Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  The story of Iqbal’s imprisonment was a strange one, my brothers. He and his wife had no children though they had been married for several years. Then his wife became pregnant suddenly. Iqbal had a son. Two years after the boy was born, Iqbal learnt that the father was not him, but someone else in the family. Iqbal killed the boy and buried him. He could not sleep after this. One day he appeared at the police station on his own, confessed everything, and went to jail.

  I saw Iqbal’s face for the first time. It was like a flower that had fallen to earth, with a few dried petals still in place. Suddenly he began to speak:

  Oh, how long it had been since I’d heard a sher of Inshallah Khan Insha’s. There wasn’t another poet like Insha in Awadh. Consider the words, Manto bhai. The tornado of time spares no one, Godspeed, at least a few of us friends can still sit here chatting. What more can you ask for from life?

  ‘I had trusted some friends like these, Iqbal bhai,’ I said. ‘But they distanced themselves as soon as they heard about my imprisonment.’

  — Why did you trust them? Can you possibly trust anyone but the lord? Listen to a story then, mian.

  I thought of Kallu at once. The other inmates said in unison, ‘Let’s hear your story, Iqbal … tonight’s the night for famous tales.’ A wave of laughter erupted.

  — Sikandar had a big secret in his life. One that he never disclosed to anyone.

  — Sikandar? A combined cry rose in the air. ‘Fabulous, Iqbal bhai!’

  ‘A story about Sikandar in prison!’ one of the listeners exclaimed. ‘You can’t beat that, Iqbal bhai.’

  ‘Can anyone but Sikandar be in prison?’ I laughed.

  — Excellent.

  — So what was the secret, Iqbal bhai? I asked.

  — Sikandar’s ears were enormous, like an elephant’s. No one knew this. He kept them hidden under a cap for fear that people would laugh. Only his ancient barber knew about his ears. Once, this barber became too ill to work. Someone who would not disclose the secret to anyone had to be found for the job. A young boy named Bilal used to work at the emperor’s court. The aged barber knew him; he picked Bilal to replace himself. Sikandar didn’t agree at first, but eventually he accepted the old barber’s suggestion. Bilal was appointed.

  — And then? The listeners drew closer to Iqbal.

  — The first time he had to cut Sikandar’s hair, Bilal almost fainted. Such enormous ears on a human being? The scissors slipped from his fingers in fear and surprise. Sikandar understood. Grimly, he said, ‘Keep what you’re seeing to yourself. If anyone else comes to know, I’ll rip your tongue out, and, needless to add, you will be beheaded.’ Bilal froze with fear at this. He constantly imagined his severed head rolling in the dust. What if the thing about the emperor’s ears slipped out somehow? He also knew that he would have no peace till he had told someone. He would be relieved only when the secret had been expelled from his mind. But he knew that if he told anyone he knew, it would be all over the city, and his severed head would soon be rolling in the dust.

  — What did Bilal do?

  — One day he stole out of the palace and went into a forest some distance away. There was a lake in the forest, where shepherds would bring their flocks for a drink. They would rest a little on its banks while the sheep drank. Spotting not a soul anywhere, Bilal told the lake loudly, ‘Oh my God, how big Emperor Sikandar’s ears are.’ He felt lighter at once, as though a boulder lodged in his heart for a long time had rolled off.

  — Lies, all lies. Someone yelled.

  — Idiot! Iqbal exclaimed. —When have stories ever been anything but lies? Our lives themselves are full of lies, and we ourselves created our stories.

  — Ignore the bastard and tell us the story, Iqbal bhai. Someone else spoke loudly.

  — Several months went by. Bilal wasn’t afraid anymore; Sikandar, too, was happy with his new barber. But something strange had taken place in the meantime. Some reeds had sprung up by the lake in the forest. One day a shepherd plucked a reed out of the soil, made a hole in it, and began to play it like a pipe. But he was flabbergasted by the sound that emerged. A voice seemed to be saying, ‘Oh my God, how big Emperor Sikandar’s ears are.’

  — And then?

