A Sisyphean Affair

IV

By the end of the first month, I gradually acclimatized to the new environment. Father spent more and more time outside the factory premises, accompanying imam sahib to meelaads[13]. He also started excessively using an Islamic perfume called ittar that caused me nasal allergy, after which Mama gave me a noseclip to wear when sitting on the motorcycle with Father. Frequently, imam sahib (wearing the same ittar) would come to our shop and Father would present something sweet to him, inculcating in me the importance of charity. I could not grasp how giving hulwa[14] to a sated man was charity while so many in our neighbourhood remained hungry.

At every prayer, I observed Yousuf professionally but somewhat brusquely telling all those who were eating to hurry up so the hall could be vacated. I saw him assume the same devotional air he had on my first day at the tuck shop. Even on public holidays, when the attendance was minimal, he carried out his rituals with unaffected zest.

“Aaj toh rush kaafi kum tha. Jootay naa bhi seedhay kertay toh jugguh kaafi thi, nahee?[15]” I once asked him.

“Saa’b ji, upnha ferz toh poora kerna hai naa. Rush hovay paanhvay na hovay[16].”

“Saheeh baat hai.” I agreed, in awe of his diligence.

Every time the prayers commenced, everyone either joined the congregation or left the lunchroom (for the time being, mosque). Only Yousuf and I remained. I would service any customers that came during the prayers; while Yousuf would devotedly make way for incoming worshippers. When no shoes needed straightening and no customers were there to be attended to, Yousuf and I sat in silence that was punctuated by the imam’s nasal utterances of ‘Allahu Ukber’[17]. Occasionally, Yousuf would wave to me and show his droopy hammock of a smile. However, for some reason, he never shook hands with me.

“Would you like some hulwa?” I said to Yousuf, before imam sahib finished the prayers and gobbled it up.

“No, no, saa’b ji! Thanks very much,” he murmured.

“Don’t be shy!”

“Heh. No, please, you ea—” his voice faltered, for want of force.

Just then a fleshy man with stubble — not a regular attendee — wearing seemingly slim fit chinos and suede shoes, scuttled towards the praying mats and started struggling with his shoes. Yousuf dashed towards him and tugged them off, unfurled the remaining of the prayer mat for him, untied and loosened the laces, and gently placed the shoes at the left corner.

“Why not just unroll all of it at once?” I asked.

“Unoccupied prayer mats, sir… It seems odd.”

“To whom?”

“Aehh… it just does,” he said. “Why not you too…?” he signalled towards the unrolled mat.

I could not grasp how giving hulwa to a sated man was charity while so many in our neighbourhood remained hungry.

“I’m not an adult yet. That’s why my father has brought me here: so I can keep the shop open when he’s praying or elsewhere, you know.”

“A pious man he is!” the same mysterious half-smile curled his lips as he nodded.

“Do you wish to become pious too?”

“Well, saa’b ji, Almighty has given us all different capacities.”

“To be pious?”

“To be… aehh… anything,” he said, forming a deferential smile.

I felt a certain empathy germinating between us: the only two constant occupants of that room who never joined the congregation but participated in the prayers in our peculiar ways. There was something that connected the two of us: I was the youngest, part of neither the office-bearers nor the staff. He was the only one whose ‘worship’ was to see to the worship of others. In our shared, open, and legitimised rebellion against the muezzin, I felt a sort of affinity with him.

The muezzin first called everyone to worship — hayya ‘alas-salāh — and then to success — hayya ‘alal-falāh. I wondered which of the two was it that perpetually lured this sizeable assembly of believers; and which, if either, was an incentive for that dusky uneducated oaf.

Father looked in quite a cheerful mood that day, vigorously combing his beard and humming some naat[18].

“Father, can I ask something?”

He frowned and glowered at me suspiciously. My lips got pursed.

“OK, ask,” he said, smiling.

“Why does the azan mention success after worship, both twice?”

“Because – Alhamdulillah[19] – success in both the worlds lies within worship.”

“But if something is within another, why mention both separately? It seems like a second motive.”

“I made a mistake by putting you into that school. I’ll take you to imam sahib for a lesson today!”

I pouted again.

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[13] Milad: a religious ceremony to commemorate Prophet Muhammad (PBUH)’s birth anniversary or to generally sing his praises.

[14] A traditional dessert, popular especially in the Punjab region of Pakistan and India.

[15] “It was quite uncrowded today; the space would have been ample, even if you had not rearranged the shoes, no?”

[16] “Master, one has to carry out one’s duty, whether it is crowded or not.”

[17] Allah is the Greatest.

[18] A paean in praise of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH).

[19] All praise be to Allah, used as a filler signifying one’s humility and/or the magnanimity of Allah.