Smiling, Hallaj said, ‘You want to eat dates?’
— Yes, we’re starving. We cannot walk any more.
— Wait. Hallaj made a gesture in the air with his arm, whereupon a bowl of dates appeared in his hand.
The journey was resumed, and once again they collapsed in the desert with hunger. That was another era, my brothers. Wasn’t it, Mirza sahib? Life meant nothing but crossing one desert after another. And the nights would pass in the company of the stars in the desert sky. It was the road of the pir, of the devout, of the Hazrat. We moved away from that road towards this hell of ours such a long time ago, to this cacophony, this torment, this stench of rotting flesh.
This time they wanted halwa to assuage their hunger.
Smiling, Hallaj asked, is that all you need, or do you want something else too?
— No, huzoor, that’s all we need to continue on our journey.
— That’s true. How will you get closer to the true path, the Din, unless you survive physically? Saying this, he gestured with his arm in the air once again, making the halwa appear. The desert was suffused with its aroma. After everyone had eaten, one of them said, ‘But halwa of this quality isn’t available anywhere except Baghdad, pir sahib.’
Smiling, Hallaj said, ‘To the Lord, the desert and Baghdad are one and the same.’
— And where did you get the dates?
After a few moments of silence, Hallaj stood upright, like a tree. ‘Shake me,’ he said.
— Why, pir sahib?
— Try it. Hallaj smiled.
All of them began to shake Hallaj, and he turned into a tree, ripe dates falling to earth from his body. The dark brown dates glittered like jewels in the sunlight.
I was thinking of this story about Mansur Hallaj while watching Allarakha sahib’s magic. This was pure magic then, Mirza sahib, not sleight of hand. If one man can become a palm tree, why can’t another walk on burning coal? How many skills does a man come to earth with? But how little of these powers is actually used? How much of them do we get to see? Why don’t we see them, Mirza sahib? Do you remember Mir sahib’s sher:
Live amongst people. You will find joy, sorrows too
Do something so that people cannot forget you easily
Live in this world. Don’t try to understand it, my brothers. Live in this world as though it is a book. Just write down everything that happens.
Let me tell you what happened after this, for I can tell your faces are turning gloomy.
One day, Allarakha sahib suddenly said, ‘Do all of you believe in God?’
— Yes, janab, came the crowd’s reply in a chorus.
— And in me?
— Huzoor is a prophet, everyone responded.
Allarakha sahib burst into laughter. —A prophet? Have you seen a prophet? Do you know who a real prophet is?
— Tell us, huzoor.
— Then let me tell you a story. Have you ever heard of Abu Sayeed Abul-Khayeer? A Sufi saint from Khorasan. All this happened twelve or thirteen hundred years ago. Do you know what the world was like back then?
— What was it like, huzoor?
— A hundred different winds would blow. And each of them would turn people mad in different ways. Allarakha sahib laughed. —So Pir Abu Sayeed was on his way through the forest one day with a disciple of his. The forest was infested with poisonous snakes. Suddenly one such snake wound itself around Abu Sayeed’s leg. The disciple froze with fear. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ Abu Sayeed told him. ‘The snake is here to offer me its sajda, to worship me. Would you like it to worship you too?’
— Certainly. The disciple brightened.
— It will not worship you till you cannot forget yourself.
Now this was a true prophet, friends. He had no possessions of his own. He was sent to this world only to spread the word of God. Now, it’s time for each of you to be tested.
Tested for what? What did Allarakha sahib want to test? The crowd exchanged glances.
— You say you believe in God. In me too. Those who have faith, come forward and walk through the fire with me.
At this the crowds began to thin. Some crept away surreptitiously, others ran away after one look at the flames. And then, I couldn’t stay still anymore Mirza sahib, I went forward towards Allarakha sahib. Taking my shoes and socks off, I hitched my kurta up.
Looking at me in surprise, Allarakha sahib asked, ‘Do you want to walk with me, son?’
— Yes.
— Then come along. He tugged at my hand. —Recite the Kalma. La illaha illallaho Muhammadur rasullullah.
