Piya Haji Ali

I had always wanted to visit Haji Ali but despite making several trips to Bombay, somehow never made it there. Last week, I was in the city with a day stretching out ahead of me alone. With my friend busy at work, I decided to make a trip to the mosque by myself.

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As I started my long walk up to Haji Ali, I got distracted by all the pretty things being sold on the side. I stopped and bought 3 bottles of ittar. Ittar is Indian perfume and I bought the smell of the "heavens" called firdaus. Anyway, as I walked into the mosque, I was stopped by a man standing guard at the entrance for the women's section. When I asked him what the matter was, he pointed to my legs, "You cannot go to Haji Ali in this outfit". His tone was harsh and demeaning. I was wearing a medium length skirt and so obviously he could judge me.

I negotiated my way in. He gave me a chunni that i wrapped around my waist like a dhoti. Starting at my waist and going all the way down till my ankles, it covered me up completely.

Stepping into the main hall, I looked up to marvel at the gorgeous mirror work on the ceiling. At the same time, a lot of women looked down at the dhoti-esque cloth and started murmuring among themselves. Soon, one woman gestured at me to come forward. I went up to her and she chastised me - Why is your head not covered? What religion are you? Are you married?
The questions came at me like paint dripping from a wet brush. Each new drop fell at a different spot on the canvas creating a complete picture, just as each new question helped crystallise her perception of me.

Once she established that I was alone, not muslim, single, I was made to sit down beside her. She started off with her story. A woman has no identity without a man, she said. As long as you have a man in your life, people will love and respect you. But if the man doesn't exist, then you don't exist. I asked her what happened to her man. He died a few years ago, she said. The children couldn't bear the burden of feeding an extra mouth. So everything had to be sacrificed - a house, a family, a life. Living from one mosque to another, under the protection of Allah, waiting to be called to him. Waiting, waiting. That was all she lived for, she said. That, and chastising young girls, I thought secretly.

She explained to me how God was merciful and so I would be forgiven for my sin. But he will probably not grant my prayers because of my insubordination. And in the future, I must always remember to cover my legs and my head. With that, she lay down to rest. I understood that I had been dismissed.

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Later, while walking back, I came across a year old homeless child on the street. This girl was crying from hunger, fingering a biscuit packet that she had not yet learnt how to open. I sat down next to her, ripped the packet open and fed her the biscuit. She rejected it at first, but eventually her spit broke down the biscuit into soggy matter that her inexperienced mouth could chew. An old beggar man sitting next to her said to me, "You fed a poor child with nothing to gain for yourself. Allah will bless you for this good deed." And I couldn't help refute his claim by exclaiming, "But, I'm wearing a skirt!"