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shakil ahmed - My Blog
shakil ahmed - My Blog


Adhaan and men of clay
Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

It is four months since I took up residence here at Jogabai Extension, an out growth of the predominantly Muslim locality known as Zakirnagar .The outgrowth is said to be an unlawful encroachment on the dried up bed of river Yamuna. I stay in the ground floor, in a small room, of a two storey, un-plastered house built on fifty square feet of sand filled land. One of the doors of my room opens on traffic less street which is used by pedestrian cyclists and occasionally two wheelers as of now.

Ever since my stay here when ever I woke up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly. .

Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.


The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be perfect clay

I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed much younger to him.

Interestingly I found almost no lips muttering a prayer for the poor soul. A few days back a coffin bearing caravan had also passed that way then countless faces with down cast eyes had turned muttering prayers to bless the soul. Passer byes and shopkeepers and hawkers had lent their steps to earn the pleasure of Allah and honor the tradition of Prophet... It was a caravan of well-fed and well-clothed the size of which went on swelling till the procession reached the grave yard at the end of the road.

This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” I is because of their previous bad karma because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to think otherwise".



April 13, 2008 | 2:12 AM Comments  0 comments

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My earliest days
Related to country: Isle of Man

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

I was born in April. My mother delivered me at home in the small corner room over looking the busy road in a two story delapididated building, in a Muslim dominated locality in Kolkata the erstwhile British capital of India
It was a happy home, sweet home till I gained consciousness of immortal gloom that enveloped us and still stalks me from all side.
My father was not even able to bear school fees of Rs. 10/- because of big family consisting of 12 heads that included dependent aunt, and cousins.

I sat outside the office of principal, Aapa sat beside me. She had prepared me for the interview; I don’t remember the face of father. I remember hazily that he made me read from a colorful alphabet book. He talked to me English and probably asked simple questions. After coming out of the office, I narrated to Aapa what principal made me read and what questions he asked. Probably she was not happy with several of my answers.

My supervisor mam who was of dark complexion, young, middle height wore thick red lipstick on her lips and smelled with scent, would roam the lawns while children played, to see if any of us spoke in our native tongue। She always carried a wooden ruler. If any of the children, was found not speaking in english, she would impose a fine of six paisa. She would take the student to principal office to note down particulars. She was a dedicated supervisor with a remarkable memory.
She would keep a sharp eye on students: on our dress, manners, cleanliness and behaviors, inside the classroom and outside of it.

It was my cousin sister who got me admitted to Welland Gold Smith School, at Bow Street and helped me oft and on with expenses. I remember the first day in the school vividly. The assembly in the chapel was in full swing. I went running on the stage, interrupting the proceedings and told ma'm in my native language i/e Urdu: : "Main toilet jaaunga" She made me repeat twice or thrice: "May I go to toilet".
Then there was an uncle the proprietor of an optical shop. Everyday he would distribute chocolates to students who passed by his shop.
Our dress was blue pant and yellow shirt. Bhaijan: Aquil adopted son of my aunt or Haqqa chaccha, Osman bhai , a servant who was rather a family member, would fetch me from the school at 2pm.The school was in fact 10-15 minutes walk from my home.

One day Aquil bhai on way from school told me that they have bought kids at home. I was overjoyed and began to twist and jump with joy while walking along the sidewalk.

They were three kids, white, brown and the other a mixture of brown and white. The brown one survived. After one year or so it was stolen. The goat was tied to a lamppost below. I was quite attached with the goat and felt very sad for many days.


Boys could only study up to class 2 in the school so she got my school changed when I passed class I and got me admitted to Ling Liang English High School- at Phears Lane। It was a missionary school। It was the values I imbibed in my missionary Schools made me misfit in the present society I think, I am seeking and searching the same values everywhere।



There was and endemic problem to keep me in the school because of fees repeated default in payment of fees and accumulation, dress, shoes, books exercise books and of course my poor performance and bad hand writing and poor health because of malnutrition. Some of my teachers thought that I was suffering from some disease and would avoid close contact.
Nevertheless my neighbors and relatives thought that I was intelligent and good.
So at last I was taken out of Ling Liang school mid-way and admitted to an Urdu medium school. I loved my previous school inspite of all the trouble and worry and wept. But I never insisted my parents to let me there, because I felt pity on them.



April 6, 2008 | 9:49 AM Comments  0 comments

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Thought of home is painful
Related to country: India

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

The thought of my native place brings nightmares and depression so much that my stomach churns breathing becomes shallow my limbs become numb.It is 12 years or more I have not been home do know who is there and who is not.I am the most coward man in the world. I don't want to hear any news either. Life was a tragedy. The sight of a letter from home made me catches my breath. There was always a bad news and request to do something for my sisters and help for other problems. I am the eldest of all my brothers and sisters. I have changed my address several times. My breast is loaded and heavy and breathing shallow as I write this message. 10/21/07 by shah