Baqri Id

Asif Anwar always woke up a half hour before the local loudspeakers began the first namaz. Hameeda and the three children would still be asleep. Asif was accustomed to move around the house in the pre-dawn dark without disturbing them. His house was small enough, and his habits tidy enough, for him to know where to find the water jug or the prayer rug without switching the lights on. This was the quietest hour of the day. Once namaz was over, the sun sneaked in through the blinds and the street noises began. The daily routine made Asif think it was all part of a script written by Allah.

But today was different. He woke up at a sound that he initially thought was made by Abdul, his youngest son. Why was he laughing in the middle of the night? Asif got up and realised it was not Abdul who was making the sound, but the goat outside. The white goat which was tied to the terrace grille. Asif went to the terrace and patted it. His patting palm felt the healthiness of the goat’s torso. Indeed this one weighed a little over sixty kilos. Only one and a half year old and more than sixty kilos. Year after year, they were becoming expensive. This year, Asif had paid thirteen thousand rupees for it, at two hundred rupees a kilo. It was in bad taste to bargain when buying an al-qurbani for Eid al-Adha. But this wholesome white creature was good value for the money spent. As per custom, Asif would distribute twenty kilos to the poor in the neighbourhood, give twenty kilos to his cousins, and keep twenty for his own family.

The white goat had been bought three days earlier. Bilal had painted his horns blue, and put a traditional pink mark on its back. Abdul had made a colourful necklace that shone even now- in the morning dark. The terrace floor was littered with leaves, broken branches and grass. The goat had little else to do but chew leaves whenever it was left alone. The last two days, Asif’s children had played with it. Abdul had tried to ride the goat as if it were a horse. His riding and falling were both delightful, and his friends had laughed. Now with the morning near, the goat apparently longed for the children’s company once again. Did it sleep in the night? Asif wanted the goat to rest well before slaughtering it.  

Asif checked his watch and decided not to go to bed again. Anyway, today his first namaz would happen in the masjid. He once again patted the goat’s back. ‘You sleep, it’s too early’, he said to the goat. The goat, not understanding what was said, bleated again. Asif left the terrace and entered his bedroom. From the cupboard, he took out the new white dress – an embroidered one – and kept it gently on the sofa. Hameeda had pressed everybody’s new clothes.

In an hour’s time, brushed and bathed meticulously, he was ready to leave the house. Wasim and Bilal shared the other bedroom. They must be still asleep. Asif switched on the small light to watch his reflection in the cupboard mirror. The round white cap and the long ironed clothes made him look funny, but they also made him feel the festive mood. Dhu al-Hijjah was a sacred month, and Eid al-Adha was its most special day. He sprayed scent on his clothes and wore his silver ring. Later in the morning, his three sons would wear similar clothes.  Asif’s cousins would arrive at noon, to join in the feast.

Asif noticed Hameeda get up from the bed.

‘No need to switch the light off’, she said, ‘I am awake. I couldn’t sleep well; the goat was making all those sounds in the night’.

‘It’s only tonight’, said Asif. ‘Please see if the goat can sleep a bit, and ask the children not to play with it. It gets too excited. They say it’s better if the goat is well rested. I’m going for the prayers. Get everyone ready so we can have breakfast when I come back.’

The masjid was not far. But as custom required Asif took a different and longer route to go to it. He would use the normal route on his way back. Night had ended, but the street lights were on. The wind blew onto his body, but it couldn’t affect his starched clothes. Asif softly chanted takbir all the way to the masjid. Outside the masjid, groups of men wearing round caps and lengthy white dresses hugged one another and wished Id Mubarak. Roads were empty of vehicles, making the festival spirit even stronger.

By the time he returned from his prayers, his family was ready – at the breakfast table.

‘Let’s finish breakfast, we want to go out and play’, said his sons.

They all looked good in their new clothes. Wasim, the eldest, looked particularly handsome. Only last month, a thin moustache had appeared on his face. How the years pass by; Asif thought. Soon we’ll have to find a dulhan for him.

Asif and Wasim ate seven dates each, and the others five. Breakfast was light, more ritualistic.

‘Don’t eat too much before lunch’, Asif said to his sons. Hameeda had promised to make mutton biryani today.  ‘Today’s lunch is going to be delicious. And don’t start playing with the goat again. You should all go out now’, he shouted looking at the terrace. Little Abdul was trying to shake hands with the goat. Bilal was watching it and laughing.

‘Listen, it’s not a dog. It’s a goat. You can’t train him’, Asif said.

‘No, see, it’s giving me a handshake’, said Abdul, holding the front leg of the goat.

Asif went to the terrace with a raised hand, and drove away his sons. He pushed the remaining leaves and grass close to the goat’s legs. The goat briefly bent its head, took a few leaves in its mouth, chewed them and bleated loudly.

Two of Asif’s cousins arrived first. They met Asif on the terrace, heartily embraced him and wished Eid Mubarak.

‘What a lovely goat’, they said, staring at it.

As if to acknowledge that, the goat gave a bleat of delight. It was happy in human company.

‘Why don’t we move inside the house’, said Asif. ‘I would like to sharpen the knife.’

All of them moved to the kitchen. Asif sat on the floor and placed the grinding stone in front of him. Taking the foot-long knife in his hand, he began honing the knife’s edge. With his hands engaged in the rhythmic movement, he continued to talk to his cousins. Every few minutes, he tenderly touched the knife’s blade with his finger and then went back to sharpen it. This particular knife was used only once a year, on the day of Eid al-Adha. Although washed after every use, the blade had a reddish tinge on it.

Wasim entered the kitchen.

