Chotu.
That was his name. At least, that was the name he liked more. He had a better name though, but he was too small either to pronounce it or to understand its richness – Jamalluddin Muhammad. Chotu was 6 years old. His mother was a widow and begged all day outside Jama Masjid for a living. During the day, Chotu roamed around the Masjid gathering experiences; a few of them pleasant, most of them unpleasant and some of them shocking as well.
Just like Chotu, Jama Masjid has also had a good bit of experience. It has seen the downfall of the Mughal kingdom and the rise of the British rule. It has given shelter to innumerable freedom fighters during the freedom struggle, irrespective of their religious identity. Later still, it has stood tall the communal riot of 1992 when one of its predecessors Babri Masjid was pulled down like a paper house.
Jama Masjid is surrounded by a huge market. A market where you can get almost everything available under the sky. Starting from needles you have watches, key rings, bangles, bindis, motor-bike parts, peanuts, fast-foods, televisions, toothpastes, broomsticks, sunglasses and diamonds as well; you name it and you have it here.
One day, Chotu got attracted to the colourful sunglasses which were kept in the stationary shop outside the Masjid. He slowly went over to the shop, took one sunglass – bright red in colour, and started returning back – too young to understand the meaning of the word “Stealing”.
“Slap!” came the first blow from behind.
As he tried to get up from the ground and turned, another harder reddened his left cheek. By this time, he started crying, not because of pain or insult but mainly as a reflex action which God has given every child. Fortunately, his ‘Ammi’ was not far from the place and rescued him as soon as she heard the scream of Chotu.
After a few hot exchange of words with the shopkeeper, Chotu’s mother picked him up and took him away to the main stairs of the Masjid. Chotu was still crying. His mother took out a tiny paper bag untying it from the corner of her saree and started dangling it in front of Chotu’s eyes, with a meaningful smile on her lips. Like a flash, Chotu’s tears disappeared and the same smile appeared on his lips; with his eyes fixed on the paper bag.
“What is it Ammi?” asked Chotu, although certain of the answer.
“Moong-dal beta”, said she, “for you and yours friends”.
Now Chotu had some friends in the Masjid. The group of pigeons which used to roam around the big courtyard of the Masjid, were his best of friends. People used to feed them with yellow-rice and other stuff, particularly favourite to the pigeons. In comparison to those, Chotu’s ‘Moong-dal’ was neither a favourite nor fulfilling in quantity, but somehow these pigeons trusted Chotu more over others and easily came into Chotu’s small hands whenever he called them. Chotu even had all of them named.
“Pappu, see what Ammi had sent for you”, called out Chotu, “Munni, for you too”.
He took a handful of ‘Moong-dal’ in his right palm and spread it out for his friends. In an instant, his tiny palm disappeared among the group of half-flying pigeons and the next instant his palm was empty. Chotu felt amused. He started chatting with his friends, munching on his share of ‘Moong-dal’ and complaining about the ill-treatment that he had to bear a little while ago.
“That man there is Shaitaan. Beat me up for nothing”, he went on to his friends. “Ammi says Allah punishes all those who do wrong”, he said to his friends pointing towards the huge Masjid building. In his mind, he didn’t know the difference between Allah and Masjid. The great structure called for awe within him and he thought the Masjid to be Allah himself.
“Then why don’t Allah walk up to him and give him a slap?” he got lost in thoughts.
In 1656, ordered by Mughal emperor Shah Jehan, Jama Masjid, also known as Masjid-i-Jahan-Numa, was the result of the continuous, inhuman tedious effort of 5,000 labourers who toiled for 6 long years under the leadership of Ustab Khalil. Built on the Bho Jhala hill, the Masjid was constructed in the city of Shajahanabad keeping Red Fort as the prop. 25,000 worshippers can perform their prayers in the courtyard of this mosque. This mosque in Old Delhi, displaying both Hindu and Islamic styles of architecture, was built to replicate Moti Masjid at Red Fort in Agra. Legend says that the walls of the mosque were tilted at a certain angle so that if an earthquake occurs the walls would collapse outward. Not only do the Muslims come here to offer their prayers but also people of other religion to behold this great work of art. This huge pouring in of masses has resulted in this place as being one of the major targets for the beggars. The main stairs outside the Masjid can always be seen full of beggars of all ages and genders. Chotu’s mother was one of them.
