MAULVI AND HIS BLACK MAGIC

There was a Dargaha cum mosque in my neighbourhood, a ghetto. The ghetto was most backward, a ghetto completely in ruins as if very recently plundered by Mugul army. People were so traumatized that all the time they were always haunted only for freebies. People were always drowned in the sea of gloom and miseries. For my neighbours, there was no happy declaration and people were always in a dark and cheerless world.

I was always scared of the east of distressing ghetto which had scrap godowns in which only theft items were stored, packed and distributed all over the ghetto. There was dirt all around the market and spread over the ghetto like polluted clouds. It was a small ghetto of grim-faced, sour, peevish and corrupt people who were always busy in mischief. 

In the centre of the old ghetto, in the aged zone of ruined buildings, occupied illegally, thanks to draconian Rent Control Act, occupants appeared like distraught hearts, surprisingly near my house there lived a happy young Maulvi, Saddam, who has more surprisingly,only one daughter, Ayesha, the only child of Maulvi, Saddam, whose beauty, intelligence and cheerfulness was the talk of that unhappy ghetto. Due to his religious backwardness and narrow outlook maulviji never send his daughter to school. Only in a local madarsa, the bright girl was forcibly sent to study.

Maulviji has the quality to concoct never-ending tall and twisting tales which earned him not only one but many nicknames. To his foolish chamchas, he was maulviji, the manifestation of their Allah on land. For some, he was the doctor of ideas for all types of problems, as loaded with typical ideas and treatments. But to wise, he was the khota maulvi.

I gathered information that for his wife, Shabnam, Maulvi Saddam, was for early years a loving and caring husband like any other Indian husband. During those good years their only daughter Ayesha grew up as a beautiful girl, she had her father's all the earning and clout at her disposal and her mother's full attention for a very special only child. In that ghetto like locality, all the women had plenty of children as if they were child manufacturing machine.  

I noticed suddenly something went wrong and the gloom of the ghetto finally engulfed that small but happy family. Saddam joined a group of clerics and these fanatic clerics mind washed Saddam into a trickster khota maulvi. Now khota Maulvi always busy telling stories and befooling distressed people. He did not notice the gloom of his wife and daughter. Moreover, poor Shabnam was treated as a sub-human because she mothered only one child. In that ghetto, women were children manufacturing machines. On average women had more than six-seven children. Some had even in dozens. Adultery was a very common phenomenon for producing more and more children.   

  I felt everything, went with Saddams as if the gloom of the ghetto entered in their hearts. Shabnam stopped singing and dancing in the middle of a rhyme as if someone performed some black magic. Ayesha realized this but never understood the seriousness of the hidden storm. 

  I guessed Saddam was always busy in his black magic and curing people by his corrupt tantric practices. In that, he completely failed to pay proper attention to his wife and daughter. Shabnam forgot dancing and Ayesha lost all her intellect. But Saddam was a very busy man and in high demand as he was like an MNC of ideas. Saddam was always in the company of high and mighty people but lost track with his small family. Shabnam and Ayesha remained jailed at home truing sad and pale.

 I noticed, Ayesha used to peep in her father's room. Sitting on a wooden bed and surrounded by ragged children, dirty men and women, squatted in soil and mud and once he started, all used to listen to him like dead and sad cadavers. Ayesha often thought that her father was a cheat because his treatment and pieces of advice were dizzy whirl and have no sense and meaning. 

 Where did all theses he learnt? It appeared that all Saddam had to open his lips and eyes, but would crop some new tale, new sorcery, love mystery, wicked aunt, ghost, bearded thug, haunted houses blah, blah blah, ‘Every idea comes from somewhere, Ayesha sounded, so these ideas can't come out of thin air…?'

 But whenever she asked her father this mysterious question, the Maulana of Tricks would twist his eyes, thumb his ugly belly and gesture his fingers in very ugly manner and create hideous sounds. But Ayesha hated these absurd acts.

 ‘From the great holy trick river the Jumjum' he retorted. I swallow the cold trick water of Jumjum and I sense new tricks.'

