Nanghe Uncle

Saki Naka is easily one the most congested places in Mumbai (read earth). If you have never been exposed to the noise, human / animal / vehicular traffic and pollution of this place, get ready to easily go into rapid shock or hyperventilation, even. And don’t bother calling 911 here, the ambulance will arrive after you are washed, attired and put down. Six feet.

In the bewildering chaos of this place, right outside of the newly commissioned, ultra modern Mumbai Metro service station, a Holiday Inn stands contemporary and mighty, offering cool and quiet sanctuary to those who can afford the hotel’s upper lip price. Since I have nothing better to do to recover from nasty jetlag than watch silly Bollywood movies or listen to repeated BBC / CNN lies, I decide to venture out of my room refuge and go for a brisk walk; get to feel the neighborhood perhaps.  The best people in any city with their ears to the ground, in my opinion, are taxi drivers or people who live in the area. I do not mean the rich, pompous ones, mind you. These observe their own business and will not look past the tip of their noses. Uniformed chauffeurs drive them around air-conditioned cars, unmindful of the heat, grime, flies, traffic, smell or noise outside. I mean the poor(er) ones, who live in shanty homes, without air conditioners or permanent running water, where the stinking nulla runs right outside their homes, where more than three hours of running water a day is a considered a miracle (or BMC incompetence) and not having flies bothering them is a tall blessing indeed. So I wear my comfortable running gear and am off.

The stifling heat and mugginess feels like a brick wall as soon as I pass through the swishing glass doors of the hotel, and almost turn back to return to the icy air inside. Turning right past the hotel, an uneven brick lane narrows towards a shantytown that fringes the swanky new Chakrapatty Shivaji International Airport. This lane continues almost towards the boundary wall where one end of the runway begins. I can see the fuselages of various aircrafts lined up for takeoff, from puny ones to a giant, towering Airbus 380.

Sticky and bothered by the pollution, both from the noise and the air I am breathing, I decide to return to the hotel and continue jogging in the luxury of the air-conditioned gym instead. But I lose the way back instead, in my haste, since the lanes in and out of this shantytown look all the same. So I find myself in a maze of alleyways crammed on either side by hole-in-the-wall homes. There is a pungent odor of cooking onion, garlic and ginger in the air, punctuated by the inevitable wafts of shit from the raw sewage that flows in the open nulla. Most homes are screened by a simple tired, soiled purda, drawn across the open door, but I can hear Bollywood songs from blaring TV sets within. People, mostly women and children, loiter around; the adult’s gawk at me with suspicious eyes, instinctively, defensively adjust their sliding dupattas. I see some children poring over textbooks, homework perhaps, while others, younger, some almost naked, carefree, play in the filth outside, unmindful of the flies that swarm over them. I come upon two women in an intense argument about errant garbage and who is responsible, heedless of a wailing child nearby, whose bawls get shriller with every uttered argument or cuss. I pass by an elderly woman sweating over a vat of dubious looking bubbling cooking oil, with balls of yellow pakooras sizzling and dancing away in agony within. Several customers wait for the painful process to end, so the fritters can be purchased and consumed, with loads of emli sauce and fiery red chutney; my mouth waters instinctively.

When I am eventually guided towards my hotel, I pass by an even poorer alley. A filthy boy sits on the lap of his apparent sister, and they both watch me approach their way. The boy must not be more than five years old and the sister, ten or twelve perhaps.

Nanghe Uncle, quips the kid, pointing at my bare legs, Nanghe Uncle.

Shush, admonishes the sister in a huff and clamps her hand over the boy’s mouth. But the boy is adamant and repeats the accusation as soon as he breaks his lips free from his sister’s grasp. I smile and hurry along but suddenly feel as naked as Katrina Kaif caught with a swimsuit bikini a size too small. Not that my running shorts are not sharia-compliant, they are, well below my knees.

