There was a confluence of rivers

Of clear waters and their pristine banks

Rivers babbled

Streams spoke

Lakes whispered

Cascades were boisterous

As they crashed, laughing

On smooth rocks

Tides ebbed

Tides flowed

Under smouldering, bejewelled skies

Six years ago

The conch blew

The axe grinded

The skies were black

Locusts descended

Devouring all in their way

All was quiet

All was dead

Charred bodies, and severed heads

‘This land is now pure

This land is now cleansed

This land is reclaimed’

Rivers no longer babbled

Streams seldom spoke

Lakes barely whispered

No longer boisterous

Cascades cried

As they crashed on jagged rocks

But the conch blew

The axe grinded

And the sword tasted infant blood

You see, it was always clear that he lived a simple life from the very beginning. Despite the resistance from my uncles, and irrespective of the fact that he came from a jagirdar family with vast tracts of land in Nandurbar, Maharashtra, for many years he travelled on his trusted Raleigh cycle. This was at a time when my father and uncles began to look at foreign shores for their sustenance. The thing is that he did not look down upon possessing wealth, but nevertheless shunned it himself. In what was a telling conversation of him espousing a frugal lifestyle, he told he told my father that the jagir, a few thousand acres of land, was not for his personal use. I think that this means, he had little, or perhaps no interest, in keeping those land parcels in his possession.

But what Dada Hazrat did possess was a wealth of knowledge and generosity which would last a lifetime. For many years, he taught English and Social Studies to children from backward sections of society studying in government schools. He had this old ‘black board’ which could be rolled up. It used to hang from a wall in his room. On a small table was a cardboard box which stocked chalk in different colours. Before dusk, students trickled in. And when there was a full house, it was a beautiful riot! They would recite poems. They would read. They would write. They would chant lessons in unison.

I like to believe, and know for certain, that Dada Hazrat had little material wealth. And whatever he had — money from his pension (after working at the Accountant General’s Office) and knowledge — he gave away. He was always busy in this pursuit transfer of knowledge. All this, collectively, I believe is the hallmark of a true dervish.

But that is not all. Dada wore many hats. In a manner of speaking, he was an activist. And like all activists, he would would write to the powers that be. And to write to them, he knew he had to be thorough with the subject. So he read. He read in the morning and he read at night. He used to write letters to magazines, local legislators, ministers and even former Prime Ministers. An interesting incident, I am told, took place when I wasn’t even born. The year was 1960. It was time when Egyptian Premier and Arab Nationalist Gamal Abdel Nasser, (in)famous for a brutal crackdown on Hasan al Banna’s Muslim Brotherhood, in its former manifestation, was to arrive in India. Dada Hazrat was most displeased. Panditji, he said, should not have such a man in the country. Promptly, he wrote a letter to the Centre, urging it to withdraw the welcome. Days after the letter was communication was sent, a phalanx of policemen arrived at his doorstep in Asif Nagar. Was this bearded man with a prominent nose a threat to independent India’s national security? The family was worried. But, Dada Hazrat and Dadi Ammi were unperturbed. Dada Hazrat was smiling, and Dadi Ammi stood by him like a rock.

It was a marriage of 50 years. Both loved each other deeply. But their disagreements were interesting to watch. And in these disagreements, both were equals. But in hindsight, I think Dadi Ammi had the upper hand, always. Dada Hazrat used to address Dadi Ammi as ‘Pasha’, a Turkish word to describe a high-ranking person. But I think she was the boss of the house, the matriarch.

I have known and heard of men who have wanted to be buried near their mothers’ final resting place. But Dada Hazrat wanted to be buried beside his Pasha. On his right rests Dadi Ammi, and on his left is buried his father-in-law Janab Syed Zainul Abideen, Hyderabad Civil Services, the then collector of Hyderabad State’s Raichur District.

Dada Hazrat knew that roots of patriarchy run deep. He was a firm believer that men and women are equal. It is only deeds which make them better than the other. So, Dada Hazrat knew he had to take the bull by its horns. He knew he had to talk to us about it. After all, we were dozens of first cousins. These ‘fellows’ should not turn into ruffians. He also knew that a man’s ego, no matter how young or old this man is, is fragile.

I remember one such incident. My wife resigned from her former workplace a couple of few years ago. A couple of days later, Dada Hazrat got wind of it. He called her to his room and gently asked her, “Is it because of that ladka (yours truly) that you have quit? Call him here. I will talk to him. An educated woman should not sit at home!”

