Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  His wife burst out in anger too. ‘Do you even have a heart? I haven’t seen you shed a single tear. How could you have behaved this way if you’d really loved your children? As though nothing has changed … as though they’re still alive …’

  — Nothing has actually changed, bibijaan. The boys are alive within me. I see them all the time.

  — And I look for them everywhere. I cannot sleep nights. ‘We’re cold, ammi,’ they cry to me. ‘We’re so hungry. Take us inside.’ Why can’t I see them?

  — Look for them with the eye within your heart, bibijaan, you’re bound to find them.

  — You’re blind in that eye. You cannot see anything with it.

  — No, I’m not. We don’t see things properly with our eyes. We see them differently. To me it’s all the same. I see my children all the time. They play here, around me.

  — Where? Show me. I cannot see them.

  — They cannot be seen with our eyes. Have you ever seen the wild plants that lean over the water? Our senses are like those plants. You can see only if you move them aside. Shut your eyes and imagine what cannot be seen. Your sons will appear and hold you, bibijaan.

  — My heart is emptied out, janab. Your beautiful words cannot fill it again. The shaikh’s wife wept and beat her breast.

  The shaikh’s mother said, ‘We cannot understand the eye you’re talking about, beta, don’t try to comfort us with mere words.’

  The shaikh was silent for a long time. His initial irritation with his wife and mother gave way to unhappiness. He was not capable of dispelling their grief. They had accepted the separation as the truth. The shaikh began to tell them a story.

  — Let me tell you about a woman. Each of her children died within a few months of birth.

  — But our boys lived for several years, his mother interjected.

  — And the woman? Asked the shaikh’s wife. —She must have died of grief. I want to die too, but death won’t take me.

  — The woman lost twenty children. Not two but twenty. She used to wander around the streets, cursing the lord. Then something strange happened one night.

  — What?

  — In her dream the woman was crossing a desert. Blood streamed from her stomach, soaking the sand. She arrived at a tiny door. Entering, she went into a narrow passage, like a womb, which brought her to an astounding new world. She saw the fountain of eternal life, with the river of heaven flowing through the garden. The plants in this garden never died. Not everyone had seen this garden. Only those who believed it existed could actually see it. All the world’s celebrations of joy took place in this garden.

  ‘It’s all your dream,’ screamed the shaikh’s wife. ‘There’s no such garden anywhere.’

  — This garden has no name, its loveliness cannot even be described. But still, it does exist in this world, bibijaan.

  — Tell us what happened to the woman. What did she get in the garden after losing all her children?

  — She waded into the river of heaven. All her unhappiness and doubts were swept away at once like dirt. As she bathed in the river, she heard her children laugh. Truly, believe me, her children swam about her, laughing. A torrent of happiness coursed through the woman’s heart.

  — Take me to this place, then. Tell me how to get there.

  — Think of the fakirs of this world, bibijaan. They have no complaints about the things that happen in their lives. Allah will give them more than he has taken from them. They have to follow the path that he leads them to.

  — How will we take this difficult road?

  — It isn’t easy. Even Dakuki was beset by doubts.

  — Who’s Dakuki?

  — Then listen to the stories of the travellers who accept everything that happens on the way.

  — Tell us, my son, your stories are making our hearts lighter. The shaikh’s wife began to eat some bread.

  — Dakuki was a pilgrim. He was always on the move from one place to another. He would never settle down anywhere or with anyone.

  — How strange! Can anyone actually be this way?

  — But he did have one weakness.

  — For his children? The shaikh’s wife asked.

  — No, for fakirs. How he was drawn to them! Through them he could see the universe in a grain. It was the fakirs who had told him that the lord resides within human beings. There was no place Dakuki did not visit in his search for fakirs. His feet would bleed as he tramped along. When people asked, how will you cross the desert on bleeding feet, Dakuki would say with a smile, that’s nothing.

  — And then?

  — One evening Dakuki arrived at the seashore. He saw seven candles glowing in the distance, taller than even the palm trees. The whole place was full of light. Walking towards the candles, Dakuki arrived at a village. The villagers were wandering about on the roads with lamps without any oil in them.

  — What’s the matter? Dakuki asked one of them.

  — Can’t you see? Our lamps have no oil, no wicks. We don’t have food for our bellies either.

  — But just look around you. The sky is full of light. Can’t you see those seven candles there? The lord gives us light on his own.

