Even within a kissa, many kissa remain hidden
By Debashree Chakraborty | Kolkata
A kissa always holds many other kissa within it. Telling kissa and finding new ones was her passion. And it was this passion that led to the end of everything.
Rahemat Begum turned to the side and looked out the window. Through it, she could see the Jama Masjid. People from far and wide came to this mosque. Sahemat Apa’s job was to rush to them as soon as evening fell. If asked, she would say, “Each of them is a farishta (angel). So many stories flow from their holy lips, and I write them down with the reed pen on the blank pages of my mind.”
Whenever Rahemat looked at the Jama Masjid, the characters from those kissa narrated by Sahemat Apa would come alive in her memory.
It was the month of Ramadan when frequent dust storms struck Delhi. One afternoon, as hot, dusty winds rushed in through the open window, turning the room white, Rahemat got up to close it. But Apa said, “It is during such storms that the farishta descend from Jannat (heaven) to the people.”
Though Rahemat didn’t believe all this, the holy month had a way of making her believe in things.
She went and sat on the rug in a corner of the room. Beside this room, there was another small one, with a concrete lattice between them. The shadow of the lattice fell on the rug, forming shapes of moons and stars. Apa sat among those moons and stars and began her kissa.
“Five hundred years ago, every mosque recorded births and deaths in its register.
In Yemen, a wealthy merchant named Abdul lived with his wife and three daughters. He was highly respected throughout the land. A generous man, he would give freely to the poor and performed Hajj every year. That’s why everyone called him Hajji Sahib. There was no other man as kind and noble as he.
For business, Abdul often traveled to Oman. The time I’m speaking of was also during Ramadan. Eid was near, and Abdul was returning from Oman with great profits. He intended to distribute wealth among the poor on Eid.
But Allah had a different plan for His beloved servant.
Even in those days, bandits existed. They learned that Abdul was returning with expensive goods.
Apa wiped the sweat off her forehead with her scarf and continued, “A bandit is always a bandit. To them, wealth is more valuable than a good man’s life.”
It was a moonlit night. The golden mountains of Yemen shimmered like topaz under the moonlight.
“Oh, what a sight, Rahmat! If you had seen it with your own eyes, you would have felt it,” Apa said.
Seated atop his camel, Abdul took in the mesmerizing view. On both sides of the road stood rows of pomegranate trees. The moonlight falling on the red fruits made them look like hanging rubies.
After a while, Abdul heard the sound of a waterfall. He knew this path well and recognized the source of the sound.
Turning right, he saw a piece of Jannat (heaven).
The Wadi Rumani River cascaded down the yellow mountains, crashing onto the plain below. The moonlight made the river appear as if diamonds and jewels were scattered in its waters.
Abdul dismounted and sat by the river for a while, enchanted by its beauty. He dedicated two lines of poetry to the queen of nature:
“If angels find the purity of water and read its history,
Every river would write a thousand years of stories.”
But not every death is beautiful. Only the fortunate have beautiful deaths.
And Abdul was among the fortunate.
From behind, he felt a heavy blow to his head.
Then, darkness.
The next morning, a group of tribal fishermen found Abdul’s lifeless, mutilated body by the river and informed the mosque’s maulvi. No one could believe that such a noble soul had met such a fate.
His death was recorded in the mosque’s register, like all others.
After Abdul’s passing, his family’s condition became dire. Their savings were running out, and his wife had no means to earn.
Eid approached.
Heartbroken, Abdul’s wife shed tears, remembering how her husband had once distributed wealth among the needy. Now, there was no one to even feed her daughters.
The little girls cried themselves to sleep from hunger. Exhausted, their mother leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
Just then, there were two knocks at the door.
The sound was familiar.
At first, she thought she was dreaming. But then she heard a voice:
“Bibi jaan, Bibi jaan! How long will you keep me standing? Open the door.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Her voice choked with emotion.
