She would leave from home in Azeem’s auto-rickshaw. The journeys were so varied that they could not ambush her. This made some of the men even angrier with Thawakkul. Azeem believed that since they could not douse their anger in any way, their pent-up impotent rage had mounted to foul levels.
He told Thawakkul about all this on their way to Mavadivempu. He did not take the normal route and went by Punnaikuda Road and turned towards the railway station and then turned left into the Chenkaladi Main Road. He was as distressed as if his own sister was in danger. He was busy planning another convoluted route for the homeward journey.
‘Why are you going on a different route, Azeem?’ asked Thawakkul, laughing. ‘Have you lost your license or something?’ Thawakkul asked with a laugh.
He was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t answer her. ‘Will Allah ask you why you didn’t risk your life to help all these people?’ he thought. ‘I’m sure. He will understand that you need to stay safe and alive and lead a normal life.’
‘You’re looking very tense, Azeem. What’s the problem? Did you have an argument with your Umma again?’
‘Thawakkul is as pure as driven snow, surrounded by blackguards who are determined to cast aspersions, taint and bury her purity,’ thought Azeem. ‘How do we stand our ground against murderers?’
As far as he was aware, they were indeed murderers. There were two powerful political parties in Eravur. Both comprised anarchists, qualified only by their ability to commit atrocities, who thrived under the protection of political patronage. They had taken it upon themselves to ‘cleanse’ the town and enforce Islamic principles, and had no qualms about taking the law into their own hands in pursuance of that objective.
Of the two groups, one had very close connections with a Muslim majority party – in fact a party with Muslim members only. The other was a party led by a clown wearing the garb of a son of the soil, who kissed the cheeks of wizened old ladies and babies in dirty clothes, and wept copiously at the funeral of a complete stranger – as proof of his humility, sensitivity and humaneness.
The two gangs carried on their plundering, pillaging and murdering activities, with or without the knowledge of their political sponsors. According to them, watching television violated Islamic principles and the homes that had televisions had Iblis (the devil) living in them. They allied themselves with the Jamaat (the Assembly of the village), which consisted of the mullahs, morons and criminal classes, and convinced themselves that they were indeed faithful Muslims and in the name of Islam, the vandals broke television antennas, disrupted music and dance shows, and compelled the womenfolk to wear the abaya and cover their faces. They preached, pamphleteered and enforced their rules. If a girl wore an abaya of clinging material that showed the shape of her waist, men on motorbikes followed her and caned her on the bottom. They were afraid that women who worked in NGOs would grow emancipated and expose their misogynistic hypocrisy. They fabricated and spread scandalous stories about women who were already working in NGOs.
They considered the barbaric punishments meted out to the ‘straying’ women as personal victories to be celebrated. They ‘researched’ and discovered methods to torture women. For example, to prove that the various orifices of women were interconnected, they thrust a thick, flexible rod into a woman’s vagina until it emerged from her mouth. To conduct these ‘experiments’, they conveniently declared that their victims were immoral, amoral and had flown in the face of the Islamic faith.
However, these self-appointed moral police turned a blind eye to men who frequented whorehouses and did nothing to admonish the Vappas who sent off their wives to work as maids in Saudi Arabia and sexually abused their own daughters. They were equally oblivious to narcotic peddlers, manufacturers or addicts and alcoholics. They didn’t take any notice of the unconscionable money-lenders who broke one of the strictest laws of Islam – the prohibition of usury. No investigations were carried out on the so-called ‘religious teachers’ who molested the little girls who came to their homes which doubled as madrassas to learn Arabic and to read the Quran. And the maulavis who donned the garb of good men were free to indulge in all kinds of nefarious activities.
Azeem realized that Thawakkul was now in the baleful spotlight of these vicious men. He knew that she was aware of it. He couldn’t understand her nonchalance in the face of the looming peril. He was certain that he would do his utmost to protect her.
