Mrs Ali’s Road to Happiness

by Farahad Zama

  The watchman hurried to put the suitcase and a smaller bag into the boot. Rehman, who would see them off at the airport, got into the taxi. Vasu bounced in after him. “Come on,” he shouted to his mother, who seemed unwilling to let go of Mrs Ali. His excitement about the novelty of his maiden flight had apparently eclipsed any misgivings about leaving Vizag and the others.

  ♦

  Mr Ali rode his scooter down the road, dressed in a white cotton kurta-pyjama that felt comfortable, despite its having been ironed stiff as a freshly dried poppadum. The sun was high in the sky but the breeze kept him cool. His lace cap was in his pocket and a helmet hung from a small hook in the footwell of the scooter. The police were on a drive to enforce traffic laws and, while their zeal was bound to be short-lived, it paid to be cautious until they found more profitable ways to busy themselves. As usual when going to the mosque, he was wearing his oldest footwear.

  The mosque wasn’t far away and within minutes he was parking the scooter at the end of an untidy line of similarly pious steeds. The azaa’n could be heard calling the faithful to prayer and several men were making their way in – shopkeepers, both small and prominent; college students; a couple of gravediggers; retired civil servants; the odd marriage bureau owner – all equal as brothers before Allah.

  Mr Ali recognised a friend and hailed him loudly. “Razzaq, Salaam A’laikum.”

  Razzaq, the owner of a Rexine seat-cover shop, turned with a casual smile on his face and said automatically, “Wa’laikum…Hey, what are you doing here?” Razzaq frowned and peered at Mr Ali closely, as if he were an old-fashioned schoolmaster.

  “What are you looking at? Has the power of your glasses changed?” said Mr Ali.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, but there’s something lacking in your sense of direction,” said Razzaq. “It’s Friday afternoon and time for your siesta, not prayers.”

  “My reputation has preceded me, it seems,” said Mr Ali.

  “Seriously, after the trouble at the mosque last time, why come now, just after the imam’s election?”

  “It’s my mosque, even if I visit it only twice a year,” said Mr Ali.

  “Of course, of course,” said Razzaq, holding his hands up in a placatory manner. “We’ve been through that before. I was just saying that maybe you should let a little time pass and allow the emotions to settle.”

  Mr Ali shrugged.

  “You were always a strong man,” said Razzaq.

  “My wife uses the word stubborn,” Mr Ali said.

  The two friends, whose relationship had been strained for a few weeks but which had recovered after the imam’s election, walked together under the arch of the mosque and into the shaded front yard, with its wazu tank to the right and the covered prayer area to the left.

  “I’ve come straight from the shop. I need to clean myself,” said Razzaq and made for the tank.

  Mr Ali walked to a corner to take off his frayed leather sandals. A young man in his early twenties, with a neatly trimmed beard and long sideburns, stopped him. “Granddad, why did you come here again?” he asked.

  Mr Ali said, “Is this a cinema hall that I need a ticket to go inside?”

  “Don’t be funny, old man. You were not welcome before the election and you are definitely not welcome now. Go away.”

  “Are you my father to tell me where I can go and where I can’t?” said Mr Ali.

  Men were streaming into the mosque. The corner where Mr Ali wanted to leave his chappals was now occupied by somebody else’s footwear.

  “What’s happening here?” said a voice behind Mr Ali and he turned.

  The imam, looking no older than Mr Ali’s challenger, was striding towards them, his spindly legs sticking out below the knee from his Arab robe. “Well?” the imam said to the young man, who had fallen silent.

  “I was just telling this gentleman that he is not welcome here,” muttered the young man, looking away.

  “Can I help – ” said another voice, familiar to Mr Ali.

  “Salaam, Azhar,” said Mr Ali, smiling.

  The past few weeks of not talking to the man who was not just his brother-in-law, but also a very good friend, had been a sore trial to Mr Ali. He also knew how much his wife had been affected by his tussle with her brother.

  “Have you got into another fight?” said Azhar, then nodded to the imam before walking away, into the mosque.

