Ashfaq had a small tea stall
outside the dargah. There were many such tea stalls around but there was
something special about Ashfaq’s tea that attracted the locals over and over
again. Balbir, the police sub-inspector, one day asked, “Ashfaq Mian what do
you add that makes your tea so special?” “There is nothing special about my
tea. It is the same what my father would make and sell and I just continue the
tradition. I remember my father telling me of a Bengali babu who had visited
the stall and had shown him how to mix two varieties of tea leaves. Since then
we have been buying two types of tea leaves and then of course we always serve
it in earthen pots. The masala we add is nothing unique. It is the same ginger
paste with some herbs we add to give our tea the flavor that possibly the people
love. My father would always tell me to make tea with love and care and never
worry about the everyday collections. If your tea is good, Allah will be kind.
And when kindness showers on you, you need to spread it to those who need it
more than you. So, every day, no matter how much I earn from selling my tea, I
make sure to buy a simple meal for at least ten people outside the dargah. My
Allah has always been kind to me and on some days I am able to give food to many
more people.”
Lately, the town had slowly been
converted into a fortress with police cordons everywhere and people being
frisked at regular intervals. Ashfaq would hardly spend money on newspaper or
keep a television set in his home or stall but the people who visited the tea shop
would talk in hushed voices and he understood the real cause for concern.
However, Ashfaq himself was not too bothered about things political and
religious for his customers were not from any particular community. Both mullah
and pandit were always welcome and he served both with the same love and
affection.
It was 9th of November
2019. Ashfaq was wondering why the regulars and first timers to his stall were all
missing that day. The city seemed to have come to a dead halt. He had, as usual,
made a tumbler full of tea and kept on the choolha
on low and simmering heat. After a while, Kazi Obaidullah came and Ashfaq
handed him a cup of tea. In a hushed voice, Kazi Sahab said, “ Ashfaq Mian, you
may need to move your stall away from here. We have lost the case in the
highest court and now this whole area belongs to Ram Lalla. We will go some
distance away and have a new masjid built there.”
Ashfaq was visibly irritated and
said, “ When the time came seventy years ago, my Abba was asked a similar question
to which he said no and stayed behind when most of his brethren had moved
westward to a new and promised land. Today, my answer to your proposal still remains
the same…NO! This is my land and I shall stay here till the very end.”
Wah ri zindagi,
Aaj tu kuchh naya hi sikha gayi;
Chai ki kal tak koi mazhab na
thi,
Aaj ek patti Hindu, toh dooji Musalmaan
ho gayi!
Ashfaq refused to go to a new
place to meet his Maker, however, chai
took my mind to the lush tea gardens of Assam.
The other day a friend in
Guwahati lost his Mummy and instead of sending him a WhatsApp condolence
message, picked up the phone to say a few kind words to console. My friend said
that there was no reason to feel sorry at the loss for she was old and
suffering. The mother, some years, ago had made a will, which was properly
registered, wherein she had asked her children that her body should be given to
the medical college where all the sound body parts could be given to patients
in need and her skeletal structure to the medical students. There should be no
rituals and a simple ceremony at a nearby Arya Samaj Mandir. I was completely
speechless and remembered another great son of India, Nani Palkiwala, who had a
similar vision for his afterlife.
When I die
Give my sight to the man who has
never seen a sunrise
Give my heart to one who has
known the agony of the heart
Give my blood to a youth pulled
away from the wreckage of a car so that he might be able to see his
grandchildren play
Let my kidneys drain the poison
from another’s body
Let my bones be used to make a
crippled child walk
Burn what is left of me and
scatter the ashes to the wind to let the flowers grow
If you must bury something, let
it be my faults and my prejudices against my fellowmen
Give my sins to the Devil
Give my soul to the God
If you wish to remember me, do
it with a kind deed or word to someone who needs you.
If you do all I’ve asked, I’ll
live forever.
They don’t make ‘em like Nani and Mummy anymore. God selfishly likes
to keep such good godly souls in his entourage and calls them away. While my
friend’s mother went away to meet her God, there were others like my friend
Debu for whom such meetings with the Maker are of a different kind.
Debu, my friend of old, had never been the religious kind and one
small incident happened when he was about seven years old. One Saturday morning,
at around 8am, he discovered a pair of tiny footprints near the kitchen where his
Ma was making breakfast. Who can it be? He just could not zoom in on anyone in
the house so asked Ma if anyone had come to their house since morning. She
looked blank and said no. He called her and showed her the faded footprints that
could be seen on the dark floor. Do not remember whether it was Debu or his Ma
who immediately concluded God must have come to their abode. They were blessed!
He quickly went to the puja enclosure and lit two incense sticks, put them on a
stand and went down on his knees before the footprints and did a quick arti. His sister came in from another
room and was pretty amused at what was happening between the mother and the
son. She caught hold of Debu’s hair from behind and said, “Stop this nonsense. The dhobi had come with his little daughter in
his arms and while taking the clothes he put the kid down. These are the foot
marks of the kid.” All his aastha and
devotion was lost in no time and he started laughing aloud at the foolishness
in search of his God.
Today things have changed. Debu is now in his fifties. Every morning
whenever he is at home, he does a thirty second routine of standing before an
image of Durga on the wall and some brass idols of Krishna, Ganesh, Saraswati,
Lakshmi and Shiva on a glass shelf. Next to this shelf is another smaller shelf
where a picture of his late parents is kept. Debu says his little prayers here.
Debu confessed to me that whenever he stands there and closes his eyes
to say the only prayer he knew, “My mind imagines as if Ma Durga is piercing
her spear into my heart. On some days she chops off a limb here and there and
in others my skull is flung afar with the kharga
(sword) or the Chakra. She uses one
of her many weapons in her possession every day. Each day she punishes me for
all the ills and wrongs I have done in the past. The blood that comes out is
the pain I have to suffer and she tries to cleanse me but then I repeat my
mistakes and so she never stops punishing me. It is here that I stand before
God who is all good and my frailties and shortcomings get exposed. My mask is
pulled off my face and I stand naked and exposed and I don’t mind this
punishment, actually my mind accepts this divinity before me. And while all
this is happening, my parents in the frame are also looking at their son in all
his weakness. Whether I place them at par with punishing divinity is something
I have not thought of but this is my daily penance. I die a new death every day.
In most cases it is Ma’s spear that digs deep into my heart and then twists it
as well…that is me and My God.”
That’s Debu who has found his benevolent God in a malevolent
state…angry and non-forgiving yet the man goes before image daily possibly in
search of his true self.
