In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  ‘No matter, no matter!’ the youth had said, shaking his hand.

  ‘My name is Jagannath, everyone knows me at Chaurasti Atari. If ever you need anything, do think of me,’ Jagna had said and, after shaking his hand, he had come back to the group.

  Repeating that last sentence, Billa had said, ‘If ever he needs a neck broken, he’ll be sure to think of you.’

  And he burst out laughing. That last sentence of Jagna’s had cracked his friends up, and Hunar Sahib started coughing he was laughing so hard.

  They all enjoyed this incident for a few moments, commenting on its various aspects; they had especially enjoyed the look of angry surprise that had appeared on the youth’s face and the meek regret that had clouded Jagna’s features. Hunar Sahib recited a couplet as a commentary on this meekness:

  Who wouldn’t die at this simplicity, Oh God

  He fights yet doesn’t ever hold a sword

  Then they went in search of another victim. Just then, an elderly man appeared, walking towards the District Court—he walked with his head down, and wore a low-wrapped turban on his head, a long coat and pyjamas that ended just above the ankle. Billa motioned towards him. Jagna leapt forward. His friends also quickened their pace. ‘Stay a bit farther away,’ Jagna indicated and stepped forward.

  The elderly man was walking along, head down, lost in thought, when Jagna softly smacked him on the shoulder and said very loudly, right into his ear (as if speaking to a deaf person) ‘Chacha Bihari Laaaaal!’ And the next moment he jumped in front of him and, folding his hands together, he cried out, ‘Namasteeee!’

  But the ‘namaste’ hadn’t completely emerged from his mouth when he feigned realization of his mistake. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ he apologized, as he bent down to the man’s feet and touched his knees, then patted his shoulders, and explained to him that he’d been mistaken; he’d thought he was his own deaf uncle Bihari Lal. After this, he begged his leave, pressing his hands together.

  After the elderly man had walked some distance away, Jagna imitated his astonished expression such that everyone felt ill from laughing so hard.

  *

  It was fairly hot and even more humid. Everyone was uncomfortably sweaty, but in all this merriment they didn’t even notice. They walked along cheerful as can be. There were some new two-storey houses on the street that went towards the General Post Office, after the District Court compound, across from Ray Bahadur Bhagat Ram’s mansion. This row of two-storey homes went all the way to Company Bagh. Most of these housed new lawyers’ offices. In the middle of the row, there were still a few empty lots as the row of houses was not yet complete. Right there, in one of the empty lots, a man was squatting to urinate by the side of the road. Jagna rushed over and, leaning down near his shoulder, he asked, ‘Basshaho, what are you looking for?’ . . . and the next moment, on seeing the man’s shock, he cried out, ‘Oh, you’re peeing! Go ahead then! Pee! Pee!’ He patted him lightly on the shoulder and came back, and Debu and Billa’s eyes streamed with tears they were laughing so hard.

  Chetan felt quite angry at his impropriety. What was this rudeness? But on the other hand, he couldn’t think of a better way to eradicate the habit people had of squatting to urinate in the middle of the street and bazaar in Jalandhar. Although Jagna had only behaved thus for the sake of mischief, Chetan thought that whenever anyone squatted in the middle of the bazaar they should be interrupted in just this manner. If that were to happen to them once or twice, they would abandon the habit once and for all . . . and Chetan imagined people squatting to urinate into the drains of the bazaars and along the side of the road, and other people harassing them, and he involuntarily let out a chuckle. ‘But how are ordinary people at fault?’ The thought occurred to him the next moment: ‘There’s not a single urinal on this entire street. What’s a man to do if he left his home hours before . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, that Ray Bahadur is amazing. He’s the biggest criminal lawyer in all of India,’ Billa was saying.

  They were walking by Ray Bahadur Bhagat Ram’s mansion. His mansion stretched along the right side of the street that went towards the General Post Office up to Company Bagh. He was a famous criminal-court barrister and his renown had spread throughout the country. Countless rumours had spread among the common people with regard to his erudition and cunning—some true, some false. Chetan, wrapped up in his own thoughts, hadn’t heard how they’d got to that topic, but Billa was telling a story with great gusto—how Ray Bahadur had conducted a cross-examination and on creating the possibility for reasonable doubt on a minor point, he’d clearly proven innocent his client who’d been charge-sheeted under Section 302 and handed over to the sessions court. ‘The murder occurred at night,’ Billa was telling them, and the testimony of the comrade of the victim was the most critical. When he was conducting the cross-examination, Ray Bahadur asked him, ‘So when the accused attacked with his accomplices, it was quite a while before sunrise, it was still completely dark?’

