The Shroud
“Even in her wildest dreams, she had not thought that Bua would haunt her after death.”
MARCH 4, 2025
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The protagonists of many of Banu Mushtaq’s stories tend to be simple, inconspicuous everyday items: a bottle of Pepsi, a pair of high-heeled sandals, Gobi Manchurian — a popular street food in India that has nothing to do with the region in China it is named after.
Often set in unnamed small towns in south India, these stories explore how women experience the hierarchies of class, patriarchy and narrow interpretations of religious dogmas. While her characters typically have Islamic names, these stories are not necessarily about the Muslim community alone; they describe the lived experience of women everywhere, irrespective of religion or class.
“The Shroud” is a rare departure for Mushtaq. The story is located in the ritualistic practices of Islam. The protagonist, this time, is a kafan, the shroud Muslims ritually drape over the dead before the coffin is buried.
These elements root the story in a Muslim household, and yet Mushtaq’s description of class dynamics is a familiar experience in India — many of us have either wielded the privilege of class ourselves, or have been traumatized by it. In India, caste is always within touching distance. It is like a giant simmering cauldron, ever ready to come to a violent boil. It is like the weather, inescapable and uncontrollable.
The most striking part of the story, for me, is the moment when money changes hands. The wealthy woman finds the bank notes given to her by the poor woman dirty, almost untouchable. It took me a long time to translate these lines. I was overwhelmed by everything that this image so succinctly and subtly contained. Ideas of who is pure and who is impure, who can be touched and who will never be considered clean, are deeply entrenched in Indian society, a wound that is never allowed to heal.
“The Shroud” captures the casual violence inherent in India’s caste and class systems. Like in this story, these incursions are often fleeting, yet painfully cruel, chipping away, little by little, at the good in us.
— DEEPA BHASTHI
On days when it was impossible for Shaziya to wake up in time for the dawn namaz, she would blame it on her high blood pressure, and had a habit of saying she had no peace because of those damn tablets.
Her mother used to say, “All this is Shaitan’s game. Shaitan comes early in the morning, presses your legs, drapes a blanket around you, pats you back to sleep and stops you from offering namaz. You must kick him away and practice waking up at the right time to pray.” The idea of Shaitan being her personal servant and pressing her legs seemed romantic to Shaziya, and so she’d pretend to kick him a few times, enjoying the thought. It became a habit for her to wake up late and blame Shaitan for it.
She was deep asleep that day too, and it was well past dawn. She woke up with a start and looked down at herself, unsure of where she was, though she touched her husband when she stretched her hand to the side. It was only when she noticed that her head was on her own pillow, that her imported blanket was draped around her body, that she realized she was in her own room in her own house. This made her both happy and content, to wake up in a familiar environment.
Shaziya felt shocked as she came and stood behind her son. “What is happening here?” she called. “Farman, who are you speaking with, beta?”
But contentment did not last long. She heard someone crying outside and by the time she slowly got up and went to the door, she heard her son Farman speaking. She hurriedly came out to the veranda and saw Altaf standing there, looking distraught. Farman was consoling him. “What has happened has happened,” he said. “All this is in nobody’s hands. Don’t worry, go home. I will get everything to your house once Ammi wakes up. She is asleep now, let me not wake her up, she is not very well. The doctor has told her to get lots of rest.”
“But Bhaiyya, the jama’at has decided that the burial will be tonight at five. There is no one else we are waiting for. That’s why the ghusal and other rituals must be done quickly,” Altaf repeated. Farman lost his temper and said, “Look, you did not give me any kafan for safekeeping. It is already six-seven years since Ammi returned from Hajj. Why didn’t Yaseen Bua take her shroud from Ammi all these years ago? Or maybe she took it and kept it somewhere. Search the house once again and see.”
Shaziya felt shocked as she came and stood behind her son. “What is happening here?” she called. “Farman, who are you speaking with, beta?” Farman turned toward his mother; impatience had pressed itself on his face. He thought to himself, “These women cannot be quiet, eat, dress up and mind their own business. If they don’t get involved in one thing or the other, it is as if their food won’t be digested.” But he did not express his disapproval, and instead said, “Go sleep, Ammi. Why did you get up and come? Altaf is here. He says he is Yaseen Bua’s son; he is asking about some kafan.”
