Deccani Musalmani: Wasimbarry Maner
Translation: Madhuri Dixit
“Ammi, when will Mamu come?”
Seeing Riyaz once again start hankering for his maternal uncle, Saira slapped him lightly on the back. “You just had tea, didn’t you? Why don’t you sleep, then? Go to sleep, or I’ll have to scold you again… Let me work. I haven’t even chopped the onions yet.”
The next day, she was to perform the housewarming ritual for her new home. Her brother, Dastgir, would be cooking the feast for the guests. Riyaz was very fond of him and lovingly called him “Dastgir Mamu.” They were very close, as Dastgir had cared for Riyaz from a young age. Riyaz eagerly awaited school vacations each year so he could visit his Mamu’s village. Dastgir, who drove a small three-wheeler rickshaw, also cooked at community events like weddings, Valima (wedding reception) and Khatna (Muslim religious function). He was especially known for his delicious pulao.
After being scolded by Saira, Riyaz reluctantly went to sleep. Later, as he drifted into a deep sleep, Dastgir’s rickshaw pulled up outside the chawl.
Saira offered him a lota of water. “Look, he just fell asleep… He spent the whole day dancing with excitement, waiting for you,” she told him. Dastgir took the lota, gargled, washed his face, and, after drying it with a towel, sat down beside the sleeping Riyaz.
Saira had spent seven years in that small ten-by-ten-foot room in the Bhosale chawl. Her husband, Yusuf, made a modest living selling bangles in nearby villages, riding his old Bajaj M-80 scooter. He would leave early each morning and return late at night, carrying bangles along with tools for repairing the sacred thread worn by married women and also the special bangle sets, chuda, meant for new brides. On his way back, he would bring home whatever he could gather from the villagers—jowar, eggs, vegetables, groundnuts. With his hard-earned money and meager savings, he had managed to buy a small plot of land five years ago on the outskirts of the village. There were no roads, water supply, or electricity there yet. How much could a bangle seller like Yusuf really save by traveling to nearby villages for his business?
“Where is our son-in-law?” Dastgir asked, setting the lota aside.
“See, he hasn’t arrived yet… The function is tomorrow, and he still wants to go to the villages today!” As Saira vented her frustrations, her hands sped up, chopping onions.
“Let him go… What else is a man supposed to do? How would he build a house sitting at home doing nothing?”
“You always take his side. The two of you are so alike! One could hide him and sneak you out. And both are so tightfisted. You don’t know how to enjoy life! All you ever think about is business and work. Is there ever any rest?” Saira repeated this grievance often, though her complaint wasn’t without reason. Dastgir and Yusuf were both hardworking men, and poverty was all too familiar to the downtrodden Muslims of the Mandesh region. People would spend their whole lives toiling, yet building even a small, two-room house remained a luxury for many.
Compared with such unfortunate souls, Yusuf and Dastgir were better off. One had bought a three-wheeler carrier on loan from the Bhairavnath Small Credit Society, and the other had started selling bangles on his M-80 scooter. Dastgir transported farm produce for large farmers and worked as a cook whenever he could. He had chosen an equally hardworking man, Yusuf, as a husband for his sister, Saira, even though Yusuf was poor and homeless at the time. Riyaz was born in the rented room, and ten years after their marriage, they had finally managed to build a house. The housewarming ritual was set for tomorrow, for that very house. Saira was chopping onions for Dastgir’s famous pulao, which would be served at the auspicious meal. She still had three kilos of onions to slice.
When the sound of the M-80 arriving outside reached them, a strong smell of petrol wafted in through the window.
“He’s here!” Saira said, quickly standing up, washing her hands, and filling the lota with water.
A tired-looking Yusuf entered the room and set his bags down on the floor.
“Salam Walekum, brother!” Dastgir greeted him from where he sat.
“Walekum Salam… When did you get here?”
“Just before you. I went to Mhaswad to deliver vegetables from Dhobale Patil’s farm and came straight back. Made it in an hour.”
“Dastgir, you should drive slower. Tell him, Saira.”
