by Farahad Zama
They all walked into the front yard where Vasu put on his sandals. Mr Ali too came out from behind his desk and joined them.
“The flower’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Very nice,” said Pari.
Beads of water glistened on its glossy petals like dew. Vasu reached out and, before anybody realised what he was doing, plucked it off the plant.
“Vasu!” shouted Pari, but it was too late.
Mr Ali’s mouth opened and closed silently while his face turned a red that matched the colour of the flower in Vasu’s hand.
“Why did you – That is stealing,” spluttered Mr Ali.
“No, it is not,” said Vasu. “I am taking it to the temple. That’s what everybody does in the village.”
“It’s not stealing,” said Mrs Ali, after they had left. She couldn’t help giggling when she saw her husband’s angry expression. Pari struggled mightily to keep a straight face for a few seconds and then burst into laughter, which she had to turn into a cough when Mr Ali glared at her.
♦
The imam was chairing his first meeting of the mosque committee, whose members sat on piled-up cotton rugs and reed mats on the flat roof of the mosque. It was cooler there and they could catch the occasional breeze.
“Why do we need to build another floor?” asked the imam. “From what I have seen so far, the downstairs is more than enough for normal occasions and, on special Eid days, the people can just pray here on the open roof.”
Some of the committee members took that as a rebuke.
“We are sorry, imam-saab. This is a big congregation, but the people are not religious enough. That’s one of the reasons why we have brought you here. We want to revive their sense of ibaadat and get them to attend the mosque more regularly. When people see that the mosque is growing in size, and we have repainted the walls and set up new lights and fans, they will be attracted here.”
Just then Azhar joined them. “Is the back wall fully repaired?” one of the men asked him.
Azhar nodded. “Insha’Allah, God willing, it will outlive all of us,” he said, then turned to the imam. “Except you, of course, sir.”
The committee, all retired men of a certain age, laughed. “Azhar miah, how much will the construction of the roof cost?”
The discussion became technical: the material cost of cement, bricks, sand, iron; the labour costs of construction, watering, the concrete…Finally, they all fell silent. The only thing that was clear was that it would involve more money than the mosque accounts held – in a non-interest-bearing current account, of course, because the Qur’an specified that charging interest, or riba, was usury and a sin.
The imam stroked his straggly beard. These men were all much older than him, but his position gave him a gravitas that somebody his age would otherwise never have.
“The second-floor construction is a distraction,” he said finally. “If people start coming in bigger numbers, Allah will fill our coffers to expand the mosque. He will not turn away one of His worshippers from His door. So let’s talk about how to achieve that.”
The committee instantly agreed with the imam that this was obviously the right way to approach the problem. The discussion moved no further over the next fifteen minutes, however, until one of the committee members turned to Azhar. “What is your niece’s name? The widow who lives next door to your sister?”
“Pari? What about her?”
“Yes, Pari. Doesn’t she have a so-called son, the Hindu-born boy?”
“That’s right,” said Azhar. “Vasu’s an orphan and she adopted him.”
“Looking after an orphan is a good deed,” said the imam. “But I am troubled. Does his name mean that the boy is not being brought up as a Muslim?”
Vasu was another name for Vishnu, the Preserver-God in the Hindu Trinity. Brahma, the Creator, and Shiva, the Destroyer, being the other two.
“That’s correct,” said Azhar. “Unfortunately, the boy is not being brought up as a Muslim. I have spoken several times to her about it but she is a headstrong woman.”
The committee member who had raised the issue turned to the imam. “That’s the level of jahilya – ignorance – that abounds in our town. You will have your task cut out to make this town more religious.”
The imam said, “There are no two ways about it. Evil follows evil. Such wilful flouting of our traditions must not only be dealt with, but this must also be seen to be done by everybody.” He turned to Azhar. “I will need your help to find out more about this case. The boy cannot remain a Hindu. We will have to do what it takes to convert him to Islam.”
