Who’s the sinner?

July 31, 2005

By Amar Jaleel

It’s a very thin line that separates the sinners from the pious, but who really draws this line?

The pious and the faithful acquired a piece of land in Purani Basti, a thickly populated and congested locality of the town for erecting a mosque. Although there were a number of mosques in the vicinity, the management thought it prudent to provide a mosque next-door to the believers for offering prayers. Incidentally, the land they obtained for noble purpose was adjacent to the clinic of Dr Bhagwandas.

Dr Bhagwandas, a physician by profession, was born and brought up in the town. He had a dream that he never discussed with anyone, not even with his family. After earning his MBBS degree with distinction, he practised at Karachi for several years and establish his reputation as an excellent physician. He then moved back to his ancestral town and opened a clinic in Purani Basti, a godforsaken locality infested with filth and crimes. He charged exorbitant fee from the wealthy and the rich, moderate fee from the men with average means, and nothing from the wretched of the earth. He was so humble and down to the earth a person that all and sundry, including the law enforcers and lawbreakers, respected him.

The socio-political and religious scenario did not remain congenial for a long lime. Threats from the criminals, highhandedness of police, and kidnapping for ransom forced Hindu families to bid farewell to Sindh. They migrated to India, Singapore, Sri Lanka, Hong Kong and Thailand. Although in no way was Dr Bhagwandas threatened, his family caved in and decided to leave for India. Dr Bhagwandas refused to depart with his father, mother, a brother and a sister. His fiancee Nirmala too refused to stay back with him and to endure life in uncertain times. He was left behind alone.

Dr Bhagwandas had nurtured such a devotional love for his soil that it did not take him long to reconcile with his loneliness. He became more devoted towards the ailing humanity afflicted with numerous maladies. He extended generous help to the needy with material and medicines. He opened a primary school in the locality dedicated to the street children, and gave it a befitting name, Mumta School. Commitment and discipline turned the charitable school into an enviable educational institution.

My childhood friendship with Dr Bhagwandas has facilitated me to narrate intimate details about his life to you. He was a genuine sufi. Everything seemingly went well till the faithful and the pious acquired a piece of land adjacent to his clinic. They fastened knitted palm mats around bamboo poles, and put up a shanty mosque. They obtained a clumsy sound system with four loudspeakers. Apart from the Azan, calling out the people to come and attend congregational prayers five times a day, the management of the mosque extensively used the sound system for collecting donations from the neighbourhood. Their appeals blared out from the four loudspeakers at least twenty times a day.

Dr Bhagwandas listened to such appeals while going through his daily routine — examining patients, prescribing medicines, administering treatment, and bandaging the injured. He began to be seen very often lost in his thoughts. Some people opined the ear-tearing sound from the four loudspeakers distracted Dr Bhagwandas in his work. Some persons believed the doctor would wind up his clinic next to the mosque, and would treat the patients within the confines of his Mumta Primary School. They were not correct in their assumptions. It was something else that cobwebbed him in strange contemplation that he never discussed with anyone.

One day Dr Bhagwandas came to me late in the night, and asked, “Would you help me Begana?”

“Don’t be formal, Doctor.” I said, “Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Everyone is contributing towards the construction of the mosque.” Dr. Bhagwandas thought for a while, and then placed his briefcase in front of me, and said, “This is my donation for the mosque that I intend to contribute every month.”

He almost froze me with his utterance. I fumbled, and said, “But, Doctor you can only contribute towards the construction of a temple, not a mosque.”

He instantly asked, “Would it make any difference if I contributed?”

“Not to me at least.” I said, “If they ever came to know ...”

“They never ever would,” Doctor interrupted, and said, “You would contribute the donation on your own behalf.”

The nerve-wrecking saga of my taking a briefcase full of currency notes from Dr Bhagwandas to the managing committee of the mosque every month went on for almost two years. Only once the suspicious committee subjected me to a query.

“You don’t have a regular source of income, Begana.” they asked, “Is it stolen money or you have grabbed it in gambling?”

“It is someone else’s contribution.” I tackled the question, and said, “He desires to remain anonymous.”

“Is he an honest person?” They asked.

“He is more honest and clean than Dhani Buksh Darogho who helps you with money and material,” I said. Thereafter they never questioned me. The mosque was completed. I felt relieved that my arduous task was over.

What I have narrated to you is neither a story nor disclosure of a secret. It is my confession. In my contemplative moods I have often wondered who between Dr Bhagwandas and I is a sinner?