It had to be Bee-Jaan.
No one else had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo. It had to be Chotoo, too. No one else had the big eyes and dreamy imagination to hear it and more marvelously, even believe it. The rest of them had grown up, regrettably.
It had to be every third night of that winter season.
An every-third-night-ritual of the same story.
“Bee-Jaan, tell me the story about Bilal again!”
“I am going to sleep, now, Chotoo…”
“Just once, just the part when he didn’t give the Aza’an!”
And the story was told and re-told, sometimes even thrice on the same night.
The dark-skinned friend of Prophet was restricted from giving the morning call for prayer by other fellow-faithfuls, and the morning refused to come.
“It just didn’t come, Bee-Jaan? There was just darkness?” Chotoo asked, for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, just darkness.” Bee-Jaan answered as a conditioned response.
“And if he hadn’t given the Aza’an, there would be darkness even today?”
“I don’t know about that, Chotoo. Now go to sleep.”
“Okay, just tell me, there would be darkness even today if he hadn’t given the Aza’an?”
No one else had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo. It had to be Chotoo, too. No one else had the big eyes and dreamy imagination to hear it and more marvelously, even believe it. The rest of them had grown up, regrettably.
It had to be every third night of that winter season.
An every-third-night-ritual of the same story.
“Bee-Jaan, tell me the story about Bilal again!”
“I am going to sleep, now, Chotoo…”
“Just once, just the part when he didn’t give the Aza’an!”
And the story was told and re-told, sometimes even thrice on the same night.
The dark-skinned friend of Prophet was restricted from giving the morning call for prayer by other fellow-faithfuls, and the morning refused to come.
“It just didn’t come, Bee-Jaan? There was just darkness?” Chotoo asked, for the umpteenth time.
“Yes, just darkness.” Bee-Jaan answered as a conditioned response.
“And if he hadn’t given the Aza’an, there would be darkness even today?”
“I don’t know about that, Chotoo. Now go to sleep.”
“Okay, just tell me, there would be darkness even today if he hadn’t given the Aza’an?”
Voices are unfaithful in small quarters and Qaari Yaqoob’s sleep was disturbed by his son’s incessant questions.
“I’ll break your legs if I hear another word from you,” boomed the father’s voice. “Go to sleep!”
“I’ll break your legs if I hear another word from you,” boomed the father’s voice. “Go to sleep!”
May be there would be darkness even today, Chotoo told himself, if Bilal hadn’t given the Aza’an.
Chotoo was the last born of Qaari Yaqoob’s four children. Other than that, he was the little dog, little servant, little brunt-bearer, little errand-runner, little nuisance, little useless-mouth-to-feed, little everything else that human language can succumb to.
Human language, only.
Human actions have a larger scale to drown into.
In a little quarter by the mosque, four children lived with the fifty-five-year old Qaari Yaqoob and his mother, Bee-Jaan. Qaari Yaqoob’s wife was never there, but Chotoo was not sure whether she was dead or had gone to live somewhere else.
No one had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo.
For this, even Bee-Jaan did not seem to have the time.
Chotoo had his imagination – a bright blue world, where there were answers for everything. His was a magical world of heavens where white-robbed, saintly men and women reside, who knocked at God’s door when they did not hear Bilal’s Aza’an-call one morning; a dark-smiling man who clambered onto the pulpit to give a victorious Aza’an. That world buzzed in Chotoo’s little mind, little large mind, all night… until the sleep world of other colors would take over.
And then, there would be the morning.
Chotoo believed it was his father’s call to prayer that brought the morning, neo-Bilal’s voice. There were other prayer-callers but Chotoo knew it was his father whose voice did the trick. Qaari Yaqoob did not communicate much with his children but it was the morning call for prayer when Chotoo’s bright blue world was full of his father, saintly, heavenly folks rejoicing and white-winged angels bringing out the bluer skies.
But daylight is different in a world yet unknown to Chotoo…
A new Nazim had won local-body elections and he was a man of action. New roads were to be constructed, electricity had to be restored to some centers, water-supply had to be gauged, and sewerage had to be fixed. Since most of his votes had come from the religious faction, something had to be done about a religious center too, the mosque.
Chotoo was the last born of Qaari Yaqoob’s four children. Other than that, he was the little dog, little servant, little brunt-bearer, little errand-runner, little nuisance, little useless-mouth-to-feed, little everything else that human language can succumb to.
Human language, only.
Human actions have a larger scale to drown into.
In a little quarter by the mosque, four children lived with the fifty-five-year old Qaari Yaqoob and his mother, Bee-Jaan. Qaari Yaqoob’s wife was never there, but Chotoo was not sure whether she was dead or had gone to live somewhere else.
No one had the time, patience or discerning memory to narrate such tales to Chotoo.
For this, even Bee-Jaan did not seem to have the time.
Chotoo had his imagination – a bright blue world, where there were answers for everything. His was a magical world of heavens where white-robbed, saintly men and women reside, who knocked at God’s door when they did not hear Bilal’s Aza’an-call one morning; a dark-smiling man who clambered onto the pulpit to give a victorious Aza’an. That world buzzed in Chotoo’s little mind, little large mind, all night… until the sleep world of other colors would take over.
