Unbordered Memories

by Rita Kothari

  ‘Yes, chacha,’ he replied sweetly.

  ‘How about washing your hands?’

  ‘I will, chacha.’

  He put the morsel back on the plate, went to the washbasin, turned on the tap and scrubbed his hands with soap. He cares for me as much as I for him. He wiped his little hands with a towel and came back to sit on the chair.

  He had barely swallowed a morsel, when suddenly something occurred to him, ‘Chacha!’

  ‘Yes, Holi putta.’

  ‘Chacha, why do you call me Holi?’

  ‘Because you are so lovable.’

  But this did not satisfy him. He swallowed a few more morsels and continued, ‘Our new teacher asked me today why everyone calls me Holi.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told her that my chacha has named me Holi.’ After a few sips of water, he said confidently, ‘The teacher explained to me what Holi means, chacha.’

  I wondered how a Christian lady teacher had explained to Holi the meaning of Holi. After all, how would someone who never played with coloured water know what Holi means.

  ‘What did the teacher tell you, Holi?’

  Holi raised his little soft hand to explain, ‘The teacher said Holi means sacred.’

  I thought the teacher was quite right. The water you splash at each other with joyful love and in a sense of togetherness, is indeed holy. But how would this innocent little boy understand what I associate with Holi?

  ‘Putta, Holi means holy water.’

  Holi looked perplexed. The teacher had said that Holi meant sacred, now what had that got to do with water?

  ‘So what kind of water is it?’

  ‘Very colourful, like a rainbow,’ I explained. ‘You fill it in water pistons and spray it on each other, and that is Holi.’

  ‘But what is the colour of this water?’ he asked, placing his hand on his left cheek.

  ‘Red, and green, and pink … and …’ Overcome with emotion, my voice trailed away.

  ‘Who plays this game?’ Holi asked.

  ‘Used to play, Holi putta, used to.’ I tried to control the emotional quaver. ‘I did, Prakash did, then Purshottam, then Indra … and …’

  My eyelashes moistened. Old wounds throbbed. How can bygones come back?

  Holi was listening to the story of colourful water with great interest.

  ‘From Sadhbelo to Shishmahal, it seemed Sindhu was filled with colour. Naarishala, Chabutra, Chausor … everything had more colour than a rainbow.’

  Holi was listening to his own story.

  ‘And you know Holi, Indra would visit my family and splash colours on everyone, including Amma, Baba, Ada and me. She would always come with the sky blue colour, the mischievous girl, and her blue was so lovely … so …’

  A blazing fire had turned fluid and struggled to break free from my eyes. I avoided looking at him, as I discreetly wiped away the tears. Holi stood up in a flash, pushing his chair away. He put his soft little arms around me and said, ‘Chacha, we shall also play the game of colourful water.’

  The wounds deepened and the pain became more intense. Holding my sobs back, I said, ‘We don’t have that water, Holi.’

  Holi’s face fell.

  I gathered to myself a dejected Holi and tried to comfort him.

  Kaafir: The Infidel

  NASEEM KHARAL

  The day Sheetal Oadh and his wife were to be converted to Islam, the village mosque milled with so many jamaatis at namaaz time that not only was the domed hall filled up, but several rows had to be formed even in the outer courtyard. In the past such a huge gathering was known to have been formed only on Id or the day a rich donor offered an ‘eternal deg’ of food to earn merit for his late father or brother. The mosque’s pesh imam, Moulvi Umed Ali Narejo, had publicized the event heavily and during his recitation of the Koran Sharif and Hadith in the otak, he had stated that the occasion was more auspicious than even Id. People of the village were not that irreligious, and so every man who knew how to tie his turban turned up for the event. The moulvi was dressed in majestic attire—a dark green turban on his head, stiffly starched clothes, silver-threaded juttis on his feet and in his hand a lacquered stick. The iron spikes at the bottom were planted in the kuchha ground near the entrance. It was like the banner of Islam. The moulvi had brought with him a fresh copy of sermons. He began by reading Koranic verses. His recitation was moving. He started reading the eulogy of the ‘Four Companions’:

  The first Companion was Sadiq-Akbar

  Pious and helpful, Sadiq-Akbar

  Rafiq-gaah he was, Sadiq-Akbar

  How do I praise him?

  The second companion was Adil-Umar

  The destroyer of infidels, Adil Umar

  Brave and perfect, Adil Umar

  How do I praise him?

