— Is Manto’s novel simply going to languish?
— Why?
— You don’t seem remotely inclined to continue with the translation.
— Oh no … we have to resume it.
— What’s wrong with you?
— Nothing.
Tabassum’s laughter cascaded down on me.
— You and your ‘nothing’. What is this ‘nothing’ that takes hold of you? Tell me what this ‘nothing’ is.
— Sitting with a blank page.
— Meaning? I could see Tabassum’s eyes dancing. The lavish lines of kohl beneath her eyes were dancing too.
— You sit with a blank page, endlessly. And then at some point words and images appear on it.
— When will these words appear?
— Have you read Basho’s poetry?
— Who’s Basho?
— A Japanese writer of haikus from the seventeenth century. Basho wrote, like wild geese we will disappear amidst the clouds.
— I cannot keep pace with you, janab. I can see this translation will not be completed.
— Why?
— You’re sitting with a blank sheet of paper now. Who can tell when the words will appear, when the images will become visible?
— Will you recite that ghazal of Ghalib’s for me?
— Which one?
— You know the one: hoon garmi-e-nishat-e …
— Hoon garmi-e-nishat-e-tasavvur se naghma sanj, main andallab-e-gulshan-e-na-afrid hoon. So when will the nightingale drunk on music create its garden?
— Whenever she summons him.
— Who will summon him?
— The spring breeze has arrived in winter this year.
Tabassum laughed. —What is it janab? Are you in love?
— Aa nikalta hai kabhi hansta, to hai bagh-e-bahar, uski aamad mein hai saare faslein aane ki tarah.
— Oh my God! So you’re deep into Mir?
— When it comes to Urdu ghazals, don’t you think Mir is the most sensual? Ghalib glows with brilliance, while a bleeding Mir hands you his heart. Ghalib conceals himself somewhere, he is drawn more by the beauty behind the veil.
— You’re right. But you can learn the art of concealment only from Ghalib. You can place your hand on Mir’s breast, you can plunge a knife in too. Ghalib is a mirror in the distance. It only accepts your reflection and remains aloof, alone. How strange this mirror is. Man can leave his mark on anything, but when it comes to a mirror, your reflection exists only as long as you do. After that, you’re gone. Ghalib is a mirror. The moment you go away, you’re nowhere in it.
— I didn’t think of this, Tabassum.
— Didn’t think of what? A bird flew away in her voice.
— I never thought of Ghalib the way you do.
— Naturally. You have your own way of thinking.
— No, Tabassum. I do not believe in this sort of individuality anymore. Why will we not think along the lines of the ideas in Sufi tales or Zen koans or Eskimo legends? Why will we not think like Vyasa? Why will we not think like Mirabai? Yajnabalka said, ‘There is no individual consciousness when you have transcended everything.’
— What’s the matter with you? Tabassum’s question glided over my head like a calm breeze. Breezes like these blew over the heads of cypress trees in miniature paintings once upon a time.
— Why do you ask?
— Are you disturbed about something?
— No. Many persons old and new are surrounding me every day, Tabassum. I want to listen to what they have to say, but I have far too little time.
— Meaning?
— Never mind. We’ll resume our work tomorrow.
— Don’t evade the issue, please. You have far too little time—what does this mean?
— Then let me read you a poem.
— Whose poem?
— That same ancient sailor’s. Listen …
I saw—in the twilight of my benumbed senses
My body drifting along the currents of the black river,
Bearing its swarm of sensations, its eccentric agonies,
The memories gathered from birth in its patterned shroud,
Carrying its flute. As it floated further and further still
Its form turned indistinct, everywhere on the familiar shores
Amidst the houses held in the embrace of shade-giving trees,
The evening prayers grew fainter, doors were barred for
the night
Lamps were put out, the ferry-boats moored to the banks.
The river crossings finally came to an end, night gathered,
Muted birdsong on the forest branches lay down its offering,
Its self-sacrifice, at the feet of the great silence.
A dark exquisite beauty descended over the diverse world
In water, on land. The body became a shadow, a drop, vanished
In the infinite black. I visited the foot of the altar of stars,
Stood by myself, looked upwards, joined my palms,
and spoke—
You have retracted your web of light, o sun,
Reveal now your most benevolent form,
Show me the man who is common to both of us.