And then, there would be the morning.
Chotoo believed it was his father’s call to prayer that brought the morning, neo-Bilal’s voice. There were other prayer-callers but Chotoo knew it was his father whose voice did the trick. Qaari Yaqoob did not communicate much with his children but it was the morning call for prayer when Chotoo’s bright blue world was full of his father, saintly, heavenly folks rejoicing and white-winged angels bringing out the bluer skies.
But daylight is different in a world yet unknown to Chotoo…
A new Nazim had won local-body elections and he was a man of action. New roads were to be constructed, electricity had to be restored to some centers, water-supply had to be gauged, and sewerage had to be fixed. Since most of his votes had come from the religious faction, something had to be done about a religious center too, the mosque.
There were recommendations for new fans and new carpets but the Nazim was had other plans with such funds. Something else had to be thought of where the mosque was concerned.
“Do away with that old man, first,” the Nazim said irritably to his subordinates. “He squeaks like a dying hen in the morning. Destroys my sleep, get someone new, try one of the Afghanis, they have a good pronunciation and don’t scream as if they’re breathing their last.”
One of the buttering subordinates imitated the morning prayer of the old Qaari Yaqoob and there was a roaring laughter, amid half-hearted pleas for forgiveness.
Beyond that, human language fails.
---
“This is my mosque!” Qaari Yaqoob defended himself against the President of the mosque’s affairs. “I was amongst the builders! I laid the bricks of this mosque and I am strong enough to build it again! You want me to leave it? Shah Sahib, do you even know what you are saying? Where will I go? My children are still in the madrassah and my-”
But he lost the fort.
No one told Chotoo about the events directly but somehow, the news got to him. His father would no longer be the caller for prayer. There was a young, fair-skinned Afghani who was going to move into their quarters soon and would be the five-timer meter for the mosque. Qaari Yaqoob’s family was given a week to pack up and leave, no questions asked. Thank you very much for your thirty-year-long service.
It was the third night of winter but Bee-Jaan had no intention to perform the ritual.
Chotoo did not ask for it either.
This was their last night in that quarter and the morning-prayer was to be given by the Afghani. This was Chotoo’s war with the world, not Qaari Yaqoob’s, not the Nazim’s, not the imitators. It was Chotoo’s bright blue world against the dark world.
Minutes of darkness ticked on as Chotoo heard the unfamiliar voice booming from the loud-speakers. He heard Qaari Yaqoob mumble something and sluggishly get up from the bed.
The morning-prayer was over.
It was all up to those white-robbed men and women in the heavens and the white-winged angels. They were Chotoo’s soldiers, guardians of his bright blue world. The first pink ray entered the quarter and Chotoo felt the first tear drop down his eyes. It was not over yet, Chotoo went deeper into his imagination. Doors of heaven opened and he ran frantically inside and when he could not find any of his soldiers there, he banged at the Lord’s door himself. He kept banging and banging...
There was silence.
May be there is darkness even today, Chotoo told himself, because his father hadn’t given the Aza’an.
This was Chotoo’s victory against the dark world.
Or, if you have the sick humor for it, Chotoo’s delusion?
Beyond that, human language fails.
---
“This is my mosque!” Qaari Yaqoob defended himself against the President of the mosque’s affairs. “I was amongst the builders! I laid the bricks of this mosque and I am strong enough to build it again! You want me to leave it? Shah Sahib, do you even know what you are saying? Where will I go? My children are still in the madrassah and my-”
But he lost the fort.
No one told Chotoo about the events directly but somehow, the news got to him. His father would no longer be the caller for prayer. There was a young, fair-skinned Afghani who was going to move into their quarters soon and would be the five-timer meter for the mosque. Qaari Yaqoob’s family was given a week to pack up and leave, no questions asked. Thank you very much for your thirty-year-long service.
It was the third night of winter but Bee-Jaan had no intention to perform the ritual.
Chotoo did not ask for it either.
This was their last night in that quarter and the morning-prayer was to be given by the Afghani. This was Chotoo’s war with the world, not Qaari Yaqoob’s, not the Nazim’s, not the imitators. It was Chotoo’s bright blue world against the dark world.
Minutes of darkness ticked on as Chotoo heard the unfamiliar voice booming from the loud-speakers. He heard Qaari Yaqoob mumble something and sluggishly get up from the bed.
The morning-prayer was over.
It was all up to those white-robbed men and women in the heavens and the white-winged angels. They were Chotoo’s soldiers, guardians of his bright blue world. The first pink ray entered the quarter and Chotoo felt the first tear drop down his eyes. It was not over yet, Chotoo went deeper into his imagination. Doors of heaven opened and he ran frantically inside and when he could not find any of his soldiers there, he banged at the Lord’s door himself. He kept banging and banging...
There was silence.
May be there is darkness even today, Chotoo told himself, because his father hadn’t given the Aza’an.
This was Chotoo’s victory against the dark world.
Or, if you have the sick humor for it, Chotoo’s delusion?
2 comments:
Evoking a lot of pathos and very, very touching.
Bright blue worlds, indeed. We're all living in our versions of reality and winter-nights.
God be with Chotoo. He's got one crazy dad.
back to stories, thats a relief ...:D
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