by S L Bhyrappa
I didn’t visit Hamdullah Sahib’s house that evening. When I went the next evening, he was beaming.
‘Oh! You’ve come! I was waiting to tell you this delightful news. The badshah has issued a farmaan to demolish the Vishwanath temple in Varanasi!’ I was stumped for a moment. Then I understood that the badshah was doing what was expected of every devout Muslim ruler: destruction of other, well, especially the temples of the idolaters. By then, the Mughal Empire was rife with regular reports of subedaars, amirs and nawabs destroying temples in the regions under their control and using the idols and other temple material as steps for the mosques that they erected on the site of those destroyed temples. Such reports were not new to me, but for some reason it reminded me of a long session where a suddenly-rapturous Hamdullah Sahib showed me some records and said they proudly proclaimed the might of Islam. The essence, he said, was that about fifteen or twenty thousand temples had been destroyed throughout Hindustan since the fierce gale of Holy Islam swept the land and now held sway under Badshah Aurangzeb. ‘By demolishing the infidel temple of Rama in Ayodhya, Firdous Makani Jahiruddin Babar, founder of the Mughal dynasty, merely continued the hoary tradition laid beforehand by Ghaznavids, Ghoris, the Slave dynasties, Khaljis, Tughlaqs, Nizamshahis and Qutubshahis. Only that vile sinner Akbar—may his soul burn in hell!—stood out like a terrible nightmare in blocking the continuance of this holy deed. The rest had earned merit by destroying the temples of the infidel mushriks. But Aurangzeb Badshah is holier than all of them put together! Like I’ve told you many times, he waited till he had absolute control over the empire. And now he has issued the farmaan to demolish the idol-temple of the kafirs and if my experience guides me well, he will wait for the reaction of the mushirks and then issue another farmaan to demolish the temple at Mathura.’
I couldn’t sleep that night. It was seven years since I had completely abandoned the gods that failed to protect me and my beloved Devagarh. But my faith in this new god—this god that they wanted to forcibly impose throughout Hindustan—wasn’t absolute. This god reigned everywhere and his reach was expanding everyday. Every temple they destroyed, they replaced with mosques and they used the broken idols and stones of the temples to build this replacement. They were unstoppable and I had no doubt in my mind that very soon this would spread to all corners of Hindustan. I had not stepped out of Delhi but Hamdullah Sahib told me that thousands of places of darkness were already destroyed but it was not enough. The effort was ceaseless and he was happy that it was always underway. The final goal after all, was to establish the Religion of Light on this earth. And as Hamdullah Sahib said, Aurangzeb Badshah had now immersed himself completely in this noble task and had already accumulated tremendous virtue. And Hamdullah Sahib knew everything—he could recite from memory the names of dynasties and kings, their achievements and he quoted names of the books in which this information was recorded. Besides, he loved me like I was his own son and on my part, I had no one to turn to apart from him. I was convinced that Aurangzeb Badshah was the best emperor the Mughal Empire ever had.
But ever since I returned from my visit to Tughlaqabad where I met Shyamala, all my apprehensions returned and everything was shaky once again. My visit suddenly made me confront a life I thought I had erased completely. And now, after I heard of Alamgir Badshah’s farmaan, my faith in this new powerful God was violently shaken. Actually, I was nowhere. My faith in Lord Vishnu had been shattered at the exact moment I saw his idol being dragged out, broken, and trampled upon. My faith in this new God was not complete because I was badly jolted when Hamdullah Sahib told me of the farmaan to destroy the Kashi Vishwanath temple.
This consumed me throughout the night and till the next afternoon: that was when I made up my mind to test my faith in Islam. I could think of no better way of doing this than to accompany Hamdullah Sahib to Kashi and witness with my own eyes the destruction of the Vishwanath temple. I could evidently not participate in the actual destruction but I could watch it. I had had my answer, my heart had not fully accepted Islam; the vestiges of my faith in Lord Vishnu remained. I hoped the sight of the destruction of the Vishwanath temple would erase these vestiges and I could finally become a pure Muslim in every sense.
