Now, the Mosque was situated on the road-side, and there was an open window to that side, and as his wife knew that she could not be admitted to the Mosque, she made up her mind to listen at the window.
One day when she got there quite unperceived, she saw the Imam with his face toward Mecca, and he was telling the people just as the neighbours had told her, viz., “That whatever you do, give alms to the poor, and nice dishes when you can, for this will bring you a blessing at the last.”
When she heard this she said to herself, “If this is so, and I believe it, I make a vow from this day forward to send nice dishes to the poor, for I am not going to be behind others in this duty.” Whereupon she at once prepared and cooked daily such dishes as she could, and then sent them to the poor living round about her; and sometimes she would spend a good deal of money in the purchases she made for the cooking of “Pulāo” and “Parātha” (sweet pudding and cake).
This she had continued to do for some time, when one day her husband returned from the Mosque a little earlier than usual, and she was herself a little late, and coming into the house and seeing the dishes ready and on a tray, he thought that they had been sent as a gift. Opening the covers he exclaimed, “Oh! Mother of Mahomed! we are indeed in luck’s way. Who, in the name of fortune, can be the blessed of the faithful who has sent us such a savoury meal? Why! here is Pulāo! and cakes! and I do not know what beside! What a delicious feast!”
“No one, sir,” replied the wife, “has sent this, but I have prepared it for the poor!”
“What!” said he, “of our money? And what have you spent, pray?” He became very angry, and she could only wait till he was quiet; then she said, “Did you not preach to the people, and I dare say do so still, that those who give dainty dishes to the poor shall be blessed hereafter? Did you not say that prayer carries us halfway to Allah, fasting to His palace gates; but only alms-giving gets us in? Yes, I have heard you say so myself!” He replied, “You wretched woman, how and when did you hear this? And if you did hear it, my advice was for others, not for ourselves; I never meant that we were to send to others, but that others were to send to us, and you must stop this waste at once; do you hear me?” “Yes, I hear you, but I cannot stop it now, for I have made a solemn promise and vow that I will continue this to my dying day. You have said, and I always believe what you say, that the best blessings attend those who give dainty dishes to the poor; and you don’t want me to be blessed, eh?”
The Imam then said, “If you go on in this way, and spend my money, I shall be ill.” And sure enough, he did not rise the next morning in time to go to the Mosque, a duty he had not failed in for years. His wife went to rouse him, but he would not get up. At last she said, “All the people will be waiting for you.” “I cannot help that,” he replied, “but if you will break your wicked vow, I will at once get up and go to the Mosque.” “No,” she said, “I have already told you I will on no account break my vow, and all your talking will never shake my purpose,” “Well, then,” said the Imam, “I shall certainly take to my bed and die.” “Then die you must,” said she, “but remember that if you do not go to the Mosque, they will put in some other man instead of you, and you will be the loser.”
This, however, had no effect upon him, and when she went again to see him he once more asked her to break her vow, and she as steadily refused. She then left him for the night, and the next morning when she went to see him he was to all appearances dead, and failing to get any response, she called in her friends and neighbours, who pronounced that he had truly passed away; and then they sent up the usual cries and lamentations in such cases. The day following, according to custom, the body was washed (ghussal), covered with a shroud, and laid ready on a bier, and shortly after carried to the Cemetery, or “Kaburistān,” under a chorus of mournful voices, saying, “There is no Deity but Allah, and Mahomed is his prophet,” or in their own words, viz., La-il-la-ha. Illul-la-ho. Mahommadoor Rassool-oolahe.
The wife contrived to secrete herself in the procession, for she well knew that no woman could go to the graveside, and when the bier was waiting after the funeral prayers of “takbir” and “dua” had been said, she came to the front, and asked to have one more look at her husband. The funeral service contains four Tukbeers (creeds) and the Dua (blessing). (See Funeral Obsequies in Jaffur Shurreef’s “Qanoon-e-Islam.”) Those round about the body were for moving her away, but others cried, “Let her be! Let her be!” Going near the bier she whispered, “You are just going into the grave; you had better think better of it.” “So I will,” he replied softly, “if you will break your vow.” Drawing her lips tightly together, she gave a final “No!” and then called out at the top of her voice, “Friends and neighbours, this is the time for charity; you see my husband is dead; now go to my house, and take away what things you like. I shall not want them any more, and they are of no further use to your old Imam.”
She had scarcely uttered these words when the Imam rose from the bier like a ghost, scaring away many of the sorrowing mourners near by. “Wait!” he cried out; “release me; I am not dead, but only in a trance. Hear ye! all of you, what this wretched woman says, and mark well her extravagance and waste. When I lived with her she squandered my money, and now, when I was on the point of being buried, she gives away my possessions. She shall not, however, have her way now with what I possess at my death, do what she will with the money-bag while I am alive.”