The Reformation Of My Grandfather’s Ummah – Imam Hussein (A) – Part 2

Masoom Sanji (name not real) is an 18-year-old fella way beyond his age; in wisdom. I first noticed him at Zed Palace Khoja Center in Andheri, Mumbai some 5 years ago, when I lived there. He was a serious looking, lanky teenager then, with worry lines running through his face and a serious look that suggested he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. I took on to him because he behaved so refreshingly different from other teenagers, who made merry outside during lectures, smoking and gossiping, while Masoom sat inside, listening to the presentations.

I meet him again a few days ago for a Muharram event, in Mumbai. The guy has shot up, taller than I even. He recognizes me instantly and comes over with a happy smile and a firm handshake.

Uncle, he exclaims happily, genuinely. Kaiso ho? Kahaa ho? I ignore the Uncle insult and reciprocate his greeting instead, his happiness. Since there is a lot of commotion going on with maatam inside in full swing and men and women cramming the narrow stairs, we move on down and into a secluded corner of the building. The air is fresh and November cool, without the stifling humidity Mumbai is so well known for. This is the best time to be in Mumbai, weather wise. Diehard Diwaali revelers set off ear splitting firecrackers that lighten up the sky with a rainbow of sparkles. It was pretty bad last week, when these firecrackers sounded like explosions in a war zone, with thuds of explosions resembling Gaza or Damascus conflicts.

Masoom and I chitchat for a while. He says he closely follows CAI activities and my Blogs and wishes he could help. But with a mother whose eyesight is now failing due to years of sewing zari patterns onto sarees for a living and a younger sister to take care of, he has to skip college and start work at a call center. I urge him to complete college, at least. And make sure his sister does it as well.

I simply can’t afford it Uncle, he says with downcast eyes. I have to work to bring the daal home. And my sister, I guess we’ll have to find her a suitable boy soon. She is very smart and is top in her school, but the fees are simply out of my reach. Ammi has sold the last of her jewelry and my Mamu says he can’t pay our fees any longer.

My heart sinks. Where is your father? I ask on an impulse. Masoom turns scarlet, shuffles his feet and keeps quite. He has remarried, Uncle, Masoom whispers after a while, making me strain to hear him, he wants nothing to do with us.

I make a mental note to look into this later, do my due diligence. If they are poor and the grades are above average, CAI can and will help insha’Allah.

 I do not want to bother you with my troubles Uncle; I just wanted to say sallam after all this time. By the way, can I talk to you about something that is bothering me? Since you are well traveled, well read and Blog on so many subjects, I thought I’d ask you?

It is my turn to turn cherry and shuffle my feet in unease.

Uncle, don’t get me wrong. I do not want to be a rebel, nor blasphemous, far from it. I think I am a good Muslim, a good Ahlebeiti Muslim. I pray regularly, on time, do all the waajibaats, and many mustahaabats as well, am good to Ammi and help the less fortunate than me whenever I can. I will marry as soon as I can afford a wife and go for hajj and ziyaarat when Allah decrees it.

All good stuff. This guy is a near perfect son any father could wish. Aw. I feel great. My chest puffs up. My chin lifts up. So does my sprits and a glow of happiness sets in. This young man looks up to me. Why, I could have kissed and hugged him then. Like a son. But just as quickly, he punctures by chest, droops my chin and a cold fear sets in, making be break out in a sweat. I look around wildly, just to make sure nobody else has heard the bombshell Masoom has let out.

I think I am being misled by some of those in authority. Religious authority. Especially on the question of azaadari. There are so many conflicting opinions from the ulema. I don’t mean the home grown and self-taught zaakirs. I mean the top ones. In Najaf and Qoom. Take the subject of tatbeer or kamazani. I thought there was unanimous agreement that it should be avoided in this day and age. I was happy with this agreement, since it made perfect sense, intellectually. To me.

Masoom pauses here, looking at me anxiously. My heart has begun thumping. This is a very taboo subject, especially here in Southeast Asia. People have been physically trashed and visiting zaakir(a)s insulted, threatened and deported for bringing these topics to the forefront. Masoom seems unaffected by the change in my pallor; perhaps because it’s dark?

