by HM Naqvi
“How long have you lived here?”
“I was born in this house,” I reply, “spent my childhood in this garden,” I add, raising an arm as if balancing a tray on my palm, “but tell me, how long have you been here?”
“I am not from here.”
“Oh?”
“You can say I am visiting.”
“Visiting,” I repeat. Whosoever sojourns in Garden anymore? “Where from?”
Sipping Roohafzah as if sampling a glass of Riesling, Jugnu considers the query, me. “Lyari,” she finally replies.
“Lyari,” I repeat.
Once upon a time Tony & I would cycle through Lyari, one of the oldest cantons of the city, not more than nine, ten minutes as the crow flies, to play with a friend who would become one of the most prosperous hoteliers in the country, but of late it has become what broadcasters term a No-Go Area due to the sclerotic municipal dispensation and resultant warring mafias. Once upon a time, Lyari was renowned for producing footballers, cueists, Olympic boxers,91 but of late one only hears of the fearsome don known as Langra Dacoit. I cannot help but wonder, What’s a dame like this doing in a place like that? but before I can get in a word edgewise, Jugnu interjects, “Do you have anything else to drink?”
“Tea, coffee, maybe?”
“Toddy, tharra?”
“Feni!” I blurt, “I have feni”—the provision of sauce inadvertently purchased from Bosco’s bootlegger neighbour. When Jugnu shrugs, I continue, “I might have a few drops of Chinese vodka somewhere—it works with Roohafzah—and plenty of wine distilled from my brother’s grapes!”92
“Vine chalay gi,” she says, or Wine will work.
The way she enunciates the word suggests to me that though she might not have ever experienced wine, she understands it is something to be had. Scampering inside—“One minute,” I say, “give me just one minute”—I unlock the Bombay sheesham armoire in the powder room that houses my important papers and Tony’s special distillation. The bottles are bottle green and labeled “T.K.O. 1999” in cursive and feature the rubber stoppers that once fitted ice-cream soda.
Pouring two proper Baccarat goblets to the brim, I toast my company, bottle under arm like a regular sommelier. Although unfamiliar with the etiquette, Jugnu mirrors the gesture before draining the glass in a single gulp. The dame can drink, but before I can ask her what she thinks of it—I taste jamun, Syzygium cumini & notes of pipe tobacco—she asks for another.
“Now,” she instructs, lighting a crisp beedi, “play music.”
Scampering inside again—“Two minutes,” I say, “just two minutes”—I fetch the old clockwork gramophone and crank it up. As Clifford Brown’s trumpet fills the air, I slide into the deck chair and find myself transported to some nearby stretch of the galaxy, a Ring of Saturn, before a voice reels me back: “You keep leaving me.”
“Oh please forgive me, Jugnu Begum. I am not a good host. I am not suitably attentive, or entertaining—”
“But you are attentive, very attentive.”
“Thank you—”
“And entertaining.”
“Really?”
“You were entertaining even before we met, Abdullah Sahab.”
Blushing like a beet, Beta vulgaris, I clear my throat. “Please,” I say, “call me Abdullah.”
Jugnu straightens her back, raises her chin, gathers her hair, and as she ties her tresses in a bun behind her head, I observe her long neck, the dark, musky patches under her arms, and the impression of her custard apple bosoms. “Abdullah,” she enunciates, causing palpitations in the vicinity of my heart.
But the moment, pregnant with possibility, is interrupted by a knock. Cursing fate, I attend to the door to find Bosco, King Bosco, beaming, announcing his advent with a raised packet of chicken. “I will have to leave you once again, Jugnu—I have to prepare dinner—but I should be back before you finish the bottle. In the interim, Bosco, King Bosco, will entertain you. He is a charming and thoughtful lad who one day, no doubt, will conquer the world.”
Chuffed by the introduction, Bosco bows before taking my place on the deck chair. “Pleased to meet you, Madam,” he says, extending his hand. The lad is a natural.
“You are gentlemane,” I hear Jugnu say in English.