The badshah had chosen Kashi to begin his holy mission because Kashi—what was its other name? Ah! Varanasi—was the holiest site, the one place which all the Hindus of Hindustan regarded as the most sacred, as the very centre of their faith. When Hamdullah Sahib told me that Aurangzeb Badshah knew the Koran by heart and knew its meaning better than the best of scholars, he was not exaggerating. His farmaan to destroy the Vishwanath temple proved beyond doubt how zealously he adhered to the strictures concerning the kafirs. Witnessing the destruction would help me earn merit and gain me a place in heaven, and my name would be included in the group of the valiant who had served the noble cause of Islam.
9
Kenchappa was out in the fields that afternoon and the house was quiet as Lakshmi reread what she had written so far. Giriyanna, the new servant, was cleaning the cowshed. Too much of history. The narration needs to be more artistic but that would mean diluting the historical reality of the time. However, if I add more and more historical reality, I must abandon artistry. Where is the balance I’m looking for? Pointless. She put down the notebook and set out for the farm. Her routine was set. A quick survey of the farm first thing in the morning, followed by another survey of the fields. En route, she would look up at the coconut trees, verify the count of the coconuts and track their ripeness though this exercise wasn’t really needed. Kenchappa was trustworthy and he knew what to do but she was becoming like her father, supervising and giving directions. After a bath and breakfast, she would enter the study.
One morning while she was walking in the garden, she heard Giriyanna calling out her name. ‘Madam, your son has come! He is sitting on the portico. Lakshmamma told me to hurry up and fetch you.’
Her face showed the joy she felt upon hearing this. She had last seen Nazir two years ago. The last time he came here…oh well…the tensions between Amir and me were already high. Although we weren’t together, we weren’t separated when Nazir was around and Amir spoke to me only when it was absolutely necessary… I’d been to Bangalore when Nazir was here on his previous vacation and I’d taken care of his comfort. Amir and I hadn’t quarrelled, but he was displeased because I used to go to Narasapura and stayed there for days on end, immersed in my study of history.
She began to wonder what—and how much—Nazir knew. Did he come here directly from the Bangalore airport or did he go to the flat in Malleswaram before coming here? Or did he go to Shivajinagar? Had he informed his father about when he was arriving in Bangalore? Did he know that his father now had a second wife? He didn’t tell me—not even a phone call or a letter.
When she reached the house, the long green Toyota car greeted her eye immediately. Some seconds later, a well-built man sporting a long black beard like an Arab emerged, wiping the car with a wet cloth. She crossed the threshold and entered the house. Nazir was deeply engrossed in offering namaz, facing Qibla, in which direction lay the most holy city of Mecca. He saw her with half-open eyes and, preferring not to let himself be distracted by anything, turned and refocused them towards Qibla. She looked at him. Pyjamas, the kind Arabs wore. A long, loose, flowing shirt that ended around the knee. A beard about one and half inches neatly trimmed. Pencil-thin moustache. Neatly-cropped hair pushed back and covered with the white skull cap worn while offering namaz. A personal mat—his own janamaaz—that every Muslim carried when he was travelling. She entered her study and sat on her ‘writing’ chair.
Nazir entered the study some five minutes later, folding the janamaaz in his hand. She pointed to the chair opposite her. ‘Ammajaan, have you experienced the incredible strength that fills up inside you after you finish namaz? The kind of strength that comes from knowing that there’s no God other than Allah, and that I need to bow my head before nothing in this world! All that a
person needs to do—whether or not he does other rituals—is say the namaz five times every day. No power in the world will be able to conquer him. I say this from experience—I haven’t missed it a single day!’ he said as he sat down on the chair. She didn’t respond. When she last remembered, he spoke fluent Kannada at home: after all, his parents were Kannada theatre and film artists. He also spoke Kannada with his friends and with people that came home from her world of cinema and stage. And he had just a working knowledge of Urdu. But now he spoke entirely in an Urdu laced heavily with Arabic words, many of which she couldn’t understand. The grammar, pronunciation and accent were different. He looked at her, waiting for her to say something.
