Taking on the high and mighty— 19-minute read
Tell the auto rickshaw driver to drop you off at the Red Tower in Zampa Bazar, that is the only tower in Surat, he will know, she said. Fifteen minutes later I arrived in a busy street swarming with people and traffic, a typical late-morning rush of any mid-sized Indian city. There she was, standing across the street: A bespectacled middle-age woman wearing a cotton shalwar-kameez. We greeted, and made small talk as we took a short walk to her house through the narrow, claustrophobic lanes.
Is this is your first time in Surat, she asked. In a way yes, I said. I had come ages ago to attend a youth camp but had no memory of the city. Her house in Saifee Mohlla was just two houses down Burhani masjid. It was an ordinary, non-descript building but might as well have been a fort, a fortress amid the enemy territory. Who could have guessed that under its roof a rebellion is being nurtured for almost 30 years.
A policeman armed with a gun sits in a plastic chair at the entrance to the building. He gets up as we approach. I requested the High Court to provide me with police protection for these 10-12 days of Moharrum, she said. With Muffadal sahib in town and hordes of Bohras coming down here, I feared for my safety. You know, she said, I’ve a standing order from the High Court, I can ask for police protection anytime I want. She passed this information matter-of-factly, without trying to impress. She didn’t need to. For her police matters, legal battles and working through the tangle of Indian bureaucracy had become part of her life. Like paying electricity bills or getting a plumber to a fix a leaking tap.
An ordinary, non-descript woman who could have lived a normal life of work and quiet domesticity was today a symbol of courage and tenacity. An outlier among Bohras known for their docility and submissiveness. She is, of course, Zehra Cyclewala: a rebel, a soldier, a one-woman-army who time and again has rubbed the nose of the crusty Bohra clergy in the mud. And lived, rather thrived, to tell the tale. I had met Zehraben before a couple times at conferences but had known her largely by reputation. There is nary a Bohra in Surat, or elsewhere for that matter, who has not heard of her.
She makes little of the legend she is. I did not choose to be this way, she said. We were a poor family from Saat Gaam, where education for the girls was unheard of. But my parents wanted me to have an education. I was the first college graduate from my village. But years before, before I was born, my father came to Surat and opened a cycle repair shop. I was born here in Surat. This building, she said pointing to her house, was built in 1955. We have lived here ever since. After the untimely death of my father, it’s my mother who has been my support, my inspiration.
Life was good and simple until 1985, she continued. After I finished BCom, I got a job in Saif Co-operative Society and I used to give private tuitions to Bohra students. All I wanted to do then, said Zehraben, is to make money, lots of money. But in 1985 came the fatwa from the mullahs that interest is haram. Bohras were asked to quit bank jobs. They asked to me to quit also, but I said I cannot. Who is going to feed me and my mother, I asked. They had no answer. Besides, I asked, it is Sayedna sahib who inaugurated this Society 20 years ago. Didn’t he know about interest then? I also reminded them that Dawat buildings are being rented out to banks, and the jamat earns haram interest income from them. They said you talk too much, and declared baraat on me.
That marked the beginning of Zehraben’s battle with the clergy. She and her mother were ex-communicated. The Bohra mohlla was the only world they had known, and now suddenly it was withdrawn from them. Friends and relatives and neighbours fell away. The lives and relationships they had built around them froze overnight, as if an evil wind blew over them while they slept. They woke up to an alien, hostile world. When mother and daughter went out people spat on them. She lost her tuition students and thereby her meagre extra income.
Those were trying times, she said. For a number of years we just managed with one meal a day. I did not know that I had the courage in me to bear that kind humiliation and harassment. But I had the support of my mother. She was unflinching to the end. She said, don’t give in to these crooks. Now everybody knows about my legal victories. But in those early days I was alone, fighting a lonely battle in this obscure corner of Surat.
My old mother and I on one side, and the mighty Kothar on the other: The fight could not have been more unequal. But you have to understand, she said, I was not driven by any grand notion of justice or truth or any of those fancy ideals. For me it was just a fight for livelihood. But as my struggle continued this fight expanded into a larger social issue. I realised that is not just a question of my job, but of my human rights, of women’s rights.
