Waheed was excited for the days to come. His butt kept itching to just get off the bench and run out in the open, the trees, the woods and take in the cool air, lie on the grass under the shade of the trees. It was not the first time Waheed was about to do that but it would not be any less fun either. All his worries would be over, at least for two months, as soon as he would finish the last answer that was left. His mind was not in the examination hall for a while now. He was more involved in dreaming of all the things he would do during the vacations that were to follow.
These are the times, he thought, when life is the hardest. Just when we humans are within striking distance of freedom or success, except for that little bit left to achieve it, we start losing all our patience and composure. Only if we were a bit faster so we could enjoy the fruits of it a few moments earlier. Greed, said his mind. He took a deep breath and saw the time. It was 10.43, only 17 minutes left to freedom. No, to finish the English paper he was writing and he would be free until his school started 2 months later. However, to actually enjoy that freedom and not regret anything later he had to give his best in the remaining minutes. His hands got ready to sprint through the paper, his mind fixed its grip over everything he knew about Ganesh Chaturthi and he was all set to finish the paper in style giving his last shot at impressing his examiner, whoever it would be, with the essay.
Waheed's father was a Sufi saint, and very liberal teacher of religion. He was against any rituals, which were outdated and obsolete or were done without any understanding behind them. When Waheed arrived at the doorstep of his house Abba was busy with his namaz yet he couldn't help smile when he heard a loud 'Maaaaa' at the door. He quietly thanked Allah for such a good son, who loved and gave without any expectations, who took care of their little daughter Noori with all his heart.
"How was yo..." before Maa could complete her question Waheed interrupted."Where's Noori?"
"She must be out playing but what about..." Waheed cut her midway again as he started running outside and shouting "okay bye Maa" behind him. Maa couldn't help but smile. Abba came to the Veranda and joined Maa.
"Kids!" he giggled, and Maa too smiled in agreement.
Noori was covered in dirt and was busy playing marbles with Waheed's friend, Zaheer. Zaheer was more than a friend to Waheed. They were practically like brothers. Waheed saw him and came running towards them. He pushed Zaheer to the ground excitedly.
"What are you doing Wadi?" a visibly shaken Zaheer asked.
"Bhai, my exams are over. Lets run to the Masjid. I'm going to defeat you this time in the race."
Seeing how excited Waheed was, Zaheer laughed as he got back up on his feet. He dusted the mud off his shorts Waheed had so successfully soiled. "You might be good at many things but your brother runs better, you'll lose!" he laughed.
Waheed had already begun to push him to the starting point of their race. He had won running races against Zaheer many times but a race to the Masjid was something he was yet to win. It remained like a final frontier for him. "We'll see," stated a confident Waheed. It was his customary response since all these years. They both laughed.
Noori as usual counted to three and gave them the call to run. She then joined her friends. The woods had many thorny trees and Noori wasn't allowed by Waheed to follow them to the woods at least till she completed 7 years of age which was still two years away.
As the race began, they ran with all their strength. Though Waheed took the initial lead, Zaheer was quick to glide pass him only to make Waheed wonder if Zaheer did that on purpose. Zaheer was already leading and they were not even half-way. Waheed stressed every muscle, his heart thumping, he was gasping for breath but was too excited to care. The aim was ultimate - to beat Zaheer Qureshi. Before it, nothing else mattered. Soon they entered the woods. It was always cool and shady there but extremely slippery. None of the kids who went there to play ever came back without hurting themselves somewhere or the other. Nonetheless, nothing kept them from entering that beautiful area.
Waheed and Zaheer always raced as if everything they had was on stake. They kept hurting themselves against the barks of the trees, the prickly thorns brushed and bruised them, the stones tore at their rubber chappals and sometimes hurt their feet too but none of it mattered. They were used to it. Later they would sit and count their bruises to see who had more and would have a laugh over it. They enjoyed telling the whole episode to the rest of their friends like it was an adventure they had been on.
As they raced on, the wall of trees they were making their way through ended and they could feel the heat of the afternoon sun again on their necks. The Masjid was now in sight and Zaheer still led on. Waheed had always wondered how Zaheer could be so fast in spite of his thin demeanour and being absolutely no competition for him in arm-fights. It seemed like Waheed's luck was dry this year too, and within moments Zaheer crashed in the sand outside the Masjid, out of breath but laughing aloud. He had won. Waheed slowed down since victory was out of question now, and came and flung himself onto the sand. Both looked at each other but couldn't speak because their lungs were out of air. They signalled each other to chill for some moments.
After sometime had passed, Waheed started pulling Zaheer's shirt. He wanted to go to the Masjid. Zaheer gripped his wrist and said, "What’s the hurry, Wadi? I just won. Let me relax now for a few moments." Waheed got up and started walking to the Masjid. He knew Bhai would follow him and not leave him alone. Afterall, Zaheer was the older one, even if it was just by a year, Zaheer considered Waheed as his responsibility when he was away from home.
