Signed, sealed and delivered. Now inducted into Madrasa, a fully fledged pupil at the prestigious Jamia Madinatul Uloom previously known as the Baiturrahman and Jamia-Rahmania Institute of Islamic Theology (have fun pronouncing all that). The Headmaster was renowned in certain circles actually. I believe he was involved in Bangladesh politics, and an activist against their principle secular political party. I had heard of his many talks and conferences in conversation, on Bengali TV channels and in the Bengali broadsheet newspapers. He was jovially chatting away to Dad about how I was about to embark upon a noble journey of enlightenment, in a nurturing environment surrounded by hardworking pupils. Smh. But the entire time, his hand was on my shoulder as he steered me to my first class. Personally. Himself. Chaperoning me. That was the sparkplug of all the rumours. A rumour springboard if you like. Uncharacteristically jovial and showing human emotion, people started to suspect we were either kith or kin. How did he acquire that nickname? Waiting outside his office that day I signed the admission papers, I first caught sight of this huge body bounding down the corridor. He was like 6’5″, broad shouldered, and wore that long white thoub. On top of that was a cardigan and on top of that, a massive winter coat. The skullcap synonymous with Imams was draped with the red and white headscarf worn traditionally by Saudi Arabian men (but actually everyone adopts it). His feet were probably a size 7 and when he walked, his footfalls were not just audible, they were palpable. And the reverberation went through the ground and into the glass pane on windows, which quaked slightly, and into doors, that rattled slightly at the hinges. I mean, I upheld my end of the bargain; over the coming months whenever our paths crossed, or we walked toward each other along the long, loooong corridors, he would ever so unperceptively nod his head my way in greeting, no smile or teeth, just nod, I would drop on all fours and shuffle away backwards. Then it escalated. He actually didn’t reprimand me for forgetting homework, or mispronunciation in recitation class. The Arabic language is guttural where sounds are generated deep within the larynx. Perfection in enunciation takes time, but nothing that a little pain and confrontational teaching couldn’t fix, as was Bigman’s way anyway. And Afzal knew this more than most…

His feet were probably a size 7 and when he walked his footfalls were not just audible, they were palpable.

One day very early on in the year, we were in Qur’an recitation class but our huzoor (teacher) hadn’t shown. So thinking we were just going to chill for an hour, we were lounging about, cracking jokes, reading comics and playing hand-held game consoles. Feeling the ground quake in regular and quick succession, I paused, like a meercat poised on its legs…then we heard them. The characteristic footfalls. What was he doing here? He never came this way except for when… Bigman walked down the corridor of classes where first years were learning that morning. He walked past the lower set, OK, sure. That was right, some poor class was in for it this morning. He would no doubt enact his disciplinarian method of teaching on the poor middle set…he walked up to the middle set, and walked through the set, and then walked past the set. Shit. There were only 2 places that he could geographically go to from the middle set location. The washroom to his left, or to the only set of students remaining; the top set. My set. It was like slow motion as I saw his direction turn degree by degree….to face us. Before any of us had any time to conceal or hastily discard our leisure accoutrement, he bounded into the room and took his place in front of us in one smooth aerial show of acrobatics. Islamic teaching traditionally takes place with all seated on the floor, pupils in semi-circle facing the teacher. He beckoned us closer, and that’s when we saw out of nowhere he conjured a metre long ruler out from within his robes.

