by Farahad Zama
Mrs Ali stopped in her tracks, as did Faiz. “What?” said seven voices, in a chorus.
“Has the imam changed his mind?” said Mr Ali.
“Yes, the imam is convinced. Sorry, got to go. The khutba, the festival sermon, starts at eight-thirty.”
♦
They woke up to a beautifully overcast day, the sun shooting luminous arrows through breaks in the clouds, like a painting in which the artist is trying to depict heavenly beneficence falling on a bonny child in front of a copy of the Qur’an.
“Eid Mubarak,” they greeted each other.
There was a mad rush for the bathroom because everybody had to take a head-bath. “Why can’t I wear my new clothes now?” said Faiz’s nine-year-old nephew.
“Eat your breakfast first. Otherwise you’ll drop it down the front of your new shirt before you’ve even gone to the mosque,” the boy’s mother said.
“But Chaacha has worn his new clothes,” the boy said, pointing at his paternal uncle, Faiz’s husband.
“Just sit down and eat. I have a ton of work,” said his mother crossly. The boy started crying.
Pari sat down next to him. “Shall I feed you? What are you going to do with your eidi – the money you get today?”
The boy wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and said, “My mother takes it all away. She says it is to pay for the eidis that my father has to pay to the other boys. That’s not fair because my cousins can keep their money.”
“I’ll tell you what. Let’s bargain with your mother so that you can keep some of it.” She gathered the first spoon of the vermicelli with milk and fed him with it.
The boy’s mother patted Pari’s shoulder with gratitude and disappeared into the kitchen.
Mrs Ali took a bath, changed into a new sari and came back into the room given to her and her husband, to find him standing by the suitcase.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “I packed all the clothes neatly. Don’t pull them out like that. You’ll make a mess.”
“I am looking for a handkerchief.”
She pushed him out of the way and took out the kerchief from a corner. “Did you take your cap?”
“No.”
“OK, I’ll get it. Go and eat your breakfast quickly. You have to leave for the mosque soon.”
As if on cue, an electrically amplified voice boomed through the village.
Hayya ‘ala salat, Make haste towards worship,
Hayya ‘alal-falah. Hasten towards the true success
“See, the muezzin has already started his call.” The men and the children, both boys and girls, were soon assembled at the front of the house – the older men wearing silken Nehru suits, taken out after a year in storage, pressed and smelling of mothballs, and the youngsters wearing brand-new clothes, stitched and delivered just a couple of days ago. Faiz came out with a bottle of ittar and a ball of cotton with which she applied the traditional perfume to all the men’s clothes.
A sudden calm descended on the house as the men left. The ladies sat down in the living room, taking the opportunity to catch their breath before starting their own prayers and beginning the cooking. Mrs Ali, aware that Pari was not with them, went to investigate. She found Pari sitting on her bed by a window, looking out, her face blank and impassive. Mrs Ali tiptoed in, though it was doubtful whether an elephant tramping into the room would have disturbed the young woman. She sat beside Pari and laid her hand on her shoulder. Several moments later, Pari turned towards Mrs Ali, who realised that she had been wrong about the lack of emotion on Pari’s face. Two unshed tears had gathered in the corners of her eyes, glittering like diamonds.
“Everybody leaves you,” Pari said. “Nobody stays.”
Mrs Ali gulped. She couldn’t think of a word to say, even if her throat had been capable of saying it. Pari had lost her husband a couple of years ago; then the previous year, her father too had passed away after being bedridden for more than ten months. The poor girl had seen more tragedy in her young life than those who had lived far longer.
“Those whom God loves, He takes to his fold early,” said Mrs Ali finally.
“I loved my husband and my father too. Then why was He so selfish? Of all the people in the world, why did He have to take from me the two men I loved the most? Does He have a shortage of people in heaven? Tell me, Chaachi, is there such a shortage of people in heaven?”
Mrs Ali blotted Pari’s tears with the edge of her sari. “Who knows why God does anything? He is not human, after all, and our minds can’t fathom His reasons.”
Pari shook her head and turned back to the window. “If only Vasu was here. He would have enjoyed all the hubbub of a festival in a large household.”
“Yes, it’s a pity that he is not here. You wouldn’t have felt so lonely then.”
Pari turned suddenly to Mrs Ali. “Oh, I am sorry for being so selfish. You must be missing Rehman terribly too.”
Mrs Ali shrugged. “Just keep busy and it will be all right. And of course you don’t have to apologise. You have more to miss.”
The two women sat in companionable silence, listening to the sounds in the background of the ladies of the household. Pari raised her head, alert as a hound that had caught sight of a rabbit. “I hear Vasu,” she said.
“Don’t be sil – ” began Mrs Ali, just as Vasu burst into the room and jumped into Pari’s lap.
Pari nuzzled her face into Vasu’s neck. “My baby…my baby.” Now, the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
Mrs Ali heard a noise and turned. Rehman was standing there, tall and lean. She got out of bed and hugged him, tears in her own eyes. “How…When…”
Mrs Ali soon stepped back. “Go to the mosque. Hurry. It hasn’t been long since the muezzin called out the azdan and the prayers won’t have started yet.”
