by HM Naqvi
If there is a God then He might not be directly responsible for Evil (though dystheists would disagree), but there is no doubt that He is directly responsible for Man. One might ask, Why did He fashion Man at all? Why create a creature who possesses the capacity to wilfully inflict pain and misery on another?176
Is Evil real, tangible, like a cat, or an idea, a concept, like infinity?
The Parsees might have been the first to acknowledge the relationship between Good and Evil: the supreme deity has to contend with Angra Mainyu, the Force of Darkness, but in the end Zoroaster has prophesized that Light will prevail. Wishful thinking?
Parsees ruled the Civilized World once upon a time but their numbers are down. It’s too bad; save the adherents of Taoism, the majority of humankind does not really appreciate the Idea of Symbiotic Duality.177
Are notions of Good and Evil contingent? Is it wrong to kill one man to save one hundred?
If a murderous thug, thief, or pedophile resists his natural proclivity, is he nobler than somebody who is naturally kindly? The former makes choices. The latter simply follows his inclinations.
Is gangsterism fundamentally Evil or a natural function of the failure of the state?
Is Bosco Good? Langra, Rambo, Evil?
What about me?
175. I’ve witnessed it myself: the Brothers Ud-Din, neighbours, nemeses, tortured insects willy-nilly.
176. A list of Bloody Swines in Modern Times must include the oft-forgotten Samuel M. Whitside, Marshall Bugeaud, Mountbatten, David Shaltiel, Godse, Kissinger, Hassan Ngeze, Juvénal Habyarimana, Sankoh, Mullah Fazlullah.
177. Of the three monotheistic traditions, I believe only Islam’s Malamati tradition does. As we all well know, the publically pious are oft the most sinful amongst us. Malamatis, on the other hand, are oft publically debauched. Said tradition emphasizes Man’s piety as personal. I could not agree more.
ON THE PROVERBIAL DEVIL & DEEP BLUE SEA
(or THE LAST SAINT?)
Sometimes I feel jealous of the cat. It’s neither handsome nor particularly talented, adept only at severing lizard tails and catching the odd unhurried moth,178 yet I feel a tightening in my chest when I happen upon Jugnu scooping the creature into her lap & stroking its furry jowls. I want to squeal when it shuts its eyes, purring extravagantly, an admittedly childish sentiment, one unbecoming of an intellectual but one I cannot help—it’s as if I am afraid that Jugnu has a discrete amount of affection, which if divided like a pecan pie or chocolate torte, will leave less for me. I swear that the feline is cognizant of the matter. Christened Sheikh Sahab by Jugnu for the white tuft under its chin, it’s not particularly sage but is sentient: every now & then, it opens a turquoise eye to observe my pained smile, my nervous nod, and smirks.
There have been moments, occasions of levity rather than lenity, when I have found the cat crouched willy-nilly like a cheetah, stalking shadows, or sleeping on its back, head tucked in, paws folded over its chest. “Admit it, Abdullah,” Jugnu has teased, “you are becoming fond of the cat.” There is no doubt that Sheikh Sahab can strike fanciful poses but it also relieves itself in the tub once a week like clockwork. Consequently, I stridently deny any assertion that I am affected by the creature. Pulling Jugnu towards me, I kiss her on the eyes, neck, mouth, whispering, “You’re my only pussy.”
But only the cat has access to Jugnu’s lap. Although I often attempt brushing across her nether region, especially at night when we lie on our sides in a cloud of beedi smoke, she inevitably turns or grabs my hand and kisses it before diverting my attention: “How do you make perfect rice?” “It’s all about timing and proportion,” I reply like an ace chef. “There is, you see, a science to steaming …”
Sometimes, I think, what does it matter? Love is Love, I tell myself—she is virginal, shy, traditional. (Besides, I have been suffering something like Athlete’s foot of the groin.)179 But each time I broach the matter of marriage, an undeniably traditional institution, she laughs or shrugs, expressing a gypsy sensibility: “Mera kuch pata nahin?” viz., Who knows about me? or “Mera koiee thikana nahin,” viz., I have no station.
Sometimes, I fall out of love. Sometimes we fight. One evening whilst feasting on prawn masala and mutton ribs on the rooftop at BBQ Tonight, Jugnu shouts, “Why do you blow hot and cold?”
