Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  Mr Ali raised his voice. “If you will not bury my body in the graveyard, I will arrange for people to break in overnight and bury me just inside the mosque by the entrance so you will all have to step over me on the way to your prayers.”

  There was a shocked silence and the crowd parted as Mr Ali turned away.

  The imam’s voice was soft behind him. “There is no festival tomorrow. The moon has not been sighted. I suggest that you use the day to fast and show your gratitude to Allah for the gift of this duniya, this world, and the faith that He has given you.”

  ♦

  At ten the next morning, Mr Ali was sitting in his living room with his wife and Pari.

  Mrs Ali said to him, “The imam was right about one thing, anyway. You should fast during Ramzaan. All over the world, Muslims fast in this month. And they have much more physically demanding jobs than you – farmers, soldiers, rickshaw pullers, manual labourers. Many of them don’t have proper food to start the fast either. They just eat a few grains of coarse salt, drink a bit of water and that’s their preparation for the day. You sit at the front of the house, under a fan, talking to a few people and scribbling a few lines on paper. How hard can it be for you to fast?”

  “Don’t get started on that now,” said Mr Ali. “It doesn’t matter whether I was fasting or whether I had been to Mecca on the Haj, they would still have kicked me out.”

  “Chaacha is right,” said Pari. “It is about politics, not religion.”

  “Take his side,” muttered Mrs Ali.

  “What did you say?” said Mr Ali, just as the doorbell rang.

  “Nothing,” said Mrs Ali. “Go and see who it is.”

  Mr Ali came back within seconds with Azhar’s granddaughter and her husband in tow. Mrs Ali’s face broke into a smile. “When did you come from the village? What are you doing here? Does Azhar know that you are here?”

  “My grandfather is a fool,” said Faiz.

  Mrs Ali blinked in surprise. “Faiz – ”

  Faiz turned to Mr Ali. “It is true. I couldn’t believe it when I heard what happened yesterday at the mosque. He taught me that family always comes first. How could he stand there watching while you were insulted?”

  Mrs Ali said, “These things are complicated, Faiz.”

  “Nothing could be simpler. You all are coming with us to the village now.”

  “What? How come you are in Vizag anyway?”

  “I came to take you away as soon as I heard what happened. You cannot spend the day of Eid on your own.”

  Mr and Mrs Ali glanced at Faiz’s husband. “I agree,” he said. “If you are here, it will just create more trouble. My parents invite you as well.”

  “I’ve spoken to Rehman. I know that he and Vasu are not here either. So what’s holding you all back?” said Faiz. She turned to Pari. “You are coming too, of course.”

  “I don’t think – ”

  Within the hour, all of them were squeezed into a taxi, going to Faiz’s village.

  Twelve

  When they reached their destination, Mrs Ali remembered her previous visit to Faiz’s house with Azhar. Had that been just a month ago? Usually, the month of Ramzaan brought her peace because the troubles of the world would be sublimated in its familiar patterns: the need to get up early to eat, then the low-level hunger and thirst that became easier to handle as the month went on, but was always present just below the surface; the routine of the prayers that punctuated the day; and the anticipation of the first sip of water and the first bite into a date as the sun dipped in the west. The spring-cleaning of the house, the making of the sevian, the fine vermicelli noodles that are eaten only at Ramzaan, the new clothes and a host of other details that come with the festival, marked the passage of the holy month. This year, however, had been anything but joyous. First, the news had come of the road widening and the worry over its impact on the house, then the kerfuffle with the Hindu organisation about Vasu, and finally their dreadful excommunication from their own mosque…None of these problems had been resolved, either. What was Allah thinking of, burdening them with all this at their age?

  “Daadi, don’t look so glum. Tomorrow is the festival. Think about that.”

  Mrs Ali smiled at Faiz. “You are right, my dear. I’ve fasted for thirty days and tomorrow is the feast. Allah has given us one day to enjoy and forget our anxieties. We might as well make use of that.”

  “Thirty? We’ve fasted only for twenty-nine, because we started one day later.”