  Mr Ali’s smile faltered. He opened his mouth to say that it was not his fault, but he closed it again. His shoulders slumped and the lines on his face deepened. If he had been looking in a mirror, he would have seen himself age about five years in as many seconds. The imam stared at Mr Ali, then towards Azhar’s receding back. He nodded, looking pleased, and Mr Ali’s anger flared. How dare -

  The imam turned to the young man. “This is a house of God,” he said. “Let this gentleman through.”

  Razzaq came out of the tank room, pulling his sleeves down over his wet hands. He had covered his hair with a handkerchief, knotted at the back. “Why haven’t you gone inside yet?” he asked Mr Ali.

  “I was delayed,” said Mr Ali, shrugging. He felt better for having some friends left. “Come on, let’s go in.”

  The sermon started soon after. The unity of the Muslim community, the ummah, had been on the Prophet’s mind during his final years, the imam said, as Islam went from being a tiny persecuted community to the major religion of the Arabian peninsula. He quoted one of the Prophet’s most famous sayings. “Just as the whole body suffers from a high temperature if one part of it is injured, so does the ummah.”

  He looked over the microphone at the congregation. Mr Ali thought the sermon was pitched just right – there was no triumphalism from the imam after winning the vote. He was recommending unity, which was exactly what was needed. If only he was a little less literal in his reading of the Qur’an – but Mr Ali had to acknowledge that it was what quite a few people wanted. They acted in all manner of un-Islamic ways out in the world, but here, in the mosque, they wanted the imam to be strict: to denounce any deviance. This was not something peculiar to Vizagites or even Indians. Mr Ali had read an article in a magazine the other day which had, with statistics, shown that churches in the West that were liberal and admitted women priests had declining congregations, while strict, born-again churches, breathing fire and brimstone, were increasing in size and number. It’s the exact opposite of what he -

  There was a stir in the crowd and somebody in the front row moaned. Mr Ali snapped out of his reverie and turned to Razzaq. “What happened?” he whispered.

  “Shh…The imam, the imam, oh – ”

  What had got into his friend? Whatever it was, it had affected the wider crowd, too. Mr Ali saw that Azhar, who was several rows ahead of him, had stood up, against all convention, and said, “No, you cannot do that.”

  The imam remained silent for several seconds, then signalled to someone in the front row. The mosque committee member, an energetic man in his forties, jumped up and spoke very loudly straight into the microphone at close range, so that his voice boomed out. “Sit down, all of you. Silence during the imam’s sermon.”

  He glared from one side of the room to the other until the crowd quietened down. Azhar, and a couple of others who had stood up, sank back to the ground.

  The imam half raised his hands. The cream-coloured sleeves of his robe slipped down, revealing his thin but surprisingly strong-looking arms to his elbows.

  “I haven’t made this decision in a hurry. I’ve deliberated long and hard, and thought the matter through carefully. It was hubris that made me think that I could take on a big city mosque as my first posting. A man of God needs to be humble and so I’ve decided to leave this mosque and go to a mosque in a small village. Allah is the greatest planner, and His plans are the best, as the Qur’an assures us, and I received fresh evidence – if any were needed – of the truth of that saying.”

  The imam pointed to Azhar, who sat up, self-conscious a
t being the centre of attention, then continued his sermon.

  “No sooner had the thought of leaving entered my mind before I heard from brother Azhar that his granddaughter’s village needed an imam. Some might call it a coincidence, but I prefer to think of it as God’s will. I have spoken to the elders of the village and with our own man, Nasrullah, and everything has been arranged. This will be my last Friday sermon at this mosque. Next week, insha’ Allah, God willing, I will officiate at the mosque in the village and Nasrullah Saab will lead the prayers here.”

  Mr Ali’s mouth hung open – it was one of the rare times that he was at a loss for words. Others in the congregation were less inhibited and there was an uproar. The imam and the mosque committee members only added to the din by shouting and asking everyone to quieten down. It was a while before the imam was able to assert control again for the second part of the sermon. He raced through it, before announcing, “Stand up for the prayers.”

  Mr Ali stood up with the others, then suddenly broke ranks and started pushing his way to the back.