“I don’t feel like I know you.”
“Who knows anybody else?” she fires back. A dour, middle-aged couple at the adjacent table lean in. “What are we but a series of impressions to each other?”
“I want to know, why have we not been intimate all this time?”
“You want me to strip now?”
The other diners must have complained because we are asked to leave soon after. I consider protesting—I know the proprietor, a scion of the Khans of Garden West—but it is time to leave: the ribs have turned to rubber. We laugh about it after, kiss, make up. Jugnu’s shalwar remains tightly fastened throughout.
Another evening Jugnu insists on the cinema. Although I might not care for Lollywood melodramas, one must necessarily defer to the demands of love. Sliding into a torn seat after the national anthem, I attempt to nap but it’s chilly—I shouldn’t have worn my Hawaiian shirt for the occasion—and Jugnu, keen on the lead, keeps digging into my side like an excited schoolgirl.180 In an attempt to parry her elbow, I knock the popcorn into her lap. As I scoop the kernels, I can swear I brush against a fleshy bauble amongst the morsels.181 Jugnu does not stir but when the lights flood the hall at intermission she claims she has to buy beedis whilst I make for the washroom. Handling my member, I wonder, Who is Jugnu? What is Jugnu? Firefly? Phantom? before drifting out.
Since the fumes from the lorries on Bandar Road turn my stomach, I slip into the old Parsee Colony (past old Ankelsaria Lodge, Vareen Villa) and settle on a bench in the tidy park in the centre. Once upon a time I celebrated animate spring festivities in the secret canton like a pagan, but spring has long passed—the dry, dusty wind from Quetta stirs—and the locals have long retired. I survey the sky, hoping for a meteor or eclipse, some celestial event, a sign, but am left connecting the dots.
When the neighbourhood security patrol accosts me—Katrak Park, I am told, shuts at dusk—I scrape back to the cinema, but the show is over: the villain has been vanquished and the hero and heroine are presumably in bed. If only my story were so tidy. I dawdle amongst the motley cinephiles streaming out of the gate. I wait for Jugnu till the gates shut, then catch a rickshaw to the Lodge.
Barbarossa is waiting for me at home, smoking a hookah in the shadows. “The cat killed my cock,” he announces. “That rooster will crow no more.”
“The chickens have come home to roost,” I mumble. “Where is Jugnu?”
“When she came, I told her you would be at the shrine.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Tonight is the Urs, my son,” he says.
Slapping my head, I exclaim, “Then I must go!”
Since there is epic traffic on the dual carriage between BBQ Tonight & Kothari Bandstand, I park in the lot adjacent to that mall, then set off on foot following the faithful seeking protection from oblivion. I consider stopping by a roadside fortune-teller to have cards picked by a green parrot but I figure, what is fated is fated and I am on a mission: purchasing a plastic bag brimming with rose petals from the florists at the gate, I approach the boxy, blue & white striped structure, draped in beaded lights befitting the occasion.
A concourse of pilgrims stretch across the esplanade, picnicking & palavering whilst the orthodox lean into strident hymns under a marquee set up on the western end. Surveying the crowd, I shed my slippers at the shoe station and head up the damp carpeted stairwell. The balm of sweat and incense pervades under the glittering dome—the aperture in the back offers only momentary respite. I glance at the ever-moving spheres of heaven above, the Cimmerian sea below, then make my way to the gilded tomb to spread the petals and utter a prayer: “Grant me peace, Jugnu.”
&n
bsp; When I cross into the zenana, a custodian screeches, “You are not permitted!”
“Who does not permit it?” I ask.
“Sarkar!” he declaims.
“My lord is God,” I cry, breaking free, “my Lord is Ali (AS). Who are you to stop me?”
The women do not seem to mind me: heavyset matriarchs and maidens with bleached, bangled arms and bonny girls with bows fixed in their hair all amicably make way. But Jugnu is nowhere to be seen. Before I can plot my next move, a familiar, flirtatious troupe of sari-clad transvestites hook arms to the courtyard around the back. “You have forgotten us, Laddoo Mian,” they chirp.
“How can anybody forget you?” I twitter.
