Actually, after hearing about Riziya’s actions, he was simply unable to believe them. Tahirul thought that whatever he heard from Maruf was only an imaginary dream. Not exactly a dream, but just a notion. Perhaps, someday, Farid or Maruf would bear witness to that. They would say, no, the stories about Riziya are not true, they are all lies. The girl is still waiting for you.
Was there any way of denying reality? No. He had tried to find out from various sources, it was a hundred per cent true. But why on earth would Riziya run away with a Hindu youth? He was constantly plagued by this question. How could the girl who, just a few days before the incident, had disregarded the pitch-dark night and come to the Imam Saheb’s room for a tryst, suddenly have a change of heart? Was everything on her part trickery and artifice? When Tahirul used to start his lessons, he observed that Riziya’s large, surma-lined eyes seemed to say various things, and he was clearly aware of those things. Was that too an illusion created by his mind? Walking together, side by side, along College Street in Kolkata, buying books, sitting at the edge of the swimming pool in College Square and chatting – was everything false?
Tahirul thought about such things for months on end. And doing so made him introverted. He hardly spoke to anyone. He sat at home all day. He conversed with Riziya in his mind. He went over the events. As if his memories were cud that he chewed on.
He didn’t feel like going out to look for work – especially for an imam’s job. But how could he continue to sit at home like this? His family was extremely needy. His younger brother worked as a tailor. His Ma couldn’t say anything to her scholarly son. But one day she did say, ‘How can we survive if you just sit at home? Your job in Howrah district wasn’t a bad one, dear. But you left that job all of a sudden! What are you thinking of doing now? Why don’t you go out and look for something? Maybe you…’
Tahirul seemed to have become irritable of late. He disliked anything anyone said. Besides, how could he reveal everything to his Ma, and explain to her that it would never be easy for him to return to Sadnahati. Its streets, the mosque there, Salaam Miya’s door – would all mock him. As if to say that Tahirul was a disgraced and defeated mullah, who had tried to reach for the moon, like the mythical Vamana.
Tahirul suffered this sense of inferiority. Why only Sadnahati, he didn’t feel like setting foot in Howrah district itself. So he replied to his Ma in a somewhat annoyed tone, ‘I won’t go there again, Ma. Let me think about what I can do. Leave me alone now!’
‘What’s happened to you, my dear? Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Nothing’s happened. Has Zahirul returned, Ma? I need to talk to him.’
‘But he doesn’t want to return home. He’s sent money. Tell me what you want to talk to him about!’
‘I won’t do an imam’s job any more. I’ll start some kind of business.’
‘What are you saying, son? Your father sent you to a madrasa and made you a scholar. And now you…’
‘May Allah grant Abba paradise! But dear Ma, how will that knowledge feed me? If only I had learnt some trade! That would have been very useful. I think your younger son Zahirul is more worthwhile than me. He works and sends money home. But your scholarly son Tahirul can’t even…’
‘It’s a good idea to start a business. But from where will you get the money?’
Tahirul was silent for a while following his mother’s query. After that, he looked and nodded in the direction of the cowshed. An invisible conversation took place between mother and son. His illiterate, rustic Ma understood everything. Perhaps mothers fathomed their children’s ardour before anyone else. Cows and goats were trustworthy and valuable assets for a poor family. She wondered how she would indulge this caprice of her maulana son! This woman who had lost her husband had struggled all her life to raise four children. Her main prop in this struggle had been the cow and goats, which were part of the household. Had those too to be sold now? She had doubts; would he be able to do business? But she finally made up her mind. ‘Look for a buyer, my dear. You better sell them off!’
Maulana Tahirul Islam was still completely unemployed. Whatever else there might or might not be in this remote village in the Sundarbans, there was no shortage of hafezs or maulanas. There were at least a dozen alems in his village. But the depth of Tahirul’s scholarship and his knowledge had made him different from all the others. He was accorded adequate respect and honour on that account. But if the very same Tahirul now began tramping through the hamlets as an itinerant vendor, wouldn’t that tarnish the image of a scholar? Tahirul had already advanced a few steps. The cow and calf had been sold. What business was he going to do? After a lot of thought, he purchased Islamic books at wholesale prices. The Holy Koran, Sohoj Namaj Shikkha (Prayers Made Easy), Baro Masher Fajilat (Virtues of the Twelve Months), Shishuder Islami Naam (Islamic Baby Names), Beheste Jeor (Heavenly Gems), etc. Together with that, there were prayer mats and rosary beads, surma and attar. Business was a blessed profession. The Prophet of Allah himself was a businessman. He encouraged business enterprise. Tahirul’s morale was strong.