She felt as if she had been struck by a thousand bolts of lightning. She anxiously rushed forward, looking at the young man questioningly, and asked in an angered tone: “What is all this ruckus you are creating first thing in the morning? Where will the kafan run away to? Don’t you have the sense to know whose house you should go to and when?” It became clear to her that Farman did not like all this. Altaf lowered his voice and stared back, distressed, and said, “Chikkamma, Ammi died this morning, around the time of the dawn namaz. That is why I came to ask for the kafan.” The moment she heard the news, Shaziya collapsed inwardly. Unable to control herself, she sat down with a thud on a chair nearby. The unimaginable, the impossible had happened. How to face it now? How to fix it? These thoughts did not remain within her control. She was devastated. “Oh God, what has ended up happening,” she lamented.
Even though she didn’t want it to, her mind raced back. There was a function in her house that day. Her family and friends had gathered in large numbers. Shaziya and her husband Subhan were going on Hajj. They had already visited most of their closest relatives and friends. They had hugged everyone and requested that any kaha-suna, any hurt they might have caused, any complaints their loved ones might have, any rumours the couple might have unwittingly spread be forgiven. These relatives had also laid out feasts for the couple, given them both whatever clothes and gifts they could afford, assured them of their forgiveness and requested that Shaziya and Subhan forgive any transgressions too. Content that their mistakes were mutually forgiven and the protocol followed, their closest family and friends had sent them off with light hearts.
Even so, with a week left before their pilgrimage, there were still many relatives to meet. The husband and wife called up their family living in distant places and asked them for forgiveness for any mistakes they might have committed. Subhan, the owner of an extended business enterprise, and Shaziya, the mistress of a spacious bungalow, did not have the time to meet all their family and friends individually before leaving. That was why they had organized a feast to bring everyone together. The ritual of asking for mutual forgiveness continued there too.
She had no invitation. There was no one to welcome her, saying, “Oh, you have come!” Neither was there anyone to say, “Come, eat,” or to show her any hospitality. She had never in her life known what it meant to be honored and held in esteem.
The one who came, uninvited yet without any arrogance or ill will in her heart, was Yaseen Bua. Her husband had given her two children within three years of marriage and then walked away without a backward glance. He used to work as a loader at the APMC yard, and one day, while carrying a load, he died of a heart attack. After his death she had not observed iddat. A very young woman back then, she wore a scarf around her head and started washing vessels in the front yards of several houses, sweeping and cleaning, a loner amidst weddings, festivals, ceremonies, birthdays, and bearing the chaos and happiness of such events in these houses to fill the empty stomachs of her little children. During the iddat, she did not sit with her head covered in a room, praying for her departed husband and observing the mandatory period of mourning. Many tongues wagged. Despite the mud-slinging, however, the welfare and the hungry stomachs of her children were more important to her. Thanks to her hard work, her children built their lives. Having studied a little, her daughter taught the Qur’an to girls and earned a few rupees. Yaseen Bua added this money to what she had managed to save herself, got her daughter married off and lived with her son, an auto driver. When her bones started making creaky lata-lata sounds, when the veins in her hands began to swell as age advanced, she cut back on working for others.
She had a great wish to get her son married. But more than that, another desire had overtaken her, her heart and her body and her soul. All day long she became a kite around the flames of desire. Her habit of saving every single paise indicated not a miserly nature, but the anxiety of an unsecure future. When she took a little money out from the bundle that she had saved for her son’s wedding to buy herself a shroud, she began to feel as if she had stolen it from someone else. She could not shake off her immense guilt, she became restless, and for three days tied the money to her seragu and protected it. But even her maternal instincts could not defeat the intensity of her private dream. A strange stubbornness to get her way doubled Yaseen Bua’s enthusiasm. She held on tightly to the bundle at the end of her saree and walked swiftly toward Shaziya’s house. There were a lot of people, celebrations, festivities under way there . . .
She had no invitation. There was no one to welcome her, saying, “Oh, you have come!” Neither was there anyone to say, “Come, eat,” or to show her any hospitality. She had never in her life known what it meant to be honored and held in esteem. She did not recognize disrespect either. She worked as much as she could. Her hands nearly fell off washing the porcelain dinner plates. The grease of biriyani doesn’t wash off so easily now, does it? After everyone had eaten, she sat down on the cement in the front yard and had a few mouthfuls. All her attention was on Shaziya. “A lucky woman, a fortunate woman,” she repeated to herself. She wondered when Shaziya would be free, and how she could express her desire, all the while patiently observing everything Shaziya was doing.