  — As he was passing through the forest one day, Sikandar heard the sound from the pipe. Following the sound, he arrived at the shepherds’ camp, had the musician arrested and brought him to his court. When interrogated, the shepherd explained everything. ‘Impossible!’ roared the emperor. Now Sikandar sent for Bilal. Shaking with fear, Bilal said, ‘I didn’t tell anyone, huzoor. I only told the lake.’

  — The lake? The emperor’s eyebrows shot up into his hair.

  — I couldn’t keep it to myself, huzoor. Since I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone, I told the lake.

  — And then?

  — Sikandar ordered another reed to be plucked from the bank of the lake. The shepherd made a pipe with it. The same sound was heard, ‘Oh my God, how big Emperor Sikandar’s ears are.’ Sikandar was silent for some time. Then he told his soldiers, ‘Let the shepherd go.’ To Bilal he said in a disappointed tone, ‘You may still be my barber if you wish.’

  — And then?

  — Sikandar sent for the best calligraphist in town. He was ordered to write a few words in golden ink; Sikandar framed the words and put them up in his bedroom, so that he could read them first thing in the morning when he woke up every day.

  — What were the words?

  — Don’t trust anyone but yourself. Even lakes can be treacherous.

  The listeners burst into laughter.

  Looking at me, Iqbal asked, ‘What do you make of it, mian?’

  — I’ve understood what you’re getting at. But this story has a hidden meaning too.

  — What is it, mian?

  — Even an emperor’s secrets cannot be kept. The lord discloses everything one day or another. All power becomes the object of laughter eventually, doesn’t it, Iqbal bhai?

  — It does. I hadn’t thought of it this way.

  — Everyone thinks according to their own proclivities. That’s why the game of life survives.

  By the grace of the lord, I succeeded in converting the prison into a playground, Manto bhai. And after I got out of jail, fortune smiled on me for the first time. Only for a few years. But then that too was the bounty of life. You know what the bounty implies, Manto bhai? The lord gave as much as he wanted to, and I grabbed what I could with a roll of the dice. Only, the image of imminent death had already appeared in the mirror.

  32

  ere in dozakh today I admit to all of you, Mirza sahib, that I loved Ismat. It had never been necessary to tell her, for both of us knew. I had never contemplated married life with Ismat; marriage transforms the relationship between a man and a woman into a set of habits, and then the relationship begins to fade and finally turns utterly grey. I viewed Ismat like a picture gallery; as I wandered around this gallery, ever new images appeared, ever new scenes were born. Ismat was not particularly beautiful, but her features were both gentle and sharp at the same time. Behind her glasses, her eyes seemed perpetually eager for a surprise. When a dimple appeared in her cheek, it really was hard to tear your eyes away. And it was so amusing to watch her eating ice cream; if you gave her ice cream Ismat turned into a little girl.

  My eyes apparently reminded her of a peacock’s tail. ‘Why does it feel that way, Ismat?’ I asked her one day.

  — I don’t know. It seems that way.

  — Writing stories has certainly taught you how to make things up.

  — I don’t lie, Manto bhai.

  — Why don’t you? There’s no colour to life without lying.

  — You tell enough lies. I steal my colours from you.

  — Wonderful!

  — And one more thing, Manto bhai. When I look into your eyes my heart misses a beat.

  — My goodness! I have to tell Shafia this. I’ve never heard of it happening to her.

  — You love to he
ar good things about yourself, don’t you?

  — Who doesn’t?

  — You do more than anyone else. I haven’t seen another Narcissus like you.

  Our relationship grew like a game. We’d argue about everything. Ismat wasn’t one to let anyone off the hook easily. My job was to annoy her. No one knows better than me, Mirza sahib, how primal the beauty of an angry Ismat was. Sometimes our quarrels would reach a point where it appeared we would never see each other again. One day in the course of such a quarrel I blurted out, ‘If you hadn’t been a woman I would have said something to shut you up good and proper.’

  — Say whatever you please. There’s no need to spare me. Ismat answered grimly.

  — Really? If you’d been a man …

  — Come on, say it. What abuse would you heap on me? What would you have done?

  — You’ll be embarrassed, Ismat.

  — Not at all.

  — Then you’re not a woman. I spoke agitatedly.