  “Yes, I’d forgotten about that. So, is Eid definitely tomorrow?”

  “I am not sure, but everybody is saying so. Even the government has announced that the public holiday is tomorrow. But we have to wait and see what the imam decides.”

  “Don’t talk to me about imams,” said Mrs Ali.

  “Did you know that yesterday we took the microwave with us to Grandfather’s house and dumped it there?”

  The thought of a stinking appliance in Azhar’s house, just in time for Ramzaan, cheered Mrs Ali. Serves him right! she thought. A tiny twinge of conscience pricked her, but she suppressed it ruthlessly. Her brother deserved it.

  “Let’s go to the dargah,” she said. “There’s still an hour before sunset.”

  “There won’t be anybody to offer the prayers at the saint’s tomb,” said Faiz.

  “That doesn’t matter. I just want to visit it.”

  Faiz told her mother-in-law where they were going and they set off. They asked Pari whether she wanted to come too, but she was talking to Vasu on the phone and stayed behind. It was a short walk to the dargah and once there they sat on a cement bench in the shadow of the onion-dome surmounting the saint’s tomb. Their own heads were covered by the ends of their saris, to show respect for this holy place.

  “The microwave oven was a gift from your father. It’s a pity that you had to return it.”

  Faiz shrugged. “The microwave is a silly thing to bring to a village like this. There are four ladies and a number of serving maids always in the house. We cook every meal from scratch. All our pots and pans have to be big enough to hold food for at least a dozen people. The microwave was just a show-off item – something to impress visitors with. I am done with such things.”

  “Maasha’ Allah!” God has willed it! Mrs Ali cracked her knuckles on the sides of her head. “You are growing up to be a sensible woman. You will have a wonderful time in your inlaws’ house, I am sure.”

  “I know that I am a lucky woman,” said Faiz, blushing. “In all the time that the microwave was smelling bad, my husband didn’t say a single word. In fact, he defended me whenever his sisters or any of the others tried to make fun of me.”

  Mrs Ali smiled. “He loves you. Anybody can see that. A woman with a loving husband is lucky indeed, for what else can God give her that’s a bigger boon than that?”

  ♦

  The ladies ate at home while the men went to the mosque to break their fast, coming home half an hour later with the dishes in which the food had been taken to the mosque.

  “Where is the big aluminium pan?” asked Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  Faiz’s husband said, “The dish with the chicken curry? There was still some left and the Ibrahim brothers were late and still eating, so we left it there.”

  “Left it there? We’ll lose it, for sure. Last year, my deep ladle, which I had brought from my mother’s house when I got married, went missing when you men left it at the mosque.”

  Faiz and her sisters-in-law looked at each other and suppressed smiles. They had heard their mother-in-law moan about the missing ladle at least thirty-six times in the preceding twelve months.

  “Is it Eid tomorrow?” asked Faiz.

  They had received a phone call from her father in Bangalore and her grandfather in Vizag, and in both places the festival was being celebrated the next day. A short message had been broadcast on television from the imam of the Jamia Masjid in Delhi, congratulating Muslims all over India on enjoying the blessing of an
other holy month that had given them an opportunity to wipe out their sins, and wishing them a happy Eid. The newscaster had said that the festival was also being celebrated the following day in Saudi Arabia and most Middle-Eastern countries.

  “Well, there’s not much doubt about it. The whole world seems to agree on the date, for once.”

  “But we’ve fasted for only twenty-nine days,” said Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  “We started late; it doesn’t mean we also have to finish late,” her husband said. “The discussions were still going on when we left the mosque. We are going to the imam’s house now to find out what’s been decided.”

  The men, including Mr Ali, went out again.

  After a few minutes, Faiz’s mother-in-law said, “I am sure they’ll forget to bring back the big aluminium dish. The servants have retired for the day. Shall we go too?”

  Faiz agreed, and the women also left for the imam’s house.

  In the hour since the sun had set, darkness had fallen and they had to carry a kerosene lantern to light their way.