They kept walking towards the Masjid hearing the beautiful hum of the people gathered there, singing the chants of God. The Mosque was the only big one in the three villages surrounding it and was very active. Naturally it was buzzing with poor people and beggars too. It was a routine for the beggars to come and tap on your arms, begging in the name of Allah, guaranteeing that Allah would bless them if they gave them some pennies. Zaheer and Waheed made their way through the beggars to get inside the mosque.
They strolled at their own pace, watching the exquisite ancient architecture. Waheed had seen it a countless times all these years but he never got tired of admiring the details of the beautiful construction. The gates of the Mosque reminded him of the ancient gates of the Turkish or Mongolian empires; huge and colorful with various impressions embossed on it in Arabic, which neither Waheed nor Zaheer understood.
As they entered, Zaheer said, "Wadi, lets give some daan (charity), I’ve got some money on me." Waheed signalled him with a 'not now'. Zaheer seemed confused. "We'll decide whom to give, we'll give the really needs ones what they need, wait on," Waheed explained.
They hung out there to participate in the evening namaz. They liked it. Waheed's Abba had always taught them to respect and love Allah instead of fearing. Waheed was very curious about culture and religion and often his talks with Abba ended with his father telling him Allah was the most supreme, the father and the mother of the whole universe. Allah isn't he or she, Allah doesn't fit into the classes and groups made by us. Allah just is. Waheed would never be sure what exactly his father meant. It was too much to grasp for his age. In spite of all the lessons Abba gave him, the lessons he learnt at the mosque or at his school, Waheed remained simple about some ideas and nobody could change them, not even Abba. For Waheed, his Abba was his Allah. Abba would just smile over it. Waheed was too stubborn but even more innocent.
As the evening Namaz got over and the crowd started to move outside the mosque. Waheed and Zaheer too were trying to make their way out when Waheed heard some commotion. He started to make way in the direction from where it came. As he walked, the noise became louder.
There was a fight. A healthy man, tall and strong, wearing a very expensive kurta was beating a poor beggar who had touched his kurta to ask for some money. What infuriated the man was that the beggar had dirtied his kurta. The beggar kept crying and the man kept beating him for 'misbehaving'.
Waheed, unable to see it, started crying too. Waheed, being Sufi sahab's son, was a popular child among the people. They recognized him and tried to console him to no avail. He was too hurt by what he had seen. He wasn't a weak human, he was just too innocent to believe that the world could be so bad, that too in a place where the same world came to worship Allah, of whom they asked mercy. Slowly, as he calmed down, he suddenly realised that Zaheer must have been be worried about him. He started running before any of the elders could enquire or even catch him.
As he ran, he saw Zaheer standing next to the big pole in the area around the Masjid with the flag of Islam sailing high in the winds - the place which they had agreed on years ago as the meeting place in case they ever got separated by the crowd. They had got lost a number of times too. Zaheer was so worried that he was almost about to cry, his eyes searching Waheed. Suddenly their eyes locked and Waheed hugged Zaheer and began to cry again. Zaheer was confused, Waheed wouldn't cry because he was lost. There had to be something wrong.
"Wadi, what happened to you? Why are you crying? Did Altaf tease you again?”
Altaf was an annoying kid from Waheed's former school, the one he went to before he had shifted to his present English medium school. The reason for changing his school too had been Altaf. Now the only place where Waheed had to face Altaf was this Masjid. He had never told his parents the reason he was so adamant to change his school but his parents had finally given in to his wishes.
Zaheer brought Waheed some water, and told the elders that they could leave now since he was his brother and he would handle him. It made Waheed more comfortable as he did not like crowds around him. Zaheer, however, couldnt get Waheed to speak about what was troubling him.
After a good half hour, the Imam of the mosque was passing by the same path just outside the Masjid to get some water filled in the big jars that he used. As he walked he looked at Waheed and quickly recognized him. He could see the kid was upset.
He asked, "Beta (son), you are Sufi Sahab's son, right? Why are you crying?"
Waheed finally decided to speak. "Imam sahab, Islam is a religion of peace then why do some of the followers fight?"
"Because they are not good humans like you son, they only take from religion what they want, that what is convenient for them to follow. Not what is required out of every human," explained the Imam.
"Then why doesn't Allah punish them? I thought Allah judges us from all our activities, if they are only following what is convenient to them then they are disobeying Allah, they are not Muslims."
"Son, there is nothing like Muslim or Christian or Jew, these are just words we have created."
Waheed got angry at the philosophical responses. "Then why didn't you punish them sir?" he retorted loudly, "you have the authority. Beating is a sin, Allah will never permit anyone to behave badly like that towards anybody."
The Imam realised that this child was different. He wasn't the one that flowed with the conventional flow, the one that could be pushed around. It wasn't that easy to convince him. He looked at Waheed and smiled.
"You are still small son. It's not that simple, unfortunately. We are all bound by our human limitations, you, me, everyone. I cannot punish the person who did that. He is a very rich and a powerful man. I am just an Imam here. He gives huge donations to our institutions without which such institutions cannot function on a regular basis, he has political connections. I am here for Allah, I believe in Allah. But we humans have created some classes and groups amongst ourselves. We have let some materialistic factors determine the level of a person in this world. Not always does a good person get what he deserves. Every system is run by people who break all the rules of the same system and unfortunately today religious institutions too are becoming the victims of this trap of power."