‘Thawakkul, in our village if a person does something good, people will unscrupulously exploit him or her. If someone does something bad, nobody will question them. You are very well-educated. Find a way to live happily. By helping these ingrates, you’ve only managed to make yourself the target of the entire village. You’re perceived as a criminal, who has to be punished for transgressing our cultural and religious codes. Women who come into public view are shunned by our community. Don’t you realize that your chosen career is endangering your family and your friends?’
She could not deny the justice of Azeem’s words and remained silent. ‘Why, Thawakkul, you don’t look very well! What is the matter? How was your trip to Anuradhapura and Colombo?’
Although Thawakkul was still cogitating on Azeem’s words when she went into Yoga’s house, she remained calm, controlled and business-like, and nobody would have known of the turmoil in her mind.
At Batticaloa, Yoga underwent the procedures for being fitted with an artificial leg.
Azeem remained wholly vigilant. He drove the auto-rickshaw through the main road along the sea-shore.
Everyone at home co-operates with you, they support you. What if they get into some danger because of you? What will you do then?
If they do get into some danger…
Why should they be punished? Because they supported me? Because they let me be independent?
Everyone at home co-operates with you, they support you. What if they get into some danger because of you? What will you do then?
All the girls had come home, except Thawakkul. Nisha had described the visit of the mobsters to each one of them. She was still traumatized. The funeral atmosphere in the house made everyone listless and they wondered how much longer these libellous accusations would go on.
They were still smarting from the mortification of having gone in vain to Abul Hasan Maama’s house to ask whether the matrimonial alliance that had been offered to Gulfer could be arranged for Thawakkul instead. Yet another bolt of lightning had struck them down.
Furthermore, as they had gone to talk about the proposal without Thawakkul’s knowledge, she remained wholly unaware of their humiliation.
Nisha’s staunch faith in Allah was unassailable. She believed that Thawakkul was in His safe hands and that He would ensure that Thawakkul lived a good life. Nisha’s religious fervour renewed her mental strength and courage and helped her recover from the humiliation of that visit.
She found it worrying that neither Azeem nor Thawakkul had answered their cell-phones. The waiting was beginning to feel like a period of torture and she looked ill as she again started crying. The girls were upset to see their Umma like that.
‘Raththa must have put her phone in the silent mode. She probably has not noticed your calls, don’t worry, Umma,’said her daughters to console her. Nisha continued her soft moaning, though she was comforted a little by her daughters’ words…
‘If you want to give us your daughter Gulfer, we can continue this conversation. Thawakkul has been doing social service and her reputation is in shambles. How can you even talk to us about her marriage? We hear that she continues to gallivant around having rejected a very good alliance. However, we do know that you are good people and a good family. Your eldest daughter seems to be the black sheep in your family. Allah places one in each family. What can we do?’
Those hurtful words continued to echo in Nisha’s ears.
‘You can’t say anything you want. Do not just because you’ve got a tongue in your head,’ Habeeb had replied hotly. ‘Have you forgott
en Allah? Have you seen our daughter? Just because you heard someone say something you start spreading these malicious rumours! The entire episode had left a very bitter taste in everybody’s mouth.’ Abul Hassan Maama tried to placate everybody and poured oil on the troubled waters with little success.
‘Remember, all your children are girls, Habeeb. If you talk like this, none of your girls will have husbands; all their lives they will have to sit indoors, inhaling frankincense fumes and beautifying themselves,’ retorted the would-be bridegroom’s father.
‘Perhaps,’ snapped Habeeb. ‘But we’re not begging for anything from you. The One who measures things out to people knows who He should give to, what He should give them and when it should be done.’
When he walked out of the house with Nisha, Abul Hassan Maama ran after them trying to pacify them.
‘Maama, they talk without thinking,’ said Habeeb to the pleading older man, without breaking his stride. ‘You came to ask for my second daughter. We just wanted to point out to you that our eldest child is still single and it would not be seemly if our second daughter got married before her older sister. If they aren’t interested, all they have to say is no and leave it at that. Allah has protected us from them. Even if we had given them our younger one, they would have kept her away from her Raththa and she would have been miserable.’
