by Farahad Zama
“How?”
“Force an election. Let the jamaat – the congregation – decide. I am sure that right and reason will win.”
Seventeen
“Vote for me.” The candidate’s supporters, on motorcycles, spilled all around the front gate of Mr and Mrs Ali’s house. The election must be tight: this was the second time they had come canvassing.
“We have elections coming out of our ears at the moment,” said Mrs Ali to Pari and turned to the candidate. “Why should I vote for you?”
“You voted for me last time, madam. Why break a great tradition?”
“I told you I voted for you. How do you know which button I pressed in the booth?”
The candidate grinned. “I know you are not the sort to lie, madam. Our party is secular and we don’t discriminate against Muslims. Why would you want to vote for anybody else?” He glanced at Pari. “And who is this lovely lady? Is she on the voting register too?”
“Yes, the young woman lives in that building,” said Mrs Ali, pointing. “But forget this secular-vecular nonsense. I voted for you last time and you have decided to knock down half my house. I can tell you that after that news not only will I not vote for your party, but neither will anyone else in the street.”
The candidate’s face fell and his supporters were momentarily silenced. “Our hands are tied, madam. Even if the opposition party was in power, the same thing would have happened. It’s a central government and World Bank rule, and we are just implementing it.”
“Do people in Delhi and America know the conditions in our street? And what can we do when we’re up against those faceless bureaucrats? Your party was in power when this news was announced, so you will make a good target. I think you can forget about all the voters on this road, not just for this election but for a long time in the future. Candidates for parliament and the state assembly won’t care about a single street, but you are standing as a corporator of this ward and this road is half your constituency.”
“I know, madam. My aunt lives just a few doors down, in that yellow house with the fluted columns by the side of the market, and she keeps shouting at me too. She says that she is now unable to tell anyone that her nephew is the corporator because she is afraid that people will throw stones through her windows.”
As the candidate and his entourage moved on to the next house, Pari said to Mrs Ali, “What is the point of telling him? He’s probably listened to the same complaint at every door.”
Mrs Ali shrugged. “If a baby doesn’t cry, even its own mother won’t feed it.”
♦
“The whole city has been gripped by election fever, but the – ” A passing lorry’s air-horn overpowered the woman’s voice.
The sound engineer-cum-cameraman gave a small shake of his head and drew his hand across his neck in the universal ‘kill’ signal.
Usha stopped speaking and waited for the relative silence of normal traffic. After a few seconds, she started again.
“The whole city has been gripped by election fever, but the Muslim community of this area has caught a double dose of it. The congregation of the main road mosque – you can see it behind us – are also holding an election to decide their next imam. The incumbent imam is Bilal, a young outsider, a graduate of a Deobandi madrassah, a seminary in North India; standing against him is a local man, who has had a conventional education in Visakha Valley School. Both candidates are Hafiz, men who know the Qur’an by heart. Neither man was willing to speak to us on camera, but we have an important member, the former imam of the mosque, here to talk to us.”
The camera panned slightly and Rehman, who was watching a small-screen monitor, noticed that Haji-saab had now appeared in the camera frame. Mrs Ali and Pari were standing next to Rehman but their attention was directly on Usha and Haji Saab themselves, rather than on their image on the screen.
Usha smiled at the distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a cream-coloured sherwani and a dark-maroon fez. “I was told that you were eighty-two years old, sir, but I don’t believe it. If I look as good when I am half your age, I’ll consider myself twice as lucky.”
“Is this a maths quiz?” said the old man, in a surprisingly strong voice, honed by years of calling the faithful to prayer and giving sermons long before the regular use of electronic aids such as microphones and amplifiers.
“I believe you’ve lived all your life within the precincts of this mosque. Is that true?”
“Yes. In fact, except for the pilgrimage to Mecca, I’ve never left this town,” said Haji Saab. “Even my father and grandfather have lived in this area all their life. My great-grandfather and my great-grandmother were a newly married couple when they moved here from Bhopal. This part of town was then a wooded area, far from the centre of Vizag, which at that time was concentrated around the Qila, the fort area, near the harbour.”
“So you know a lot of the history of this mosque. Has there ever been an election for the post of imam here?”
Haji Saab shook his head. “No. Our problem in the past has been finding even one man willing to be the leader of our mosque – not fending off people who want to become imams.”
Usha barely suppressed her laughter, her white, even teeth just visible. A sudden spark of feminine intuition made Pari glance at Rehman. His gaze, directed at his ex-fiancée, seemed avaricious in its intensity, making Pari flush. How could she compete against such feeling? She must be a fool to think that she had any chance at all of winning Rehman’s affections.
Meanwhile, Haji Saab continued to speak. “We have two candidates and both are very suitable. One is a student of a famous seminary in North India and the current imam. The other candidate is my own nephew – a local man who has lived in this area all his life. I am sure that, whoever wins, our mosque will be led by an able man.”
Rehman accompanied his father to the mosque to vote for the imam’s election. His protests that he wasn’t interested in religious affairs had been given short shrift by both his parents and Pari, who had pointed out that Vasu’s future with Pari was at stake and that every vote counted. There had been considerable discussion about the timing of the ballot and other procedures associated with it.