  “Hey,” one man said. “The prayers are starting. Where are you going?”

  Mr Ali silently elbowed his way through the lines and reached the exit. He heard somebody, who sounded like the young man who had waylaid him, say, “First he fights to get into the mosque and now he is fighting to get out just as the namaaz is starting. Paagal budah.”

  Mr Ali didn’t care about being called a crazy old man. It was as if a djinn – a spirit – had taken hold of him. Out in the yard he searched for his footwear. Unable to find his chappals immediately, he just left them behind and ran barefoot out on to the road. A couple of beggars standing by the exit looked surprised to see somebody leaving so soon. One of them even raised his leprosy-gnawed palm for alms, but Mr Ali didn’t pause. He smacked his right fist hard into his left with frustration when he found that his scooter had been hemmed in from all sides by other vehicles. He pulled out one bicycle but its stand came off and fell against its neighbour, which then fell against its neighbour. Mr Ali almost wrenched his arms, trying to stop them all crashing down like a line of dominos. He gave up trying to retrieve his scooter. Until the prayers finished and everybody started moving their vehicles, his was stuck. It teaches me to come early for prayers, he thought.

  That particular road was usually infested with auto-rickshaws, weaving in and out of traffic with abandon on their three wheels and stopping suddenly in the middle, or making U-turns with just one tiny wave of the wrist to signal their intention. Now, when he needed one, it was not a surprise that no such vehicle turned up.

  “Allah hu Akbar,” came the imam’s voice from the mosque over the speakers. God is great and he had given Mr Ali two legs. He started running. He had covered less than a hundred yards when sweat began to pour down his face and chest. The stiff starched cotton wilted like blanched spinach and stuck to his body. His bare feet felt every pebble, but the stones were actually a relief from the burning tar of the road. Mr Ali continued to run. His chest wheezed like a blacksmith’s bellows. As he passed a plastics shop, he zigged to get past an old woman carrying a lurid green bucket and realised that he should have zagged. His collided with the plastic utensil, knocking it out of the woman’s hand and into his path. Stumbling over the bucket, he landed heavily on his knees, skinning them. The woman started to shout, but when she saw his grey hair and wiry old man’s frame, she was so surprised that she fell silent. It wouldn’t have made any difference because Mr Ali’s blood was pumping so loudly in his ears that he was deaf to everything else as he pulled himself to his feet and started running again.

  ♦

  Mrs Ali drew her head back through the car window and mussed Vasu’s hair one last time.

  “Khuda Hafiz, Pari,” she said. God keep you safe.

  The taxi moved forward with a jerk just as Mr Ali came running up, shouting something unintelligible. Mrs Ali was alarmed to see her husband’s state: his trousers torn, his cotton top sticking to his sweaty body, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder, looking like the crazed Majnoun in the desert after his lover Laila had been married off to another by her family.

  “What happened?” she asked, moving towards him.

  Mr Ali’s legs suddenly collapsed as Mrs Ali reached him. It took her all her strength just to let him down without a big bump.

  “Where is your scooter? Why are you running like a madman?”

  Mr Ali just shook his head as tears surged down his cheeks. “Too late,” he said.

  Mrs Ali tried to lift him up but she didn’t have the strength. Then four more hands scooped up and cradled Mr Ali, carrying him like a child, so that he didn’t have to walk. Mrs Ali looked up to see Rehman and Pari, with their taxi, its engine still running, just behind.

  As they made for the Alis’ house, Mr Ali patted Pari’s hand. “You don’t have to go,” he said, smiling dreamily. “There is no danger to Vasu now.”

  Pari smiled back at him. “The flight is booked and the luggage has been sent ahead. It’s OK, Chaacha. I’m touched that you care so much but I’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Mr Ali, as Rehman carried him to the bed, the way Mr Ali used to carry Rehman many years ago. “Cancel the flight, get the removal people back, let the landlord know that you are keeping the flat.”

  Mrs Ali went ahead and switched on the fan. “The sun has gotten to him,” she said.

  Pari wiped his brow. Mr Ali wanted to explain that it wasn’t the sun but instead, he fainted.