  — Why? Why must I display embarrassment even if I’m not embarrassed, just because I’m a woman? So you too view men and women differently, Manto bhai? I had thought you different from the common man.

  Ismat’s tongue turned into a dagger when she spoke this way.

  ‘Not at all,’ I stammered, ‘I don’t see men and women differently at all.’

  — Then why don’t you say what you want to?

  I was silent. Now Ismat began to bait me. ‘Say it Manto bhai, let me hear it. If you like I’ll run away shyly after that.’ She began to provoke me like a little girl. I laughed. ‘No, Ismat, my temper’s cooled down now.’

  This was how I inevitably lost to Ismat every time. She had created her own world all by herself—without help from anyone. Her father Kasim Beg Chughtai was a magistrate; because he was transferred frequently, they had had to live in many different places. When Ismat was studying in class nine in Aligarh, her father was transferred to Sambar in Rajasthan. Ismat had wanted to stay in the school hostel and continue with her studies, but her parents weren’t willing. Ismat felt asphyxiated in Sambar. There was no opportunity whatsoever for studies there. One morning, her father was reading the newspaper after breakfast, while her mother sat on a stool slicing betelnuts. Entering the room, Ismat took a seat next to her mother. Then she said very calmly that she wanted to go to Aligarh to study. Ismat’s mother stared at her with wide eyes. Kasim Beg Chughtai discovered his daughter looking him in the eye. No child of his had ever done this before.

  Ismat repeated, speaking directly, ‘I want to go to Aligarh to study.’

  — But you’re already studying here with your grandfather.

  — I want to take the matric examination.

  — What for? Jugnu’s got two years to go in school. Then both of you will be married.

  — I shall take the examination.

  — There’s absolutely no need.

  — Then I’ll run away.

  — Run away? Run away where?

  — Wherever I like.

  Ismat’s mother was furious. But Kasim Beg Chughtai may have drawn his own conclusions from his daughter’s fearless response. He did send Ismat to Aligarh. This was the first victory in Ismat’s life. Unlike her sisters, she had not played with dolls as a child; she had competed head-on with boys. Ismat had never wanted to be married by the time she was twenty, as her sisters had been.

  My six-year-long relationship with Ismat was like a watercolour. I no longer remembered when the painting was started or when it was completed. Moreover, with all the drinking, you can well understand, my brothers, my brain was in a bad way, I could not remember the sequence of events any more. I recall an interesting night, my brothers. Shahid and Ismat lived in Malad then. We invaded their house after midnight. Shafia and I, along with Nandaji and Khurshid Anwar. As soon as the door opened Shafia grabbed Ismat’s arm and began to tell her, ‘I told him hundreds of times not to disturb you. But your Manto bhai was determined to come.’

  — You think you can stop me, Shafia? I’ll go where I please, when I please.

  Shahid appeared and put his arm around my shoulder. ‘It’s going to be a terrific night, Manto, come …’

  We were starving. But all the restaurants were closed. I said, ‘We’ll cook for ourselves tonight, Ismat. All I need is flour, dal and potatoes.’

  Shafia refused to let us into the kitchen. How could men possibly cook for themselves? But we settled down in the kitchen with our bottle and glasses. I kneaded the dough, Nandaji set up the stove, and Khurshid peeled the potatoes. At one point Khurshid exclaimed, ‘I’m not capable of peeling these fucking potatoes. Can’t you eat them raw, Manto bhai?’ I made chapatis, though they were half burnt, and a mint chutney. After we had eaten, we went to sleep in that very kitchen. Ismat and Shahid had endured such unreasonable behaviour hundreds of times. The more I drank, the more I tried to convince Ismat, ‘I swear by Allah, Ismat, I’m not drunk. You want to see? Take a bet. I’ll give up drinking tomorrow. It’s simple enough for me.’

  — Don’t bet, Manto bhai, you’ll lose. You’re drunk now.

