The Heart Is a Shifting Sea Page 30

  People in the city had always talked about the differences between Hindus and Muslims. There wasn’t a time that anyone—even the hunched old men and women in the market with their canes and lathis—could remember when that hadn’t been the case. This had been true even centuries ago, under the early Hindu and Muslim kings. But while there had been battles, there had also been intermarriage. The peak of the violence was undoubtedly Partition; nothing before or after was so bad, though there had been eruptions of violence since.

  Now, after the beef ban, journalists warned the country could erupt again. Conversations took on a different quality; people said hateful things aloud they would have only thought privately before, and said them louder. They no longer seemed ashamed of their prejudice.

  It wasn’t like that with Christians. Hindus mostly found Christians unobjectionable, and Muslims like Shahzad and Sabeena saw Christianity and Islam as close cousins. After all, both faiths descended from Abraham, believed in one God, and saw Jesus as a prophet.

  But, like many Muslims, neither Shahzad nor Sabeena could wrap their mind around Hinduism, with its earsplitting holidays and many gods, though they knew that Hindus and Muslims shared some practices and beliefs. Among them was the idea of the nazar, or the evil eye. To get rid of the nazar, Hindus burned chiles, while Muslims read the Quran. But Sabeena warned Shahzad that the nazar was far more important to Hindus. She reminded him that they had received a fatwa from the leadership in Saudi Arabia instructing them not to worry about superstitions anymore. Putting the right foot in front of the left, for example, which was said to be a tradition of the Prophet, was no longer compulsory. What was important was to attend to namaaz five times a day.

  But Shahzad had always been unable to resist the pull of superstitions. He had always worried about some black mark on his life and felt that the many healers and hakims in the city could help him. For years, he had gone to see a black magic priest at Khar Station named Mamoo, who had studied in the jungle for thirty-six years, and who was said to have special powers. Years ago, Shahzad was certain Mamoo had cured his sister of stomach cancer with water he’d blessed. Next month, for the first time, Shahzad was going to see the old priest at his home, to talk about Dharavi and his performance problems. The home of a priest. He could hardly believe his good fortune. But since he’d moved into the fancy new apartment, he had almost begun to expect the extraordinary.

  When Shahzad arrived at Mamoo’s apartment, he was amazed at the humble surroundings. The old priest lived in two small, bare rooms in the Byculla neighborhood, not far from the market. If he took money for his services, he would be rich, thought Shahzad. Instead, the priest worked as a tomato seller by day, not caring that few people knew of his powers.

  Though he was older now and a little bent, Mamoo still wore his trademark beard without a mustache, a black topi, and white kurta pyjamas. And though he was unwell, his calm, warm demeanor had not changed. Only his teeth had drastically altered since Shahzad first met him. They had become darkly stained by paan.

  Shahzad had come to ask Mamoo for good luck before a final meeting with the builder in Dharavi. It looked as if the deal would be finalized, but still Shahzad wanted the priest to bless and give him water, from which he could draw power. But the old man had other plans.

  Sitting on his bed, Mamoo motioned for Shahzad to sit across from him. He took out a stack of tiny pieces of paper, each covered in Arabic script. For several minutes, he wordlessly shuffled through them.

  “Kya hai?” Shahzad finally asked, impatient.

  Mamoo did not look up. The papers, he said, had writing on them from a djinn.

  “From a genie?” Shahzad asked. Djinns had extraordinary powers; the Quran said they were supernatural creatures created “from the fire of a scorching wind.” It was also said that djinns, which were born good or evil, could alter the course of human lives. Though they were invisible and lived far away, sometimes men could contact them. Shahzad assumed Mamoo had learned to reach the otherworldly while studying in the jungle.

  Finally, Mamoo chose a slip of paper. He studied it for a long moment and, shutting his eyes, blew on it. After a beat, he handed it to Shahzad.

  “What does it say?” Shahzad asked.

  “Hold it in your hand,” Mamoo said, “and close your fist.”