‘Abba-Jan, when are we planning to have lunch? I’m already hungry’, he said, ‘I’ve met everyone I was supposed to meet.’

‘Why don’t you help me with this’, said Asif to his son. ‘You are now an adult. In a few years you’ll be doing this yourself.’

Wasim took the knife from his father’s hands and sat next to the grinding stone. His young hands moved more energetically.

‘That may be enough’, Asif said finally, coming closer and testing the blade once again with his finger. He could hear the sound of children playing cricket on the road.

‘Since Bilal and Abdul are out, let’s get going now. Wasim is hungry, I’m sure you are as well, he said looking at his cousins. And Hameeda’ll need time to cook the meal.’

The cousins nodded.

‘Let me find… here it is… I wear this every year…’ Asif wore the long apron to cover his white dress. ‘I suggest you stand behind after you hold it down, so that your shirts don’t get spoilt. Wasim, you please take a bowl of water.’

Asif hid the knife inside his apron. He went to the main door and locked it. ‘Don’t come to the terrace and don’t open the door for children’ he warned his wife. ‘We’ll try to do it as fast as possible, so that you can start your cooking.’  Followed by his two cousins and Wasim, Asif entered the terrace. The goat, bored of chewing leaves, looked at them and made another high-pitched sound. It was time someone played with it.

Wasim put the bowl of water in front of it. The goat happily drank it.

‘Good. Now we’re ready. Take that rope in the corner and tie its legs.’ The cousins did as told. The goat thought this was some kind of game and shook its legs playfully. The sun shone in the centre of the sky. The sky above the terrace was blue, cloudless. The only sound one could hear was the playing children’s clatter and occasional firecrackers.

‘Wasim, you hold it down… down on its left side… yes, like this. And the head should be in that direction… facing Qibla… yes that way.’ The goat issued another high-pitched bleat. Its head tried to turn back to watch those holding its legs.

‘I’ll make a single cut… here’ Asif said pointing to the goat’s throat. ‘… and the blood will flow all over that side. All of you stand behind. You need to be careful, sometimes the blood can splash. It’ll bleed for two or three minutes. Then we can take it to the kitchen and start cutting. Make sure all the blood is gone before we remove it from here. We’ll clean the terrace once Hameeda starts cooking.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar’ all of them began chanting. Asif took the knife from inside his apron. He looked at the goat’s throat. He decided the point where he should apply the cut. He put his hand on the goat’s head and raised his arm holding the knife.

All of a sudden, he felt that hand twisting. His eyes closed. Asif felt his body turn upside down and rotate. He wished he could stop that involuntary movement but couldn’t. It was as if his whole being was getting sucked inside a whirlpool. He was losing himself and was worryingly aware of it. And then he felt it. He felt the presence of Allah.

Allah can’t be seen. Allah can only be experienced.

‘Don’t worry; I want to communicate with you.’ Allah said. ‘You were chanting my name. I thought it was the right time.’

‘Bismilla Allah hu Akbar,’ said Asif, getting out of his stunned state, ‘O Allah, I’m at Your service. Please command.’

‘I don’t have to tell you,’ proceeded Allah ‘why you celebrate the Eid al-Adha.’

‘O Allah, yes, I know the story.’ Asif narrated what every Muslim knows since childhood. ‘You had commanded Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, to sacrifice his son, prophet Ishmael, peace be upon him. When they were moving towards Mina to perform this solemn duty, Satan tried to dissuade them, but did not succeed. As Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, was about to pass the sharp knife over his son an angel intervened, turning the knife upside down. The Prophet had shown his sincerity, and he was allowed to sacrifice a well-fed Ram in lieu of his son.’

‘Yes. That’s the story. And as I had expected you know it well. It happened more than four thousand years ago. The times were different. People were more sincere and angels more charitable. These days, angels are fewer. And I’ve decided to test the sincerity of my followers again.’

‘O Allah, You need to give the command. I’m at Your feet.’ Said Asif.

‘I want you to sacrifice your son, the one standing next to you,’ Allah said, ‘instead of the goat whose throat your knife is pointing at.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar’ said Asif, his tone that of a question.

‘Yes, you heard me right.’ Said Allah. ‘I want you to sacrifice your son, and not the goat.’

The next thing Asif heard was Wasim, his son, calling him by name.

‘Abba- Jan, are you all right? Please drink this water.’

Asif drank the glass of water. Drops of sweat had covered his entire face. He was sat on the terrace floor. The knife lay on his side. The goat, his legs tied, was kicking and screaming. Asif’s cousins looked at him, worried.

‘What happened, Asif? Your face became completely white. We thought you had an attack of some type.’ One cousin said.

Asif looked at Wasim who was standing two feet away. Asif’s eyes reluctantly focused themselves on Wasim’s neck. The skin was smooth and tender. Asif was surprised his young, well-built son had such a delicate neck. He took the knife from the floor, and gathering his strength stood up. He held the handle of the knife firmly, and looked at the sky. He said a prayer, but silently.

Bending down, he cut the ropes that had tied the legs of the goat. The goat bleated repeatedly, stood up, and ran inside the house. Wasim ran after him.

‘If you’re not feeling well, I can perform the duty.’ Said Asif’s cousin. ‘Allah will not forgive us if we don’t offer the qurbani that He commands.’  

‘I don’t have the courage nor the strength to offer the sacrifice Allah has asked for. I hope Allah can forgive me for that. I don’t want to deceive Him by offering something else instead. We will not sacrifice the goat. I’ll speak to Hameeda. We’ll see what to do about lunch.’

Saying this, Asif hurriedly rushed to the house. His cousins didn’t understand what was wrong with him. However, since he was the eldest member of their generation, they decided to abide by Asif’s wishes.

Ravi