by S L Bhyrappa
‘Definitely, definitely! The audience needs to know the true history of the medieval feudal society and the forces of feudalism that led to the destruction of Hampi!’ Amir spoke excitedly and launched into a lecture. ‘I have my own insight on this, something I’m sure our intellectuals would agree with. The Vijayanagar Empire was incomparably the wealthiest empire in its time, where gold, diamonds, pearls and gems were measured in Ballas. While this definitely shows a highly refined form of centralized economy, we must not be blind to the other, darker reality: how could it manage to accumulate such staggering wealth? In a feudal society, this was possible only by brutally exploiting the working classes. Rebellion naturally simmered within the working classes. They secretly plotted intrigue with Vijayanagar’s adversaries, and invited them to attack Vijayanagar. In the battle, they sided with the enemy and finally vanquished the unjust capitalistic rule that had oppressed them for so long. But they didn’t stop there. Centuries’ worth of pent-up rage at not getting their rightful share of the society’s wealth released itself in the form of large-scale destruction of temples and idols, the physical symbols of their erstwhile rulers’ religious beliefs. What do you think of this interpretation? I’m sure our intellectuals would approve.’
She said nothing. Her silence was enough to puncture the feverish excitement he felt at unearthing a revolutionary interpretation. She spoke after several minutes. ‘Don’t you realize how incredible your interpretation sounds? You’re trying to link two non-linkable historical phenomena. The class rebellion that you speak of occurred after the industrial revolution, while the destruction of the Vijayanagar Empire occurred in a purely agrarian society. More importantly, the sculptors—they fall within your “working classes”—who built these temples and the workmen who carved the fine idols didn’t merely practise a profession to earn a living. Their profession was not divorced from their religion; temple-building was an expression of their devotion to a faith they deeply revered. It is unthinkable that these people would actually embark on such a systematic, elaborate temple destruction, and burn and smash the idols of their own gods with hammers and crowbars. Compare them to the artisans who built the Taj Mahal. They used their skills just as a means to earn a living. It’s perfectly logical for a victorious king to cart away the wealth of his trounced rival. But what I’m unable to understand is the mentality which motivates a victorious king to destroy the temples, idols and other symbols of the defeated enemy’s religion.’
Amir was now silent. She continued, ‘I can still recall something from my childhood; I think I was about ten. My village, Narasapura, and the neighbouring village, Kalenahalli, were bound by hatred. Because my village was located at a higher altitude, all the rainwater from the hill surrounding it would flow down and collect in the lake in our village. But because Kalenahalli was located much lower, it received just a trickle and its reservoir was always empty. Its fields were poorly irrigated and its crops withered because there was almost no groundwater, and there was never enough water in their wells. The Kalenahalli reservoir filled up only when a particularly severe rain breached the dam of our reservoir, and it overflowed into theirs. That year, the whole region, including Narasapura, suffered a bad drought. All water sources had dried up. But the Kalenahalli people concluded that we had purposely refused to give them water. One night, a bunch of young men from that village dug up the small outlet coming out of our reservoir and detonated a massive quantity of dynamite. The embankment was shattered and the reservoir was empty in no time. The next morning when our folks realized what had happened, they declared war on Kalenahalli. All of Narasapura poured into Kalenahalli armed with huge wooden clubs and sticks, and a major fight ensued. Both sides were wounded. Kalenahalli had to eventually admit defeat because we thoroughly outnumbered them. The fight culminated with the death of two people and the wounded were left to nurse their injuries. I was an eyewitness to the battle. But on their way back home, my victorious village folk stopped at the temple of Kalamma, the village deity of Kalenahalli, set down their weapons, prostrated before the temple and prayed for her blessings before resuming their journey. The Kalenahalli folks were no different. Each time they passed through Narasapura on a journey to some other place, they offered prayers to our village deity—Gadde Kempamma—sat for sometime in the temple courtyard and then moved on. This time-honoured tradition applied to all villages in the region.’ Razia paused, then said, ‘There’s a reason I narrated this. Groups and factions and entire villages spilling each other’s blood for economic reasons aren’t uncommon even today. Despite this, they’ve never abandoned the practice of worshipping one another’s gods and goddesses. With this background, given this experience, I find it impossible to interpret the destruction of the idols at Hampi as an episode of class rebellion.’
Amir didn’t respond, although his mind had processed more than enough arguments to counter her. But they were arguments she was familiar with, ones they had passionately discussed over a period of many years. One of them had to only begin and the other would start off as well. So many years of shared intellectual stimulation! But now he felt she was slowly pulling at the strand that bound them together and moving in a different direction. Anything he said now would start a debate, he felt. Silence was the best recourse.