When would Shaziya find some free time? She was exhausted from receiving wishes and gifts from her innumerable relatives and friends. Some people ended up talking about their own life problems when they hugged and wished her well, and asked her to say duas for them during Hajj. “Shaziya Apa, I cannot find a suitable groom for my youngest daughter. Please say a dua for her,” one requested. Another asked, “My sister-in-law is suffering from cancer. Please pray that she recovers soon.” “My son is not able to find a job. He is suffering a lot. Please say a dua for him.” The list of demands grew longer. Shaziya kept replying with a smile, “Inshallah, I will pray for them,” and although she was getting tired, she did not show it and happily sent everyone off. Although they had organized the feast for lunch, people kept coming by well into the evening. Yaseen Bua kept on washing vessels, cleaning the plates, sweeping, waiting her turn.
At around 11 o’clock at night, when a tired Shaziya finally sat on the sofa and stretched her legs out on the soft carpet, she saw Yaseen Bua’s shadow near the living room door. Bua was fretting, “Aiyoo poor thing. How tired this soul is,” and felt bad for Shaziya. She wiped both her hands on her seragu and tiptoed toward her, ensuring she did not set her dirty and cracked heels down on the precious carpet. “When did you come, Bua?” Shaziya asked, reluctantly.
It was when the notes passed from Bua’s hands into her own that Shaziya understood. Money from the pockets of poor people was, just like them, broken, shattered, crumpled, wrinkly, diminished in essence and form.
Immensely happy to have finally met with Shaziya, she replied, “I came a long time ago, my dear.” “Oh, is it? I’ve barely seen you all evening,” Shaziya said, and in a softer tone enquired, “Did you eat?” “Yes, taayi. My life is still holding on to itself only because of the rice from your house. May everything you touch turn into gold. May your house prosper.” Shaziya felt gratified. “It is already so late, Bua. How will you get home?” To this very feminine of concerns, she replied, “Altaf said he will take me home in his auto. I will leave the moment he comes.” Shaziya had noticed Yaseen Bua occupied with some work or other the whole day. So she dragged her feet heavily to her room and brought out some money. “Take this, Bua, some money for your expenses. We are leaving for Hajj in three days, and will come back after 45 days. May Allah accept our Hajj. Please say a dua for us.”
She clasped both Bua’s hands in hers and placed the money in them. Yaseen Bua was overwhelmed. Her eyes welled up to see Shaziya being so kind and friendly with even a hakir-fakir like her. She did not take the money from Shaziya. Instead, she removed the two-three knots at the end of her saree and pulled out some crumpled notes. Extending her hands toward Shaziya, she pleaded: “My avva, there is 6,000 rupees here. You are anyway going to Hajj. Please bring me a kafan from there after dipping it in the holy Zamzam water. At least I might go to heaven because of that holy shroud.”
For a moment Shaziya did not know what to say. It didn’t seem like a difficult task at the time. “Aiyoo, it is one kafan after all. I can bring it for her even if it costs a little more money,” she thought to herself, finding herself taken in by the spontaneity of that situation. She did not think twice and agreed.
It was when the notes passed from Bua’s hands into her own that Shaziya understood. Money from the pockets of poor people was, just like them, broken, shattered, crumpled, wrinkly, diminished in essence and form. She had at times felt that even if the poor were given crisp notes, the money would turn into something strange and ugly; now she became sure of it. “OK, Bua, you go and come,” she said, and sent her off. Shaziya immediately went to the en-suite bathroom, placed the money on top of the sink, and washed her hands thoroughly with a disinfecting soap before lying down on her bed.
Shaziya did not remember if she picked up the money Yaseen Bua had given her from the sink or not. Everyone boarded a morning flight arranged by the Hajj Committee and reached Madina. With the new environment, visits to religious places, and the compulsory 40 namaz over their eight-day stay, she did not notice the time passing. Subhan had forbidden her from shopping. Yet what did she care about restrictions? She believed that rules were meant to be broken, and she did what she wanted without hesitation. This situation was no different.