— Are you exhausted?
— No, I am very happy, Tabassum. This is the joy of losing myself. I am losing myself in the ruins of buildings as I translate this novel. I am becoming one with shards from broken bangles, tattered scraps of muslin, pages torn out of notebooks, vials of dried perfume. It is to lose oneself this way that we write.
In that mirror we sat—Tabassum and I—with Manto’s manuscript before us. This manuscript had put us in deep difficulties. In it, Ghalib’s and Falak Ara’s story was in the sixth chapter. Manto had not written the seventh chapter. He had only jotted down a few points, adding, ‘This can be written later. I feel no interest in writing this chapter now.’ It really was hard to understand Manto. He seemed to be writing not for the reader but for himself. After this he had jumped directly to the eighth chapter, where Mirza Ghalib arrives in Delhi. But he never did get around to writing the seventh. What were we to do?
— Why do you think he didn’t write the seventh chapter? asked Tabassum, hunched over the manuscript.
— Maybe he was in no condition to write. He may have had too much whisky. But what were the points about?
— About Mirza’s marriage.
— Will you read them, please?
— He wrote: Mirza was married to Nawab Illahi Buksh Khan’s daughter Umrao Begum in 1810. Ghalib was thirteen, and Umrao, eleven. Illahi Buksh was the brother of Ahmed Buksh Khan, the nawab of Jhirka and Loharu.
— After that?
— Illahi Buksh wrote ghazals too. His pseudonym, takhallus, was Mahroof. He was one of the aristocrats of Delhi.
— And then?
— Mirza could not bring himself to accept this marriage. It meant being imprisoned once again in a rich man’s house. Manacles were put around my legs again, he wrote himself. Balls and chains. Manto sahib wrote, it makes no sense to write an entire chapter about this wedding business. But he could actually have done a wonderful chapter on it. An aristocratic Muslim wedding. Elephants, horses, palanquins, illuminated squares, singing and dancing, food and drinks. Why didn’t Manto sahib write anything about all this?
— Did he write anything else?
— No … wait a minute, he did write a story.
— A story?
— About his father-in-law Mahroof.
— Let’s hear it.
— It’s an interesting story. One day, Mahroof sahib asked Mirza to make a copy of his family tree. Mirza made a copy all right, but he put the third generation after the first, and then the fifth—and so on. He skipped the second, fourth, sixth, etc. generations completely. Mahroof sahib was livid when he saw this. What have you done Mirza? Mirza answered calmly, ‘A family tree is nothing but a ladder. A ladder you have to climb to reach Allah. Where’s the harm in skipping a rung or two? Climbi
ng will be a little harder, that’s all.’
— And then?
— An enraged Mahroof sahib tore up the copy of the family tree. Mirza was still chuckling.
— Didn’t Manto sahib write anything else?
— No.
— Madness. He could easily have written this chapter.
— Why?
— A wedding with the nawab’s daughter. Just think of the scope. Bengali novelists would have swooped down on the opportunity. A description of Umrao Begum’s beauty over four pages. Ten pages about the wedding. True-to-life descriptions with details culled from history. Can you imagine? Perfect fast-food for readers. And this is what Manto sahib chose to skip. He could have included love at first sight—long lines of dialogue with which to …
— You really believe all this?
— Believe what?
— Such descriptions.
— Tabassum …
She looked at me. In her glance I saw the image of a thousand cranes in flight. Turning away from her, I looked at her reflection in the mirror.
— Why are novels written, Tabassum?
— Why?
— To listen to voices in the darkness. Many voices.
— Whose voices?
— People we don’t know.
— Which means the novelist does not know his characters?
— No.
— Why did Manto sahib write about Mirza, then?
— Because he didn’t know Mirza.
— Will he know him when the novel is completed?
— No.
— Where will Manto sahib’s novel end up, then?
— Nowhere.
— And what about Mirza?
— He won’t be there either. Only a shadow will.
— Whose?
