‘Subhan Allah,’ I laughed out loud.
‘It is no laughing matter. I am only saying what is correct. Don’t go by all the upstarts who go about calling themselves Karachiwalas. The true Karachiwala is one who has lived in a shanty.’
‘Then the old Karachiwalas can’t be real Karachiwalas.’
‘Yaar Jawad, this is a terrible habit! You stop me just as I am making my point. I am talking about the present lot of inhabitants. They stay in Karachi for four days and, on the fifth day, pretend to become real Karachiwalas.’
‘But, Majju Bhai, surely there must be some fault in Karachi too. One can’t stay in Lahore for four days and become a true-blue Lahoriya. And the city that was once Delhi … there, people who came from outside lived for generation after generation, yet the Delhiwalas did not accept them as true Delhiwalas. You are tracing a man’s roots in a city; whereas a city too must have its own roots.’
‘You’ve gone mad! Does a city beside a sea ever have roots? It always floats on the water.’
Anyhow, there was no way that Majju Bhai could deny my claim to being a Karachiwala. I had lived in a shanty and, had Majju Bhai not incited me, God knows how much longer I would have continued to live there. Misbah departed as soon as his well-to-do relatives arrived in the city. After he left, I became the sole owner of the shanty. At a time when people could not find an inch of space to rest their feet or cover their head, I was the proud owner of an entire shanty. Though I lived in a shanty, my head was in the clouds. I felt as though I was putting down roots in this city. But Majju Bhai uprooted me from there. I had run into him for the first time at the Coffee House.
Dressed in a narrow-legged pajama, black pumps with a bow, a black shervani cut in the typical Aligarh style,5 a white Rampuri cap6 worn at a rakish angle, Majju Bhai cut an elegantly effete figure. He sat surrounded by poets – bearing nom de plums such as Amrohvi, Badauni, Galauthvi, Etawi7– and a round of coffee was underway along with a discussion on the ghazal. In a rush of my newly-acquired ‘intellectualism’, I got into an altercation with him. They were writers of the ghazal; they couldn’t sustain an argument. Majju Bhai kept drawing silently on his cigarette and looking at me. He said, ‘Let’s keep this argument away for another day; recite some of your new poetry for us now.’
‘I don’t write poetry.’
‘You don’t write poetry? So you only run on intellectual arguments.’
‘Excuse me, I read poetry; I don’t write it.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘When did you arrive in this city?’
‘Recently.’
‘Have you come alone, or …’
‘Alone.’
‘Which city have you come from?’
‘Whichever the city was, it has been left behind. Now I am in this city.’
‘My dear young man, this is the ‘City of Neglect’, where no one knows or cares.’
‘I know.’
‘No, you don’t know yet; you will one day. Anyhow, surely there must be somewhere you rest your head at night.’
‘I live in a shanty.’
‘Say that then; so, you are a shanty-man.’
From then on, from Jawad, I became Jawad, the shanty-man. When someone asked ‘Which Jawad?’ the answer would be: ‘Jawad, the shanty-man’. I was helpless. Then, Majju Bhai softened somewhat. ‘What is this tag that you have stuck on yourself?’
‘Have I given it?’ I asked bitterly.
‘How long do you plan to stay there? Leave that wretched place and move on.’
‘And where should I go? Do I have any other shelter?’
‘You know, you should pack your bag and bedding, and come to my place. I am single and so are you. We will get along well.’
I didn’t have to be asked twice. In a jiffy, I bid goodbye to life in the shanty.
It was only when I began to live with Majju Bhai that I fully understood what a piece of work he was. There was a lot of spit and polish on the surface. He would sit in the Coffee House with a regal air and pretend to be an aristocrat, but in reality he turned out to be full of hot air.
It was a Sunday. We were both lying in our beds and dawdling when, suddenly, he got up with a start. ‘Don’t you want to go to the Coffee House? Or, do you plan to spend the entire Sunday yawning in bed?’
‘Yes, we should go. It will be quite crowded today.’
‘So, do you have an atthanni or chavanni? We must have at least the bus fare in our pockets.’