Subhan brought up the topic of niyyat. Before they left for Hajj, they had set intentions for the pilgrimage and for prayers. He told her that she could do her shopping after Hajj, and made her believe that any shopping done during would spoil the niyyat they had set. When they left Madina for Mecca, it was again a new experience for Shaziya. She had forgotten her village and her house in the middle of all this. Her stay at Mecca was unforgettable. India’s Hajj Committee had rented out several buildings. Pilgrims were allotted rooms depending on the rent money they had paid in installments. For two rooms there was one shared bathroom, along with one small shared kitchen, a gas cylinder and a stove, a fridge, a washing machine and other facilities for the residents. Since four members of Shaziya’s maternal family had traveled together, they had been allocated a large room. As usual, the women in the group looked after the cooking. Most of their time was spent in namaz, in circling the Ka’aba, in prayers and other religious activities. Visiting the cave of Hira, where the Prophet received his first revelations, and other historically significant mosques and offering namaz at the determined times kept them all occupied. The Saudi government, along with owners of large businesses and other donors, distributed food packets, juice and water bottles from huge trucks to pilgrims after namaz. Since Hajj pilgrims were the guests of Allah, they believed that treating the pilgrims well would make Allah happy. Thus, everyone behaved as if hospitality was the main aim in life.
Shaziya and her group were making arrangements to finish the rest of the Hajj rituals. One afternoon, she came back from the Ka’aba after offering namaz. Her eyes shut involuntarily, perhaps because of the hot sun, or maybe it was post-meal lethargy. When she woke up from her short nap, she felt a little refreshed. Soon the group had to go to Masjid al-Haram for the Asr namaz. When she went to the bathroom to perform wudu, she saw something that gave her pause: Zainab from the room next door was pouring water from their drinking water dispenser into a 10-liter bucket. Shaziya was surprised, and asked, “Zainab, what are you doing?”
Zainab looked around her and said, “I have to wash the kafan.”
“What did you say?” Shaziya asked, her anger rising. “You are stealing drinking water. Is this fair? You have not let go of your cheap behavior even during Hajj.” She started shouting and Zainab quickly ran into her room with the bucket, slamming the door shut. Shaziya realized what was going on. The Saudi government was responsible for supplying drinking water to the pilgrims. The water companies did not bring it in huge plastic tubs. Instead, they would load tankers with Zamzam water from the well inside the Kaaba complex, and use that to fill up the dispenser shared by the two rooms. It held 10 to 15 liters, and was refilled at around three o’clock every afternoon. Shaziya rarely got drinking water from it. Most nights Subhan would buy a 5-liter bottle for their use on his way back from namaz.
Shaziya was furious. Zainab’s feeble answer only made her feel like her body was on fire. Disillusioned by her audacity, she wondered how many shrouds Zainab had soaked in the stolen drinking water. Ya Allah! Was she going to make her entire family lie in Zamzam-soaked kafans? Shaziya imagined all this, and Subhan, who upon hearing his wife’s loud voice had come running out of the room, arrived to see her hooting with laughter. Unsure whether he had imagined her shouting just a moment ago, he asked his wife, “What is it, Shaziya? What is making you laugh so much?” Continuing to laugh, she told him what had happened, and said, “Look at this, rii, these people cannot understand the importance of Hajj. They come here and cheat even for little things like this.” He smiled slightly and replied, “Did you get to know this only today? I noticed it the day we got here. But I didn’t get angry and pick a fight like you. This is why I started buying water for our use. Let it go. It is not something to fight over.”
Shaziya suddenly remembered Bua’s kafan. “And then, rii, look here, we have to buy a kafan for Yaseen Bua. Let’s do that when we return from the evening namaz,” she said, remembering her promise, and deciding to honor it right away. He nodded, and got ready hurriedly, for it was getting late. As they had anticipated, al-Haram was busy by the time they reached it, the women and men gathered separately according to practice. They were all standing between the pillars of the mosque, hands folded reverentially, heads bent. Since they were late, Shaziya and Subhan stood next to each other in the mosque’s extensive yard, which filled up very quickly with other latecomers. It was sunny, and the huge umbrellas programmed to open automatically when the sun was out had spread their wings wide to provide shade. As the sun went down, the wings folded in to look like pillars — Shaziya always found them a fascinating sight.