  ‘“Yes, sir,” said the witness.’

  And Billa imitated Ray Bahadur’s questions and the witness’s responses exactly:

  Ray Bahadur: You got hit with a lathi first?

  Witness: Yes, sir!

  Ray Bahadur: Where?

  Witness: On the head!

  Ray Bahadur: You got hit pretty hard?

  Witness: Yes, sir!

  Ray Bahadur: You fell and lost consciousness?

  Witness: Yes, sir!

  ‘“That’s it, your honour, I have nothing more to say,” Ray Bahadur said, and ended the cross-examination.’ And Billa continued, ‘But during the arguments, he tore the witness’s testimony to shreds. If it was night, and if it was dark, and the witness got hit by the lathi, and the accused’s lathi fell on him and he lost consciousness, then how did he know in that darkness that the victim had been killed by the lathi of the accused? And he raised doubts in the judge’s mind, which benefited the accused!’

  ‘He’s amazing, Ray Bahadur!’ said Debu, glancing over at Chetan with his squint-eye, but Hunar Sahib felt as though this was being said to him, so he said immediately: ‘Yes, sir, Ray Bahadur’s a genius, and geniuses are not born every day.’

  Hunar Sahib then turned the conversation towards poetry and remarked, ‘As Allama Iqbal has said . . .’

  ‘For thousands of years the nargis flower

  Has wept for being ignored

  A true connoisseur is not born

  In the garden every day’

  Reciting the sher, swinging back and forth and praising the sher himself, he said, ‘How truly Iqbal spoke—A true connoisseur is not born/in the garden every day—but Mir took up this notion with such ease . . .’

  Do not consider me ordinary, understand, the heavens revolve for years

  Then man emerges from the curtains of dust

  ‘Do not consider me ordinary’—he repeated the entire couplet again, emphasizing each word, and then explained the meaning of both couplets to all of them. Then he began to explain their delicacy and refinement and his speech flowed freely.

  Chetan could not figure out how Ray Bahadur’s cleverness in criminal matters might be connected to these couplets, but Hunar Sahib knew full well that his audience were fools, and Chetan knew full well how easily he was able to impress fools. They’d reached the second gate of Ray Bahadur’s mansion as they strolled along. Years ago, Chetan had seen Barrister Bhagat Ram standing at this very gate—he was a stout, stocky man, wearing a fancy, expensive suit (which included a waistcoat, according to the fashions of the times); he was bald, with puffy cheeks and bulging eyes. Chetan had always thought crafty men needed to be thin, but this man looked to him like the general manager of some large English firm. He had an oddly dreamy look in his eyes, and gazed at his companion as though he were gazing somewhere very far off as he spoke with him. Bhagat Ram might have been a great barrister, but Chetan couldn’t quite understand whether he was that ‘connoisseur’ who could recognize the beauty of the narg
is or that ‘human’ around whom the moon and stars wandered for years. These couplets could easily be applied to the Buddha, Jesus, or Mahatma Gandhi, who on seeing ‘blindness’ towards the poor recognized their light . . . Chetan was analysing those couplets to himself, and Hunar Sahib was giving a speech on the simplicity and depth of Mir’s couplet in comparison to Iqbal’s, when Billa grew bored and said, ‘If we smack that bald guy on the skull, then we’ll see.’

  Hunar Sahib’s speech stopped abruptly. Ranvir and Nishtar turned to look. Everyone focused their attention on a plump man, about thirty or so, wearing a fancy kameez and trousers, who was walking down the near side of Company Bagh.

  ‘Watch, I’m going to do it right now,’ said Jagna and he walked over.

  The man’s bald head shone in the strong sunlight. Jagna reached him quickly, and crying out ‘Hey, Pumpkin!’ he smacked the man’s bald head affectionately as though he were hugging him, but the very next moment, he jumped away from him as though he’d been struck by lightning.

