After much thought, Maruf went with the bundle of papers and met the aged comrade, Hasan Ali. He was known to be a hardcore Communist. So he did not want to poke his nose in matters concerning religion and religious institutions. But it didn’t take him long to realize that there was political gain to be made with these papers. He called for Abid Sheikh. When he arrived, Maruf, Abid and Hasan Ali sat down for a closed-door meeting. They began preparing another kind of chemical compound.

ten

Just like Maruf belonged to the soil of Sadnahati, so did the illiterate, intemperate Raqib, and others like him. In fact, when it came to numbers, they were the ones who could be said to be the real splendours of Sadnahati. There were many boys in the village for whom somehow making it to the primary school, or not, made no difference, and even before they began comparing their newly sprouted moustaches, they had become skilled ostagars. They had cash in their hands at the end of every week. After toiling like donkeys all week long, they spent the one or two days off like nawabs. None of these nawabs returned to work until their pockets were completely empty. Some of them got addicted to smoking beedis or cigarettes, or to chewing tobacco-gul-gutka. Everyone knew that all these vices were not really blameworthy. Their parents too didn’t say anything. They didn’t think that was necessary. After all, when boys began earning, they might well have picked up some vices. Many of the youths didn’t confine themselves to just these vices either. It was the fiery water that really satisfied them. Late-night drinking sessions took place behind the local youth association, or at the playground. All those who drank knew that this was haram – completely prohibited. But apparently if one drank with the knowledge that this was haram, it was a kobira gunah, a major crime or sin; that did not make one a kaffir, or unbeliever, though. However, if one believed that what was haram was halal, or permitted, one became a kaffir – consigned forever to hell. None of them wanted to become kaffirs. So they were always on the alert. They drank knowing full well that it was prohibited. After all, there was a special allure as regards prohibited substances. They engaged in haram consumption on the sly, but then they emerged, intoxicated, in public view. And there was an amazing unwritten rule that, if someone drank and did something wrong, the offence would be viewed leniently. People thought, ‘Oh, he was drunk when he did that.’ So they were forgiven for their offence. As if inhuman people became human after consuming alcohol. Some of the drunks raised a ruckus, they created a nuisance in the locality. Some of them belonged to affluent families, and so they went about their activities quietly and without causing a din. Another band got into a ganja-smoking competition, to show who could take the deepest puff. And it wasn’t as if this competition was limited only to the illiterate folk. In fact, those who had attended school for some time also joined the fray. And those who did not, were viewed with great pity. Naushad’s son, Zahir, was still in school, but he was teased with the jibe, ‘Are you a girl!’ Did boys go to school at this age? Zahir was in Class Twelve.

He would turn red in embarrassment. He had thought it all out; he would be done as soon as the Higher Secondary examination was over. He was continuing with his studies only because his mother wanted him to.

On the other hand, when the same people were a bit older, most of them returned to the social mainstream. They got married and settled down. They organized religious events and gatherings in their localities, and kept obtaining unending sowab, or merit, in religious and worldly spheres. They became ‘good boys’ then. That was how their circle of life revolved. And this was not really viewed as abnormal.

Raqib was Kalu Miya’s younger son. His hairstyle and the clothes he wore were completely different. He led a reckless life given to hedonism. It was Raqib who was the sole reason for Kalu Miya’s loss of face. And he was really very profligate. After having submitted in his childhood to the grip of various vices, he was now addicted to women. If he saw a woman, it was like something mouth-watering for him. And he had also been thrashed quite a few times on this score. But Raqib was shameless, he just turned a deaf ear to everything. He had a bad reputation, as someone lacking in character. Kalu Miya was perturbed on account of the information about Raqib that had been leaked by none other than his friends themselves. His son was getting on in years. He ought to get him married.

But didn’t he have to get his daughter married first! People from various grooms’ sides were visiting, but all those visits yielded were rejections. After all, a marriage without dowry today meant that the bride had to be beautiful, she had to be educated, her father had to be a propertied man. When none of that was there, a lot of cash was required. A proposal had arrived for Fulsura. Two lakh rupees in cash. As well as gold ornaments. The groom was wealthy and honest. That’s why Kalu Miya was worried. How would he ferry his daughter to marriage? Meanwhile, Raqib was becoming viler by the day. The daily litany regarding the disgraceful acts committed by him had become deafening. Perhaps he might correct himself once he was married. Many people had advised Kalu Miya to this effect.