“You should tell him. He’s your favorite brother-in-law.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Very well.” Yusuf took the towel hanging on the rope and headed toward the bathroom to freshen up. “Saira, put that work aside and serve us dinner. Has Riyaz already gone to sleep? Did he eat?”
“I’ll wake him up. You go wash up first. I’ll heat the food.”
Riyaz was overjoyed to see his mamu and had little appetite. Saira told him a thousand times to eat properly, but he just nibbled a bit and got up. He wanted to play in the rickshaw and also listen to the adults planning for the next day. While the three elders sat on the ota, the elevated platform along the outer wall, to discuss the preparations, Riyaz went to play in the vehicle.
They expected around seventy guests for the event.
“Brother, we’ll need fourteen kilos of mutton. Even if we cut back, ten kilos will be necessary,” Dastgir began calculating.
“That much?” Yusuf bhai anticipated the added expense.
“Here’s the straightforward math. Five people can eat well with one kilo of rice cooked with a kilo of mutton! If we’re expecting seventy people, we’ll need to leave a little margin.”
“Yes, I understand. Preparing extra is wise to avoid the disgrace of guests going hungry,” Saira agreed.
“Exactly. That is why we need at least ten to twelve kilos of mutton. And for really tasty pulao, fourteen kilos would be ideal.”
“In that case, we’ll end up spending five thousand rupees just on mutton,” Yusuf calculated, worried. “This will be tough for us. How should we manage?”
While the adults were absorbed in their budgeting, Riyaz was busy dreaming about the festivities. He pretended to drive the rickshaw, sitting in the driver’s seat and imitating the engine’s sound. In his imagination, he left the adults behind and headed toward the new house. The elders remained grounded in reality, counting on their fingers under the dim yellow glow from the room. But in Riyaz’s mind, it was broad daylight as he transported the deg (big cooking vessel) and ingredients to the new house in his rickshaw, under a clear blue sky.
The new house looked beautiful, even with just two rooms. There was a small courtyard, too. Although there was no money left to build a compound wall, Riyaz imagined a lovely boundary surrounding the house. The land had once been wild and open, with no access to drinking water—water had to be fetched from a distant well. But in Riyaz’s vision, a large water tank stood nearby, complete with a tap that filled a bucket with sparkling water.
Riyaz finally reached the house in his imaginary rickshaw. Ammi and Abba came out to greet him. Many guests had already gathered, each busy with something, but all were eagerly waiting for Riyaz.
“Look, here comes my boy. Did you all hear? My Riyaz is going to cook the pulao today!” Saira said, and every gaze turned towards Riyaz with warm, appreciative smiles. Among the guests was Salim Bhai, Saira’s aunt’s husband. He asked, “Does he even know how to cook pulao in the deg? Otherwise, the food will go waste, and the guests will go hungry.”
His remark angered Riyaz. “He’s always like that. He never does any work himself, but he’s quick to blame others.” Just then, Dastgir mamu came out of the house and said, “Riyaz has been trained by me. How could food he prepares go waste, hmm? Now, take the deg down from the vehicle and light the stove.”
Riyaz was moved by his mamu’s words. It was true; he had been trained by Dastgir and had helped him at about 20-25 weddings.
Dastgir called out to Riyaz, “Don’t turn the steering wheel, and don’t press the button. Just sit in the driver’s seat and play.”
Hearing this, Riyaz returned to reality. He had been imitating the sound of the engine while sitting in the driver’s seat. He looked over at the three adults sitting outside the room, still debating whether to make chicken or mutton pulao under the pale-yellow light. Experience told them they needed 12-14 kilos of mutton for a good pulao, but since it was over budget, they decided on chicken instead.
“Is pulao ever tasty without mutton? Who enjoys bland chicken?” Saira complained.
“Why say that? Lots of people make chicken pulao. Are they fools? Right, Dastgir? Remember Yashin Seth’s son’s wedding? He served a thousand people, and he cooked chicken. Is Yashin Seth poor? And the feast was delicious!”
Hearing this, Dastgir felt a pang of regret. “I didn’t have enough helpers back then… If I had, I would have taken that contract myself!”