 Ayesha found this answer very irksome. ‘Where do you keep this cold water, then? She argued shrewdly. ‘In cold jars, I mean. But, ‘I have never seen any such jar.'

 ‘It comes out of a hidden valve fixed by one of the Water Spirits,' said the Maulvi with a dry and hard face. ‘You have to be a believer.'

 ‘And how do you become a narrator?'

 ‘Oh,' said the great khota Maulvi, ‘it is very complex to understand.'

 ‘Anyhow,' said Ayesha crankily, ‘I' has never seen Water Magical or Sprite either. Ayesha crossed.

 Irritated Saddam shouted ‘You never get up in time to go to madarsa,' so now, stop from this ifs and buts and be happy with the Quran, Maulvi teaches you in madarsa. And Saddam shouted down the little girl.

 The Saddams lived in a very poorly constructed concrete house. It was not a big house but also not like the abode of poor. The poor live in huts, jhuggis or plastic sheet shelters. And there were beggars, who had no homes and slept on pavements or verandas of shops and houses. They all pay hafta to local gang lords. So it means that the Saddams were lucky and prosperous. All the inhabitants stole electricity by using Katia on the electric pole.

 In that sick and sleeping ghetto, families mostly had big families; but the majority were sick and starved. They were more interested in riches' and governments' freebies than working properly. The residents of the ghetto were all lazy and work shy people who were always in ‘Q' for anything for free.  Ayesha had a perennial inferiority complex, why his parents' hadn't had more children like other families. But Saddams had no answer for this.

 ‘Your tears cannot understand this problem,' shouted Saddam at his daughter.

 Well, what was that mysterious problem?

 ‘We used up all our energy in producing you,' Saddam explained. ‘It's all very tough, enough for maybe to produce six-seven children. Your wet eyes cannot understand.

 Saddam never gave straight answers; he would never give short answers and was expert in confusing and be-fooling the question-raiser.

  ‘We tried,' he sorrowfully said. This child production is a very difficult and complicated work.'

 ‘Think of the poor Basus.'

 I woke up with a jolt. Saddam had rented out his upper floor to Basus. Basu was out of the job. So Saddam kept him as his assistant. Basu was very lean-thin and husky-voiced widower. His wife died, a few years back.  Basu has a son named Bhiku. As a result, Basu paid more attention to Shabnam than his own son Bhiku. He brought her sweets and other gifts, whenever he found her alone he touched her and hugged her.

 Basu always ignored Bhiku but always talking to Shabnam, which neither Bhiku nor Ayesha liked. Whenever he found Shabnam and Ayesha alone, he would launch into criticism of Saddam about his tricks and fool business at the dargah.

   ‘Your husband has time neither for you nor for his beautiful and intelligent daughter' he would start in his husky voice, ‘but enough to spend with his foolish followers.'

 What are all these treatments? Life is not a joke or story narration. He will be exposed one day. What is the use of such treatment that isn't proper? He is a fake jhola chap scholar.

 Whenever I looked around, I found, Bhiku and Ayesha listening to them silently outside the door. They started hating Saddam. Saddam, who fabricated stories and treatments, was now hated by his wife and daughter. Now he did not care one little bit.

 What's the use of such treatment and stories those are fake and lies? Ayesha couldn't throw the appalling question out of her mind. However, there were fools who thought Saddam's stories and treatment were used.

 I noticed that now Basu was friendly with Shabnam and Bhiku was with Ayesha. Now, whenever they got time and opportunity they were confined to their respective pairs.

During election days Saddam was in big demand. In the majestic shows of various political parties with secular tag, all rushed to Saddam, with folded hands, to beg him to tell his stories at their election rallies and nobody else's. His presence was enough to consolidate Muslim votes. It was well known that if you could get Saddam's magic speech on your side then your victory is almost ensured.