  The Prophet’s beloved, Usman Aala

  Compiler of the Koran, Usman Aala

  A generous lord, Usman Aala

  How do I praise him?

  Defender of Faith, of Islam, Haider

  Graced by the Prophet, Haider

  Commended by Khuda, Haider

  How do I praise him?

  As they listened, rapt, the jamaatis’ devout eyes drooped, and every heart yearned for the sacred verse to go on endlessly. In his main prayer, the moulvi chose not the short verses, but the long sections from the Koran—Surat-ul-Rahman, punctuated by ‘Faba-e-Aaala—Rukma—Tukzubaan.’ This was followed by a lecture urging the village people to participate in the pious ceremony that the occasion demanded. Then he sent a five-times-a-day namaazi to bring both Sheetal and his wife. Bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, the two of them had been waiting in moulvi sahib’s otak.

  When Sheetal squatted on the mosque floor, the moulvi asked him in a zealous tone, ‘Baba, do you and your woman Tilli wish to embrace the religion of Muhammad?’

  ‘Yes, moulvi sahib.’

  ‘Of your free will and pleasure, or under pressure?’

  ‘Sain, of our free will and pleasure.’

  ‘You too, woman Tilli?’

  ‘Yes, sain.’ Tilli’s response came from a secluded corner.

  On hearing this, the moulvi asked the jamaatis, ‘Brothers, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’ Many jamaatis chimed in.

  The moulvi raised his index finger to the sky and with a vigorous voice, he said three times, ‘O Allah, bear witness. O Allah, bear witness. O Allah, bear witness.’ Then he turned towards Sheetal, ‘Will you observe roza and do namaaz with the jamaat?’

  ‘Yes, sain, I shall observe roza and also do namaaz.’

  ‘Will you also grow a beard of the length decreed by the shariat?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sheetal replied with humble sincerity.

  The moulvi’s eyes suddenly fell upon the gold earrings Sheetal was wearing. Promptly, he laid down an order, ‘Remove these and hand them over to maee Tilli. Islam forbids men from wearing gold.’

  Hastily, Sheetal removed the gold earrings and gave them to Tilli, who tied them up in the hem of her chadar.

  Moulvi sahib asked the next question, ‘No gambling, no alcohol?’

  ‘No, sain.’

  ‘And you will also get yourself circumcised?’

  ‘Yes, sain,’ Sheetal replied with the same sincerity.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ a gratified moulvi praised him. He saw no need for further questions. He asked Sheetal to sit beside him.

  Sheetal shifted himself. Moulvi began, ‘Say, La Illah.’

  ‘Laila.’

  ‘No. Say, La-Il-Lah,’ the moulvi enunciated every letter like a teacher does for a student.

  ‘La-Ilah,’ Sheetal managed it this time.

  ‘Il-lah-lah,’ the moulvi proceeded.

  ‘Il-lah-lah.’

  ‘Mu-ham-dar.’

  ‘Mu-ham-dar.’

  ‘Rasu-lal-lah.’

  ‘Rasu-lal-lah.’

  ‘Now recite the kalima with me.’

  ‘Yes, sain.’

 
‘La Ilaha Ill ll Lill Lah Muhammadar Rasulal Lah.’

  Sheetal’s recitation was flawless. The jamaatis were overwhelmed to see an infidel entering the faith of Allah. They began to congratulate first the moulvi and then Sheetal. Replete with religious zeal, one of the jamaatis cried out the takbir, ‘Allah-o-Akbar,’ so loudly that it evoked a collective response from all the jamaatis, and for the next few moments, the ceiling of the mosque resounded with praise of Allah.

  Thereafter, maee Tilli was also asked to recite the kalima. She too was congratulated.

  Moulvi sahib turned to Sheetal, ‘From now on, you acquire an Islamic name—Abdullah.’

  ‘Yes, sain.’

  Moulvi sahib turned to maee Tilli, ‘And maee, your name is Fatima.’

  ‘Yes, sain.’

  Some of the moulvis got ready to leave, but the moulvi sahib raised his hand to stop them, ‘Wait, they have to do a nikah.’

  The ones who had risen, quietly sat down again. Moulvi sahib sought the couple’s consent and began to read the ceremonial words for an Islamic wedding.