Its been long that Chotu had gone to meet his friends and had not come back yet. Chotu’s mother was worried. Its almost 5 pm now and that lad had not come for lunch also. Chotu’s mother had been busy all day since it was a Friday and a lot of people had poured in to offer their prayers. Normally more people meant more business. Chotu’s mother set out in search of Chotu towards the main door of the Masjid. The Imam of Jama Masjid was coming from the opposite direction.
She asked him, “Imam saab, did you see my boy?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied with a smile, “he is near the pool.”
Chotu’s mother found Chotu observing intensely the people who have come to wash their hands and feet before offering their prayers.
“Ammi, why are they washing their hands and feet?” Chotu asked.
“Beta, these people have come to pray to Allah and they clean themselves before starting the prayer to show respect to Allah”, replied his mother.
“Ammi, I also respect Allah. Should I clean myself up too?”
“Of course, my dear. Someday I will teach you how to do that. Now lets go and eat something. You have not eaten anything the whole day.”
She promptly took him up in her arms and went back to the stairs. Making him sit on the stairs, she pulled out a packet of bread and a few sweets and started feeding Chotu, chatting with him incoherently. Few minutes later, Chotu started nagging.
“Ammi, not any more, please.” He went on, “I can’t eat anymore, please Ammi”.
“No beta, this last piece, please my dear boy, my little angel”, she tried to persuade him holding out the last piece of bread in her right hand.
Chotu stood up and started running towards the inner left corner of the courtyard, screaming, “Not any more! Not any more! Not any more!”
A sudden crash and a deafening sound pushed Chotu into the ground. He stood up seconds later, crying as his reflex action started overpowering him again. He turned back to find injured and bleeding people all around. He looked towards the stairs to see his mother, but only saw her right hand lying there, the last bread crumb still clasped in it. The Government later said that there were no mortalities and only thirteen were injured in the explosion. And there stood Chotu looking at the pieces of his mother’s dead-body. No… there stands Jamalluddin, looking at the stairs where pieces of his mother’s dead body laid twenty years before, planning to pay back. “How? By blowing away some temple somewhere perhaps”, he thought as he turned around and walked away…
Disclaimer: All characters, names and events depicted in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional and is not intended to hurt any moral, religious or sentimental feelings of any community, caste or person.
That was his name. At least, that was the name he liked more. He had a better name though, but he was too small either to pronounce it or to understand its richness – Jamalluddin Muhammad. Chotu was 6 years old. His mother was a widow and begged all day outside Jama Masjid for a living. During the day, Chotu roamed around the Masjid gathering experiences; a few of them pleasant, most of them unpleasant and some of them shocking as well.
Just like Chotu, Jama Masjid has also had a good bit of experience. It has seen the downfall of the Mughal kingdom and the rise of the British rule. It has given shelter to innumerable freedom fighters during the freedom struggle, irrespective of their religious identity. Later still, it has stood tall the communal riot of 1992 when one of its predecessors Babri Masjid was pulled down like a paper house.
Jama Masjid is surrounded by a huge market. A market where you can get almost everything available under the sky. Starting from needles you have watches, key rings, bangles, bindis, motor-bike parts, peanuts, fast-foods, televisions, toothpastes, broomsticks, sunglasses and diamonds as well; you name it and you have it here.
One day, Chotu got attracted to the colourful sunglasses which were kept in the stationary shop outside the Masjid. He slowly went over to the shop, took one sunglass – bright red in colour, and started returning back – too young to understand the meaning of the word “Stealing”.
“Slap!” came the first blow from behind.
As he tried to get up from the ground and turned, another harder reddened his left cheek. By this time, he started crying, not because of pain or insult but mainly as a reflex action which God has given every child. Fortunately, his ‘Ammi’ was not far from the place and rescued him as soon as she heard the scream of Chotu.
After a few hot exchange of words with the shopkeeper, Chotu’s mother picked him up and took him away to the main stairs of the Masjid. Chotu was still crying. His mother took out a tiny paper bag untying it from the corner of her saree and started dangling it in front of Chotu’s eyes, with a meaningful smile on her lips. Like a flash, Chotu’s tears disappeared and the same smile appeared on his lips; with his eyes fixed on the paper bag.
“What is it Ammi?” asked Chotu, although certain of the answer.
“Moong-dal beta”, said she, “for you and yours friends”.
