A Sacrifice

Saif Ali A coming-of-age story about a young boy who is expected to perform—in his eyes—an unthinkable act, with art from Amir Ali, courtesy of Kaleido Kontemporary Gallery. Mooshi was sure the coast was clear when he felt his sister’s wide frame sink into the mattress. She sent forth a light snore. Mooshi sat up. As he was about to climb out of bed, she turned over and a corner of his kurta got stuck underneath her. He tugged at it but the cloth was stuck tight under her heavy thigh. Mooshi lowered himself back into bed and lay awake, staring up at the fan, rotating slowly. He felt hot and trapped. It could be hours until she turned again. Slowly, he withdrew his left hand into its sleeve and then into the body of his kurta. Then his right. He pulled the collar over his head, slithered out of the garment and fell to the floor without a sound. Freedom at last.

Once out in the courtyard he looked up at the millions of stars. The bakra—the goat— was in the corner, tethered to the hand-pump, asleep. His legs were folded under his body and head was resting on the ground. Mooshi petted him on the head. The bakra opened his eyes, remaining otherwise perfectly still. Mooshi wrapped his hands around his horns and tried to lift him up but the bakra did not budge. He seemed resigned. Mooshi sat next to him and caressed his black and white coat that shone like metal in the starlight.

“Are you scared?” Mooshi pulled him playfully by the rope around his neck. The bakra resisted and stuck his head into a pail of water. Mooshi pumped the handle of the hand-pump. It squeaked loudly and water sloshed into the pail. He heard Baray Abba—his father’s elder brother—shuffle in the upstairs room.

“Go to sleep. I’ll pray for you,” whispered Mooshi to the bakra. He tip-toed inside, placed himself next to his sister and fell asleep.

*

The hour before dawn. Mooshi stands barefoot next to a column of granite, alone in a vast desert. The sky is orange with an imminent sunrise. A thorny vine growing out of the granite is coiled around his neck. Someone approaches him, wielding a knife. Mooshi tries to run but the vine tightens. Mooshi thrashes his head, trying to break free. A loud and repetitive squeaking fills the emptiness of the desert. Water emerges from the ground where his feet rub the sand. He is down on all fours. Kicking, slipping, sliding. He bites the vine with his strong teeth. He sees stars in the pool of water. A door opens and light fills the horizon. Mooshi disappears.

*

Mooshi woke up to the familiar scene of Eid-al-Azha. A new kurta-pyjama set was placed on the bed. He picked up last night’s crumpled brown kurta from the ground and put it on instead. The sweet smell of cardamom and boiling milk wafted through the air. As Mooshi hobbled into the living room, his father gestured towards the floor cushion next to him.  Baray Abba sat on the opposite side, along with men from the neighbourhood. Everyone was immaculately dressed and scented with attar. Baray Abba was preaching.

“To lose what you love the most for the sake of Allah! That was the test of Ibrahim, peace be upon him. Nowadays, people want to just rush through the sacrificial act and run to the Eid fair to eat ice cream like idiotic children.” Baray Abba sipped hot tea through his teeth after concluding his little speech.

Baray Abba considered Mooshi for a moment and turned to Mooshi’s father.

“Your son is beautiful, but too delicate,” he observed, then continued. “He ought to slaughter the bakra for the sacrifice this year. What is he now, ten? How about it Mooshi, you got it in you?” Baray Abba grinned.

Mooshi was busy peeking out through the window onto the courtyard. A piece of rope lay on the wet ground, one of its ends still tied around the hand-pump handle. The bakra was gone.

“He is still young. A mild temperament is a virtue,” Mooshi’s father said.

“I was ten when I slaughtered a goat for the first time. We were in Nagaland, the altitude must have been six thousand feet,” bragged Baray Abba.

Mooshi stared into a teacup. He felt sick to the stomach. If Baray Abba saw the bakra was gone, he would throw a fit. Worse, if he found out Mooshi had snuck outside last night, he would give him a severe lecture. Baray Abba had been in the Indian army. He had a knack of finding things out. He fancied himself a sleuth. Mooshi got up and put on his slippers, feigning a casual exit, went out to the courtyard and slipped outside the house. He caught a glimpse of a tail disappearing around the corner. He ran after the clickity-clack of hooves. The bakra was hurtling down the narrow lane made of red sandstone, the frayed end of the rope flying behind him.

The bakra looked down at Mooshi and calibrated the situation for a second. He knelt down on his fore legs and placed his forehead on the metal, exposing his horns. Mooshi grabbed one, then the other. With formidable strength, the bakra hoisted Mooshi back into the trolley.