  Meanwhile, all hell broke loose in the cluster of mudhuts of the Oadh community. In a corner, women beat their chests vigorously and cried, while the men were having animated discussions as they surrounded the mukhi, Fagnomal. The mukhi smacked his thighs every now and then to give vent to his anger.

  When Fagnomal first came to know of the matter, he had begged Sheetal to reconsider. He had asked him to do so for the sake of the holy Gita, but in vain. Finally, he had in the presence of the entire panchayat removed his saffron ceremonial turban and placed it at Sheetal’s feet. But Sheetal had said plainly, ‘Mukhi, you can do what you want, I’ll still change my religion.’

  ‘But why are you doing that?’

  ‘My wish.’

  ‘But still?’

  Sheetal opened up a bit at that point, and had said, ‘Mukhi, I don’t like our religion.’

  ‘You crass idiot, why don’t you like your religion?’

  ‘All right, mukhi, tell me, who are we?’

  ‘We are Hindus.’

  ‘Hindus cremate their dead, then why do we bury them?’

  ‘That’s our custom.’

  ‘Then why do we have halal meat?’

  ‘That’s also our custom, our forebears did it.’

  ‘But these are Muslim customs.’

  ‘They are ours too.’

  ‘Then how can we say we are Hindus?’

  ‘What else are we then?’

  ‘Half Hindu, half Muslim, goat’s head, sheep’s trunk.’

  The mukhi had no answer to this, but he changed the subject, ‘Never mind what we are. Why should we change our religion?’

  ‘I like the Muslim religion.’

  ‘Is our religion false, then?’

  ‘Yes, it’s false,’ a rebellious Sheetal replied.

  This made their blood boil—every single member of the panchayat. Some of them rose to spit on him, and to beat him, but the mukhi entreated them with folded hands, ‘Beating won’t help, the muslas have cast an evil spell on him.’

  The idea planted itself easily in their minds, as easily as spades that strike deep into wet earth. The moulvi was indeed well-known for conjuring charms. People from far and wide walked to the village for his charms. Those who had stood up in protest, quietly took their respective seats and puffed away at the hukka to give vent to their anger. On seeing everyone calm down, the mukhi turned to Sheetal again and asked, ‘Why do you like the Muslim religion?’

  ‘Muslims sit with each other like brothers and share meals, but among us Hindus, some are Oadhs, some Untouchables, some Brahmins and some Khatris.’

  The mukhi couldn’t come up with a rejoinder. It was true that the Brahmins did not even allow Untouchables and Oadhs to sit beside them, leave alone share a meal from the same plate. Islam made no such discriminations. The mukhi then played his dice differently. ‘Sheetal, once you become a musla, you will have no relations with us.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘You will not be able to visit us. Not even Valar,’ the mukhi threatened Sheetal. Valar’s wife was Sheetal’s sister.

  ‘Never mind. I will be a part of the Muslim brotherhood, and consider my sister dead.’

  So far the mukhi had been calm and collected, confident in the knowledge that Sheetal would eventually walk into his web of arguments. When he saw Sheetal stooping so low as to consider a living sister dead, he erupted in rage, ‘Remember Sheetal, you can decorate asses and make them stand next to horses, but they will remain asses forever.’

  Once the panchayat had dispersed, the mukhi had advised Valar to lay his turban at Sheetal’s feet and dissuade him, but neither Valar’s entreaties nor his wife’s made any difference to Sheetal. On a particularly holy Friday that he and Moulvi Umed Ali had selected, Sheetal went to the masjid with his wife and recited the kalima.

  Once Sheetal became a Muslim, he was a different man. In the past, he would feel uncomfortable without a regular shave, but now he let his beard grow. The longer the beard grew, the more radiant his face became. By and large, he would arrive at the mosque even before the moulvi did. In rare cases of delay, he would be present at the threshold of the mosque when the moulvi had finished sounding the first call for morning prayers. A tireless worker, he offered various services to the mosque—he swept and mopped, laid and folded prayer mats, filled up pots of water. In rendering service, he was more punctilious than any other jamaati. Such was his interest in the Koran Sharif that not only had he finished reading the Baabnamo in a month or so, but had also gone ahead to the Seeparo. In a full-throated voice, he recited verses from the Koran at dawn and at bedtime. Basically, Allah had shown him the path to redemption, as He would do for the entire world. So far the moulvi sahib had not had the propitious opportunity of converting an infidel to Islam. He saw Abdullah as his singular chance of earning merit for afterlife, and the very sight of him warmed the cockles of his heart. He displayed Abdullah to every visitor to the mosque, ‘Abba, look, this is Abdullah. Feed me to fish, if he doesn’t attain spiritual heights.’