Riyaz saw that they were still engrossed in thoughts of mutton, and he let them be. He felt that his housewarming function was far more exciting than their chatter. So, in his imagination, he turned his rickshaw towards the event again. He “drove” back to the new house, unloaded the deg, and brought in the six kilos of onions his mother had cut the night before. In the courtyard, he started setting up the stove by stacking bricks.
Again, Salim Bhai appeared and began fussing. “Oh boy, why have you stacked the bricks like that? Put the design side down. The plain side should be up. And did you remember to invoke Allah before starting?”
Riyaz, feeling more grown-up, stood up and said, “Grandfather Salim, please go sit in the corner and chant Allah quietly… Let me figure out my work! Otherwise, come here and cook yourself!”
To everyone’s surprise, Salim Bhai, who usually spent these functions giving endless instructions, quietly turned back and sat in the corner.
“He never even stirs a pot and still wants to preach to us,” Dastgir mamu commented, watching the interaction.
Someone in the crowd of guests exclaimed, “Look at how everyone listens to Riyaz now!”
“Why shouldn’t they? Is there anyone else like my son?” Saira proudly told the other women.
“Bring the ginger-garlic paste and the chopped onions and tomatoes, please. I need to season the dish,” Riyaz ordered, pouring oil into the deg for seasoning. He had two boys helping him, both of whom were breathless trying to keep up with his commands. Their hurried movements excited Riyaz. He tossed the spices into the hot oil and began stirring. “Where’s the salt? Bring it fast!” he shouted again, his movements gaining momentum. He fried the spices well, then added the rice and the right amount of water to the deg and stirred it thoroughly.
Lost in this daydream, Riyaz’s hands, feet, and neck moved swiftly. Every so often, he imitated the sound of the vehicle’s engine: haaing haaing … drrrr drrrr.
Yusuf bhai summarized their budget calculations one more time.
“This seems manageable now, doesn’t it, Dastgir?”
“Yes, it’s perfect now,” replied Dastgir, who lay down, exhausted, on the durrie spread over the ota.
Dastgir glanced over at Riyaz. Riyaz’s feet didn’t quite reach the brakes, so he had to sit on the edge of the seat, stretching his legs just to reach them. Soon, though, he realized there was no fun in trying so hard, so he stopped. He was content to simply move his hands on the steering wheel, continuing to make engine noises.
“What are you doing, boy?” Dastgir asked, stretching his body.
“I’m cooking the deg.”
“Oh, good!”
Everyone laughed.
Riyaz paid no attention to their amusement. He was completely engrossed in the housewarming function unfolding in his imagination. In his mind, the women guests were seated in a room, all dressed in their latest, dazzling, colorful sarees, offering congratulatory gifts to Saira, who was busy thanking each of them.
The deg of mutton pulao smelled wonderful. The dish was almost ready, and the guests were eager to eat, but the Fateha hadn’t been recited yet. No one could start eating without the ritual. Riyaz imagined himself washing his hands and feet. He noticed that the priest, Hapiji, hadn’t yet arrived at the venue. So, he called out to his younger cousin, “Pervez!”
Pervez rushed in. “What’s it, brother?”
“Hapiji hasn’t come yet. See if you can borrow a motorbike to fetch him.”
“Alright, I’ll hurry,” Pervez replied, darting off. He returned in five minutes with Hapiji sitting on the rear seat. Hapiji entered the new house, took his place in front of the delicious pulao dish to pray, and raised his hands, saying, “Al-Fatiha!” All the guests raised their hands, turning toward the west, and began the prayer, ‘Oujbillahi Minus Satainirhim …’
Listening to Hapiji’s prayer, the guests nodded in rhythm, their eyes closed. They chanted “Amin” in agreement at regular intervals. When the prayer ended, Hapiji lowered his hands and passed them over his face. The Fateha was complete. People hurried toward the feast. Outside the two rooms was an elevated platform, freshly smeared with cow dung to receive guests. The brick walls of the rooms remained unplastered, a task to be completed when funds allowed. The house had a minimalist structure: doors, windows, a tin ceiling, a toilet, a bathroom, and an ota outside. Guests sat on the ota to eat, and Riyaz moved among them, ensuring everyone was served. The pulao tasted fantastic; everyone loved it.