Kalu Miya had a bit of a role to play in Raqib’s reckless lifestyle, that was Raqib’s friends’ plaint. Some two years ago, Raqib had wanted to get into business with full intent. That required two or three lakh rupees. All his friends were businessmen of substance. Raqib had the potential to be successful in business. He didn’t drink so much then. Speaking of faults, yes, he had the ‘itch’. Other than that, he was all right. Kalu Miya hadn’t been able to provide the money then. Where would he get it from? Money meant property. But did he own any land now? Owning land in Sadnahati was like owning a solitaire diamond. The population was growing by the day. But after all, land couldn’t grow. And so, the demand for land in Sadnahati was skyrocketing.

‘Imam Saheb, are you inside?’

Not getting any response, he stood outside for a while. When Tahirul opened the door, he saw it was the mutawalli, Haji Saheb, himself. He fell into a bustle. He greeted the visitor and welcomed him to his pigeon coop. After all, this wasn’t the first time Haji Saheb was entering the room; he was at ease as he sat down. He was very fond of Tahirul. He was full of praise for his capabilities as an imam. Ever since he had arrived at this mosque, the storms that constantly descended upon the mosque committee had abated. But that was not the only reason why he was fond of him. Tahirul reminded him of his younger son. If he had been alive, he would have been older than Tahirul. As soon as he remembered his young son, who had died twenty-five years ago, Haji Saheb was overcome by sadness. He wanted to love Maulana Tahirul like a son. He said, ‘My dear, Maulana, I’ve come to you to give you some advice. It concerns you. I’ve been thinking of telling you for the last few days.’

‘Yes, tell me! What do you want to say?’

‘After all, you have to get married and start a family. How long can an imam remain a bachelor? Isn’t it a duty?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s your problem in getting married?’

‘Actually, there are many problems. The village house is still an earthen one. Without a proper house…’

‘I’ve been thinking, you should get married and settle down here itself. Bring your family here. They’ll be with you, so you’ll be at peace. I’ve thought of a match. Shall I send them a proposal? What’s the harm if they provide some property and get their daughter married to the Maulana Saheb? If I tell them, they won’t refuse.’

Tahirul was unable to say anything. He was silent. He would be stuck with some stranger! And so, after a lot of thought, he said, ‘Let me think about it and tell you my decision after a few days.’

‘Yes, you’re right. As they say, think before you leap!’

‘Yes.’

After Haji Saheb left, Tahirul wondered about his dream regarding his life. Had he arrived at its doorstep? But which household was the girl from? He would get a life companion, but subject to such conditions? This wasn’t a matter of being a ghor-jamai, or a son-in-law at one’s wife’s father’s, rather this was like a proposal to become a gram-jamai, or the village son-in-law! He kept firming his resolve to turn down the proposal. But not right now.

Raqib was under a lot of stress now. He was steadily becoming more and more bitter after failing to obtain the capital to get into business. He didn’t want to remain in Sadnahati with all the bitterness. Sadnahati made a mockery of him. Right before him, his friends were doing business and becoming wealthy; he couldn’t stand that any more. However wicked he might be, he was a skilled workman. Someone had given him the opportunity to go to Dubai, on a five-year contract. If he could go there, he would no longer want for capital. Perhaps he would lag behind a little bit compared to the others, but he had no other option. Raqib had decided to give up all his bad vices. If only he could reach Dubai! There was a lot of money to be made in the Arab countries. He was obsessed with that now. Raqib’s elder brother, Rahman Miya, supported him. After the two brothers discussed the matter, they went up to their father. It was Raqib who began:

‘Abba, I’ve got the chance to go to an Arab country. To Dubai…’

Kalu Miya was always infuriated with Raqib. He never spoke softly to him. Nonetheless, when he heard Raqib, he was startled. ‘What do you say!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ll go to an Arab country? How wonderful! Our Prophet’s land! I wasn’t able to set foot there – yes, go, son. Become a man and return.’

‘If I have to go there, a lot of money is needed. There’s the passport and visa, and after that I have to deposit a lakh and twenty thousand with the company that is organizing everything.’

Kalu Miya became indifferent now and turned his face away. He said mockingly, ‘Now you say it! Needs cash! But if there was cash, wouldn’t your father have gone first to Arabia? That’s why I’m wondering what on earth you did that you had the good fortune to go to Arab lands!’

Rahman spoke now. He said, ‘Ah, Abba! Dubai and Mecca aren’t in the same country. They are in two different countries. People go to Dubai to earn money.’

‘So let him go! Did I say no? But where will I get the money? There’s an unmarried girl sitting on my head. And I can see what my earning sons are doing. Is there any effort on their part?’

‘No, but you know what, Abba, if the thirty-kattha plot of land beside the main road is sold off, Fulsura’s marriage can also be completed. Raqib can go to Dubai. And how much longer will I feed myself working for someone else?’