♦
The temple was not particularly busy when Aruna and the others walked into its courtyard. Aruna was carrying a thin, blue polythene bag containing a string of white jasmine flowers and a bunch of bananas. They took off their shoes in the courtyard and made their way barefoot onto the tiled main area of the temple. Srinu rang the bell that hung from the ceiling. Vasu would have liked to ring it too, but it was too high for him and he didn’t yet feel comfortable enough with this relative stranger to ask to be lifted.
In an alcove at one end of the covered hall stood a statue of Lord Rama, six feet tall with a bow over his shoulder, and accompanied by his wife and faithful brother. Two tall brass lamps were lit on either side of the idols, their edges black from the wicks. The smell of camphor and incense became stronger as they approached. A priest took the bag from Aruna and the hibiscus flower from Vasu, and then they all made an obeisance to the Lord. Vasu joined his palms in front of his chest, closed his eyes and lowered his chin. After a few seconds, he could not resist opening one eye slightly and peeking at his companions. Aruna and Gita’s eyes were closed and their lips were moving in prayer. Srinu shot a glance at him and Vasu hastily closed his eyes again.
When they had finished, the priest gave Aruna a betel leaf with rice grains and red vermilion powder on it. She took it with her right hand and touched it to her forehead. Then they made their way to the exit, making sure not to show their backs to the idols. As they were putting on their shoes, a bearded man wearing saffron clothes stopped them.
“You cannot leave without praying to Shani,” he said and led them to a small stone idol on the far side of the courtyard. Shani was the planet Saturn and heralded bad luck.
“We cannot afford misfortune, guru-gaaru,” said Srinu. “We were kidnapped by Maoists from our village and that’s why we’ve moved to the town. I now want to start a snack-food business.”
They propitiated the god of ill luck.
“I would like to help in the temple if I may,” said Gita.
The guru nodded. “We always need volunteers,” he said. Patting Vasu on the head, he said to Aruna, “Is this your boy?”
She shook her head. “No, sir. He is the son of a friend.”
“Who are the boy’s parents? Why haven’t I seen them in the temple? Don’t they live in this area?”
The temple official’s questions set alarm bells ringing in Aruna’s mind. Nothing good could come of revealing that Vasu was being brought up in a Muslim household. She looked at her watch. “Oh no, is it already so late? My mother-in-law will be waiting. Let’s go.”
She took Vasu by the arm and started walking away, glad that she had averted disaster by her quick thinking.
The saffron-robed man stared at their receding backs, his mouth half open in surprise. “Of all the rude – ” he began.
Vasu turned. “I live with my mother,” he said loudly, his young voice cutting through the crowded courtyard like the peal of a newly cast bell. “She doesn’t come to Hindu temples because she is a Muslim.”
♦
Meanwhile, Mrs Ali was in the kitchen with Pari. Mrs Ali took a fillet of kingfish that had already been coated with ginger, garlic and chilli powder and lowered it into a Teflon-coated pan with a little hot oil in it. The fish sizzled and steam rose from the pan, releasing an aroma of fish and spices.
“I am going to
Kothagudem tomorrow,” said Mrs Ali.
Pari nodded. The visit to Faiz, Azhar-maama’s granddaughter, had been talked about for a while and only the date of travel was news.
“Azhar is taking an oven – one of those microwave things,” said Mrs Ali.
Pari’s eyes widened. That was a gift she hadn’t expected.
“Foolish, if you ask me.” Mrs Ali slid the edge of the wooden spatula – received free when she had purchased the non-stick pan – under the frying fillet. “I am always amazed how the fish doesn’t stick to this pan,” she said, changing topic like a car changing gears. “You end up using so much less oil.” Mrs Ali quickly turned over the fish, bringing a fresh sizzle. “What was I saying? Yes, a microwave…Nobody in the village has seen one, that’s why he is taking it. I can understand the girl thinking about ostentation and showing off – she is young, after all, but elders should have more sense than that, nai?”
