by HM Naqvi
“That was a different time, Cossack, we were different men.”
“It was like The Gunfighter.”
When the bearer returns, I tell him to put everything on my tab. “In fact, feed the band as well. I want a three course Chinese meal—spring rolls and hot and sour soup, and Szechuan chicken and prawn fried rice, and that strange fried banana item with cream.”
“But I’ve already eaten,” Felix protests.
“You take it home.”
The bearer retreats hunched to the kitchen, adjusting his epaulettes, only to return with the manager, a middle-aged chap with dim eyes and a bright wide forehead. “Is there a problem?” he asks.
“Since you ask, there are several issues that ought to be addressed: these chairs are too small, that art antiseptic, and the service should be attentive, not obtrusive. Mind you, these are not offhand comments—no, this constitutes a considered critique. You see, young man, I am Abdullah the Cossack, the proprietor of the Olympus. You ought to know that I did not merely run a hotel; I ran an institution. I have had the honour of hosting nawabs, ambassadors, Stewart Granger.147 Do you understand what I am talking about? Do you have any sense of history?”
“I know, sir, I know you.”
“Then you will be so kind as to put everything on my tab.”
“Yes, sir, no problem, sir, thank you, sir.”
“No,” I reply, “thank you.”
The manager promptly delivers the dinner in brown paper bags himself, jumps to my aid when I attempt to extricate myself from the furniture, then presents me his card pressed between his thumbs. “If you ever need anything, sir, anything at all, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
As Felix and I waddle out, two hapless old-timers, the staff salutes. There is no doubt that the Intercon remains civilized. The hotels around the corner, however, lack protocol, character. When the valet runs to fetch the Impala, Felix asks, “Why don’t you come along?”
“For a nightcap?”
“Australia, Cossack, Australia!”
The thought has never crossed my mind.
146. The only other such pianist I have come across is one Paolo Conte. I must confess that I have entertained fantasies of being an old, smoky-voiced Italian, lounging on a balcony overlooking a piazza, ogling the dames in heels, crooning, “Via, via, vieni via di qui / Niente più ti lega a questi luoghi / Neanche questi fiori azzurri …”
147. Granger actually never stayed at the Olympus. I just want to make a point. If I remember correctly, he stayed at the Metropole (and at Faletti’s in Lahore).
ON THE ABJECT FAILURE OF THE LEGAL SYSTEM
(or A CLOUDY FORECAST)
Upon returning from the Intercon, I hear a howl from the balcony. It’s Bosco, brandishing a cricket bat. “We’ve been burgled!” he squalls. As I hurry up, I reckon the lad would probably be safer at his place. But what is there left to steal, except, perhaps, the title deed?
The Lodge was burgled once before in the winter of ’93, a troubled time in the history of the city: recall, the army had rolled in, the municipal machinery all but collapsed, and Babu wed Nargis. The day after the nuptials, four men in jeans, faces swathed in scarves, barged in. They were polite, professional, pointing pistols. The bride produced a couple of embroidered sacks full of envelopes. Although I would replenish some of the nazarana in time—Chambu had not yet taken me for a ride—I could not do much about the jewelry: bangles, earrings, filigreed gold sets. Nargis, poor girl, would suffer two miscarriages as a result—Trouble Breeds Trouble. We raised the walls after and I personally supervised the application of jagged glass from discarded Roohafzah and Pakola bottles along the surface perimeter. What good did it do?
Whoever burgled the place this time around, however, did not scale walls or break the locks—it’s as if a gale blew through. And like a farmer appraising damage to his crop, I flop to the ground, attempting to catalogue the loss—Ramayana, Chachnama, Hamzanama, Baburnama, Akbarnama, Gandunama, Areopagitica, Encyclopedia Britannica, Yahweh & Other Deities in Ancient Israel, Mushrooms and Other Fungi of Great Britain & Europe—but how do you catalogue a lifetime?
“Who did this?” Jugnu asks.
The finger of logic undoubtedly points towards what in police parlance is termed an Inside Job. “You won’t understand.”
“We’re not safe here.”
There is no doubt about it: whilst others have guards nowadays, we only have the crows. At least I have Jugnu. “I’m happy you’re here with me,” I say.
