by Farahad Zama
“The world has come to such a pass that young women can answer back to their elders in a temple,” he said.
Aruna bit her tongue and refrained from replying because that would have just validated his argument.
“Where is the boy who came with you last time? You should have brought him to the temple as well.”
“He was doing his homework,” she replied.
“I bet he wouldn’t be doing his homework if it was time to go the mosque. The biggest problem we have in our community is not Muslims or Christians. It is we Hindus ourselves who are our worst enemies.” He turned on his heel and walked away before Aruna could reply.
“I’m sorry,” said Gita in a small voice.
Aruna frowned. “You don’t have to apologise for him.”
“He has very strong feelings about Hindus and their rights. But he is a good man – a strong leader, a very inspiring talker and he is totally dedicated to this temple.”
“He may be strong and committed to the temple but, with views like that, I wouldn’t call him good. You know Mr and Mrs Ali and their son, Rehman. How can anyone imply that they are somehow unworthy just because of their religion?”
“That is true…” said Gita slowly.
“People are good or bad by their thoughts and deeds, not by their faith.”
Working with Mr Ali had clearly rubbed off on Aruna and she was able to able to articulate philosophy in a way that she wouldn’t have been able to a year before.
♦
Mrs Ali, Pari and Vasu travelled to Azhar’s house in a three-wheeled auto-rickshaw. They would normally have walked, but it was half an hour before sunset and the ladies were still fasting. Azhar had arranged an iftar party – a get-together for breaking the fast.
Soon Mrs Ali was in the kitchen, helping Azhar’s wife roll out the dough to make the rotis. Wonderful smells from the lamb biryani, steaming quietly in a covered dish with a weight on top, filled the kitchen and made Pari’s mouth water. Her empty stomach contracted painfully and she looked discreetly at her watch. Another twenty minutes to go. More than the food, it was the lack of water that troubled her. The hot air sucked moisture out of a body like a vice squeezing a sponge.
I ate a very nice meal before dawn and I worked today in an air-conditioned office, she thought. There are men and women out there who have nothing to begin their fast with but a grain of salt and a tumbler of water, and they then carry out heavy manual labour out of doors all day long. Compared to them, I have it easy, she thought, as she arranged dates and almonds on a platter.
Azhar came into the kitchen. “Just fifteen minutes to go. The imam will be here at any moment.”
His wife said, “Everything is ready, don’t worry.” She turned to Mrs Ali. “Bhaabhi, help me take the biryani out into a serving dish.”
“The imam always breaks his fast in the mosque. He is doing us a great honour by coming to our house today. Pyare Lai, the fan-shop owner, asked him but the imam said no. Siddiqui, the granite seller, asked him too. But the imam is coming here instead.”
“Sharif was telling me a story about the saint who is buried in the dargah in Faiz’s village,” Mrs Ali said.
Azhar and his wife looked at her with interest. They still missed the granddaughter whom they had raised.
“Apparently, the sufi fasted throughout the year, not just during Ramzaan. He used to eat a couple of dates before dawn and his only meal was in the evening after sunset. His servant used to stand outside the house and invite any passers-by to come in and break their fast with his master. The holy man would not eat unless he had at least one guest.”
“A great man…” said Azhar.
Pari wondered why Muslims were so obsessed with feeding others. Food is extremely important to us, she thought, far beyond its value as fuel for the body. Inviting others, sharing food and water, giving grand feasts: is it because of our religion’s origins in a harsh desert?
They took the platters of food into the living room, where the floor was covered with mats and sheets. The space had been divided into two with the help of a sari as a makeshift curtain down the middle. Mrs Ali was surprised and looked questioningly at her brother. They didn’t practise purdah in their family, separating the men and women. He shrugged uncomfortably.
“The imam-saab insisted. He said that he could not break his fast in mixed company.”
The food was divided into two portions – one for the men and one for the women.
“Is Bhaijaan definitely not coming?” Azhar asked.
“No,” said Mrs Ali. Her husband did not feel comfortable attending an iftar party when he had not fasted during the day.