Dada Hazrat always wanted his tribe to grow. The fact that after nearly seven years of marriage my wife and I had no children caused him great concern. It was cold evening. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of days so I decided to pay him a visit. No sooner than I uttered ‘assalaamualaikum, Dada’, he held my hand in an iron grip and pulled me closer to him. The ensuing conversation caught me off guard, and at the same time had me guffawing.

“Mohammed Miyan! Did you get yourself tested?”
“Kaiku, Dada? Kya test?”
“Fertility test!”

I burst into laughter. He didn’t like it.

In his booming voice he said, and I quote him verbatim, “It is no laughing matter, my boy! Usually, it is the man who is infertile and the woman is blamed.”

These women empowerment-esque traits were clear from the very beginning. There could be no better way of demonstrating this but by pointing out all of my aunts are educated. In fact, some of them are more qualified than their respective spouses. Most of them are professionals.

Dada Hazrat was the first to tell me that love for one’s mother is paramount. He would always sing songs which encouraged a son or daughter to do whatever he or she could for the mother.

“Behisht maa ke qadam neeche
Hadeeson mey bhi paaya hai
Behisht maa ke qadam neeche”

This means, Paradise lies at the feet of one’s mother. It is a Prophetic tradition.

We knew Dada Hazrat disliked to talk about differences within the Muslim community. The Muslim community (and the world) isn’t a monolith. Every jamaat or jamiat or tanzeem has done some good work. Appreciate this, learn and move on. Confrontation is usually useless and destructive.

So, if one were to mischievously ask, “What do you think of Muawiyah?” he would say, “Yeh sawaal aapki qabar mey nahi poochha jayega.” Nevertheless, we knew his opinion well.

I will always remember him saying the Urdu equivalent of ‘just-stick-to-the-basics-and-the-rest-will-follow’. The imaarat can be strong only if the foundation is strong.

‘ا’ سے اللّٰہ کو پہچان
‘ب’ سے بڑھوں کا کہنا مان
‘ت’ سے توبہ کر انسان
‘ث’ سے ثابت رکھ ایمان

For those who cannot read Urdu, here is the transliteration:

Alif se Allah ko pehchan
Bey se badhon ka kehna maan
Tey se tauba kar insaan
Sey se saabit rakh imaan

And as my millennial cousins say, “Keep it simple, bro.” Of course, Dada Hazrat knew this well.

But Dada Hazrat wasn’t without his complexities. It was before Independence, he gravitated towards Maulana Maududi’s Jamaat-e-Islami. But in Independent India, he began to disagree with its ideology. In order to keep the flame of dawah alive, he joined the inward-looking Tableeghi Jamaat. In fact, he was one of the four or five people who first embarked on a jamaat from Hyderabad.

But despite this, Dada Hazrat choose to keep things short and simple. My cousins and uncle would take him for Jumma namaaz. As soon as the imam ended prayers, sitting in his wheelchair he would say: “Assalaamualaikum! Ek minute ki baat suniye.” He would then speak for a minute or less about the importance of prayer, azkaar, education, being professional and respecting women. Initially, (the few times I went to namaaz with him) I’d feel embarrassed. But some people used to come to him after dua and thank him for the naseehat. He would then take their hands in his and give them dua.

Day and night Dada Hazrat was the embodiment of the Islamic direction of غور و فکر, or contemplation. He would read like there was no tomorrow. He buried his head in the Qur’an, The Bible, Ramayana, tafaaseer or exegesis, books of history, magazines, newspapers and whatnot. He would write as well. He had an old typewriter and he played those keys like a pianist. He wrote articles for the Urdu newspaper Munsif and he wrote letters to English dailies.

And as a part of his غور و فکر exercise, he marvelled at Allah’s creation. Nothing fascinated him more than the stars. Of course, he knew like all others what stars actually are. But there was some romanticism here. He would sing about the stars, and what a lovely voice he had.

اللہ میاں کے تارے
بکھرے ہے آسماں پر
یا یہ چراغ لاکھوں
جلتے ہیں آسماں پر
اما مجھے یہ تار
لگتے بہت پیارے
جی چاہتا ہے میں بھی
بن جاؤں ایک تارا
ہو روشنی سے ماری
روشن جہاں سارا

Simple and folksy, here’s the transliteration:
Allah Miyan ke taare
Bikhre hain aasmaa par
Ya yeh charaagh laakhon
Jalte hai aasmaa par
Amma mujhe yeh taare
Lagte hai bohot pyaare
Ji chaahta hai main bhi
Ban jaaoon ek taara
Ho roshni se meri
Roshan jahaan saara

But age was catching up with him. And Dada tried to outrun it. His roshni was fading, but his spirit of contemplation, would not let him go down without a fight. He would lie flat on his bed with a table lamp close to his left shoulder. If he was losing his right eye some seven years ago, he would cover it with a black lens fixed in his glasses, keep books on his chest and read with his left eye.