There is no historical base for this practice, continues Masoom, I have done my research. None of our Aimaas (A) practiced tatbeer and we must fall back upon the deeds of our Aimaas (A) as our role models. Even Imam Sajjad (A), who had every right to lament freely, remotely practiced it or asked his followers to do it, although he rightly, loudly, lamented and mourned the massacre of his family for years. And encouraged us to do so. Why can’t our ulema get together and come to a consensus on the subject? The command recently put forward by a wise man from Najaf, (or Qoom?) is that kamazani is a supreme ibaada. That the chest being pierced open is nobody else’s business, that we are preparing the two week old babies (for what?) by slitting their foreheads, that even if we were to donate the blood for a good cause, 2 drops should be spilled for Imam Hussein (A), that Lady Fatema (A) would be much pleased with this act…

I look this way and that, wanting to escape this onslaught of, at face value, reasonable line of questioning. But Masoom has me cornered and I can’t be rude opposing logic. Masoom holds up one finger.

If this wise and respectable aalim deems kamazani to be a supreme ibaada, why don’t I see him practice it in the front lines? Surely he should be leading the frenzied crowds?

Another finger comes up.

What about the forehead of the infant? Did the child ask to be scarred for life?

Third.

What is the logic of wasting even a drop of blood? Tatbeer is an unhealthy method and seen as barbaric by non-Shias. Rightly so, in this awful, painful and turbulent period for all Muslims…

Fourth.

Imam Hussein (A) had one aim for his mission - to reform his grandfather’s nation. To stand for justice. Most importantly, his mission was / is an opportunity for us to reform. For the better, not regress to medieval rituals…

I cut Masoom off.  Young man, I say, you are treading very bloodied currents that will surely drown you, no matter how logical your reasoning. Let this issue be, don’t peruse it. Please. Else you’ll burn your fingers very badly, or even worse. It is not a wajibaat, so don’t participate if you are uncomfortable with it. The more educated and younger generations will change it eventually, insha’Allah. But it’ll be generations before that happens…

Masoom looks at me with dubious, accusing, disappointed eyes, as if I have let him down. I feel awful, awful.

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Attached is Sohail Abdallah’s second Photo Blog on his recent trip to Afghanistan. I urge you to watch the delightful and extraordinary production. Please click here. Thanks.

The Reformation Of My Grandfather’s Ummah – Imam Hussein (A)

When I meet Mullah Mchungu recently, the guy’s smile almost blinds me. But then I gather that the dazzle is not a smile at all, rather, they are bright, white, brand-new, ill-fitting dentures he dons, hurting my eyes. We have been in touch by phone, the Mullah and I, since I last met him in Dar, all shriveled up and about to kick the bucket. The accursed free WhatsApp makes it possible for the Mullah to call and torment me at will, at odd hours of the day, regardless if it is in the middle of the night. For me. But he looks okay now, seated like an emperor, with his servant helper fussing around him, adjusting the wheelchair this way and that.

 

I am provided a hot cup of tea and some piping hot (elchi free, thank God) vitumbua bought fresh from the street corner downstairs moments ago from a MamaNtilia. I try to make small talk and ask the Mullah about his health, but he waves at me impatiently, his dentures grinning at me as he adjusts to them by regularly sucking in air sharply.

 

You don’t have to be polite, Kisukaali, it’s not important how I am or feel. I a setting light, running out of my time fast. You really do not want to hear about my personal problems, nor care for that matter. I survive with this wheelchair and this faithful man; he waves towards the servant, who is a mother to me. My daughter pays my few bills and makes sure I don’t starve, bless her. She made these silly dentures possible since I cannot chew with my constantly infected gums anymore. My khabees son Aliraza wants nothing to do with me any longer, except a sallam over the phone now and then. I miss my grandchildren in Florida however.

                      

He is right; I don’t want to get involved in his private business. But I do care. That is why I am here, to see him, to ask about him. Apart from his eccentricities, normal for anybody his age, the Mullah is a decent human being, with surprisingly acute and insightful mind and paradigms. But I keep my trap shut. It’s simpler that way. I am about to take the last morsel of the delicious kitumbua when the Mullah suddenly demands:

 

How did you find Vinay Khetia, the visiting zakir at your HIC center at Sanford this year?

 

Jeez! Not again! I’ve had nothing but pain in my rear end since Blogging that Sheykh Khetia’s time management sucks. Is this guy going to give me grief as well? But it’s hard to tell with the constant grin on his face, making me unsure if he is genuinely happy or his new teeth playing tricks on me.

 

He was okay, I guess, I say cautiously, non-committal. I am being honest. I found the guy genuinely committed to his new religion but his lectures I found to be dry and awfully long.

 

You are like a bloody teenager, Kisukaali. Restless and impatient. I know you had not so nice words to say about Khetia’s time discipline. Yes, I heard him on the Internet. Yes, the time he spoke was very long, but that is not a very big deal. HIC management is to blame. They could have easily fixed it by politely but firmly telling the Sheikh not to cross the limits. But don’t take away the excellent points he had regarding the Shia world and how much we take Imam Hussein’s supreme sacrifice and Muharram as a ritual, by the Khoja beraadars in particular. His pointed reminder about at least five of our Imams born off Black women was very telling. And timely. And brave.