  Shahzad obeyed. A minute passed in silence, and then another. Mamoo got up from his bed, spit some paan juice out the window, and came back. He watched Shahzad until suddenly Shahzad’s whole body shook. His eyes opened wide. “I felt it.” Shahzad’s voice cracked with elation. “A burst of energy. It was trying to move upwards in my palm.”

  Mamoo nodded in approval.

  “Now will my property be a success?” Shahzad asked.

  The priest shook his head noncommittally. “I’m praying that everything goes all right.” He got up again and spit more paan juice out the window. He slapped Shahzad on the head, twice, and ushered him toward the door. Shahzad held the paper tight.

  “Thank you,” he said, pressing a pile of rupees into Mamoo’s hand. The old man nodded, took them, and shut the door.

  That afternoon, Shahzad took a taxi to Bhendi Bazaar to buy a pouch for the paper. He wanted to wear it around his neck like a tawiz. Among dozens of drabber styles of pouches, he chose a gold, glittery one. This is a magical blessing, Shahzad thought, and deserving of a beautiful vessel. He thought even Sabeena would approve.

  * * *

  It was pouring the night of Mahala’s ninth birthday, the kind of slanting rain that rendered umbrellas useless and sent the city’s stray cats hiding, mewing, under the tarps of shanties all night. Farhan and Nadine prepared for a big turnout anyway, putting up streamers, strings of glitter, and a Barbie-themed “Happy Birthday” sign. Mahala danced around the room in excitement, wearing a tulle dress, heavy earrings, and a little makeup she’d begged her mother to let her put on. Her head was uncovered, because she hadn’t reached puberty yet. But at school, even some of the older Muslim girls were choosing to go without headscarves.

  As the last decorations were hung, Shahzad and Sabeena arrived, and then Mahala’s cousins, the neighborhood children, and her school friends. Despite the rain, everyone had dressed in their best kurta pyjamas and salwar kameez. The girls told Mahala she looked just like a princess.

  Farhan put on old Hindi music, and the adults murmured in appreciation. But the kids soon shouted, “Turn it off, this is bakwaas music.” Farhan distracted them with party masks, hats, chips, candy, and cake. “Happy Birthday Mahala,” the cake read in curving letters, thick white icing on milk chocolate.

  After cake, the kids commandeered the computer. Mahala changed the music to Honey Singh, a Punjabi rapper whose lyrics many parents disapproved of but whose music every child in Mumbai seemed to know. The children tried out the latest gyrations from Bollywood and looked to Mahala for approval. Taheem sprayed Silly String on his sister, and the girls giggled with delight. Farhan soon changed the music to “Ring Around the Rosie.”

  Some of the adults joined the children in dancing, but not Shahzad, who had been tasked with videotaping the party, and stood smiling shyly in the corner. And not Sabeena, who sat on the couch silently watching. When Mahala tried to get her to dance, she only shook her head. Women were not supposed to dance in front of men.

  “Come on, buddhi ma.”

  “No, no,” said Sabeena, smiling, and folded her arms across her chest.

  Sabeena had never understood celebrating birthdays. Every person has a limited time on Earth, given by God, she thought. Why celebrate one year reduced? Sabeena believed that people should celebrate only weddings and births and engagements—the beginnings of things, not the endings. But she couldn’t help smiling at her niece’s antics.

  When the party finally wound down and most of the guests left, Mahala was not ready to stop dancing. “Come, come,” her father said, gently. He turned the music off and cleared his throat. Only the immediate family was left.

 
; “Actually, as you know, celebrating birthdays is a Christian tradition,” Farhan said. “And some hard-liner Muslims said we shouldn’t do it.”

  “Here he goes, giving gyaan,” said Nadine.

  Farhan continued, “But they’re just trying to ruin things. Our family is liberal. Why not provide fun for the kids?”

  He added that when he was young his father would bring home a small cake and watermelon juice for his birthday. Now, birthday celebrations were much larger. But that was okay. “Actually, there used to be many more guests at these parties, before our property dispute.”

  “Bas, bas,” said Nadine, hushing him.