‘Prayer should bring you peace. Its aim is to systematically reduce man’s arrogance. Any prayer that promotes a feeling of superiority over others, that says that you won’t bow down to any other God feeds a dangerous kind of haughtiness.’
His expression visibly hardened as he glared at her and when he spoke, he didn’t attempt to hide the fury in his voice. ‘Ammajaan, I’ve come from so far! It’s not pleasant to argue with one’s mother about religious matters. I’m really upset, but because you raked it up, let me tell you: it’s clear to me from what you just said that you haven’t stopped worshipping many gods. But there’s little I can do for people who insist on remaining buried under the weight of ignorance!’
He spoke exactly like the ultra-zealous folks who refused to acknowledge the existence of gods other than Allah. It was what she had been studying for the last four years. She wanted to tell him, with hundreds of examples, what that kind of fanaticism had unleashed upon the world. But this wasn’t the time. He had come from so far just to see her. So she said, ‘Son, look at the books in this room. Your grandfather spent twenty-eight years of his life studying them and I’ve been studying them for the last four years. Things like monotheism, polytheism, differences between cultures…these are subjects that we should study seriously if we want to talk about them. So let’s leave that. You tell me, how have you been? How’s life in Saudi?’
‘Ammajaan, Allah be praised! It is the Land of the Prophet’s (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) birth and it’s wealthier than any other country in the world. You can’t measure a country’s wealth by its gold, diamonds, pearls or its advances in aerospace or rocket science… Petrol! Petrol is wealth. Hike the price of a barrel by just five dollars, and see how the arrogant “advanced” countries immediately crumble to their knees! And you know, I’m sure, that only Muslim nations have this power and among them, Saudi, the land made holy by the Prophet’s (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) birth is the mightiest yet. Actually, why not? It is the land blessed by the most merciful Allah. Look at your India. The moment you land here from your flight, what do you see? Filth, squalor, disease, hunger and sickening poverty. You have thousands of excuses to explain this disgusting state of things but you carefully avoid mentioning the real reason: India has never truly accepted Islam in its purest form. You make a big show of honouring Islam, but you know and I know it’s all a political drama. You pretend to respect Islam but secretly worship false gods. And yet you want India to prosper? How is it even possible?’
‘Child, you hold a masters in petrochemical engineering from an American university, so correct me if I’m wrong. I recall reading somewhere that petrol was formed when the juices of various species of plants and animals existing millions of years ago seeped underground and changed their properties over time. Today’s desert nations, including Saudi Arabia, were once home to a variety of life forms now extinct. But you attribute this scientific fact to Allah’s mercy like a typical Arabian mullah.’
Nazir was simmering now. If this was somebody else, he would’ve shown his disgust by ignoring them pointedly. But this was his own mother insulting the most revered Islam, and that made it even worse.
‘I don’t need lessons on how petrol was formed. But why don’t you tell me why petrol was bestowed in such abundance only in the land, which was to become the future birthplace of the Prophet (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) and not in India, which worships multiple gods? You need an open mind to accept the answer to this question. But then Allah Himself needs to shower His infinite grace upon you if you are to be enlightened about His glory. Till then you can’t realize the miracle He has conferred upon the world. Only he attains enlightenment on whom Allah casts His merciful eyes. The rest live a life of ignorance and inevitably reach hell. I have immense love for you because you are my mother. But I also pity you. I don’t know how I can uplift you.’
It was clear to her that like countless young men who went to work in the Gulf countries, he too was seduced by the extremely puritan version of Islam that he saw there. In shops, offices and factories, people would stop doing whatever they were doing the moment they heard the azaan call, and rush to the nearest mosque for namaz. Some would perform namaz standing at their workplaces. A minuscule percentage didn’t do even that. According to what she heard, Muslim migrants from India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh were earnest to prove to the locals that they were as pure. They took great trouble to heed every azaan call and rush to the mosque. She could sense the same fervour in Nazir and deduced that what had begun as an effort to prove his credentials to the local Saudi Muslims gradually developed into a deep-seated, almost blind belief, the kind of belief that made him speak like this. It wouldn’t be easy to get him to see reason and explain the values of scientific temper and tolerance in a short time. She decided not to push him. He was dangerously mired in the religion whose founder-Prophet (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) preached that fidelity to the faith was the foremost and that it was approved and sanctioned to forsake—even sacrifice—your parents and brothers and sisters if they came in the way. She decided to change the topic.
