Written By: Farah Javed
Hidden within the green hills of Kashmir lies a small village of farmers. Chhota’s mother spent each day preserving vegetables in vinegar and selling them in the market. Like most men in the village, her husband planted seeds and tilled vegetable and wheat fields. He’d chop wood and use the scraps to warm their meager hut. She saw how little they needed and smiled. Thus, when she bore a son, she named him Chhota.
He was exceptionally beautiful and strongly resembled his father. As is customary within the village, neighbors heard the baby’s cooing and came with hand-made toys and cooked meals to make his mother’s life easier. They remarked how well-behaved the child was, but when they came close to hold him, they shuddered at the sight of the bright red strawberry mark on his forearm — despite its chhota size, small, like him. The village elders declared Chhota was touched by evil and should be cast aside before wreaking harm on the village. After the third neighbor fled, Chhota began to cry.
Chhota’s father dismissed the crowd, and his mother pleaded that if they let Chhota live peacefully, he would never harm them. The elders agreed with hesitation and left the blighted home.
As the seasons changed, Chhota’s mother left home less and less to shield Chhota from the glares and insults she heard in the marketplace. She’d tend to Chhota’s father, whose ailing health left him bedridden. Quickly, the family’s aromatic lamb curry and red beans dissolved into thin soups and plain rice, and three difficult years passed like this until Chhota’s father died.
At ten years of age, Chhota took his father’s tools and headed out to the wheat field, desperate to keep his heartbroken mother fed.
“Chhota, if you must go out, keep to yourself,” Chhota’s mother said. “Keep your arms covered and say your prayers so no harm will befall you.”
On the first day, Chhota used his father’s danda (stick) to dig holes in the rich soil. He reached into the small pouch he carried the old long-dried seeds in and sprinkled in seeds of gourds, okra, eggplant and tomatoes into the land.
An elderly farmer hearing all this commotion looked up from his own digging and saw how quickly and carefully Chhota worked.
“Young lad, I once was spry like you, but my arms and legs don’t move like they used to,” the farmer said. “Won’t you help an old mamoo get food to eat?”
Chhota saw that while he had rows of planted seeds, the elderly man only had three holes in the soil. He closed his seed bag, walked over to the farmer’s area in the field, and did his work for him.
On the second day, Chhota carried two large buckets of water with him to water the tall crops his father had grown and the patches he had made the day prior. Another farmer noted Chhota’s strength.
“Excuse me young boy, you remind me of a man I used to work with,” he said. “He used to bring pails of water for me and the other farmers since our hands grow weaker by the day.”
Chhota realized the farmer referred to his father. He swiftly picked up his buckets and made several trips to a nearby river and back to the rows of crops. Not a single drop fell onto his pale blue shalwar kameez, and he took special care to not roll his sleeves up. The other elderly farmers watched in amazement and wished blessings upon him.
On the third day, Chhota’s mother asked him to cut firewood. But Chhota could not bring himself to strike a tree. Instead, he gathered some twigs and leaves from the field, bundled and dried them, and used them to start a fire. When word spread around the village of the boy’s intellect, the elderly farmers had him create these bundles so they would be spared the toil of cutting trees.
“Come boy, you’ve done such difficult work today,” one of the farmers said. “Come join us for the Maghrib prayer and join us in eating.”
Chhota was exhausted, and his stomach spoke like a whimpering dog. Yet, he hesitated.
“Mother wouldn’t mind if I had a bite before going home. It would mean more food for her tonight,” Chhota thought.
Upon reaching the farmer’s home, the men decided to pray first, as the sun had already set for the day. Chhota lined up with behind the house to perform wudu at the outdoor sink. Forgetting his mother’s words, he rolled up his sleeves to complete the first step of washing his hands and arms up to his elbow. The other farmers, who had finished washing up, walked toward the house to get their prayer mats. One, who had turned around to check on their new fellow from the fields, stopped with a shudder, his eyes fixed on Chhota’s arm.
“Astugfurillah! Stop brothers! That boy—he’s been touched by something unholy,” one farmer whispered to the others while Chhota was out of earshot, tapping on the spot on his own arm and gesturing for them to look, “Dekh!”
The other farmers glanced at Chhota and saw the red strawberry mark on his arm.
“We’ve let that boy touch our crops! Auzubillah! Who knows what evil he’s spreading to our fields, to us, our families, the village! It needs to be cast out,” a second farmer said.
“Tonight, eat; tomorrow rid our fields of him!” a third farmer said.
After sharing a hearty meal of pulao, the men said their goodbyes, and Chhota went home.
“Chhota, Chhota! Is that you?” his mother exclaimed. “Salam my son, why were you out so late? Your father does not own the streets for you to be coming home at this hour, and you frightened me! But maybe it was for the best, I had the strangest dream.”
She explained to him she saw a beautiful picnic with mutton dishes, naan, and fruits. As she took a grape, seven jewel-toned arcs of light appeared suddenly and washed over her sight. Then, six of the rays moved like ribbons and ensnared the single red light, smothering it until it disappeared entirely.
“Chhota, you must always say your prayers, my beautiful boy,” she said as she placed a small cup of chai before him, fragrant with wildflowers and honey she had collected from the forest to replace the cardamom and cinnamon she long could not afford. But by the time she finished her story, Chhota had fallen asleep.
The following day, he ran to the fields, eager to see his friends.