  For months, Farhan had been upset about the situation in Dharavi and the divisions in the family. That afternoon, though, a check from the builder had cleared. The deal had gone through. It was an advance on the money, not a life-changing amount, but enough to feel like celebrating.

  And there was much to celebrate in their beautiful new flat, on Mahala’s birthday, surrounded by family. Even Shahzad’s mother had come to the party and clapped her hands to the music from her wheelchair. Everyone had seemed in good humor: Farhan’s wife, Nadine, who put aside her usual criticisms for the day; Shahzad, holding the camera like a shy new father; and Sabeena, who didn’t approve of these celebrations but was smiling as she left the party.

  Sabeena had begun to notice the many changes taking place among Muslim women in the city—that women were choosing to work and not to wear the veil, that some were even choosing not to marry. She thought they must be getting their ideas from TV and online. Maybe even Mahala wouldn’t marry. Shahzad’s niece in Qatar, a successful doctor, had no interest in a husband. And a client of Shahzad’s named Zora, who was fair and beautiful and ran a successful hair salon downtown, was forty and still unmarried.

  Zora was modern in other ways. She wore T-shirts and jeans and kept her head uncovered, with a dyed streak of purple in her hair. Her salon was unisex, which meant men came there for treatments and were also employed as beauticians. Sabeena did not know what to make of this. Zora’s landlady, a Wahhabi, or fundamentalist Muslim, had a stronger opinion. When she visited Zora at her flat, she liked to comment on her wayward lifestyle, saying, “Men should not touch or see women’s hair,” or “Going without the hijab is like germs getting into uncovered fruit. This is like how men pollute women by looking at them.” When the landlady visited, she wanted Zora’s TV switched to the Islamic televangelists from the Gulf.

  Zora would listen politely to this criticism but then say, in an even tone: “This is my business and I cannot pick and choose.”

  Shahzad was helping her find a new flat for her and her mother. Her and her mother, Sabeena thought, with some measure of pity. Zora was going to be an old maid. Sabeena thought any husband was preferable to living and dying alone. Even a husband who was bimar in the head and the heart. The Quran told her: “And of everything We have created pairs.” To Sabeena, an unmarried life was not a life at all.

  And though Shahzad still made silly mistakes, like pressing the up button on the elevator to go down or leaving his medical documents on the floor like trash, he was much better than he used to be. People commented about him less. He spent less time washing his hands. Sabeena saw clearly now that life went up, went down, and came up again. The key was to accept this. And since moving into the new apartment, it seemed that their fortunes were picking up. There was an Arabic proverb that went: Contentment is an inexhaustible treasure. Now, she thought she understood what it meant.

  And soon it was Bakri Eid, and all the excitement that came with it, the holiday that celebrated Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.

  As the story went, God had asked Abraham to offer up his most beloved possession. Though it pained him greatly, Abraham agreed to give up his son for sacrifice. At the last minute, the boy had vanished, and a goat appeared in his place. It had been a test of Abraham’s love for God, who never intended to take his son away.

  Shahzad loved the Bakri Eid story, in part because Abraham’s wife had reportedly given birth to her son when Abraham was one hundred years old. One hundred! Shahzad thought. Wah, incredible. It gave Shahzad hope he could still be a father, perhaps after all the Dharavi money came through. After all, he was only fifty-five.

  He also loved the holiday because of the sacrifice of the goats. Killing the goat was difficult, especially if the children of the family had grown attached in the weeks they cared for and fattened the animal. Last year, Taheem had sobbed for a whole day after the cutting. Shahzad thought this was why the slaughter was important. It was what true sacrifice felt like.

  This year, they received their goats only a few days before Bakri Eid. Their new apartment building, which was populated almost entirely by Muslims, had set up a dedicated space in the courtyard for cutting. In India, a Hindu-dominated country, a country of many vegetarians, it was important that the slaughter not take place outside. It was even more important this year, when Bakri Eid happened to coincide with one of the immersion days of the Ganpati festival. The same week that thousands of Hindus would walk toward the sea with their Ganesh idols, thousands of Muslims would slaughter goats as a sacrifice and distribute the meat to family and friends. To both faiths, it was a time of great religiosity. And with tensions growing under Modi, there were fears that violence would break out.

