Haroon Bijli

After the first few highly charged sessions, the Ijtema (conference) fell into a gentle routine. Sadiq met a few more of his old friends and fellow activists, and was engrossed in animated conversations and camaraderie with them. He introduced Ashfaq to them, but left him alone thereafter. For the first time in two weeks, ever since he met Sadiq and his group, Ashfaq found himself all alone. He wandered around the makeshift hall and decided to move out for a little bit of alone time.

The Kerala countryside was verdant and full of vegetation – Ashfaq had never seen so much greenery before. Trees everywhere – coconut, mango, jackfruit, guava and rows of rubber trees. He decided to take a little walk in a nearby rubber plantation – and assess the situation he was in.

He’d always been irritated with Tableeghi groups, with their insistence on prayer and their holier-than-thou attitude. But Sadiq’s group seemed different and that was one of the reasons he’d agreed to travel with them. Sadiq himself was an engineer and worked as a software consultant in Bangalore. All these boys seemed educated or the process of getting an education. He was impressed with their intellect, awareness of political and cultural issues, and most of all, the pleasant and polite way they spoke to him and to each other. In the two weeks he’d been with them, he’d learned more about international politics than in his 22 years before. But they did seem a little coercive with him whenever he spoke of visiting or returning home. He couldn’t figure if they were being polite, or just plainly didn’t want him to go home. He felt obligated towards them, and they seemed to be doing a good job of reminding this, strictly, yet very subtly.

Ashfaq checked his pockets. The money he had wouldn’t even get him a decent meal, leave alone a ticket to Mumbai. He felt a little trapped, but he found that his initial despondency was giving way to a feeling of inner peace and contentment. The conference they had brought him to changed a few impressions he had about his co-religionists. He’d never seen so many Muslims at one place before, and never heard them speak any language other than Urdu. Here, they talked in English, Urdu, Tamil and Malayalam. There were quite a few PhDs. A huge majority were either engineers or studying to become engineers. Very few of them wore the traditional Muslim gear he was accustomed to seeing in religious gatherings. T-Shirt and jeans, shirts and trousers, and white dhotis with shirts. For a reason he couldn’t yet fathom, he felt that he belonged among this crowd.

Even if he had the means to run for it, he knew he would have chosen to stay.

He could hear the azaan for the noon prayers was being said. He decided to skip the prayers and linger on for a while. After the prayer, there would be lunch, and at least an hour’s break. He was sure he wasn’t going to be missed that much. He sat down under a jackfruit tree and closed his eyes.

He thought about his recent past. About her. How much he loved her. How much hurt he’d caused her. How much she’d hate him now. He thought about his father. He wondered if he should have just let him rant, and then seek his forgiveness as he’d done so many times before. But no, not this time. This time around he was sure his father’s anger wasn’t justified. Anyway. You can’t change an old man. The shop. The hot, dusty shop. His brother managing the show. Poor guy, he’ll never do what he likes, never marry who he likes, never even lift an eyebrow without asking Abbajan. Well, every man has his shit. His sister. Well, he’d better not think about her or his mother. They would have been devastated, and God only knew what their mental state was now. It was a full month since he’d left home.

“Ashfaq! Hey!” It was Sadiq. Time to go. The sessions were about to begin.