The silence that follows would suggest indifference, or worse, but I am too exasperated to pursue the matter. Early to bed, I recall, tucking Bosco in, early to rise, makes one healthy, wealthy, and wise. If only I had adhered to the age-old adage, what a life I would have led! Slumping on my bed, I promise myself that I will sort things out once and for all in the morning.
But when I head out to meet my advocate bright and early, I find myself facing Chambu—the Swine’s timing is uncanny—and wondering whether he had a hand in the burgled books. “You know we are like brothers, family,” he begins, stroking his curly locks, “and family always takes care of its own.”
“I don’t have time for discussion today.”
“I am a simple man, Boss, but running this operation is not at all simple. Do you know that the closed jigger machine is at 29 percent capacity? 29 percent, sir! Can you imagine? We need to purchase new equipment—”
“Why can’t we just fix it?
“If you finance some capital expenditure, Boss, you will make so much you will not know what to do with it. You could fix the roof—”
“How do you know about the roof?”
“You could even buy the property from your brothers—”
“You can stay here as long as you like,” I interject.
“I can wait.”
“I will arrange a cup of tea but it looks like the monsoon is upon us. If it rains, it will be difficult for you to get back to your hole.” And waving my parasol like an old dame caught in a downpour, I hail a rickshaw to Kapadia’s office.
Nestled between a travel agency and an IT consultancy in the older cantons of McLeod Road, the congested financial mecca of the city, the building (and possibly the practice) has arguably become an anachronism. Trudging up the worn stone steps to the wooden boards that catalogue an ancient fraternity—CROMWELL BLACK LP, TOLANI ASSOCIATES, KAPADIA & KAPADIA—I am greeted by a smart, bird-boned Anglo who can type faster than anybody in the world. “Good morning, Mr. Abdullah. Good to see you. You’ve lost weight.”
“Why, thank you Ms. White—you look no worse for the wear.”
“You’ll have to wait if you don’t have an appointment.”
Marching in, I proclaim, “We’ll be dead soon.”
Kapadia’s lair recalls a monastery—slate walls, high ceilings, and, save the whirr of the ceiling fans and ruffling paper, silence. Thousands of legal tomes & treatises fill tall shelves in a library spanning family, corporate & real estate law dating back to the Raj, and in the background, a grave portrait of Kapadia’s forbearer hangs beside three framed certificates. I do not possess even one, but then my scholarship is altogether of a qualitatively different order: the study of law is undoubtedly critical to the functioning of modern civilization—where would we be without Menes, Moses, Hammurabi?—but I have always felt that it is fundamentally not unlike the study of Betamax manuals. I must keep such sentiments to myself; I cannot afford to offend the mandarin.
As I seat myself before one of two identical bureaus piled high with a stack of blue files tethered by string, a voice inquires. “Is that you, Abdullah?”
“You’re a crack legal mind, sir.”
“I’m busy.”
“I can wait.”
“What is it, Abdullah?”
“My brothers are forcing me out of my house.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Do what you do, damn it!
Kapadia’s head emerges—round, shi
ny, dun-complexioned, floppy-eared, and disembodied like the Childoos’ Mister Potato Man Toy. Whilst temperamentally akin to the Gautama—Kapadia maintains his only vice is his evening tobacco pipe—he is a famously well-informed ascetic: the files in his head are arguably more extensive than the files in his office. “Let me remind you,” he begins, “that you have had a case pending against Bakaullah for two and a half decades and he has one against you. Do you really want to get into this mess? Why can’t you talk about it amongst yourselves? You would be surprised but tenderness can work.”
“Tenderness? As my legal advisor, you are advocating tenderness, sine qua non? You know that Bakaullah will keep pushing me—and I already have my back to the wall. I have come to lodge a case!”
“On what grounds?”
“Burglary.”
“What?”
“The man has stolen all my books! What sort of human being does that?”
“Do you have proof?”
“Do you believe that burglars are generally inclined towards literature?”
“Proof, young man, I need proof.”
“What about malfeasance, inter alia?”