Of course, we had the support of reformist friends like the Kinkhabwala family here and Saifuddin Insaf and Yunus Baluwala in Mumbai. But for the most part I was on my own in those early years, she said. As I started winning cases I gained confidence, and I reached out and joined hands with other groups fighting against injustices. They supported me and I supported them. Today, she added, I just have to make a phone call and hundreds will gather here in my support. When I go the police station, they know I mean business. There was a time when the police roughed me up, and put me in the lockup for no good reason, but now they know better. I have learned the inner workings of the courts, know the law and have a good handle on my rights and the rights of citizens.
From those tentative and frightful years Zehra Cyclewala has a come a long way. The people who spat on her once now pat her on the back. As we stand in the street outside her building, Bohras pass by and say salaams to her: Zehraben, kem chho. A young Bohra man comes by and chats with the policeman, asks him about the gun, wants to touch it. He wants to take it in his hands and feel the heft of it. And the policeman foolishly lets him. I cringe as the man toys with the gun – the image of a Taliban with a Kalashnikov flashes in my mind.
It is Ashura day, 12 noon, a bright warm November day. The masjid next door is packed, through the doors and windows white-clad men and rida-clad women can be seen. The voice of Mufaddal Saifuddin over the PA system ricochets against close-set buildings and breaks apart amid the nearly abandoned streets of Zampa Bazar. The staccato style of his delivery, the sharp, short bursts belie the solemnity of the Ashura bayan. Instead of pathos one detects anger and admonition in his tone.
Zehraben and I with the armed policeman in tow (the gun safely back with him) walk towards the main mohlla. Let me show you around, she says. Further down, the street opens up to a square of sorts where all other streets converge. At the far end on the right is another masjid, probably Mufaddal Saifuddin is presiding over the majlis in there. Bohra men spill out on to the street: standing, squatting in front of shuttered shops, idly listening to the bayan which fills the air. The streets are quiet, the sun overhead sharp, and the three of us are perhaps the only people moving. All eyes follow us. The scene is not dissimilar to a Western movie where the cowboy and his sidekick stray into an enemy village, there is an eerie silence and villagers, agog with anticipation, wait on edge for bullets to fly.
I half expect to hear a Western tune and almost look to the sky to find the mandatory eagle hovering there. Zehraben nudges me, they must all be wondering what I’m up to now. She points to me the various landmarks in the area. Says this is the rear part of Jamea Saifia, the Bohra seminary. Yusuf Najumuddin, whose notoriety is part of Bohra folklore, is believed to have turned this august seat of learning into a centre of indoctrination. Graduates from here spread across the Bohra universe, controlling the Bohra mind and justifying a corrupt, retrograde system.
I take out my camera to take pictures. Yes, go ahead, she says. She too starts clicking with her mobile phone. We come under a bridge that connects the masjid with the building across the street. This bridge is built illegally, she says, for Mufaddal sahib. He cannot cross the street, apparently. We had filed a complaint to the city, but nothing came of it. These people have the money, they can do anything, she adds.
Further ahead as we turn a corner, she points to the barricaded narrow street along the masjid. You know, she says, they wanted to buy off this whole street. But this is public space, as it is things are congested here, how can they just buy it and turn it into a private property? We brought an injunction and stopped the sale, she says. But we don’t know for how long we can hold out.
We continued our tour, stopping every now and then, taking pictures and Zehraben enlightening me about this and that. As I walk with her and listen to her, I cannot but marvel at her courage. How she can walk into the lion’s lair, as it were, and all the king’s men with all the king’s presitige and money at their disposal can’t even touch her. On the contrary, they now look upon her with a mixture of awe and fawning reverence – so typical of powerless, defeated people.
On our way back, as we pass again under the “illegal” bridge, outside the main entrance to the masjid we stop by mounds of green coconuts sprawling under a tent. A large burly man who is apparently in charge greets Zehraben. Kem chho, he says. He asks a worker to give us all a drink of coconut water. Zheraben refuses saying she has diabetes. The police guy and I accept. I drink quickly and gratefully. Although I was a stranger I found it odd, and I must confess a slightly unsettling, to be there. This was Surat, Zampa Bazar, the Jamea was only a stone’s throw away. This was the stronghold of Bohra orthodoxy. The thundering condemnation of reformists by Mufaddal sahib on his last visit to Udaipur was fresh in my mind. I wasn’t sure if any reformist other than Zehraben was as welcome here. I wanted to beat a hasty retreat; after all, the armed guard was not obligated to protect me.
