Maruf still seemed to be under a spell. Upon returning home, he met his Abba, Nasir Saheb, and spoke to his elder brother Faruk as well. But Faruk discerned something unusual in Maruf’s demeanour. He asked him, ‘Are you unwell?’
‘No! Alhamdulillah, I am well.’
‘How much longer will you carry on with the beard, cap and panjabi? Don’t you have to get married and raise a family? Abba is terribly worried about you. So many people of the village are giving him a piece of their minds about you suddenly going off for a jamaat with the Tablighis. Not two or three, or even ten days, but for forty days at a stretch! After all, you don’t have a family. If you did…’
Maruf had expected his brother to say that. But he didn’t pay that any heed. He just smiled and replied, ‘Look for a girl then!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fine. Let me tell Abba. He worries about you all day and all night, you know.’
Maruf listened to his elder brother in silence, and then he went up to his room. His sister Amina was in the room next to his. Maruf called out to her, but there was no response. He called her again. Faruk’s six-year-old son was playing nearby. He told Maruf, ‘Phumma has gone to her father-in-law’s house. There were so many people, and such a lot of food, Chachu! Why weren’t you there?’
Maruf was dumbfounded. He couldn’t understand the boy. He asked, ‘What are you saying, boy? Where’s Fufi gone?’
‘I told you, didn’t I! To her in-laws’ house. A groom had come. It’s true! I swear on Allah!’
His younger sister had got married! In his absence! Was forty days too long? Was he such an outcast to his father and brother? Was he so insignificant that they didn’t bother to inform him about such an important matter as soon as he arrived? Did his opinion have no value at all in this family? The people of the village accorded him so much importance, they had rushed to the mosque as soon as they heard about his return. And yet, why was he considered so unimportant by his own family? He was very fond of his younger sister. He was the one she turned to for all her fancies and demands. Why didn’t she protest? Couldn’t she have said that the marriage could wait until Chhot Da returned? Maruf suddenly flung away the bag in his hand. His eyes welled up out of a sense of hurt, as well as anger and sadness. The little boy ran off when he saw his Chachu in tears. He was laughing. He was bound to laugh observing Chachu crying although no one had scolded him. Did anyone cry just like that?
Maruf had learnt a lot in the forty days, but he had not missed his family during the long journey. After returning home at the end of the tour, he realized what the family bond meant. He realized where he had gone wrong. Each person had a claim on every other person at a particular time. The demand based on such a claim also applied to oneself. Maruf had disregarded the claim for so long. He restrained himself. He entered his room and lay down for a while. He needed to get out of his dispiritedness. Amina was destined for this marriage, and that had taken place.
Maruf had noted down his experiences over the forty days in his diary. He sat in the mosque every night and wrote. There had been a disagreement with Haidar Ali, the amir of the jamaat, in this regard as well. Why all this when one had set out on Allah’s path? After all, spending all one’s time in zikr and worship was the rule. But Maruf did not care. As soon as he remembered the diary, he took it out of his bag. He began reading what he had written from the very beginning.
There are seven of us. I had agreed to go on the jamaat on Haidar Bhai’s urging. After leaving Sadnahati today, we arrived at the Nibra Ijtema mosque. The mosque is a centre of the Tablighi Jamaat. The duty roster of the forty-day chilla was being prepared there. People would be assigned to go to particular places. It was essential for there to be a minimum of seven people in order to create an effective group. Haidar Bhai had informed us in advance about this. Many groups like ours had already been created. I was observing them. Their loving devotion to religion was immeasurable. All of us belonged to Sadnahati. We were assigned a vast area of Panchla and Bauria, in Howrah district. At the Markaz mosque today, the members of the groups were being repeatedly told that four things had to be given importance all the time: Amir ki tabedari, the trusteeship of the amir; masjid ki char diwari, the four walls of the mosque; ankhon ki pardadari, veiling of one’s eyes; and raton ki ronajari, weeping at night. I enjoyed hearing that. No one in Sadnahati had ever set out on jamaat, except for those belonging to the hamlet of Uttor Sheikhpara. They weren’t supposed to either. People belonging to the Furfura silsila disliked the Tablighi Jamaat. But this is the case not just in our Sadnahati. Such a separation has been in effect in various parts of rural Bengal. My main objective in participating in the jamaat was to learn about and understand this. Why is there such a division in a community of people belonging to the same faith?
We will set out tomorrow just after the Fajr prayer. These instructions are not for me, I had told Haidar Bhai that before joining the jamaat. I would not be bound by any rules. Haidar Bhai had agreed, although this went against the rules of the jamaat. Perhaps he thinks that after being with the group for a few days, I will be fine. Or that taking me from Sadnahati on the jamaat has been a moral victory for them. But I have an objective. To observe some Muslim communities from close quarters; to grasp the soul of the community.
The responsibility for khidmat, or service, fell on the two of us today, the very first day. Rajab Ali and me. I’ve never cooked in my life. I was helping Rajab Bhai. I was enjoying it. By helping, I mean only buying whatever was required. There was no market nearby. A settlement had come up there. I bought rice, potatoes, salt and cooking oil from a provisions store there. I had set out at the time of the Asr prayer. Many people had gathered because the annual gathering of the Tablighi Jamaat was going on. We don’t have to cook tonight. I purchased the items for the next day. Kona Expressway, a part of National Highway 12, goes directly to the Vidyasagar Bridge in Kolkata. National Highway 6 also passes this way. It’s here that this large mosque is located. A ‘World Gathering’ had once been organized in this mosque, which had come up over several acres of land. Apparently hundreds of thousands of people had gathered there then. A community-run madrasa had been established in the mosque compound itself. Small boys were walking around in the vast field there. A beautiful, tall minaret. I was gazing at it. I was entranced. Hundreds of people moving around. No trouble or disturbance anywhere. No clamour. I lost myself in the pages of distant history. The first university in the world was established in Cairo, in Egypt. It was called Al-Azhar. That too had its origins in a mosque, and after that, gradually, a university rose around the mosque. Which showed the way to modern European universities. Where has that love of learning of the Muslims vanished! Where is the realization of Almighty Allah’s instruction to pursue knowledge! How can the ancient civilizational heritage be restored?
A funny thing happened today, although the subject was not exactly a funny one. There had been a bit of difference of opinion with Haidar Bhai. Actually, he is an organizer of the Tablighi Jamaat, and has learnt some prayers and blessings. But there is no religious depth in him. He thinks coming out on chilla like this is a major ibadat, an act of worship. After all, serving Islam is akin to worship. But why was the three-, or ten-, or forty-day period stipulated? If it was for discipline, that was fine, but if he said that Almighty Allah had inducted forty thousand ferestas, or angels, to protect us during those forty days, who kept constant watch on us – it sounded exaggerated. Where did he find such a description? This was what he told us at the night-time Isha prayer.
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?’