Azhar had, in his career as a civil servant, been the presiding officer at polling stations in various districts during state and central government elections. In those days, before the introduction of electronic voting machines, he had also been part of the vast army of people across the country who had participated in counting the millions of slips of paper, each with pencil marks against the candidates’ symbols: the palm of the hand, the cycle, the lotus, the hammer and sickle and so on. His experience now came in useful and he was given the responsibility of organising the mosque election.
Mr Ali had to admit that, overall, Azhar had done a good job. He had insisted on a secret ballot, overriding those on the committee who said that a simple show of hands would suffice. Divisions had already grown in the mosque since the campaigning had started. Mr Ali had heard that Razzaq’s sister had snubbed her brother’s wife at a wedding because her brother and his son had been asking for votes on behalf of the new imam while her husband supported Nasrullah.
Mr Ali and Rehman walked under the arch at the entrance of the mosque, passing several beggars who had gathered outside. One of them, a wiry, toothless man with bony arms and legs, addressed Mr Ali. “I didn’t think there was a Muslim festival today, sir. So why is there such a crowd today?”
“There is an election,” replied Mr Ali.
“A votes festival? In a mosque?” The beggar scratched his head, clearly puzzled. He rattled the bowl in his other hand, jangling the few coins already in it.
As usual, when going to the mosque, Mrs Ali had made Mr Ali and Rehman wear their best clothes and their worst shoes. An old uncle, a long time ago, had lost his footwear at the mosque, and ever since Mrs Ali always insisted that they wear their ancient, tattered leather slippers. Mr Ali had protested, “I’ve never lost any footwear at
the mosque.”
“That’s because I always make you wear your old slippers and nobody wants to take those,” Mrs Ali replied. There could, of course, be no reply to that argument.
The mosque was more crowded than on a normal Friday. The timing of the election had been a matter of some controversy. Supporters of Nasrullah, the challenger candidate, did not want it to be held after the Friday prayers. The imam’s sermon would lend him an air of incumbency and authority, and Nasrullah’s supporters feared that many wavering votes would be lost. But really, Friday was the logical time to hold the vote as the turnout at any other time would be much lower. The young imam was, however, made to promise that he would not appeal for votes during the sermon.
Groups of men stood around, canvassing for their candidate. Mr Ali’s and Rehman’s antipathy to the new imam was well known and none of his supporters made a pitch to either of them. Mr Ali noticed that Azhar and two other members of the mosque governing committee stood aloof by the water tank that was used for wazu, the ritual ablutions that were required before the prayers.
“Do you require the wazu?” Nasrullah’s cousin asked Mr Ali.
Mr Ali shook his head. “I’ve done the wazu at home and come straight here,” he said.
They made their way into the covered area of the mosque where the marble floor was cool under their feet. The air in the mosque, by contrast, was like a warm blanket despite the mosque’s open sides and the fans whirring away overhead.
The imam’s sermon was on the perfectly innocuous topic of the importance of charity to anybody who called themselves a Muslim. Mr Ali thought the sermon had finished and prepared to stand up for the ritual namaaz, but the imam continued, “For those of you who have buried their heads in the sand over the previous couple of weeks, or simply for those who simply do not attend the mosque as regularly as they should, I want to say that there is an election today for the post of imam. It will only take a few extra minutes, so don’t rush off like scalded cats as soon as the prayers are finished. I do not ask you to vote for me and I do not say that you should not vote for me. You have seen my performance over the last few weeks and you can judge whether I am capable of being your imam. The Qur’an says: The believers are but a single brotherhood. Make peace and reconciliation between your two contending brothers and fear Allah so that you may receive mercy. So, regardless of how the vote goes today, there should be no division tomorrow among our congregation. We are one and in our unity is our strength. After today, I do not want to hear any more talk of division or disarray. Is that clear?”
The young imam paused and scanned every corner of the assembly, meeting several eyes. Rehman leaned over and whispered, “He is good.”
Mr Ali nodded. “Yes, there is no doubt about that.” The imam sat down for a few seconds for a quick prayer, then stood up for the second part of the sermon. The preceding talk had been in Urdu, but the imam now spoke the standard prescribed phrases in Arabic.
“O servants of Allah! May He be merciful to you. Verily, Allah commands you to act with justice…do good to others as one does to one’s kindred…(Allah) prohibits revolts against a lawful authority…”
It was a good thing, thought Mr Ali, who had spent too many Sunday afternoons as a boy learning the Qur’an and Arabic, that most of the congregation did not understand Arabic and these phrases were just a wash of familiar sounds. “…Allah!…Rahim…Allah…blah blah After the obligatory prayers, a few men rushed out but most sat back at ease on the floor, some even continuing to murmur additional recommended prayers. Azhar commandeered a couple of teenagers, who carried in from the office a wooden table, setting it directly under a fan and covering it with a parrot-green satin cloth embroidered in sequins with the words ‘Allahu akbar” – God is great. Azhar brought in a hinged metal box with a rectangular slot cut in the top. However, the congregation’s eyes were not on the box but on the men walking behind Azhar – a police officer and two constables. A mild murmur ran through the crowd about non-Muslims entering the mosque while some men were still praying the recommended rakaats, but it was quickly silenced as the officer and Azhar took their seats.