  Perhaps nothing would have happened after that, and Jagna would have begged forgiveness as before, told him his address and returned, but Nishtar and Ranvir, who had walked up fairly close behind him, couldn’t stop laughing, and the man grew suspicious that they’d intentionally played a prank on him. Jagna begged forgiveness again and again, but the man grabbed his arm. He didn’t pull it and smack him since he was a gentleman, but he started yelling that he’d have him arrested.

  By then, they’d all arrived on the scene.

  *

  Jagna was sticking his head out and saying that he wasn’t himself bald, but if the gentleman would get satisfaction from slapping his skull, he should smack him not just once but four times if it made him happy.

  On the face of the plump gentleman there was great anger, disbelief and indecision, which made him look hilarious—and Jagna looked so meek; he’d stuck his head forward in such a way that even Chetan had to smile.

  ‘I’ve told this sala twenty times that he shouldn’t smack friends from behind without looking first. He’s done that to me many times as well. Please—take off your shoes and hit him four times so he’ll learn for good,’ said Billa.

  But the shine in Billa’s eyes and the smile on his face as he said this made the man even more apoplectic. It seemed to him that everyone was making fun of him.

  ‘I shall not take law in my own hands.’ In his anger, he had started to speak English poorly. ‘I’m taking him immediately to the police station. I don’t care if the policeman wishes to hit him four times with shoes or forty.’

  Seeing that things were getting worse, Chetan came forward. He begged the man in English to drop it please. ‘He made a mistake,’ he explained. ‘He’s saying he’s sorry, so please let it drop. What will you accomplish by taking him to the police? They’re not going to hang him. If you do press charges, you’ll have to drag it through the courts for months under the authority of code 323.’

  ‘Who are you to interfere in this affair?’ asked the man, also in English, as he waved his hand in the air with contempt.

  Then Hunar Sahib came forward, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his dhoti, and introduced Chetan, explaining that he was a famous short-story writer, poet and journalist, and an editor at the newspaper Bande Mataram, run by the late Lala Lajpat Rai. And Chetan introduced Hunar Sahib in English, and the offended gentleman was bewildered. Just then, a large amount of dust came blowing from the direction of the Lower Court and filled their eyes. In all this mischief and fighting, no one had been paying attention to the sky. A powerful cloud had arisen on the western horizon, and was now bearing down upon them.

  Chetan glanced up for a moment and saw that a dust storm, black as the demoness Taraka, had covered the sky with its dark clouds just overhead. Before it flew a vanguard squadron of yellow and brown birds, followed by a dense black army of thousands more (as though they would be the ones to stop it), forming an arc in the sky and making a huge racket as they flew about.

  Just then, two large drops fell on the moon-like pate of the aggrieved gentleman and he let go of Jagna’s hand, enraged. After making them all feel ashamed for their poor behaviour, in English, he rushed off, and to escape the dust storm, all of them ran over to stand in the veranda of the building to the left which lay across from Ray Bahadur Bhagat Ram’s mansion and had a sign on a pillar that read ‘Hari Krishna, Advocate.’

  20

  ‘I have a buddy, Harjinder Singh “Tashna”.8 The two of us were together in the hostel at college. We recited couplets together and we made mischief together too.’

  Outside, the rain poured down, and inside the veranda of Hari Krishna, Advocate, Hunar Sahib, seemingly unaware of the storm that raged outside, spoke on in a steady stream.

  He had started off by discussing Jagna’s mischief and the agitation of the plump, bald pumpkin-head, whose moon-like pate Jagna had so callously smacked, then quickly turned the topic to himself, and since he’d learned that his new audience had no comprehension of the finer points of poetry, and since he wasn’t accustomed to hearing others speak, he’d begun to tell a tale from his college days.

  ‘One day, we were coming back from seeing a friend off at the station, when we saw a holy man near the inn, on the city side—he had a beard so long it touched his belly, long matted locks down to his ankles (perhaps he’d added fake locks in with the real ones) and nothing on his naked body but a sandalwood tika! Who knows what got into Harjinder’s head, but he said, “Hunar, why don’t we perform some service for this Sadhu Maharaj!” And I said, “Yes, let’s do it at once!” And I went up to him, not worrying about getting my nice suit all dirty (I used to wear a suit in those days), and prostrated myself at his feet in the middle of the bazaar.

  ‘The Sadhu ji’s face lit up upon beholding such devotees. He lifted me up and asked, “Child, what troubles you?”

