Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  ‘Are you all right, Saki?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. Did I shout CUT? Continue.’

  #

  Her teacher, Ubaidullah Kashmiri Saheb, must not have been as absorbed in the nuances of the Tawhid as Bilkis had estimated, because he glared in her direction the very moment she slipped a silver-foiled diamond-shaped barfi into her mouth. As Bilkis met the alim’s rheumy accusation, her heart bought a one-way ticket to the eight hells.

  ‘Jaheem, Jahanam, Sa’ir, Saqar, Ladha, Hawiyah, Hutama and Mumbai,’ she recited silently. Last stop please.

  ‘Stop chewing, donkey!’ said the alim, in Urdu.

  Bilkis obeyed.

  ‘Stand up!’

  Bilkis obeyed. The room’s deadly quiet injected menace into familiar sounds. The clickety-click of the antique ceiling fan as it stirred and re-stirred the humid air. Class I students on the ground floor, practising their Arabic pronunciation. The cooing of grey-white pigeons on the madrasa’s crumbling grey-white ledges. Farther out, she could hear kids quarrelling over cricket. The municipal schools in Chandni Chowk, like other areas in Delhi, had closed for the Diwali holidays.

  Bilkis stared at her feet, not daring to look at Jahanara sitting two feet away. Her friend would be sure to waggle her eyebrows or fan her ears and then she’d have to laugh and then—well, it was better not to look.

  Ubaidullah Saheb extended his glare to include the whole classroom, his eyebrows emphasizing the glare. They had been discussing Sura IX.5, the fifth verse of the At-Tawba sura, the ‘Sword verse’, the one that all the kaffirs found so satisfyingly offensive.

  ‘Let me repeat: the Holy Qu’ran does not advocate violence against unbelievers. So let us set aside evil thoughts and consider this verse in the light of the Tawhid.’

  The alim chanted the verse and since the students still had difficulty with Arabic, he translated it into Urdu: ‘But when the forbidden months are past, then fight and slay the Pagans wherever ye find them, and seize them, beleaguer them, and lie in wait for them in every stratagem (of war); but if they repent, and establish regular prayers and practise regular charity, then open the way for them: for Allah is Oft-forgiving, Most Merciful.’

  The alim assured the students they’d study the At-Tawba in detail later. For now, they merely had to grasp that the Tawhid, the unity and uniqueness of Allah, Subhanahu wa táala, held creation together. Did the students follow? It was very simple. Life was unitary. There was no difference to explain, and hence no variety to subjugate, to master, to dominate, to kill. Difference was a demon of the kaffir evolutionists bent upon subverting Islam. The same Creator had made all of life, which was why communication was possible between lifeforms. If communication was possible, all was possible. Even with an Uygur.

  ‘What could you possibly say to an Uygur?’ asked Ubaidullah Saheb, smiling. ‘Anyone?’

  Bilkis saw Jahanara surreptitiously separate the fingers of her right hand into a V.

  The alim’s smile broadened in proportion to the silence, till it burst with a laugh.

  ‘You can say anything you would say to another good Muslim. The Uygur are Muslims from the Chinese province of Xianching, and as beloved of Allah, Subhanahu wa táala, as are all living things.’

  Ubaidullah Saheb slapped his thigh.

  The Qu’ran was mubeen. Didn’t the ash-Shu’ara, al-Zukhruf and Yusuf verses all say so? What did mubeen mean? It meant ‘clear’. Yes, but it also meant something more. It meant ‘enlightening’. Clear plus Enlightening added up to Clarity. The Qu’ran provided clarity to those who would see. It didn’t mean every word was clear. It meant the Qu’ran as a whole was clear. Words were buckets. Buckets leaked. Words leaked. They leaked meanings. How had the wise understood the words in the Qu’ran? They’d understood that words came in four basic kinds.

  First, there were the words, words referring to special objects. The word Muhammed for example was a word. Why? Because it signified the Prophet, Sallahu Alaihi Wasallam. Second, there were the Āmm words, words which referred to collections of things. Then there were the Mushtarak words, words having several meanings and needing context to reveal the most relevant meaning. Finally, there were the Mu’awwal words, also words with several meanings, but all equally possible because no context could settle which meaning had been intended.

  Glare, eyebrows, utter silence.

