A random visit to Calcutta Madrasah

First Day Like a stranger, I ask for direction to the Calcutta Madrasah at the Rafi Ahmed Kidwai Road that is in a densely-Muslim populated locality, Taltala, in Kolkata. This locality also houses Maulana Azad College, another prominent institution of the city. However, the locals, especially working and poor, seem unable to fathom my queries. As I begin to lose my temper, they laugh. Suddenly, I realise that I am from UP, speak West UP Hindustani language, and locals understand or love to communicate only in Bengali, their beloved bhasha. As I stare at a laughing group of these Bengalis, someone staring at us from a distance comes towards us and tries to understand my question. He says, “Here, few people will understand the Calcutta Madrasah. They call it Aliah Madrasah and it’s nearby.” He then takes me to the gate of the madrasah. I thank him. He responds something sweetly in Bengali and goes away. I stop at the gate and first click the picture of the madrasah. It’s clearly written in English: Calcutta Madrasah College, Established in 1780. While clicking the picture, I see students riding on bikes, chatting on cellphones and looking at me curiously. I feel convinced that it is a modern madrasah (students chatting on cellphones, riding bikes usually is not a picture of a traditional Indian madrasah). I also see the board of the Aliah University’s board saying that it now serves as the Department of Islamic Theology of the varsity. After this I need no proof to confirm that it’s a modern madrasah. Not only madrasah, but a college. (Later at a coffee joint conversation in Kolkata, Dr Abdus Sattar, former Minister of State for Minorities Development, Welfare and Madrasahh Education in the Left Front government told me that Aliah University is the second Indian University after Aligarh Muslim University that has started a Department of Theology. Dr Saheb is also known as the Architect of Madrasah Modernisation in Bengal. A separate story or interview with Dr Saheb later). The guard (a guard at the gate is again not a sign of modern madrasah) stands up to stop me, but I politely ask him to let me in. He obliges. I step in. A couple sitting next to the gate is busy sifting through some academic notes. The lady is in a colourful burqa and the man bears an Aligarhi Sherwani and a solemn look on his face. The man is blackish with black beard. He also has a black bag and a water bottle. The lady is ravishingly radiant (Later, a close look at her face reveals that she wears heavy make-up. Another sign of modernisation!) They both look at me. The man lowers his gaze and the lady chuckles at me. However, she gestures to welcome me. But, she first looks at three bearded, maulvi-type people sitting at a nearby bench. She demurs. I turn my gaze at these maulvis. They look at me with dismay, disdain, disapproval, and wonderment when they hear me speaking English. But, they say nothing. I say salaam and introduce myself to the couple, particularly the man. They both respond with salaam. The man even turns attentive towards me. I say, “I am a journalist and have come from Delhi.” He doesn’t understand. I repeat, “I am a journalist and have come from Delhi to write on modernisation of madrasahs.” He gives more confusing looks. But, the lady understands and translates this to him. He says something. Now, I give him foolish looks as he speaks in such a chaste Bengali accent that it is beyond my comprehension. Meanwhile, neither these two nor three maulvis on the other bench ask me to sit. I myself ask their permission to sit with them. They welcome me and the man makes a place for me. I feel relaxed. I ask them to introduce themselves. The lady takes the lead. She says, “I am Rasheeda Khatoon, a part-time teacher.” The man introduces himself as Meezanur Rehman, also a part-time teacher. Suddenly, the lady gets some signal from maulvis on the other bench. It was perhaps to leave the bench. She doesn’t. I prod Meezan Sb to reveal his educational qualifications. He, in his Bengali accent, which now I suddenly begin to understand, lists degrees that he acquired from all prominent seminaries and universities: “I did my Fazilat in Hadith from Darul Uloom Deoband in 1995. Then, I did Fazilat from Nadwatul Ulama, Lucknow in Arabic in 1998. On advice of elders and well-wishers, I did M.A. in Arabic from Lucknow University in 2001. Afterwards, I was sent to Jamia Al-Azhar University, Egypt, and did B.A. in Islamic Theology (Specialisation in Hadith). My selection was done through Nadwa’s recommendation-cum-selection in 2003. I spent around six and half years there. One Quwaiti society also helped finance my stay there. I joined Aliah College in 2011 as a part-time teacher. In 2015, I enrolled myself in M.A. (Sunni Theology) in AMU as a private student and completed that in 2015…” He then takes a pause. I think he is done with his ‘revelation’, and says, “I believe this is your last degree?” The lady laughs heartily and asks him to ‘reveal’ more. Meanwhile, I also ask him that despite such a long academic journey, why was his English so weak? He says nothing and only lowers his gaze. (Knowledge of English is touted as one of the key indicators of madrasa modernisation). However, he proceeds to answer my earlier question: “I have enrolled myself as a research scholar at Aliah Univeristy. My PhD topic is Dr Yusuf Al-Qaradawi