Kapadia claps like a monarch. “Abdullah Mian,” he begins, “I have known your mother and father—God bestow Heaven on them—and I have known your brothers. It is sad to me that it has come to this. I have considered the issue. I have had to consider these sorts of issues all my life. I believe it has to do with our laws of inheritance. This dynamic has defined our history. I cannot dispute that it’s a just, equitable arrangement, unlike the arbitrary Western convention of primogeniture, but it has sown discord in every age. You see, man requires clear, iron laws to rein in his nature.”
“Right-O.”
“It has been a difficult year for me. I suffered a severe bout of pleurisy.”
“Are you contagious?”
“That’s leprosy, Abdullah.”
“Oh.”
“They found my carotid is 90 percent blocked. I’m told there’s a certain activist Kashmiri doctor in America who specializes in stent technology, but how can I travel sixteen hours at my age? Just securing an interview for a visa is riddled by tribulation, not to mention the hassles at immigration. I don’t have time—I’m working on cases that require immediate attention. And I’m the President of the Bar Association. The responsibilities are innumerable, especially these days—”
“I didn’t know—”
“Ergo I would advise you to sit down and sort this matter out like men. We don’t have the luxury of time. We’re in our final innings.”
“But we’re a team—”
“You know better than me that conflicts here are not merely man versus man but clan versus clan. And the fact is, Bakaullah’s network is more extensive than yours. If you are unable to talk sense into that stubborn brother of yours, then you do not have much legal recourse.” Disappearing behind the skyline of files, he adds, “Unless, of course, your mother gifted the Lodge to you before she passed. You would need the testimony of two adult witnesses.”
I sit in the august offices of Kapadia & Kapadia, probing an ear, mulling deception of Machiavellian magnitude. I might have had a colourful past, might have a number of outstanding loans that I may never reimburse, but I like to think that I am not a dishonourable man—my conscience is more exacting than any secondhand moral order. How on earth would I secure the talents of two witnesses anyway? Toto and Guddu? Barbarossa and the Djinn? Kapadia, for one, would wash his hands of the entire matter—and me. Gautama is undoubtedly testing me. There is nothing left to do but turn on my heel.
The wind whistles portentously outside, sweeping plastic bags into the air. Then there is a thunderclap and the heavens open up. Pedestrians dart beneath eaves, the odd tree; cobblers, paan-wallahs pack up shop. But the children don’t mind: they emerge to celebrate in knickers, wading and splashing in the swelling pools and sumps. A poignant-faced girl chants “Jeevay Pakistan” at the top of her lungs, rain cascading over her tresses—What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again!148
But by the time I hail a rickshaw, perhaps the last available in the city, I am drenched in spite of my parasol—dawdling in the rain is an overrated pastime for us old-timers—and the driver demands double in accordance with the Natural Laws of Economics. As the gutters overflow, playgrounds transform into lakes, roads into rivers, it’s like Dodgem Cars:149 we avoid a Suzuki, a lurching lorry, but stall by the zoo. The driver shrugs. What to do?
Forging ahead on foot like a tightrope walker, afraid I will be electrocuted by wiring riven from poles, or fall into an open manhole, then get sucked into the muck and spit out into the sea, I imagine the headlines in the eveningers: Man Fished Out with Muck, or perhaps Muck Fished Out with Man.
Although I manage to survive the expedition somehow, trousers rolled up to the calves, shoes in hand, when I arrive at the Lodge, neither Bosco nor Jugnu are to be found. That’s it, I tell myself. They’re gone, and they’re not coming back.
148. Not long ago, I bumped into an old schoolmate from Jufelhurst Days in the jelly & marmalade aisle at Agha’s Supermarket. Tall, dark, and bald, James, né Jamal, had returned from the United Kingdom after nearly half a century. Great Britain, he told me, was marvelous—he became the Convenience Store King of Finchley—“but it rains there all the time, mate, in winter, the spring, summer, autumn, every day, every year. It was bloody ridiculous. I always felt wet.” It was as if he had returned only to thaw. As we stood in the checkout line, he complained about aspects of modern Currachee, from the dramatically changed topography—“The city ends at Clifton Bridge”—to the electricity shortages—“I stub my toe every week”—but not about the weather. During the monsoon, he claimed, “I enjoyed showers for the first time in a lifetime!” Indeed, rain might be considered cold and sinister in what is known in discourse as the West—who was it who said April is the cruelest month?—but in this city, Our Swath of the World, it undoubtedly heralds respite, heralds joy. Which is to say, one could pen a monograph on the Hegemony of Western Discourse on Meteorological Terminology.