  — What light? The sky is completely dark, where do you see any light? You’re mad.

  Dakuki looked at the man closely. Although his eyes were open, they were actually stitched up. It was the same with everyone else. Their eyes were open, but shut.

  As soon as the sun rose the seven candles turned into seven trees. When the desert grew hot, Dakuki sat in the shade of the trees, plucking their fruit to eat them. He saw that the villagers had made canopies with tattered clothes to protect themselves from the sun. Calling out to them, Dakuki said, ‘Why don’t you come and sit here in the shade of the trees? Can’t you see the fruits? They will quench your hunger and your thirst.’

  — We can’t see anything. What trees? It’s all a desert here. Are you making fools of us? We shall leave this village at once.

  — Where will you go?

  — There’s a ship anchored in the sea, we’ll board it to go wherever we please.

  — Listen to me, my brothers. You’re all deceiving one another with lies.

  — Shut up. Don’t try to fool us with falsehoods. We have seen the trees too, but it’s all a dream. We do not believe in it. We want to return to reality.

  — Reality? What is reality? Hunger and thirst and the strong sun? The trees are full of fruits, can’t you see?

  — No. We’re sure of finding a better place on the other side of the sea.

  Dakuki was bewildered. He wondered, am I the one who’s mad, then? So many people cannot be wrong. He went up to one of the trees and put his arms around it. ‘I’m an imbecile, as you know,’ he whispered into its ears. ‘Don’t you prefer my moistened madness to dry intelligence?’

  Suddenly six of the trees lined up in a row and the seventh began to pray before them like a priest. Gradually the seven trees were transformed into seven humans. ‘Dakuki!’ they addressed him in unison.

  — How did you know my name?

  — Nothing can be kept from the heart that seeks Allah, Dakuki. We have a single heart. The heart of Allah. Don’t search for a heart by yourself, Dakuki. Come, help us read the namaz now.

  — I know nothing, huzoor. I’m worse than an ass.

  — A pious ass like you is above everyone else.

  The shaikh’s wife had broken down in tears. ‘Tell me where I can meet my son.’

  — Wait a little longer, bibijaan.

  — What happened to Dakuki, beta? The shaikh’s mother asked him.

  — As he read the namaz Dakuki could hear stricken wails in a multitude of voices. He opened his eyes to discover that the sea had turned turbulent in the moonlight. The ship was rolling and pitching like flotsam on the waves. All the villagers were on it. They were screaming … Save us … Have mercy, O Lord … Save us … Suddenly the ship was split into two.

  — Did they all die, beta?

&
nbsp; — Dakuki’s eyes were streaming with tears. Lifting his arms to the sky, he prayed, save them, Lord, forgive their ignorance, open their eyes, lead them to your heaven.

  The shaikh broke down in tears. Stroking his back, his mother asked, ‘They survived, didn’t they, son?’

  — Yes. The sea grew calm. They swam ashore.

  For the first time in many weeks, the shaikh’s wife ate a piece of bread and drank some water.

  — And then? Asked the shaikh’s mother.

  — Looking at the sea, the seven men asked, ‘And who played God with God?’ Nobody but Dakuki, of course. With this, they disappeared into thin air. Dakuki continued wandering, now in search of his seven companions.

  One night he saw the reflection of the full moon in a well by the road. Delirious with joy, he began to sing and dance. Suddenly a cloud covered the moon. The reflection vanished. Dakuki lay down by the well, rising to his feet after a long time. ‘Idiot!’ he began to shout. ‘I’m an idiot! I am still taken in by reflections. Allah can give light even without a lamp. Why am I still searching for those seven men? How much longer will I remain distracted by external form? Give me the strength to think only of you, O Lord.’

  Breaking the silence that the dastango had lapsed into, Kallu asked in excitement, ‘And then?’

  — What do you suppose?

  — What happened to Dakuki?

  — Everyone in the shaikh’s family returned to their own tasks. Dakuki continued on his travels.

  — Where will Dakuki go now?

  — Where do you suppose? He was in my bag, and that’s where he’s returned. The dastango extracted a wooden puppet from the bag slung across his shoulder. —Look, mian, this is Dakuki.

  — Who else do you have in your bag, mian?

  — See for yourself, do you recognize who this is?

  — Mirza sahib, huzoor.

  — And this?

