by Syed Majid Gilani
It was the day before yesterday. I was on my way when I noticed a man standing quietly by the roadside. His appearance suggested he was a Maulana, simple clothes, a calm face, and a certain dignity that needed no introduction. He raised his hand gently, asking for a lift. I stopped.
He sat beside me, and for a few moments, there was silence. Then, as often happens in simple journeys, a conversation began. He spoke about his life, years spent in madrasas, immersed in books and discipline. Step by step, he had completed his religious education. Today, he serves as an Imam and Khateeb in a mosque.
We spoke of ordinary things, family, children, daily life. He told me his children go to school. He lives in a rented room in Srinagar, far from his native place. Like so many others, he is simply trying to build a life. Then I asked him a simple question: how much do you earn?
He paused, not long, just enough for the silence to deepen. Then he said quietly that his monthly income was around seven thousand rupees. His words were simple, but they did not pass so easily. Everything around us remained unchanged, the road, the traffic, the people moving past us. But within me, something shifted. I looked at him again.
Here was a man who leads prayers five times a day. He teaches children how to read the Qur’an. He reminds people of what is right, speaks about living peacefully, serving humanity without any bias, and emphasizes universal brotherhood. And yet, he lives with so little. He even mentioned that most imams, in his experience, live the same way. I had no reply. When we reached his destination, he smiled, thanked me, and stepped out. Within moments, he disappeared into the crowd. But his words did not leave me.
That night, I lay in bed, but sleep refused to come. I kept thinking, he is not just an Imam. He is a father, a husband, someone’s son. He has responsibilities, rent, food, children’s education, health care, social obligations, no different from anyone else. We respect people like him. We greet them with honour. We listen when they speak. We call their role noble, even sacred. But perhaps, without realising it, we do not always think about their lives beyond the mosque.
Our mosques are beautiful, clean, peaceful, well maintained. Carpets are replaced, walls repainted, lights renewed. But the one who stands there every day, what does his life look like when he returns home? Why is it that those who guide us, show us, and teach us the way for a peaceful, humane living are often left to struggle in silence? Why is there so little stability in their lives? Why does a profession that shapes hearts and minds not carry the same security as many others?
In many places, their positions are uncertain. A small disagreement, a change in the mohalla or masjid committee, or even a difference of opinion can take away their livelihood. And when that happens, it is not just one person who suffers, it is an entire family. Homes change, children’s education is disrupted, and life begins again under a shadow of uncertainty.
In other private sector professions, there is at least some structure, leave, job security, support during illness. But here, often, there is none. And still, they continue. They continue to stand before us, to guide, to teach, to remind.
And I wondered, what if the issue is not a lack of resources, but a lack of collective will? In most mosques, there are resources, quiet streams of income from shops, rooms, or land attached to the masjid. Yet much of this is spent on beautification and renovation, while the one who is the soul of the mosque, the Imam, often remains underpaid, despite being a qualified Aalim, Molvi, Fazil, or Mufti who has earned his knowledge through years of dedication and hard work.
There is also a need to think ahead. Religious institutions like Darul Ulooms could equip their students with additional skills, technical training, and computer education, so that alongside serving as Imams and Khateebs, they can earn with dignity and independence in today’s world.
As for those who serve solely in this role, we must ensure their dignity by providing fair salaries and a sense of job security. And where mosque resources fall short, the solution may not be far. In almost every locality, there are a few people who have enough, who are capable of helping. Not everyone, but a few.
What if just a handful of them came together? Quietly, respectfully. Not as charity, but as responsibility. Even a small, regular contribution, if managed properly, could bring meaningful change. It could offer stability, ease, and peace of mind. Because this is not just about money. It is about dignity. It is about respect. It is about ensuring that those who serve the community are able to live without constant worry.
And perhaps, beyond support, there is also a need to empower, so that those who dedicate their lives to faith are not left dependent, but are given the means to stand with strength and independence. That night, sleep did not come. Perhaps because it was not just his story.
It felt like something we all see, but rarely stop to truly notice. Since that day, whenever I pass by a mosque, I do not just see a building. I remember a man, sitting beside me, speaking softly about his life. He only asked me for a lift that day. But he left me with a thought that still has not let me sleep.
Syed Majid Gilani is a Government Officer, storyteller, and opinion writer focusing on family, faith, resilience, and human values. He can be contacted at syedmajid6676@gmail.com