Sorry Uncle, says the girl coyly as I pass them. I glance at the girl. She has a thin pinched face of an underfed child, but her eyes are bright and intelligent – alive. I stop. The boy, fearing a retribution perhaps, scrambles to the safety of their house and disappears inside, but the girl stays put and regards me with frank curious eyes.

I assure her there is nothing to be sorry for, that I am not mad at her or her brother, that it is my fault and that I should have worn long pants. Her name is Sanaa, she tells me, that she lives with her parents and younger brother and a grandma, who is visiting relatives in Banaras, UP. Sanaa changes to Hinglish as soon as I say I am visiting from the US.

Oh, yes! I knew from the start only, that you are not from India. She wags her head excitedly, gathers wayward hair, ties them into a ponytail knot and passes hands over her rumpled clothes in an attempt to improve her standing in my eyes. Since I am from Amrika. Makes me feel immediately sad. She has a lot of questions for me, about Amrika. I try and answer them without making her feel small. I tell her I like India better, more than Amrika. She giggles profusely, covering her mouth with petite unkempt hands.

Jhoot Uncle! I have seen Amrika in movies. It is much, much nicer than India.

But I am happy I have made her laugh. I ask her if she goes to school. Her face clouds over in sadness. Instantly. She gets up and retreats into the house a few steps, cocks her elf-like head to one side and listens intently, then returns and takes her place where she was just seated.

No, Abbu cannot afford the fees. He says. But it’s not the fees that are the problem. It is his drinking. Sanaa jerks a thumb towards her thin lips. She begins whispering so I have to strain my ears to hear her. He drinks too much, so the money he earns is not enough for food, clothes and other stuff, let alone school fees. A local NGO paid my fees until recently, but now, they will pay only half since I am promoted to a higher class and the fees are much more. Abbu says he does not have the money, but that is not true. He spends it on sharaab and then sleeps it off all day. He is an electrician, but nobody wants to hire him because his hands are unsteady. Too much booze. Sanaa makes an unpleasant face and jerks a thumb up her lips once again. She leans forward. He is inside now, sleeping it off. She makes a face again.

I become promptly wary. I ask her about her mother.

Ammi washes dishes and cleans people’s homes. She is at work now. She prefers working and staying away from Abbu because they fight when they are together. Ammi screams for him to stop drinking, but that makes Abbu madder, so they fight. Fight all the time. Do you have children Uncle? Do you drink also? Do you and Auntie fight?

Babre, what a forthright girl! The little brother returns before I can answer, halts at a safe distance from where I am and tells Sanaa to come inside, Abbu is calling her. A look of fear crosses her face. She gets up in a hurry, waves a quick goodbye my way and sister and brother retreat into the gloomy interior.

Dismayed, I sigh and make my way back to the Holiday Inn, my head full of Sanaa’s troubles. Perhaps I’ll go get a massage; the hotel is running a summer special. Maybe it’ll cure my jetlag and prepare me for ten tough days ahead. And forget the intense hole in my heart Sanaa has seared.

A 'Black' Marriage Proposal?

A trip to Tanzania, Arusha being the city of birth, is always a delight indeed. My childhood and adolescent were unique, special. I know, I know, everybody will claim this refrain, but mine was extra special; special for all Tanzanian diaspora I reckon. That carefree bachpaana and jawaani, those bisri hoowe yadee, are now but passionate, imprisoned memories buried deep in the recesses of my being. I would gladly trade much I currently have to relive that past. Our wise Imam Ali (A) had advised us to take full advantage of the good things Allah grants us, for good things are transient, they go away fast-fast. Either I got to hear this hadith too late or was too arrogant to heed the advice when it could really have made a difference.

My time is severely limited, as usual, what with all the trips to various CAI projects, past, current and potential. I get somewhat of a breather after quick trips to Zanzibar and Arusha. Zanzibar for CAI projects and Arusha to pay my respects to a recently departed dear aunt. So I make my way through puddles of muddy rainwater from recent downpours towards the house of Mullah Mchungu. These are fresh rains for the season and the clouds above are overcast and pregnant with more to come. It is a task navigating the streets of Dar, the drainage system poor and ancient as the Mullah himself, who is ailing, but I had promised to visit with him when he was last in Sanford, FL. I really do not look forward to seeing the grumpy old man; he can be extremely rude and patronizing. But he is old, lonely, ailing and his opinions, although controversial and combative, are right on the money. Most times. My clothes get perfumed from the swirling smoke of kuku and nyaama chooma dhaabas and the awful putrid smell of dooryaani fruit along the way.