But age eventually wins. Three years ago lost his eyesight. But that did not dampen his spirits. A lot of people would, I assume, curse their fate, or blame God after they lose their eyesight. I would probably try to kill myself. But Dada Hazrat was not a lot of people. I never heard him complain about anything. He just smiled. So, he saw us with his hands. For instance, he would touch my chin, glide his hands up to my cheeks, and judging by the length of my beard, he’d say, “Kaun? Mohammed Miya?” He would then take my hand and place it against his chest and smile. The Urdu word for what I felt is sukoon. There was some sort of serenity I felt when he did that. As if he absorbed my worries into his frail body. That serenity is something I will crave to feel till the day I die.

Again:

Allah Miyan ke taare
Bikhre hain aasmaa par
Ya yeh charaagh laakhon
Jalte hai aasmaa par
Amma mujhe yeh taare
Lagte hai bohot pyaare
Ji chaahta hai main bhi
Ban jaaoon ek taara
Ho roshni se meri
Roshan jahaan saara

As you can see, loftiness of thought and ambition. But more importantly, there’s that quest for spiritual luminescence. And that was what Dada Hazrat was for most of us. A brightly shining, guiding star. I will wait for the remainder of my life in the hope to clasp his hands in mine when we meet again in the hereafter, Inshallah.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajioon.

Yes, we do not have water when we fast. Please do not be shocked. An overwhelming majority of the Muslim community fasts in Ramzan. You'll find a few people who fast in other months as well.

Most Muslims go about their business without much difficulty when they're fasting. They're used to it. And that is because they probably started fasting in their early teens or maybe even in their pre-teens. Yes, it does take us a day or two to acclimatise, but it is no big deal.

You are very kind to us when you offer us food inadvertently not realising that we are fasting. But that is absolutely okay. Just because we are fasting, it does not mean that we expect you not to eat or drink when we are around. Please do not feel embarrassed.

At times, we may look tired. Our lips may seem dry. Our cheeks may seem sunken. Let me tell you this: we are grateful when you come to us and ask us if we are okay. We remember such kind gestures.

Now, let me also tell you that there is no such thing as a 'half-roza' or 'aadha roza'. We have no idea what on earth you're talking about when you ask us if we are 'aadha roza'.

You don't have to ask us everyday if we are fasting. Invariably, we are. A lot of women may not be fasting. That is because they may be on their periods.

Again, yes, some people do not fast. It is their choice. As mentioned in the scriptures: there is no compulsion in faith. Whatever one does or does not do is between the person and his God (if the person believes that God exists).

Yes, a lot of people rush to smoke as soon as they have broken the fast. That is what smokers do. They love their cigarettes. They love their beedis. It is like they say: a smoker smokes only on two occasions. When it rains and when it does not rain.

Having said that, please appreciate that the smoker has abstained from ruining his lungs. There are several people who have stopped smoking or have drastically reduced after they pledged to do so just before or during Ramzan. Some eventually have given it up (this is my second nicotine free year). Many of us struggle with our addictions. So have a heart. Please think twice before you mock them.

About prayers/namaz during office hours. Offering namaz five times a day is obligatory in Ramzan, or for that matter, in any other month. Yes, dear friends, your Muslim colleague may quietly disappear for a few minutes and later you may find him or her in a secluded corner, either in prostration or hands cupped, facing skyward. It's just prayer. Its likely that he or she is praying for the health of his or her mother or father, or maybe, even you.

We believe in Ramzan Allah opens the floodgates of his inexhaustible mercy and bounties. Maybe your colleague wants some of them for himself or herself. Please do not dismiss him or her as 'conservative'. Please do not be alarmed if he or she continues to do this even after Ramzan. Praying five times a day is not 'conservatism'. It is not 'religious orthodoxy'. It's just praying. That's all.

Then there may be this urge of slotting an acquaintance as a 'practising' or 'non-practising' Muslim. Please don't do that. A person who has recited the shahadah is a Muslim, no matter what. Again let's leave the judging to God.