“Chhota, you’re looking happy today. Won’t you make another bundle of kindling for my family? We used the last bunch for dinner,” the farmer said. Chhota obliged, collecting leaves, drying them out to make several bundles.
As the sun’s heat beat down on him, Chhota took a break. He walked to the river to sip some water.
While he was gone, the farmers collectively dug a hole, opened the bundles, and threw them into the pit. They used the dry wheat to start a fire.
Chhota decided to stay longer and wash his feet with the cold water. He closed his eyes to enjoy the sounds of rustling leaves, bubbling water and birdsongs, but heard shuffling feet approach him instead. Before he knew it, he was hoisted into the air and carried by the throng of elderly farmers back to the fields.
“What are you doing? What are you doing?” Chhota cried.
“You think you could fool us, boy? We thought you were blessed with your gifts, but now we know you’re not holy at all!” one farmer yelled. A farmer lifted Chhota’s sleeve, revealing his strawberry mark.
They walked across the fields and threw him into the pit, staring and shielding their faces from the intense heat. But the moment the flame touched his skin, the strawberry mark moved down his arm and rested in the palm of his hand. As the fire blazed, Chhota was terrified but felt no heat. As he calmed himself, the shooting flame in his hand concentrated into a ball. The elderly farmers were terrified at this spectacle before them. Some froze in disbelief where they stood and others tried to hurl their digging sticks and pitchforks at him. Chhota threw the flame which burst before him, scorching everything around him.
Chhota and his mother left the village for good and opened a tea shop three towns away. His mother served the customers, chatting and laughing with them. He would keep to the back, away from the patrons who never smelled smoke or firewood burning. People in the flocked there for a fresh cup of Kashmiri chai, and Chhota’s cups never went cold. After a long day of work, he would take his mother home in their rickshaw –no more simple soups or plain aachar for dinner now.
Each day, their routine repeated, and Chhota watched the people of his new home. A young girl with a toothy smile carried home cups of tea for her parents. An uncle sat with his friends and reminisced about his schoolboy days.
While listening to these stories, Chhota ladled the tea, kept his head down, and kept his arms covered.
One day, a young boy, no older than eight-years-old, sat down on the shop floor and stayed the entire morning.
Concerned, Chhota asked, “Little boy, where are your parents?”
The boy gave no response.
“I’m Chhota. Are you hungry?” he asked. The boy looked up at Chhota but said nothing.
“Oi bacha, no khanay shanay (food, shood) ? No? Thirsty??” This time, the boy smiled, got up and walked behind the counter. Chhota was shocked as he watched him ladle tea into a cup and hand it to Chhota.
“No,” the boy responded. “Are you?”
Chhota smiled. He drank the mug and gave the boy tea as well. They talked until the sun set before he shared his name.
“Your parents have yet to come, Juwaid. Where do you live?” Chhota asked. Juwaid took Chhota’s hand and pulled him out of the shop. They walked several feet before Juwaid stopped in front of a mosque. His mother stood at the foot of the mosque and thanked Chhota for returning her son safely. While the boys performed wudhu, Chhota glimpsed a small mark on Juwaid’s arm, red like a blood moon. He smiled and carried on.
After praying, Chhota invited Juwaid and his mother to his home, and he and his mother ate with them. While the adults talked, Chhota looked at his new chhota bhai (little brother) Juwaid and asked him if he wanted to learn to make the perfect cup of tea. They went back to the kitchen for milk, tea, elaichi, and other spices. Juwaid looked around but there was no stove.
He gasped to see a flame in Chhota’s hand, but before he could take it away, Juwaid came closer and laughed with delight.
The following morning, the call to prayer echoed through the town . Usually, homes roared to life as sleepy children trodded to the bathroom to do wudu right before sunrise while their parents were already up making chai and roti for breakfast. But on this particular day, Juwaid turned on the outdoor tap only to find water the color of jaggery, though he did not dare to use it.
Chhota was in the middle of preparing breakfast for his guests and his mother, when he heard a shout a few doors down. He dropped his ghee and ran outside to see who was in trouble. Instead, he saw the ground covered in a brown substance, and following it with his eyes, he saw that the nearby river the community used for drinking and bathing water was filthy.
His neighbors stood along its banks confused and impatient as the time for Fajr almost passed.
“Oh Allah, please clean this river! How else can I set my cloths to dye? I will make proper dua, pray extra sunnah every salah, and donate from my profits to the poor children, just please help my family,” cried one townsperson.
A little baby coughed and coughed as his mother tried to calm him down, but nothing satisfied him.
“Does anyone have clean water at home? Please, my child will choke without it!”
As Chhota took in the scene around him, he feared that by coming here, he had cursed its people.
“This is my fault,” Chhota thought to himself. “If I hadn’t attacked those farmers, if I hadn’t come here, if I hadn’t been born with this, with this…”
As he held his head in frustration and closed his eyes, he felt a small, warm hand on his shoulder.
“Salam bhai” Juwaid said. “Chhotajee, look, it’s a miracle.”
“No Juwaid, it is the curse for what I did-”
Juwaid shook his head and pointed to Chhota’s forearm. A red strawberry glowed through Chhota’s thin, cotton kameez.
Chhota hugged Juwaid and walked over to the river, aware of the many pairs of eyes watching him. He said Bismillah, and stuck his hands into the dirty water and watched as it bubbled.
Within minutes, the people saw their reflections in the water once more. They rushed to their prayer mats after completing wudu to thank Allah for Chhota’s power.