Those were the bad days for secular politicians. Nobody believed them, even though they tried their best to prove that they were telling the truth. (Actually, all knew in advance, they were lying). But everyone had complete faith in Saddam because he always declared that he knew nothing and everything he spoke was Allah's command. But such admissions made him more popular and swelled his popularity and appeal. Now people started calling him as Sufi Baba Saddam.

So the secular politicians needed Saddam very badly to help them to consolidate Muslim vote bank. Politician lined up outside his door in spotless white kurta-pyjamas and fake- crook smile but bags loaded with currency notes in cash. Saddam was free to pick any and choose.

One day I was returning home from the market. It was raining very heavily. On that day everything went wrong. All were returning home from their works when they were caught in the heavy downpour of the rainy season.

Now, when the rains came to the troubled ghetto, life became a little easier to bear or rather enjoy. All type of free help used to pour into these so-called poor people. Tents, food packets, water, blankets and clothes etc., were supplied very liberally. They used to wait for this water deluge. Roads, drains, nalas-nalis all were encroached by the people. An encroachment on the public property was their fundamental and secular rights. They were very happy in the sea of polluted-dirty water, people could have a break from their compelled work routine, and the area was also clean because the dirt thrown by people was washed away by the rain.

I know it very well that Basu, Bhiku, Shabnam, Ayesha all loved this rainy season. They loved the feeling of getting wet in the rain and enjoy the wonderful warm drenching.  When I arrived home, I thought they would also be completely soaked and their wet body will be exposing their curves. 

My wife Shweta was standing on our upstairs terrace, shuddering like a jelly; and as it was raining, I thought she might have got cold. I rushed, upstairs. I noticed she was crying. She told me to go to Saddam's house.

I went indoors to the house of Saddam and found Saddam the great storyteller and trick master was looking very sad and depressed because his eyes were swelling and blue and cheeks were soaking wet, even though he was indoors. He was behaving abnormally.

Shabnam and Ayesha had run off with Basu and Bhiku.

He told me that in the evening, he went to his house, asking her to search for his magical green handkerchief. When there was no response, for few minutes, he himself busy with the search (Ayesha was good at losing items), Saddam heard no answer from any corner.

My wife rushed there trembling and narrated that she heard the main door slam, and, a second latter, the sound of a car in the narrow lane. She saw that Shabnam and Ayesha went with Basu and Bhiku, and a car speeding away from the lane.

‘Bitch must have planned it all very carefully,' he cried. The clock stood at eight o' clock exactly. Saddam picked up a hammer and shattered the clock to pieces. Then he broke every other clock in the house, including the one on Shabnam's dressing table.

 Shabnam had left a big letter full of malicious things Basu used to say about Saddam and his business: ‘You are only involved in gratification through wrong means, but a good man must understand that life is a solemn business. Your brain is full of tricks, so there is no space in it for honesty and sombre facts. Basu cares and loves me very deeply. This is, I want.'

 There was an afterthought. ‘Listen, I love Ayesha so I cannot leave her with you, she will be happy with Bhiku.'

 Rainwater dripped onto the note from Saddam's curly-oily hair. ‘What to do, now, Sharma Ji,' Saddam cried pathetically. ‘Storytelling is the only work I know.'

 When I heard Saddam so pathetic, I lost my temper and angrily shouted: ‘What's the point of it? What are the use of stories, tricks, treatment and dargahs, those can't even help you?'

 Saddam concealed his face in his hands and wept inconsolably.

 I wanted to get those words back, to throw them out of his Saddam ears and thrust them back into his mouth; but of course, I could not do that.

And that was why he blamed himself when, soon afterwards and in the most uneasy situation conceivable, an Unthinkable Thing happened:

 Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., stood up in front of a massive crowd, failed to open his mouth, and found that he had forgotten all the stories, tricks, cures to tell.

 Silently, I grabbed him by his arm and silently took him to the dargah.

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

 But Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., lying by the side of Mazar, green handkerchief in one hand the Holy Quran in the other.

  Again, I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath, "Ten, nine, eight, seven…" There was no movement in his body. I noticed Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., lying by the side of Mazar, green handkerchief in one hand the Holy Quran in the other was dead.