Later in her house, she said to me that that burly man was the brother-in-law of Badri Lacewala – the local kingpin who had supposedly sponsored the whole Moharrum “tamasha”. The previous evening I had met a friend, Ghulam Rasool (not his real name), who is on the inside but whose mind and spirit bristle with rebellion. He took me around Zampa Bazar and the atmosphere there was in complete contrast to what we found on Ashura afternoon. The place was teeming with people – a sea of Bohras, men and women, jamming the streets. Road side stalls and restaurants were doing brisk business. People chatting, eating, guffawing and ostensibly having a good time. A hum wafted up from the crowds into the night sky. After the rigours of waaz and maatam, the evenings were a like catharsis of sorts for them. Most of these people were outsiders who had travelled from far and wide answering the call of Maula, following him year after year wherever he went for Ashara.
Moharrum may well be about Imam Hussain and his sacrifice, but the economy of Bohra Moharrum is far removed from the tragedy of Karbala. Getting Maula to choose your city for Ashara Mubarak is akin to winning a lottery. For 10-15 days the economy of the lucky city skyrockets. In Surat hotels were full and every private room/flat was snapped up. Rickshaw drivers had jacked up their fares, and business in Zampa Bazar and nearby malls was roaring. Local Muslim men in the mohlla were recruited to control the crowds and traffic. The disruption to normal life and routine of locals was more than compensated by the boost in the economy. Police were all around keeping an eye on the goings-on.
Ghulam Rasool informed me how local Bohra businessmen were cashing in on the logistics of catering to close to a hundred thousand people. They claim that three hundred thousand have come, but that’s nonsense, he said. People have made crores by just supplying mattresses, he said, so you can imagine how much is to be made in all the rest of the stuff.
Mufaddal sahib, he said, had paid Rs100 crores to Modi to help facilitate this “tamasha”. Ghulam Rasool had many such inside stories to tell, and had a flair for telling them. He said that Badri Lacewala is the man who was in the pheta and cream sherwani seated in front of the Cinderella air-conditioned buggy in which Mufaddal Saifuddin made the grand entry into Surat. This is how our Dai came, with pomp and show, to commemorate Moharrum, he said disapprovingly. Bohras had lined up the streets to greet him with folded hands and the shouts of Maula, Maula. It might as well have been a court of an emperor returning from battle, triumphant and regal.
Ghulam Rasool prefaced his stories with caution, emphasising their apocryphal nature. I could tell you a lot of things, he added. I could tell you that Mufaddal sahib gave Rs300 crores to Modi for his election effort. I could tell you that Lacewala has bought the revolving hotel, still under construction, opposite the Dai’s bungalow for Muffadal sahib. I could tell you that this man Iliyas Railwaywala, perhaps the richest man in Surat, who lends money on interest, is collaborating with Quaid Joher Bhaisaheb on some construction project. I could tell you that Lacewala is the front man of Mufaddal sahib, laundering his black money. I could tell you all this and a lot more but the thing is I can’t provide hard evidence for it, for obvious reasons. The wheeling and dealing happens behind closed door, he said. But I become privy to them, I’ve my sources. Ordinary Bohras, he said, have no idea what happens behind their backs, and often, in their name.
As we drink tea at a tea stall in the heart of Zampa Bazar, Ghulam Rasool points out to the crowd and the mood of gaiety that hangs over them. Does it look they are here for Moharrum, he asks. The question is rhetorical, but the answer seemed obvious. Zehraben made a similar comment the following day. She had one word for Bohras, gandas (fools). However, she reserves a special contempt for Mufaddal sahib. He’s not even a 5th grader, she said. She related the drama of her encounter with him some years ago. This was the time when Sayedna Mohammed Burhanuddin was alive, and Mufaddal sahib was not yet anointed the Mansoos.