‘Don’t get angry, ma,’ Abul Hassan Maama implored, his voice trembling. ‘I’ll come over to your place and talk to you. Please don’t cry, ma.’ He was very upset by what had transpired.
Various thoughts jostled within Nisha’s mind making her even more confused. Her children’s future seemed to be shrouded in darkness. Was it right to marry off the other girls while Thawakkul was still unmarried? What if she never ever got married?
Questions buffeted her heart; weary and defeated she sat down.
When they heard the sound of an auto-rickshaw outside, they rushed out to the porch.
‘Careful!’
Thawakkul was helping Yoga off the auto-rickshaw. When Yoga was standing with the help of her crutch, she said, ‘This is my Umma and those are my younger sisters.’ Then she turned to her Umma and sisters and said, ‘Umma, this is Yoga. She will stay here with us for a few days.’
Her mother and sisters were speechless for a few minutes, before Nisha’s pent up anxiety erupted, ‘How many times am I supposed to call you? Why don’t you answer your phone?’ Nisha flung her questions angrily even though she was relieved to see her daughter safe and whole.
Thawakkul, with her usual smile on her face, fished out her cell-phone from her handbag. She turned to her Umma with raised eyebrows.
‘Umma, you have called more than forty times! What has happened? Why?’Azeem’s grim prophesy loomed in her mind.
‘Tell me, please … why did you call … where is Vappa?’
‘Nothing like that Raththa. She just called once and since you did not answer, she panicked.’
A quick glance at their faces told her that something untoward had happened.
‘Sano, don’t lie!’ she said and reached for Nishas’s arm. ‘Tell me, Umma, what happened here? Why are you all looking so stressed out?’
Yoga was confused by the atmosphere there and felt that perhaps she had leapt from the frying pan into the fire. She was also troubled by the fact that she had no experience of staying in a Muslim home. She was worried that her own cursed luck had started affecting these people’s lives; the thought distressed her. They looked like really nice people although they seemed to be in something of a turmoil at the moment.
Thawakkul turned to Yoga like she had read her mind, ‘Please come in, Yoga.’
She led her to the guest room. It was the same room that Theivanai had stayed in.
Although it had been cleaned, the bedspread was askew and the pillows had no covers. Thawakkul swiftly set that right. She indicated the book rack to Yoga which had some books and magazines.
‘Yoga, make yourself at home,’ she said, smiling once again. ‘Ask if you need anything at all.’
Yoga felt that she had been upgraded to a prison with better facilities. A feeling of humiliation dragged her into sadness. The windows were wide open and she gazed into the gloaming outside.
Azeem’s bleak warning had made Thawakkul desperate to talk to her Umma right away. ‘Tell me, Umma, whatever it is. Don’t hide it from me,’ Thawakkul implored.
‘I’m scared, ma. Four strange men came home. Although I asked them who they were, they refused to tell me. They swore to throw acid on you, drag you to the mosque, shave your head and beat you with palmyra leaves. They would have dragged you away if they had found you at home.’
‘Sano, bring those letters and show Raththa!’
Thawakkul felt depleted as she read the two letters which Sano brought and extended them to her. They were the same as the threatening note that had arrived earlier although the handwriting was different.
One of the letters was written using a thin stick dipped in blood which had dried and crumbled on the paper exuding the smell of the blood.
The two letters carried more or less the same threat: ‘the punishment for your violation of Islamic culture and the society’s injunctions has already been decided in our courts.’
The letter inked in blood was the latest, it had arrived two days earlier. Nisha told her that the previous one had come on the day after Thawakkul had left for Anuradhapura.
It did not occur to her to ask why they had not shown them to her earlier. Her head hurt and the back of her skull felt numb. This was almost as bad as being ostracized for being a terrorist and she felt terrible for having inadvertently brought this degradation upon her loved ones.