After the Isha namaz, they walked back from the Ka’aba complex. With lakhs and lakhs of people walking on the main road and the side streets, Subhan could not figure out where they might find a kafan shop for Shaziya to buy one for Yaseen Bua. He walked on, holding his wife’s hand tightly, worried about having to look for her amidst all the people should she get lost. He had made a habit of holding hands with her, or wrapping his arm around her waist, without any shyness or hesitation. He had to walk a little slower and match his stride to his wife’s saunter. Before pulling her in, he stood before each shop to first confirm that they sold kafans. Yet, while looking for kafans, a carpet shop stole all of Shaziya’s attention. She was so taken in by the wares, it looked like she would never leave. She found the beauty, the designs, the colors, the weaving at the center very attractive. Without asking her husband she began to bargain over the price of one, and Subhan’s plan to stop her from shopping crumbled. The fact that her niyyat would be ruined, that her intentions would now be in doubt, were emotional matters that flew out with the wind. Nor was she moved by his promise that she could shop as much as she wanted once the Hajj rituals were complete. He tried his best to get her out of that shop, but all his efforts were in vain.
While rushing about on her shopping spree, thoughts of Yaseen Bua and her kafan passed regularly through Shaziya’s mind in flashes, coming and going, until eventually they began to hide and she soon forgot about the matter completely.
Unmindful of everything and everyone, she was lost in the Turkish carpet she had chosen. Defeated, Subhan whispered to the shop assistant, “Can we get kafans here?” The assistant instantly brought out a shroud, wrapped in plastic and heavy as a corpse. Subhan tried his best to catch Shaziya’s attention. She held on to the carpet firmly, and tried to lift the kafan with her left hand. “Aiyyappaa, how heavy this is! How can we take this and go back?” she said, dismissing the matter in an instant, and returning her attention to the carpet.
Finally, her shopping was over. Subhan counted out notes from his pocket and walked out, placing the carpet the shopkeeper had packed on his shoulder. They could not expect to find an autorickshaw or a coolie there, so he lugged the carpet himself, and although he hoped no one would see him he kept coming across people he knew. Midway, Shaziya also felt bad and tenderly asked, “It is not too heavy, is it, rii?” He did not utter a word. He was furious enough to beat her senseless, but he very patiently dumped the devil-carpet in a corner of their room and let out a sigh. Under any other circumstance, he would have at least glared in anger, maybe scolded her too. But since this was Hajj, and since the others in the room were all her relatives, he calmed himself.
Their Hajj pilgrimage ended. Although they worried over mistakes made here and there, they were both satisfied. Once they returned from Mina, Shaziya took to her bed, which was cause for some anxiety. Her blood pressure had shot up, and she had to be admitted to the hospital for two days. It was only after her discharge and a day of rest that her blood pressure came under control. More than anything, however, she was annoyed about wasting her shopping time. She insisted her health was fine, fine, in front of Subhan, and soon began to feel better. He thought of various strategies to put off the shopping. He was not worried about money, but having seen the problems that excess luggage can lead to in flights, he did not want to fall into that trap. But neither did he want to disappoint her, or make her blood pressure shoot up again uncontrollably, so all his plans to curtail her shopping foundered. There was no one to stop Shaziya.
While rushing about on her shopping spree, thoughts of Yaseen Bua and her kafan passed regularly through Shaziya’s mind in flashes, coming and going, until eventually they began to hide and she soon forgot about the matter completely. In this magical place, to think of a depressing, heavy object like a kafan taking up so much space . . . oh God . . . can’t one get it in India also? Won’t we get it in our village also? I can say that I couldn’t find it in Mecca. Ahm! Can I tell such lies the moment I return from Hajj? She said, “Tauba, tauba,” lightly hitting her cheeks. She said goodbye to lies. She had not expected Yaseen Bua’s desire to end up being such a bother.
Now, hearing of Yaseen Bua’s death, Shaziya was distraught, thinking about the consequences of that unfulfilled wish. Aiyoo, if she had known, she would have kept her word, even if she had had to face some difficulties as a result, she agonized.
When they had returned, she had bought so much stuff that her excess had to be distributed among the baggage of others in their group. By the time he managed it, Subhan was exhausted. Then there were the 5-liter cans of Zamzam water to distribute to everyone, several kilos of dates, and weren’t all these things heavy too? All she had done, wearing her burkha, was hold on to her handbag and run to her husband for every little thing, which only made him more irritated. Finally, after a great deal of trouble, they’d managed to load all their bags, and themselves, on the flight.
Her joy knew no bounds when she ran and pressed Shaziya’s hands to her eyes. Touching the hands of a Hajjin made her feel as if she too had become spiritually pure, and she got goosebumps on her arms.
