by HM Naqvi
Then there is another matter, a queer matter lodged in my consciousness like a splinter: Jugnu’s life line is like a snapped twig. When she asks, “How long will I live?” I reply, “You have nothing to worry about.”
But I am worried.
100. Gibbon states, “If a man were called to fix the period … during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus.” Gibbon, of course, was wrong. What about Africa, South America? Akbar the Great’s Rule? And Oudh?
101. Courtesy of Chambu, I know for a fact that there is not a single functioning emergency ward in the canton, or a blood bank, that residents have to clean the broken sewage lines themselves. One wonders where all the development funds go. Actually, one knows.
102. I had picked up Mir Bashir’s Art of Hand Analysis at Thomas & Thomas. Revered and respected throughout the world, Bashir was a rare breed amongst chiromancers, an empiricist: his library housed tens of thousands of prints.
103. It’s something like this: Tum ne kabhi / qabootar ki gayki suni he? / Jab tumhay mein chumta hoon / to aisi awaz aati hai / aisa jadu hota he.
104. I would cook for her afterward whilst she sprawled like a Renoir, all rolls, folds, and pendulous breasts, recalling the time she was courted by Bollywood, or the time she met the Dutch Queen Beatrix. A framed monochrome photo of the rendezvous (mediated, I learnt, by one R. S. Chattari, Chief of Protocol) graced the entrance hall. In comparison to the foreigner, a frumpy character sporting pointed dark glasses & a printed dress, Khaver looked like royalty. Other times, Khaver sobbed on the settee. In an effort to discern the cause of her melancholy, I would ask, “Why are you crying, dear?” “I don’t know,” she would bawl, “do you?” When she lobbed an onyx vase at me, leaving me with a hairline fracture, I left her. She took her life in ’96.
VOLUME III
ON SIGNS AND SYMBOLS
(or BROKEN IN)
There are days when you know that God is in Heaven and All’s Right with the World and days when you sense Intimations of Judgment Day. Lolling on the balcony one steamy morning, content with myself, my morning constitutional, it occurs to me that I slept through the festivities of the Lesser Eid. There is no doubt that forgetfulness preys on polymaths, wastrels, septuagenarians, and there is no doubt I roundly qualify. It is a fact that such lunar conjunctures do not really matter to me anymore and we aren’t much of a family anymore. But once upon a time we would eagerly scan the dusky sky for the almond moon before heading to the bazaar for clothes, slippers, musty perfume (and Tony would insist on plastic watches & dark glasses that he would wear to bed at night). We would attend the long sermon at the mosque in the morning, the short prayer after, then there would be embraces and the exchange of good wishes and food with family & friends all over the city. The only ritual I presently adhere to, however, is bestowing gifts or hard currency on the Childoos.
When I exclaim, “By Jove”—the lapse is inexcusable—Bosco, nose in a novel, nearly tumbles over.
“What, Uncle Cossack, what?”
“I missed Eid!”
“I missed All Souls Night if it makes you feel better.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, boy?”
“You know I’m undercover until this thing blows over.” After setting aside the Greeks, it seems the boy has taken to hardboiled noir. It’s as if he is trying on different roles—I know; I have done it myself. “Besides, God will understand.”
“God? I’m not concerned about God! I’m concerned about the Childoos!”
When I inform him about the urgent errand, he drawls, “Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake.”
I do not have time to parse the phrase. I grab my parasol and leave fut-a-fut for the toyshop in my pyjamas, trailed by Oliver and Felicity—I know all the pye-dogs in the neighbourhood by name105—and a handsome urchin with a caramelised mop of hair, chirping, “Hello-Good-Morning-How-Are-You?” I don’t reply. I have toys on the mind.
In the old days we were content with windup monkeys or Ludo sets (with the exception of Tony who preferred dinkies) but in these modern times, Postmodern experts say,106 children are taken with spectacle (with the exception of the Childoos who still enjoy egg crates): Automobiles Guided by Radio Waves, Trains That Transform into Robots, Rifles Emitting Sound & Fury. As a result, I spend an eternity at the toyshop pushing buttons, pulling levers, demanding demonstrations, and, calculating prices. Spectacle comes at great cost: the price of a child’s construction set is equal to the monthly salary of a domestic, not to mention, a meaningful percentage of my monthly stipend. “You get what you pay for, Seth,” the shopkeeper asserts, handling a box of multicoloured plastic pipes as if it were a case of vintage port on offer at an auction house. “Kya kahnay,” he says, shaking his head, or What can you say?