There is the smell of hashish in the air & past the cave the chords of harmoniums stir the heart: the qawwals chant that modern masterpiece we all know: “Sakht mushkil mein hain.” I sing along, “gham se haaray huay,” viz., We are in trouble, Lordy, defeated by despondency.182
“You can join us,” the swarthier of two remarks, “but you will only be allowed to clap.”
“Ladies,” I say, taking my friends into confidence. “I need to find somebody in the zenana.”
“Come with us, Laddoo Mian,” they beckon. “We’ll take care of you if you take care of us.” When they help me up the steep steps to the roof, I scrutinize the darkened faces and call my lover. A small transvestite stands up, swinging tresses as if emerging from the sea, and purrs, “I can be Juggan.”
“Take your pick,” another says.
“Come,” I beckon. “I will fill the lot of you.”
And climbing down to the far corner of the courtyard, I purchase a cauldron brimming with biryani, as I have on occasion, then ladle the fragrant coloured rice onto tin plates for the gay troupe. “Grant me peace,” I repeat each time I distribute the steaming alms, “grant me Jugnu,” though I am not certain if the prayers of the delinquent, the dishonourable, are honoured in Our Causal Universe.
When I head back to the shoe station, however, I spot a silhouette in a tangerine costume loitering by the entrance. “It worked,” I cry, “it worked!” Jugnu flies towards me like a silver-screen heroine—hair open, lips pursed for a bright kiss. I hear violins and flamenco guitars over the drums thumping in my heart, but when she reaches me, she grabs me by the collar as if to shake me by my foundations. “Why,” she demands, “did you leave?”
“You are not the woman I thought you were.”
“You are not the man I thought you were!”
“I am not a saint!”
“I was not looking for a saint!”
“Come with me.”
“Dafo ho,” she exclaims, or Go to hell.
And as she turns away, there is a thunderclap like the Bang at the Beginning, the Clanging at the End—oh, it strikes, it strikes! What’s that old ditty, merrily, merrily, life’s a waking dream? I find myself lying on the stairs groaning, “I am fine, fine … this happens all the time … just need Frooto.” When I crane my neck to survey the surroundings I descry petals amongst shattered glass, twisted slippers amongst rubble, bodies strewn hither thither. There will be a bed of fire, I recall, and blankets of fire over them.
I am alive and want to live but find myself negotiating the dead.
178. So am I when pushed. If it could annihilate dengue mosquitoes or these insecticide-resistant cockroaches, become the proverbial Tees Maar Khan, that would be something—not enough, but something.
179. I suspect the condition is fungal, not just dry skin, causing me to scratch the folds of my crotch, but unlike cats, even fat cats, I can’t simply bend to observe it. I suspect it has to do with the fact that I have stopped wearing knickers (the elastic bands have come undone). And since Bosco has gone—the lad could diagnose anything—I don’t know what to do about it.
180. One must concede that that squinty-eyed, mole-cheeked star, son of Christian silver-screen siren Neelo, is a man’s man.
181. In passing. I must invoke that cryptic verse that goes, “Materterae si testiculi essent, ea avunculus esset?”
182. There was a time when one would bump into Purnam Allahabadi at the shrine, professional chemist & the finest lyricist of our age—we all know that he penned “Bhar do jholi.” Few know that he invited me to Lahore to discuss poetry & metaphysics every time we met but I never made it & then he died. We all have regrets. We will all be dead soon.
AFTERWORD
I know how ends end. I read many books once. But as I wind up this volume, on life, death, and everything in between, I don’t quite know how to go about doing it myself. As Uncle Cossack said, there’s a difference between knowing and doing. Maybe nothing more needs to be said, nothing more needs to be done. After all, this isn’t my work. I’ve played editor but I’m no wordsmith.
They say that words can change the world. I don’t know if Uncle Cossack’s words will change the world but they changed me. I was displaced as a teenager, and floundering. Uncle Cossack took me under his wing and guided me as best he could. It’s rare in this “savage, insensible, distracted age” for somebody to just care.
It’s not that I didn’t or don’t. I tried getting in touch with him when I received the package but failed. It was difficult to go about it from Australia (although I did manage to trace Mr. Kapadia). I was doubly determined after I completed the project even if I knew I’d be setting myself up for disappointment.