Pari was embarrassed. This was the first time that Mrs Ali had criticised one of her family members in front of her and she didn’t know how to react. Not that she particularly loved Azhar-maama. Soon after Pari had moved to Vizag following her father’s death, Azhar-maama’s much younger daughter – who was just ten years older than his granddaughter – had become pregnant. He had invited Mrs Ali to go with him and his wife to bring her home for the delivery but had not asked Pari to come along. Darling Rehman, Mrs Ali’s son, in his usual bull-in-a-china-shop style, had brought the matter out into the open and Azhar-maama had admitted that he considered Pari, as a widow, to be an inauspicious presence on the occasion of a much desired birth. Since then, Azhar-maama kept dropping hints that she wasn’t a good Muslim because Vasu was still being raised as a Hindu and continued to bear the name of a Hindu god. So, no…She couldn’t say that Azhar-maama was her favourite uncle.
As Mrs Ali popped the next fillet of fish into the frying pan, she said, “They live in a village and have a large household, with in-laws and servants and farm workers. Most of their cooking is done on wood fires – they burn coconut leaves and pine logs. I doubt if they even have reliable electricity, so how useful will a microwave be? It’s a completely useless gift.”
“Didn’t you tell him?” asked Pari.
“It’s pointless giving advice to people who will not listen. It only reduces the value of your words.”
Three
Aruna slit open another envelope. It was the day after her visit to the temple and she was alone in the office. The letter held a complaint from a man who claimed that he had joined the marriage bureau for his daughter the previous week and had not yet received the promised list of bridegrooms. You sent me the application form very fast, he had written. Has your interest in service dropped once I sent you the fees?
Aruna sighed. Mr Ali was insistent that all letters be answered within one day of being received. There was a slight – a very slight – bias towards first answering requests for information on the bureau and how to become a member, but they never left more than a couple of days before replying to any letter. She looked up the man’s name on the computer and pulled out his details from the wooden wardrobe they used as a filing cabinet. As she had suspected, they had sent off the lists several days ago.
She now had a dilemma: had their reply just been delayed in the post and would it make its way to the client in the next day or two, or was it permanently lost? Mr Ali was out on an evening walk with his friends, so she couldn’t ask him. Before she could decide, a young man walked in through the door. She was quite used to dealing with clients when Mr Ali was not there.
“Namaskaararn,” she said. “Please take a seat.”
The young man’s name was Raju and he was a Christian. “Not just a Christian, but a converted Kapu,” he made a point of saying, keen to emphasise that he was not from one of the lower castes who made up the bulk of India’s Christians.
Aruna nodded, thinking, you can take an Indian out of the caste system, but you cannot take the caste system out of an Indian.
He paid the fee of five hundred rupees and became a member. “I don’t mind whether the bride is Christian or Hindu, as long as they are from a higher caste.”
Aruna dutifully noted the details on his form. Soon after Raju left, Mrs Ali came out to sit in the verandah. The sun had gone down but it was still very hot. The rains had come and gone a couple of months ago, and the heat again had the country in its grip. Mrs Ali sat silently under the fan for a moment and then said, “How are things at home?”
“Very good, madam,” said Aruna. “My mother-in-law is so sweet. She does not let me even let me lift a mortar and pestle in the kitchen now. She says that because I am pregnant, I should let the servants do all the work.”
Mrs Ali smiled. “That’s nice.”
“The other day, I wanted a glass of water and as soon as I stood up to get it, she rushed to do it for me.”
“Well, a lot of daughters-in-law would love to be in your position,” said Mrs Ali. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Aruna shook her head. “It made me uncomfortable – letting an older person do my work for me.”
“That’s because you are a well-brought-up girl,” said Mrs Ali, approvingly. “Of course, you do realise that she is not doing the work so much for you as for her unborn grandchild.”