Kalu Miya turned grave. He said quite firmly, ‘That land can’t be sold so easily.’

‘Why not? There’s no litigation regarding that. Shall I talk to Chacha? Salaam Miya will agree. You brothers should jointly sell it off.’

‘I know he’ll agree. Selling off land is his job. No! That land can’t be sold. Salaam knows that too. Don’t mention it to him. There’s nothing he doesn’t know.’

Raqib’s face now took on an agitated appearance. The veins on his temples bulged in great rage. Without saying a word, he walked out of the house. While exiting, he banged the door shut with all his might. He banged it so hard that the sound caused both the father and son inside to jump. Sensing an unwanted disturbance, Kalu Miya found himself in quite a soup. It was difficult to find another one like Salaam Miya when it came to design, device and crookedness. And it was this crisis of Kalu Miya’s that united the two brothers again one day. After eight long years, they sat and drank tea together. Subsequently, the solution emerged in the course of catching up and conversation. Kalu Miya was amazed to observe his own younger brother’s genius. But the secret decision between the brothers was known only to them. If needed, it would come to light one day. After all, secrets don’t stay secret forever.

eleven

There’s wasn’t much variety in the lives of people who were engaged in politics. There was a kind of monochrome quality to the way they thought about all subjects. Whether in educational institutions, or in religious ones, they sought to plant their party’s flag there. It wasn’t that they didn’t help people on that account. They were sure to get involved in everything, from the suffering and agony of common folk, their ailments, quarrels and troubles, and litigations, right down to matters involving the police station, government offices and everywhere else. In such times of difficulty, the common folk didn’t expect anything from a maulana or moulovi. After all, they dealt with the afterlife, why would they shed any perspiration when it came to worldly concerns? That’s why people had to run to small- or medium-level leaders. If they ever came to their aid, one then had to pledge one’s conscience to them. Did Maruf pledge his conscience to Hasan Ali when he left?

Comrade Hasan Ali was a leader who had risen from the soil. He was intensively involved with people at the grassroots. He hadn’t received much by way of education, but he was a highly experienced party worker in the rural politics of a democratic country. He moved freely from the zonal level of the party right till the district level. Everyone knew him. And yet, despite having reached almost the final stage of his life, he had never risen beyond being a member of the local committee. Hasan Ali had never married. He was an out-and-out Communist. And despite believing in Communism, his identity as far as jealous, non-Muslim party members were concerned, was always simply as ‘nede bachcha’, or bloody Muslim. Of course, this perception was something to be concealed. Or else, would so many people cite him as an example when it came to proclaiming secular credentials!

Long-standing Left Front rule. It was like it was lodged like an immovable rock in the state. The overwhelming majority of Muslim folk supported the Left Front government. And that had been possible entirely because of low-level workers like Hasan Ali who were the very soul of the party. The higher-level party leadership recognized that. But neither Hasan Ali nor the Muslim masses realized any of that power. And the reason for that was, this party never indulged in the politics of dividing people on the basis of religion.

Their atheism was not broadcast here. So they viewed the Left as their own, close to them. This was the party of the proletariat, of the exploited and deprived folk. This was what was propagated in the speeches of all the leaders, in the party’s instructions, it was the view of the media as well. But of late, Muslim folk were moving away to some extent from the Left party. They were turning their faces away. They had lived through all these years on account of the assurance of protection from the fear of random communal riots. But had there been any all-round development in their condition? None at all. The leaders of the opposition party were actively communicating with the imams of the rural localities, with Muslim religious heavyweights, maulanas, and with Pirs and Pirzadas. They were removing blinkers: Where? Where is your development? Where are the jobs? Where is the education? It seemed after so long they were finally noticing. Yes, indeed. In all these years, all we did was carry out religious and sect-related battles: Was the Prophet made of light, or of earth? Where should the hands be placed during prayers? On the chest or at the navel? All told, what did we get? So they too began speaking out, saying ‘we want change’. Why a change? A change in what? Where was the opportunity to think about all that? They were overwhelmed simply by the importance being given to them, something the soil of post-Independence West Bengal was witnessing for the first time, with reports and pictures in newspapers. One didn’t get to know whether the Muslim masses had anything at all to gain from this; but it was discernible that a change was taking place in the community through the alchemy of political leaders coming together with religious heavyweights. Did the transformed society hold up any light regarding their advancement?

The Congress party had split, and a new party had been formed. This new Trinamool Congress wanted to capture the support of the minority community. The CPI(M) and the Left Front were running the government. They didn’t have any clue that the sense of anger among people in rural Bengal was steadily rising. All this was something everyone was aware of, but was this story deeply relevant as far as Sadnahati was concerned? It could well be. After all, Sadnahati wasn’t outside the state. The wave of political instability lapped this village as well. It turned into a flood. And that was the prologue.