When I throw the pink pieces of chicken into boiling water, it occurs to me that I am missing the ingredient that makes karahi karahi. Slinking down the stairs, I tiptoe to the vegetable patch for tomatoes, afraid of being discovered—as usual, I feel like a thief in my own house. The Batik, I reckon, will surely give me away—after all, Apparel Doth Proclaim the Man. But I manage to escape without incident.
When the dish is done, the three of us sit like a family around the round plastic table with folded tissues for napkins. The sweet, pungent aroma of crushed coriander and cumin seeds wafts like good tidings in the night air. It’s a picture-perfect night, a picture-perfect occasion, but before we can scrape the last of the soupy, spicy tomato mess, calamity announces itself with a gestapo knock at the door. I look at Bosco, Bosco looks at me, then I heroically announce, “I’ll get it.”
I find Nargis the Opossum, candle in hand, lurking like an apparition—she must have noticed the Batik! “Abdullah Bhai,” she begins, “can I have a word?”
“Of course, dear.”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“No!” I squawk. “It’s so dark inside … and you know my place is always in such a terrible mess … I wouldn’t want you to take a tumble.”
“I just wanted you to sit down because I have some sad news: Hidayatullah Bhai’s brother-in-law died.”
Scratching my head, I attempt recalling the deceased but since the Major is much married, thrice at least, he has a legion of brothers-in-law. It is quite possible that I bumped into the man sometime, somewhere, at the GP’s, Agha’s Supermarket, but I probably would not be able to identify him in a police lineup. “What a tragedy,” I commiserate. “He was a fine soul.”
“The soyem is tomorrow.”
“Right-O.”
“Hidayatullah Bhai phoned to say, ‘Tell Shehzada he must show up.’”
As I wonder what my brother has up his sleeve now—the Major has always fancied himself a strategic thinker—somebody turns up “In the Mood” and Nargis’ eyes dart into the darkness behind me. “You know,” she stalls, “Babu would have come up to tell you himself but he’s putting the children to sleep, so I thought I would tell you before you went to bed—”
“Very thoughtful of you—”
“You seem to be having a late night.”
“I have a late night every night, Nargis Begum—you know I work at night—”
“It sounds like you’re not working too hard—”
“It’s only, what, ten?” It suddenly occurs to me that the electricity returns at ten! Shutting the door halfway, I mutter, “I’m educating Bosco at the moment, playing old jazz records—”
“I’ve always been curious about your jazz music—”
“I’ll schedule a session on the fundamentals of form in the coming days, but I ought to be getting back because the needle is made of fibre—”
“The soyem is before sundown,” she cries from the stairwell. “We can take you along with us if you like,” she says, adding something about Badbakht Begum joining us. “Cheers.”
Bosco is teaching Jugnu the Cha-cha-cha when I return, his bony hand on her angular waist. “Uncle Cossack,” he pants, shirt unbuttoned to the navel, “you must know how to do this better than me. Want to try?”
There is nothing else I would like to do at that instant, no other place in the world I would want to be, but Nargis is on the prowl and the electricity will return any second. “I have received some bad news,” I tell Jugnu. “There has been a death in the family. It breaks my heart but I must ask you to leave.”
“But Uncle Cossack,” Bosco interrupts, “she hasn’t even finished her wine.”
“Then she will just have to return tomorrow.”
Leading her down the steps and out the gate, I implore, “Come tomorrow, please come tomorrow.”
“Give me taxi fare,” she demands, promising nothing.
Handing her sufficient fare to get from Garden to Timbuktu and back, I repeat, “Will you come tomorrow?”
All of a sudden, streetlights illuminate the street. “You will find out.”
Then I dash for cover.
90. I have organized my finances in such a way that I receive an annuity, or rather, a monthly stipend of forty-one thousand rupees, not a princely sum but one that suits my requirements: drugs, gardening items, foodstuffs, and Barbarossa’s pension (though I suspect his livelihood is the cockpit). The problem with the arrangement is that I cannot afford capital investments—commode, generator, whatever—unless I draw on the principal & if I draw on the principal, the monthly monies-in-hand is diminished.