  “Careful, there might be snakes,” said one of Faiz’s sisters-in-law.

  “Foolish girl, don’t mention those creatures after dark. They know when they are being called and they’ll make a beeline for you. Refer to them as ropes, instead, and we’ll know what we are talking about but they won’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Look, Faiz, your friend’s house is dark.”

  “They are Hindus, so this is a free holiday for them. They have gone to Vizag.”

  “The fragrance of the night-queen plant in their garden is pretty strong, isn’t it?”

  Faiz’s sister-in-law piped up, “Isn’t that plant supposed to attract snak – oops, ropes?”

  “Yes,” said Faiz’s mother-in-law and turned to Faiz. “You should tell your friend to chop the plant down.”

  Mrs Ali enjoyed the walk with the other ladies, but the village was small and it took them just a few minutes to reach the imam’s house, hard by the wall of the mosque. All the Muslim families of the village must have been represented because about thirty or forty men were standing outside.

  Faiz’s husband saw them and walked over. His mother said to him, “Get the vessel from the mosque.”

  “The imam’s wife has taken it for cleaning.”

  “There must have been a lot of curry left for her to do that,” said Faiz’s mother-in-law, darkly.

  The ladies laughed. The imam’s wife acted as if she were superior to all her neighbours because of her husband’s job and most of the local women disliked her.

  “There’s a very interesting discussion going on,” said Faiz’s husband. “The Ibrahim brothers claim that they’ve seen the moon but the imam refuses to believe them.”

  “But they said on TV…Come on, ladies, let’s go to the rear entrance.”

  They knocked on the wooden door until the imam’s teenage daughter opened it.

  “Is your mother in?”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  Faiz’s mother-in-law walked in before the young girl could say anything more. The others followed. The teenager stood by the door, undecided whether to stay and latch the door or to rush into the house and announce the visitors.

  “Salaam A’laikum, sister,” said Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  “Wa’laikum as salaam. There was no need for your whole family to come over just to take the dish back. I would have sent it over later with the men.”

  “Oh, do you have the dish?” Faiz’s mother-in-law waved her hand dismissively. “I didn’t even realise that it hadn’t been brought back. We came here to find out whether tomorrow is Eid or not.”

  “Have you left your menfolk cooking in the kitchen?” the imam’s wife said and laughed.

  Mrs Ali and Pari exchanged glances. Mrs Ali shook her head almost imperceptibly. Pari smiled tightly and looked away, not wanting to betray herself by laughing out loud. Why would she want to intrude on a confrontation between two queen bees? Had a rabid dog bitten her and sent her mad?

  “We made a lot of chicken curry. It will probably be useful for you tomorrow – whether it is Eid or not.”

  “I – ” began the imam’s wife, but a loud shout in the front of the house interrupted her. The ladies exchanged glances and made for the doorway, from where they could see the men.

  The imam was standing with his back to them, with the other men clustered in front of him in a semicircle. Mrs Ali could see Faiz’s husband and his brothers on the edge of the crowd, looking uncomfortable. Two tall men stood directly in front of them, leaning towards the imam. “The Ibrahim brothers,” whispered Faiz to Mrs Ali, who nodded. The brothers who had come late to the breaking of the fast at the mosque.

  The brother on the right wagged his finger in the imam’s face. “I tell you, we saw the moon. It was bright as a silver sickle. Eid has to be tomorrow.”

  “Weren’t the two of you seen drinking alcohol in the market town last month?” asked the imam.

  “That’s a lie. Who’s spreading these calumnies about us? And anyway, what has that got to do with us seeing the moon today?” The brother on the right, who seemed to be the younger one, was the more forceful. His nose glowed red and sweat glistened on his forehead. “And they’ve announced the news on television as well. The government has declared tomorrow as a holiday. If we don’t celebrate tomorrow, I’ll lose three days’ pay, because the weekend will also be counted as time off.”

