In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  ‘If you need anything, let me know and I’ll bring it over,’ he said. He murmured a sort of farewell to Ramditta’s wife and left. When he got near Barne Pir he stopped under the cool shade of the neem tree and took a long breath of freedom.

  And Ramditta was not yet altogether healthy, he’d just started to go and sit at the shop again, when one day, he went home to eat and came back beating his head. He told Harlal he’d been robbed. Not only had his wife herself run away, but she’d taken all the clothing and jewellery with her.

  Harlal scolded him, reminding him he’d told him not to show his new wife the clothing and jewels of his first wife until he’d been married a few years; why had he given her the jewels?

  Then Ramditta told him weeping that he hadn’t shown her any of his first wife’s things initially, but she’d cared for him like an angel during his illness and this had overwhelmed him with gratitude, so he’d brought out his first wife’s clothing and jewels and placed them at her feet.

  ‘Then what are you crying for? When you don’t listen to reason of course you’ll get cheated!’ replied Harlal angrily.

  Despite his anger, he felt sorry for Ramditta’s state and did his best to find the ‘child widow’ for him, but she was nowhere to be found. They went to look at the widow ashram, but learned it was a travelling ashram; they arranged four or five marriages in one city, then packed their bags, pulled down their signboard and set off for another.

  This incident affected Ramditta so strongly that it cured his obsession with remarrying. He again owed Harlal two hundred or so rupees, so he quietly got back to work without talking to anyone about it. He wouldn’t answer anyone’s questions, and if anyone asked about his second wife, he’d start swearing at them.

  In the midst of this, the boys of the mohalla learned that now Ramditta turned irritable when asked about his age—he’d pick up his spatula or his ladle and chase after them—so they’d found a new method for amusement. The more annoyed he got, the more fun the boys had teasing him.

  After having his home thus destroyed for a second time, a helpless look clung about his face. His lips hung slightly open, his broken front tooth looking quite hideous, and his face was twisted into a permanent grimace.

  *

  As he followed Ramditta towards Chowk Kharadiyan, the past few years passed through Chetan’s mind, and he had only just entered the gali when he saw Ramditta walking back, twisting the ear of a small boy with one hand and threatening to spank him with the spatula in his other hand.

  ‘What happened, Chacha?’ asked Anant suddenly.

  ‘This son of a bitch is asking my age,’ said Ramditta irritably. ‘Why don’t you ask if he’s planning to give me his sister or his mother?’ And he quoted a Punjabi saying as he twisted the boy’s ear: ‘Some people think they’re born knowing everything.’

  He was about to spank him with his spatula, when a boy cried out from behind, in Chowk Kharadiyan:

  ‘Hey, how old are you, Chacha Ramditta?’

  Ramditta let go of the first boy and ran after the second one. But the other boy ran into the gali and perhaps went and hid in his house.

  Ramditta couldn’t catch him and when he returned, he was cursing the boy and all his ancestors before him. In the meantime, the milk had boiled over the sides of the pot. Someone yelled to him from the shop, so he stopped chasing the boys and rushed back. When he arrived, he sprinkled the boiling milk with drops of water and sat down, cursing like a sailor at those boys and their parents, and began stirring the pot again with his spatula.

  *

  Although the others were enjoying Ramditta’s irritation, Chetan was filled with a strange combination of pity and aversion. He paid Ramditta for the lassi and barfi and walked toward Chaurasti Atari, pulling Anant along with him.

  5

  ‘If Ramditta’s shop weren’t at the entrance to the gali, the boys wouldn’t even bother,’ said Anant, walking along with Chetan. ‘He curses at them four or five times a day. These damn boys keep coming after him.’ He smiled widely, perhaps at the thought of Ramditta’s foolishness. But Chetan had fallen completely silent. His heart, heavy since morning, felt even heavier.

  Anant kept talking about Ramditta’s eccentricity and his idiocy, but Chetan, despite hearing his words, wasn’t really listening. He responded, ‘Unh huh, unh huh,’ to everything Anant said, still wrapped up in his own thoughts. Both Ramditta’s future and Badda’s distressed him. As he thought of the two of them, he imagined the life and the future of the entire mohalla as well, and he wished he could go back to Lahore by the night train and forget all the baseness of his mohalla in the vast sweep of the hustle-bustle of the city.