91. Tony, a boxing enthusiast, for instance, has mentioned the middleweight Hussain Shah.
92. I ought to mention that Tony is not the only vintner I personally know. There was a prominent educationist who concocted a tart jug brew, a thespian turned lawyer who made vodka from sugarcane, and a lovely lady in Parsee colony who makes a sort of Beaujolais nouveau and a sweet plum wine in the winter. One has lost interest, one has fallen out with me, but once a year I do still negotiate my way through Soldier Bazaar to pick up a couple of bottles of the plum stuff. A bottle a year never hurt anybody.
ON THE DEATH OF CIVILITY
(or BRASS TACKS)
There is the whiff of dung and incense in the air at the Major’s. The mourners, slow and sombre like giant tortoises, negotiate plastic chairs under the cream marquee stretching over the lawn. Espying tea in the far corner and a spread of samosas and limp hunter beef sandwiches, I post myself by the pickings as the maulvi takes the microphone, mulling other possible culinary options at funerals: bharta filled vol-au-vents, khagina quiches, kachoomar spring rolls with coriander dip. There is no doubt that funeral menus93 require a fundamental review. And what about funeral rites?
In this time, in this country, one prays, reads bound chapters of the Holy Book, counts date pits, but I only pray at shrines, cannot understand Arabic, and if I were to pick up a pit, it would only be to toss it at somebody. It’s not that one advocates for the retrograde conventions of the Bedouin variety; au contraire, one proposes the celebratory rites that characterize the Urs—the Reunification of Man with his Maker. Across the city, across the length and breadth of the country, the death anniversary of every saint at every shrine—Sehwan, Pakpattan, Abdullah Shah Ghazi (RA)—is commemorated with song and dance until daybreak. I know: I have chanted and spun like a dervish, experienced fireworks of ecstasy after inhaling sweet, smoky mouthfuls of hashish. That’s how it ought to be, and that’s how I want to go: with a party. At funerals, I have oft considered accosting mourners with the following thought: Wouldn’t it be marvelous if one knew when one was done? One could then plan ahead, order hors d’oeuvres, a band, dispatch invitations in bold cursive. It is not the inevitability of death but the uncertainty that kills.
Of course, in this time, in this country, not many would attend my going-away party. People are already avoiding me, casting pitying glances: Never any good. Never got married. Look how he let himself go. A neat greying man, the director of a vast public sector utility, smiles tightly, acknowledging me from afar. He knows I know that he was potty-trained at age six. I also descry that cigar-toting, bottom-groping politico with an overbite.94 I knew his father, a dull but decent man who would be turning in his grave at the thought that his son made millions on aeronautical contracts. When I catch his eye, he pretends he doesn’t know me. It doesn’t matter—I might not wear a big watch but I have had half the platter of sandwiches. They will have nothing.
As I stand dabbing the corners of my mouth, a portly chap wearing an unruly crown of dyed jet-black hair joins me at the spread. “Sad this,” he says, swallowing a samosa. “God gives, God takes away. You knew him?” I shake my head noncommittally as if to suggest does anybody really know anybody? “Poor man, dropping dead. Thanks God he didn’t suffer. I don’t want to suffer. But I’m suffering.” Offering me his card—“Fine Carpet & Rugs Import Export”—he adds, “When democracy comes, business goes thup. What line you are in?”
“Monographs.”
“Oh,” he exclaims, without missing a beat, “you must do bumper business.”
“Bumper,” I repeat.
The maulvi proclaims, “Of those who reject faith, the patrons are the evil ones: from light they will lead them forth into the depths of darkness.”
Hell would be attending soyems forever, in the company of Babu and Nargis and Badbakht Begum, stuck with this chap at the sandwich table—he has just discovered the tamarind chutney. Those two good-for-nothings, somebody must be noting, are only here for the spread. “Tell me something,” I say before deciding to abandon the carpet salesman. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if one knew when one was done?”
“What you mean?”
“You think about it, friend. You think long, you think hard.”