I felt my pockets. ‘Yes, I can just about manage that, but what about the coffee-cigarette-paan? Shouldn’t we a have a paisa or two for those?’
‘What a thing to worry about! All we have to do is reach the Coffee House.’
And with that, we got to our feet in an instant.
Majju Bhai was a bachelor and free from any source of livelihood, but God is the greatest provider. Majju Bhai’s pocket would be heavy some times and empty at others. But I was the only one who knew about his empty pocket. The crowds who thronged the Coffee House could not have known in their wildest dreams. He wasn’t one to pay the bill every day. Every month or two, when he had some money, he would settle old dues. In fact, during the lean days, Deen Mohammad, the waiter at the Coffee House, paid for the paan, cigarettes and taxis. As far as transport went, when his pocket began to lighten, Majju Bhai would abandon the taxis in favour of buses. But when his pocket emptied out totally, he would go back to taxis. His taxi would stop in front of the Coffee House and Deen Mohammad would come out and pay it off. Once, when he had a bit of a windfall, he splurged on a cycle along with his other indulgences. He explained his decision thus, ‘Look here, I have devised a way of freeing myself from the bother of finding taxis and buses. I have bought a cycle.’
‘Majju Bhai, that’s a good idea; now the problem of conveyance will be solved.’
But Majju Bhai couldn’t remain true to the cycle for very long. As soon as his lean period started he began his entrapment, ‘Jawad, with God’s grace you have got a job. But, yaar, it is so difficult to find transport in the morning.’
‘Yes, Majju Bhai, that is true. The buses are packed in the mornings; the rush is so great. And I can’t afford a taxi every day. In any case, you can’t find a taxi very easily during the rush hour.’
‘Yes, I know. Yaar, I would recommend that you buy a cycle.’
‘Majju Bhai, a cycle is going to cost me an entire month’s salary.’
‘Yaar, buy a second-hand one. The first month might be a bit tough, but then think of the ease.’
His words made sense. I agreed and looked at several second-hand cycles. But I didn’t like any of them. Majju Bhai said, ‘Yaar, forget all this. Take my cycle. It wasn’t a wise decision for me to buy a cycle in any case; I can’t pull it.’
And so Majju Bhai made some money by fobbing his cycle on me. He became rich for a few days. So far, I used to sit on the carrier behind him as we went to the Coffee House; now he began to sit on the carrier behind me as we went to the Coffee House. But this state of affairs could not last for very long. When the days of scarcity set in again, he said to me: ‘Yaar, our old place was much better than this. We’ve had nothing but trouble from this rented house. The landlord is a despicable man; he doesn’t let one rest in peace till he has extracted his rent. And I am going through a lean period.’
Indeed, the matter was a troubling one. I said, ‘And my state is such that I have exhausted my entire salary and the first of next month is still far away.’
‘What shall we do, then?’ And Majju Bhai fell into deep thought.
‘There is only one thing to do: I should sell my cycle.’ The words slipped out of my mouth.
‘No, yaar. How will you go to office, then?’
‘Like I used to, before.’
‘No, yaar,’ Majju Bhai said and the matter ended there. But on the second or third day, he threw a new d
art. ‘Yaar, Jawad, there is this fellow who is badgering me every day; he keeps asking me if I know of a good second-hand cycle. I tell you: this is a good opportunity. Your cycle’s tyres are almost gone, in any case. You will get a good price for it. Sell it off and rid yourself of the nuisance.’
At first I demurred, but Majju Bhai made me come around eventually. We sold the cycle and scraped together the month’s rent and paid some of Deen Mohammad’s outstanding bills. And the two of us went back to being on foot. In any case, the good times rolled back soon enough. They came for all too short a time, but nevertheless while they lasted, Majju Bhai spent four rupees where he could have done with one! The orders for coffees increased as the circle of supplicants became suddenly large. But Majju Bhai had forsaken the idea of having his own conveyance. So the thought of buying a cycle never occurred to him at all. Now, an altogether different issue was troubling him. He said, ‘How long will we eat bazaar-bought food? After all, hotel food is hardly worth eating.’
