by Tahir Shah
A waiter took our orders and said the middleman would be along shortly. An hour passed. Another hour passed. I was getting tired of the dancing.
Just as I was about to storm off, a hunchback with a shaven head appeared, and told me to follow him. My colleagues would not be allowed to meet the Dervish, but they could drink tea with his guards.
We moved through alleys and down passages between kiosks where clients were already being entertained. My heart was thumping and I must have looked worried. Osman put a hand on my shoulder and smiled as I turned back to see his expression.
In one alley, which was darker than the rest, a door within a door opened. We entered a courtyard and I was led away from Osman and Prideep.
Guards loitered, toying with the triggers of Chinese-made Kalashnikovs. I tried to look serious and not as frightened as the situation warranted. A glass of tea was poured and passed to me. Grains of cardamom settled down at the bottom. Some sultanas — mixed with pine kernels — were placed next to my right hand: in Afghanistan known as kishmish. Who was the Dervish? For cardamom tea is also a favoured drink in Afghanistan.
I waited. Then the door swung open and a huge figure approached me with outstretched arms. Everything about him was big. His strides were long and full, and his limbs seemed double the size of those of any normal man.
My fingers were crushed in his grasp, and it was as if I were being greeted by my oldest friend.
“How kind of you to find me here. I am Yusufjahan. Some call me the Dervish.”
He spoke with slow deliberation in very good English, in an unusual, courteous voice which somehow made one feel warm and distinguished. A thick black beard reached to the second button of his shirt. He was dressed in camouflage army fatigues. A straight-bladed dagger — a Khyber knife with a bone handle — poked from just beneath his belt. The instrument and the man were most definitely from the wild lands of the Hindu Kush. What was an Afghan doing here in India?
Choosing my words carefully, I addressed him, “Aga, forgive me,” I said, “but you seem to be a man from the north-west of this land, perhaps from the country of my own ancestors: Afghanistan?”
The Dervish smiled with pursed lips and nodded as if I had answered a puzzle and pleased him.
“I am from Jalalabad,” he said. “I heard that Tahir Shah was looking to buy certain items in Mumbai, the name sounded Afghan and so I sent to meet you. But Shah in our country is a title, what is the name of your family?”
“We are of the Hashimite family. We come from Paghman. Alas, because of the war I have been unable to live in Afghanistan. I was educated in the West and have lived there most of my life.”
“You must be proud of your homeland, then it will be proud to have you as a son,” began the Dervish. “I left Jalalabad when the KHAD, Afghan secret police, offered a reward for my arrest. I had wanted to journey south for many years, and so made for India with some of my men to live amongst these Hindus. With the end of the war in our country, and the end of KHAD, we will soon go home!
“I am like the fat which never mixes with the tea... our customs and society can never be reconciled with those of India. I had hoped to come here and teach them to be like us. Now I realize that they are happy in their ignorance. You can put a fleece on the back of a wolf but it will never take root.”
Though I felt a kinship with the Dervish, I decided to cut through the pleasantries to see what assistance he could be to me. The Pashtun anticipated me.
“I hear that you are looking for old things. What old things do you need?”
I explained that I wanted to purchase both Indian and European antiques. But until now I had found little to satisfy my interests. The Dervish listened, nodding gently. He only began to speak when he was sure that I was drained of words.
“I shall see what I can do. Are you looking for any other products? I have many friends and could be of great help to you.”
What exactly was he aiming at?
I asked: “Is there anything in particular which you think might be of interest to me?”
He looked at me directly. Black eyes burned from his face and his Pashtun nose hooked at the air.
“I have a quantity of Dragunov sniper rifles. Seven point six two millimetre SVD. Capable of firing twenty rounds per minute, 830 metres a second. They are enormously accurate, and are in excellent condition. At this moment available to be exported.”
So, he was in the arms business...
“Well, Sir, for the moment it is not exactly what I had in mind. That is to say I don’t have orders for such merchandize.” I stuttered, my thoughts floundering.
“Well what about SA-7 Grail hand-held anti-aircraft missiles? Six mile range, highest Russian technology. I have a contact who is willing to supply.”
There was silence. The Dervish looked displeased and scratched his forehead with a set of manicured nails. I gulped my tea which was cold, and agreed to notify him if and when I was ever in need of a Grail Missile. He passed me a silver bowl of sugar-coated almonds. I praised their taste, he was pleased that I liked them.
“I have them sent from Kabul every month. It would be unbearable here without certain luxuries. You must see what else I brought with me to this heathen land.”
We both stood up and went to a stable, guarded by a lad who was armed to the teeth. Inside were two ponies.
“They are trained for Buz Kashi, the Afghan national sport,” said the Dervish, images of this most extraordinary game came to mind. It is the sport — said to be the forefather of modern polo — played on horseback by anything up to a thousand players. A stuffed goatskin is fought over by the mounted horsemen, with the aim of positioning it within a circle on the field. Fabled as being one of the roughest sports ever devised, the horses are at times trained to bite each other.
The Dervish shouted out, “Do you play?”