“Probably for the best,” said Azhar. “The imam-saab would not have been happy.”
Vasu came running in from the front yard. “The guests have come,” he announced.
The ladies quickly arranged the platters of food and retreated behind the curtain. Azhar and Vasu greeted the imam and three other elders from the mosque. Mrs Ali had her first look at the new imam. She had known Haji Saab, the old imam, quite well. He used to come to her home once a month to collect their mosque subscription, and stay for a tea and a chat. She knew his family – his wife, daughter and nephew too. The daughter, Jahannara, had been married to a good but poor motorcycle mechanic. A few years after the wedding, the son of an old friend of Haji Saab had helped the son-in-law to go to Saudi Arabia on a contract. Jahannara, who by now had a baby and was pregnant again, had shed many tears at being separated from her husband. The son-in-law had spent three years in Saudi Arabia and had come back, not only having done the Haj pilgrimage to Mecca, but also with enough savings to buy a small house and set up a motorcycle repair shop. Over the years, the business had grown and they now lived very comfortably. Everyone said, and Mrs Ali agreed, that their story was a reflection of the pious and gentle life led by Haji Saab. It showed that Allah had not forsaken this world and that goodness was still rewarded in this world.
The new imam was very young. That’s what her husband had said after his visit to the mosque and she now saw what he meant. In certain professions, such as the priesthood and medicine, there should be only mature people, she thought. It felt wrong to see a man in his twenties occupying such a post.
As there was not much time left before the moment came to break the fast, they all sat down quickly on the sheets around the food and drink.
“Fasting during the holy month of Ramzaan is one of the pillars of Islam,” said the imam. His voice had the timbre of youth but carried well. “It was during the month of Ramadaan that the Qur’an was first revealed to the Prophet, peace be upon him.” He turned to Vasu, to ask, “Do you know how to read and write?”
Pari caught her breath. Vasu knew Telugu, the language of the local Hindus, but did not know how to speak Urdu, the language of the Muslims. But to her surprise and relief, Vasu nodded. He had obviously been picking up more of the language by being around them than she thought.
“Mohammed, peace be upon him, was unlettered. The revelation came to him as burning letters in the sky and he heard a voice booming all around him that said, “Read!” He was frightened. “I don’t know how to read,” he said. “Read!” came the voice again.”
An alarm went off loudly. Azhar shut it off and turned to the imam. “Sorry,” he said, “but it is time to break the fast.” He held out the platter of dates and men took one each. On the other side of the curtain, the women did the same.
The young imam recited the dua. “O Allah! I fasted for You and I put my trust in You and I break my fast with Your sustenance.”
Teeth tore through the brown parchment-thin skin of the dates and sank into the luscious flesh, releasing an intense sugary rush onto hungry tongues. Nothing tastes better than that first bite after a fast.
After the dates came cooling sherbet, followed by the biryani and the chicken curry. As usual at an iftar party, an enormous amount of food had been made, on the assumption that people would be hungry, but
people’s stomachs are surprisingly easily sated after the day’s fast. Mrs Ali knew what Azhar and his wife would be using to break their fasts for the next few days.
“What’s your name?” the imam asked Vasu.
“Vasu.” The namesake of the Preserver God of the Hindus.
“But that’s…” The imam turned accusing eyes on Azhar. “Have I just broken my fast with an unbeliever?”
Mrs Ali could see her brother squirming. Finally, he said, “He is my niece’s adopted son. We were talking – ”
“Looking after an orphan is the most virtuous thing a Muslim can do. The Prophet said, “I and the guardian of an orphan will be like this in the garden of Paradise,” and he raised his index and middle fingers held together.” The imam paused for a moment, then continued, “It is not enough to look after the material needs of children. Parents are also responsible for their children’s spiritual well-being. They must be taught the true path and given guidance in the way of our religion.”
“No,” said Pari, loudly. Before Mrs Ali could stop her, she brushed the curtain aside, went over to the men’s area and hugged Vasu. “Vasu is my son. But I will not take advantage of that to make him forget his parents’ religion and raise him as a Muslim.”
