“E Siya”, I called out to the Masterji’s daughter, “Zara rakh ke to dekh” (Try it and see). I drew the long shiny Muslin that I had soaked in the deep purple shade all day to go with her red wedding attire from over the tied rope. The young, the vibrant and the wayward purple and red dupatta, unearthly embracing the blue sunny skies, the colour had a marvellous aura about it. And I had known exactly the right amount of the red and the blue to make it look that celestial. As I bestowed the muslin around her, my poet heart repeated through me,
“Tere nikaah par buna hai dupatta resham,
Zindagi teri bhi resham ho hai dua meri,
Tujhko tohfe mein aur kya main de pata bas,
Zindagi meri bhi teri ho hai dua meri”
Siya was so excited that I could read it in her eyes. “Shukriya, Bhaijaan”, she quietly slipped inside coyly. “Masterji will be very happy”, I thought to myself, “After all not a single Rangrez could make a dupatta as colourful as I could, not just in Hanumangadhi alone, but the whole Faizabad”. I loved my occupation, and I knew people of Hanumangadhi adored me for my colours too. So what if I go to the Masjid and most of them go to the Mandir adjacent to the dargaah, and so what if the town is the birthplace of a Hindu God, “Ram janmbhoomi”, I have always believed in one God, one Allah,
“Tera jo Ram hai, woh hai mera bhi madadgaar maula,
Teri hindi mein bhi urdu ki mehak aati hai”
Meri Id pe sajti hai chaukhat tere ghar ki bhi,
Meri dehri se bhi Diwali ki chamak aati hai”
Siya was like my own daughter Naaz, and I had seen her grow from her mother’s womb to 16 years today. It was her wedding on Tuesday and Masterji and I had woven her full attire well before in time. “Ye le tere Do sau bees” (Take your Rs 220), Masterji handed over my day’s earning to me in the evening, “Ram Ram”, he said as he called off the day at the Hanumangadhi bazaar. “Allah hafiz”, I said as I turned towards my house 2kms away. I felt happier than yesterday.
Walking through the muddy road up till my small shed, I saw Naaz standing at the door with the glass of water in her hands for me. I knew that my 13 year old would not sleep any day before I tell a bedside story. “My lovely betijaan”, I thought and smiled as I saw her looking at me from far. “Abbujaan, jooti pe jooti na rakha kijiye, bad bakhti hoti hai” (Father, don’t keep one slipper on top of the other, it brings ill luck). I laughed out and relieved her of her unknown fears. Tamanna, my wife was killed in the Hindu Muslim riots when Naaz was only 8 years, and since then she was my reason to live and earn, my ‘Maqsad’.
Us ki Aankhon mein nazar aata hai saara jahan mujh ko,
Uske chehre pe sajta hua meri mohabbat ka noor hai,
Tu na hoti toh kahan itni raushani hoti, betijaan,
Mujhe aaftab se bas itni si shikayat hai"
She had no Hindu friends in Hanumangadhi and was living a life devoid of any playful recreation. As she slept following the bedside story that I told her, that was about riches and a blissful dreamy life, I decided that I would send her off to her Khalajaan (Maternal Aunt) for Id in Faizabad.
“Tujhe Idi mein main doonga ye dupatta hara,
Mere rangon mein woh baat nahi jo Allah ke rang mein hai”
“Miyan Allahrakha, aaj savere savere itne dupatte rang diye?” (Allahrakha, you have coloured so many muslins already early morning). I smiled as Laxman, the corner chaiwala called out to me from his old shanty next to the Janki temple. Diwali was nearing and the not just the village ladies but the whole town was enthusiastic about wearing new clothes. My colours were famed and consequently I had almost 150 orders every day. Shopkeepers were making money, streets were full of diyas and glossy Lakshmi idols. I was working day and night that week for making timely deliveries. My hot water tubs were always full of colourful dupattas, their colour intact. I could not afford one upset customer in Hanumangadhi, my colourful town.
Id was a day before Diwali and I had remembered that I had to take Naaz to her Khalajaan for her to be able to attend the festivities. One day before Id, I had given her a nice hara dupatta (green muslin) for her to go with her chikan kurta. The bus to Faizabad reached right on time in the morning to Hanumangadhi bus stop and we got dropped safely. This time around, I only wished for Allah’s blessings to Siya for her happy wedded life. Fatima, my wife Tamanna’s sister had sacrificed a lamb on this Id for the goodness in the family. After dua and namaaz, I packed some of the Kheer and Lamb meat for myself in a tiffin and started off back to Hanumangadhi. Back at the town, Siya was the first to greet me “Allahrakha Bhaijaan, Id Mubarak”. I patted her shoulder and handed her over the tiffin of Kheer with lots of blessings.
Late in the night, I heard someone knocking at my door, “Raza, what happened?” I said as I opened the latched door to see my help Raza there. “Bhaijaan, Faizabad chaliye, vaapis” (Brother, go back to Faizabad). Before I could understand, he pushed me and latched the door behind.
I turned to the window to see it. One and many lanterns at the end of the forest. I looked closer. The mob. The dust storm had made them look like the Raavan sena I had read in the Mahabharat. They had lathis in their hands. Some of them with rifles. They were closer than I thought. I could hear their loud voices now. Sounds of their marching feet, coming towards me. Growing louder now.
“Jai Bajrang Bali”.
Did it look like they would listen? I will tell them I am their own. Siya’s Bhaijaan. I am one of them, yes. Allahrakha, the Rangrez. “Raza, open the door”, I said slowly to Raza and saw him unconscious. It was the night of Diwali. The festival of lights. They were a few feet away now. From the window, I could see their eyes strikingly red, with death dancing in their eyes in the name of religion. Closer now. My little shed, my house could fall down with their loud shrieking voices alone. And my heart broke to see them wearing my colours, the saffron, the red. Don’t hate me for my religion. Love me for I love you.
I closed my eyes,
“Meri marne se pehle ek hi khwahish hai,
Mujhe mere khoon ke rang se na yaad rakhna tum,
Mere ghamgeen lamhon se nahi thi meri zindagi,
Mujhe hanste hue chehre se yaad rakhna tum”
