Chaar Farz

                                                                                                                       CHAAR FARZ



There is something about the sight of a mosque with all its serious faced, white attired uncles that hits a nerve with me. I was passing by one when the Asar call came. Considering that my gaze had not been lowered when it should be and my thoughts had been short of purity, I decided it was penance time.

I stopped beside the pile of shoes outside beside a preachy uncle full in shalwar kameez and a red beard to match. For all his typical attire, uncle preachy was wearing awesome shoes. I stopped my definitely feminine drooling over his shoes and continued to the wuzoo area. Squatted on the marble blocks I noticed that the men on either side punctuated each step with a loud sigh of Bismillah or Subhanallah or something else. I tried recalling those long ago lessons from the qari but frankly the wuzoo I had been taught was a pretty silent affair. The uncles spared me a haughty glance that made me want to retort it’s the house of God not yours, but let’s admit, God’s or theirs, I was a rare guest.

The prayer started and well continued. I resisted the temptation to turn around to check from the daylight to see whether it was really Asar or Isha or if I had missed the fact that Ramadan and traweeh had started. I recalled that long ago qari again and yes I’m pretty sure he said Fateha is followed by Surah Ikhlaas. The qari uncle in present situation must have been reciting Surah Bakrah.

The chaar farz I had come in to offer as my penance of the day finally ended. I waited for people to leave but they gathered closer to the maulvi. Reluctantly I followed. The maulvi looked directly at me and began his sermon (an activity I restricted to Fridays only). He began with cell phones (just as mine started to vibrate).

“ye maghrib ke saazish…”surrounding preachy uncles moaned painfully, some mutter Astaghfar, “ye gumrahi ka sabab…”painful mourn, “ye naujawan ke brbaadi, ye laadeen kr dene wala hathiar, ye…”the list went on till I was convinced that cancer had been the least of Steve Jobs’ worries.

The mourning shifted to television and then to cable and then to music and internet (he was on a roll their). All through this I stared at the ceiling or the sighing preachy uncles or the quickly turning red maulvi. Just as I flipped my cell to check the time, uncle mullah’s gaze zeroed in and from there on the lamenting shifted to me.

“My son must find interest in his mobile, who are we to interest him.” He turned to his circle of mourners to get their agreement that nodded and shook their heads at the same time.

“And when the prayer calls and the shaitan beckons in the form of the internet, my son turns to him and bends his knees to the computer.” The preachy uncles turn to me with sorrowful looks.

“And when his father is sick and his mother in pain and the TV beckons to him, he leaves their bedside and turns his eyes to the display of vulgarity….” This was interrupted by such a pain-filled sigh by the uncles I wasn’t sure it was on my watching it or their not being able to.

“And today he comes to the prayer dressed in the shaitan’s dressing,” the uncles wail as he mutters maghribi saazish, “He brings the shaitan in to the mosque, not knowing that the prayer won’t be accepted.” The uncles murmur, how can it, how can it. I stare at my Bon Jovi t-shirt and although it’s not the most appropriate…

“He flaunts music in the mosque, the heart blackened with sin, the ears deafened with the shaitan’s call…” Those pain-filled deeps mourn from the uncles again.

At this point I’ve had enough. I get up and as I do so the maulvi goes into a chant,

“Wo shaitaan ke ankh, wo jahanam ke aag, wo maghrib ke pukar, wo jahanam ka azaab.” His rant grows louder as I walk away and I feel myself becoming feverish as if actually nearing the gates of Dozakh.

For my chaar farz of penance I discovered I was a hopeless case, a goner, few years of this life and then an eternity of Jahanam. As I step outside to wear my battered sneakers (a maghribi ijaad also I am sure) I decide if jahanam it is, I might as well go in good shoes. I abandon my sneakers and wear the preachy uncle’s awesome shoes and walk out whistling.