“Your teacher is unwell today so I will be delivering your class. You!”, bellowed Bigman, and he pointed at me. No, to my left, to Afzal. “Start with the alphabet”, again, bellowing. Why does he always bellow? The ruler suddenly rose up, like a cobra poised, and it hovered in the air, bobbing slightly to each letter Afzal enunciated. “Say the letter A’yn again”, Bigman interrupted as he leaned in closer, presenting his remaining good ear and with a pissed off look on his face. A’yn is notorious, difficult to get right as it comes directly from the middle of the larynx. No tongue or lips, just pure contraction of laryngeal muscles. You know like the sound zombie’s make. Afzal bless him, just had this natural inability to pronounce any of the letters from the middle throat correctly. Our usual teacher knew this and was working on rehabilitating Afzal. It was so painful to witness. Bigman raised the ruler, and with the tip, applied slight pressure on the cartilage ring just beneath his Adam’s apple. In medical vernacular we call it the cricothyroid membrane. The area is sensitive with nerve endings. “Say a’yn now, I want to hear it again”, Bigman instructed through terse lips, and Afzal tried again, but it was a flat ayn. More pressure seemed to be applied, because Afzal winced. “Can you feel where you should be making the sound? Yes? Right then, repeat it again, a’yn”, he said. A little whimper escaped Afzal as he tried again, and failed. Each time he was instructed to repeat the correct pronunciation, he failed. More pressure was applied, because I saw the ruler start to bend. What the actual flip was happening here? Tears welled up in Afzal’s eyes and his face turned red, probably from embarrassment more than pain. We all just stared, stupefied and petrified (like the spell). He tried to back away slightly from the ruler, but he was swiftly warned not to move. My throat started hurting in sympathy and the other pupils were fervently sounding out a’yn under their breaths in part because they knew their turn would come but also in part to aid Afzal. It was all I could do not to scream out in protest. Nope. Turns out it wasn’t all I could do. “Bigm-, I mean Huzoor, he can’t say any of those mid-throat letters because it’s genetic”, I croaked finally, leaning forwards gripping my bench tightly, my bottom off the floor. The room at that moment adopted a vacuum state; all sound was extinguished. Bigman’s black eyes cast their deadly gaze my way. With raised eyebrows, “Genetic? Is his incompetence hereditary then? I know his father, and he is not incompetent”, Bigman threw back at me. His eyes lowered themselves to the floor and then back at me again. I didn’t telling twice, heck I didn’t even need telling period. I sat back down, knowing full well that if I ever attempted to open my mouth again, I would feel the ruler go through it and out through the back. For Afzal the lesson continued until he burst out in snobs and collapsed onto his desk in exhaustion. “Tomorrow, that letter had better be pronounced with perfection”, Bigman warned him. Then I head a very quiet voice say to me, “Is incompetence hereditary in your family too?”. I couldn’t read his expression because he hadn’t worn one. “No!”, I retorted, this time in a louder croak, a slight frown to my forehead. But they immediately shot up into my beanie as it dawned on me, and the rest of the class, what just escaped my mouth. “Proceed”, Bigman barked, turned his good ear toward me and lowered his face in concentration; he was not going to miss a decibel. And with that, the ruler-cobra raised its edge, poised at my throat…”Alif, baa, taa…..A’yn”, uninterrupted, I arrived at the letter a’yn. Bigman’s head whipped up and round to face me, his mouth opened, he drew in breath, and said, “Again”, but this time the ruler remained where it was. “A’yn”, I repeated. “Mmm”, was all Bigman said, lowered his face and presented me with his ear again. The ruler-cobra was also lowering its edge. “Humza…Ya”, I finished the entire alphabet, all 26 letters, without a blip.

And with that, the ruler-cobra raised its edge, poised at my throat…“Alif, baa, taa…..A’yn”, uninterrupted, I arrived at the letter a’yn. Bigman’s head whipped up and round to face me, his mouth opened, he drew in breath, and said…

I answered back to Bigman. Word spread faster than wildfires in Europe. This was next level street cred. Later I would discover how the boys in all year groups now nodded their heads and smiled in corridors at me. Handshakes, appreciative slaps on the back, even a crisp packet offered to me at break time. Had I arrived finally, on my own merits? A few months had elapsed before we had Bigman again, this time it was languages. Bangla. Now, fortunately for me, Mum taught us siblings Bangla at home from a very young age. She taught all then neighbourhood hood-rats at our local neighbourhood centre in Fitzrovia actually. But with us, she ran a military operation with an iron will. Every holiday was spent learning Bangla. 10am to 9pm. We dreaded holidays in fact, because we always had to “Read”, Mum would instruct with one word. We had a song that we made up. It went “Read, read, read (middle octave), read, read, read (lower octave), all we ever do is (lower still), read (middle), read (higher), REAAAAAD (higher still). Thanks to mum, I was quite the proficient, and was at advanced level by age 11. This served me well with Bigman. He not only commented that my handwriting looked like type font, but my elocution was very good, I read with confidence and my translation was not half bad, and my spelling was outstanding. Here is a shout out to you Amma, my beloved mother, for making me copy out Bangla textbooks until my fingers bled and my hands seized with cramps into claws. I saw a tiny fleck of respect in his demeanour and expression. Now now, he was a man of faith and so was reasonable in how he rewarded good effort in the Islamic studies. But do mine eyes deceive me? Was that the teensiest, nano-scopic movement of the corners of the mouth? Did Bigman, no THE Bigman just crack an imperceptible smile? Was I wishful thinking? Was my subconscious biased? Probably.

It would be a full 12 months before familiarity presented itself and tethered me to Bigman forever. At home, the doorbell rang and as customary, I ran to open it. It usually always was me. Ask Sheuli’r amma  (Sheuli’s mum; a neighbour, one of Mum’s cronies, lives near our old flat) whose voice at Gordon Mansions would greet her first and most often on a phone call, or at the door. She will say mine. So expecting to meet someone at eye-level, I didn’t see anyone. That’s odd I thought. Then a rustling from below caught my attention. HOLY CRAP-what-even-is-that-omg-is-that-a-raccoon-eww-getr-it-out-of-here -, Oh. Unwrapping itself from its shawl and scarf was a crooked, doubled-over, wrinkly white-haired semblance of an old man. He wasn’t a vagabond; quite the reverse. Warmed, watered, and seated in the living room, I would discover he was in fact a well respected and much adored man whom had travelled widely across the Indo-Arabian lands, teaching in many Islamic institutions the up-and-coming scholars of that time. When he stood to go for a refreshment break, Dad also stood. And when he would return and take his seat, only then would Dad resume his seat too, but on the floor no less, legs folded, peering up with adoration and expectant eyes. Woah! This remnant of a man managed to tame my Father? OK, he had my ear. “This is my 4th Son/7th child, Jubeyr, and he has just commenced his second year at Madrasa under the tutelage of Bigman”, Dad introduced me. Dad didn’t of course say Bigman. Goodness no. But Bigman commanded more than enough respect not to refer to him by his name, ever. Kinda like Voldemort, only less slit-faced and snakey. Like, a lot less. The old man was telling us stories of old and something else…and something else…blah..blah…Sorry, I’m not being rude toward the man, it’s just that I eventually curled up on the sofa and fell into blissful slumber unaware of how the evening ended.