  “That’s no reason to say that Eid will be tomorrow. The government can declare anything they want. I’ll go by our traditions. Eid is either the day after the moon is sighted or when we have fasted for thirty days. Neither is the case now.”

  Several other men joined in the argument. “Don’t be so old-fashioned. Do you think the imam of Delhi would have come on television if he was not sure?”

  The imam was inflexible. “Delhi is far away and in this mosque I am the imam.”

  The mood grew angrier as the realisation spread that a delay would mean taking an unpaid day off from work.

  “Are you saying that the whole world is wrong and only you are right? We agreed to delay starting the fast because you didn’t see the moon until it was so plump that it was clearly a second-day moon. Now you are saying that we should delay the festival just because you didn’t see it again. What kind of imam does that make you?”

  “A blind one,” shouted the older Ibrahim brother and the crowd laughed.

  Behind the curtain, the imam’s wife turned to her daughter and muttered, “People will happily fast for twenty-nine days, but they get upset at having to fast on that last day.”

  Mrs Ali kept silent, but she agreed with the observation. She too had noticed the same thing over the years.

  “If a Haji, a person who has been on the pilgrimage to Mecca, swears on the Qur’an that he has sighted the moon, then I will agree to celebrate the festival. Otherwise, we fast tomorrow. That’s my final word as the imam. Now, leave me alone to prepare for the night-time prayers.”

  He turned his back on the assembly and came into the house. The ladies retreated to the backyard, collected the aluminium dish – devoid of curry – and made their way home. This time the lane was crowded with men. Most of them seemed resigned to the decision, but the Ibrahim brothers were still annoyed.

  “He called us liars to our face,” said the older one. “The festival has got to be tomorrow.” He made his way to an older man in the middle of the crowd. “Uncle, what do you say?”

  “I think we started fasting a day late and tomorrow is the festival,” said the old man and shrugged. “But as there is no Haji in the village, there is no way we can satisfy the imam and so I guess we should just leave it till the day after tomorrow.”

  “The imam knows as well as everybody else that the only man to have gone to Mecca from our village is your brother, and he is in heaven, by God’s grace. The imam was taunting you because you have not been able to go on the pilgrimage.”

  “I say
, I am sure that’s not what – ”

  The men turned off down a side lane and their words were lost to Mrs Ali, who focused her attention instead on what Faiz’s mother-in-law was saying.

  “Did you see how that woman didn’t return the leftover curry?”

  ♦

  It was eight-forty-five in the evening, and Pari, the Alis and all of Faiz’s family were gathered in the living room.

  “I love the turquoise border on your sari,” one of the women said to Pari.

  “Oh, it’s not a new sari – ”

  “ – she doesn’t use ginger. Tell me, how can upma taste good without ginger in it?” said Faiz’s mother-in-law.

  Mrs Ali nodded and barely suppressed a yawn. She wasn’t a late-night person at the best of times, and the month of getting up early and fasting had taken its toll. She wondered how Rehman was coping in the village with Vasu. Vasu’s grandfather’s hut was small and basic. What were they doing for food?

  “South Africa were good, but I thought India could have easily beaten them if they had batted more intelligently.”

  “But their bowlers – ”

  Mr Ali didn’t understand the mania for cricket, not just among the youth, but among many older people too. He looked across the room to his wife. “Tomorrow will be your thirty-first day of fasting, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Ali. “In all my years, I’ve never had to do that. I’d better go to bed. Otherwise, I won’t be able to get up tomorrow at four in the morning.”

  She stood up and Faiz’s mother-in-law turned to Faiz. “Go with your great-aunt and make sure the bed is made up.”

  As Faiz also stood, there was a loud knock at the door. Every eye swung involuntarily towards the big clock on the wall: old and made in England, as Faiz’s father-in-law was proud of pointing out. Faiz’s husband jumped up, opened the door slightly and peeked out.

  “Come in. What’s the matter?” he said, opening the door more fully. The younger Ibrahim brother was standing there.

  “Sorry, I don’t have time. I need to tell all the families in the village. Eid is tomorrow.”