been repaired for a long time. Perhaps it wasn’t required. When I went in for the Zuhr prayer, I could see that it wasn’t repaired. There were fifteen musulli in all, including our group of seven. Haidar Bhai delivered his advice at the end of the prayer. Everyone had to go out for labour. Haidar Saheb had probably seen very few Muslim localities that were so withered. His enthusiasm conveyed that he thought the fundamental objective of the Tablighi Jamaat, which was to lead unknowing Muslims to the mosque, would be achieved in Singdara, Inshallah! After all, the Tablighi Jamaat existed entirely for all these notional Muslims. Many people said that they had set out to follow the way of the Prophet! So did Allah’s Prophet preach to believers? He preached to the kaffirs. Why don’t you go there, my dear! Carry Islam to the kaffirs! Alas! If only they paid attention to the plight of poor Muslims living in such remote villages. Religiosity, bereft of contemplation, seems to have become blunt. There is irreligion in the name of religion, and Muslims have become involved in bedaat and shirk. Was preaching at every door of theirs wrong?

Maruf read his diary until this point, and then put it down. He had noted down specific incidents and experiences. The memory of the wound of disregard that Maruf received after returning from the forty-day-long chilla resurfaced in his mind. His little sister had got married! It had been such a long time since he had seen her. He yearned for her.

He went into Amina’s room. The room was associated with so many memories of his sister. He felt terribly hurt by her. No, he wouldn’t go to her in-laws’ house just to meet her. He picked up Amina’s textbooks from her bookshelf and ruffled the pages. Amina was as organized a girl as Maruf was disorganized. Everything bore the stamp of her care. That’s why her books still looked brand new. A pile of exercise books and study notes was arranged on one side. He picked up an exercise book from the top of the pile and went through it. But he noticed that it did not belong to Amina! It was a history exercise book. It belonged to Amina’s friend, Riziya. Her name was on it. Maruf was impressed by her handwriting. Every letter was clearly legible. The letters were all roundish but of uniform size. The girl amazed him.

sixty-one

Maruf was familiar with everything in Amina’s room. It was on her demand that he had bought most of the furnishings. The carved dressing table along the wall too had been purchased by Maruf last year for his adored sister. But she suddenly got married and left the room. That was why Maruf felt weighed down. Of course, he did not know anything about the marriage yet. Had Abba and Bor Da forced her to get married? If that was the case, Maruf was not going to keep quiet.

Farid arrived at night. Maruf had sat down to eat by then. Farid’s face seemed to convey that he had a lot to say. Such a terrible thing had taken place on the soil of Sadnahati, and Maruf was yet to learn about it. Farid had been waiting for Maruf for days on end. Now that he was back, he had to be the first person to tell him all about it. Farid was very eager to do that. Maruf greeted him, ‘Tell me, Farid! How are all of you?’

‘Things aren’t good, Maruf Bhai. Not at all good.’

‘Why?’

‘Haven’t you heard anything? So many things have happened here!’

Maruf’s mind was in knots as he listened to Farid. He was at a loss to understand anything. It took him quite a long while to untie the Gordian knot. He was stunned after hearing everything. Could something like this really happen? Maruf knew about the secret relationship that had developed between Maulana Tahirul and Riziya. He had thought that this would have reached its natural outcome. But how did Suman suddenly come into the picture? And for that matter, how had Riziya come under Suman’s influence in just a few days and turned anti-religious? Maruf sat in silence pondering over the matter. There was a problem somewhere. There was something else going on. The calculus was not an easy one, it was complex. He said to Farid, ‘Is the writing on the wall still there?’

‘No, it’s been wiped out.’

‘Damn!’

‘But the police have taken photographs. Why did you ask about that?’

‘It’s important. Will you come with me to the police station, Farid? Do you know which officer is handling the case? I need to see those photographs. It’s very important.’

‘I need to find Riziya and Suman by any means, Maruf Bhai. Unless I find Riziya, I can’t prove that I’m innocent.’

‘So come with me to the police station.’

‘Right now? You’ve just come back. It’s ten o’clock at night.’

‘Just now. In any case, I’m not going to be able to sleep today. Come, Farid, let’s go.’

Maruf spotted Suman’s brother, Abhijit, on the street the following day. Maruf called out to him, ‘Hey Abhi, listen.’

Abhijit hesitantly came and stood before Maruf. He asked him in astonishment, ‘Tell me, Maruf Da, where were you all these days? I couldn’t recognize you at first because you’ve grown a beard.’

‘I was away for a month and a half. And as soon as I returned, I heard about all the shocking things. Can you please come to my house tonight? I need to talk to you.’

‘Sure, I’ll come.’

Abhijit made to leave after saying that, but then stopped. He came closer and said, ‘Maruf Da, if I knew you were back, I myself would have come to meet you.’

As a matter of fact, the narrative regarding the relationship had changed a bit. The two communities no longer discussed the matter of Suman and Riziya’s elopement openly. But a suppressed curiosity remained. Although a lot of pressure had been brought to bear on the people of Jogipara for a month, and no one seemed to have any inkling of their whereabouts, nonetheless, eventually, the murky silt settled down and became placid. The clearer the water became, the cleaner it got. The people of Sadnahati continued their life routines. They went back to their respective circles. But the relationship had created distrust. There was an invisible fissure now. No one could speak their mind to anybody. Abhijit was Suman’s own brother. He had known Maruf ever since his childhood, as his elder brother’s friend. It was only to Maruf that he could say what he wanted to, tell him about the terror he was living in.

He could tell him how ill his Ma had been ever since the incident, explain that his brother was simply not the kind of person to do something wrong, and even if he did, the people of Jogipara were not to be blamed for that.

Maruf had fallen into deep thought after returning from the police station yesterday. Why had a girl like Riziya forsaken the Muslim community and left? Why had Maulana Tahirul resigned from the post of Imam before that? And the secret union between Riziya and Suman seemed to have taken place as soon as Tahirul left, and they had departed the village together! It was a lot to digest. But one thing was clear. The objectionable writing on the wall of the mosque was not Riziya’s handiwork; not Suman’s either. Who did it then? Who had written all that? What interest might the person have in Suman and Riziya’s departure? After all, it was clear that his intentions were ignoble. Maruf still had Riziya’s notebook with him. It had been on Amina’s bookshelf. Maruf had examined the photograph in the police station closely. Although the officer there had refused to give him a copy, nonetheless, Maruf was certain that the handwriting was not Riziya’s. He had asked Abhijit to meet him today. He would get all the details from him.

‘May I come in, Maruf Da?’

‘Come. Sit down. Sit on the sofa.’

‘I had come to your house last when I was a little boy. But you people have become even more wealthy now!’

Maruf laughed. ‘Have we really been able to become wealthy? Does one become wealthy merely by having money, silly! You need to be broad-minded for that. When someone is narrow-minded, they remain poor even if they have lakhs and lakhs of rupees!’

Just that bit of talk by Maruf seemed to overwhelm Abhijit. Suddenly, he lowered his head, and then, began to sob. Maruf came up to him, patted him on his back and said, ‘You silly boy! Why are you crying?’

‘I can’t help thinking about Dada when I sit in front of you, Maruf Da. I don’t know how things turned this way so quickly. All the youngsters in Jogipara used to be proud of Dada. But just see what a terrible thing he did!’

‘Did you sense any love between them?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Did he take anything besides money?’

‘The money was with him. But Dada was forgetful. All his certificates and identity papers were in a file. He forgot to take those in his hurry.’