Mamu Shah

Gurdip Singh Bhamra

It was an old village a little off the main road, which remained dusty during every summer. The very little traffic of buses and trucks that passed by the village used to create a lot of dust behind in the air that slowly settled on the leaves of crops and trees in the fields making them look withered and gloomy. But during the rainy season, the road was converted into a lake of slush and muddy water. The traffic used to be thin during those days as it was very risky for the vehicles to come out of small and big puddles without a mishap. One could witness a truck broken down in water or a lorry caught in the slush.

The little repair that was carried out as part of the annual routine by the road Maintenance Department was not good enough to last longer and keep it traffic worthy. The repairs were carried out by filling the small ditches with earth to look plain and levelled. Howsoever, the road remained bad for the last two decades.

The habitants were used to the scenario and they made little effort to change it themselves. It is said that the road was first constructed by the villagers themselves and it was lined with red bricks to link it to the grand trunk road. It made their travelling convenient. Those were the glorious days of the years. The new light of education was touching every nook and corner of the rural areas in Punjab. People were quite enthusiastic about it. They wanted to the part of the game.

‘This change is no good. It will spoil you.’ I heard him shouting. He was Mamman. Hindu or Muslim? No body was sure. We had not seen him praying by any means. What was the name of the village, he hailed from, what was his real name, who were his parents, no body knew any thing about him.

My grandfather said that he was not born in the village. He came just by chance. He alighted from the highway bound bus. He came to our village, as he was hungry. Our villagers hosted a Langer[1] he was served food in the morning, then in the after noon and late at night. He slept on the wooden bench under the big Bunyan tree and made it his home. During the rain, he took shelter under the bench and wandered in the streets of the village. People called him Mamman, as he shouted this word at the crowd of children that chased him and kept him on his feet all day. Soon his clothes, whatever he had on his body, turned into tattered rags and he looked half dressed and half naked. Some ladies took pity on him and gave him clothes to wear. These he kept under the bench and made it his home.

Another thing was very peculiar about him. He used to shout at the people discussing politics, during the hot afternoon. He would say, Sab nas ho jana hai. (Every thing will perish.) People heard him and laughed away his words. No body bothered him. He too, did not bother any body.

‘Who is he, Mummy?’ I often heard a child asking his mother whenever, he passed that way for the first time.

‘He is Mamman.’ The mother would reply. So he became a part of the village. No ceremony in the village, be it a birthday or marriage, was complete without him. People give him food and clothing. The tree served him as a permanent dwelling place. Years passed. His hair turned grey. He became an old and weak. He took to smoking. No body asked him, but slowly he fell for it and accustomed to smoking.

A strong dust storm that settled on the village one late summer afternoon, changed the shape of the bunyan tree. It got uprooted. Mamman was sleeping under his bench. When the storm subsided, the villagers were astonished to see him alive. The tree fell over him. But he had a miraculous escape.

‘Mamman is safe.’ Soon the word got the wind of the village and it spread all over and within moments, people came to see him. Mammon too was shocked to see them all. They bowed before him. Some people thought, that he was divested with some miraculous powers and saved the village from the mighty storms. They bowed before him and offered sweets and fruits. Others brought food grained and cooked food.

‘He is not a simpleton. He is a real noble man with some divine powers and he had saved the village from the mighty havoc that the storm might have played but for him.

They asked for his forgiveness. But Mammon just looked at them and said nothing. He neither accepted nor refused the food. He partook some and left the rest untouched. These were distributed among the villagers as his blessing. Soon the offerings began to pile.

Some villagers thought that he must have a proper place to live so they decided to build a room for him. Village folks joined hands and soon a small room with three windows were constructed.

Mammon had become Mammon Shah by the time I left my village for my higher studies. I heard he became famous for his divine powers. His recognition spread like a wild fire. People began to pour in from far and wide. Some owed employment to him as they got jobs. Others were blessed by sons. Some claimed that their age old disputes got settled within months as they had prayed to him. I wondered at all such stories which reached me while sitting miles away from my home.

One day, while I was preparing for my examination, I received a phone call from my brother. He told me that Mammon Shah died last Sunday. The whole village mourned for one week. He was buried in the same room and where lived and died. When I returned I saw in its place a marvellous building with green Italian tiles. There were Mohammadan soubriquet written on neat Urdu on the walls.

The road I alighted from my bus was no more in bad condition. There was an usual crowd outside the newly found monument. I was told that it was Thursday and on every Thursday, people visit the place for weekly prayer.

I took a round of my village. There were many changed past one year. The streets were paved and a community tube-well had been installed to supply fresh drinking water. New shops had come up around the place. They were replete with the lasting stock of green clothes and other offerings. There were three water coolers to provide cool water during the summer. The place had become popular as ‘Mammu Shah’. All buses and trucks stopped in front of the holy place and made their offerings.

My brother said, Mamu Shah was very lucky for the village. Although they lost a lunatic but they gained a permanent source of income. Money came in the form of offerings, went for the development of community programmes, which was an uphill task for the government.