‘But what, tell me?’
‘You people are Hindu.’
‘Yes. So?’
‘Will you become a Muslim? Tell me!’
‘I will.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But you have to become a Hindu too.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Can’t you do that? It’s very easy to become a Hindu, my dear. There’s no need to recite the kalema. Hindus don’t have any kalema.’
‘Rubbish! Do Muslims ever become Hindu?’
‘But they become human, don’t they? Whether someone is Hindu or Muslim, they have to become human first. Will you mind if I call you Reena?’
‘Why? What’s the problem with Riziya?’
‘Plenty of problems! A Suman cannot have a Riziya for a wife. That’s the social system.’
‘Call me that if you like.’
They finished eating and rose to leave. The bus had left quite a while back. Suman was preoccupied with his thoughts. Sandip had given him the telephone numbers of several people. He looked for a telephone booth nearby. The azan for the noontime Zuhr prayer sounded from some mosque far away. Suman observed Riziya covering her head with her odna once she heard the azan. Suman was actually pleased by the sight. He said, ‘Come, Reena, let’s move ahead.’
sixty
Maruf had returned to Sadnahati. The village had changed. However, the change was so subtle that Maruf failed to notice it. But it was evident to the people of Sadnahati that Maruf had changed. On his fair-complexioned, ample cheeks was a beard just short of bushy. The moustache was shaved. He wore a long, loose panjabi instead of a full-sleeved shirt. He always spoke calmly, but now people observed a greater serenity in his voice. Haidar Bhai was the amir of the jamaat with which Maruf had set out. Haidar was the chairman of the small mosque in Uttor Sheikhpara. This mosque belonged to the Tablighi Jamaat. The adherents of this group were a small minority in Sadnahati. All the members of this group endeavoured to increase their numbers. The effort to be in a majority could be observed in all ideologies. So they couldn’t be faulted on that account. They worked hard. Many people had been requested, ‘Come along for the jamaat. Come and see for yourself whether Tablighi Jamaat is good or bad. One forms various opinions from a distance, but wouldn’t you like to see it from close quarters! If you do, you’ll realize that it is an itinerant madrasa.’
When a group from the Tablighi Jamaat set out from Sadnahati, it was usually Haidar Ali who took up the responsibility of Amir. He had tried hard to take Maruf along for a chilla. Although Maruf dilly-dallied a lot in this regard, Haidar Ali was eventually successful. That was what one would naturally conclude. There should have been a smile on the face of Haidar Ali, given that a young businessman like Maruf spent forty days at a stretch for the cause. But there was no smile on Haidar’s face. He looked displeased. Apparently Maruf hadn’t conducted himself according to the amir’s instructions. It was as if he wasn’t on a chilla but on a holiday. There had also been an exchange of words between them in this regard. But Maruf could not be blamed too much for this. In fact, before he left, he had said that he would do his own thing, that he was not obliged to adhere to the customs and norms of the chilla. Everyone had accepted that demand too. So although Haidar Ali grumbled to himself, he couldn’t tell him anything openly.
After returning from the chilla, he went first in the morning to the local mosque to offer prayers in gratitude. There were seven people in his group. Maruf had just got up, to go home with his luggage, etc. He observed Farid standing outside the mosque with five youths. Farid was of an emotional nature. He was very fond of Maruf. Seeing him after such a long time, Farid embraced him and began sobbing. The pure smile of contentment on Maruf’s face was Farid’s consolation. Maruf asked him, ‘Farid, why are you crying? I too missed you terribly all the time. But all this is an illusion, Bhai! Have to renounce everything and go away one day.’
‘I know. Everyone has to die. Leave that for now, we’ll talk about it later. You’ve just come back, go home first. There’s much to talk about. A lot has happened in Sadnahati. I’ll tell you everything.’
‘What’s happened, my dear?’
Farid was about to tell him. There were a great many things he had to tell. But another youth in the group said, ‘Tell him later, Farid. Let Maruf Bhai rest. Tell him at leisure.’