The local businessman is a singularly savvy species, configured like Lamarck’s giraffes to thrive in tough terrain, but I am neither fish nor fowl—a scion of a mercantile family famously improvident with monies. When the shopkeeper invokes retail prices, bulk rates, transportation charges, extortion costs by Langra’s men, I sense that my cash will be tied up in toys for the near future. “As God is my witness,” I interrupt, “I am an old customer. I expect a discount commensurate with my unerring loyalty. I will make a deposit now and will pay the rest in a week’s time.” And tucking the box under my arm, I march out like a conquistador.
But when confronted by Badbakht Begum outside the Lodge, I skitter past like a geisha. “Is that for me?” she asks.
“Madam,” I reply, “all the gifts in the world would not satisfy you.”
“Sometimes the simplest things do: a gesture, a smile, the regard of our near and dear.”
Turning on my heel, I consider my kaftan-clad, crayon-eyeshadow-wearing coeval and cousin-in-law twice removed: there is no doubt that her carriage remains regal, her skin, bright and rosy, her tresses, rich and red like a flame. And as she runs her fingers through her hair, I cannot help but wonder if she is flirting with me. “Madam?”
“I understand you’re burning the candle at both ends these days.”
What does she know? How does she know? Feminine intuition, unlike the patchy science of palm reading, is uncanny. “Life is short,” I blurt. “We must celebrate ourselves.”
“We could celebrate together some time.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” I reply, scurrying inside.
Nargis the Opossum is ensconced on a loveseat in the parlour, interviewing a middle-aged chap with a mop of wavy oiled hair, and a potbellied dame. “This is Shafqat,” Nargis says, as if expecting me, “and his wife, Parveen. They are interested in employment. Would you like to talk to them?”
Flattered by the unexpected offer to participate in household management, I lower myself into the settee, fold my arms like a monarch, and pose a couple of standard questions—Shafqat hails from Rahim Yar Khan and has family in the city, an uncle who does “mechanic work”—before broaching the fundamentals: “Tell me,” I begin, “what is the tastiest part of the chicken?”
“The kidneys?”
“No. The skin.107 And the tastiest part of the fish?”
“The head?”
“The tail.”
“Thank you, Abdullah Bhai,” Nargis interrupts.
“Please proceed,” I declaim, as if I have to attend to pressing matters of state. I do: I have to attend to my heirs.
Doodles and drawings embellish the door to the lair of the Childoos—an impressionistic rendition of a forest, a still life featuring a variegated watermelon, or if you like, Planet Earth & a black canvas, crayon-on-paper, Modern Artwork. Toto presides over the mayhem inside—stuffed animals, dinkies, marbles, crayons strewn across the floor—humming a version of “Gentille Alouette”108 that sounds like “Jaisay Aaloo Hota.”
When I announce, “I have something for you,” the Childoos hop up and down like Pa
gans Before the Feast. They rip the wrapping paper into confetti and get to work. Clearing an area to accommodate my rump, I sit amongst them like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians as they construct an elaborate edifice wrought of plastic pipes. I have watched them build and destroy empires over the years, raptly, indulgently—it’s a delight to be privy to simple pleasures, desires, straightforward objectives. My life might have been meaningful had I produced progeny.
When the Childoos grow tired of performing great architectural feats, they straddle my belly. Guddu grabs my chin. “I knows the answer of the difficult math sum.”
“What?”
“22.”
“That’s brilliant, child, but what’s the sum?”
“I forgots.”
Oh, the marvelous logic of the Childoos! I could stay amongst them for the remainder of the day, the remainder of my life, but I sneak out before tea for I do not want to make small talk with the insensible. It has been a good day. Why spoil it?