  But his feet continued to move towards Chaurasti Atari and he walked along, holding on to Anant’s hand.

  As they reached Chaurasti Atari, Anant said suddenly, ‘Okay, brother, I’m off now. I have to go over to Chowk Sudan. Go on over to Hakim Dina Nath’s; make sure to ask him for me whether he’s had his moustaches completely shaved by now or not.’

  And Anant chuckled loudly. Then he said, ‘If he has another child next year, he’ll have to shave off his ears too.’

  And he began to laugh some more.

  Hakim Dina Nath had been their classmate. When he studied with them in class eight, he had been hearty like his father and uncle, and like them, he’d had enormous moustaches. He’d been married quite young—in Class Eight—and after he’d passed middle school, he began to work at the shop with his father and uncle. After just one year, he had his first son. In the eight years since then, he’d had five children, and not only had his wrestler-style physique grown weak, but his enormous moustaches had also thinned out and become wispy. Anant liked to say that if Dina Nath had one more child, he’d have to shave his moustaches off completely, and then all he’d have left to trim would be his ears. Hakim Dina Nath’s sixth child had been born this year, and that’s what Anant was referring to.

  But Chetan did not join in this crude joke with Anant. He was still caught up in his own thoughts. When Anant stopped laughing and shook Chetan’s hand before taking off, Chetan suddenly said, ‘Chacha Ramditta’s gone half mad.’

  ‘In two years he’ll be fully mad,’ Anant guffawed loudly and, shaking Chetan’s hand just as hard, he added, ‘After all, you call him Chacha, so that should embarrass him a bit.’

  Chetan liked this joke even less. ‘Okay, I’ll see you this evening,’ he said and, shaking Anant’s hand slightly, he turned into Papadiyan Bazaar.

  *

  But he couldn’t get Anant’s joke out of his mind. Like a thorn, it dug deeper and deeper into his heart and that invisible pricking brought to mind his great uncle Phalguram, so like Ramditta, who now appeared before him like a jinn in the Arabian Nights.

  *

  All three of Chetan’s grandfather’s brothers had been crazy. The elder two had passed away before Chetan was born, but Chetan had known the youngest, Chunilal, who was well known by the name ‘Crazy Chunni’ throughout the city.

  Chetan’s father had once broken his crazy uncle’s nose in a fight. Chunilal wandered the galis of the city, with his sunken nose and scarred upper lip, totally naked, his teeth chattering, constantly drawing men of wood and iron in the air with his hands, then making them fly away. If anyone gave him bread, he ate it; otherwise he was usually lying down, in the sun or shade, whatever the weather. Whenever he felt thirsty at some odd time, he’d go to the well. Otherwise, when the committee water carrier arrived in Kallowani Mohalla behind the sweeper to wash the drains at three or four in the afternoon, Chetan’s crazy uncle would squat before him with his palm cupped before his mouth and the water carrier would turn the opening of his leather pouch away from the drain and pour it into his palm until his thirst was slaked, and then Chunni would be on his way, teeth chattering, tracing his men of wood and iron in the air. He was famous not just in the mohalla but throughout the city. Often women stricken with sorrow and pain, as well as speculators and gamblers,
would surround him to learn their fate. He would usually sit silently and stare stonily into space or curse at them, but sometimes when he was comparatively alert, he’d tell them whatever came into his head, and people believed that whatever he said was the truth. Chetan had even heard from his grandfather that once Chunilal had locked himself up in the rooftop room of their old house for forty days, when it was still a ruin, in order to bring Lord Hanuman under his power. He chained the door shut, locking himself in, and told his mother, great-grandmother Gangadei, that no one was to disturb him until the time was up, or his austerities would be destroyed.

  He was Gangadei’s youngest child and of all her sons, she loved him the most. He was a hearty young man; she was petrified at the thought of him locked up in that room for forty days with no food or water. Several times a day she went upstairs and placed her ear against the door and listened to him intoning his mantra. She managed to keep herself under control for thirty or so days out of a desire for her son’s success. She continued to hear his voice in snatches, but when on the thirty-third day she heard nothing at all, she raised a commotion in the mohalla and broke down the door.