During the holidays, I booked tickets to the city of my birth. I hadn’t been back since I left and my wife, Mary Anne, and the boys, my childoos, had never been at all. We stayed in a hotel near Rimpa. I hired a car and driver. I wanted to postpone the inevitable so I worked backwards: I took the children to the temple first, then the mausoleum. As they ran around the lawns, I recalled picnicking there with Uncle Cossack. I was on top of the world then. I felt like somebody for the first time in my life.
One day, I took my childoos to the beach, another, to the zoo. The neighbourhood had changed. Walking from the zoo in the direction of the Lodge, I got lost. There were new apartment blocks everywhere. Just as the boys were getting antsy, I chanced upon the old roadside dentist, who pointed to a yellow hi-rise with clothes hanging from the balconies. The Lodge had long been knocked down.
I was in a bit of a daze for the rest of the stay. Mary Anne suggested I see a doctor but what would a Panadol do? On Easter, she insisted we attend mass at St. Patrick’s. There were thousands of parishioners but I felt alone. I prayed and wept out of guilt.
After leaving the Lodge, I realized that Uncle Cossack had done so much for me, but I’d not be able to do anything for him. And the thought that we had been lying to him all along gnawed at me. What would I say if I were to meet him?
“The first year was difficult for us, Uncle Cossack. We lived pay cheque to pay cheque. Mum didn’t readily find a stable job and Grandpa played some gigs in bars but nothing came of it. His health deteriorated and the year I went to university, he died of cardiac arrest. He lived a full, long life but …”
I found Mr. Kapadia’s obituary on the internet. I tried and tried but couldn’t locate Uncle T. Maybe he finally left for Colombo. But before returning to Australia, I visited the shrine by the sea. It had completely transformed, resembling one of these new malls. Drifting around, I came across a hunched man in the back, smoking hashish. His eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed me by the arm and said, “He comes sometimes at night, and we sit together, and we laugh.” I kept asking him who, and he kept grinning. I waited by the entrance nevertheless. I waited till the wee hours. Nobody came.
Uncle Cossack once said, “I don’t have a head for science but understand that the world’s made and unmade every moment each time you blink. It’s all quantum. It baffles the mind but quickens the pulse: imagine a cataclysm, an earthquake or volcano spewing lava one minute, and the next it’s as if nothing happened. Who says the dead can’t be resurrected? Who says the city will nary be the same?”
There is such possibility in the thought. But such things
are philosophical. I just wish I’d said goodbye.
—BB
A SOCIOCULTURAL GENEALOGICAL TABLE
GLOSSARY OF TERMS FOR THOSE ENGLISH-SPEAKING PEOPLES WHO ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH OUR IDIOMS
AS A translated Arabic acronym, an honorific employed in service of the family of the Prophet (PBUH), but I don’t speak Arabic.
bacha A child, a kid. I am, for starters, not a bacha any longer.
baithak Many houses in the Subcontinent traditionally featured a sitting area, sometimes covered, sometimes open, usually in the middle of the structure. One dined there, dallied, debated, dozed. The Lodge doesn’t feature a baithak. The aesthetic that defines the Lodge was modern a hundred years ago.
bakwas Bavardage, bovine feces. What else needs to be said?
balti A Brit visiting the city once was found pacing outside the loo by his host. When asked what was the matter, he neighed, “There doesn’t seem to be any water in the taps for a proper bath.” The host immediately organized a bucket of warm water and deposited it in the tub. The fellow paced some more. “Thank you,” he averred, “but that seems much too small for me.” When the water pressure is weak in the pipes, then one is compelled to take a balti, or bucket, bath. Note: In some parts of the country, you will also find balti gosht, or bucket cooked meat.
band baja “Band” is band—some usage is universal—but “baja” can basically be applied to any musical instrument that is not a drum: a horn, a guitar, even an electronic synthesizer. Coupled, “band baja” might be translated as song and dance.
beedi A cheap cigarette, the shape and size of a slight lady’s finger, wrapped in a leaf of B. racemosum and string. It tastes like goat.
bhabi Sister-in-law. Sisters-in-law & brothers-in-law traditionally get along (whilst mothers-in-law & daughters-in-law do not) but this is not the case in my case (except for the instances of the late wife of Comrade Bakaullah and recently, Devyani).