Saala ghadheera, Mullah growls at me as soon as his houseboy sits me at his bedside. You have been here five days and you come see me now?

Okay, I have no idea how he knows I am in Dar five days and he has just called me a donkey, but I take the rebuke in stride; I know he is just showing me a false front. I ask him about his health, but he waves my politeness away dismissively, lights up a beedi instead and blows acrid smoke my way. I look around the modest room where the old man lives; there is not very much. An ancient bed, a battered table on which lies an antique TV set, an ageless wooden closet, some clothes laying about and a thermos by the bedside; I suddenly feel depressed.

So Kisukaali, what have you been up to in our blessed and abundantly corrupt country? Up to no good as usual, I am sure.

I ignore this snide remark and brief him on CAI activities in Tanzania while he watches me with moist eyes and puffs away at the beedi. He nods his head when I am done and hollers at the houseboy to go out and buy some kahaawa and kashaata, something I relish whenever in Tanzania. It is a poor man's snack, you see. I used to have this when going to school in Dar many years ago; it used to temporarily soothe my rumbling belly when times were hard. The Mullah sips hot tea while I savor my bitter drink sweetened by the crusty peanut brittle. 

As usual, the man bowls me a doosra, one that scalds my tongue and sets my heart aflutter.

'Kisukaali,' asks the Mullah with a slightest gleam in his eyes,'would you consider taking an African wife, a Black wife?'

I am at a loss for words for several seconds, trying to settle my heartbeat and ascertain how much the chap knows about my personal life. I could easily be equally rude and tell the guy to booger off but decide to play along, certain the old geezer is up to something, as usual.

'That's a rather strange question, Mullah? Why would I want to consider taking any wife, white, black or any other color in between?'

He chuckles, the guy actually smiles, the first time I have seen his gummy teeth and the crinkle of his eyes. Makes him look much better, younger and a real human.

'Touché Kisukaali, touché, ever the smart pants, nai?' Says the Mullah with his usual sneer back on his callous face. 'Okay, we won't go that route. But tell me, what do you think of our Africans? You know, the people we Khojas call Ghoolas and Ghagas and treat with the utmost contempt? The ones we stole from, and still do, the ones we build separate mosques for, the ones we don't want to pray alongside, the ones we will not allow our children to play with, the ones we will do anything and avoid having as neighbors, the ones we give leftover food to, the ones we would easily chop off heads if they ever dare to propose marriage to our women... What do you think of them, Kisukaali?'

I say nothing but stare at the old man, the cutting truth of his words making me queasy and uncomfortable. I am guilty of some of these crimes, committed for the briefest of the adolescence period, something I have always wanted to erase from my conscience; I almost curse the old man for opening old wounds. The houseboy comes along to clear away the teacups. As he leaves, the Mullah points to him.

'See this man, Kisukaali? He has been with me for the last twenty years, almost. He served my wife when alive and reared my children as well. He serves me now, twenty-four hours a day, at my command, something my children would never do. He cooks and cleans for me, gives me company, and when the time comes, I pray it does not, he will gladly wipe my smelly, najees bum.'

I've had enough of this painful chat and want to flee the gloominess in the house, made worse by the rain outside which has started to pour again. I am about to say my farewells when Mullah Mchungu asks me a question that stays and bothers me all the way back to Sanford later that day.