  Then—this is what Chetan’s grandfather told him—Lord Hanuman slapped Chunilal across the face and knocked him unconscious, and he cursed Gangadei, saying, ‘Go! You will never enjoy the good fortune of this son! Whensoever you come before him, he will be insane!’

  Although Chetan’s grandfather always said that if his mother had only been patient a few more days and his austerities had not been destroyed, Chunilal would have had Lord Hanuman in his power, it was widely believed in the city that Chunilal had indeed attained power over Lord Hanuman, and whatever words emerged from his mouth became the truth. The Kapoors of Bohar Wala Bazaar were devout followers of Chunilal’s. They had clothing made for him, and in winter they had quilts stuffed for him (he’d always give the clothing away to others and wander about naked regardless of the season); they would trap him, give him food and drink and look after him in every way. They had complete faith that all their success in business was due to his brilliance.

  But Chunilal had no consciousness of their business or even their existence. The entire city belonged to him, and he wandered about all day long. In summer, he’d fall asleep on the stoop of some shop in the open bazaar or on the front steps of someone’s home, and in winter, he’d take refuge at a kiln or tandoori oven. Yes, whenever he was in his right mind (and the odd thing was that whenever great-grandmother Gangadei went with her grandson, Chetan’s father, to far-off stations, Chunilal’s sanity returned), he’d show up at the Kapoors’. He’d be wearing clothing and he’d do skeining work at their shop.2

  Chetan had gone there once when his mother had asked him to. He had bowed down to his great-uncle, fearfully, and his great-uncle had given him a blessing as well. Throughout the whole hour Chetan was there, he simply saw Chunilal quietly doing his work—not once did he say anything to anyone.

  But this was after the death of great-grandmother Gangadei. During her lifetime, this youngest great-uncle of Chetan’s remained consistently insane. Once, when Gangadei had arrived in Jalandhar suddenly, someone told her that her son was completely sane, and busy untangling skeins at the Kapoors. Gangadei did not pause long enough to take a breath or drink a sip of water. She ran right over there, but it seemed the moment he saw his mother, Chunni felt the slap of Lord Hanuman on his cheek (this was the explanation Chetan had heard), and he ripped off all his clothing and went running off, drawing wood and iron men in the air, his teeth chattering away.

  Chetan’s grandfather always said that after that, Gangadei never went to the Kapoors’ shop. She was satisfied with the thought that even if she didn’t see her son, he was happy and healthy. But all the same, Lord Hanuman, the All-Knowing, always knew when she arrived in Jalandhar, and straightaway, he slapped Chunilal across the cheek and Chunilal would turn up stark naked to torment his mother. Because of this sad state of affairs, Chetan’s father finally took his grandmother to live with him permanently, and there she died, at some far-off station. After her death, Chetan’s great-uncle was never insane again. And when he died, the Kapoors called for his wife and gave her his earnings of three hundred rupees.

  Crazy Chunilal had a son named Phalguram, who had been a postman in Miyan Mir. He hadn’t studied beyond Class Five and Chetan’s father had helped him get a job there before Chetan was born. Phalguram didn’t marry and he lived with his mother. In a fit of madness, his sainted father had set fire to the veranda and enclosed porch that were their portion of the house in Kallowani Mohalla, so Phalguram’s mother had moved out to live with her son. When Chetan’s father had had the house completely rebuilt, he’d purchased the veranda and porch from Phalguram for four hundred rupees. The veranda still lay in ruins, making their new house look blind in one eye.

  During the time Chetan’s father was thinking of rebuilding the house, he’d called Phalguram to Jalandhar. Chetan had been small then. He was studying in Class Five or Six. That was the first time he’d seen this uncle of his. Phalguram was sturdy, tall and broad like his father; in his uniform he looked less like a postman and more like a soldier to Chetan.

  Chetan learned from his mother that Phalgu was the name of a pure river and that his uncle had been born after his mother had gazed upon that river. He wanted to joke with his uncle when he met him, so he lay in his lap in that same roof-top room (the house was still old then) where Phalguram’s father, Chunilal, had attempted unsuccessfully to attain power over Lord Hanuman, and asked him, ‘What is your name, Uncle?’

