The Divided Brotherhood
I got down from the bus, happy that the long journey had finally come to an end. The bus conductor handed me the change.
“Ratew Molvi saeb” (Take it, Molvi Sahab!).
Growing a handful of beard made you a molvi in this part of the world. What if people started following the sunnah, I wondered. Even before I could count the money, he had already vanished. It was 05:30 in the evening. My home was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop. The day had been quite tiring travelling from one darsgah to the other.
Presuming that I had missed my congregational asr prayers, I decided to head towards the masjid to offer them separately. A long, straight, deserted tarmac road in front of me seemed beyond my energy level. The scorching heat made the things more difficult. An old medium sized shop with a glass frame and modestly painted board which read NOOR BAKERY stood in front of me and reminded me of the times that my friend, Shoaib and I had spent there with Noor kaka, the shop owner and the wisest person in the neighborhood according to me.
Considering past few months, it would be no exaggeration calling this artless room our second home. We would spend hours discussing about religion, society, reading Qur’an and telling Noor kaka more about the righteous path of Islam. We would learn from him the virtues of wisdom, sincerity, patience and hope.
“Asi pazan saare ladai travne te yekwat roazun, Hazooraw(PBUH) ti farmoaw ye. Chhuna sahih?” (We should quit fighting with each other and be united, just as our Prophet (PBUH) has said. Right, no?), he often used to comment about the religious and social tiffs.
The story of Noor kaka was a paradigm in the neighborhood - his transition from a doomed drug addict to a pious person. The best thing about him was that he was always eager to learn. Being moderately literate, he would always take books from us and as soon as he finished reading them, discussions followed, those that were positive and fruitful.
I stopped in front of his shop, anticipating his absence during the prayer time. I saw the door closed. Through the glass I could see my book, Ar-raheeq Al-Makhtum, lying on the desk near the place where he usually sat. After a short pause, I resumed my walk quite energetically. Noor kaka’s zeal always fueled the fire inside my heart. I took out my phone and started playing Surah Al-An’aam which I had memorized few days before. Mishary al Afasy’s voice could make any one’s heart race and so did mine. Even though, I felt at peace. Eternal peace. Not so eternal though.
“Molvi saebaaa!” a loud familiar voice made me stop.
I turned around and saw Aaqib, my childhood friend, heading towards me. “How’re you, molvi saeb! Coming from darsgah no? Afoo quran bozaan! Yaara, oatre taan oasukh rikaadan seeth wothaan ti behvaan! Aaz wechh! (Oh, listening to Quran! Man, you used to spend all your time with music! Look at you now!)”, he winked.
Aaqib was my best mate before what can be called as my ‘transition’. Since then, we had moved away from each other due to obvious reasons and our interactions had reduced drastically. But Aaqib was an open record of my past; the past that gnawed at the edges of my consciousness, the past that I did not want to remember and the past that made “alhumdulillah” escape from my lips.
“Asalaam u alaykum” I managed a smile.
“Wa alaykum, brother. Oh, what Arabic accent!” he responded cynically. I remembered the times when we used to mock at each and every person of the locale and how much we were disliked for it. At that time, I could have never guessed how it felt to be on the other side.
After a couple of minutes of random talk, we were already nearing the masjid. As we were about to end the talk, we saw Aadil, Aaqib’s younger brother breaking out of the masjid door. He walked briskly towards us and I could see him clearing the tears off his eyes. Trouble.
“Umer bhaya, I’m not going there again. Never”, he shouted.
Even before I could manage to utter a single word, he stopped right in front of me. “I don’t want to go to the masjid again. I don’t want to pray. Never. They will drive me crazy”, clearing the tears, he whizzed away.
I could hear him shout “never” several times. The lines literally shook the ground beneath me. ‘They will drive me crazy’. The pieces of the puzzle were already beginning to unfold. I remembered how we had managed to get Aadil to the masjid, how we used to tell him about the beauties of jannah, the punishments of jahanum, the resurrection and everything else. Since then, he had never missed a single prayer. He would attend the religious classes that we had managed to start. But then, his ‘never’ seemed to overweigh everything else. Maybe he would ‘never’ return, I feared. I looked at Aaqib, apparently his face devoid of any humor, unable to comprehend and react. “I will check it out” was all he could say.
The next person to come out of the masjid was Noor kaka, his head held low with his long white beard brushing against his chest. He walked slowly towards me. He looked at my face, which seemed apparently chaotic due to fear and confusion, kept his hand on my shoulder and sighed, “Afsoos! (Alas)”.
I didn’t know what to say. I felt short of words, rather questions. I let him speak. “They caught him at his way of offering prayers. They told him that he was following the wrong sect and he would be dragged to hell”.
He, then, started to walk away. “Wait”, I said, “Didn’t you stop them?”
Quite surprisingly, he didn’t stop or turn back to answer. He heard me? I didn’t know what kept me waiting for his answer – an unexpected one. After a few steps, he stopped, turned back, smiled faintly and said, "To them, I am still a drug addict”.
The gravity of his words was too overpowering. Something forced me not to look in his eyes. With this he walked away. I should not have asked this, I thought. I walked towards the masjid fearing the worst. I could hear the shrieks coming from inside. I drew myself closer to the front window and peeped in. The sight was very perturbing. Nearly twenty men, most of whom I did not know, were present inside, standing in groups of fives or sixes, hurling abuses at each other. Where are these people when hayi-alal falaah is pronounced, I wondered? My heart was already bleeding. I didn’t want to make it worse. Home was a better place of worship right then. As I walked away from the masjid, I took out my phone and pressed the resume button. I could hear Mishary’s charismatic voice speak out the verse:
“Verily, those who divide their religion and break up into sects (religious), you (O Muhammad-PBUH) have no concern in them in the least. Their affair is only with Allah, Who then will tell them what they used to do.”
(All the characters in this story are fictitious)
Published by: Rising Kashmir
Date: 17th August 2018