The constables remained standing behind them. Mr Ali noticed that the policemen had removed their shoes and were wearing socks, and that the heftier, burlier constable had a hole in his right sock that he was trying to hide by curling his big toe.
Once everybody had finished their extra prayers, Azhar clipped a small mike to the top buttonhole on his shirt and said, “Testing, testing, one…two.” The sound boomed through the hall and he hurriedly lowered his voice as he added, “Three.”
Looking around at the seated crowd, he said, “I have invited Inspector Bhimadolu to preside over the election.” He turned to the policeman. “Thank you, sir, for taking the time to help us.”
“It’s my duty,” said the officer, picking up the service baton that he had laid on the table in front of him when he sat down, and then putting it back again. “In my career as a policeman, I have seen many disputes – brother killing brother over a small inheritance; a wife feeding her husband rat poison because he was being friendly with her sister; priests mired in court cases because they could not decide whether to apply the sacred vermilion mark horizontally or vertically on the temple elephant. So I am glad that you have decided to settle your disagreement by ballot. It is my honour to be present here and help you in this important task.”
The officer looked over his shoulder and signalled with his head. One of the constables stepped around and opened the box, so that its top fell right back on its hinges, like the maw of a hippopotamus. The constable must have been instructed what to do beforehand because, without a word from Azhar or his superior, he showed the innards of the ballot box to all corners of the mosque, rattling his bamboo lathi against its tin walls to emphasise its emptiness. It was then closed and put back on the table.
Azhar addressed the congregation. “Please step forward one at a time and write your name on the sheet here. You will be given a voting slip with the names of both the candidates. Make a tick against your preferred candidate and fold the paper in half, like this.” Azhar stood up and demonstrated. “Put the folded paper in the box and leave this area.”
The voting started under the watchful eyes of the police. Slowly the area emptied and the crowd in the unpaved area outside grew. Having cast his vote, Rehman said he had to meet a hydrologist regarding his work and left, adding, “Call me on the mobile as soon as the results are declared.” Mr Ali nodded.
Once the voting finished, the men filed in again and sank back to the floor in groups. The atmosphere was like that of a picnic, except that there was no food or drink. With the mouth of the ballot box open wide, Azhar and two committee members started unfolding the papers. They held the slip face up so the inspector could see the vote and placed it on one of two piles. When the papers in a pile reached ten, they moved it aside and started a new pile. When they were finished, the table was dotted with these stacks, which looked like white jasmine flowers against the green cloth. The last two piles had less than ten votes each. The men then went into a huddle with the police inspector, whispering. Azhar began to sift through the piles of votes again.
“Were you just as careful when you counted how many layers of clothes your bride wore on your nuptial bed?” shouted someone at the back.
“He started to count, but got distracted when he got to two, so he had to start again,” replied another wag.
“By the time he finished, his bride was bored and had started snoring,” shouted the first man.
The crowd tittered, followed by a shush from some of the elderly men.
The counting finally finished. Azhar signed the sheet of paper he was holding, then got the others at the table to sign too. He stood up, switched on his mike and cleared his throat. The murmuring in the crowd stopped and an expectant hush fell.
Azhar said, “Two hundred and thirteen people voted. Two votes have been declared invalid.” He held the two
out for all to see. One had ticks against both candidates and the other had no ticks at all.
“Don’t worry about them,” came the voice from the back. “Those were men who didn’t recognise their brides.”
Azhar ignored the comment, laid the papers down and picked up a longer sheet of paper. “For those of you whose mathematical skills are as good as your sense of humour, you will realise that there are thus two hundred and eleven valid votes.” He looked up at the audience and then buried his nose in the paper again.
Mr Ali’s chest tightened with tension. He wondered how the candidates were feeling.
“Nasrullah, one hundred and five votes.”
Mr Ali desperately tried to calculate whether that meant a majority or not, but his mind seemed to have slowed and the numbers kept slipping away.
“Our imam, one hundred and six.” Azhar inclined his head towards the imam. “Victory Mubarak to you – greetings on your victory.”
Half the audience raised a whoop. Some men rushed over to the young imam and lifted him onto their shoulders. The rest of the congregation sat glumly staring at the floor, Mr Ali among them, his despair greater than most. What would happen to Pari and Vasu now? Would he too be excommunicated from the mosque? The imam would feel strengthened with the vote in his favour.
“No!” cried a loud voice behind Mr Ali. Someone with heavy steps rushed past him. Mr Ali watched in horror as a young man picked up the ballot box and lifted it high above his head. Before he could dash it to the ground, the police constables tackled him. The young man twisted this way and that, but the constables brought him down in short order. One of them took away the box and the second raised his lathi to strike.
“Stop!” Nasrullah cried out. “Let him go.”
The constable held on to the young man’s collar, his eyes on his officer. Only when the officer gave an almost imperceptible nod did the constable let go of the protestor, who crawled away across the marble floor, like a centipede.