Razia closed her eyes and lay on her back in the darkness, unable to make out whether Amir was really asleep. There was no pattern to his breathing that she could detect. Perhaps that was because their thoughts now belonged to entirely different worlds.
But closing her eyes didn’t help. Ever since she had seen it, her vision was filled with the gigantic idol of Narasimha, so horribly dismembered. She recalled how Narasimha was normally depicted in sculpture: half-human, half-lion with the haughty demon, Hiranyakashyapa, splayed across his thighs, the demon’s intestines ripped open by Narasimha’s claw-like fingernails. Most of this had been mutilated in Hampi’s Narasimha…but she was unable to understand why this particular idol nagged her so much when Hampi’s rich ruins offered numerous other broken idols more splendid than this. She thought hard. The answer finally emerged slowly from her memory, from the village she was born in. The Narasimha temple was one of the main temples of Narasapura and its idol resembled the one in Hampi. But Narasapura’s Narasimha idol was not as large. This god was her family diety. Both her grandfather and father were named after this god—Narasappa Gowda and Narasimhe Gowda. But why did one mutilated idol of Narasimha rekindle these memories, which belonged twenty-eight years in the past when she had cut them off, forsaking her birthplace, her father, her gods and an entire way of life? Slowly she let herself dwell in the past. She recalled what her father had told her when she stubbornly insisted that she would marry no one but Amir.
‘Your marriage with Amir doesn’t concern just you or what you are doing now. Your child, or the child or children of your child, or someone in some future generation that you both will give birth to will someday destroy our temples. It’s best you understand right now that you will be directly accountable for that sin.’
‘What era do you live in, Father? Do you still believe in this nonsense?’ I had asked, shocked.
‘The Mughal badshahs, Jahangir and Shahjahan, were both sons of Hindu queens. Yet, both of them destroyed Hindu temples when they ascended the throne. But we can’t really blame them because their religion ordains them to destroy temples and idols—Jahangir and Shahjahan were merely adhering to its tenets, which remain unchanged till date. But you’re in love. Your love and the excitement of youth blind you to this, you won’t understand this now.’
Father had never spoken this harshly before. A staunch, chakra-spinning Gandhian; like Mahatama Gandhi himself, he believed that chakra-spinning was a penance. Every morning he awoke early and spun the chakra for two hours with devoted focus—spinning was merely symbolic, it was really a kind of meditation and he believed that its goal was to remove impurities of the mind and eliminate negative passions such as anger and hatred, and achieve a
state where one could love everybody equally. I was only three when Mother died and Father was left a widower at thirty-three. At some point in his youth, Father had vowed to remain celibate so that he could fully dedicate his life to serve the rural masses, according to the path laid down by Mahatma Gandhi. However, the priest of the Narasimha temple, Shesha Sastri, older to him by four years, had convinced him otherwise. ‘Serving poor people is very noble. However, you also need to fulfil your duties as a householder—get married and offer meals to the needy every day in your own home, apart from serving the society. Beget at least two children to fulfil the debt that you owe your ancestors. Get married.’
The same Shesha Sastri had also tried to dissuade me from marrying Amir by quoting from the Bhagavad Gita about the importance of doing one’s duty. Frantic with worry, I had rushed to Bangalore to seek clarification. ‘Amir, will our children destroy temples?’ His response was instant and it convinced me, ‘Nonsense! This is a standard line quoted by communalists to blacken the name of Muslims and Islam. At best, it is fiction. I’m actually surprised you even believed it!’ This was enough. When you are in love, one word of the beloved outweighs the conclusion of thousands of years of research. Father was wrong, of course. People of his generation didn’t understand what true love stood for. Their world was vested in meaningless worship and antiquated ideas of duty. Love was the only reality. Father’s ideas of religion were bogus. Amir’s word had the finality that Father’s didn’t have. He demolished my doubts with just one confident line. His confidence had won me over…right from when we met each other as students studying together at the Pune film institute. We became close when we learned that we were both from Karnataka, and began to share anecdotes about Bangalore with each other. We spent our evenings sitting atop Fergusson Hill watching the sunset as young college couples snuggled behind the large boulders. It didn’t take long for tender feelings to surface. We sang romantic Hindi film songs to each other, whispered poetry and swore everlasting love, the kind that shattered barriers of religion, family and society.