“I haven’t ridden for years, but next time you have a game perhaps I could watch.”
“You will be the guest of honour. If I have any information before then I shall send for you. Now I am sure your friends wonder where you are.”
We shook hands and I left the Dervish with his ponies.
Osman was relieved to see me. He had been trying to teach Prideep and the guards a game like bowls, only played with small pebbles which do not roll. I did not mention what the conversation had been about. Strangely they were not curious at all. We left by the door within a door and started to look for a taxi.
* * *
There was a need to talk to someone who might understand. I remembered the American, sitting advising people that day at the party: D. Blake. I telephoned him. His words mingled with other voices on the line, which crackled in dialects, spreading gossip and news from one mouth to the next.
“Yo man, just ride on up here and we”ll chew some fat. Tell the cab driver you want to go to King’s Circle. Get off at the Aurora Cinema. Ask for the American, this is a small neighborhood. See ya later.”
The drive was longer than I had expected. The first four taxi drivers I had asked refused to take me. One scowled and berated me in Punjabi — saying that after taking me once before he had declared war on all westerners. I was secretly chuffed to have acquired a reputation of sorts, even if a bad one. There must be five thousand taxis in the city: making the odds extremely small of getting the same one twice. Mumbai is like New York when it comes to taxicabs. The drivers have seen everything. They cannot be impressed. Sometimes I rambled on, telling tall tales of great fortunes. Not a single one even raised an eyebrow.
A tear-shaped bottle of imported iced tea sat on my lap. It jerked about as we swerved around blind bends, up and down hills. The jaunt seemed to encompass all the life that India has to offer, perhaps all that is human.
We sped on like the wind through suburbs and outskirts where wealth and indigence meet. Rows of lights twinkled in the twilight, as millions of feet dodged through chaos, and holy cows became traffic islands at their will.
The taxi
stopped to let a group of oxen rearrange their form. A man with mutilated legs, riding on a primitive skateboard, grabbed hold of the rear bumper: he was propelled at what must have seemed the speed of light. His mouth burst open and snapped for air. The wheels were in danger of melting as they spun round and around. Then the board hit a bump. The form’s rags were swept back with aerodynamic precision: he curled into a ball and braced for the shock as he became airborne. I heard muffled cries and saw a pair of twig-like limbs revolving into the night.
Blake was training a flock of vultures to take chillies from his palm. They squawked like badly-behaved school children as they stomped about, refusing to respect his command.
“This is just the first step,” said Blake, enthused to have an audience on his rooftop. “They prefer chapaties, but I read that green parrots like chillies: they’re all birds. In the afternoon they sit around and preen each other. That’s when they love to hear my bongos.”
He beat out a tune on a hide-covered drum. The vultures flew off to a faraway tree. “They only like it in the afternoon, you understand.”
The roof was concealed behind numerous sets of railway tracks, across from a six-lane highway, and at the exact point above which three glide-paths crossed. Yet somehow there was silence.
We sat on silk cushions, sipping brownish tamarind juice and watching geckos watch us with an air of psychopathic derangement.
“When the vultures have been tamed I’m going get those gecko suckers to walk on a leash... just wait and see,” said Blake.
He would lurch forward with anticipation and passion at the telling of a story, and his bright green eyes would flash with his excitement for another tale.
Before settling in India, Blake had taken Priti, his wife, to West Africa, in search of a spiritual director. Whilst living there he had studied West African magical sciences. As we spoke, he brought up one of the most sinister areas of study, whose practices seemed bewildering.
The belief is known as Macumba. It was almost as if Blake had to fight himself to conceal what he had learnt. He seemed desperate to tell me of this curious art, yet when I began to question him, he forced me to drop the matter, which I did.
My interest in West African witchcraft had come long before with the letters of a friend, who had ultimately gone to study in Freetown, Sierra Leone. I intended to visit him and learn more of his efforts to learn about ju-ju. But Blake had mentioned another dark science — Macumba. Although African in origin, it was developed in Brazil. Known to have roots in many societies and cultures, it has taken symbols and rites from many nations and religious groups, including Hinduism.
Blake did not realize it, but in refusing to tell me more of what he knew, he had made me all the more determined to pursue the matter alone.
He could see I was thinking hard and he changed the subject:
“You’re too goofy to go into the antiques or any other business,” he exclaimed, sprawling back on a wicker sofa. “Man, people in this place will rip you for every paisa, they don’t care about long-term deals... they all want to make a buck. Just one buck and that’s fine for them. Look at all the corner stands from here to Churchgate: those guys are just treading water trying to survive. Okay, some of them have crawled this far and consider a news-stand as fulfilling a life’s ambition, but for most of those dudes there isn’t a hope in hell.
“Those bastards in the West go on moaning about their misfortune: I just want to show one of them North Mumbai! That’d keep them quiet and give them something to think about. Man, I don’t even like to go downtown to Churchgate; it’s full of snobs in taxi lines who couldn’t give a damn. They have their boots cleaned and never even take a look at the guy who’s doing the job.”
Blake had married Priti eight years before. The more time I spent in Mumbai, the more I came to realize what a famous wife he had. She was well known in advertising and graphic design.