Even a month after their return, Shaziya had not finished distributing everything to everyone. For the first three days, she couldn’t get out of bed because of ill health and jet lag. After that there was the unpacking. Then she made arrangements to send the gold and other expensive gifts she had bought for her nearest and dearest ones. She unrolled the precious carpet and felt happy. She did not even notice Subhan’s lack of reaction; he had just walked away, irritated. Then she distributed clothes, toys, etc to everyone she had bought them for. A few of her closest friends and some close relatives had told her that they wanted burkhas with this particular design and kasuti work, in these particular colours, cut in such style with such and such embroidery. Some had given her money. For others, she sent the burkhas as gifts, out of a sense of obligation. For everyone else, she dispatched one ja-namaz, prayer beads, a fistful of dates and a bottle of Zamzam water. Although she didn’t do everything herself, she had to supervise it, and the whole task tired her. Over a month had passed by the time she finished.
There is a belief that those who return from Hajj embody immense positive and spiritual energies. In order to ensure that these energies are not wasted and instead are used to offer prayers to Allah, Muslims stay at home for a period of about 40 days, observing this practice strictly, like a vow. Shaziya observed this too. As was her habit, Yaseen Bua came to the house a few times, and returned without announcing her presence. Each time Shaziya was either asleep, or was resting, or doing namaz, else was occupied with some important work: these were the messages given to Yaseen Bua, who was in tears. On one hand, she was very impatient to see her kafan. On the other hand, she was eager to stand close to the Hajj-returned Shaziya, to take her hands in her own rough ones, to clasp them. She waited and waited, in the hope that Shaziya might have brought some gift for her.
Finally, Shaziya made an appearance, having borne witness to Bua’s excruciating period of waiting. She had just had a bath, and her hair was still half wet. When she came out wearing a grand sky-blue churidhar set, fashionably draping a matching kasuti-embroidered dupatta on her head, Yaseen Bua could have burst with happiness. Her joy knew no bounds when she ran and pressed Shaziya’s hands to her eyes. Touching the hands of a Hajjin made her feel as if she too had become spiritually pure, and she got goosebumps on her arms. Shaziya freed her hands and made small talk. “How are you, Bua?” She swiftly went into her room to get a ja-namaz and prayer beads and gave it to her: “Take it, this is for you.” What Yaseen Bua wanted to see was not there. That was the moment her desire to journey toward Allah wrapped in a Zamzam water-soaked kafan was going to be fulfilled. She did not stretch out her hands to take her gifts, but only looked at Shaziya in disbelief, blinded for a moment by disappointment. Drawing on some internal courage, she addressed Shaziya, speaking very clearly in a firm tone: “I don’t want these. Give me my kafan.” Not expecting this, Shaziya got very angry. Without bothering to hide it, she scolded Bua in a loud voice, “Che! Does anyone say no to a prayer mat?” But Bua did not budge an inch. She stood her ground. “I still have the ja-namaz that your mother-in-law gave me after she returned from Hajj. I offer namaz on it when I get time. Where will I keep such a new and beautiful ja-namaz? How much longer do I have to live? How many more namaz will I offer? Society is telling me to go, and the forest is calling me to come and retire. All I want is the kafan.”
The way Shaziya, decked up in jewellery and grand clothes, had treated her like a lowly destitute had left a permanent scar in her heart.
Shaziya had never seen Yaseen Bua like this before. Bending at the waist in reverence while walking, Bua would praise Shaziya to the skies every other minute, cracking her knuckles to remove any evil eye on her beauty, always wishing her well, May Allah give you a long life, give you wealth. May your family be well, may your marital status be safe. May Allah give you a coral house in heaven. Where was the Bua who always showered her with blessings, always saying duas for her? Who was this Bua who was standing so stiffly?
Shaziya’s anger bubbled and flowed over. She forgot that she had only recently returned from Hajj. “What kafan, which kafan after falling down dead? Someone or other will put you in a kafan. Why make such a fuss? What has happened to you, Bua? Have you lost your mind? How much money did you give me? I will throw 10 times that at your face. Wait, and hereafter don’t show your face to me again,” she screamed, and angrily rushed to her room. When she came out holding two 500 rupee notes, she could not see Yaseen Bua anywhere. Given her temper, she was unlikely to let Bua go so easily. She hurried into the kitchen. She went to the backyard. She peeped into the gully nearby, but no matter where she looked, she couldn’t see Bua anywhere. Thinking “Let her go to hell,” she dumped the notes on the teapoy and lay down on the sofa. As Shaziya had wanted, Yaseen Bua did not come into her sight again. Thinking it was good riddance, she relaxed into a sense of peace and contentment. But how could Bua do this? The question rose up in her mind now and then and raked up the anger hidden in her memory. But what could she do when Bua would not show her face? Let her go? Maybe she would come by for Ramzan or Bakrid to beg. She hoped that Bua, who would bend her back and become small enough to fit inside a fist, would come by during Ramzan. But Bua’s self-respect was not to be underestimated. She had been so eager for one look at her kafan, for one touch, like a bride awaiting her nikah gift. The way Shaziya, decked up in jewellery and grand clothes, had treated her like a lowly destitute had left a permanent scar in her heart.