Don't like what I just said, Kisukaali? Because it has touched a raw nerve? Let me ask you a question then, before you leave. You have a teenage daughter, right? Maaha Zainab? May Allah bless and keep her happy, always. Just suppose she comes to you one fine day and says she has met a boy she loves and wants to marry him. The boy is a Shia Muslim, a mutaqee, is a medical doctor and from a good family. She tells you the boy loves her passionately as well. Then she casually mentions that the boy is an African. Tell me, keeping the teachings of the Quraan and practices of our Prophet (S) and Aimaas (A) and the laws of your country in mind, what would you do? What could you do, if anything? Hmmm?'

I make a hasty retreat, drenched to the bone by the time I reach Tanzanite Suites.

Reflection

As I reflect on the remarkable progress made by CAI thus far, it is important, I think, to look back and reflect on how it all began, the path we have trodden, where we now are and how to chart out the future. So I will share this Blog with you, first written in 1996, blogged again in 2010. I get comfort from it and renewed inspiration too. I hope you will appreciate and enjoy the narrative.

It is a hot and humid monsoon July Saturday some 16 years ago; dark, pregnant skies above threaten to open up any minute and drench me, but worse, make my travel to Govendhi miserable and perhaps impossible. Govendhi lies about 15 miles northeast of Mumbai that takes about two hours to reach on a good day. It is very densely populated, stench - puke smelly, dirty beyond descriptive word dirty and full of slum flies. And yes, it is populated predominantly by Muslims and by over 12,000 families of the Ahle Tashayyo persuasion, overwhelmingly Sadaats.

I get to Govendhi all hot and sweaty and harassed and almost swoon. The place is surreal; houses are made from rags with garbage bags for a roof, the lanes between homes squelch and slide wherever I delicately put my foot down, covering my once shiny shoes with a thick sludge of muck, the air is ripe with the stench of raw sewer and flies torment every open skin on my body. There are people everywhere, crowding lanes, in a hurry always, vendors shout their wares or vegetables or fruits amidst cows, goats, dogs and chicken. I sneeze once and two flies enter my mouth and I almost gag. I feel I cannot breathe, the world swims in my eyes and I stumble. My guide, who is increasingly alarmed at my distress, immediately props me up until we reach the steps of a crumbling mosque where he parks me on a dry veranda and hurries to get me a cold drink.

I take deep breaths and try to regain my composure, feeling silly and mad at myself for being so weak. I drop my head down, trying to get blood circulating to my brains and feel better. I look around and simply cannot fathom my surroundings; animals live better in the US. My attention is diverted to a pair of kids, a girl and a boy frolicking in a shallow pond of rainwater near the wudhoo area outside the mosque. They seem to be oblivious to their surrounding, filling empty water bottles and dousing each other with its filthy contents, and having a bloody merry time of it. They are both clothed in rags and have bodies so thin, I feel either one would fracture or break a bone, falling upon each other as they were. I get a sudden urge to run away from this misery, for the despair and sudden fear I feel makes me break in a cold sweat and I suddenly start shivering violently. 

I return to my luxury hotel room at the Leela Kempinski, tear off my clothes and have a long hot shower, trying to rid my body of the grime and sweat and the smell that still cling to it. I resolve never to go back to that hellhole, to hell with what Mullah Asghar has to say about it, the benefits of experiencing what the poor in this world live through. I was not going back. Ever.

Allah (SWT) however, has different plans for me; and who is the best Planner? That very night, as I nestle and snuggle amongst the lavish linens of the five-star hotel I am put up, I dream of the two children frolicking in the filthy waters of Govendhi. I awake but strangely, cannot fall asleep again. I toss and turn amongst the bedcovers; I switch on the television, hoping it will lull me to sleep. Nothing works. Who are these children? Why are they not in school? Why are they so thin and in rags? Are they orphans? They look obviously happy…. On and on and on. Strangely, this dream reappears in my sleep the next day and I spend another night tossing and turning, restless and disturbed. And so it goes on for the whole week; my mind keeps me awake with the thoughts of these two children.