 

Mullah Mchungu nods his hoary head wearily, the crooked grin of his teeth making him look like some goofy comic character on Saturday mornings kids TV shows.

 

As I pointed out to you last year, Imam Hussein was sent in as a reformer, standing for justice. Period. The Imam told us in clear terms - I am going to Kerbala for the reform of my grandfather’s religion. The religion of the Prophet, tainted and corrupted by the forces in power then. Here is a man whose mission, annually, gives us a chance for self-reform, become humans that Allah wants us to be and atone for our evil ways...and we turn it around into a circus.

 

Again, I want to be non-committal. This is an area that has been much discussed and dissected, with very little progress. And much ill will, resentment and disunity. My personal opinions match with the old man's, but it is better to remain quiet now.

 

Chicken as usual, nai, Kisukaali? Fine, keep your trap shut. But hear me out. Khetia should come and lecture us here in Dar. He points at his servant, sitting on a hardback chair, quietly watching us converse. That is Ally, you’ve met him before. The guy is old enough to be your father. Has been with me thirty-five plus years. Fiercely loyal and one hundred percent honest. But to most of us Khoja’s, he is a Black man, a Gaggo. Unworthy of respect. Just because he was born Black and poor. He was never given the opportunity of an education, nor did his parents leave him a business to take over.

 

So we keep him at arms length. He is our brethren, but with separate rights and standing within our fraternity. Because he is a Black man. Just as five of our holy Imams were. Including our current Imam. Go ponder on what I say, Kisukaali. And Blog about It. If you have the courage.

 

I do. As usual, I leave Mullah Mchungu’s drab apartment disturbed, my mind full of swarming dudus that stay on for a long time afterward.

 

Note: Due to a technical snag, Sohails Photoblog of Afghanistan will resume in 2 weeks.

Sohail's Afghanistan Photoblog

A visit to rural Afghanistan is never easy. And this was probably the most grueling, travel wise, for Sohail Abdullah and I; Sohail’s 2^nd and my 29^th, between September 29 and October 9. We landed into Kabul with a fierce war going on as Kundus was temporarily overrun and bombs exploded in Kabul like Diwali Day in Mumbai. 

 

The thin mountain air played havoc on our noses, rupturing nasal veins that rendered tissue paper use useless with clumps of congealed blood; I had to discard 3 handkerchiefs. The endless driving over nonexistent or dangerous mountain passes for an average of 10 hours every day was sheer torture. I felt I was let out of a badly aligned rotating concrete-mixer every time the day came to an end. My biggest problem was lack of sleep, averaging no more than 5 hours a day, if lucky. And nonexistent bathrooms. Afghans in rural Afghanistan keep a fair distance from this necessity, constructing them as far away from their homes as possible; preferably somewhere near their animal sheds.  Allah forbid we have to go in the middle of the night. Sheer torture. Appropriate clothing, a good torch, a lota full of water and a long walk over unfriendly terrain, accompanied hopefully by a local. Just in case. The toilet has a flimsy curtain for a door, a slippery-slope floor and a hole in the ground where 3 months of other people's kaka is gelling; we deposit ours looking away from the hole and trying not to breathe, especially through the nose. No wonder there are never long queues outside bathrooms in rural Afghanistan.

 

Notwithstanding all the danger, discomfort, troubles and hassles, the trip was memorial, as usual. CAI's work in Afghanistan is nothing short of Yadullah, hands of Allah. No other words to describe this miracle. I woke up early one day with a splitting headache because the 'pillow' I was given was harder than oak wood.  I was about to swallow a Motrin when I realized the folly of my whining and self-pity. I was in probably the remotest part of this earth, here to open a makeshift medical clinic for about 20,000 destitute people who have never seen a medical practitioner before. Ever! And all I had was a bad headache. I still took the medication, but very, very thankfully.

I got back to Sanford in time to hear Sheykh Viney Khethia's second Muharram lecture. The guy is amazing - his conversion from Hinduism, his conviction regarding his new faith and the commitment to Imam Mahdi (A). Wow! Now only if he'll work on his time management, which is stinking awful. 75-minute lectures are too long, and wrong, even with all that goodness in him.

 

Sohail has put the following video / photo Blog from the Afghan trip. A school opening (16th in Afghanistan), opening of 2 newly built medical clinics, commissioning of the 4th medical clinic, desk distribution to a poor school and sheep distribution to widows, this was a packed trip.