Even in her wildest dreams, she had not thought that Bua would haunt her after death. She collapsed under the weight of sudden anguish. What must she do? What must she not do? Even if Bua asked for a kafan costing one lakh rupees, Shaziya was ready to give it to her, but a kafan from Mecca that had been soaked in holy Zamzam water, ya Allah, what to do? She agonized over how to rectify her mistake, what shall I do, what shall I do, holding her mobile phone anxiously and hurrying upstairs to take refuge in a corner of an empty room. Whether it was her body temperature rising, or whether she was shivering, or why she was sweating, she didn’t know. How unfortunate. If this poor woman were to hold out her seragu and beg Allah for justice on Judgement Day, even if I poured out all my good deeds, I will still be at fault, Shaziya thought, alarmed. It became clear to her that she was poorer than Bua, more unfortunate too.
Shaziya had not shed this many tears when other people had died, not even her own father. Then again, on those occasions there were innumerable people around to make her drink water, to wipe her tears away with cotton dipped in rose water, to soothe her back, to hug her to their chests and console her, friends and relatives falling over each other to help.
That kafan had been the dead woman’s last wish. Otherwise why would her son come looking for it? Why would he beg for it on his dead mother’s behalf? He spoke softly, but it was evident that he was determined to fulfil her last desire. How could she get out of this? A shiver ran down her spine. If he did not agree to use any other kafan, her burial would not take place that day. The jama’at would call her husband and son to the masjid and question them. The thought of them standing with their hands folded and heads bent frightened her. Farman would certainly not let her off. He was as capable of cruelly belittling her as he was of loving her. Her thoughts flew back and forth and fluttered around like a kite. She sat and cried till it felt like her heart would burst with sorrow, her cries coming out in gasps. Did she feel light after crying so much? No. Intense sorrow stuck in her throat; even to her enemies, she did not wish God to give such agony. She began to struggle to take breath.
A ray of hope arose, after she had spent one-two hours sitting and crying alone. She could hear Subhan’s voice from downstairs. He was calling for her loudly. “Shaziya, Shaziya, where are my clothes? Where is my pen? Is my breakfast ready?” Although she heard him, her voice refused to come out. But Saba answered him straight away. Coming out of her room, she said, “Abbaji, Ammi is not at home. News came early in the morning that someone had died. She must have gone there.”
“What? Who died? Who told you?” he asked.
“Farman told me, and went out without having breakfast or drinking tea. Ammi must have gone with him too,” she suggested. Shaziya let out a deep sigh of relief. No matter how terrible Saba was — being the daughter-in-law, she had all the cunningness that came with the role — Shaziya felt a little softness for her after that. She was arranging chapattis and palya for Subhan in porcelain vessels on the dining table, serving him food made by the cook. After a while, she heard Subhan’s car drive to the gate and then beyond the compound wall. There was no use crying any more. Now she felt she had to try and do something.
Shaziya had not shed this many tears when other people had died, not even her own father. Then again, on those occasions there were innumerable people around to make her drink water, to wipe her tears away with cotton dipped in rose water, to soothe her back, to hug her to their chests and console her, friends and relatives falling over each other to help. Surrounded by all that, her sorrow was manageable. Having to hide in a corner of the house, however, alone like an orphan — this was something she had brought upon herself. She must get out of it now. Having made a decision, she swiftly began calling her relatives and friends.
“I’m looking for a kafan that has been soaked in Zamzam water —” Her query would not even be complete when they would reply, “Haam . . . is it Shaziya? No, we don’t have a kafan at home. Our mother brought one when she went on Hajj, but we gave it to whoever had asked for it and finished the job.” Another reacted, “What, you want a kafan?” Laughter. “We don’t keep kafans in our house. We don’t make promises to anyone about bringing a kafan. That is a bothersome task.” Yet another responded, “What is the need for a kafan from there? So what if the kafan is from here? It is only according to our deeds that we reap benefits in the afterlife, isn’t it?”