  For example, take the al-Kawthar sura. A very short sura. It only had three verses. Yet it was a very complicated sura. How could such a short sura be so complicated? Because of a Mu’awwal word in the second verse. Fasalli lirabbika wa-. The first two words were clear. It asked a believer to turn to the Almighty. But turn and do what? Focus on the word: . Apply the microscope. Call the CSI. There is an lying on the floor. Investigate its friends. Did it have enemies? Where did it come from? Well, it came from the root nahr. What did this root mean? Abu Hanifa, a scholar among scholars, thought it meant ‘sacrifice.’ But the great legal scholar Ibn Ash-Shafii, born in the year Abu Hanifa went to his well-earned rest in heaven, thought meant ‘placing the hands on the breast in prayer.’ So what was the correct reading? Did the verse ask one to turn to the Almighty in prayer or to make a sacrifice?

  Did the students get the point? The Qu’ran was not to be read like a cheap thriller. It wasn’t a summer bestseller. It wasn’t Britney Spears. It wasn’t rap music. It wasn’t TV. It was the word of Allah, Subhanahu wa táala. It had to be studied. It had to be thought over. It was important not to jump to conclusions. The Qu’ran and its Author were perfect, but its readers were not. So a little humility was appropriate. Indeed, humility wasn’t enough. Modesty—humility in mind and body and intention—was required. Who could name a sura that shed clarity on modesty?

  Bilkis raised her hand.

  The alim looked around the room. He didn’t see any raised hands. Who could identify the relevant sura? Anyone? Anyone with the humility to risk failure? Ubaidullah Saheb stroked his beard.

  Bilkis waggled her hand.

  Very well, said the alim, he’d give them a hint. Their inability to answer should have aroused anger, but he would practise what he had just preached. He would give them a hint. The Qu’ran was a locked box to those with locked minds. But for those who were sincere, for those who came with the proper attitude, there was a key. The key was everywhere. What was this key? Nineteen, of course. Didn’t the Al-Muddathir sura spell it out: Alayhe tis ata ashour. Nineteen was the key to the Holy Qu’ran’s structure. And the rukn, the five pillars of Islam, held up the magnificent edifice. Surely the answer was now obvious. Anyone?

  Bilkis waved her hand.

  ‘Yes?’ said the alim, reluctantly.

  ‘Al-Nur, alim?’

  ‘Is that a question? Or are you offering an answer?’

  ‘An answer, alim.’

  ‘Which verse?’

  ‘The answer is the key and the pillars. The key is nineteen. There are five pillars. So the answer must be twenty-four. The twenty-fourth sura is the Al-Nur, alim.’

  ‘Good.’ The alim grimaced horribly to hide his pleasure. Wasn’t it good to know, he remarked, even donkeys could be redeemed by the knowledge of the Qu’ran? Yes, Bilkis had guessed correctly. Words were beguiling. Language was beguiling. Look at the whole meaning and if meaning and morality still collided, consult the heart as one would the Qu’ran. He enjoined them to read the Al-Nur. Wasn’t its name interesting? Wasn’t it significant that it meant the verses of Light.

  ‘Bilkis,’ said the alim, glancing at the wall clock. ‘Sit down. I relinquish you to the sorrow of your conscience and the forgiveness of our Rahim.’

  ‘I have an announcement.’ He glared at the students and it tipped them to the possibility that the news was pleasant. They sat up.

  ‘Next Wednesday’s class is cancelled. We have a guest coming to our humble madrasa. His name is—’ He reached for his snuff tin. Unscrew. Pinch. Lift. Sniff. Achoo! The alim rubbed his nose and re-stashed the tin in a side pocket. ‘Shahrukh Khan.’
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  Brr-mrr broke out all over the classroom? Shahrukh Khan! Hubbub and halla. Shor-machor. Yaar, did the alim say, Shahrukh Khan? Yes he did, he did. That’s impossible! I know. I know! But that’s what the alim said, yaar. Did the alim say he was coming tomorrow or the day after? Sorry sister, I was asleep, I didn’t hear. Who is coming?

  ‘Silence!’ roared Ubaidullah Saheb. But his eyebrows were angled upwards, not downwards.

  ‘A superstar on the screen but a humble Muslim at heart.’ The alim’s face acquired an ironic smile. ‘He is a man of faith. No doubt he will tell us how life is an inevitable and beautiful illustration of the Tawhid. Fi salamit illâh.’

  The Aqaid—theology class—had got over but the students continued to discuss the news.

  ‘Lunch by the tree?’ asked Jahanara, and without waiting for Bilkis’ answer grabbed her by the hand and dragged her away.