I strongly urge you to go through the following Photoblog; it'll the second best thing than to be actually there.

https://strh.se/qAnwvuzRJ5ys

 

Enjoy.  

Smiling Sri Lanka / Bloody Bangladesh

Smiles and smiles:

The first thing I notice upon landing at Colombo is that Sri Lankans like to smile. A lot. What a difference from India! You try smiling at Indians and they will probably frown upon you with wary suspicion. And if you happen to smile at some pretty lass, why, you'll probably be arrested and booked for attempted rape by the police. I exaggerate, of course, but am not too far from the truth either. Sri Lankan's seem, to me, a happy lot, from the immigration officer who tells me three days are not enough for a ‘holiday', to the various policemen I encounter in the streets who nod and smile at me to the hotel staff who constantly grin their welcome.

I am here for a couple of days, auditing and inspecting CAI-sponsored projects for compliance purposes. The weather is hot and humid, as usual, making me sweat and be constantly on guard against dehydration. My host's, the Zaveni's of Al Zahra Association, visit me at the hotel with documents and the audit work proceeds quite painlessly. CAI donors have contributed funds for an English and math teacher for a poor community in Sri Lanka, helped with food and shelter to flood victims and sponsors milk and bread for over a hundred very poor and malnourished children who attend the English / math classes.

I visit the remote village of Ampaara, some 250 miles from Colombo, a journey that is supposed to take about six hours, but take almost nine. The roads are fairly smooth and well maintained. Even the narrowest and smallest of roads in Sri Lanka are paved; what a refreshing constant to countries like India, Bangladesh and other South Asian countries. The village, when we get there, is poor, yes and the flies that swarm all over me makes me dance a Michael Jackson number from the Thriller album, vainly trying to swat the nimble and sly pests away, with no results. But the seafood lunch the hosts serve us is out of this world. A blend of Sri Lankan spices mixed with Malaysian coconut curries influences. Feeling suddenly very hungry, I splurge. Burp. Most of the people in this part of the country are descendants of Malaysian Moors settled in Sri Lanka eons ago. CAI will help the villagers with six out of nine water wells desperately needed, so they will not have to lug water canisters for miles on end. The return to Colombo is painless; I sleep through the drive.

Blood and blood:

Dhaka in Bangladesh has a deserted look when I land here three days later, on Eid day. An empty city void of the usual droves of humanity, vehicles and all other forms of transportation feels eerie; giving me a feel of disquiet. The country has completely shut down and even emergency medical services are iffy for three days. There are no newspapers printed, no laundry service and no brown bread at the hotel. Because of Eid. Why, I make it from the airport to the hotel in the diplomatic enclave of Dhaka in twenty minutes, much less than half the usual time. The feeling of melancholy deepens with the strong smell of blood in the air. Most street corners are caked with congealed blood and skin of slaughtered sacrificial animals; cattle, goats or sheep, carcasses have been stripped bare and skin and skulls abandoned; droves of hungry crows gleefully feed on the sparse remains. I escape to my room in the almost completely empty hotel. The audit work for 200 poor students annual school fees and five poor homes CAI donors have helped finance in Bangladesh goes off after Eid lunch prepared by Sughra of Bangladesh Ladies Welfare Society. Again, the drive to their offices and back is creepily fast, the streets devoid of the mass of people; the blood and gore are everywhere however.

The next day, I visit three of the five homes CAI has financed. They are in a poorer area of Dhaka, so the streets are much narrower and crowds are back. The homes are at an end of a slum area; reminds me of Govendhi outside Mumbai instantly. Again, the air is thick and humid and the stink of blood is everywhere; I break out into a sweat instantly. The air is so putrid, I feel like gagging. A corner shop tethers a cute young calf waiting for her turn to be part of someone's biryani. She nervously trembles and lets off a stream of piss to express her fear.  I am wet with sweat in minutes, a stream of perspiration in my back make way from my soaked tee-shirt into my chuddies; a very awkward feeling indeed.

