My father would somehow always attract severely old-fashioned and backward freinds. Perhaps my father’s interest in religion, his humble and unassuming manner, brought these men close to him. Somehow, they mistakenly sought in him a sympathizer or an ally to their regressive causes.
Iqbal Ahmed was one of the cartoonish figures whom my father secretly abhorred and mildly tolerated. I remember from one encounter, when he visited us and I was still a child, his black and white beard touching the floor, his thick Punjabi accent, his shalwar or pants raised above his ankles. Iqbal Ahmed, what a man. He would suddenly appear at the oddest of times, right after lunch or late at night, not knowing how much my father detested meeting people outside of his strict regimen. Moreover, my father found it a sheer waste of time to discuss the various social decadences of our society, which mainly, for Iqbal Ahmed, meant female emancipation.
On one such occasion, Iqbal Ahmed shared a remarkable episode. In my family, we call it Iqbal Ahmed’s Beating. An acquaintance of his, unknown to my father, sought his assistance in merely talking to their 20-something-year-old daughter, who was determined to marry a man of her choice. For quite some time, she hid her relationship, but was eventually caught red-handed with this boy. The family had an issue with him, and they wanted her to marry someone else. Since Mr. Iqbal was known for being an old, wise uncle, they asked him to come and talk some sense into their daughter. Of course, he said to my father, I could not let this vulgarity go on; I had to stop this immorality from spreading. So, I went and at first, I took her to a room, and asked her to reveal all her feelings for this wretched man calmly to me. Once she confessed everything, I started beating her. And as I beat her, I said to her, now do you want him? And she said, no, no, no. I beat her black and blue. And eventually, after an hour or so of good thrashing, I was convinced I had done my job. I had to put an end to this, Mr. Khan, he said excitedly to my father, with foam coming out of his mouth. We have to take the law into our own hands. We have to teach these young people right and wrong. We have to cure the ills of our society.
Horrified, my father asked him, So what happened? Perhaps her parents married her off to someone else, and she submitted to their decision. Meaning, the beating worked?
Oh, no, Iqbal Ahmed said, without any remorse, actually, no, she never agreed to marry anyone else, and six months later or so, she married the man she loved. Her parents eventually agreed as well. But it was Allah’s will, which I had to fulfill.
It was Allah’s will that you beat her, and the same Allah for whose sake you beat her, married her off to the man she loved? My father responded and laughed out loud!
I remember whenever my father told us this story, he would say. I keep a list of idiots, and Iqbal Ahmed’s name is at the top of the list.