— La illaha illallaho Muhammadur rasullullah.
As I recited the Kalma, my body began to feel as light as the air. Holding Allarakha sahib’s hand, I entered the circle of fire, Mirza sahib. I walked behind him on the burning lumps of coal. Yes, Mirza sahib, I had found myself for the first time. On my own path, beyond my father’s threats, beyond my highly educated stepbrothers’ disdain, as I walked behind Allarakha sahib across the circle of fire. No, I didn’t get blisters on my feet, Mirza sahib.
To tell the truth, I drifted through the days like a vagrant. I hated studying in school. But it was in school that books entered my blood. Some of us formed a troupe to stage a play by Agha Zafar Kashmiri. One day my father broke the harmonium, the tablas—everything. No more of this, he decreed. And the more stubbornly determined I grew. Abandoning my textbooks, I would read romances; they were written for adults, no one of my age read them. My wild ways earned me the nickname of Tommy in school. I passed the matriculation examination in the third division on my third attempt, and you know the funniest thing—I failed in Urdu. Ha ha ha, just imagine, Mirza sahib, I failed in Urdu.
Those were the days, my brothers. Studies were abandoned once and for all, and I began to frequent the gambling dens. Denu and Fazlu ran their den in Karta Jamal Singh. I used to play flush. Though an apprentice initially, I learnt the intricacies quickly enough. All my time was spent gambling. I didn’t keep count of how long things went on this way. But one day, you know, I felt immensely bored of it all. It was tedious to keep betting on oneself all the time. Was I no one, then? Was I just an object that could be betted on? Very well then, Manto, I decided, let’s walk a different road now. Life doesn’t offer just the one road. Why not try a different one now? But what would I do instead? If I gave up the gambling den, where could I go? The streets took me in, I wandered from one road to another, from one lane to another, in a daze of dreams I walked, I became friendly with the dogs, I used to sit with them and pet them, they would lick me back. I wandered around the cemeteries, I heard hundreds of stories from fakirs, Mirza sahib; those stories are lost forever, for I couldn’t write them down.
The Jallianwalla Bagh massacre of 1919 had taken place already. I was only seven at the time. But I saw Punjab rising in revolt, there were parades and slogans on the streets of Amritsar. Bhagat Singh was my ideal then. I had a photograph of him on my desk. During my days of wandering around the streets, I wondered as I sat beneath a tree in Jallianwallah Bagh whether the world as we knew it could be destroyed in a way that would prevent the Tommies from firing indiscriminately at us ever again. Several times I even thought of making bombs, you know, Mirza sahib. I would fucking blow Amritsar apart, force the white swine to leave the country. I would say all this to Bala, to Ashiq, to Fakir Husain and Captain Wahid and Gyani Arur Singh. They would laugh their guts out. All friends of mine. Their advice was … relax, enjoy yourself, to hell with Amritsar. We would smoke hashish in Aziz’s restaurant. The hashish fumes were the perfect accompaniment to Aziz’s kebabs. Ashiq was a photograper, Fakir wrote poetry and Gyani Arur Singh was a dentist. I no longer remember what the Captain did. When he was stoned on hashish Ashiq would sing like Rafiq Ghaznavi. And Anwar, who was an artist, would just go ‘Wah! Wah!’ at the music. In Aziz’s darkened restaurant Anwar himself would sing sometimes, ‘E ishq kahin le chal. Take me away somewhere, o love.’ He had turned Akhtar Sherani’s poetry into songs. I
wonder which grave Aziz’s restaurant lies in now.