When it is Saturday next and my day off, it is as if the skies have decided to open up and it pours non-stop the whole day; I stay in the hotel, brooding about the kids and Govendhi. So I make a covenant with Allah, a selfish covenant, thinking I can outsmart Him. I promise Him if it stops raining tomorrow, if the sun is out, I will revisit Govendhi and try find the two kids and at least feed them. Now, the chance of a bright and sunny day in the middle of July in Maharashtra is equivalent of winning a lottery jackpot. Almost. When I walk outside the hotel after my workout and breakfast the next day, it is cloudy all right and I smile, smug I have won. But exactly at that moment, the sun reveals itself and keeps on smiling its hot rays on the humid air, making me sweat immediately

I cajole and promise my guide a hefty bonus if he would leave his family this Sunday and accompany me to Govendhi. He does not look too excited; I guess he is unimpressed with my behavior from last Saturday. Money wins however, and off we go to hunt for my tormentors. I am better equipped this time, with sneakers and a handkerchief doused in perfume. We spend a couple of hours looking for them and finally, when I am losing hope, we spot them very near the pond, engrossed in making a living. When we approach them, they scatter and run away, fearful. Much to the annoyance of my guide, I dangle a fifty-rupee bill from my fingers and they return, cautious, but very interested.

We take them to a local restaurant and both demolish a heap of greasy chicken biryani; I cannot believe such thin people had such appetites. When I offer them falooda after biryani is over, their eyes light up with undisguised delight. The falooda disappear in minutes; both wiping their glass bowl clean. Over orange Mirinda, we extract their life details. Sakina is seven (she thinks, not sure) and Alireza six (he thinks, not sure), both born in the slums of Govendhi and have never been to school. Both were put to work supporting their family of six by the time they could put razor to slice rubber. These two scavenge scrap electrical cables off construction sites and pull out its copper guts. The copper is then wound into a ball and if they have enough (cricket ball size), it earns them about ten Rupees. They give this to their paan guzzling father who in turn purchases a little rice and daal and the mother then feeds them dinner, their only meal for the day. 

Sakina is so thin, I can see ribs jutting out from her skin through a rip on her dress and so is Alireza, who cannot sit still, constantly moving around in his chair, playing around with the salt and pepper shakers or dipping into the hot chutney container. I feel very sad for them, for I know this is temporary and they will be out on the streets as soon as we depart. On an impulse, I ask the duo to take me to their parents, to their home. They look at each other uneasily and balk. I reassure them, telling them that I may help them but want to talk to their parents first. After some more debate, they escort us inside the slum, with lanes getting narrower and the filth filthier. I see a girl child, totally naked, nose running, wailing at the top of her lungs with no apparent guardian around. I see two children sleeping out in the open, near a stream in which flow human feces…I make maximum use of my perfumed hankie.

We arrive at a small hut, similar to hundreds like it around and enter a dark room; it takes me several seconds to focus before I can see clearly. The hut has dirt floor, I notice immediately, three charpoy beds occupy three corners of rusting tin walls and the remaining corner has beaten up pots and pans hanging from it. Clothes hang from strings strung across all four corners and a charcoal stove glows amber, emits sharp acrid odor that begin to sting my eyes. On one of the bed lie an emaciated looking aged woman, probably a grandmother, who stares at me unblinkingly and follows me with her eyes as I am made to sit on an empty charpoy. By her side, fast asleep, is a tiny baby, looks newborn, with a black streak of evil eye across a frowning brow. On another bed, sitting cross-legged is Mr. Shahed Rizwi, lord of the hut. Rizwi look as me suspiciously, does not offer a handshake, but waves my guide and me to the empty charpoy. He looks very much like Sakina; I do not see Mrs. Rizwi around. Sakina serves us water from dented tin glasses but I decline and sip from my safer water bottle supply.