149. Anthropologists ought to “crunch the numbers”: accidents occur during only two periods a year here, the Holy Month and the Monsoon.
ON THE CONSEQUENCES OF SOLITUDE
(or THE VISITORS)
Shivering, disconsolate, and indifferent to the flying ants perched on my extremities, I languish in Tony’s sarong, staring at the blurred blades of the ceiling fan. The clouds grumble, the light changes, then the call to prayer heralds the evening like a plaint—there’s no escape from the Dungeon of Despair. There is no doubt that the problems that have vexed furrow-browed philosophers since time immemorial—Why Are We Here? Is Reason Sufficient? Is Reality Real? What is the Meaning of Meaning?150—pale in comparison to the disquiet, distress imposed by grinding, everyday loneliness. An article I came across in Reader’s Digest, titled something like “Loneliness is a Killer,” claimed the predicament has physical manifestations: it can hurt more than a twisted ankle, a bloody gash & untreated, can become infected like an open wound.
I do not require scientific studies, empirical data: my mouth is mealy, my eyes watery, and no matter how I position myself—lying on my left, my right side, legs stretched, legs gathered, feet crossed, feet splayed—I feel my bones no longer support the heft of my flesh. There is no doubt that my ward would have diagnosed my maladies were he present, no doubt my lover would have run her long fingers through my curls to allay my anxieties. I should have bought her a ring from our jeweler a long time ago and promised her a stipend in perpetuity. She would not have left then. But perhaps it’s time I escaped as well: I will look into booking a one-way ticket for Australia, and never look back.
As I marinate in solipsism, self-pity, humming Oh dear, what can the matter be?151 I hear footsteps on the stairwell. Sitting up, I wish, I wonder: could it be Jugnu, Bosco, Barbarossa, Tony? The approaching patter, however, suggests a four-legged creature—an errant pye-dog perhaps, P
ax Romana, Yorick—but to my delight, the Childoos arrive lockstep, hands tied behind bottoms. “We are two ostrich!” announces Guddu.
“No,” Toto differs, “kangaroo—”
“What fun!”
Opening his miniature hand to reveal a mauve ribbon and a couple of chipped marbles, Toto proclaims, “We have somethings for you.”
“A ribbon! Two marbles! How thoughtful of you! I was just telling somebody the other day, If only I had a ribbon and two marbles, I would be the happiest man in the world!”
Pleased as punch, the two chant, “Hip-hop-hooray!”
“Come here, boys,” I say, slapping the bed. “What on earth have you been up to?”
“One day,” Toto informs me, settling beside me, “it rained and rained again.”
“It was like pipi,” Guddu elucidates.
“I got wet in the garden and Ami pulled my ear.”
“Oh, the dreaded ear tug!”
“And one day,” Guddu adds, “we sawed two racing donkeys on the road—”
“Yes but we went faster,” Toto interjects.
“Then what happened?”
“Nother Chacha was at Chacha Abu’s house,” Toto replies. “He was Baka Cha and sits in the wheelchair.”
“He gives us toffees,” chimes Guddu.
“One would hope his generosity’s not limited to cordials,” I mutter.
“What?”
“Oh I was just saying that he never gave me any toffees.”
“Did you dos naughty pun?”
“I think Baka Cha is the naughtiest member of the family,” I mutter.
“No,” Toto exclaims, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I am!”
“Sing along!” Guddu insists.
“Ra-Ra-Rasputin?”
“Nother one.”
I scratch my head, clear my throat, and begin, “Give me the ring on your finger / Let me see the lines on your hand / I can see me a tall dark stranger, giving you what you hadn’t planned—”
As luck would have it, Nargis the Opossum walks in just then. I could wager that she has been standing on the steps for some time, listening to the prohibited Cliff Richard number, shaking her head and cradling her elbows, but as I brace for a rebuke, she greets me as if I have been crooning an Ode to the Almighty. “How are you, Abdullah Bhai? How’s your health?”