It was a chilly January afternoon in Sopore, and the Warpora-Hathlongo route Eco-van was packed, as usual. I was occupying the back seat. Driver was shouting, “Warpore-Hathlong, Warpore-Hathlong”for a last seat that was vacant at front. The air inside was thick with the aroma of kangri smoke, damp woolens, and the faint scent of shampoo someone had used sparingly that morning.Thankfully I was anchored on the window side, that provides little fresh air. The van was about to leave and it started snowing. A young man probably in his twenties wearing a black Pheran, little long hairs than normal, and an inch of black nicely kept beardstoppednear the van to occupy the last available seat. At first glance I recognized him. He was living in the neighborhood of my in-laws at warpora Sopore. A friend of my brother in-law.As he opened the door, the driver, without missing a beat, grinned and called him out, “Molvi Saheb, Behiv Aaram San”(Molvi Saheb, please sit with ease).The young man, visibly taken aback by driver calling him Molvi Saheb, hesitated for a moment but ultimately squeezed into the only available seat next to driver.Molvi Saheb is a an Urdu name for Religious cleric/scholar. It was around 2:30 afternoon and snowing heavily. The driver pulled the gear up and we left the Sopore chowk.The rest of the journey was nothing short of theater. Every time the van hit a pothole, the driver would yell, “Molvi Saheb, pray for better roads!” When someone sneezed, he turned and said, “Molvi Saheb, can you recommend a dua for this?” The co-passenger joined in, asking, “Molvi Saheb, what’s the ruling on giving free rides to students?”
“We’ve forgotten that true scholarship and piety aren’t stitched into the fabric of one’s clothes or smeared into their eyeliner, or by a cap especially white coloured one covers head with. So the next time you spot someone with a beard and rolled-up pants, think twice before assigning them the honorary title of –Molvi Saheb.”
The young man, cornered and clearly not equipped for his sudden elevation to spiritual authority, muttered incoherent replies. He had no idea what “dua for sneezing” even meant, but he nodded solemnly, hoping it would suffice. By the time the van reached Warpora Petrol pump stop, the poor fellow had been asked about everything from zakat to the halal status of chewing gum. As he got off, the driver gave him a knowing smile and said, “Allah aapko khush rakhey, Molvi Saheb.” The man didn’t respond—he just walked away quickly, as though escaping a bad dream. I chuckled, but it got me thinking. Why do we, as a society, fall for appearances so easily? A one-inch beard, a pair of cropped jeans, and a dash of surma are apparently all it takes to be crowned “Molvi Saheb.” It doesn’t matter if the person knows the difference between a Farez & Sunnah. Dress like Molvi-Saheb, and you’re the one. This tendency to reduce identity to mere aesthetics is both humorous and problematic. In that van, “Molvi Saheb” became a caricature, a stand-in for our collective habit of judging books by their covers. We’ve forgotten that true scholarship and piety aren’t stitched into the fabric of one’s clothes or smeared into their eyeliner, or by a cap especially white coloured one covers head with. So the next time you spot someone with a beard and rolled-up pants, think twice before assigning them the honorary title of “Molvi Saheb.” Who knows—they might just be a guy trying to catch the van or a bus, not a scholar sent to guide us to salvation. The young gentleman I recognized at first glance was a mechanic working at a local car repairing shop. Huh!!!
(The author is a teacher at Govt Degree College Khansahib, Budgam. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
Dr. Ashraf Zainabi
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