— Many people’s. Those who no longer exist. This is why I cannot write novels anymore, Tabassum. I can bear many burdens, but I cannot carry a shadow that stays behind. Let’s start from the next chapter.
— Not today. Let’s go out for some coffee.
I observe Tabassum in the mirror. She rises to her feet with the rhythm of a dancer, her arms outspread like wings. —You do like coffee, don’t you?
— Mmm …
— I’m going to buy you a special coffee today.
— Is it right to abandon Mirza for coffee? Wouldn’t a drink be a better way to show respect for him? I smiled.
— That’s not going to happen in my company, janab.
I had never been to such a coffee shop. It was like a mushaira newly sprung up in the city. But here Hafiz sahib would not have been able to say,
Look, Saki, the night is ending
Fill my cup with wine
They’re racing upwards there
Be quick, time is flying
Here you could sit, or lie back against cushions. The strains of Joan Baez or Kailash Kher wafted gently over the coffee shop; at intervals the Bengali song Ferari Mon—The Escaped Heart—was played. The coffee that Tabassum ordered was named Black Coffee with honey. A brown liquid was served in a tall glass. The first small sip seemed to set free a young bird inside my mouth, with the fragrance of caramel in its wings.
— Like it? Tabassum asked with a movement of her eyes.
— Yeh na thi hamari kismat ke wisal-e-yaar hota, agar aur jeete rahte yehi intezaar hota. It was not in my destiny to meet you. Had I lived longer, I would have waited longer.
— Wow! Is that what it tastes like?
— Have you noticed, Tabassum …
— What?
— The more the coffee dwindles, the more the ocean of nectar swells.
— Really?
— Hmm.
— Would Mirza have liked this coffee?
— Perhaps Ghalib mian would have written … Ghalib chhuti sharaab par ab bhi kabhi kabhi peeta hoon roz-e-abr-o-shab-e-mehtaab mein. Ghalib still drinks as an exception, on cloudy days and moonlit nights. But why did you bring this taste of nectar to me today Tabassum?
Tabassum was silent for a long time. Then she said, ‘We really shall enter dozakh tomorrow, janab.’
— Is that so?
— Ghalib is coming to Dilli in the next chapter. It is a macabre episode. How did Manto sahib even write it? In Dilli, Mirza spoke to the dead for the first time. The dead showed him the way. I wept as I read. Manto sahib is so cruel.
I toyed with the taste of caramel in my mouth.
9
Already weeping over your scar, Mir?
It’s still a long way to Dilli, friend
entered Shahjahanabad with the voices of ill-fated spirits ringing in my ears, Manto bhai. Everyone referred to it as Dilli, but I liked using the name Shahjahanabad; some names have a certain fragrance attached to them, don’t they? A fragrance like Jahangiri Ittar. Haven’t you heard of it? But then, how many people know all this? Jahanpanah Jahangir used to claim that ittar was invented during his reign. All these are the whims of kings and queens. But do you know who distilled this ittar? It was Begum Noorjehan’s mother Asmat Begum. Jahangir was filled with regret at the fact that his father, Jahanpanah Akbar, had had to go to his grave without experiencing the fragrance of this ittar. Emperor Akbar! He was like the front door to heaven, Manto bhai. I don’t know how much of this is true—I got it from highly-placed people in Dilli—the foam that would gather on the surface of the water when Asmat Begum made rosewater would be collected, a little bit at a time, in an ittar vial. This was how Jahangiri Ittar was born. It was said that a drop of this ittar could make a garden bloom with a gathering of thousands. Such was its fragrance that even lost souls came back, attracted by its scent.
I came to Dilli like a lost soul too. Or was it like a dream— what do you say? What was my life, after all? Nothing but a dream, although I was at least a flesh and blood human being. Wasn’t I? I was Allah’s dream—no, not a dream but a nightmare. Do you know why he had this nightmare? He knew that I would bring poetry to this world, and through this poetry each of you would walk across halls of mirrors. And you would see how your reality was changing. My existence would be scattered like dust on the floors of the halls of mirrors. The dust from which Allah made man.