‘So, what can be done, Majju Bhai? Yes, the only possibility is that if you were to agree to marry one of these lady poets who hover around you and bring her to grace your home, you might be rid of hotel food.’
Majju Bhai looked at me with distrust. ‘Marry? You or me?’ After a pause he said, ‘Jawad Miyan, they are all smart cookies. Don’t even think of it.’ And then after another pause, ‘I was thinking of something else.’
‘What?’
‘Yaar, shouldn’t we keep a cook?’
Now it was my turn to be surprised.
‘Cook? What are you saying, Majju Bhai? Keeping a cook is like tethering an elephant at your door.’
‘Yes, Bhai, that is true. But all these fellows who come to the Coffee House in their cars, and whose wives never fail to mention their cooks, on some pretext or the other, are they any better than us? And are we in any way inferior to anyone?’
I agreed. Then, hesitantly, I offered, ‘Majju Bhai, you know exactly what my salary is.’
‘Lahoul willah quwwat …8 Do you think I am such a base fellow? Will I ask you to pay for the cook? Now, it is imperative that we keep a cook.’
And, really, within the next few days, a decent cook was engaged in that modest home in which I had come to live with Majju Bhai. A dining table was also bought, and with it new crockery too. For the next few days, there was much festivity. Every day, there would be a new dish on the dining table. And on Sunday afternoons, a veritable feast of dishes! The two of us began to stay at home without fail; one or two of Majju Bhai’s cronies would also drop in. In any case, this period did not last very long. Majju Bhai had a hole in his palm; whatever money came his way from some supernatural means, even if it was a large amount, could not stay for very long. And his heavy pocket began to lighten. Soon, Majju Bhai made it known that he was heartily fed up of these rich and heavy meals. ‘Yaar, meat every day … that’s too much! Good folk need not be such good Muslims.’ And he immediately instructed the cook, ‘Stop this daily business of chicken … you serve it to us every day.’
‘Shall I get mutton?’
‘No, no, we have had enough of meat. Make some daal or vegetable. Why don’t you make some masoor daal today? After all, one should eat lentils too.’
And so, we had masoor daal for the next seven days. On Sunday, Majju Bhai instructed the cook, ‘We are off to roam the city today; we will eat outside. You make something simple for yourself.’
That afternoon, Majju Bhai ordered an omelette and six slices of bread with coffee. That is how we filled our bellies for the day. By now, the cook had figured out our dire straits. In a day or two, he bid farewell to Majju Bhai and took our leave with the promise of coming on the first of the next month to collect his wages. And Majju Bhai drew a long breath of relief. ‘Yaar, keeping a cook is a complicated affair. It’s no business for single men like us. It is a good thing he has quit.’
Once again, we were back to our old ways. Majju Bhai would make the tea in the morning, toast some bread and call out to me. ‘Come, Jawad Miyan, hurry up; it is time for your office.’ And when I would come for my breakfast, he would console me thus: ‘Yaar, I forgot to buy eggs last night. And the damn butter too is finished. Never mind, make do with what we have.’
‘That’s all right, Majju Bhai; breakfast should be a simple affair. In any case, I shall pick up some eggs and butter on my way back from office.’
‘So, you are being ultra generous, are you? Never mind, so be it.’