I ask Rizwi if he is well, but get the typical wag of the head from the neck and bare of paan stained teeth for an answer. I ask him why his kids are not in school.
'School?' He asks, surprised, as if the thought has never occurred to him. 'If I send them to school, who will bring roti home?' he asks, gesturing with pinched fingers towards his mouth. 
I feel a sudden rash of irritation for this man so I promptly and recklessly reply 'You?' My guide finds this funny, for he giggles shrilly and as quickly, covers his mouth, stifling the laugh.
A flash of anger spreads across Mr. Rizwi’s face and he lets out a string of protests; that he is sick, that his mother, gesturing towards the old woman, is old and sick, that he cannot find decent work, that his wife has natal problems…
But I insist that education is important, that his children will not stand a chance in adult life doing what they currently do. Mr. Rizwi shrugs his shoulders and exposes paan stained teeth again ‘Allah’s will…’ he mummers. 

I honestly feel like slapping him silly.

So I bribe him, this Mr. Paan Rizwi. Through my guide, I promise him Rupees 300 a month to keep the kids in school at the nearby Jafri English School. I also arrange to feed Sakina and Alireza one hot meal a day. We arrange to get the kids to school the next day; I take the Monday off. I bring along a local social worker from Bandra mosque and we take the children for a bath and Alireza for a haircut. After the bath, Sakina’s hair has to go as well, for we cannot comb through her hair; they are a mess of impossible tangles from years of neglect. Now, she looks little different from Alireza.

Much has changed in Govendhi since this episode took place. The slum with its decay, hovels, filth, flies and smell still largely remains. There has been startling development on the edges of the slums, as if an attempt to cut off and hide the eyesores at the core. The roads are mostly asphalt now but hovels still have no running water and most power lines are stolen by gangs and crudely distributed for profit.

Sakina is a computer programing manager for a multinational company, earning a very generous package. She owns her own apartment, is married and a mother to a baby girl. 

Alireza does well as well, not as well as Sakina, but reasonably well, working as a sales representative for a mobile phone company. He moves out of Govendhi as well.

Mr. Paan Rizwi still whiles away time, talking to cronies in Govendhi, guzzling paans supplemented by Sakina; Alireza has stopped giving him money but secretly gives to his mother every month.

CAI’s focus on education in India has paid off exceedingly well, thanks to Allah and CAI’s very many donors and well wishers. There are several success stories similar to Sakina‘s.

In addition to supporting poor students with school fees, CAI ensures gifted students, especially girls, are not denied scholarships to colleges.

CAI has built 6 schools in remote India, 18 in Afghanistan and 1 in Liberia. CAI has restored 3 crumbling schools in Zanzibar and 2 in Pakistan.

The work continues, insha’Allah.

Same Old, Same Old

The baraaza area outside HIC in Sanford wears a forlorn look, the cold and wind making it uncomfortable to socialize. Usually it is busy with people chatting, smoking or smacking lips (or spitting) with Mehboob’s paans; the rising smoke from beedis, cigarettes (regular and the modern E) reminding me of choma kuku dhabas around the Khoja mosque in Dar es Salaam. I have to satisfy my nicotine itch before I venture in so I light up, all lonely.

At one corner of the center, I notice a teenager, huddled shivering inside a parka, smoking away. We make eye contact and he waves a salaam my way; I reciprocate. He ambles over after a while and stands by me. I smile in camaraderie, since we have both poisoned our lungs and polluted the air.

‘Are you Yusuf Uncle? The Kisukaali guy?’

Surprised, I nod, hiding my ire for being called ‘uncle’; a title that gives me (severe) allergies. We chat for a while. I have seen him around sometimes but do not know who he is. I am about to enter and welcome him in but he refuses.

‘No Uncle, all that does not interest me, same old, same old.’

Intrigued, I pause and look at him sharply.

‘Aw, come on, we’ll still learn something and get some thawaab.’

The guy snorts contempt and then laughs.

‘No Uncle, I’ll fall asleep, like the rest of you, except you’ll have your eyes wide open, glass-eyed and I’ll probably start snoring. There is nothing I will learn that I have not heard before. It’s all like a broken record...’

Now I become a little more irate.

‘That’s not a nice thing to say, young man. It is a majlis in memory of our Aimaas, yes? Isn’t that plenty reason to sit and listen?’

The young man lowers his gaze and shakes his head.