11
All the arrangements on earth are for love
Love makes the sky go round
a Allah, what a life you had begun to live, Manto bhai. The lord had made every necessary arrangement for you to have dozakh written into your destiny. Just like he had taken care in my case too. What will this fellow do in jannat? Indeed, what would I have done? Maybe a houri or nymph would have been assigned to me, but how long could I have stared at the same face? Even dead, I wouldn’t have been able to bear the punishment of heaven. It’s all written by the lord’s quill. All my life, I couldn’t find the language to talk of my failure. Even after all the Urdu and Farsi ghazals I wrote, Manto bhai, I don’t think I succeeded in touching these wounds; their agonies did not surface in my ghazals. But I often wondered whether anything beautiful has ever been crafted except through pain. Take the cypress tree, for instance. Its branches and leaves are pruned continuously to make it beautiful—the cypress has to withstand so much pain for the sake of this beauty. Then take wine. You cannot make it without hurting the grapes. You have to cut and slice the reed properly to make a quill. Then let’s say you have to write a letter. You have to cut the paper to the appropriate size, then draw strokes on its breast with ink. Each stroke is nothing but a wound, after all, and what’s the outcome? The mysteries of your heart revealed to your beloved. We cannot give birth to anything beautiful without causing pain. Then how can God? All the games of creation and destruction in his world are played to give birth to new kinds of beauty. Take me. He made me with a fistful of dust; then he flung me up in the sky, where I stayed for some time; but then one day he suddenly tossed me to the bosom of the earth, I fell here at this spot, and the impact of that fall remained as a scar on this planet. The world acquired this gash whose name is Mirza Ghalib. But who can deny the beauty of this wound, Manto bhai? This is how the world goes round, doesn’t it?
Look, our friends are going back to sleep again. What is it— what’s the matter? This exchange between a couple of idiots seems rather cruel, doesn’t it? Theek hai, very well, let’s change the subject, shall we Manto bhai? Life—mine or the Hazrat’s or prince Salim’s—is usually quite dreary. You have to turn into the washerman’s ass to bear this burden; I plod on, plodding along. To tolerate this existence we have to resort to the hikayat sometimes; not stories, but narrative poems. Stories are about our lives, but these long tales in verse are like a reflection of another world in the mirror. I have plenty of time to tell my stories, none of us is running away from our graves. But since the subject of the hikayat came up, let’s hear one. Tales like these surface only for a brief while before being lost again.
This one is titled Sihr-ul-Bayan. It’s not about the head, the sar, but it can certainly make your head spin with its magic. Look, Manto bhai, they’re all sitting up again. This masnavi was written by Mir Hasan, the son of Mir Zahid, whom Sauda used to make fun of. He was born seventy years before me. But he left Dilli for Faizabad; not that he had been keen on moving, for his lover used to live in Dilli. But what could he do—making love and making a living don’t go hand in hand. However, I’m told Hasan sahib did not have a particularly comfortable life in Faizabad either. He barely managed to make ends meet. When it came to writing, though, he was a champion. Sihr-ul-Bayan became so famous that it was known as Mir Hasan’s masnavi. This masnavi was actually a hikayat. I’ve heard that it used to float in the sky, on the wind, even on people’s lips. Just imagine, this hikayat became Mir Hasan’s masnavi.
There was a nawab named Malik Shah. Where? I cannot tell. Why not assume that his gorgeous city existed in a mirror. What did this city look like? Words, it seems, cannot describe it. It was as exquisite as the azan at dawn. Sparkling roads, with houses as white as snow, interspersed with flower-gardens. And where there were gardens there were bound to be a variety of birds and songs. This city was supposed to have had markets you wouldn’t want to leave. It wasn’t so much a case of walking around a market as it was of exploring a crystal palace. You can imagine what the nawab’s fort in such a city would be like. Yes, my brothers, you do have to use your imagination, for that is the way of the hikayat.
The nawab was very sad, however, because he had no son. When it was time for him to die, whom would he anoint as king? One day, he summoned all his ministers and told them, ‘It is time for me to leave this world now.’
— Why, Jahanpanah? There was a clamour of protests.
— What am I going to do with all these riches? Whom shall I bequeath them to? I ruled my kingdom with unwavering attention all these years. I had no respite to consider the path of God. Enough. I want to abdicate now and follow his path.
‘You’re mistaken, Jahanpanah,’ said the prime minister. ‘The lord gave you the responsibility of running your kingdom. This is his chosen path for you. If you do not fulfil this responsibility, how will you answer him on the Day of Judgement, huzoor?’
