Following interview of Sakinaben Merchant, Mumbai, by Mudar Patherya
 
For decades, Syedna Mohammed Burhanuddin Saheb was a face that I saw only through the toughened glass of an automobile car.
 
For a good reason. Since my house was across Super Cinema in Khetwadi, I would do a brisk four minute walk to the traffic island on Prarthana Samaj. And there Huzurala’s car would drive down from the morning namaaz at Saifee Masjid, stop near the traffic lights and my son and I would feast on a minute or two of uninterrupted deedar. Just the two. Then the lights would change, the accelerator would rev, we would straighten and it would be over. Until next morning.
 
And it is this way that I kept going back to the traffic island day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year. For 20 years, whenever Huzurala would be in Mumbai.
 
The timings had been mastered down to the last couple of minutes. If it was summer then then the car would roll by the traffic island at sharp 7; if it was winter then the furthest would be 745.
 
If it was summer I would run to be in time for the early car; if it was winter, I would run my son in shorts and topi and get him to school thereafter.
 
And initially Huzurala would smile and acknowledge; as familiarity increased, he would acknowledge with a salaami; when I had been going for years, he would occasionally ask for the window to be rolled down so that I could petitition some araz or simply say “Maula, dua thaai!” On one occasion I wove past the traffic, crossed the road to the island even as it was raining and Huzurala’s car drawing closer. When I looked up, Huzurala was motioning me vigorously to seek shelter!
 
Gradually, our assembly of two became a crowd of ten. There was this Irani lady in the neghbouring shop. My duty was to shout ‘Gaari aavi!’; she would run down the steps and stand alongside, hands folded, peering curiously. Another Gujaratibhai would come drenched from his morning jog and also stand with us (“Tamara peersahib na darshan kari ne divas ni shuruaat kariye!”).  One day, as the car slowed to a stop, Huzurala asked “Eh bhai kaun?”
 
Concurrently, a curious thing began to happen. The number grew. People assembling on the traffic island started routing their arzis through me. And I would entreat: “Maula, aa behen no dikro barabar si school ma bhanto nathi, aap dua farmaavo!” or “Mara bhabhi na bawaji no operation chey, Maula dua thaai!”
 
The highlight of this traffic island interaction was one day when I went for qadambosi Huzurala stopped when it was my turn. “Tamey to roz Pararthana Samaj aavo chho ney?” he asked.  I could have been knocked down by a feather. I did my humble araz: “Maula, mara baaba no misaaq levraava no chhey aapna mubarak haath par…” And Huzurala responded most amused: “Tamey ehne haji bhi baabo kaho chho?”
 
I live on these memories now.
 
Because the erstwhile assembly of two on the traffic island has become a crowd of 20. Height is preferred. Muscles are welcome. Elbows are handy.
 
I am arthritic in both knees and haven’t been there for years.
 
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