But when I reach my quarters, I find Bosco pacing up and down, teary and disheveled and clutching an envelope. “They barged in after you left,” he begins. “Who are you? they asked. You look like a thief! They asked me where you were but I told them I didn’t know. You give him this! they told me. You make sure that he gets this, otherwise we’ll hang you upside down. Tell him that this is from his brother.”
Poor lad: vulnerable at home, vulnerable at the Lodge. “Come,” I beckon with open arms, but Bosco stands his ground, fists balled. “I should’ve done something but couldn’t. I’m completely useless!”
Embracing him, I say, “This has nothing to do with you. This is my problem, my fault. Do you understand?” Bosco nods noncommittally. “You need to forget about it. Go freshen up. Jugnu will be here soon. We’ll have a grand time tonight. I’m making my world-famous Chicken à la Kiev.”
When I unfold the note, however, I hear a portentous drum roll, the clash of cymbals. It reads,
The past lies like a nightmare upon the present.
Some loads are light, some heavy. Some people prefer the light to the heavy; they pick the light and shove the heavy onto others.
And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keeper? And he said, What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground.
Vacate the premises immediately or FACE MY WRATH.
I do not understand the import of the missive but I understand this much: Bakaullah is in town. Judgment Day is nigh.
105. Off the top of my head, there are also the elder statesmen, Archibald & Buster; the pups, Lassie & Louis; and the territorial gangs that patrol the streets at night, primed for a row: John Wayne, Hecuba, Pax Romana on one side, Long Dong Silver, Gandu, Kuttay ka Bacha, and Yorick on the other.
106. I picked up a slim volume on Postmodernity by a certain Borgmann at the weekly book market at Regal Square a couple of decades ago but couldn’t make head or tail of the phenomenon. I must say that I find the term singularly unimaginative and reductive. I have not yet met a Postmodern person. We are inherently tribal.
107. There is, however, a Culinary School of Thought that maintains that the oysters are the tastiest. The French call them sot-l’y-laisse which I understand translates to “the fool leaves it there.”
108. One has observed that children’s nursery rhyme preferences change regularly. It’s uncanny. The last time I was over, the Childoos would not stop singing that ode to marine life: “Machli jal ki rani hai / Jeevan uska paani hai / Haath lagao gey, dar jayegi / Bahar nikaalo gey, mar jayegi.”
ON THE DYNAMICS THAT INFORM THE DISSOLUTION OF FAMILIES
You might ask why we fell apart, but why do things fall apart? There are studies, proverbs & songs that illuminate the enquiry—numbers from the respective oeuvres of Chet Baker, Etta James, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons come to mind—but I believe there is a more basic, indeed molecular explanation. I might be known more for my vegetables than my scientific acumen, but I am aware that falling apart is more natural than coming together. As I understand it, said phenomenon is known as Entropy. Scientifically speaking, I also understand an entity, any entity, requires a locus. Show me a flower without a stigma & I will show you wilted petals scattered like a tragedy. Show me a galaxy without a heaving, breathing star & I will show you still life.
The Fall of the House of K. is not a particularly novel, mysterious, insoluble, perfidious, or lurid tale. It is as commonplace as fallen leaves, as mulch. I am not certain where to begin because to fit a narrative straightjacket on a series of conjunctures is not really my cup of tea, but if compelled I reckon I would mention the dry wintery evenings of a fateful year when the sea wafted the balm of seaweed and sedge, and Papa took to bed for the first time with “a touch of pneumonia.” The rot that would finish him arguably took root then but at the time, he persisted, swathed in a quilt, conducting his affairs prone, like an aging monarch. Members of his staff would scurry in and out and to and fro at odd hours, shuttling letters and documents that required signatures, and concoctions from Bliss & Co. Despite hoarse entreaties from our venerable hook-nosed Parsee GP—“You need rest, mister!”—Papa persevered. But his mantra, an echo, perhaps, of a Saying of the Prophet (PBUH) was: “Kaam bhi ibadat hota hay,” or Work, also, is a kind of worship.