How we drift from one subject to another! I was telling all of you about my arrival in Shahjahanabad, wasn’t I? Yes, that’s what I was saying, for how else would we have been talking of fragrances? The universe of words is remarkable, you know. I was talking of the voice of ill-fated spirits ringing in my ears during my journey to Shahjahanabad, and that’s what brought me to the subject of perfume. Souls are fragrances, each of them. But you will not find any of these fragrances in the perfumeries of Mughal emperors. These fragrances are made by Allah. The Creator gives each soul a different fragrance. Some of them match the perfumes made in this world. That is why these fragrances are to be found in heaven as well as on earth. Something is wrong, Manto bhai. When I’m trying to tell you about my arrival in Shahjahanabad, why am I reminded repeatedly of my days in Agra? Mir sahib said long ago:
Since the subject of love has come up, and since Mir sahib himself has said, be whatever you want to be, but never a lover, I might as well tell you the story of how he lost his heart. I might forget, and never get a chance to tell this story, so gustakhi maaf, I want to use this opportunity to recount Mir sahib’s agony. Why not let our conversation continue this way, my very own brothers in hell, forward and backward and losing our way, like a succession of waves that cannot be told apart? What is it, why are all of you sitting up? Why is there a dark shadow on your faces? What is it, Manto bhai? Did I say something wrong? I have measured out my entire life in mistakes. Umrao Begum had asked me once, ‘Aap kaun hain, Mirza sahib, who are you?’
— Meaning?
— Who are you?
I had burst out laughing. —A dot, Begum, I am but a dot.
— A dot?
A dot—a drop—no one can tell, Manto bhai, when or where it will appear, or when and in which direction it will be stretched into a line. But why do
all of you stare at me like this? All right, give me a moment to reflect, let me think it over, I’m sure I will find out where I went wrong, what my mistake was, just give me a little time …
Yes, I must talk about my arrival in Shahjahanabad first. They spoke to me a minute ago, those same spirits whose voices I had heard on my way to Dilli. If you don’t talk about us first, no one will listen to you, you idiot, they told me.
— Why not?
— Because the first thing that people want to hear about is what lies deep in the earth. And it’s we who are resting in those depths …
— Where do you rest?
— Under Dilli. Talk about us first. This city stands on the foundation of our flesh and blood. Everyone knows of Mir sahib. But we are unknown, if you do not talk about us, who will? Who were the ones to talk to you when you came to Shahjahanabad? Who knew you then, Asad? It was we who spoke to you.
I will talk about them now, stay alert and listen closely. This is a city whose story is told in regret—it was born of sorrow, it died of sorrow. I have seen this death, Manto bhai, I will recount every bit of what I saw. I must. For this city is my flesh and my bones. I’m not exaggerating, Chandni Chowk was my backbone, the Qila-e-Mualla, the Red Fort, was my misshapen skull. And my heart? That was Jama Masjid, you understand that, don’t you? The Qila-e-Mualla faced west, towards Mecca. Chandni Chowk was to the west, and Jama Masjid faced west too. The doors to the city were like the world itself. The gateways were actually the four entrances to heaven. It was in the courtyard of the Jama Masjid that I first heard Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti tell stories. Do you know what the Khwaja said? ‘Whose face is that in the mirror? What beauty is this that has let itself be captured in the frame of my soul? Who has adorned the universe? Who is reflected in each and every atom? Who fills all the grains of sand with light? I can see the flesh, but who is concealed in the marrow? Who sings for the peace of the spirit? He sees himself, loves himself. Who is he? Who is he?’ He is Garib Nawaz. The friend of the hungry people.’
The day I arrived in Shahjahanabad, those who came up to me were the ones whom history doesn’t write about, Manto bhai. They had been buried alive in order to build Shahjahanabad. Let me tell you this story from the beginning, then. Although I cannot tell even now where it begins and where it ends. I am that ancient tree, you know, which has survived for thousands of years, which no one ever tries to hack with an axe because it is of no use to anyone. I just keep standing, forever. It seems to me that my head is actually where the roots are, shooting upwards through the sky towards an unknown place, no, certainly not towards heaven, and my feet are sunk in the flames of hell. Still I had told Allah:
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