After hearing no from everyone, Shaziya called Saba’s mother, though she did not want to, though her heart was not OK with it. Once the formalities of hello . . . hello . . . were over, she put her dignity and self-respect aside and came to the point. “Might you have a kafan brought from Mecca with you?” Saba’s mother did not like Shaziya very much. According to Saba’s regular dispatches, Shaziya was a muttering demon, a cruel woman who kept a sharp eye on her daughter-in-law, a witch who gave her too much grief, a python in the way of her peace. Given all this, Saba’s mother was willing to arrange for a kafan at any cost — provided it was meant for Shaziya herself. She asked, “Do you want the kafan?” and paused for a few seconds to let the emphasis sink in. “But why do you want it?” she asked. Her sarcasm was clear and Shaziya cut the call wordlessly. Starting from her own maternal home, this request for a kafan expanded and spread to all her relatives and friends. She had never imagined she could be this helpless, and shed a flood of tears again.
Realizing it was no use crying, she decided to come out of her room, have something to eat and take her medicines. But none of these made her any better. Feeling defeated, she wondered if she should get a kafan locally, soak it in the Zamzam water stored at home and send it there. But that would not be a kafan from Mecca. Disgusted with the abyss into which she was falling, she helplessly cursed herself: “Thoo, Shaziya, may your life be damned.” The pain, the agony, the loss of dignity, the helplessness and suffering of that moment could not be explained in words.
Farman came home around three o’clock in the afternoon. Walking up to the dining table he asked Saba, “Where is Ammi?” She had guessed that her mother-in-law was in a very bad mood and said nothing, instead gesturing toward Shaziya’s room with her eyes. Farman rushed in, and despite his mother’s wordlessness he understood everything when he saw her face. He sat next to her and said, “Ammi,” holding her hand. Shaziya found a shoulder to cry on. No matter how hard he tried to console her, she kept crying in gasps. Was my mother-in-law so sensitive that she is grieving the death of a servant this much, wondered Saba, surprised. She was standing by the door; Farman gestured to his wife and sent her away.
He had been upset with Shaziya in the morning. “She should not have agreed to this . . . but after agreeing, shouldn’t she have kept her promise? What is the big deal in bringing one kafan? That too for that poor woman.” He had felt very bad. “Couldn’t Ammi have told us to bring it when Saba and I went to Umrah last year at least? I would have brought it.” Wondering why bringing the kafan had become such a problem, he’d come close to blaming her, but stopped just short and managed to calm down. Feeling sorry for how much she had suffered, he said, “Ammi, leave it, sometimes these things happen. Whether because of forgetfulness or just bad luck, these things end up happening. Don’t take it to heart. Also, Ammi, I went with Altaf to his house in the morning, finished all the burial rituals for Bua and just got back. I bought a kafan, incense sticks, perfume and other things needed for the rituals, then had the grave dug at the spot he had chosen in the graveyard, and arranged for the bathing of the corpse. I thought I would have lunch and then take you with me. I know you will not be at peace otherwise. Come have lunch with me. Then we will go and see Yaseen Bua one last time.”
Shaziya’s sorrow rose again. Farman pushed a plate of food before her. After a little rice went into her stomach, he told Saba, “You don’t have to come, it is enough if only Ammi comes,” and took his mother to Yaseen Bua’s house. He pictured all that was going to happen there. After seeing Yaseen Bua’s face, she was going to burst into tears again. Perhaps Shaziya had shed as many tears as Yaseen Bua’s daughter and son had. But still she was not going to forgive herself. He realized that she was going to continue grieving.
When they reached Yaseen Bua’s house, everything happened just like he had known it would. There was no end to Shaziya’s sorrow, no drought for her tears. Those who saw her face, her reddened eyes, her swollen lips were surprised. Many people sympathized, thinking that they had never seen a woman from a prominent, rich family feel so much grief over the death of a servant. Who knows what kind of relationship they had, they thought, before shifting the burden onto God. Only God knows. Shaziya alone knew the truth: it was not Yaseen Bua’s last rites being conducted, but her own.
This story is excerpted from Banu Mushtaq’s forthcoming collection “Heart Lamp” (And Other Stories, April 2025), translated from the Kannada language by Deepa Bhasthi.
PHOTO: by Alican Helik ia Pexels
✺ Published in “Issue 26: Gospel” of The Dial