Leaving him to ponder the Mysteries of Being, I tramp purposefully towards the house, stomach rumbling—I have had one sandwich too many and need to find the lavatory—but as I pass the vicinity of the zenana somebody squalls, “Hai, mein khatam,” viz. Oh, my life is over. One can imagine the scene: draped dames, ruddy with grief, placating each other with sweaty caresses. I think I can discern Nargis’ voice soliciting the number of a domestic—Nargis, God bless her, is always at it—but am drawn to another conversation towards the back of the marquee: “Conscientious, hard-working,” a voice avers, “so much potential, so much promise—”
“But he frittered it all way,” another asserts. “If you ask me, he lost his marbles—”
I do not know the poor sod under discussion but empathize with him and his meager marbles. “He never quite found his footing.”
“Well, I don’t know about you but I think he was fated to be a failure.”
“You’re being unfair, darling. He tried. I know he tried but you can’t discount luck in life …”
The sympathetic voice is familiar. “Well,” it muses, “Who knows? Maybe he’s finally coming into his own.” Is it Badbakht?
Before I can investigate, the maulvi’s homily ends amid a throaty chorus of amens and everybody makes for the spread. Trundling in the opposite direction to avoid the company of society, calumny, and to relieve myself, I slip into the Major’s baroque mansion and settle on the commode in the ample facilities in the back. There is the scent of dried flowers in the air but it’s no bed of roses for me: I watch myself grunting and groaning in the tinted mirrors surrounding me as I evacuate the sandwiches. Oh, the indignity of it all!
When I emerge, bruised and bloody, I am accosted by hands that might belong to my nervy Kashmiri sister-in-law or her son, my nephew—a toothy roué married to a former fashion model—but the wrestler’s grip undoubtedly belongs to a retired army officer. I know: my brother has pinned me down on many an occasion over the years. “I thought I would find you here,” says the Major.
“God gives, God takes away,” I blurt. “Thanks God he didn’t suffer.”
“We have to talk, shehzaday.”
Oh, I knew it in my gut, in my gonads: the funeral’s a ploy! The Major probably poisoned his dashed brother-in-law with belladonna just to snooker me! “Actually,” I bleat, “I was just about to sample the sandwiches.”
“I’ll call for a plate, a large plate,” he promises. “Hut-hut-hut,” he marches forth, pounding his cane on the floor.
The heavy beige curtains in the drawing-room are drawn. They are always drawn. The Major’s house has the ambience of a museum: marble floors and Doric columns and paintings featuring bucolic alpine vistas and stylized profiles of stallions.95 There is no doubt that the Major is a bona fide Renaissance Man. Following him into his wood-paneled study, I find Babu and Nargis sunk in
to a deep leather divan like children. Settling on a swiveling office chair with levers, the Major offers me a colourful buffalo hide pouf—a cunning strategy, a conspiracy.
“The tragic death of my brother-in-law has affected us all,” he begins. “We remember him as an upright man. He cared for me and you and everyone around him. He was part of us and we were a part of him. That’s the way it should be.” I know the street-side dentist better than the deceased but hold my tongue in deference to propriety. “A death in the family serves to remind us of the important things in life,” he continues, “Maut zindangi ki hifazat karti hay,” viz., Death Safeguards Life—an aphorism mouthed by talk-show hosts, pamphleteers. “We’ve played a good inning,” the Major drones, “and don’t have many overs left. It’s high time we think about the next generation.” Biting into a stubby pipe, he looks down at me. “Well?”
Surveying the faces of the audience, I massage my forehead, my face, then report, “My hemorrhoids are burning like faggots in a furnace.”
The conspirators wince for a moment as if a gust has swept sand into the room then Babu retrieves a heavy wooden chair from the corner and seats me with the deference of a courtier. “You must be dehydrated, Abdullah Bhai,” he says.
“I will fetch a glass of cold water,” Nargis chirps. Such attention! Such hospitality!
“That would be lovely, dear,” I say, “and those sandwiches?”
“They are on their way, shehzaday,” claims the Major, though he has not lifted a finger.