Amir was such a passionate pleader! And I finally submitted to his worshipful entreaties. On Sundays and holidays, we made love in nameless lodges in Pune. He refused to let me pay the bill on every occasion. What did I care, when my sole focus back then was on looking forward to the next opportunity of savouring his intoxicating proximity, the thrill of being in his arms? And how could I even remotely dream that there existed this abyss-like difference between our respective religions? With time, this difference became a reality that hardened year after year. Back then, I truly believed that I was progressive; I had risen above self-deluding and man-made bonds like religion and caste and creed. But why was I so fiercely adamant on marrying Amir? Thirty years ago. Ah! In spite of all my progressiveness, I couldn’t let go of some deeply-held convictions—I couldn’t possibly marry anyone but the man I had given my virginity to. I’d have probably yielded to Father’s will but for this one compelling reason.
Besides, Father had offered a conciliation of sorts: ‘If he truly loves you with the intensity that you say he does, let him become a Hindu and change his name. You will have my blessings. I will officiate the marriage according to traditional Hindu rites.’ When I told Amir this, he didn’t hesitate a second: ‘That simply means you’ve still not freed yourself from the artificial distinctions of religion.’ I shot back just as quickly: ‘If we can’t marry without me converting to Islam, doesn’t your own logic apply to you?’ He was speechless. I pressed him. ‘Well…umm…but isn’t it the custom for the bride to convert to the groom’s religion?’ he responded weakly. ‘In that case, can you tell me why even a Hindu man should compulsorily convert to Islam if he wants to marry the Muslim girl he loves?’ I countered. ‘All right, since you insist. My religion doesn’t tolerate either the man or the girl to leave Islam. If they even try, they are killed. And it’s not just that. They also kill the person responsible for providing such a motivation. Here’s the thing: I love you and I can’t imagine leading the rest of my life without you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re already a couple…bound by eternal love. I don’t believe in religion, any religion. And I know even you don’t. We’ll remain bonded with nothing but love. But I’m still unable to understand why you’re confused—especially with all your conviction in Progressive ideas. Listen carefully: your conversion is merely circumstantial and strategic. It’s just a change of name. Remember, our marriage is also an effort at achieving a larger purpose—to build a society shorn of religion, the opium of the masses. That day is not too far. But till then, we need this strategy.’
Years of intimate acquaintance with his breathing told her that Amir was fully asleep now. She got up noiselessly and went to the lounge, closing the bedroom door behind her. She pulled the recliner towards the large window and sat looking outside the window. The unceasing sound of the river’s waves was all that she could sense in the moonless night.
I became pregnant six months after my nikah to Amir after converting to Islam. The tug that slowly began in my heart only intensified as my pregnancy advanced. I had to go to Father’s home, fully aware that Mother wasn’t alive. I had to go despite knowing that he probably wouldn’t be at home, busy as he was shuttling between villages on his tireless social service sojourns. The longing to return to my roots, to at least visit the home I was born in and grew up in tormented me. But I could do little. Father’s decisive, severing words did nothing to lessen this torment: ‘You’re no longer my daughter. You mean nothing to me from now on. I disown you, not just until I’m alive but forever.’ He was a man of strong convictions, worthy of emulation. He insisted on the need to live a humble life and conquer anger under any circumstance. He was wanted by everybody—he solved the most violent village disputes and ensured that the warring parties settled their problems and parted as brothers. He bridged caste differences and helped remove untouchability through patient discourse and methods that touched people’s hearts and made them see reason in his words. It was his efforts, not the fear of the law or government, that led restaurants, temples and community wells to allow entry to Harijans. It was the sheer moral force of his personality that changed people’s hearts. I couldn’t even dream that this person was capable of such filial ruthlessness…and for what? Because I was about to convert to Islam? Because somebody, somewhere in the deep recesses of history had destroyed a few temples? Was that reason enough for him to kill his love for his own daughter?
I had on numerous occasions considered writing a letter to evoke his sympathy—‘I’m pregnant, Father. I feel like seeing you. I want to become your little child once again.’ Alternatively, I thought of taking the next bus to Narasapura and just going directly to wherever he was. I was sure his heart would soften when he saw my full-blown, pregnant belly. Would Mother have remained this hard-hearted if she were alive? Would she have allowed Father to persist in his hard-heartedness?