The imam recoiled at the sight of a woman among the men. Pari turned on him. “You may be a Hafiz, one who knows the Qur’an by heart, but you are still a young man who has much to learn about life. This is not Saudi Arabia where women have to hide away from men and Islam is the only religion around. We live in Hindustan and our well-being is promoted by remembering that fact.”
The imam stood up and his companions followed suit. “The entire community has a responsibility towards individuals who stray. Your son will be brought up as a Muslim or you and your family will be thrown out of the mosque.” His gaze slid past Mrs Ali and settled on Azhar. “The entire family,” he repeated and turned on his heel.
Seven
The big house in the posh suburb of Daspalla Hills was in uproar. In the large living room, servants rushed around, some rearranging furniture, others changing curtains, and a couple of men wiping the dust off the ceiling-fan blades. Smells and sounds of snacks being fried came from the kitchen and in the centre of it all, the old man sat still on a divan, holding a walking stick. Joining Mr Ali’s marriage bureau had paid off and today a boy’s family was coming to see Mr Koteshwar Reddy’s granddaughter.
Mr Reddy’s nephew, Bobbili, walked into the room and shouted at the men shifting a large sofa, “Careful! Don’t mark the floor.”
“Yes, sir.” the men nodded and made an effort to lift the sofa rather than just slide it along the marble tiles.
“Well?” said Mr Reddy when Bobbili stood in front of him.
Bobbili nodded. “Sukumar is ready, sir. It took a bit of arm-twisting, but I managed it finally. I’ve also asked Venkatesh to stay with him and make sure that he doesn’t find another bottle somehow.”
“You and your son are both so good for my house,” said Mr Reddy. He was determined that his son would not spoil the occasion this time.
Bobbili shrugged. “We are just doing our duty, Uncle.” Seeing where the sofa had been moved to, he rushed up to the men shifting it. “Orey, I think moths have eaten your brains. How can you have the sofa touching the cupboard? That’s an antique piece inlaid with ivory. You can’t get such a thing any more for love or money. Move the sofa to that side, carefully now.”
Bobbili came back to the old man and said, “Don’t worry, Uncle. We’ll have everything shipshape before the guests arrive.”
“I am not worried. I know you will sort out all the problems.”
Mr Reddy sighed, thinking, if my son had a tenth of the sense that my nephew shows, I would have been a happy man. The women of the family never seemed to have much luck. His wife had died ten years ago, after a long life marked by much ill health. His sister had died five, no, six years ago now, after much unhappiness. Materially, she had never lacked for anything in his house, but she had become a widow as a young woman and was abandoned by her husband’s family, cheated of the share of inheritance she should have received from her in-laws. But her son, Bobbili, had grown up to be a responsible person and her grandson, Venkat, was a smart young man, going to college, even if his marks were too low and his tastes a bit too rich.
If any woman could be said to have everything going for her, it should be his granddaughter, Sujatha. Good looks, charm, manners, intelligence, education: name the quality and she had it. But her family’s curse seemed to have touched her too. Four – four! – marriage proposals had broken down at the last stage when he thought everything had been settled. One, he could understand, two he could explain, but four was ridiculous. He had sent Bobbili to talk to one of the parties after they had broken off the match. Did they want more money as dowry? Was it because Sujatha was studying for her MA? That was just something to pass the time and it could be stopped if necessary. Bobbili had come back with the news that they didn’t want to take Sujatha because her father was an alcoholic. That had left Mr Reddy incandescent for weeks. Not only had his son destroyed his own life, but he was also casting a shadow on the next generation.
Mr Reddy wiggled his finger and a servant came running over. “Ask the younger master to come down. I want to talk to him.”
Sukumar walked into the room. His once-sharp features had blurred like an out-of-focus picture from all the alcohol that he had consumed over the years. Mr Reddy tapped his walking stick on the floor.
“You will behave yourself,” he said to his son. “No drinking for the rest of the day. No tantrums, no talking nonsense; you will sit quietly on that sofa like a mannequin in a shop window, when the guests come. You will not say a single word to jeopardise the viewing. Understand?”