♦
At the mosque, Mr Ali and the rest of Faiz’s family had been among the early arrivals and had found a place near the front, as intended. Other families trickled in and slowly took their places. There was one question on everybody’s lips. “Why had the imam changed his mind about the day of the festival?”
There were all happy, of course, that Eid was today, though some of the children wished it were not, as that would have meant two days of holiday instead of one: the official one today and the real one tomorrow. But new clothes, the prospect of receiving money later on and the smell of rich food being prepared was enough to make everybody festive. The pleasant cloudy weather was a welcome bonus and, everybody said, a sign of Allah’s favour.
“The imam is gone…”
“What do you mean gone? Who’s going to lead the prayers? Who’s going to give the sermon?”
“I went to his house this morning and the door was wide open. The house was bare.”
“Have you been drinking, like the Ibrahim brothers?”
“No, it’s true, I tell you.”
“The chai-shop owner said that he saw the imam leaving the village in a bullock cart late last night with his wife and daughter. He said the cart was loaded with what looked like all their belongings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. How can the imam leave the village the night before Eid?”
Rumours swirled through the crowd. A middle-aged, barrel-chested man sitting next to Mr Ali in the front row suddenly stood up. “Silence,” he shouted. His voice carried like that of an army sergeant and after a couple more such admonitions the congregation became quiet.
“Yesterday evening, most of us were at the imam’s house. He was adamant then that since the moon had not been sighted in this village, the festival would not be celebrated today. After that, we were all informed that he had changed his mind. And now I hear that the imam is not in the village at all. What’s going on? Have we been played for fools?”
At this, the men started talking to their neighbours again.
“Who told you?”
“The older Ibrahim brother.”
“And you?”
“The younger one.�
��
It was soon clear that they had all been called to the mosque by one of the two brothers.
“Where are the brothers?” The barrel-chested man was speaking again. “I have not missed a day’s fast since I was eleven years old, even during my college years when the fast coincided with my degree exams, or in my thirties when I was very ill one Ramzaan. If those brothers are the cause of my missing today’s fast, I will thrash them and make them eat burning coals. Religious matters are not to be trifled with.”
The brothers were not in the congregation. Several men stood up and everybody started talking loudly, half of them saying, “Sit down. Stop shouting.”
An older man made his way to the front and stood facing the congregation. He raised his hands until one or two people in the front noticed him, then he signalled with a motion of his palms for them to sit. Gradually a few others picked up the signal until eventually the mosque was quiet again. Mr Ali recognised him as the man that the Ibrahim brothers had been talking to the previous evening, who had agreed with them that Eid should be today.
“That’s Musa,” whispered Faiz’s father-in-law to Mr Ali.
Musa had a good public-speaking voice and a lovely old-fashioned Urdu vocabulary.
“My dear men, the Ibrahim brothers have played a trick on us. The imam could not be persuaded to change his mind, so the brothers chased him out of the village overnight.”
The congregation erupted into shouts again.
Mr Ali leaned towards Faiz’s father-in-law and whispered to him. Faiz’s father-in-law nodded and urged Mr Ali to stand up.
Mr Ali shook his head. “I am an outsider here. It’s best if you do it.”
Faiz’s father-in-law stood up next to Musa.
“Friends, brothers…quiet!” Once the noise levels had died down, he started speaking again. “We have two choices before us now. We can all lament that we’ve lost a day of fasting. Or, we can join the rest of the country and celebrate today. Our womenfolk must already be praying in our houses and getting ready to make a festive lunch. Our children are in their best clothes and anticipating an afternoon of fun and sweets. What’s the point of throwing it all away? We are gathered in the mosque. I say to you all, Eid Mubarak! I wish you all a happy Eid.”
“How can we celebrate the festival without an imam?”
Faiz’s father-in-law pointed to Musa. “A well-respected and good man is standing right here. I have known him as boy and man, and can heartily recommend him to lead us in prayers today and, insha’Allah, God willing, for many more years.”
Everybody quickly agreed, partly because no man really wanted to go back home and face his wife’s disappointment or his Hindu neighbour’s scorn at being unable to organise a prayer in a mosque.
Faiz’s father-in-law sat down and Musa bent his head for a long moment, before looking up at the crowd. “I am honoured and humbled by your trust in me. Insha’Allah, I will lead you in prayers today. But I am not a trained imam and we should either try to get back our old imam or find a new man in the longer term.”
He nodded to a young man in the front who jumped up and put his hands to his lips. “Hayya ‘ala salat, make haste towards worship…”
♦
When Rehman walked into the mosque, the men were standing in rows. He joined the last line.
“Fill up the lines in front. There should be no gaps,” shouted a man in the front.
There was a tiny space ahead of them and the man on Rehman’s left moved forward. Another gap appeared ahead and the man moved forward again, leaving a gap behind him. A couple of minutes later, the last line in which Rehman was still standing had shrunk to less than half its original size, but the lines ahead all occupied the full width of the mosque.
“Straight lines, please.”
The namaaz, ritual prayers, first designed by the Prophet fourteen hundred years ago and followed ever since all over the world, began.