A maulvi sahib was speeding down the lane from the opposite side on his bicycle. By the time he noticed the bakra, it was too late. The maulvi jammed down on his brakes but the tires skidded across the smooth sandstone, and he was thrown off the bike. The bakra did a remarkable turn and ran into a house on the left.

“It’s a bloody bakra parade!” screamed the maulvi, picking himself up. He peered into the door of the house into which the bakra had disappeared. A staircase went up to a door covered with a curtain. The maulvi heaved himself up the stairs, grumbling. Just as he was halfway up, there was a loud shriek. The bakra came bounding out from behind the curtain, a plastic bag full of vegetables draped around his horns. A lady appeared in the doorway. She threw a tough piece of cauliflower stem at the bakra. Maulvi sahib tried to catch the rope but the bakra galloped past him at amazing speed. Mooshi ran after the bakra as screams faded behind him.

“Oh, maulvi sahib! Your bakra has ruined my whole Eid spread!” yelled the lady.

“It’s not mine, by Allah!” protested the maulvi.

*

Back home, Baray Abba was livid. Stealing a bakra on the day of Eid-ul-Azha, hours before it is to be sacrificed is inexcusable, he said. His theory was that the merchants who sell bakras steal them back from people’s homes at night and then try to sell them again the next day. For this very reason, he had taken a photo of the bakra the day he bought it. He dug it out from a chest he kept under his bed and left for the bakra market intending, of course, to retrieve his bakra.

In the market, a bakra seller squatted on the ground. Many bakras were sunning themselves behind him, all tethered to a stump. Baray Abba eyed them and accosted the merchant.

“Don’t turn around to look. How many bakras are behind you?” interrogated Baray Abba.

“Five,” said the merchant, unaffected. He took a drag from his leaf pipe. “You want one? Last minute sale. Eight thousand rupees only.”

“Yes, I want one,” said Baray Abba. “I will pay you zero rupees, because I already paid you eight thousand for it, you scoundrel.”

“Huh?” The merchant was confused.

Baray Abba pressed on. “That black and white one. He's mine. I bought him from you two weeks ago.”

The merchant turned around to look at the gang of bakras.

“Which one?” he asked. Baray Abba held out the crumpled photograph to the merchant, who smiled. In the photo, a shirtless Baray Abba was holding a leafy twig that the bakra was chewing on.

“Wipe that grin off your face. This could become a police case!” warned Baray Abba.

“I’m not laughing at you, chacha. It’s just that I saw this bakra run through the middle of the street in that direction…” the merchant pointed towards the Eid fairground.

*

Mooshi's father sat at the dining table, his sewai pudding untouched. His wife was saying a prayer for his health before he left the house to offer the Eid-al-Azha prayer. She blew gently near his temples to impart the protection of the prayer to him.

“He probably got excited and went to the mosque with his friends. Inshallah, you will find him there.”

His father was not convinced. “He never goes without me, something must have happened. You are too careless. Had my mother been alive, bless her soul, she would known where he is right now.”

Mooshi’s mother smiled, unruffled. “I am a poor replacement for his beloved grandmother. Eat your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry, it doesn’t feel right to walk to the mosque without my son.”

The road to the mosque was a sea of white, with hundreds of people dressed in dazzling white with matching prayer caps walking along briskly. Mooshi, still in his wrinkled brown kurta from last night, looked out of place. He had wandered for a while looking for the bakra before finally emerging onto the road to the mosque to join the worshippers. The procession was propelled by the anticipation of prayer and renewal. The stream of white poured into the courtyard of the mosque. Mooshi looked around for his father.

The call to prayer bounced off the marble walls in resonant harmonies. Silence descended over the mass. They began to arrange themselves shoulder to shoulder into straight lines, moving like pieces of a giant intelligent puzzle that knew how to solve itself. For the first time in his life, Mooshi realised, he would pray without his father.

Mooshi went into his first sajdah. The sun-warmed prayer mat felt good on his forehead. He tried to shut out all thoughts of the bakra and concentrate. The imam brought the prayer to a close with the salaam. Men all around Mooshi got up, embraced and wished each other a blessed Eid. Mooshi brought both his hands up and prayed.

“Oh Allah, grant peace to my grandmother's soul. Take care of her, give her a place in Paradise. Allah, protect my father, my mother and my sister, Let my parents never fight with each other ever again. Help me find my bakra and let no harm come upon him. Allah, take care of Baray Abba and let him not scold me. Ameen.”