and His Contribution to the Contemporary Jurisprudence.” (*Dr Yusuf Al-Qaradawi is an Egyptian Islamic scholar based in Doha. He is intellectual brain of the Muslim Brotherhood, the party that came to power electorally in post-Arab Spring Egypt and was later ousted in an Army Coup.) One point deserves attention here that both the madrasah students and teachers desperately pursue academic avenues, ‘more than required’, to better their career prospects, but it is mostly few maulvis who enjoy the top status --- as patron or all-in-all of these seminaries. This status comes largely through connection to madrasah-controlling families or organisations like Jamiat Ulema e Hind. (One thing also became clear while talking to Meezanur Rehman that most of the researches done in Aliah Madrasah and almost all the madrasahs in India and the world revolve around personalities. While I was talking to Meezan, one of his colleagues passed by and chipped in: “This is because it’s easy to encompass all Theological issues while discussing lives of personalities.”) Meezan says there are 18 research scholars in Aliah Madrasah and he doesn’t say this, but perhaps most of them pass through ‘this easy route’. (Later, I ask the head of the department, Dr Imdad Hussain Qasimi, to verify this and show me copies of the submitted researches done so far. He politely says that the department doesn’t keep such records and that I must visit the University library for the purpose). I ask Meezan how much the madrasah pays him? “It’s Rs 250 per 45-minute class and there are two classes a day,” he says, adding that he gets around Rs 14,000 in hand. Is it enough to run his family? “No, it’s not. I have some land in my village in South 24 Parganas district and family agriculture supports my expenses. I also keep my family there and live on rent in Calcutta,” he says. As he discusses emoluments of teachers, maulvis on the other bench says something in Bengali and Rasheeda Khatoon stands up. I request her to click pictures of both her and Meezan. She refuses. Now, the maulvis stand up and firmly say something in Bengali. Rasheeda looks at me and Meezan, and smiles. I request that she at least must click pictures of me and Meezan. She obliges gleefully. I got to know later that there are 26 teachers in Aliah Madrasah and only five of them are permanent. The permanent teachers get around Rs 90,000 plus a month. Permanent five are one Nadwi (Nadwatul Ulema alumnus) and five Qasmi (passouts of Darul Uloom Deoband). Rasheeda and maulvis rush to a staff room and one of them says that I must either talk to department head Imdad Hussain or a senior like Mufti Liaqat (he speaks to me the next day. Link of video interview of two Calcutta Madrasah teachers). Rasheeda comes out of the staff room and says something in Bengali to Meezan. He begins to gather his bag, academic papers and water bottle. I ask him whether I can drink a little bit from his bottle. (Suddenly I realized that I was still not even offered water thus far despite saying that I have come from Delhi and am a journalist). He readily extends the bottle towards me. I have three sips (this gesture is considered religious), he notices this and whispers in my ears that the permanent teachers (maulvis) are not in favour of part-time teachers becoming permanent and that recommendations to the effect are stuck somewhere with the university administration. Now, Rasheeda just appears from the staff room, and Meezan runs to join the maulvis. He leaves behind his bottle. I sit for a while drinking water and expecting people to come to talk to me. No one turns up. Some girl students in burqas and some with dupattas curiously come to look at me. I try to strike a conversation with them. I want to enquire ‘which classes do they study or which courses they have opted for?’. Some of them feel shy, some giggle, but all of them leave. Then they walk away to the verandah and stare at me. I sit for a while alone on the bench and re-glances at my notebook to remind me again of the madarasah modernisation signs I have to notice here. Five minutes pass by. Rasheeda comes out of the room and I notice on her face that she is asking me to leave. I do. Day Two My day starts very early, at tahajjud time (before dawn special prayer). The first thing I am reminded of is that I had messaged Sattar Sb and another photographer friend to come to Aliah Madarasah to accompany me so that I have proper influence to interview people there. Only a photographer friend commits. Sattar Sb later apologises as being also an academic, he has other engagements. At around 8, I dial Meezan. It wakes him up from sleep. He however is very polite and friendly. He shares some details I want to know about the madrasah. He says the madarsah will open at 10 and that today was the registration day for the examinations to be held soon. “There will be a bustle of students and a meeting of teachers at around 11 or 12. So, you must hurry up.” I ask him whether he will be around to help me. He commits. I inform photographer friend to hurry up as well and come exactly at 10. He says he is stuck in traffic and will be late. I hurry up to be on time in the madrasah. Today, I am confident that I will be treated well and will get to know all the informations I need from the staff. I enter the gate. The bench where Meezan and Rasheeda sat was missing. The bench where maulvis sat was there