Maruf didn’t say any more. He headed for home. The others too walked alongside him. Behind them, Haidar Ali had just stepped out of the mosque. Some others from the trip who had exited the mosque with their luggage to return home were standing beside him. As soon as Maruf left, referring to him he remonstrated, ‘Fate! It’s fate that’s the real thing, you know, Saidul Bhai. Maruf Bhai was with us for forty days, yes, we ate and slept together, but did he walk on Allah’s path? Is that so easy? He hardly went out for labour. Yes, that’s right. And after that, he moved about all by himself. Allah is the Lord of Guidance, you know! He just wrote in his diary. Is there any point in all that! If you want to write, then stay at home and write. Who’s stopping you? Tell me, what was the need to sit and write in a notebook when you are in a mosque during the chilla trip!’
Saidul Bhai too was annoyed with Maruf. He too sang in harmony, ‘I couldn’t say anything because he is an educated man. Once, after I finished shopping in the marketplace, he handed his bag of purchases to me and asked me to carry on, saying he wanted to look around. Tell me, when you’ve come out on chilla, is it correct to do that? He was just looking around all the time.’
There was another member of the tour group who probably liked Maruf a bit. His name was Rajab Ali. He said, ‘But whatever you may say, Maruf gave speeches a few times and soothed everyone’s minds. Why don’t you say what happened in Buridanga? Wasn’t it Maruf who could finally reach out to the poor folk?’
What was the incident he was referring to?
The group had set out after the afternoon Asr prayer. Usually it was the influential people of a locality who guided the affairs of the common folk of the place. Haidar Bhai had obtained the names of some people from the Imam Saheb. Deen Mohammad Sepai was the largest ostagar of this locality. Like garment workers, zari workers were also called ostagars. The group visited Deen Mohammad’s factory, but they couldn’t meet him. He was away in Kolkata. There were rows of dhaddas, and sitting on either side of those long wooden frames were teenage boys and youths hard at work. There were also a few underage boys. They didn’t say anything when they saw the visitors. They only appeared to be a bit hesitant. One or two of them ran away on the pretext of some work; the others remained seated. Observing them, it appeared that they were familiar with these visits by the Tablighi Jamaat. They came a few times during the year to speak about prayer. The artisans cast a glance, and then bent their heads down and concentrated on the work at hand with needle and thread. Three people from the jamaat had come to the factory. Haidar Bhai began to speak. It was clear that the artisans were not really listening to him.
Maruf was observing them at work. Designs were being created on a long sheet of cloth through the sharpness of their sight and the manipulation of their fingers. How colourful the designs were! An encirclement of golden zari-work. Marvellous! He was unable to take his eyes off the exquisitely crafted purple sari. He jokingly asked the middle-aged artisan sitting in front of him, ‘Have you ever draped such a sari on your wife?’
Haidar Bhai was annoyed at this comment. Why should he be engaging in worldly talk when he had set out for labour? He should be talking about religion. He pinched Maruf from behind, signalling him to stop. But the man began laughing heartily at Maruf’s question. He said, ‘What are you saying, sir! Do you know what the price of this sari is?’
‘How much?’
‘It must be at least fifteen or twenty thousand.’
‘But you people are the ones making it.’
‘The two people working on the frame in the western corner are my sons. But we still haven’t been able to raise a two-room house through our earnings. I can’t even think of getting my son married.’
‘Oh. So who do you depend on?’
The avuncular man glanced at the one sitting beside him. He then cautiously whispered, ‘If the ostagars paid us properly…’
‘But one has to finally depend on Allah, isn’t it? One has to speak one’s heart to Him. Who is the one who can remove all the troubles of the world? He is the one to be addressed. But, Chacha, one needs to know something about how to address Allah and how to appeal
to him.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Who else can we depend on but Allah!’
Maruf sat down suddenly observing Haidar Bhai’s annoyance. He held the artisan’s hands and gazed at them. He praised his hands in amazement and fascination, and his artistry. He said, ‘Won’t you praise the one who made these hands, Chacha? The mosque is nearby. Why don’t you come along? There’s going to be a discussion.’
The impoverished craftsman was moved by Maruf’s words. Perhaps no one praised their work like this. They were merely artisans. He was looking at Maruf. That provided an opportunity to the group of visitors to request everyone to proceed to the mosque. They agreed too.