  — Jahanpanah Bahadur Shah.

  — This?

  Kallu leapt up. ‘Manto bhai … you … you … you have become a puppet too?’

  Pulling out wooden puppets one after another from his bag, the dastango arranged them around the precincts of the mosque. In astonishment, I discovered that they were all characters from my novel Dozakhnama. The painted puppets glittered in the light. They had not been soiled by the heat and dust of history.

  Allow Manto to bid you farewell now, my reader, my companion. Khudahafiz.

  Ever since we finished Manto’s novel, I keep thinking of a strange incident in Mian Tansen’s life, Tabassum. Mian was an expert at Raga Bhairav. He used to sing its alaap only at the hour that Emperor Akbar awoke. To the emperor, Tansen was first among all the ustads. That’s why the other ustads used to envy Tansen. Once, they decided to plot Tansen’s death. They told the badshah, ‘We have never heard the Raga Deepak, Jahanpanah. We want to hear it. No one but Mian Tansen knows this raga.’ The emperor had no inkling of the ustads’ motive. He told Tansen, ‘I wish to hear Raga Deepak, mian. Will you sing it for me?’ Tansen said, ‘Singing this raga will lead to my death, Jahanpanah.’

  — Why?

  — I cannot explain it to you.

  — How can singing a raga cause one’s death?

  — I am telling you the truth, Jahanpanah.

  — That’s impossible, mian. You must sing Raga Deepak for us.

  After much thought, Tansen asked for a fortnight’s time. He knew that the blaze sparked by Raga Deepak—the fire of the melody—could roast its earthly singer. So someone would have to douse these flames with the cooling strains of a counter melody. While he sang Deepak, another musician would simultaneously have to invoke Raga Megh. Only then would Tansen survive. For a fortnight, Tansen trained his daughter Saraswati and Swami Haridas’s disciple Rupabati to sing the Raga Megh.

  Tansen went to the royal court on the morning of the appointed day. The place was teeming with people. Tansen started the preparations for singing Raga Deepak. Meanwhile, Saraswati and Rupabati did the same thing in their own home for Raga Megh. Tansen had instructed them to begin the alaap in Raga Megh as soon as he had completed his invocation to the Raga Deepak and begun singing.

  After the prayers and invocations were over, Emperor Akbar arrived. Taking his permission, Tansen began singing Raga Deepak. Lamps were arranged all around the court. Tansen had said that he would stop singing as soon as the lamps lit up. No sooner had he started the alaap than everyone present felt as though a severe heat wave had descended on them. Tansen began to perspire too. His eyes grew bloodshot. Then his body began to burn, all the lamps in the court lit up—the flames spread in all directions. People fled in whichever direction possible. A half-roasted Tansen also began to flee in the direction of his own home.

  Saraswati and Rupabati had just begun their alaap in Raga Megh. As soon as their song began, the skies of Dilli were overcast, a stormy wind sprang up, and then it began to rain torrentially. Tansen’s burnt body was cooled.

  In this novel Manto is like Mian Tansen’s Raga Deepak, Tabassum. We have crossed successive rings of fire on this journey. Where are the Saraswatis and Rupabatis today, who can sing the Raga Megh to bathe Mirza’s and Manto’s scorched bodies and souls in the rain? My search for them is propelling me towards a new novel. It’s titled The Mystery of Radha.

  A Note on the Author

  abisankar Bal is a Bangla novelist and short-story writer, with over fifteen novels, five short-story collections, one volume of poetry, and one volume of literary essays. He has edited a collection of Saadat Hasan Manto’s writings translated into Bangla.

  Born in 1962, he has been writing for over thirty years. His novel The Biography of Midnight won the West Bengal Government’s Sutapa Roychowdhury Memorial Prize. Dozakhnama, acknowledged by the late doyen of Bengali literature Sunil Gangopadhyay as the finest novel of 2010, won the West Bengal Government’s Bankimchandra Smriti Puraskar.

  A journalist by profession, Bal lives in Kolkata and passionately follows literature, music, painting, and world cinema. His next novel is based on the life of the Sufi poet Jalaluddin Rumi, and told through the imagined eyes of Ibn Batuta.

  A Note on the Translator

  runava Sinha translates contemporary and classic Bengali fiction into English. Dozakhnama is his seventeenth published translation.

  Born and educated in Kolkata, he lives in New Delhi.