Time and again you ask us whether we have had haleem for iftar or dinner. Yes, Ramzan has become synonymous with haleem. But that does not mean that all Muslims drown themselves in it only to emerge after the month is over. For a large majority, Ramzan is about spirituality. It is about prayer. It is about giving. It is about trying to be better people. So it gets a little boring to hear you ask us the same question.

PS: I write this with no malice. We love you all.

It was September. The days were neither hot, nor cold. Work in the office, was like any other day: tiring. And the faces were like one would see on any other day: greasy and uninterested — the same.

But, unlike every other day, I took the stairs to the third floor. I sat in my chair, switched the laptop on and spent about thirty minutes on social media. Pictures of friends appeared from below. Some had half empty beer bottles in one hand. Others were nursing their drinks. All of them were grinning for the camera. The pictures were just like those which appear on everyone else’s news feed.

The day trudged along and I waded through its each hour. Like every day, I needed to keep myself awake. But today was different. I could feel it. Today I took the stairs to the cafeteria, went to the coffee maker and pressed a button. The dark brown machine groaned, grumbled and belched before it vomited a steaming, black coffee into the plastic coated paper cup. Three swigs is what it took for the caffeine to kick in. But a few minutes later, the day continued to trudge along and I continued to wade through its each hour.

It was dark when I left the building. The roads were clear at this hour. The street lights were still yellow. They made the roads look jaundiced and robbed the few vehicles that passed under them of their colour.

I walked out of the paleness and into the street. The yellow light splashed itself on my face. I walked with slow, deliberate steps. My boots knocked the asphalt. To my left, I could see signboards on the pavement. There was one which invited passersby to hear a raven sing. Another allured you to sink your skin into another’s. A third gently nudged you to discover your consciousness of divinity within the human heart, and also without.

The invitations were gentle. Yet, I ignored them and continued to walk. With each step, my footsteps grew fainter till they no longer knocked or scraped or slapped. They were no longer begrudging. A car passed me by, but its engine made no sound. From the corner of my eyes, I saw a man across the road. He waved wildly at me.

I read his lips.

‘Taqwa’

It was as if the motes of dust suspended in the yellow light gently whirled and embraced and absorbed all sound.

It always stood before me as it stands tonight as well. A 12-feet high pointed, horseshoe arch served as its entrance which I had never entered. It had a paneled wooden door. And on each of its six storeys hung glowing red chandeliers. But tonight there was something different about Bashaarat Manzil. A road sloped into a cavernous opening underneath the building. I could see yellow lights flickering in the tunnel. I walked in.

Inside the moon shone bright. The air was cooler. And the sky was heavy. It was palpable.

I looked at my feet and the boots were gone. I bent my head down and looked at my feet. They were clean. I shifted my gaze till I looked at my own reflection in the polished marble floor. My beard was darker than I had remembered. And it was neatly trimmed. The clothes on my back were missing. Instead, I found myself wearing a spotless white shirt. Its mandarin collar was buttoned. I was transfixed. There was a strange calmness on its brow. The sides of its eyes had no creases. And its eyes shone. I moved hand my towards it but it was still. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to unite with it. I wanted to be it.

A sudden mellifluous hum filled the air. It broke the transfixion. I looked up. There were the faithful. Hundreds of them sat in blocks of scores. They sported dark beards and wore spotless white shirts and white socks. The mandarin collars were buttoned. Just like mine. But their faces were radiant with contentment.

There were short marble lattices on the floor. Within these lattices were laid out carpets one could sink one’s feet in and the faithful sat on them. They chanted in unison which became the hum.

Conscious that I was the only being standing I looked for a place to sit. A hand with a pill stretched itself towards me. I looked up and a gentle face smiled at me. I looked at the man’s hand again. On the palm was a silver pill the size of the upper half of my thumb. I quietly took it and placed it on my tongue. I picked up a container sitting on the marble floor and washed the pill down. The water was cool. It had a sweet smell.

Soon four minarets materialised before my eyes as did a masjid with a sprawling courtyard. There were no speakers but an ethereal ‘Allahu Akbar’ filled the air. The faithful stood up. They were wearing turbans now. They prostrated. But the qibla was in another direction.

You know, the frothy stuff in many hues and levels of viscosity and creaminess. Not to mention, shakiness. And they said it’s ‘original’. Apparently, they let you take the bottles home. For the sake of ‘experience’.