“It wasn’t easy for my parents when I married Blake,” she said. “We met in the States; I was just traveling around. Then we went to West Africa where he was in search of his guru. Six months later I persuaded him to come here. I think my parents must be very special people to have accepted the situation so readily.”
I could see that they were very much in love. Blake and Priti were the first educated people I had met in Mumbai who were not trying to impress or astound me with their intelligence. Priti spoke demurely and behaved with great elegance.
“I’m really happy that we are living here,” she said: “I liked the States: it has advantages for a woman who wants to get serious work done. People accept it there, more than in Mumbai where so many men are in my field. I wouldn’t like to live in the States for a long time, though. Once, Blake’s oldest friend invited us to dinner. He cooked spaghetti, and when Blake began to help himself to more, it was pulled away. The host took it for himself! In the East a guest is treated as if he were God.
“Some Americans tend to be superficial. When I first went there I was visiting my brother in Kentucky. We were invited to a belly-dancing competition in a tiny town, in the middle of nowhere. I couldn’t believe my eyes: all these fat American women wrapped in sheets swaying their waists and shaking their heads from side to side. People kept giving me uneasy looks when I said my name. When I told one guy, “Hi, I’m Priti,” he rolled his eyes and said, “Do you really think so?”
I asked Blake who the beautiful girl had been at the party where we first met. She was, he explained, the daughter of the host that night. Was there any chance of meeting her? Blake chuckled and rubbed his fingers across each other and spoke.
“I can arrange to introduce you. But it will involve your becoming my pupil and doing all that I say. If you put your trust in me all will go well. To show that I am your guruji you must bring me a garland of flowers and a coconut. This is tradition.”
I agreed and the subject was dropped. It was decided that I should be introduced to Blake’s own guru. He was an aging teacher of music, the finest there was: a man who had grasped the very mechanics of Hindustani rhythm and hit. I picked up a six-inch spool tape, sitting next to the peanuts. Blake started up from his upside-down slump:
“Hey man, be careful! That’s weeks of work you’re holding right there.”
“Wow! What is it, some new sitar track or what?”
“No man, it’s for a great new Hindi movie. It’s atmos.””
“Atmos?”
“I recorded twenty-four hours of it. It’s fantastic aphony, man. I’m really happy with the way it turned out. You see, movie tracks must have atmos dubbed in, otherwise you just hear the projectors rolling.”
I knew that there was so much for me to learn, it seemed having Blake as a guru might help me understand more of India and its unconventional customs. We spoke some more, then I left D. Blake and Priti to tame the vultures on their rooftop in the middle of nowhere — which was somehow so central all the same.
* * *
“The Town Hall’s where you’ll find it.” Everyone assured me that this legendary site was the solution for everything and anything. Sometimes strangers stopped me in the street, muttering “Town Hall”, as if it were a secret curse or code they were desperate to pass on.
One day I was so curious to see what I had been missing that I jumped into a taxi.
“The Town Hall please,” I said.
“Round ball? Vat round ball?” came the confused reply in a heavy Gujarati accent.
“Not a round ball, but the Town Hall. It is very famous, everyone knows where it is.”
“Vere is it then, Sahib?”
“I don’t know, you’re the driver. You must have gone there before.”
“I vill take you to Haji Ali’s Tomb. It is nice place. You like it.”
“Are you crazy? If I wanted to go to Haji Ali’s Tomb or to a round ball I’d say so.”
The driver looked at me in the rear-view mirror, his face drawn with worry. He unwound the window and opened the door from the outside. There w
ere shouts in Gujarati, Tamil and Punjabi. Everyone was baffled.
“It must be a big old building,” I chirped.
Then a bear-like driver laughed and pointed to the back seat of his cab. He, apparently, knew the way. There were problems because the first driver had made me pay the fare in advance so he could buy some petrol. Couldn’t the one who knew tell the other? No, that would never do, for the one who had the knowledge was suddenly unable to recollect the names of any of the roads. They tried to draw a map in the red dirt. The finger which was poking about unearthed a one-rupee coin. A brawl began as the drivers debated who owned the rupee. Snatching the coin, I decreed that anyone who could take me to the Town Hall would get one rupee extra. It was decided that they would take it in turns to drive me. But the bear of a man pushed me into the back of his cab and we screeched away.
I have a very bad sense of direction. But it seemed to me we were going out of the town. An hour passed and I was pretty sure the Town Hall was not twenty miles out of Mumbai.
“Where the hell are you going?” I screamed. “Stop right now and take me back to town.”
“No, vee going to Town Halls, Sahib... ek minute.”
I sat back, knowing that I would be the only casualty. Ideas ran through my mind. Perhaps the whole business of the Town Hall was one enormous joke. Like the village idiot who had a prankster’s note pinned to his back, reading “Send the fool another mile”, I was being passed from one to the next.
I could hear airplanes above the yellow-topped taxi. A large white sign depicted a bowing Maharaja — the symbol of Air India. Now I knew where we were. It was not the Town Hall but the airport.