He walked through village hamlets selling books. On Fridays, he erected a sheet of plastic tarp in the compound of some mosque or the other, and set up shop. He arranged the books carefully. He explained the gist of the books to people. It wasn’t clear how many of them bought the books in order to read them. But after listening to Tahirul, many were unable to turn him down. His sales weren’t bad. He carried on his trade in various mofussil towns as well.
For some days now, he had been thinking that he ought to buy the books at a cheaper price. Only then would he be able to really make a profit. One had to visit College Street, in Kolkata, if one was in the book trade. He was well acquainted with the streets and lanes there. Suddenly Riziya entered into his thoughts around College Street. Had Riziya set up home with someone else? Did he have to countenance that as well? What was Tahirul’s wrongdoing? Asking her to leave that night? That was Riziya’s caprice, but she had been thoughtless. Should he visit Sadnahati? If he went there, the people would definitely accord him respect. The widespread gossip regarding him and Riziya had been proven false. Sadnahati was pulling him. It had been two years now. And yet he hadn’t been able to forget about Riziya.
It was close to dusk. Maulana Tahirul entered Sadnahati. He had already decided that he would meet Maruf first. He got the sense that the prestige he commanded in Sadnahati was still intact. Whoever he encountered on the way greeted him and shook his hand. They asked about his well-being. He spotted Farid at a distance. Tahirul called out to him. Farid was extremely happy to see him; he came running to embrace him. He said, ‘It’s been such a long time, Hujur. Did you remember us?’
‘Of course I did. How is Maruf Bhai?’
‘He’s doing well. Come, let’s go and sit in the shop. You’ll find Maruf Bhai there.’
‘Shop? What shop?’
‘Just come along. You’ll see once we’re there.’
It was an attractive building by the side of the road. It had two shops in front, with an iron gate between them. There was a board on the gate that read, ‘Shifa Clinic. Dr Jasimuddin’. The other was a chemist’s shop. He saw Maruf there. Farid addressed Maruf enthusiastically, ‘Maruf Bhai, see whom I’ve brought!’
Maruf’s face broke into a happy smile when he saw Tahirul, and he greeted him. He asked him to come in and sit down. And then he asked, ‘And so? Tell me, Hujur, how are you!’
‘I had gone to College Street for some work. While I was there, I missed you badly. So I thought I should visit and meet everyone.’
‘You did well! Why were you in College Street?’
‘I’ve got into the book trade. I go around selling Islamic books.’
‘Really! What about being an imam?’
‘Don’t talk about that! Didn’t I tell you once that it’s those who are unfit for anything else who become imams!’
‘Ha ha! I protest that strongly, Hujur!’
‘You have a right to do that. Someone whose father is Nasir Sheikh may have a lot to say!’
Maruf did not say anything. He fell silent at the jibe. Farid asked Tahirul softly, ‘Hujur, did you get the news that Nasir Chacha passed away?’
‘Inna Lillahi … I didn’t know! When was that?’
‘It must have been about a year back. Isn’t that right, Maruf Bhai?’
But Maruf responded to Tahirul’s comment, ‘Hujur, your evaluation of me after all this time is not correct. Nasir Sheikh was indeed my father. So what did you mean? Doesn’t my education, or the way I think have any value?’
‘I made a mistake, Bhai. Actually, one is so preoccupied with the constant financial worries that we tend to give importance only to money as the solution to all problems. Please forgive me. Achchha, is Jasim Bhai in the chamber?’
Farid said, ‘Go and meet him, Hujur. Doctor Bhai will be happy to see you. Use the opportunity to get treated! Jasim Bhai has made everything free for Imam Sahebs.’
‘But I’m no longer an imam, Farid Bhai. I used to be a turban-clad imam standing at the pulpit of a mosque. Now I sit on the steps of mosques and sell books.’
Maruf smiled when he heard that. He asked, ‘What will you call that? An improvement of your profession, or a deterioration?’
Tahirul was unable to give a reply. Was being an imam only a job? In order to avoid being specific, he merely said, ‘I don’t exactly know, Maruf Bhai.’