She opened the door and saw Abdul standing there.
Behind him, the entire neighborhood had gathered.
Everyone was overjoyed at Abdul’s return.
His return brought a new glow to Eid celebrations across Yemen.”
The storm had subsided.
The room felt suffocating.
Rahemat got up and opened the window, looking out at the Jama Masjid. A flock of pigeons had gathered on its domes.
According to Sahemat Apa, these were farishta.
Rahemat kept staring at the pigeons. Then she asked, “Is your kissa over, Apa?”
Sahemat Apa placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders and smiled.
“Does a kissa ever end so easily?”
She continued:
“Abdul’s return was joyous for his family and the people of Yemen. But the maulvis did not take it well.
They had buried him with their own hands—how could he return?
They began seeing him as a shaitan (devil).
Ultimately, Abdul and his family were exiled from Yemen.
But even this Abdul, like the former one, remained generous. He continued to perform Hajj every year.
He lived for another forty-five years.
It was all Allah’s will. That’s why, even after being killed, Abdul returned during the holy month.”
Night had fallen.
The pigeons had left the mosque.
It was the last day of Ramadan.
Outside, the markets of Chandni Chowk were bustling with Eid preparations.
Inside the dark upstairs room, colorful lights from the shops danced on the walls.
But this Eid felt colorless.
Rahemat’s chest tightened with emotion.
Her tears soaked her pillow.
Through sobs, she whispered a few words, though they were unclear.
The neighborhood had finished their prayers and gathered for dinner, but Rahemat couldn’t eat.
Every year, Apa would lovingly serve her sharbat.
But tonight, Apa wasn’t there.
She couldn’t think anymore.
She wrapped her scarf around her head, raised her hands, and prayed:
“Oh Allah, in return for my Ramadan, bring my Apa back to me, just as you brought Abdul back.”
Rahemat cried until she was breathless.
Then, a knock sounded at the door.
She didn’t hesitate.
The red and blue lights from Chandni Chowk illuminated the door.
It looked like the gate to Jannat.
As if the farishta were waiting outside for her.
She walked towards it, feeling the lights wrap around her.
She knew what awaited her outside.
She opened the door—
And found nothing.
Only the wind knocking.
No, this couldn’t be.
A faint sound of anklets.
She stepped out—
The street was empty.
The shops stood undisturbed, their decorations untouched.
But there, on the stairs, stood Sahemat Apa.
Wearing her beloved pink salwar kameez, she waved at Rahemat.
Just like she used to, when they were little, calling her to Salim Chachu’s shop for imli achar.
Rahemat could never resist that call.
Within it lay her Apa’s love.
She rushed down the stairs.
Sahemat Apa walked through the empty streets, heading towards the highway.
Rahemat followed.
Tonight, the roads were eerily empty.
But nothing in this world is surprising.
Everything is normal.
Like the dead returning.
Sahemat Apa stepped onto the highway.
As Rahemat followed, a blinding light rushed towards her.
She felt a violent jolt.
Then, she saw Apa, smiling at her.
Apa wasn’t looking at her—
But at something behind her.
Rahemat turned around.
On the road lay a body.
Split in two, crushed under a truck’s wheels.
Blood and flesh painted the pavement.
The truck drove off, leaving its mark.
A hand touched her shoulder.
She turned back.
Apa was smiling.
“My innocent sister,” she said.
“Now do you understand?
Even within a kissa, many kissa remain hidden.”
Read: Ghosting and Silent Treatment – A Mental Disorder
_____________________
Debasree Chakraborti is a renowned novel writer of Bengali language. Based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India, she has done Master’s in Modern History from the Kolkata University, and authored some thirty books, mostly the novels, with historical perspective and themes. Her novel is ‘Maharaja Dahir’ that covers the history of Sindh from 662, the year of first attack on Sindh by the Arab armies till date, was published last year and translated by Nasir Aijaz into Sindhi language.