I didn’t write the letter. For all his social service, Father was a man of stern convictions. He had but to make up his mind—nothing could make him move a millimetre. There was no way I could muster the courage to even look at his face. Or did I stay back because I had inherited some of Father’s stubbornness? If he didn’t want me in his life anymore, I didn’t want to impose myself. I stayed back at Amir’s…my house. I doubted whether Father even knew that I was pregnant. How could he when there was no one to tell him, except perhaps Professor Sastri, the only link? That man had guts. He knew what he was in for, and he had wisely gotten married to a white British woman before bringing her to meet his parents. His father Shesha Sastri and mother Acchamma were strict, orthodox Brahmins who would never approve the marriage. His mother, though, eventually accepted the new daughter-in-law. Then there was the problem of the cheap, gossipy villagers. But Professor Sastri oozed charm naturally. He would walk up to the elders and the socially important people of Narasapura who disapproved of the marriage and inflict a special kind of smile, which embarrassed them. He visited
Narasapura at least once a year, and would never fail to throw those guilt-inducing smiles. In no time, the catastrophic event of his marriage to a foreigner became a non-event. I was still pregnant when he went to the United States after accepting a visiting professorship tenure for a year… But why does a woman want to visit her mother’s—in my case, father’s—house when she’s pregnant? Why does she desire so intensely to have the delivery in her mother’s house, to show her baby to her mother first?
Unreasonable cravings; disjointed, answerless questions. She recalled how one single thought had held her by the gut throughout her pregnancy: if Mother were alive, would she be as stubborn as Father? Had she married a Hindu, regardless of caste, would Father have fussed over her? Yes, he would have ensured that she was pampered to the hilt—the house maid, Ningavva would always be by her side, attending to even her most trivial need post-delivery. Those daydreams led her to reminiscence about her early days as a new bride in Amir’s house.
I knew that my mother-in-law barely disguised her dislike for me, but it’s not her fault. The aversion owed little to the fact that I was originally a Hindu; I had never been a ‘Muslim’ wife and daughter-in-law from the beginning. As a very devout Muslim wife and mother, my mother-in-law initially used to command me—offer namaz five times daily and do it in the room meant for it. I couldn’t accept her diktat. I married Amir because our love was built and grew on a foundation of a shared conviction in the Progressive movement. I had abandoned the religion of my birth because I genuinely believed that all religions were meaningless nonsense designed by capitalists to exploit people. By that token, it was equally absurd to learn and practise the customs of another religion. Moreover, the religion of my birth had none of the restrictions that my adopted religion had—nobody really cared if I visited the Narasimha temple everyday. But the astonishing range of restrictions in Islam stifled me—the strict insistence on offering namaz five times every single day, the compulsory namaz on Fridays and the forced fasting from dawn to dusk in the month of Ramzan. What had amazed me was how the Jamat clerics intruded into our lives. These folks actually visited our house—mostly impromptu—to check if we really followed the pure Tablighi mores of Islam! And then there was the compulsory animal sacrifice on festivals. As far as I could recall, I had never been comfortable with animal sacrifice. During childhood, I had seen sheep and goats being sacrificed to our village goddess, Kempamma, as part of the annual chariot festival. However, because of Father’s efforts, plus the government ban on animal sacrifice, this practice had stopped in Narasapura eventually. But my adopted religion was different. In all these years as a Muslim, I hadn’t seen anybody who could quite summon the courage to even hint that animal sacrifice was condemnable. After all, the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) himself had sacrificed a camel when he went on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Being a true Muslim meant modelling your behaviour after the Prophet’s (Peace Be Upon Him). Those Muslims who didn’t have access or means to afford a camel could use goats or sheep as a substitute. The seventh day of our son Nazir’s birth was quite memorable: two baby goats were brought home, their bodies laid down, facing the direction of the Qibla before reciting the prayer—inni wajjahtu waj hiyalilla di farah rassa maawaati wal arda hanifan wama anaminal mushrikin (I have, in full reverence, turned my face towards Allah, the Creator of the earth and the sky and I swear that I do not belong to the people who worship many gods. I am most certain that my namaz, my sacrifices, my life, my death and everything that belongs to me belongs to Him who rules and protects all the worlds. It belongs to nobody else but Him alone. This has been commanded to me and I surrender to Him completely, and I am a Muslim. Oh Allah! Here, this, which you have given us, belongs to You!) This prayer was followed by a cry of ‘Bismillahi Allahu Akbar’ after which the razor-sharp sword fell on the kids’ necks. The sword slowly sawed the necks almost in tune with ‘Oh Allah! This akik is an offering from Nazir. Be merciful to us and accept it. Just as you accepted it from your most beloved Mohammad (Peace Be Upon Him) and from your friend Ibrahim, be pleased to accept this from us. This (kid’s) blood is the solution of my child’s blood, this (kid’s) meat is the solution of my child’s meat, and this (kid’s) hair is the solution of my child’s hair. Oh Allah! Be pleased to accept this!’ The Dibha ritual was now officially over. It was a grand occasion. The kids’ meat was then cooked with special care to prepare delicious biryani, which was distributed to relatives and neighbours.