  The mango tree stood at a corner of the madrasa’s half-acre playground, bordered by a fence. A wooden bench had once encircled the trunk, but half a section had collapsed. There was still enough spacing for two, and what the setting lacked in elegance it made up in privacy.

  ‘If we only had some barfi for dessert,’ said Jahanara in Hindi, surveying their combined tiffins. She laughed at Bilkis’ expression. ‘Pass me a roti, donkey.’

  Bilkis handed her a roti. ‘I shouldn’t have disrespected the alim. He’s a great scholar.’

  ‘So?’ Jahanara rolled her eyes. ‘The alim’s read two useless books where everybody has read one. He still waits outside the butcher’s shop for the free cuts of meat.’ She shifted her tone, and mimicked Bilkis’ voice. ‘The answer is Al-Nur, alim. Toady. I felt ashamed of you. Did you hear me weeping?’

  ‘You should be in Bollywood. Never mind the alim. Do you know Shahrukh Khan saved the lives of two children who were hurt in a grenade blast in Srinagar? He paid for their treatment.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘Everybody who has a heart! They would have died!’

  ‘Again, who cares?’ said Jahanara. ‘I don’t care if God himself were coming.’

  ‘Are you really a Muslim?’

  ‘Are your tits smaller than mine?’ inquired Jahanara. ‘He’s only a man.’

  ‘But not just a man. Shahrukh is an angel. Can we agree on that at least?’

  ‘Most definitely, dear one.’

  They clicked tiffins.

  ‘Of course, make no mistake,’ said Bilkis, her eyes half-closed, ‘Shahrukh is mine.’

  ‘Excuse me, didn’t Hâfiz say that Bilkis was destined for Suleyman just as the wing is destined for the wind?’

  ‘Hai Allah,’ sighed Bilkis, ‘Shahrukh is my Suleyman, my Majnun, my Farhad, my Salman. Did you see him at the Oscar ceremony? I watched it on Zee TV. The Americans were there. He was firing English left and right. I didn’t understand a word, but it was obvious the Americans were impressed. He looked so confident. He truly is the Pride of Islam. So fair, so tall, so intelligent, so noble.’

  Jahanara made a face. ‘So married.’

  ‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ said Bilkis. ‘And who says I want to be his wife?’

  ‘Tramp! You’re soaking the bench.’

  Bilkis laughed, shame-faced. ‘Give me some of that brinjal.’

  ‘Your Abba lets you watch Zee TV?’ asked Jahanara, as she carefully handed over a piece of the eggplant.

  ‘This was a special occasion. Otherwise.’ Bilkis ran a finger around her throat. ‘Abba says the world is Dar al-Kufr, Dar al-Harb. He is right. I feel so disturbed whenever I watch TV. Like I have a fever.’

  ‘Yes, the fever of being alive. Say what you will of the kaffirs, they’re alive. They don’t need a manual to tell them what to do.’

  ‘Then become a kaffir. Idiot! You’ve been born a Muslim, blessed with the most—’

  ‘Blessed!’ Jahanara gestured to the school and the world around them. ‘I was a Mughal princess once. I was Padishah Begum, Sahibat al-Zamani, Rajkumari Sahiba Shahzadi Jahanara, eldest and most beloved daughter of Mumtaz and Shah Jehan, grandson of shahenshah Jalal-u-din Akbar, the greatest Mughal of them all. I was cast in my mother’s image, her gift in flesh what his memory had turned to marble. I was a civilization given a name. What am I now? A ward of Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim Orphanage, an orphan who has never left the streets of Chandni Bazaar.’

  ‘Jehan.’

  ‘Never mind. We were talking of your beloved superstar.’ Jahanara made that peculiar V-sign and attempted a faux-American accent. ‘Shahrukh’s in da house, y’all.’

  Bilkis tried out the gesture, but found it harder than expected. ‘What does it mean? Peace?’

  ‘It’s from Star Trek, an American TV show.’ Jahanara explained the show’s basic premise. ‘They like visiting new places. Meeting strange foreigners. Like our al-Biruni.’

  ‘Do they explore all the seven heavens?’

  ‘All, I guess. The ship had ten speeds, so maybe there are ten heavens. I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe Shahrukh could defeat those aliens too?’

  ‘Astagfirullah! It’s just a TV show, you donkey! Shahrukh is just a bloody actor and there are no bloody aliens.’

  ‘I know it’s a show! But how do you know there are no aliens? The Qu’ran doesn’t say so. Do you think Allah has also revealed Himself to them?’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Jehan.