  On occasions when the moulvi had to urge non-namaazis to do namaaz, or read the Koran, he would do it in the name of Allah, the Prophet and afterlife. At times he would cite the example of Abdullah and goad them, ‘Just you wait, if you don’t get your act together, this Oadh will put you to shame on the Day of Judgement.’

  Touched by Abdullah’s passion for prayers and his commitment to the Koran, the moulvi reassured him, ‘Abdullah, you may have been a latecomer to Allah’s home, but you are in time for His mercy. The Merciful One will forgive all your previous sins.’ Humbled by this, Abdullah would make an earnest request to the moulvi. As one of God’s favoured men, would the moulvi sahib please seek His forgiveness for Abdullah’s former sins and grant him a smooth passage on the Day of Judgement? Promptly, the moulvi sahib’s hands would go up towards the sky in prayer. He would begin with the Salawat and end with a prayer:

  Listen, O Lord, to us sinners

  Listen, for Mohammed’s sake.

  It is shameful to raise our hands

  But we have none besides You.

  Listen, O Lord, to our prayer,

  Listen, for Sadiq-e-Akbar’s sake.

  Your rule is just, Lord

  We sinners live in fear.

  Show mercy to us

  Listen, for Omar’s sake.

  Grant us victory, Lord

  In our struggles against ourselves,

  Deliver us from difficulties,

  Listen, for the Deliverer’s sake.

  Each stanza would be punctuated by Abdullah’s ‘Amen’, and copious tears streamed down his cheeks to merge into his beard.

  One day, a little before the third namaaz, Valar’s son, Babio, came to see Abdullah. He gave him the news of his mother’s deteriorating health, and conveyed her desire to see her brother. Abdullah had vaguely heard about his sister’s illness, but he did not visit her because he was bound by th
e diktat of Mukhi Fagnomal. He restrained his emotions, and told Babio, ‘I cannot come. The mukhi will be angry. You bring her here in a cart.’

  ‘But, Mama,’ Babio explained, ‘you don’t worry about the mukhi. My father made a humble request to the mukhi and sought permission for a few hours for you.’

  Abdullah saw no point in delaying things any more. He went along with Babio.

  The moulvi was astonished not to see Abdullah during the third namaaz. When he checked his whereabouts with other jamaatis, one of them reported to him that he had seen Abdullah leaving with Babio.

  The moulvi was quite upset, ‘He shouldn’t have gone. The more time he spends with infidels, the more will his faith be disrupted. One of you go fetch him.’

  At the behest of the moulvi, Fateh Narejo stood up and in quick strides reached the cluster of Oadh huts. He stood outside the Oadh enclosure and called out, ‘Abda, O Abdullah.’

  Mukhi Fagnomal’s mud-hut was next to the enclosure. He was busy playing the game of chaupaar with some guests. On hearing Fateh’s call, he came out and asked, ‘What is it, Fateh?’

  ‘Our Abdullah has come to your side. The moulvi wants him back.’

  The mukhi was irritated. Abdullah belonged to the tribe, he was born and had been bred and nurtured amongst them. How did he become ‘their’ Abdullah? He had barely arrived to see his ailing sister and there were summons for him already!

  Sternly, the mukhi asked, ‘So Abdullah belongs to you, Fateh?’

  ‘Yes, he does.’

  ‘Are you his heirs?’

  ‘Yes, of course, he’s our Muslim brother, we are his heirs.’

  Meanwhile, someone had gone and told Abdullah that he was being called for. He had come out of the hut and now stood beside the mukhi who had another question for Fateh, ‘Tell me, Fateh, should Abdullah die, would you not drive his wife out?’

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘Would you Muslims marry her?’

  ‘If she is willing, why not?’

  ‘Would you not find it repulsive?’

  ‘Repulsive? A Muslim? Not at all.’

  Abdullah chortled to see the mukhi defeated in this battle. His mockery made Mukhi Fagnomal scratch his head, like he would in a game of chaupaar. He toyed with his imaginary dice, planning his next move. Suddenly, he made a comeback, ‘Tell me, Fateh, if Abdullah’s wife dies, would you get him a wife from your community?’