One Mosque and an Unbuilt Church
(An Anecdote from Shekharan Channar’s Life)
Twilight had settled gently over Muttom, turning the palm-studded skyline into a pattern of swaying silhouettes. Sitting on a carved wooden chair in his spacious courtyard, Shekharan Channar gazed upon his bustling homestead. Like most evenings, he was quietly pondering new ways to improve life for the community around him.
A soft knock on the gate announced a group of visitors—local elders representing Muslim families in the area. They hesitated a moment before stepping inside, removing their sandals respectfully at the threshold. When Shekharan beckoned them closer, one of the older men cleared his throat.
“Sir,” he began in a trembling voice, “our people are in need of a proper place to pray. We have found a small plot of land, but lack the funds to build a mosque.”
Shekharan studied their earnest faces. He remembered countless scenes of local families—Muslim, Hindu, and Christian alike—laboring in the fields, helping one another, and turning to him for support whenever they faced hardship.
“It is settled,” he replied, his tone decisive. “Show me the site. I will help build you a place of worship.”
Within days, his workers were on the plot at the edge of Muttath, leveling ground and sketching out plans for a modest yet sturdy mosque. The local community, galvanized by Shekharan’s promise, joined in with gusto—carrying bricks, mixing mortar, and hauling sand from the nearby riverbank.
Shekharan himself visited the construction site frequently, offering advice and ensuring workers had fair wages. He even arranged for a freshwater pond to be dug so worshippers could perform ablutions before prayer. Many nights, he could be found conferring with his head mason over oil-lamp sketches, or sharing spiced tea with local elders as they planned the final layout of the prayer hall.
Word of Shekharan’s generosity spread swiftly. Before the mosque even opened, a delegation of local Christians arrived at Alummoottil, hats in hand. They seemed reluctant, shuffling on the portico as though uncertain of how to begin. Finally, their spokesperson mustered courage and spoke:
“Sir, we hear you have great goodwill toward all faiths. We wondered… might it be possible to build a small church for our community as well?”
Shekharan, delighted at the idea of further uniting the people, offered a genuine smile. “Of course,” he said. “Let us plan it right after this mosque is completed.”
Yet soon afterward, these very Christians returned, visibly distressed. When Shekharan invited them inside, they bowed their heads. “We must decline your offer,” they said softly. “Our families fear disputes might arise, and we do not have enough members to maintain a church.”
Though disappointed, Shekharan understood their concerns. With a compassionate nod, he reassured them that the option remained open should they ever change their minds.
That year, after months of dedicated work, the mosque was completed. At the humble inauguration ceremony, villagers packed the courtyard. The call to prayer resonated for the first time, echoing across the fields. Shekharan stood quietly in a corner, observing the families he had come to love and care for. He felt a sense of fulfillment at having provided a safe haven for faith and fellowship.
In the days and years that followed, people would speak of how Shekharan Channar built a mosque for those in need—complete with a fresh pond—and how he stood ready to raise a church as well. They called him a patron of harmony, a man who saw beyond divisions of creed or custom. And though that little church was never built, his commitment to the community shone in every brick and timber of the simple mosque that stood by the water’s edge, welcoming all in peace.
