The Final Messenger

Rehman was a reasonable man. His logic and rationale guided him like the North Star and his conversations were delicately measured beyond precision. He believed in the written word and seldom did he speak. He firmly believed that he was living in a world of fools where silence was conceived as ignorance. He smiled and mocked at his fellow mortals. A herd of mules he thought of them, bearing the burden of their own vanity and doltishness. Indeed an obnoxiously heavy burden to trudge all life. He felt sorry for them but it was momentary and it was soon conjured by a sense of self-pride and a supreme sense of disgust and hatred towards them. But why hate them? They don’t even deserve to be detested.

They should best be ignored but ignoring someone he thought also required effort. Hating someone came so naturally and effortlessly. So he settled with hatred and felt content and elated with the decision. Logic reigned over him. He was a slave bonded in chains never striving for freedom. He felt liberated being in captivity behind bars where he was the culprit, the warden, the jailor and the hangman. No one argued with him because he would destroy them like bombed cities, tear them into shreds and make mincemeat out of them. He was respected and revered upon and he was the reference point for lesser mortals.

It was no unusual day but he was vehemently disturbed. His mind was meandering the contours of argument, his eyes were still, his walk brisk, and his body agile and irritable ready to explode. He had spent the last two days in the library browsing over the dusty leaves of untouched books, getting ready for this evening. Another hour to go and he would demolish the twin towers of belief and myth to ashes, never to be retrieved. What a sorry sight it would be. Of all the arguments and debates, he was most fatally venomous in the religious ones - My god greater than yours, my faith stronger than thou and my messenger the most powerful.

He paced his room, looked at his watch and sat down on his bed impatiently. It felt uncomfortable. His mother hesitatingly peeped into the room with fear which had crept into her many years ago but had now embedded and cemented itself firmly like hard rock on a sea bed. His emotions towards her were guided by protocol and love emanated from the cerebrum. He was curt and blunt and never wasted a sentence without provision. He hardly spoke and whenever he did he was always the one who ended the conversation if one sentence from either side fell into the realms of a conversation. The relationship was strained and this had also happened effortlessly down the years. His life solely bordered on the quest of knowledge and he trampled on the heart to complete the journey towards the brain. He felt like Dr. Faustus, like Hamlet, like Joseph K and like Achilles. He was the hero, the tragic hero, the anti-hero and the fallen hero.

They had all planned to meet at Ajay’s place, a neutral venue for the debate but Rehman had no issues arguing at Keith’s house either. In fact, that would have been better he thought, defeating Keith in his own territory. This debate has been the cause for millions of deaths, jihad, terrorism, religious fundamentalism, fanaticism, communal violence and loss of innocence. This debate has been there for centuries – WHO IS THE FINAL MESSENGER OF GOD?

He looked at his mother who retreated into the kitchen like a meek bundle of flesh and bones. His adrenaline started pumping, his blood started revolting and he felt like a volcano ready to erupt and destroy the existence of whatever came its way. As he shifted aimlessly in his bed the maulana announced the call for the evening prayers, Allah ‘O Akbar. The faithful were supposed to bow down five times a day. Rehman was a practicing Muslim. He got up obediently, washed himself and rushed to the mosque. In complete submission, he went on his knees and his forehead kissed the ground but the anxiety overtook his daily practice. He rebuked himself, warned himself of the wrath of Allah and finally calmed down. Fear he always believed was the strongest emotion of all.

The maulana concluded the prayers, ‘As salam walekum wa rahmatullah’. He looked around to find the same familiar wrinkled faces. When would the youth get the right direction, he wondered? Rehman was in his late thirties and yet he was the youngest in the congregation. Four places to his right sat Anis Chacha, the oldest amongst all. He could hardly move or bend but he was always to be found in the first few rows of the jamaat. It was a matter of time that he would no longer be a part of the faithful. A very long time ago he too would have been young, playful, energetic and full of life and would have had a family but he had no one now. He existed alone like an old fort amongst its ruins. He just had The Almighty, but then what more could one ask for, thought Rehman as he looked at him objectively with no emotions as if he was staring at a crumbled wall.

The maulana raised his hands for thanksgiving in the last part of the prayers. As the faithful begged for forgiveness from The Almighty, a cry pierced the silence of the mosque. People anxiously looked around to fathom the unusual. It was Anis Chacha shouting out like a baby, “My mother, where are you, my mother?” The cries became louder and louder with bursts of silence to be interrupted again with a louder sob and cry. He wept, “My mother, where are you, my mother, come to me, my mother.” Tears rolled down Anis’s cheeks as he looked towards the ceiling and cried. Rehman looked at him thunderstruck yet frozen in time as the prayers got over. He watched Anis Chacha gather himself amidst his tears, limp slowly and shakily to the corner. He clutched the wall in vain and rested his forehead there and kept crying with whispers calling out for his mother. Rehman collected himself with a heavy heart and water-laden eyes and walked slowly towards his house staring at the ground.

His friends were waiting outside his house and he was cheered in a fashion which prophesized the victory that we were expected to enjoy in a short while. He forced a smile contrary to his nature and lied that he was unwell and said that he would have the debate some other day. He apologized and without waiting for an acknowledgment turned around and walked on. He lay in his bed staring at the ceiling which seemed like a canvas where he could see Anis Chacha crying. He closed his eyes but this was more painful as the vision became more vivid and unbearable. Tears rolled down his eyes warming his cold cheeks as his heavy heart sank. He opened his eyes and peered outside the room towards the kitchen, where his mother made chapatis. He looked at her with moist eyes and bit his lips to control the volume of his cries.

There she was – his prophet – his final messenger of God – his mother.