• Day of Reckoning No dog in our town was safe. Mo and his gang instinctively reached for stones the moment they saw one. With savage glee they would attack the mongrel as if impelled by some atavistic urge, as if not to hurl a rock would violate some secret adolescent code. Similarly, no schoolgirl could escape their catcalls. When ... Read more...
  • The unsung hero of reform movement It was small hours of the morning. A boy of 16-17 was poring over his books, engrossed in his studies. There is a knock on the door. A man in a simple Muslim garb enters, tells the boy that Hazur-e-aali wants to see him. They exchange a few words, and the boy is driven to a grand house where Hazur-e-aali is sitting on a chair in a large room. The boy is directed to sit on the floor before him. Hazur-e-aali commands him to look him in his eyes and begins to talk about the glorious history of the Dais, how they never die; about the infallible Imams and their resplendent past; about Fatimid history and its vicissitudes; about Islam and its Ismaili inheritance and about the Dawoodi Bohras who opposed their Dai and how they were ruined (halak thayaa). Read more...
  • When words have no meaning He sat on the edge of the bed beside maasi, a heart-broken old woman. Unshaven and unkempt, he was in pajama-kurta and a skull cap that Bohras wear. He was hugging his one leg which was raised, bent at the knee, and was leaning back a bit. He spoke in a voice that came as if from a deep well of sorrow, rasping and laced with pathos. You felt a certain attraction (or is it empathy?) for his posture, his voice, his simplicity. Read more...