As he left the mosque compound, Mooshi saw a beggar woman holding a naked baby. The child was reaching his hand out, trying to touch something. Mooshi craned his neck. Next to the woman's begging bowl was the bakra, sleeping peacefully. The baby clutched the ear of the bakra, who woke up, shook himself out of his stupor and wandered off. Mooshi sprang into action, zigzagging through the departing worshippers and running down the dirt path, toward the graveyard.

‘Tranquil’ by Amir Ali (oil on canvas, 2023). Artwork courtesy Kaleido Kontemporary Gallery.

A minute later Baray Abba cast a shadow over the woman and her child. He looked dispassionately at the beggar.

“You have all your limbs, why don’t you do some work?”

“Have mercy, I am a widow with a child…” pleaded the woman.

“Have you seen a small boy with a black and white bakra?” Baray Abba demanded. The woman pointed toward the graveyard. Baray Abba dropped a one-rupee coin into her bowl. It fell with a loud clang.

“Blessed Eid. Allah bless you and yours,” said the woman.

 *

The lone figure of Mooshi's father ran down the stairs from the imam’s office and across the empty mosque courtyard. He was frantic. Everyone had left. The last of the beggars had gathered their gleanings and ambled off. No one had seen Mooshi. The soothing voice of the imam appeared on the public announcement system.

“Brothers and sisters, Mooshi, son of janaab Ashraf Siddiqui, about ten years old with black hair and a fair complexion dressed in a brown kurta-pyjama, has gone missing this morning. If you know of his where-abouts, please contact Ashraf sahib...”

It was customary to go to the graveyard and pray for the departed souls after the congregational prayer at the mosque. Mooshi’s father had not done that today. He was heading home instead to get his scooter so he could look for Mooshi. He quickened his pace, only to walk straight into Baray Abba’s old Jeep Wrangler. Baray Abba was behind the wheel.

“Get in, your son has run off with the bakra,” said Baray Abba. There was an unmistakable accusation in his tone.

“What is that supposed to mean?” demanded Mooshi’s father as he climbed into the front seat.

“It means your son is too soft and he set the bakra loose to save it from being slaughtered. He has taken it for a pet.” said Baray Abba in a disapproving tone. Mooshi’s father ignored the jibe.

“Bakras run away all the time. We need to find Mooshi. He probably went out looking for it.”

“They both went towards the graveyard, but by now they have probably reached the Eid fairground that adjoins the graveyard. Let’s go get them,” said Baray Abba, revving the engine and screeching off like a hero in a film.

*

Mooshi stood at the small gate at the entrance to the graveyard looking inside. Lush green trees grew everywhere. Irregular mounds of dirt indicated the locations of the graves. The bakra stood at a grave in the middle of the graveyard, looking straight at Mooshi, as if expecting him. Mooshi walked over and recognized his grandmother's grave by the small tree growing on it.

Mooshi recited a prayer for his grandmother. The bakra began chomping on the leaves of the tree. “Hey! Stop that you! Grandma needs the tree to keep her cool.” Mooshi moved his small hands through the cool earth on his grandmother’s grave, evening it out. He plucked out pebbles, tossed them aside and removed dead leaves. He then went to a large old tree. He hoisted himself up onto a branch with the hope of plucking some leaves for the bakra.

“Is that a jinn in the tree?” came a hoarse voice from below.

Allah Rakha, the caretaker of the graveyard, was a skeletal man with dark skin that hung loose from his bones. On his chest he had clumps of white hair. He wore a dirty sarong and vest and a ragged grey turban. His sunken eyes were milky from years of cataract. These eyes looked up at Mooshi from under the tree.

“Blessed Eid, prince. No climbing trees. Jinns hang upside down from the branches here.”

Allah Rakha laughed in a high-pitched voice. Annoyed, Mooshi sat defiantly on his branch frowning at Allah Rakha.

“Mooshi.”

The sound of his own name seemed to come from some invisible source, as if emanating from thin air. It echoed off the mud walls of the graveyard. Mooshi was paralyzed with fear. The faint voice crackled but continued.

“...black hair .... gone missing this morning .... Ashraf Siddiqui ...”

Mooshi tried to look calm. He smiled at Allah Rakha, feigning obedience. He jumped off the tree and landed painfully on his ankle. The public announcement system came in a second time. Now the imam’s voice was loud and clear.

“The boy has a black and white bakra with him. If you know of his whereabouts, please contact the police or telephone Janaab Ashraf Sahib at ...”