It was eight o’clock at night. Nobody had noticed when the downpour had begun. The wind had picked up quite a bit, rattling the windows. The weather plunged the family into a deeper gloom.
Umma seemed inconsolable. They kept talking about the ‘holy people’ who had visited them and the ‘virtuous people’ who had written those letters. They were tired of talking fruitlessly about solutions that could never be found.
Yoga, who had grown tired of staying inside the room, tentatively poked her head out of the room, peered down the corridor and caught Thawakkul’s eye. She beckoned Yoga with a nod. Thawakkul decided that it would be best to tell Yoga everything, because she was going to remain in their house for a while. As she described what had happened and what was happening now, Yoga was shocked.
Although everyone pretended to be normal when Habeeb came home, they did not succeed.
Nisha, could not hold herself any longer, bawled out loudly as she told him everything that had happened.
‘Vappa,’ said Thawakkul softly, ‘why should we be afraid? They’re only doing this to intimidate us. Let us go to the police, Vappa.’
Nisha quickly answered this before anybody could, ‘Allah! No, magal, we shouldn’t even think of involving the police. That will only end in grief.’
‘What Umma says is correct, magal. The police only help people who have power and prestige. Going to them will just be asking for trouble. You are four beautiful girls who fill up our home. Tomorrow the police themselves may harm us and blame the men we complained about. In any case, we can’t lodge a complaint because we have no idea of their identity.’
He said this in a low voice, caressing Thawakkul’s head. She could say nothing against this as she too had heard all the horror stories of the atrocities committed by the police and the army.
She was focussed on finding a solution to this problem. Which court of law would she need to approach in order to provide security and justice for her family and herself?
‘When I’ve done nothing wrong, why do these people hound me like a common criminal?’ she thought to herself. ‘Whatever I do seems like a crime to them. How do I unblinker them so they can see the truth for themselves? Do they want me to lock myself indoors? What about the iniquities of those who violate the Islamic laws indoors? Who will expose th
em? Which law condemns and punishes without a shred of evidence? When in the history of man has that been considered permissible?’
Her mind turned to focus on her persecutors. ‘Even if I am culpable somehow, who gave these people the right to punish me? What sort of people are they?’ she wondered. ‘Are they honest? Do they truly believe in the Almighty and lead devout lives? Didn’t they realize that whatever they did, they could never shake her faith in Allah?’ Her questions rose up in tumultuous waves.
Wiping her eyes with the end of her sari surreptitiously, Thawakkul assured herself that she had the power to snap out of these doldrums and regain her self-confidence. She bent her mind to think along more productive and positive lines.
Nisha had already set the table for dinner. Gulfer and Jana were helping Umma. Thawakkul felt profoundly sorry for Vappa. He had emerged from the bathroom in a white dhoti and vest and sporting a grey stubble. He was shaking out his wet hair as he walked towards the table.
‘Come, let’s eat … call that child also, magal,’ he said, sitting down at the dining table. He had skipped lunch at work and was obviously very hungry. Without further ado, he served himself the fish curry and a few rotis and started to eat without waiting for anybody.
Thawakkul who was still mulling over the dilemma of who to approach for help in this predicament that she and her family found themselves in, suddenly had a brainwave. Anees Moulavi!
He was an important and highly-respected person in the village who spearheaded and supported welfare projects. Anees Moulavi was known for his fair-mindedness.
‘Vappa, I have an idea!’
Umma’s whole-wheat flour rotis was a prime favourite at the dinner table. Habeeb would smear his roti at times with a dab of olive oil which he considered very good for the heart. He had eaten half the roti with fish curry, the rest with olive oil.
‘Tell me, magal!’ he said with his mouth still full.
‘Vappa, what about Anees Moulavi? If we go and see him and tell him about our problem, won’t he find a way out?’
Ummath Page 23