  Epilogue

  The early-morning rain had damped down the dust and the lingering cloud cover made the day pleasant. Aruna, who found the heat increasingly difficult to bear as her pregnancy progressed, appreciated the cooler weather more than most. Mrs Ali was sitting opposite her, reading the newspaper. Mr Ali came onto the verandah from inside the house. It was now Tuesday and he seemed fully recovered from his mad dash on Friday.

  Mrs Ali looked up at her husband as she said, “The paper says that there will be a ten-kilometre fun run along the beach road. Do you want to go? After all, you have a lot of experience.”

  Aruna stifled a grin. Madam wasn’t letting Sir forget what had happened that day. And rightly too, thought Aruna. Anything could have happened. He could have been hit by a vehicle; he could have suffered a heart attack. Her husband, Ramanujam, had visited the Alis’ the next day and he had been worried about tetanus.

  There was a rattle at the gate and Azhar walked in. A round of salaams followed.

  “Did you hear about the fun run on the beach?” Azhar asked his brother-in-law.

  Mr Ali groaned. “Not you too.”

  Azhar laughed and sat down on the chair next to his sister. On that Friday, he had come straight from the mosque, not that far behind Mr Ali, and had, with his customary efficiency, taken charge of the crisis, called a doctor and made Mr Ali comfortable. It was as if there had never been a rift in the family – almost.

  After a few minutes of banter, Azhar stood up. “Right, I am off to the bank.”

  Gopal, the postman, delivered the post to Aruna and turned to Mr Ali. “The postmaster said that he saw you running down the road the other day when he stepped out for lunch. Is this a new hobby, sir? He said he hailed you but you did not respond.”

  “Isn’t your postmaster close to retirement now?” asked Mr Ali.

  Gopal nodded.

  “Tell him that his eyesight needs testing, otherwise he’ll be embarrassed one day when he greets some woman on the road thinking she’s his wife and she turns out to be a complete stranger.”

  Pari came in carrying a bag of vegetables, greeted them all and then said to Mrs Ali, “Onions were really cheap today in the farmers’ market. I got a couple of extra kilos. Do you want them?”

  “Yes, please,” said Mrs Ali, delighted by the news. Her curries used up a lot of onions. “How come you are not at the office?”

  “The van is coming today with the luggage, so I’ve got to wait for it. I sho
uld thank Azhar-Maama for his help.”

  The removal people had wanted the full amount to be paid and had refused to return Pari’s goods, even though they had travelled only two of the eight hundred miles from Vizag to Mumbai. It had taken a phone call from Azhar to his policeman-friend before they had accepted twenty per cent of the fee to return the goods.

  “You just missed him,” said Mrs Ali. “By the way, did you see this article?”

  Pari glanced at the paper. “Chaachi! I can’t believe that you are still teasing Chaacha about Friday’s dash.” She turned to Mr Ali. “Ignore what everybody says, Chaacha. I know you did it for me and I am grateful.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said Mr Ali.

  “Nobody is questioning why you did it,” said Mrs Ali to her husband. “But we are not in the dark ages, you know. We now have these things called mobile phones. All you had to do was take it out of your pocket and make one call.”

  “I – ” said Mr Ali. It was clear from his thunderstruck expression that the thought had never entered his mind.

  “Oh, look at this card,” said Aruna, waving a turmeric-bordered wedding card that had just arrived in the post.

  The change of topic was successful; Mr and Mrs Ali looked at her with interest as she read out: “Shri Koteshwar Reddy graciously invites family and friends on the auspicious occasion of the wedding of his granddaughter Sujatha to Shri Raju Sekhar. The wedding is at Prahlada Marriage Hall at three in the morning on 13 August (at dawn it will be Saturday).” Hindu weddings are often held in the early hours because the time is decided by star charts and not according to the convenience of the guests. For early-hour times, the cards always made it clear which night it was so guests didn’t turn up at the wrong time.

  Mrs Ali frowned. “Sujatha? Isn’t that the daughter of the man who caused trouble here?”

  Aruna nodded.