  Chetan had thought that if his uncle replied, ‘Phalguram,’ he’d say, ‘But that’s not a good name, Phalgu is the name of a river, and Ram is an avatar, put the two together and it’s not a name at all.’ His own name was so much better—Chetananand—and he would astonish his uncle by telling him the meaning and interpretation of his name, including the sandhi that joined the letters, as heard from his father. But his uncle picked up Chetan’s slate, which lay nearby, and wrote out a name in the Urdu script that astonished him. He wrote:

  Chichchal Khan, Chichchalawal Khan, Jahijjatbijjat

  Bijli Khan, Sher Bahadur Aiyye Khan.

  Chetan actually had a hard time sounding out the name and his uncle ended up reading it out loud to him.

  ‘This is your name?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But your name is Phalguram.’

  ‘I’ve given up that name, this is my name now.’

  And then he told Chetan to say the whole name fast, which he simply couldn’t do, even after several tries.

  In the evening, his uncle took him out for a walk, and although he treated Chetan to several types of sweets, he also frightened him terribly, because he took him wandering about looking in two or three cemeteries for some fakir dwelling there. Chetan didn’t let it show, but inwardly he was terrified.

  *

  Walking along in Papadiyan Bazaar, he recollected each and every detail of that uncle he’d seen years ago, and the two or three days he’d spent with him. Taken altogether he didn’t dislike his uncle, although he wasn’t fond of being taken along to wander about cemeteries every day.

  After that, there had been no news of Phalguram for years. Then, on the birth of Chetan’s youngest brother, when Ma told Chetan to write the joyous news in a card to Phalguram, he had written to his uncle in beautiful handwriting, addressing him with great respect. The response came by return mail and Chetan was quite alarmed when he read it. In the upper portion of the card were written just two words over and over: ‘Ya rab, ya rab, ya rab: Oh, Lord . . . oh, Lord . . . oh, Lord,’ and after this was written one more line:

  Yaad-e-ilahi mashghul

  Engaged in contemplation of the divine

  —Phalguram (AKA, Sher Bahadur Aiyye Khan)

  When he read the card aloud to Ma, she smote her brow.

  ‘When will we be rid of this problem in our family?’ she asked. ‘Will there alway
s be some lunatic in our home?’ Because of Chetan’s grandfather’s crazy brothers, his family was known as ‘the crazy clan’. The pain in Ma’s voice was plain to Chetan.

  Chetan’s brothers took the card from Chetan and took turns reading it. Everyone laughed uproariously, and Bhai Sahib declared that some day soon they would hear that Phalguram had ripped off all his clothes, just like Great-Uncle Chunilal, and was wandering about naked.

  And when, three years later, news came from Miyan Mir that Chetan’s great-aunt (Great-Uncle Chunilal’s wife) had passed away, and Chetan’s grandfather went to Miyan Mir and returned to tell them that Phalguram had gone mad, no one was surprised. Dada ji said he’d lost his mind long ago, but as long as his mother was living, he had stayed on at his job; when she died, he performed her last rites, then said goodbye to his job: he went into the office, tendered his letter of resignation, ripped off his clothes and run off, crying ‘Ya Hussain, ya Hussain!’ Chetan’s grandfather went to great trouble wandering around for two days looking for his nephew, but he must have boarded a train to somewhere as there was no trace of him anywhere in the city.

  *

  The joke Anant had made standing in Chaurasti Atari alluded to Chetan’s uncle Phalguram. As he walked along in Papadiyan Bazaar recalling Uncle Phalguram, Chetan thought, ‘Anant’s right, though. What real difference is there between Ramditta and Uncle Phalguram anyway? It’s possible one day Ramditta will leap from his shop, ripping off all his clothes!’

  His wasn’t the only family with lunatics in the neighbourhood. Jagtu, of the Jhamans, who had died just two years ago, had also been crazy. Chetan remembered something that had happened years ago—a hullabaloo had suddenly broken out in the neighbourhood one afternoon, and the women seated on their low stools in front of their homes in the chowk, spinning and carding at their spinning wheels, had picked up their skeins and gone and hidden indoors. Later he learned that Jagtu had gone mad and ripped off all his clothes and run off towards the bazaar from the bhuvara, totally naked, ranting and raving.