“Who else? Of course it’s Majnun!”
With his collar ripped open, his hair tangled, a begging bowl in one hand, a brick in the other hand, chains on his feet that clinked as he walked — Majnun. He paused and stood stilclass="underline"
“They say it was Laila’s custom
To give alms to any beggar who came.
One day Majnun too went with a begging-bowl
And called out, ‘In God’s name, give me something.’
Laila came and gave them all something,
From Majnun’s hands she took his begging-bowl.”
As he finished singing, he took the brick and struck his forehead so hard that it was drenched with blood, and he fell to the ground with a thud and lay motionless.
“Zakir, is Majnun dead?” She was trembling violently.
“No, he’s not dead.”
“No, he’s dead.” She burst into tears.
“You silly girl, he’s just pretending.”
“No, Majnun’s dead.” She went on crying.
Majnun suddenly stood up. She was amazed. Taking up his begging-bowl, in which the bystanders had put some small coins, he walked away.
“Sabbo! Have you ever seen ‘Laila-Majnun’?”
“No, what’s it like?”
“Master Rupi plays Majnun and Ilahi Jan plays Laila.”
“Then what happens?”
“Then Master Rupi falls in love with Ilahi Jan.”
Looking at each other, they suddenly felt embarrassed. Sabirah at once frowned: “Go away, you shameless creature, or I’ll tell Bi Amma this minute!”
“What did I say wrong?” He was anxious.
But how could she have told such a thing to Bi Amma? She simply grew annoyed, and began to hold herself aloof from him. He himself felt awkward. He hesitated to meet her eyes.
“Kau bas, kau bas.” All of a sudden he pricked up his ears; voices coming from anywhere, near or far, used to have a strange effect on him. Whether he understood them or not, he was drawn to them. “Kau bas”—he had never understood what kind of words these were. He only knew that when Vasanti’s father, Lala Chunni Mal, stood on the roof and gave this call, crows came from all over and fluttered around his head. He ran like an arrow to the roof. Behind him was Sabirah.
Over on Vasanti’s roof two huge leaf-plates had been spread out. In them was rice that had been cooked in milk. The crows were making short work of the rice. Sometimes a kite came coasting down and pounced on a leaf-plate. Lala Chunni Mal was standing there calling out, “Kau bas, kau bas.” And a cloud of crows and kites had gathered around his head.
“Do you know what it is?” Seeing Sabirah’s amazement, he decided to enlighten her. “Ramchandar-ji’s leaf-plates are being cleaned.”
“Ramchandar-ji’s leaf-plates?” She was even more astonished.
“Of course, what else? When Ramchandar-ji had finished his dinner, then the King of the Crows used to come and eat the remaining food and clean the leaf-plates.”
“Oh go on, you liar!”
“I swear in God’s name!”
“Shall I ask Bi Amma?” And she at once went and told on Zakir to Bi Amma.
“Son!” Bi Amma glared at him. “Why were you born in our house? You should’ve been born in some Hindu’s house! Your father is always invoking the names of God and the Prophet — he doesn’t realize that his son has taken to Hindu stories!”
But Bi Amma no longer had her former energy. She supervised everybody just as before, she scolded everybody, but her voice was no longer so lively. She had withered like a raisin; it was as if she was slowly collapsing inwards. “Enough; before I turn into an invalid I pray that God will call me away.”
“Ai, Bi Amma, what are you saying! You’ll live to see your grandson’s wedding day.”
“Ai Auntie Sharifan! I’m so dried up and thin that my stomach is sticking to my back. What do you think — that I’ll live to carry God’s bags for him on Doomsday?”
Bi Amma had undoubtedly lived a long time. She always told how in her childhood only one torch, in the Small Bazaar, was lighted at night. Everywhere else, in the streets, in the lanes, was darkness. Before her very eyes the torch vanished, and lanterns appeared in the streets and lanes; and now in their places poles were standing, and here and there on the streets electric light could be seen.
Electricity had now begun to be installed in the mosque as well, but Abba Jan had thrown a spanner into the works. “This is ‘innovation.’” And equipping himself with a cudgel, he stood on guard in the doorway of the mosque. The electricians came, received a reprimand, and went away. Hakim Bande Ali and Musayyab Husain tried very hard to convince him, but he gave only one answer: “This is ‘innovation.’”
On the third day of his guard-duty, Bi Amma fell ill; her breathing became fast and shallow. Abba Jan, giving up the guard-duty, hurried home; but Bi Amma did not wait for his arrival.
The next day when Abba Jan went to the mosque for the dawn prayer, he saw that the electricity had already been installed. When he saw this he came right back, and for the first time in his life offered the dawn prayer at home. From then on he never entered the mosque, and never offered his prayers except at home. Though for many days he did go, morning and evening, to Bi Amma’s grave, and recited verses from the Quran there.
How hard Abba Jan tried to halt the spreading “innovations” in Rupnagar! During Muharram, when big drums began to sound, he seized them and ripped out the drumheads. “Playing drums is forbidden by the Shariat. I won’t permit them to be played in any majlis or procession!”
“But in Lucknow, they play drums in every procession!”
“Let them play. The Lucknow people have no power to change the Shariat!”
That year drums were in fact not played in any majlis or procession, but by the next year, Abba Jan’s power had been broken. Every procession was accompanied by drums except the one that left from the Khirkivala Imambarah, for that was Abba Jan’s family imambarah and he had power over it. And also because that procession, which was in honor of Hazrat Hur, was recognized as the quietest of Rupnagar’s Muharram processions. No small drums, no big drums, no singing of elegies — for Abba Jan declared elegy-singing too to be contrary to religious law. Abba Jan had taken a firm stand against elegy-singing, but the results were the same as in the case of his other firm stands.
Abba Jan’s grip on Rupnagar was loosening. Bi Amma had been called home by God, and electricity had come to the town. Abba Jan couldn’t prevent electricity from being installed in the mosque, just as he couldn’t prevent drums from finding a place in the Muharram processions. His firm stand against electricity was the last of his firm stands against the “innovations” of the time. After that, he retired to his room. He offered his prayers in his house, he passed the ten days of Muharram in his house. Then one day, sitting on his prayer-carpet, he inquired through istikharah,* and found favorable prospects for a journey. The indications were there; preparations for the journey began to be made.
“Ammi Jan, are we going?” Since Bi Amma’s passing, he now asked Ammi everything.
“Yes, son,” Ammi said sadly. She fell silent, then began to murmur to herself, “What’s left for us here any longer? The lands have already passed out of our hands. We still have a broken-down old house, but can we eat it when we’re hungry?”
“Ammi! Are we going to Vyaspur?”
“Yes, son, we’re going to Vyaspur. Your uncles and everyone, they’re all in Vyaspur. Bi Amma refused to budge, otherwise we’d already have left.”
“Ammi, is Vyaspur very far?”
“Yes, it’s far enough. From here we’ll go to Bulandshahr in a lorry. From there we’ll get on a train.”