Mooshi ran, pulling the bakra’s rope. Allah Rakha ran after them.

“Stop! Thief!”

The old military green Jeep Wrangler was stuck on the main road even though it was the only automobile there. It was surrounded by hordes of children running to the Eid fair. A trio of buffalo sat by the pavement. Behind the wheel, Baray Abba looked straight ahead, perfectly calm. Mooshi’s father in the passenger seat was pale. His glance flitted around the crowd. He sat up every time he saw a brown kurta.

Allah Rakha had given up the chase. Mooshi and the bakra were at the main road. The bakra manoeuvred his way into the throng of children. Mooshi held the rope tightly. The exuberant fairgoers jostled him, gleeful smiles plastered on their faces. The promise of sweets, games and the human-powered Ferris wheel was like a magnetic force.

He drifted along with the crowd, through the entrance to the Eid fair. For a while, Mooshi forgot all about the bakra. He wandered wide-eyed, mesmerized by the colourful fair. Women stood at stalls selling yards of embroidered silk. Spectators clapped as a saffron-clad gypsy made a monkey fold his hands in a namaste gesture to greet them. Mooshi heard the shrieking of a girl on the Ferris wheel. Up she went into the air, her tunic flying in the wind. The Ferris wheel had a wooden fence around it. Children lined up at a small gate in the fence where a sullen man collected their money. The bakra stood next to the man, watching the fun.

“Mooshi! Come here immediately!”

Mooshi’s father was running towards him from the entrance to the fair, his arms flailing. He seemed very angry. A wave of fear rippled through Mooshi. He ran to the gate of the Ferris wheel enclosure, took the bakra’s rope and fished in his pocket. He found a ten rupee note. What a stroke of luck! Mooshi shoved the note into the collector’s hand and exchanged seats with the shrieking girl. He hugged the bakra to himself, brought the protective lever down and latched the two of them into the trolley. Children were staring and laughing. The man of the wheel guffawed at the sight.

“Bravo! The bakra rides for free, my love!”

The sullen man pushed a handle and Mooshi’s trolley lurched into the air and the next one became available for seating. Mooshi's father could not believe his eyes.

“No! Don’t start the wheel!”

The sullen man closed the gate. He rotated the handle, setting the wheel in motion. Mooshi and the bakra ascended above the fair. Mooshi saw his father running toward them as the trolley came back down. At the lowest point Mooshi got a good look at his father’s face. It was crimson red.

“Mooshi! This is unacceptable. Get down!” he yelled.

Up went Mooshi and the bakra, faster this time. Mooshi’s father receded into the vertical distance. He was mouthing words that Mooshi could not hear. Mooshi kept one hand on the lever and held the bakra close to him with the other. The bakra’s ears flopped in the wind. His father stood helplessly along the fence.

“Stop this thing, you idiot!” Mooshi’s father shouted into the sullen man’s face. A young man in a vest stopped to photograph the spectacle.

“Just a few minutes more, sir. Don’t worry, you could put a buffalo on that thing,” said the sullen man.

Mooshi’s trolley went to the zenith of the wheel at peak speed. There was a deafening sound. A metal strut fell off and got jammed in the center of the wheel, which screeched to a sudden halt. Mooshi’s trolley swung violently, tossing him and the bakra around. The latch opened and Mooshi was flung off the seat.

“No!” screamed his father as he forced his way through the gate.

Mooshi hung in mid-air, his thin fingers wrapped around the lever. The bakra’s hooves slipped on the metal floor but he managed to stay on the trolley. His father stood in the enclosure staring up, paralyzed with indecision. The sullen man climbed onto the struts in the middle of the wheel and went toward Mooshi like a giant humanoid spider on his web. Mooshi was slipping off the lever, millimetres at a time. The bakra looked down at Mooshi and calibrated the situation for a second. He knelt down on his fore legs and placed his forehead on the metal, exposing his horns. Mooshi grabbed one, then the other. With formidable strength, the bakra hoisted Mooshi back into the trolley. There was applause from the crowd. The photographer released the shutter. Mooshi’s father was dazed, his gaze fixed on Mooshi.

*

Nobody spoke during the car ride home. Mooshi’s mother was waiting in the courtyard with tears in her eyes. When they arrived, she smothered him and uttered words of gratitude to Allah. Mooshi’s sister watched from a distance. Baray Abba brought the bakra in and tied him to the hand-pump. Mooshi’s father came in behind him. He motioned to his mother.

“Take Mooshi inside.”