‘What would you like to eat? I’ll get it prepared for you.’
‘What do you get here?’
‘We usually eat ragi balls and some rice. If you insist on eating chapati, I can send someone to Kunigal to buy the flour. There are plenty of vegetables in the backyard. You tell me what you like. And there’s no shortage of milk and curd and butter.’
‘You belong to the Vokkaliga caste. You do eat meat?’ he asked knowingly.
His pointed reference to her caste stung. She wanted to tell him she was still a Muslim, but decided not to because she had no faith left in Islam anymore.
‘I’m a Vokkaliga and we do eat meat, but we don’t eat it daily. We don’t cook meat in the kitchen. We prepare it either on the portico or in the bathroom stove in a separate earthen pot meant only for that. We use separate earthen utensils for preparing meat and we don’t mix these with the regular utensils. Only the menfolk cook meat. We don’t use the regular plates, the meat is served in a large dried leaf and after eating, we throw it away and wash the vessels and hang it on top of the roof of the bathroom. The idea is to discourage meat-eating, which is derived from the basic ideal of non-violence towards animals. Your grandfather was very deeply influenced by Mahatma Gandhi and had given up meat completely. After coming here, I’ve also given up eating meat. Animals have as much right to live in this world. Humans don’t have the right to kill animals for food. The philosophy and culture of this land holds that animals weren’t created purely for man’s pleasure.’
He shrugged.
‘Incredible! Anybody who knows even an iota of science knows that this is utter nonsense.’
She decided to let it go.
‘I’ll tell Lakshmamma to make rice and a broth of greens. There’s plenty of curd. If you insist on meat, you’ll need to take your taxi and go to Kunigal and eat in a restaurant. Your wish.’
He said nothing. She waited for a minute, then rose and went in.
He sat there alone till lunch was ready and came out when Lakshmi called out to him. She gave him water to wash and put his food on the plate. He asked for a spoon. She poured a generous quantity of ghee on the plate, mixed the rice and the stew with it, and ground it with her finge
rs till it was almost semi-liquid and handed him the plate. She sat there watching him as he ate and then mixed another helping. She fussed and complained that he wasn’t eating well. When he finished that, she made him curd-rice and added a pinch of salt to it. His features softened suddenly. She was sure she detected a sign of sentimentality.
While he washed his hands, she readied the bed in the study and asked him to sleep for sometime. He lay down. She went out and gave lunch to the driver and once he was done, she finished her own.
When Nazir awoke about an hour later, she was sitting on a chair by his bedside. She asked, ‘Where are you staying in Bangalore?’
‘Hotel Sharif Mahal.’
‘Why aren’t you staying with your abbajaan?’ she asked making no effort to hide her surprise.
‘I called home to tell you and Abbajaan than I was visiting. The phone service told me the number was disconnected. You don’t have a phone here and I didn’t have grandfather’s number. I called Imitiaz. I don’t know if you know him. He lives near Grandfather’s house in Shivajinagar. He was surprised that I didn’t know that Abbajaan had married again and was living with his new bibi in the big house. He asked me to call back after half an hour so he could give me Grandfather’s number. I asked him what was happening. So he told me that you—my ammajaan—was living in some faraway village. What could he do? He told me this is what happens if non-Muslim girls come into the fold and get converted. It’s not the same as marrying a true Muslim girl. It seems everybody is talking about this. I spoke to Abbajaan. He was delighted to hear my voice and said he’d come to the airport. He said he’ll get the flat cleaned up and arrange for a cook till I’m here. Though his second bibi was younger than me, she didn’t really need to follow purdah to appear before me, because I’m mehram as far as she’s concerned. I understood. If I stayed at Grandfather’s place, you’d surely come there to see me and that would really embarrass Father. When he came to the airport, I told him I’ll stay at Sharif Mahal. He didn’t say no but he didn’t take me home to introduce his new bibi. I guess he was embarrassed.’