The party now felt the need for young, new leadership. Once young people who were as popular and capable as Maruf joined the party, it would be back on its feet again. So Hasan Ali voluntarily took on the role of Maruf’s guardian. He began explaining socialist theory to Maruf, telling him what class struggle was, what dialectical materialism was.

All the explanations only made Maruf smile contemptuously from the corner of his mouth. After all, Karl Marx was only a recent figure – who was it that had established real socialism across Arabia fifteen hundred years ago? Who had made the slave and owner sit beside each other? Who had made white and black folk embrace one another? Maruf wondered, perhaps it would be better to pull Hasan Ali himself into the religious mainstream. Having got involved with the ideology of an atheistic party, he had given up offering even the Eid prayer. People used him. His benevolent mentality pleased everyone. But no one had any doubt that Hasan Ali was certain to go to jahannam – Hell!

Maruf was sitting beside the selfsame Hasan Ali. He had to swallow Hasan Ali’s discourse like bitter medicine. His negative perception of Communism was so firm that it was like he was listening to Hasan Ali and yet not hearing him at all.

Actually Maruf wanted to reconstitute the mosque committee. That committee would induct a new imam, an imam who would be of a different bent. Progressive, and free of blind faith. Unadulterated Islam ought to become the fundamental doctrine of Muslims, not merely Sufism. Although it wasn’t that Maruf had a clear understanding in that regard. Nevertheless, it was only through release from traditional customs that Sadnahati would attain freedom. The freedom of the Muslim community. Such was Maruf’s thinking. In this battle, the principal weapon in their hands was the property deed of the mosque. Maruf knew that he needed a certain amount of power for this. Because the members of the mosque committee were of a Congress bent, he had come to Hasan Ali for secret talks only with the purpose of getting the power and assistance of the CPI(M) for his cause. He wanted to employ Hasan Ali’s diplomatic skills very carefully.

They went regularly to the Waqf Board in Kolkata. And in time, a complaint was filed, asking for the mutawalli to submit accounts of the mosque property, for two generations. Why had the mosque’s property been forcibly occupied? An explanation had to be provided. There was some minor trouble or the other every Friday. People were about to come to blows. And then, disregarding Maulana Tahirul’s counsel, Naushad Ali landed a slap on the face of Abid Sheikh’s brother, Laltu Sheikh. There was a commotion in the mosque compound. In all the swearing and ribald ranting, nothing anyone said was discernible. Abdul Chacha’s torn panjabi dangled. Small boys stood cowering in terror against the wall of the mosque. They couldn’t believe what they were witnessing. Amidst the clamour, Anwar Ali searched for his ten-year-old son; when he finally found him after much searching, he kept screaming out, ‘You little swine, where the hell were you? I’ve died a thousand deaths looking for you. Come on, let’s go from here!’

The boy couldn’t tell his father that he was getting a valuable life lesson from this mosque. For it was the very house of Allah that was in contention in the most dirty and violent battle the village of Sadnahati had ever witnessed.

Maulana Tahirul thought it appropriate to be like an eel amidst the slime of this battle. The job was his source of sustenance. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny his sense of responsibility as the imam of the locality either. Sound action was needed regarding this undesirable incident of slapping. Those on Abid Sheikh’s side were fervent in their demands for justice. The village was divided in two. Those on the mutawalli’s side and those on Abid Sheikh’s side. Maruf joined in the fray, in support of Abid Sheikh. But his father, Nasir Sheikh, was on the mutawalli’s side. A fallout of the alchemical concoction of religion and politics that had been created was the distancing of father and son. Brothers were separated. And both sides believed that they were right. It was one’s duty in Islam to speak the truth. No father or brother mattered when it came to the truth.

Tahirul was simply unable to comprehend the matter. Hadn’t the village become quite tranquil? How did such fierce hostility make its way back? Such instability? Abid Sheikh never used to come to the mosque even on Fridays, but now he was never absent on a Friday. What exactly was it all about? Did it signal a major crisis? Was it in fact a conspiracy against him by someone? Was Maruf involved in that? Various questions went round and round in his head. But he couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. Maruf had meanwhile resumed communication with him recently. They exchanged greetings and courtesies. Almighty Allah was the Lord of the future; whatever had to happen would happen. Reflecting along those lines, he stepped out after the Asr prayer for his class in Kalu Miya’s house.

A youth whom he didn’t recognize came and stood before him. His beard had just begun to sprout on his chin.

‘Assalamu alaikum, Hujur.’