I am returning to Mumbai again tomorrow; I look forward to it. The quiet streets and the empty hotel make me feel even lonelier. I go for a walk down the road towards a small lake in the diplomatic cove.  This area has the exclusive and super expensive residences. The disparity between the few haves and overwhelmingly poor Bangladeshis is stark here. An apartment in a decent looking building is available for lease, but to foreigners only, rent payable in US Dollars. The inside paved walkway around the lake is reserved for the residents of this area only while the outside dirt road is for the rest. I am wearing shorts and my Asics running shoes; the lounging guard springs to his feet as if struck by lightning, salutes me sharply and eagerly waves me through. It is a mini green forest around the lake, with tall canopy of trees, waterfalls and the ‘elite' from various Embassies of the world trying to burn off excess fat. There are several local Bengalis as well, beautiful women in expensive but inappropriate saaris and their well-fed partners struggling to hold in their bellies. Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

I eagerly fly out to Mumbai, where it the last day of Ganesha festivals. The city, throbbing with color-faced dancing crowds, ear-splitting fireworks, roll of crashing drums and snarled traffic await me. I feel at home.

Planes, Trains, Automobiles

On the road again, travelling directly from Orlando to Mumbai via Dubai, saving me eight hours if going through New York; thank you Emirates. Now if you will occasionally fumigate your seats so bugs will not eat your customers alive like they did me on this flight? I land in Mumbai severely jetlagged but a five mile jog at the hotel gym and seventy pushups perk me up temporarily and I can sleep a good five hours before my flight early next morning to the remote parts of UP where the majority of CAI projects are already in operation or taking shape.

So this current trip will Insha’Allah take me to various places in India, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh and to Dubai. I’ll be travelling by air, train and the automobile, of course. Prakash, the young lunatic driver from my last trip stands by his vehicle, grinning at Aliakberbhai and me on arrival at Lucknow airport. I immediately feel heart palpitations; his driving had nearly made me najis the last time. This guy is the most reckless driver I have ever driven with. Yes, he is good, very good with his car, but a harebrained individual nevertheless. I have no say or choice in this arrangement, so say a prayer and try and catch up on my sleep all the way to Hallour, five hours away. We return to Lucknow that same night, after inspecting the CAI sponsored school. Prakash manages to run over a stray dog instead of a human being; that’s progress, I guess.

It is from here in Lucknow we take a first class train to Sirsi, another place in UP where CAI is very active in, at one next morning. Travel by train in India if you can, it is the best way to savor and appreciate the country. The Lucknow train station is a standard metro station in any Indian city; loud, crowded, dreary and with the inevitable smell of ammonia – human piss. My spirits dip while we wait for our train at the platform. I think it is jetlag perhaps, but the heat, flies and smell takes a toll as well. A meandering solitary cow releases a stream of piss on the platform, startling nearby waiting passengers who scatter to avoid the splatter and scurrying cat-sized rodents on the rail tracks below send shivers of apprehension up my spine.

But I am pleasantly surprised when the train rolls up to the platform; on time. By law, there are only two classes of travel in Indian trains; first class and others. No third class officially, but they exist; I see cabins packed with crowds of humanity roll by, many sleeping over each other. Our cabin is not Emirates first class, but I am really impressed with the cleanliness of our super cooled air-conditioned cabin, with four bunk beds, all equipped with crisp fresh white linen, a laundered blanket and a clean firm pillow neatly packaged and sealed. Since our cabin is not fully occupied, we have it all by ourselves. I lock the door, set an alarm for salaat four hours away, cover myself with the warm blanket and die a temporary death.

I spring awake five hours later with the pain of a bursting bladder and my phone letting me it is salaat time. The toilets, one eastern and the other western, are relatively clean. They actually have disinfectant liquid soap. The challenge is doing my job without soiling my clothes, what with at times a violently jostling cabin; praying is a similar challenge, holding on to the bed railing is the only solution. Alhamd’Allah, we arrive Moradabad well rested; Sirsi, our destination is only about ninety minutes drive away.

Both our orphanages, girls and boys are doing exceedingly well, the Sirsi school for 1,200 poor students is thriving, both the Phandheri and Sirsi housing projects are complete and seventeen of the seventy Mehmoodpur homes are finished as well; all is well. The only hiccup comes when a massive chipkalli (gecko) regards me with curious eyes, as I get ready for bed that night. I jump through my skin in fright and a scream escapes me. The orphanage caretaker comes running and the chipkalli is toast.

The next morning, sitting on the prayer mat, thanking Allah for all His blessings for the successes of CAI projects, a mournful naat penetrates the early morning air. The orphans have returned from fajr salaat and as routine, have gathered in the hallway for mandatory naats and other prayers. The orphan boy reciting the naat has a striking voice, mournful and haunting, wants to make me weep. The naat is beautiful, composed by our own Allama Iqbal. It has all the yearnings of quality values Allah can grant a man, of perfection, of all things good in life. My eyes give way and hot tears of gratitude and hope plop on the prayer mat.

You may have already heard it of course, but take a listen again anyway.