  ‘You’re beginning to talk like an apostate! Imagine if the whole universe was Dar al-Kufr. We would be utterly overwhelmed. I think I would die.’

  ‘Shahrukh probably expects more spunk from his tramps.’

  Bilkis laughed. ‘I wish I could see this show.’

  ‘Shows. There are many. Their mission is to boldly go where no man has gone before.’

  ‘Typical. Men will do anything for virgins.’

  ‘As al-Biruni’s camel discovered.’

  They burst out laughing, pummelling the bench so hard, the tree threatened to drop a branch. It also startled some passing schoolgirls from Mary Immaculate; they continued to walk, their faces neutral, but Bilkis caught a few rolling their eyes at each other.

  ‘Give me some of the fish,’ said Jahanara. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Usual. Dara macchi. Here.’

  Jahanara’s hands were busy with the tiffin, so Bilkis hand-fed her friend. Without warning, Jahanara nipped her forefinger. Bilkis jerked her hand back, tears springing to her eyes, more from the surprise than any real injury.

  ‘That’s for loving Shahrukh more than you love me,’ said Jahanara, calmly.

  They stared at each other.

  ‘Does it hurt? Let me see.’ Jahanara raised Bilkis’ forefinger, licked it, and then blew on it gently. ‘There! All better now.’

  ‘You are crazy,’ said Bilkis, inspecting her still-smarting finger. ‘Can we agree on that at least?’

  They clicked tiffins.

  Bilkis’ shift at the Plastics factory in Phukwat had been particularly busy, and she barely had time to rush home, wash up, do her evening namaaz and make dinner before Abba got home.

  Her Abba approvingly grunted his way through her dal-sabzi. The largest object in the room was the Godrej almirah, but as he ate, her attention faltered on the blackened, blistered visage of Shahzadi Nafisa atop the cupboard. She would have to talk to Abba-jaan. She didn’t stay awake long enough to watch her father finish his cigarette, though she felt his kiss and the murmur of a benediction before he too turned in for the night.

  Next morning she raised the issue of Jehan and her desire to leave for Mumbai. Her real desire was to leave the orphanage. Please Abba-jaan, please.

  ‘I will approach the Maulana,’ said Abba. ‘Perhaps he can talk with the authorities and see if the orphanage is really as bad as Jehan claims.’

  ‘It is,’ cried Bilkis. ‘It is. It’s horrible. Why can’t she stay with us?’

  Her Abba looked away. ‘It’s not proper. You will understand when you’re older. In any case, your main concern should be your studies
. I will speak with the Maulana. Maybe Jehan has some relatives somewhere. Let us see.’

  But she understood, which meant she must have grown up. Her Abba’s discomfited glance was that of a decent man pushing away a problem before it became a problem. She’d sensed the same discomfort in some of the male teachers even as their eyes lingered.

  When Abba drove away, Jahanara came running up to her.

  ‘Doesn’t our school look grand?’

  It did. Just to be on the safe side, Maulana Tariq, the headmaster, had ordered a thorough cleaning of the school. Its pillars had been wiped down, the ornamental filigree in the stone walls dusted, fresh white linen laid on the concrete floor, and citrus room fresheners had been sprayed with joyous abandon. Even the blades of the industrial-strength ceiling fans had been wiped down. The school didn’t have a mole hair out of place.

  The students had helped but most of the cleanliness was the work of the Haji Ali Dargah Event Coordination and Management Committee. The Dargah’s workers, dressed in kufi caps, creased khaki kurtas, and adorned with coloured badges, cowed everybody into achieving their better selves. Outside, they were now handling crowd control, pushing back the curious people, suddenly all good Muslims, with a grave ‘Please stand back brother. Please stand back sister. Please stand back.’

  When Bilkis walked into the assembly hall, the tension in the air could be plucked like a one-stringed lute. Her eyes met Jahanara’s, and in her friend’s quick, over-alert smile, Bilkis detected the same keening excitement.

  The students were more than students now. They were Representatives of Islam and lest they miss the point, the Maulana reminded them a few minutes after they had all assembled:

  ‘You represent the flower of Islamic womanhood. Do nothing to shame our faith or our faith in you.’

  There wasn’t much chance of that. All the girls were decked out in festival-quality salwar kameez and scarcely daring to move lest it crinkle their starched clothes or disarray the perfect draping of their white headscarves. The teachers looked distinguished and resplendent in their ironed kurta-coats, topis and coiffed beards. Bilkis couldn’t help feeling proud of her school.