Waheed wasn't sure if he understood but he was frustrated enough to throw another question at the Imam. He asked, "But you are the Imam, sir. Why didn't you do anything? You have Allah with you!"
The Imam was at loss of words for some moments, he was confused. What could he say to this kid, this very good kid. He had already given some explanation and couldn't think of a way to simplify it further. He feared that the kid might lose faith in Allah because of what he witnessed that day. He had to tell him something to restore his faith, but he was too small. No, maybe this wasn't about the kid in the first place. The kid was small, he had already done more than what was expected out of him. He saw, he cried, he understood it was wrong, he questioned the one who was supposed to act.
Suddenly the Imam felt guilty, he thought maybe it was about him rather than the kid. It was about how he would act, how he should've acted. And if that was not possible due to his limitations, had he even done what he could? He read the prayers, he watched the weak get beaten badly, he watched him cry and swivel in pain, watched him spit blood but he was scared to act, scared to lose the favor of the powerful. No, he wasn't scared he was weak. This new chain of thoughts started to eat the Imam from within. Shame and guilt overcame him.
He gathered his composure, took a deep breath, patted Waheed in the back, and said, "You're a good kid. May Allah bless you and give you the strength to act. I will pray for you."
He then started to walk back to the area surrounding the Masjid. Hearing the Imam's blessings, a slight smile broke onto Waheed's face. He had always wanted to be strong and act for the weak.
Now it was the Imam's turn to feel what Waheed was feeling all that while. By now, the Masjid was empty except for some five-six adults standing and talking and some kids playing. He went where he knew the beaten beggar usually lived, but couldn't find him there. Seeing this the Imam's heart flooded with even more pain. He felt pathetic. He had to find the beggar, the poor frail man who was beaten badly just because he had mistakenly stained the kurta of a rich, well-educated, politically powerful man. Not because it was his choice to remain dirty or that he loved spoiling the clean clothes others wore, but just because he was poor. He was weak.
The Imam started to walk faster towards the back of the masjid where some drums filled with water were kept for drinking and other purposes. He saw that man there lying down, with a mere piece of cloth, dirty and torn, barely enough to cover his bottoms. He was sweating and had a swollen face. He lacked energy to get up, and was struggling to breathe.
The Imam took the beggar in his arms, picked him up, walked him to the drums where water was, and splashed water on his face, he then picked up one of the many glasses kept there to drink water, and began to pour water in his mouth which the beggar gulped down gratefully. He was very thirsty.
After gulping down a couple of glasses the beggar was able open his eyes. "May Allah bless you," he said to the Imam.
The Imam sat next to him, expecting him to say something, but instead the beggar started crying. The Imam was already feeling bad about this whole inaction decision of his. He finally lost his patience. He couldn't wait anymore for him to stop crying.
"How are you feeling? I am here to help you. Please tell me how're you feeling?" asked the worried Imam.
The beggar, who already had got more love than he ever had from any person he personally didn't know, was scared to ask for any more help from the Imam.
"I am fine," replied the beggar. "Thank you for helping me sir" - the beggar got up slowly, his bruised body was weak to support him. Nevertheless, he managed to stand up - "I will go now," and he started walking.
The Imam got up and watched him limp away, he couldn't forget the sight of the beggar's bruised face with blood all over his teeth and neither could he forget his interaction with the innocent kid of Allah.
The Imam was a very kind man but he still had not known how to answer the kid's questions. He kept wondering about it and his chain of thoughts kept adding to his guilt. He was the Imam, how could his answer just be 'after all I'm just a human too.' That wasn't what God would command him. It was like running away from his responsibility. But maybe after all he was just a human. There was no other explanation for the weakness of a good, kind, god-loving person like him. There might be so many he could've helped but couldn't or didn't help because he was just a human, as he thought. Political connections, power of money strengthens nobody. All it does is only weakening all humans and then even your love for God doesn't come for your rescue. You remain weak, weak to stand up for what you believe in. No, he wasn't weak, he thought. He was just helpless, as helpless as the beggar was.
Before he did anything, he always had to remember that he wasn't alone. He had a brother back home who was lame due to an accident. His brother's three kids and his own mother were his responsibility, or his weakness maybe. He could not forget how he was thrown out of the Masjid in Turkey because he had opposed privileges to a specific group of people and clergymen in the place where everyone came as equals, just as equal children of Allah. How could he explain all this to that innocent kid.
For the first time, it mattered to him what a kid thought about him. He desperately wanted to tell the kid that he wasn't a bad person, he was just helpless. Waheed was too small to understand all this. Perhaps this was too complicated to fit into his extreme duals of good deeds and bad deeds, holy and sinful. He was just a human, with needs, responsibilities, fears, weaknesses. He wasn't alone. He had to take care of others who had nobody but him. He was helpless.
He realised he had been blinded all this while. If only the world was as good as Waheed, the message of peace wouldn't have been so weak and dependent. For the first time since he had become the Imam, he didn't pray after such a day - for the sinners, for the weak, for the victims, for anyone. He just cried.
~ THE END ~