It is said that that is why Mummy lavished such attention on us. It is also said that since her family shunned her after her fleeting marriage to the Khan of This or That Khanate, she had nothing & nobody else. We knew otherwise. We knew that if we faced a problem, be it a bee sting or professional conundrum, she would roll up her sleeves. She was tireless and resourceful, even if she did not always succeed. She said she had failed when I decided to leave university and return to run the business, but once I was back she made certain that I realized my ambition to become Aaron (AS) to my father. Unbeknownst to most, Mummy solved many a matter at the Olympus, from staff retention to occupancy rates to the menu. There is that aphorism about Great Men, but those in the know know that Behind Every Man, There Is a Mother. There is no doubt that Mummy was the glue that kept us together, but we were not there when she needed us: nobody noticed that Mummy was suffering, that she had cancer, until it was too late.109
But I will not dwell on her demise—I cannot allow myself to become upended again. Instead, I will remember her gliding into the kitchen in the mornings in her robe de chambre to fix us extravagant breakfasts. “Kya karti hai, Begum Sahab?” Barbarossa would grumble, or Why does she do it (when I am here)? “Meray bachain hain,” she would reply, or They are my children (and if I don’t do it, who will?) Tony and I would sit at the dining table side by side, feasting on scrambled eggs, sliced, sautéed potatoes, fried tomatoes, and tall glasses of seasonal juice.110
Tony was a charming, bright-eyed lad—he would shake your hand when he met you, look you in the eye when he spoke, and converse about the Life of the Sun—but a famously finicky eater, known to be anti-egg, boiled, poached, scrambled, or sunny-side up, not to mention, anti-apple gourd, lady fingers, fish curry, brain masala, and sweetmeats.111 I often caught him slipping sunny-side-ups into the napkin in his lap before disposing of them on the sly behind the credenza. When Barbarossa happened upon a cache of stinking, discoloured napkins in the gap between the credenza and the wall, he threatened to notify the authorities, but we all have a tendency to let it go with Tony. And undeterred, Tony began disposing of the evidence in the garden after. “Egg, plant,” he joked. Oh, that rogue!
There was no doubt that we, the Second Batch of the House of K., availed of certain demographic shifts in the household: Crown Prince Hidayatullah had long left the roost, dispatched to the army by Papa112 because he took no interest in the business (and because our family legal counsel, Kapadia, had reported that he “entertained idle follies … a proclivity for Dimple whisky and the company of women of loose character from the Excelsior”). Of course, when Hidayatullah appeared at the Lodge years
later in a stiff khaki uniform, stomping and saluting and sporting trim whiskers, Papa nodded in appreciation. We were all in awe: Tony touched the epaulettes as if they were talismans, and Babu gave up knickers and table tennis. At that juncture in history, nobody could prophesize that though Hidayatullah walked and talked like a soldier, he would not rise through the ranks, due to instances of insubordination. Nobody realized then that the Major would resent Papa for dispatching him to the frontlines.
Comrade Bakaullah was a different story: he rejected our father’s enterprise on principle when he turned Soorkha. It might have been an act of rebellion, though all thinking men in the fifties sympathized with the noble principles of Communism—You Get What You Are Given and Give What is Needed. Red beret tilted over the forehead, tin of foreign cigarettes in hand, Comrade Bakaullah railed against the Inherent Brutality of the Capitalist Machinery in his trademark stentorian manner. Once when Comrade Bakaullah baited him, Papa declaimed, “I provide for my workers, your proletariat people. What do you do? Distribute flags, peddle slogans? You can’t eat slogans, young man.”
“I advocate ideas,” Comrade Bakaullah frothed at the mouth, “and you cannot fight an idea!”
“You need to think up better ideas or get out of the business. You don’t have the chops for it!”113
Perhaps Comrade Bakaullah took Papa’s advice to heart: after escaping prison with the help of one Major Hidayatullah (Papa had proclaimed, “Let him stay there, he might learn something”), Bakaullah was to find the Capitalist Enterprise in far flung Hijaz. When oil gushed out of the ground, sheepherders became sheikhs, and sheikhs required expertise. Tall, articulate, and committed, Bakaullah was undoubtedly Godsent: he advised the emergent oligarchy on matters from commerce to propriety, and as a reward for expertly negotiating complex contracts with “plundering neocolonial forces,” he was offered a partnership with a prince in a transportation & logistics business that would command a regional monopoly for decades. Bakaullah was undoubtedly guided by the proverbial Invisible Hand.