“I don’t think – ”
“I don’t care what you think. I don’t want you to think.”
Sukumar shuffled his feet and muttered something indistinct. Mr Reddy turned to the young man hovering behind Sukumar. “Venkat, watch your uncle like a hawk. Don’t let him give you the slip.”
“Of course, Thaatha. No problem.”
Mr Reddy turned to his son. “All this wealth is going into a trust that will be controlled by your daughter. Your monthly stipend has to be released by her. If you cause any trouble for her now, think of the trouble she can cause you later.”
Sukumar sat on the sofa indicated by his father.
Mr Reddy shook his head. What had he done to deserve this? The family curse on women had struck Sujatha very early. Her mother had died giving birth to her. Would his daughter-in-law have survived if the childbirth had taken place in a hospital rather than at home, as he had insisted? He didn’t think so. Everybody’s lifeline was written at birth and when it is time for Lord Yama to collect your soul, no hospital or doctor can stop the God of Death. Sukumar had refused to talk to him or even to look at Sujatha’s face for months. Only slowly did he become reconciled with the daughter who had caused the death of his wife. Sukumar had always had grandiose plans to make money, and now there was no one to control him. He refused to listen to Mr Reddy and somewhere along the line, as plan after plan failed, he started drinking.
Mr Reddy had tried hard to keep his son away from alcohol but, with a craftiness that he did not show in his business dealings, Sukumar always managed to lay his hands on a bottle or three. Mr Reddy glanced at his son and felt disgust at the sight of his shiny, bulbous nose and florid cheeks.
Mr Reddy turned to Venkat, who was standing behind Sukumar. “Ask if Sujatha is ready.”
“Yes, Thaatha.” The young man smiled happily and left the room.
♦
Six-thirty, the time for the guests to arrive, had come and gone but nobody had made an appearance.
“Hey, Bobbili, phone them and find out what’s happening,” said Mr Reddy, tapping his walking stick on the ground in a staccato manner.
“It’s not yet seven, sir. They’ll be here soon. Let’s n
ot be seen to be hassling them.”
“Hmm…Call up Mr Ali and ask him to find out. As the middleman who introduced us, he can phone them.”
Venkat came back into the living room. “Sujatha is asking what’s going on, Thaatha.”
“If I knew, I would tell,” said Mr Reddy, grumbling. “These people have no sense of time. What kind of match will they make?”
“A good one, sir,” said Bobbili. “You know how it is when trying to get everybody out of the house for occasions like this. Things always take longer than you expect.” He turned to his son. “Orey, Venkat. Go and keep Sujatha company. It must be pretty boring for her to sit in her room alone.”
“Of course, Naanna.” Venkat jumped up and headed towards Sujatha’s room.
It was almost seven-thirty and even Bobbili was getting anxious. At last the servant he had posted at the end of the street as a lookout came in with the news that a car had come.
Bobbili rushed out to greet the guests. “Namaste, sir. Namaste, madam. How are you, young man?”
Seven people had turned up, in two cars – the second one had taken a slightly different route and arrived a few minutes later. Two parents, one uncle, one aunt, one sister, one cousin and, of course, one bridegroom.
Ajay, the bridegroom, was twenty-seven; his birth star was Mrigasira in Taurus, which had been checked by a priest and found compatible for happiness with Sujatha’s Aswini, the Gemini twins. Ajay had studied in a ‘donation’ college – where one had to pay a fee to get a seat – which was a black mark against him, but he had done well afterwards. He worked for a company in Hyderabad called Oracle, which, as Bobbili had found out, was one of the biggest companies in the world and made something called databases. Neither Mr Reddy nor Bobbili understood what that was, but both Venkat and Sujatha had assured them that it was a well-known firm and the job was good. Ajay earned a salary of fifty thousand rupees a month, a fact that the elders understood and which impressed them. Beyond the salary itself, Ajay’s family, like Mr Reddy’s, were landlords and between them, the young couple would never lack for money.