  Before Bakri Eid, the priest at Shahzad’s mosque told the congregation, “When you cut the animal, and Ganpati is also there, don’t go showing everybody, saying, ‘We have cut the animal, and here is blood.’ Don’t go showing, and saying, ‘We are Muslims, we have cut the goat, today is our Eid.’ We are not in a Muslim state. We are in the power of another state. So we should respect them also.”

  The night before the cutting, the goats bleated and cried so loudly that they could be heard upstairs. They stomped their hooves. They swiveled their heads back and forth nervously in the wind. There were more than a dozen goats tied up in the courtyard, all with different-patterned coats: splotched tan and white, black with white spots, white with black spots, or the color of café au lait. They had straight horns and curled ones, big eyes and small ones, thick beards or no beards at all. They were almost all a little fat. As they cried through the night, Shahzad thought it was as if the goats knew what was going to happen. He was glad they lived in a Muslim neighborhood, so that the Hindus could not hear. Their crying lasted all the way until morning.

  The next day, everyone in the joint family rose early. The men went to the mosque for prayer, and the women prepared a light breakfast of toast and butter and jam. Taheem and the other children in the building grew boisterous, jangly with anticipation.

  It was the first year Shahzad’s family could afford to get two goats, each for a hefty twenty-one thousand rupees, plus three thousand more to pay the butcher. Some families did the butchering themselves, but Shahzad and Farhan both thought that was not right. The slaughter must be done swiftly and properly so that it did not hurt the animal. The man wielding the knife also had to be careful with the intestines. One wrong cut and it could ruin all the meat. Only a butcher knew the proper way.

  Outside in the courtyard after prayer, Shahzad and Farhan waited with the other men for their butcher and their goats’ turn. Some were kind to their goats, petting them soothingly, while others were rough, pulling them hard by the ear. Several children tried to bring their goats inside, but an adult tsked them, saying, “Saf nahi, jao.” “It’s not clean, go away.” There were three sections in the courtyard: a tarp-covered area at the back to cut the goats, a roped-off section to skin them, and an open area at the center where the men could stand and watch. Taheem, who had come down after breakfast, walked nervously from one section to the next.

  As they waited, a fat, sweating man announced that he wanted to kill his own goat. He had only a dull knife. As he started, he cut the wrong part of the neck. It was clear he did not know what he was doing. Farhan, who stood nearby, admonished him: “Cut the heart.�
� When the man did not, Farhan took the knife to finish. The goat died slowly, making a bleating sound that turned into a squawk and, after much gasping, into nothing at all. “The whole point is that the animal should not feel any pain,” Farhan said later, his voice tinged with regret. “That’s the way the cut should be done.”

  Shahzad was also disappointed in the man. It seemed to him that there were an unfortunate number of Muslim men like this who didn’t understand religion. At Mecca the day before, hundreds of people had been killed in a stampede. It had been a hot day, and many people had pushed and shoved to throw the stones that hit Jamarat—pillars that represented the devil. After that, the stampede had begun. Shahzad thought that people sometimes became excited because they wanted to be seen as the most religious. That was not the way to show your love to Allah, he thought. When he read about extremist Muslims, he thought their problem was much the same. But perhaps these people had not had the benefit of growing up the way he did.

  Many extremists, he knew, were not raised in a multicultural, multireligious country like India, a democracy with a free media that showed ads with Hindus and Muslims eating side by side. Most did not grow up in a mostly tolerant, cosmopolitan city like Mumbai either. And it was unlikely their priests were becoming more liberal or flexible the way his were. For all his concerns about being Muslim in India, he was often grateful he lived there instead of the Gulf. He was especially glad he did not live in Pakistan or Saudi Arabia, where he had heard rich men paid huge sums to take young girls as their wives. He heard that after they fulfilled their lust and desire with them, they said talaq three times and moved on.