It was a large room with the air-conditioning set at such a temperature which makes you make a dash for the restroom every thirty minutes or so. Well all trickled in, sat at one of the dozen round tables.

Soon after, they switched on the LED screen which played an advert. It was about the milkshake. A woman with a chiseled nose and luscious lips appeared, a straw between them. Sipping from the bottle she was allowed to take home for the sake of experience. All this in loop. As if she were a character in Stephen King’s the Dark Tower series. Ms Parvati Deschain, the milkshake bottle-slinger, looking for the Man in Milky White. That would be a special kind of eternal damnation. Roland Deschain’s fate seems much better.

Then the announcement came. Two people walked on the stage with some bass heavy music blaring from the PA. It looked as if the man and the woman had had all the milkshake.

One of recently arrived people looked around. An array of small, but seemingly expensive TV sets were placed at regular intervals in the rectangular room. If you were a hundred feet tall, from the outside, it would have looked like a Nike shoe box.

Inside, there were large mirrors and windows . The people there were well dressed. There must have been over a dozen. Everything they wore looked expensive. An attractive woman who looked like a starlet of the South Indian film industry wore red. Her red streaked hair were held tight by a red scrunchie. Her shoes too were red. And her red bra strap peeped from her inside red top.

A man opened the glass door and walked in with the seriousness of a CEO. Only, he wasn’t. He wore black. As if he had just returned from a funeral. A middle-aged man with a thick whiskers and thicker thighs admired the sleeves of his tight shirt in one of the mirrors.

Unmindful of the seat of his trousers getting sandwiched between his buns, a man spoke relentlessly to his companion who walked on the same spot for hours. And like PG Wodehouse put it, his face. which seemed damp, shone like the seat of a bus driver’s trousers.

A woman refused to stop complaining about the how the air-conditioning was no good and that her fat was melting on account of the heat. A couple of others, who had small, square towels tucked in their pockets, sitting on seats as small as those of a bicycle, conscious of their surroundings, tried not to grunt.

The two servers walked in. They had trays on which were arranged glasses of the lemon and mint infused water. Those in the mood, stopped the duo with a nonchalant gesture of the hand, picked up a glass, placed it between the lips, took a swig and put it back on the tray. The movement had mechanical precision. It was perfected by months of practice and cold, innate talent. It was like Yngwie Malmsteen who sweep-picks his scalloped fret-board guitar without ever looking at his right hand. Conceited and effortless.

Somewhere on an ignored wall, a sign pleaded, “Please rack the weights.”

A battalion appeared on the horizon with no warning, defiling the lush, green toor dal fields. Each had a propeller with three blades fixed to the front of its cuboid face. They sliced the air with deliberate, slow, grinding force. And as they drew closer, the churning in my gut grew more violent. The feeling pushed itself upwards to my heart which pumped ever so furiously that my temples throbbed and I felt fear overcoming me. I belched.

The oncoming traffic — cars and trucks — was relentless. Their occupants were driving like maniacs. It was clear that they were pushing their vehicles to the limit to escape the unipods. But for us, turning around was not an option.

I was waiting for the unipods to issue that deafening, mechanical gurgling-growl from that cavity of a cuboid. But then, the driver of the car in which I was traveling showed no signs of fear. He had a smile plastered across his face. It was baffling.

He pushed the accelerator with the tip of his boot and the car’s tiny engine conjured all the power that it could and sped across the freshly laid highway. It was as if he wanted to ram the vehicle into the unipod expecting it to implode. He only glanced at them. One the right, there were as many as eight. And on the left, were nine. At least that is what the eye could discern. Who knew how many were hiding behind the horizon?

But the unipods continued to come closer. The idea was to outrun them while driving toward them. It was an unfair race.

I rolled down the window and belched again. A thick yellow viscous fluid went spraying into the air. It left streaks along the rear window and door. I looked up. It was right there. Its sole leg was larger than the bark of any tree I had seen. The girth gradually tapered at the top where on its cuboid face was written, not in an alien tongue but in English: Greenko. And before its blade could lop off my head, my vision began to blur and before I sunk into darkness, I could hear Noel Harrison singing:

‘Like a circle in a spiral

Like a wheel within a wheel

Never ending or beginning

On an ever spinning reel

As the images unwind

Like the circles that you find

In the windmills of your mind’

In the windmills of my mind… In the windmills of my fucking mind.

And when I woke, a sign read, ‘Welcome to Telangana’.