— But who will rule when I am gone?
— Who says you will not have a son? I am sending for Brahmins and astrologers. Let them make their predictions. We will consider the future thereafter.
The nawab accepted the prime minister’s suggestion. Brahmins and astrologers arrived and began to chart the nawab’s future. Eventually they declared unanimously that the nawab’s Begum was definitely going to give birth to a son. Nobody could alter the course of destiny. If Sauda had been present, he might have joked, where is the course of destiny hidden, can you give me a glimpse? Under the pyjamas, perhaps? The Brahmins announced that the Begum would have a son as beautiful as the moon. But yes, there was a problem. What problem? Just that the boy would have to be protected zealously till the age of twelve. For there was a risk of losing him before he turned twelve.
— What are you saying? The nawab’s face fell.
— Oh no, we aren’t predicting the death of the prince. But he might be lost. So you must keep watch on him continuously, huzoor.
— Arrangements shall be made as you recommend. But what steps do we have to take?
— He must not be allowed out of the fort for twelve years, huzoor. Not even to the terrace.
— Why?
— It appears that a fairy will fall in love with the prince.
— And then?
— The prince will fall in love with someone else.
Just imagine, Manto bhai, the son hasn’t even been born, and already they’re discussing his love life. Enjoying yourselves, my brothers? Keep listening, there will be many more twists and turns to make your senses reel. Do you suppose a game that began with talk of romance is going to end easily? So, before a year had passed, one of the nawab’s wives gave birth to a son. The city erupted in joy. Listen to this sher of Hafiz sahib’s:
The red rose has bloomed
The nightingales swoon
Where are you, wine-lovers?
It’s time for loud celebrations
And do you know what the son was named? Benazir. The nawab distributed riches amongst his subjects unstintingly. For six days the entire city celebrated with singing and dancing and feasting and carousing. The nawab was so happy that he even freed many of his slaves. That’s royal largesse for you. There was no such largesse in Jahanpanah Zafar’s time. It was limited to feeding the poor one good meal.
A new palace was constructed for the prince, with a garden all around it. The palace was beyond compare. The garden was full of cypress and other trees, birdsong rang out everywhere. Hundreds of servants and maids surrounded Benazir all the time. Because the prince must not be let out of sight. Within a few years, Benazir had mastered reading and writing, horsemanship, archery, painting and shooting. But, most important, he had a wonderful heart; the servants and maids were like his brothers and sisters, his family. Had he not been aptly named, my brothers? He really seemed to be the red rose that Hafiz sahib described, born in this world only to spread its fragrance.
On the prince’s twelfth birthday, the N
awab Malik Shah announced that the prince would tour the city that day. Pretty maids bathed Benazir with fragrant oils, and dressed him so beautifully that he looked like a painting by the master artist Bihzad. Pearls were rained on Benazir as soon as he emerged from the palace, while his retinue immediately began to argue and fight over their share. Every home and every shop in the city was decorated with finely embroidered cotton. Large mirrors were set up to reflect the sunlight in its seven constituent colours. Images of the parade would appear in the mirrors too. Indeed, the prince’s first tour of the city remained imprinted in everyone’s memory in veritable letters of gold.
But they had made a miscalculation, which neither the nawab nor anyone else had realized. There was still a night to go for the dangerous period of twelve years to end. It was a full moon night, the moonbeams were flooding the palace, and Benazir was sleepy after the excitement of the day. He felt a desire to sleep on the terrace in the light of the full moon. This is the course of destiny, Manto bhai. You never know when an urge will strike without warning, nor what kind of hangover it will lead you into. So a bed was prepared for the prince on the terrace, Benazir even fell asleep in the soft moonlight, under the caressing fragrance of the flowers. Several servants and maids surrounded him to keep watch. But suddenly a sweet perfume wafted in on the cooling breeze, putting all of them to sleep. Only the moon observed from the sky the events that were about to unfold in Benazir’s life.
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