Aruna laughed. “Of course,” she said. “My mother-in-law said that I should take special care with the first grandchild of their house. I pointed out that her daughter Mani already has two grandsons, but she just dismissed them. They are not our family, she said. They belong to her husband’s family.”
Mrs Ali shrugged. “That’s normal. Your child will be their first paternal grandchild, after all.”
Aruna said, “I mean she is so loving when Mani’s sons come to visit us. She plays with them, gives them sweets and then she just makes a statement like that…She went to the temple the other day to pray that my first-born will be a son.”
“I see.”
“Both of us told her that we don’t care whether we have a son or daughter, but…”
The gate to the yard opened with a rattle and the conversation stopped. Four men in khaki came in, accompanied by a fifth in a smarter shirt and trousers. Aruna and Mrs Ali looked at each other, puzzled. Mrs Ali stood up and went to the verandah gate.
“We are from the electricity board, madam,” said the official-looking man, showing an identity card.
“Yes…” said Mrs Ali cautiously.
“We have come to disconnect your supply,” he said, waving a cyclostyled form with her husband’s name filled in.
“What? Why?”
“Is this number forty-five Abid Road?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Ali, “but why are you disconnecting our supply? This is ridiculous. We are not in arrears. In fact, we paid the last bill only a week ago. Wait, I’ll get the challan.” She turned to get the receipt of payment.
“No, madam. This has nothing to do with non-payment. We have determined that you are running a commercial enterprise on a domestic meter.”
“What? I don’t believe – ”
The official spoke to his men. “Come on, boys. Do your job.” He turned to Mrs Ali. “Please stand aside, madam.”
“My husband and son are not here. You can’t just barge into a house when only the ladies are at home. Come back later.”
“Sorry, madam. We have the disconnection order signed by the executive engineer. We have full authority to disconnect the power supply, by entering your house if necessary.”
“But – ”
Eventually, Mrs Ali stepped aside and the men walked in. Aruna quickly saved her work and shut down the computer. They both watched dumbstruck as one of the workers turned off the mains switch, plunging the house into darkness. The men had come prepared with torches and they pulled out the heavy porcelain fuses. A paper was pasted over the fuse box. Then with the aid of a smoking lamp red sealing wax was melted over the place where the paper overlapped the wooden board holding the ele
ctric equipment. A heavy seal was pressed into the wax while it was still soft. The wax dried to a hard crust that would break off in chunks if anybody tried to force it.
The official gave Mrs Ali a copy of the disconnection order and said, “It is a criminal offence to tear or remove that paper, madam.”
“What do we do? How do we get our power back?” Mrs Ali asked.
“You will need to apply to the executive engineer’s office – at the big electricity office opposite Green Park Hotel. You will have to get a commercial meter for the property.”
“Commercial meter?” Mrs Ali was appalled. The sweetshop owner down the road had been converted to a commercial meter and he said that his electricity bill had soared after that. “That would ruin us,” she said.
The official shrugged and the men left, taking with them even the glimmer of light from their torches. Mrs Ali stood, too shocked by the suddenness of the event to say or do anything. Aruna suddenly remembered that they had a rechargeable emergency lamp and, feeling her way in the darkness around the table, managed to find it and switch it on. A pale fluorescent light illuminated the verandah.
Mrs Ali sat back heavily in the wicker chair. “I don’t know…What commercial enterprise? We are not running a shop here.”
“They mean the marriage bureau, madam,” said Aruna delicately.
“The marriage bureau? It’s just you and sir sitting behind a table. How can that be called commercial?”
And the computer, thought Aruna. And the lights and the fan.
But, of course, she said nothing. She went back behind the desk and tidied it up with the help of the emergency lamp.
Mrs Ali looked up at her and said, “Better call your driver. There’s no point wasting your time here.” After a few moments, she added, “I don’t understand how they knew about the marriage bureau.”
“Erm…”
Mrs Ali looked up sharply at Aruna’s face. “You know something,” she said. “What is it?”
“Well, I am not sure, but the other day a new meter reader came to the house – ”