In the sitting room, Mooshi sat on a floor cushion hugging his mother. Baray Abba sat in an armchair, his father on the floor. Mooshi’s sister stood by the door.

“Bring me some lemonade and rose water,” said Baray Abba to her and then launched into a lecture.

“Mooshi must be prepared to be a Muslim man …”

“Please, bhai sahib.” Mooshi’s mother cut him short. Baray Abba was stung.

Mooshi’s father beckoned him to come closer.

“Mooshi, did you set the bakra loose?” he asked. Mooshi shook his head.

“Then how did he get away?”

“On his own.” defended Mooshi.

“Look how he lies. He was riding the Ferris wheel instead of offering the Eid prayer,” Baray Abba chimed in. Mooshi began to cry.

“I’d like some time alone with my son, please,” said Mooshi’s father, looking at the floor.

“As you wish, it is your house after all.” Baray Abba walked out to the courtyard. Mooshi’s mother stayed but looked away. Mooshi’s father wiped the tears from his son’s eyes and pulled him close.

“Mooshi, you are the most wonderful gift that Allah has ever given me, my beloved son. I love you more than anything else in this world. You can always confide in me. Please don’t ever leave your mother and I and go away without telling us first.”

Mooshi nodded. His father took a deep breath.

“I will never force anything on you. Not today, not ever. I will ask you to be brave. Are you willing to perform the sacrifice this year?”

“The bakra is my best friend. I don’t want him to die,” said Mooshi between sobs.

“He is too young, he can do it next year,” Mooshi’s mother suggested.

“He can do it today by Allah’s will,” said Mooshi’s father.

“Mooshi, remember the words of Baray Abba, to lose what you love the most for the sake of Allah, that was the test of Ibrahim, peace be upon him. And this is what we commemorate on Eid-al Azha,” he said. He thought for a few moments. Then he continued.

“See my love, the Prophet Ibrahim, peace be on him, loved his son Ismail the most of all and Allah asked Ibrahim to sacrifice him. It was a test so that Allah could see what he does. Ibrahim, may peace be upon him, was a noble prophet of Allah and he passed the test.”

“Would you sacrifice me if Allah asked you to?” asked Mooshi.

His father was silent for some time. “Today, I was shown what it might be like to lose you but Allah, in His infinite wisdom, was testing me. He returned you to me just like he returned Ismail to Ibrahim, safe and sound. My son, Allah does not ask his servant that which is not in his capacity to do.”

“You love the bakra the most, right Mooshi?” asked his father, standing up.

Mooshi nodded.

“Are you willing to let it go for the sake of Allah?”

Mooshi’s father held out his hand. Mooshi took it.

In the courtyard, Baray Abba had gathered two men from the neighborhood who were examining the bakra’s teeth. A gunny bag lay on the ground with many wooden handles sticking out of it. Baray Abba opened it, examined the knives and selected a mid-sized one with a sharp edge. He held it out to Mooshi, who was still holding his father’s hand.

“Are you ready, son?” asked Baray Abba.

Mooshi nodded. The men lay the bakra to the ground on his side holding him down with their weight. The bakra was panting. Mooshi sat down beside him and took the knife from Baray Abba. A blind beggar had stopped outside the door.

“Blessed Eid!" he called. “Any meat for the blind and poor? Have mercy, my lords.”

Mooshi started to pray silently.

“Ya Allah, I am sacrificing this bakra for you although I love him with all my heart.”

Tears streamed down Mooshi’s face.

“In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. Allah is great!” recited Baray Abba.

A minute passed. A stream of blood thin as silk thread made its way underneath the door, down the steps to where the beggar stood.

“May Allah accept your sacrifice,” prayed the beggar and sat down patiently at the steps. It would be a while before the meat would be ready.

---

Saif Ali is an interdisciplinary scientist and a performing artist. He teaches economics, computer science, and theatre in New Delhi. He has performed at venues worldwide including the Brava theatre, the Bayfront and Eureka theatres in San Francisco, the Stein Auditorium in New Delhi and Mumbai Art Room in Mumbai. Saif runs and directs an improvised theatre group called Batla House Theatre in New Delhi and takes an interest in Arabic and Islamic studies.

Amir Ali is a visual artist based in Karachi and graduated from the National College of Arts, Lahore. His work has been showcased prominently in galleries across Pakistan, including the Tagh’eer Lahore (2023 and 2024), VM Art Gallery Karachi (2024) and at Kaleido Kontemporary Gallery Lahore (2024). His artistic practice is focused on pushing the boundaries of medium.