“The room walls aren’t plastered, but the toilet walls are. Who’s going to see it there?” Such comments whispered through the crowd.
Salim Bhai had been quiet for most of the event, but he soon began complaining to Saira when Riyaz was out of earshot.
“Uncle, why don’t you eat? Pervez, serve him a plate,” Saira said, arranging food for Salim Bhai to keep him occupied before heading back to the women’s group.
Riyaz was thrilled. Although tired from the hard work of cooking the pulao, he proudly watched people enjoying the dish.
Draped in her glittering saree, Saira approached him and said, “Son, you should eat now.”
“I don’t have an appetite for food right now. Just bring me some tea. I’ll sit in mamu’s rickshaw and drink it there.”
Saira went inside to prepare tea. Riyaz sat in the rickshaw, looking outside. He was tired and didn’t feel like eating. He felt he had grown up that day. People who once shooed him away from the stove had now entrusted him with cooking mutton pulao for so many guests. Just like his mamu, he glanced at his reflection in the rickshaw mirror and sat quietly, waiting for his tea.
The light from the bulb brightened for a few seconds and then dimmed again.
Dastgir got up from his bed. “The voltage fluctuates too much these days.”
“Every two months, the bulb goes out. What can I say,” Saira added, seizing another chance to complain. Meanwhile, they caught a glimpse of their landlord, Bhosale Anna, hurrying toward their house.
“Bhai, what about the program tomorrow?” he asked.
“That’s what we’re working on.”
“You’ll need to cancel it. Riots are spreading throughout the state!”
“What are you saying? Why?”
“Apparently, someone did something to the statue of Shivaji Maharaj or maybe to a portrait of Ambedkar…”
“What did they do?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it’s all over the mobile news, viral…”
Dastgir took out his mobile phone.
“Our mobiles don’t show that. It has to be a smartphone.”
“What should we do now, Anna?” Saira asked, her voice laced with fear.
“Nothing has happened in our village yet, but I think you should send messages to your guests. Can we really predict what tomorrow will bring? You’d prepare so much for the function and hold it in that wild plot of land. If it were a function for our community, there wouldn’t be much concern. But it is for your community. What if someone objects? Why not cancel it?”
“How can we now?”
“Reschedule it for the next auspicious day, maybe in a few days.”
“Good thing we didn’t buy the meat,” Dastgir said, seeing the silver lining in the trouble as usual.
Saira looked dejectedly at the heap of chopped onions and exclaimed, “What should I do with all this now? So much waste…”
“It’s always the poor who suffer, isn’t it, sister-in-law? The troublemakers who incite riots don’t face any loss.” Bhosale Anna tried to console her. “You should all go inside now. It is quite late. Nothing has happened in our village yet, but why take any risks? Go inside. Bring the boy in too. He’s fallen asleep in the rickshaw.”
“Oh Allah! He fell asleep in the rickshaw. Just a moment ago he was playing,” Saira said as she gathered the chopped onions. “He didn’t even eat properly.”
Dastgir remarked, “He doesn’t need food today; his stomach is full from cooking the deg,” and gently lifted him onto his shoulder.
It was true. Riyaz was smiling contentedly in his sleep, while Saira looked worriedly at the six kilos of chopped onions.
***
The story was originally written in the Deccani Musalmani language, spoken in some southern parts of Maharashtra state. The anthology it belongs to is titled Zumkula (Dawat e Dakkan, Phaltan, MH, 2019, pp. 117-27).
Translator Bio:
Dr. Madhuri Dixit is Professor of English in Pemraj Sarda College, Ahmednagar, India. Her doctoral research (TISS, Mumbai) on Marathi Theatre focuses on representation of women in performance. Her articles are published in EPW, South Asian Film and Media, Samyukta and Global Performance Studies. Her recent translations have appeared in the Routledge volume on Vyankatesh Madgulkar (2024). She is on the editorial board of UGC CARE listed Marathi journal, Parivartanacha Vatsaru. Her recent book in Marathi language titled Samkalin Sanskrutik Samiksha (Contemporary Cultural Criticism, 2024) elaborates on significance of cultural criticism for contemporary times and anthologizes her previously published articles.