  It’s funny, very funny, Mirza sahib, how the label of drunkard was slapped on both of us. If you were indeed drunk all the time, when did you write all your ghazals? How could you have written all those letters? How did I manage to write all these stories, for that matter? Mine was a haphazard life, a vagabond’s existence, I was up to a hundred dirty tricks from dawn to dusk just to get two square meals a day. Without a drink or two I couldn’t focus or find the space to write. But after a drink, the words walked around the room, they took wing, they hummed, they writhed in pain. It was in those words that I discovered all the secret tears, chuckles, laughter and profanity of the working class, their shattered dreams and heartbroken sighs. Words contained a blue glow with the red flame of desire within it. I had never wanted to write about myself, Mirza sahib. Does any writer really write about his daily existence, his joys and sorrows, his likes and dislikes? Within his words he actually searches for the images of familiar and unfamiliar people which the words are forced to hide, whose memories can take those words down the path to perdition. A woman who toiled all day and slept peacefully at night could never be the heroine of my stories, my brothers. I was concerned only with the woman who stayed up all night with her lamp lit, waiting for customers, and then went to sleep in the daytime, waking up abruptly from a nightmare. What did she dream of? That her own aged self, with sagging skin, was knocking at her door.

  Ismat always said that all the stories I wrote about brothels and whores were all made up. She didn’t believe any of the things I wrote about my friends either. Take Rafiq Ghaznavi. He was a good-for-nothing, a total scoundrel. He married four sisters from the same family, one after the other; there was no woman in any of Lahore’s brothels whom he didn’t sleep with. I really used to like Rafiq. Life was like a game for him. One day I told Ismat, ‘Come, let me introduce you to Rafiq bhai.’

  — How will that help me? You keep saying he’s a scoundrel.

  — That’s exactly why you should meet him. Who told you a scoundrel has to be a bad person? There are very few people as courteous as Rafiq.

  — I don’t understand what you’re saying, Manto bhai. Perhaps I’m not intelligent enough.

  — Stop putting up an act. Why not meet him? Rafiq bhai is very entertaining. There isn’t a girl who hasn’t fallen in love with him after seeing him, you know.

  — I’m a girl too.

  — But you’re my Ismat behen.

  — Behen indeed. I don’t care for your tomfoolery, Manto bhai. Ismat dug her nails into my shoulder.

  — I don’t address anyone else as behen this way, Ismat. Not even Iqbal.

  — Why don’t you?

  There was no answer to this, Mirza sahib. It was Ismat who had said one day, ‘Isn’t there a single thing in life that you’ve said openly?’ Ismat knew that even a devil like Manto needed a mask.

  I did introduce Ismat to Rafiq bhai. Ismat adm
itted that he really was a courteous man. ‘How is this possible, Manto bhai?’ she asked me.

  — I don’t know. I have never tried to understand Rafiq bhai. I have accepted him the way he is.

  — Manto bhai …

  — Your wish is my command.

  — How do you dig out these pearls from the muck?

  — Thank the lord.

  — And the tales from the brothels? Are they true too? I don’t believe it. No one can match you when it comes to lying.

  — Why should I lie? Anyone can visit a brothel if he has money in his pocket.

  — The frauds who pretend to be your friends don’t have so much courage, Manto bhai. Sure, they might visit a brothel for the dance and music, but they dare not go any further.

  — Oh but I’ve been too.

  — For the dance and music? Ismat had smiled meaningfully.

  — Why? Why should I go only for the dance and music? I went for exactly what people spend money on at a brothel.

  — Shut up. So brazen! Ismat had screamed. There’s a limit to lies.

  — Why, what’s the problem?

  — Impossible. You have deliberately created this image of yourself.

  — I swear on the lord, Ismat, I’ve been to brothels.

  — Don’t you bring the lord into this. Do you even believe in the lord?

  — I swear on my dead son.

  — Manto bhai! She clutched my hair with both her hands. Are you a human being? How can you swear on your son?

  I saw Ismat’s eyes were brimming over. I began to laugh.

  — Why can’t you believe that I’m an expert at wooing girls, Ismat behen?

  — This is our last meeting, Manto bhai, I’m warning you. Ismat was seething. Dimples had appeared on both her cheeks. I wanted to stoke her anger further. ‘Wait, let me call Shafia,’ I said. ‘Listen to what she has to say.’

  Ismat exploded as soon as Shafia appeared. ‘Has Manto bhai told you that he’s visited the women at the brothels?’

  — He’s told me many times.