as usual. But it was occupied by students who within 10 minutes swelled into hundreds. They were in pant-shirts, kurta payjama, burqa, dupatta --- all in happy variety of hues. I try to intermingle with them. They look at me with suspicion. I dial Meezan. He doesn’t pick up. I again go to students and ask two of them their names and introduce myself. They share their names --- Abdul Farooq Mandal and Imran Sheikh, both pursuing M.A. Islamic Theology. They remind me that all the students are filling forms and that’s why they are in a hurry and not bothering to engage with ‘strangers’. Suddenly, my photographer friend, a Hindu (yes, it is necessary to mention), comes. He says it is his first visit to the Calcutta Madarasah. I am flabbergasted. How come a brilliant photographer like him missed to capture the Oldest Madrasah of India from his lens? Is he a stranger here or me? (Some hint of the reason is mentioned in the interview of two madarsah teachers). However, he converses with students in Bengali and I feel that the stranger is me. He makes students friendly and comfortable and explains the purpose of my visit. Students very respectfully take me to the department head, who comes after a while and is very cooperative. He carefully listens to the purpose of my visit and asks for my visiting card. I obey him. He says he will ask two senior teachers to talk to me and that I should wait. And also that for shooting pics and video, I will have to seek permission. We wait longer than what the department head promised. Meanwhile, many maulvi-looking teachers, including one lady teacher (different from Rasheeda and without burqa) keep visiting the office. One bua serves us tea. We wait a little longer. My friend (whom I called for impression, clicking photographs and making video) says that he has to go to cover an agitation over the brutal killing of a student activist, Anis Khan, a student of Aliah University, the mother institution of the Calcutta Madrasah. I go out and enquire. Student Imran comes to my help, but it is of no avail. I lose my patience. But, it only brings a smile to the faces of maulvi-looking teachers. One Mufti Saheb, who issues fatwas on the official pad of the Jamiat Ulema e Hind and who I was searching for, also makes entry to the office. He doesn’t communicate. I roam in the corridor in anger. The students start feeling fearful. A very gentle and maulvi-looking teacher informs me that he is the son-in-law of the West Bengal minister Siddiqullah Chowdhury, who is also the president of the Jamiat Ulema-e-Hind's West Bengal branch. I note down the details. I ask my photographer friend to click pictures of students and faculty. He does. I thank him, and say that I will manage to shoot the interview on my own. He leaves. Suddenly, the number of students in the corridor thins down. The bustle disappears. I glue to the bench, and keep asking the passing by who is Mufti Saheb and who are the two people I should interview? They merely chuckles. I also begin to feel thirsty. I ask for water. Again, no reply. I calm down myself and dial a RSS-linked Delhi uncle who knows the madarsa scene very well. I tell him that I am sitting inside the Oldest Madarasah of India, that is now a Theology Department of a prominent university and that while I am thirsty, nobody is caring to provide me even a glass of water, let alone proper welcome due to a journalist coming from Delhi. He laughs: “You have surely gone there without anyone’s reference.” I say I am a working English media journalist. He laughs more. “It doesn’t matter. The madarsas operate in their own peculiar channelized way. If you have someone’s reference, then you will be treated like a valuable guest. Or as an untrustworthy stranger.” I ask him where are modern ways in a madrasa then? “They will come slowly,” he says without conviction. He however advises “wait for the prayer time. Pray with them and then introduce yourself. They will surely talk.” I wait for the juhar (noon) prayer. As soon as the azaan is called, many maulvi-looking teachers rush to the wuzukhana (ablution room) and prayer room. I follow them. Someone asks me to first enter a side-by room. One maulvi-looking teacher is having food there and an innocent maulvi-looking teacher is sitting on a stool. I ask the maulvi saheb: “Can I also offer prayer?” He says I should first make wuzu in the wuzukhana. I come back after wuzu. Now, I see someone is praying on a prayer mat and the other two are sitting and having food as usual. I wait, but the praying fellow seems to be taking more time. I ask the eating maulvi saheb and the ‘innocent saheb’ that we must start the conversation and I will pray later. They don’t mind. I shoot the questions. They answer, saying everything that is “considered regressive, archaic, idiotic and thuggery” about madrasahs. During conversation, maulvi saheb (mufti saheb) suspects that I sound like a government spy. I tell him that “I am a spy of Allah and that He is overseeing all three of us.” He feels assured and takes part in the conversation with more confidence. I record my interview with ease. Mufti Saheb asks for my visiting card. I tell him that I gave it to the department head, Dr Imdad Hussain. He looks disappointed. I tell him that he can note down my details. He does and shows me the prayer mat. I offer chaar rakaat of juhar, say salaam to Mufti Saheb and leave for Delhi.