And so life continued. Majju Bhai would be a king one day and a pauper the next. While I could understand the pauper bit, I could never quite fathom how he became a king. This mystery was never solved by anyone. Majju Bhai never lifted so much as a leaf by way of work. I had a Khalu Jan several times removed, who did no work whatsoever, was entirely disinterested in work or employment, and had neither lands to manage nor a shop to run. Yet my Khala Amma used to say, ‘Bibi, Allah is merciful; we eat meat twice a day and that too mutton. Though, yes, sometimes, your Khalu Jan gets beef just for a change of taste. I get angry and say why should we get beef in our house? He says the butcher had some wonderfully tender beef so I thought why not get some sirloin; it tastes so good with radish. Make shab-degh today.’ The ladies would hear her and make faces and say, ‘The darned ghee has become Rs 2 for a ser and flour is Rs 1 for 16 ser. It is difficult for genteel folk to survive. Khalu Jan does no work; how does Khala Amma eat meat twice a day?’ Finally, the riddle was solved. Khalu Jan had recited a miraculous prayer; as a result, his ‘clients’ came to him at night. When Khalu Jan got up in the morning, he picked up two silver rupees from under his pillow.9
Majju Bhai’s fame had reached similar heights. The New Age had its own jinns and miraculous prayers. The circle of friends first whispered among themselves: ‘After all, Majju Bhai has no discernible source of income, yet he lives well and squanders money. The moment a group of friends comes to his table, he promptly orders coffee … and so it goes on with one group, then the second and the third … and the coffee keeps coming. After all, what’s going on?’ More whispering would be followed by suspicion-filled questions. And then the pronouncement, ‘Surely this is the miracle of supernatural earnings. After all, there must be some reason why Majju Bhai is to be found in the Coffee House at all odd hours.’
‘Sometimes I wonder how the news of our conversations in the Coffee House travels from here to there. Surely, it is someone among us who is spreading the news.’
‘Yes, it must be one of us.’
A pregnant pause, a hint of a suggestion … someone would say something and leave it half-said and then fall silent. Then another would draw a long deep breath and express sorrow at his own condition. ‘Yaar, I have remained a frog in a well; I am stuck in this Coffee House.’
‘Yaar, sitting in the Coffee House should not mean that we should chop off our hands and legs. There is Majju Bhai too.’
‘Yaar, truly, just the other day a friend of mine said, “What is this? You sit in the Coffee House all day long. I will take you along to meet important people.” He took me to a dinner hosted by some businessman. There was dinner and an evening of music. All the important personages in the city were gracing the occasion. Senior officers were present along with their wives. And in the midst of them all … there was Majju Bhai!’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really! And he gave me short shrift; he was busy with the officers. For a long time, he was stuck with the Commissioner; they seemed to be speaking about confidential matters.’
‘Nice … our Majju Bhai is quite something!’
Actually, Majju Bhai had created many enemies for himself – some by virtue of his haughtiness and some for no particular reason. One fine day, God knows what got into him and he announced, ‘All the poets who attend our meetings must be educated.’
And when people asked him what he meant by education, he said, ‘At least a B.A.’
I cautioned him, ‘Majju Bhai, that is an odd condition; why is it ne
cessary for a poet to be a graduate?’
‘You don’t understand, my dear fellow. This is the only way we will be rid of nincompoops.’
And indeed we were rid of them to some extent. But those we got rid of, began to gossip. Once the poets among our circle figured out that Majju Bhai had not put in a word for them among the organisers of mushairas, they too began to show their true colours. Majju Bhai was not a poet (though it cannot be ruled out with any certainty), but he was certainly a patron and mentor of poets. Apart from mushairas, a word from him went a long way when it came to radio programmes. His devotees were present there, too. And when it came to poetry, it was said that he wrote a great deal, but never ever recited it. In fact, some even said that he never ever let on to anyone that he was indeed a poet.
There seemed little doubt that Majju Bhai’s reach went far and wide, nor was it limited to knowing officers alone; his connections extended to all sorts of people. And they were not ordinary connections; he seemed deeply entrenched in their families. As though Lucknow and Delhi were not enough, if some well-to-do family from some far-flung qasba of UP migrated to this city, within a week or so, Majju Bhai found out everything about their family history and then proceeded to describe their genealogy with such familiarity as though he had known them for generations. There was not a single well-to-do muhajir family which did not have his devotees and disciples. He was feted and lionized in every home. From khatna and aqiqa to marriages and receptions, he was invited to every occasion and was always present in everyone’s sorrows and pains. He was among the chief organisers at every good or bad occasion and advisor at every decisive moment.
This very quality eventually proved to be his undoing. People linked him to all manner of underhand doings. You could say that any bogey that arose in the city, and to whichever secret society that bogey belonged, its source was traced to Majju Bhai. The mystery of supernatural income too was interpreted variously by his so-called friends.
The Sea Lies Ahead Page 4