“Gather round, all of you”, Bigman signalled for assembly with an upward swirling finger a week later, after the noon prayer and all the worshippers had left. All except one guy praying two rows ahead of me and directly behind where Bigman sat facing us, hunched in such an acute angle of prostration that I was sure his rheumatism couldn’t possibly allow. The trifecta had decided for some reason to take the dreaded hot seats, the central 3 seats at the front row facing Bigman square-on. “I have here with me a very special guest, my very own huzoor, who is also my uncle”, he beamed. Bigman actually beamed, I swear I saw his face crack. And something like tumbleweed moved. The hunched, prostrating, rheumatic crooked bundle of robes rolled round and took seat at Bigman’s left hand side, my right hand side. It was him! The same doubled-over crooked man that visited us LAST NGIHT! No way. “Salaam alaikum, little one, how are you today?”, he greeted me with the customary Islamic greeting of peace and blessings, in his soft lulling voice (aha! So that’s how I fell into that slumber), and then took my hands in his and squeezed gently. My hand. Witnessed by all. Bigman, rightly so, looked bemused and then confused. The huzoor turned to his student and explained, “A week ago I was at this young man’s house visiting his father, whom I have known since his infancy due to our neighbouring villages and such like, you see”. Something registered on Bigman’s face, fleeting as it was, it was that sudden ‘ping!’ of a profound realisation. The old huzoor chuckled and addressed the assembly with a speech about something…something…blah..blah….it’s that soft lulling voice again. When I got home that day I politely asked Dad who on Earth that man was and what could possibly be going on that made Bigman look like he was caught with his turban askew or the back hem of his robe sticking into the back of his trousers? “So not only were we neighbours, but your Headmaster married one of my great nieces”, Dad concluded. OK first, yes, my Dad really was that ancient, and second, imagine that! I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you that Dad genuinely knew everyone and everyone somehow had some connection to Dad.

And something like tumbleweed moved. The hunched, prostrating, rheumatic crooked bundle of robes rolled round and took seat at Bigman’s left hand side

You would think it was all plain sailing from there wouldn’t you? Wrong. Even though Bigman’s shadowy persona of executioner and judge dissipated before my very eyes, what with his courteous demeanour toward me. And even more still despite the fact that, when Bigman’s only son came to visit our Madrasa during the holiday period of his own madrasa (his son didn’t attend our school, his dad’s own school, hmm…), Bigman asked me to show him round and play chaperone (he was a very pale and thin looking wispy unremarkable unemotional thing), the envy amongst the entire school  just concentrated and congealed. “Mijanur told me that Afzal told Mijanur he witnessed Rahi kick the bench in recitation class”, Shahi leaned in sideways slightly, and in hushed tones, much like a ventriloquist, confided to me in the freezing winter cold. We were in the great hall after the early evening prayer (in the Winter months the 3 middle prayers are almost back-to-back), the central heating was broken and a missing window in the high ceiling was letting in all manner of weather. I was still getting daggers from people even upto a month after Bigman’s huzoor came to visit, and these daggers were laced in hard and sharp icicles. “What the hell man, what is his problem? Rahi of all people? He hates me, always has done, and you said I was being dumb and paranoid”, I shot back. It wasn’t Shahi’s fault that the window was broken and rain or hale was falling on me souring my mood. But I couldn’t help but feel that he and Mijanur were blind to Rahi’s two faces. “He was like ‘who the hell does this guy think he is, coming in late to the year, gets special treatment cos he’s smiley and clever? And Imran asked me what Jubeyr’s favourite chocolate was at break. Imran asked, about Jubeyr! And now, he has relations with Bigman. Bigman!’”, Shahi disbanded with the ventriloquy in the end. Apparently he was ‘effing’ a lot during the rant, too.

So to conclude, my first year report card, if Rahi had his way, would have read ‘Favourite amongst the teachers and only two other peers, is related to the Bangladeshi nobility, related to Bigman, changed his socks everyday (which automatically meant I was rich) and co-ordinated his outfits (meaning I’m a snob), and was from a loving and happy family that owned a mansion in the West End of London’. Yeah, the others didn’t favour me very much, mostly because I suppose I had an ‘otherness’ quality about me. As for Afzal. the mispronounced a’yn plagued him for many, many many lessons to come. Sigh.

Oh yeah, Imran, you may be interested to know, was the Leader of the infamous Wolfpack.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…