Ten minutes later the namaaz ended and the straight lines dissolved into groups as the men sank to the floor to sit cross-legged. Rehman could finally see his father and Faiz’s family in the front row, but decided to stay where he was for the moment when he saw that there was little space near them. A chair was brought and Musa sat facing them. Some men near Rehman half stood and were about to leave the mosque when Musa said, “Listening to the sermon is as much a part of the Eid worship as the actual prayers. Don’t worry, I won’t talk for long!”
Several people laughed and the men were embarrassed into sitting down again. Rehman got distracted by a line of ants walking along the narrow gap between two mats in the row in front. Eid or no Eid, life carried on as normal for many of Allah’s creatures.
By the time he started paying attention to Musa, the sermon was well under way.
“The people of Israel were led to freedom from the Pharoah by Musa, the prophet whom the Christians call Moses.”
“That’s your name, isn’t it, Uncle?” said a boy sitting with Faiz’s family. Rehman recognised him as Faiz’s nephew.
“Shh,” said the boy’s grandfather. “Don’t interrupt the sermon.”
Musa smiled gently and didn’t seem to mind. “Yes, I was named after that Prophet, peace be upon him, and maybe that’s why his story has always spoken to my heart. In the course of leading his people to the Promised Land, Musa went up a mountain by himself and actually saw God. It seems so simple when you say it like that – he saw God. But very, very few of the thousands of prophets down the ages have physically seen God. Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and Mohammed – that’s it, I think. Musa saw God as a burning bush and that rattled him to his core. He started saying that he was God! And that is why Musa himself never reached the Promised Land. There is a deeper truth in this story than first appears.”
Musa, the temporary imam, looked around the crowd and wagged his finger, before continuing.
“The word of God is like a fire on a winter night. If you stray too far from it, your heart becomes cold and numb. And if you go too close to the fire, your heart gets consumed and you end up doing terrible things, for the word of God is more than most human beings can safely handle. Stay the right distance, however, and God will provide you with warmth and comfort, light and guidance. Amen.”
Thirteen
The next day, back in Vizag, Mrs Ali gave the rope one last pull and reached down to grasp the handle of the metal bucket. She was drawing water from the well for the plants. They had become quite dry and looked sadly wilted after the two days she had spent at Faiz’s village. She was determined to water them properly now. By the time the bigger plastic bucket was full, she was out of breath – she wasn’t as young as she used to be, that was for sure.
She took a mug and started with the potted plants. She couldn’t imagine losing all this area when the road was widened, watching while rough men with iron spikes and shovels broke down something that she and her husband had built with so much care and affection. She had personally watered the wall for two weeks after it was built, to cure the cement and make it strong.
“This house will last a hundred years, Amma,” the maestri, or master builder, had assured her.
She plucked a yellowing leaf and cut away another that appeared to have been half chewed by a caterpillar. Some people, she wouldn’t name any names, might call her foolish to be tending to a garden that would be soon gone. She would take care of it until the last possible day.
The gate opened and the noise made her look up. “Why have you come?” she asked, frowning when she saw who it was.
“Namaskaaram, madam,” the man said, his smile making his mouth as wide as the gate behind him.
She flinched inwardly but did not let her expression change. She realised that she had not been gracious to a guest, however unwanted he might be, but there was no point in letting him know that.
“Well, every time you come here, it costs me money and you bring me bad news.”
“I am sorry you feel like that, madam. I just came by to gre
et you on your vermicelli festival. I came yesterday but the house was locked.”
“We were out for the festival. Have you run out of houses to fix electricity meters in?” She knew why he had come, but she would not make it easy for him by giving him an opening.
“I just do what is good for the department, madam. But today, I have come for the maamool.”
The man was shameless – he didn’t need an opening to ask for a bribe. Well, it was not quite corrupt practice, she supposed. After all, she had given saris and money to the maid, Leela, and to her daughter, who sometimes filled in for Leela when she was ill. It was an expected part of life: that on big festivals you gave something to servants and others who did things for you.
“Did I miss the Dusserah celebrations?”
That was the big Hindu autumn harvest festival when every single person who had even raised an eyebrow over the past year expected to be given a ‘gift’.
Shyam, the meter reader, laughed. “You are Muslims, madam. We want to feel happy along with you when you celebrate your festival.”
Mrs Ali tightened her lips and went inside for her purse. Trying to evade greedy workers was as pointless as trying to escape blood-sucking mosquitoes – and just as successful.
“A hundred rupees?” Mrs Ali was scandalised. She took out another ten-rupee note from her purse and added it to the one that she had already put in Shyam’s hand. “We don’t need another meter put in.”
“Seventy-five, at least, madam. You have a commercial meter – you need to pay more.”
“You made us pay thousands of rupees for a commercial meter that we didn’t need and now you want me to pay you a bigger maamool because we have a commercial meter. What cheek you have!” She gave him a twenty-rupee note and tucked the purse under her right arm with finality.
Shyam waited hopefully for a moment, but eventually put the money away in his pocket.
Mrs Ali said, “Have you heard anything more about the road widening?”
“Yes, madam. I was at the corporator’s home only yesterday and saw the papers. The press announcement is going to be released on Monday.”