‘Sorry, Uncle, I don’t mean to be mean or disrespectful. I am here because Dad feels bad if I don’t accompany him. But I feel very estranged in there; almost all of us are far removed from what is said in there. Sorry.’

Now I am even more intrigued, so I play hooky as well and chat with this young man, about the same age as my own son. So we light up again and he opens up to me. I feel he wants to shed some load off his shoulders, so I encourage him to speak. This, he does.

‘You see Uncle...’

I stop him and ask him to call me Yusufali instead of Uncle. He looks confused for a moment but then smiles.

‘You are all right, you know Unc... sorry, Yusufali?’

I nod and smile encouragement, so he continues.

‘Do you see boys my age in there? Maybe one or two, no more. Even the good boys,’ he gestures quotation marks with his fingers, ‘they are out, helping make tea or cleaning up. You know why?’

I say nothing, wait for him to continue.

‘Because they have no connection with what is being said in there. I attended all the lectures when I was younger, my dad forced me to. But then I rebelled, when I realized all that is being said is repeat. Really, Uncle! Oh, sorry, so sorry. I am made to feel guilty for being a Shia. We always seem to be on the defensive, trying to prove our beliefs against Sunni accusations, over and over and over. It is non-ending! Abu Bakr did this; Ommer did this or that, the Fadak fiasco... There is not one Shia who disputes the facts regarding the atrocities meted out on the Aimaas. Not one. All these are facts that we have accepted. We grieve for them, we hurt for them. Fine. Why the need to prove it over and over again? I can understand it being related to us once, twice, thrice; but every lecture?’

For someone so young, I am struck with the depth of grasp he has on the complexity of subject matter.

‘You know what my mind thinks about? Perhaps I am different. I think about ISIS and their atrocities to humans in the name of Islam. I worry about my future in this country because of these animals. The general public does not discriminate between the terrorists and us. The tag of Muslim is like an enigma, a real problem. Especially in my potential employment when I graduate. With all that is going on, you think a Muslim stands a chance against other competitors? I worry about my mother and sisters wearing hijab in a public place. You think us harping about the Sunni Shia divide will help us in this bread and butter issue?’

It is getting quite cold out here; the majlis in well underway inside, but this kid has me captivated.

‘You know what my friends are up to? You’d be surprised, shocked, even. They are more worried about Madonna falling off the stage. They are interested in girls, how to win over easy college girls, or boys.’ He must have seen me flinch, for he nods energetically and continues. ‘Yes! Boys! They drink beer on weekends and some even do drugs, disguised in sheeshas. Tell me Yusufali Uncle, you think the subject matter discussed in the lectures inside,’ he jabs a thumb towards the centers wall, ‘will interest or hold them? Guide, correct or reform them? If we people are supposed to lead this community after you guys are gone, I despair.’

Jeez. This guy is a shaana, talking about me kicking the bucket already. The kid has some pluck.

‘I am not trying to say all that is being said is not true, sure it is. But it is a broken record; way overdone for sure. We are not going to achieve diddly-squat by making the same issues our theme song. If we must do it, let's not do it in front of the choir. If we feel brave enough, let's take it to the battlefield. But we want to do it in the safety of our mimbers. Surely Sir, Islam, our beloved religion, is much, much, more than this?’

Huh. I do my hujjat to the kid, advising him that history shapes the future, it’s important. I try and explain that zaakirs have limitations, they do their best, research and prepare and do us a huge favor by coming and giving the lectures. If nothing else, we should respect them for this effort and sit through the lectures. The least we will accomplish is thawaab for the reverence we pay to our Aaimaas.

But I can see the kid is not convinced and people are coming out with steaming cups of tea and kabaabs. They come out and start complaining about the cold and the wind. I head inside for some warmth and tea and kabaab.

Note: I am certain some zaakirs reading this Blog will take offence, so I sincerely offer my apologies. My aim is not malicious; Allah is a witness to this fact. The kid might be off track somewhat, but his thinking should resonate with anybody willing to think outside the box. And surely Allah knows best.