Now Chotu had some friends in the Masjid. The group of pigeons which used to roam around the big courtyard of the Masjid, were his best of friends. People used to feed them with yellow-rice and other stuff, particularly favourite to the pigeons. In comparison to those, Chotu’s ‘Moong-dal’ was neither a favourite nor fulfilling in quantity, but somehow these pigeons trusted Chotu more over others and easily came into Chotu’s small hands whenever he called them. Chotu even had all of them named.
“Pappu, see what Ammi had sent for you”, called out Chotu, “Munni, for you too”.
He took a handful of ‘Moong-dal’ in his right palm and spread it out for his friends. In an instant, his tiny palm disappeared among the group of half-flying pigeons and the next instant his palm was empty. Chotu felt amused. He started chatting with his friends, munching on his share of ‘Moong-dal’ and complaining about the ill-treatment that he had to bear a little while ago.
“That man there is Shaitaan. Beat me up for nothing”, he went on to his friends. “Ammi says Allah punishes all those who do wrong”, he said to his friends pointing towards the huge Masjid building. In his mind, he didn’t know the difference between Allah and Masjid. The great structure called for awe within him and he thought the Masjid to be Allah himself.
“Then why don’t Allah walk up to him and give him a slap?” he got lost in thoughts.
In 1656, ordered by Mughal emperor Shah Jehan, Jama Masjid, also known as Masjid-i-Jahan-Numa, was the result of the continuous, inhuman tedious effort of 5,000 labourers who toiled for 6 long years under the leadership of Ustab Khalil. Built on the Bho Jhala hill, the Masjid was constructed in the city of Shajahanabad keeping Red Fort as the prop. 25,000 worshippers can perform their prayers in the courtyard of this mosque. This mosque in Old Delhi, displaying both Hindu and Islamic styles of architecture, was built to replicate Moti Masjid at Red Fort in Agra. Legend says that the walls of the mosque were tilted at a certain angle so that if an earthquake occurs the walls would collapse outward. Not only do the Muslims come here to offer their prayers but also people of other religion to behold this great work of art. This huge pouring in of masses has resulted in this place as being one of the major targets for the beggars. The main stairs outside the Masjid can always be seen full of beggars of all ages and genders. Chotu’s mother was one of them.
Its been long that Chotu had gone to meet his friends and had not come back yet. Chotu’s mother was worried. Its almost 5 pm now and that lad had not come for lunch also. Chotu’s mother had been busy all day since it was a Friday and a lot of people had poured in to offer their prayers. Normally more people meant more business. Chotu’s mother set out in search of Chotu towards the main door of the Masjid. The Imam of Jama Masjid was coming from the opposite direction.
She asked him, “Imam saab, did you see my boy?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied with a smile, “he is near the pool.”
Chotu’s mother found Chotu observing intensely the people who have come to wash their hands and feet before offering their prayers.
“Ammi, why are they washing their hands and feet?” Chotu asked.
“Beta, these people have come to pray to Allah and they clean themselves before starting the prayer to show respect to Allah”, replied his mother.
“Ammi, I also respect Allah. Should I clean myself up too?”
“Of course, my dear. Someday I will teach you how to do that. Now lets go and eat something. You have not eaten anything the whole day.”
She promptly took him up in her arms and went back to the stairs. Making him sit on the stairs, she pulled out a packet of bread and a few sweets and started feeding Chotu, chatting with him incoherently. Few minutes later, Chotu started nagging.
“Ammi, not any more, please.” He went on, “I can’t eat anymore, please Ammi”.
“No beta, this last piece, please my dear boy, my little angel”, she tried to persuade him holding out the last piece of bread in her right hand.
Chotu stood up and started running towards the inner left corner of the courtyard, screaming, “Not any more! Not any more! Not any more!”
A sudden crash and a deafening sound pushed Chotu into the ground. He stood up seconds later, crying as his reflex action started overpowering him again. He turned back to find injured and bleeding people all around. He looked towards the stairs to see his mother, but only saw her right hand lying there, the last bread crumb still clasped in it. The Government later said that there were no mortalities and only thirteen were injured in the explosion. And there stood Chotu looking at the pieces of his mother’s dead-body. No… there stands Jamalluddin, looking at the stairs where pieces of his mother’s dead body laid twenty years before, planning to pay back. “How? By blowing away some temple somewhere perhaps”, he thought as he turned around and walked away…
Disclaimer: All characters, names and events depicted in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional and is not intended to hurt any moral, religious or sentimental feelings of any community, caste or person.
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