I was summoned to the Dai’s bungalow, Mufaddal sahib was holding court, with many people present. He said forget everything and come back to the fold. I said how can I come back just like that, after all the suffering and atrocities you people have inflicted on me. I told him that in Godhra I had protested against Sayedna with a black flag so that he can know about my suffering. Muffadal got angry. Sayedna sahib will hold your hand and lead you to the gates of heaven. But you, he raged, you showed black flags to Maula, you will burn in the fires of hell.
I said, bhaiaheb, you have no right to talk about jannat, you have harassed so many hapless women like me, you stop burials of people, you have taken zakat money, you live a life of luxury, hold celebrations and squander community’s money, who do you think will take you to jannat. People go to jannat because of their amaal, good deeds. I don’t need you or your rukku chitthi. The question is, whether you will go to jannat or not, I said.
The moment I said that there was uproar. To say such a thing in their midst was like uttering blasphemy. Nobody in the community must have ever dared to say such a thing to him. He said, you talk too much, get out. I said, you called me here to talk. I didn’t come here begging to be taken back. You are talking about black flags, now see the next time Sayedna comes here, I will show black flags again in front of this bungalow, and go on a hunger strike. That is my challenge to you.
Then you know what he said? He said, only if you are alive till then. He threatened me, in public. I said, we shall see, only time will tell.
She explained that the point of the hunger strike was this: All these years I have been told that the atrocities against me is the work of these lower-level people, the hangers-on and chamchas. I thought to myself, fine if this is the case then Sayedna must know what is happening under his nose. The best way to draw his attention is to make a public demonstration in front of his house. Later when Sayedna came to Surat she went on hunger strike as promised. The detail of that protest, attendant with drama and spunk as expected of Zehraben, is another chapter in itself.
Her Bohra neighbours and friends have grudgingly come to accept her, and respect her. Most of them now openly talk to her, especially after she successfully challenged the local jamat that as a Dawoodi Bohra she has the right to pray in the adjoining Bohra masjid, and that she has the right to do so without rida. Last Ramzan she made good on her challenge and went and prayed without rida, with the media and police in attendance. The jamat could do nothing. My Bohra friends now say, she said, if they can’t stop you from coming to the masjid then how can they stop us from talking to you?
That story was all over the media, the gist of it pithily captured in the headline: Zehraben takes 28 years to take 28 steps to the mosque. There is as much triumph in it for Zehraben as there is shame for the community. How can a community which prides itself in being peaceful and whose leader claims to be the ambassador of peace, gang up against a woman and hound and harass her at every turn? And yet, and yet despite everything she comes up triumphant again and again, like the legendary phoenix rising from the ashes.
She becomes teary-eyed talking about her mother. After her passing, she has become alone, if not lonely. I ask her why didn’t she marry. She says, I would have liked to but I’m living under the shadow of social boycott all my adult life. Which Bohra man in Surat would have had the guts to marry me? Marrying outside the community or outside of Surat was not an option, too many compromises. Also, she adds, I love the independence and freedom I’ve come to have. I will not trade them for anything. I have friends among Muslims and Hindus that I have made through my activism. I enjoy life, go to the movies. And I absolutely love food. I love to eat. You know, Surat is the home to so many delicacies. They say, Surat nu jaman, ane Kaashi nu maran (Surat is the place to eat, and Kaashi to die).
A portrait of her mother hangs from the wall above the window. In one corner on the table are framed pictures of the various awards and honours she has received. In the other corner is the obligatory steel cupboard. Her one-room flat speaks of a simple, Spartan life. As I look around I see no sign, no marker that could hold the secret of her incredible journey. But then true grit does not come dressed up, accompanied by fanfare. Who is to say what extraordinary courage lies hidden in a human heart, and when destiny will come calling to pry it out. Life threw challenges at Zehra Cyclewala and she proved equal to them. What immense satisfaction it must give her that she did not bend. She did not break.
As I sit pondering, a cute five-year-old boy comes running through the door, bawling and crying, and finds refuge in her arms. Mummy is beating me, he yelps. Zehraben calms him down. My upstairs neighbour’s son, she says apologetically. I can’t help wondering if only she had found refuge when they came after her. As if reading my thoughts, she says, I can never tire of telling my story. It is also on YouTube, you must check it out. The number of hits for my video is double than Asghar Ali Engineer’s video, she says, beaming with pride