  ‘“Maharaj,” I said, “what troubles do students ordinarily have? I’m worried about an exam. I seek your blessings so that I can pass with good scores.”

  ‘The holy man patted me on the back and blessed me.

  ‘Then Harjinder came forward and said, “Bhagwan, I have one request.”

  ‘The holy man looked up and smiled.

  ‘“Maharaj,” Harjinder said, “please accept a meal from me. It’s time to eat after all. There’s a pure Hindu hotel here with excellent food. Please come and eat a meal.”

  ‘“Oh, my, son,” said the holy man. “I hardly eat at such places as hotels. If you wish to show your respects, then just give me a little something, and I will eat in your name.”

  ‘“No, Maharaj,” Harjinder bowed low. “We feel such great reverence for you that we wish to serve you a meal at a hotel. If you accept this devotion from us, we will feel certain that you have blessed us.”

  ‘Long story short, we took the Sadhu Maharaj to a pure Hindu hotel. There were many fancy items on the menu, and we ordered one of each for the holy man and served it to him. Harjinder got a fan from somewhere and began to wave it like a fly-whisk. When platters filled with all sorts of delicacies arrived, the holy man’s eyes began to shine and his mouth began to water. Then I asked, “You don’t have rabri where you’re from? The hotel owner said we could get some from the sweet-seller at the inn. I’ll order some if you wish.” I told Harjinder to take a bowl and run and get a whole paav of rabri.

  ‘Harjinder picked up the bowl and ran off. How long could the Maharaj keep himself from tasting the delicious food while waiting for the rabri? He began to eat intently and I began to fan him. When Harjinder wasn’t back in ten minutes, I said to myself, “Perhaps he couldn’t find the shop.” I put down the fan, picked up another bowl and went outside. Harjinder was standing right near the inn. We took an empty ikka to Adda Hoshiarpur and from there went straight to our hostel.’

  ‘What happened to the holy man?’ asked Ranvir suddenly; he had been drinking in every word that came from the lotus face of Hunar Sahib.

&nb
sp; ‘That only God knows, or the hotel owner, or the holy man himself!’ laughed Hunar Sahib. ‘I didn’t get up until he had started eating and rubbing his belly and patting his beard. I wrote a poem about that incident in those days too,’ said Hunar Sahib. ‘I don’t remember the whole thing but I do remember the final couplet . . .’

  After ‘Hunar’ left the hotel who knows what befell

  the belly or beard or head of the matted-locked one

  And he guffawed as Nishtar and Ranvir cried out, ‘Wah, wah! Wow!’

  ‘Asses!’ Chetan muttered to himself, in reference to Ranvir and Nishtar. ‘They probably think Hunar Sahib played that prank himself. He’s so skinny, fair and fine—he was surely being harassed himself by mischievous boys. He must have learned how to make himself the author of pranks just the way he had learned to recite other people’s couplets as his own, embellishing a little here and there.’

  Hunar Sahib had begun telling tales of pranks he’d played in Lahore, but Chetan wasn’t paying attention. He leaned against the pillar of the veranda, lost in thought, and began to watch the magnificent raging of the storm. The wind was strong; streams of water fell like slanted wires with the shine and sharpness of swords. The rain looked like it was attempting to fall straight on to the steps of the veranda, but was landing instead on the other side of the street. The area from the veranda to the street was totally dry. Chetan gazed steadily at the bent-over mango tree at the Company Bagh corner of Ray Bahadur Bhagat Ram’s mansion. The two-storey house (where Chetan stood on the veranda) was blocking the wind from the trees in front of it, but the wind was hitting the corner where the mango tree stood with all its force as it whipped along Kutchery Road, and the lower court and the open yard of the Normal School alongside it—the gusts wailed as they plucked and pulled at the electrical and telephone wires; the storm had attacked the mango tree with all its might. The wind blew ceaselessly, giving the downward-bending branches no chance to return to their former state. Chetan was riveted by the sight. He had no idea if he’d been staring at the tree unblinkingly for ten minutes, or twenty, or half an hour. Then it looked as though the whole trunk was starting to bend over along with the branches and, as he watched, the mango tree came crashing down with a terrifying crack. It broke the gate and knocked over the electrical pole on to the cantonment road.