The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  ‘So, you think this is some sort of Open Sesame?’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Yaar, this is all about permits and licences.’

  ‘That is hardly a mystery; it is all about buying and selling. This is something else that involves no expenditure of any sort and yet …’

  And so the tongues wagged. And I fumed inwardly. When I could take it no more, I took on one of the wags. Matters got out of hand, and the news reached Majju Bhai. He gave me a severe dressing down. ‘Are you a loose cannon? If someone is saying something about somebody, what is it to you?’

  I was in a temper at the time. I burst out at Majju Bhai, ‘Majju Bhai, why are you feeding these serpents? They ask you for all sorts of favours, they take advantage of you, and then they indulge in wild speculation about you.’

  ‘Ustad, you are in a temper right now.’ Majju Bhai cooled himself down and tried to pacify me as well. ‘But, yaar, why fly into such a rage? Must one die if a colony of crows has set up a dirge? Come on, let us go and drink coffee.’

  Anyway, there I was talking about myself when the subject of Majju Bhai came up. Perhaps, it was inevitable. No matter which angle I see my life from, I have always found Majju Bhai to be a part of it, especially during those early days as though I was learning to walk by holding his finger. I had found a roof over my head only because of him. And not just the roof, but even my first job was thanks to him. One day, he suddenly served me with a notice. ‘Jawad Miyan, go and meet Mirza sahab tomorrow.’

  ‘Mirza sahab? Which Mirza sahab?’

  ‘Mirza Dilawar Baig. He is one of us. He has a couple of vacancies in his office. You can fit in. Go and meet him tomorrow; your job is as good as fixed. It is a government job; you will do well.’

  And so the next day, I went. But I was so surprised when I reached there. I looked and I was astounded. So this is what a government office looks like! Mirza sahab was in charge of the office all right, but the state of his office was such that a large table reposed in the middle of a bare floor, bereft of any ornamentation. A few files lay on one side which, instead of a paperweight, had a washed piece of a brick resting on top. Next to them, a few twigs of a thorny acacia were arranged in a dish. In front lay a few papers, a blue and a yellow pencil – and on a table thus adorned, sat Mirza sahab. Two ancient battered chairs lay in front of him. He met me with great affection, asked my name and then enquired about my education. ‘Have you done a B.A.? Which division? What were your subjects?’ And then the sudden question, ‘Which city do you belong to, my dear?’

  ‘Sir, the sense of belonging is gone; now I roam around like a vagabond in this city.’

  Mirza sahab peered at me, from the top of my head till my feet. He was silent; then he said, ‘Yes, my dear, you are right. I too seldom mention which desolate place I have come from. When someone insists, all I say is, Dilli jo ek shehar thaa aalam mein intekhab …10 And then I fall silent.’

  And with that, Mirza sahab launched upon an entire essay on the city of Delhi. As it turned out, this was a mere preface. I would be subjected to the essay on some pretext or the other on later occasions too. So, there was Mirza sahab in full flow on the subject of Delhi and I kept mumbling a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ when, suddenly, he paused and said, ‘You must have a pen.’

  I did not understand and was at a loss for words.

  ‘No … I mean yes … yes, I have a pen.’

  ‘All you need is a pen. It would be good if you also had a pencil. Come in the morning tomorrow. I will have your name noted down; the rest of the formalities will be taken care of; that will take some time. Government matters are done like that. Anyhow, you should come tomorrow.’

  The next day, I reached armed with a pen and pencil. Mirza sahab was pleased to see me. Then some homilies, in the nature of a lecture, followed, ‘My dear young man, this is a time of dire straits. Can you imagine the splendour of my office in Raisina11? Not one but two chaprasis sat outside the door of my office. A visitor had to send a chit and still wait for a long time. Here, in my office, there is neither chit nor chaprasi; anyone can walk in. If you ask me, truly, it is still not an office; I am trying to turn it into one. After all, there was no country; how could there be offices? The country has been created thanks to Allah; we too have come here under Allah’s care. So, my dear, work here knowing that a building is coming up and we are its builders.’

  Mirza sahab proved to be a good builder. Within a matter of months, he built up a monument with much the same splendour that is to be found in most offices. Staff strength went up as well. However, the more staff he got the more he complained about its shortage and aired a commensurate grievance about the neglect of senior officers. The staff was expanding in a strange way. Every other day, a new face would appear and within a week or so new staff would become old staff. Among them, there was also a face that was the most radiant among all the other faces, a face that gradually spread its light within me.

  All she did was type all day long. I never ever saw that girl raise her head to look at anyone. If I went to her with a sheaf of papers to be typed, she would take them and keep them on one side as she typed and remain engrossed in her work. I said to myself: This won’t do. I handed her the papers one day and said, ‘These have to be typed soon … in the next fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes.’ And she remained engrossed in her typing.

  ‘Excuse me … what is your name?’

  ‘Ishrat un-Nisa.’

  ‘Ishrat un-Nisa … That is a nice name! Someone like me can barely get its pronunciation right.’

  She paused and looked at me for a moment and then went back to her typing. Her fingers, that had paused briefly, began to move swiftly across the keys once again.

  In the monsoon, when the rains come to this alien city, it rains so hard as though the mouths of several thousand mashaks have opened suddenly. There is water overflowing everywhere.

  That day the rain had lessened somewhat but not stopped, and there was no sign of local transport. It can only be called a miracle when a rain-drenched rickshaw came and stopped right beside me on the footpath.

  ‘Will you go?’ I asked.

  The man pulling the rickshaw agreed almost immediately.

  As I climbed into the rickshaw, I looked towards Ishrat. In an attempt to escape the falling rain, she had shrunk herself into a ball. A wave of sympathy rose within me. ‘Ishrat Bibi, there is no certainty about the bus; who knows when it will come or whether you will get a place in it or not. If you like, I can drop you.’

  She didn’t decline, but she did not show any signs of acceptance either. I looked hesitantly at her and said, ‘Arre, there is no reason to worry. How long can you stand here in this weather?’

  She bent and said, ‘It will be a longer route for you.’

  ‘Yes, it will. But one has to do this in such weather.’ And immediately I added, ‘Don’t delay; come. Who knows when the rain might start again!’

  She thought for a minute and then, hesitantly, got into the rickshaw, but she sat shrinking away, hugging the far side of it. I said, ‘You will get soaked to the skin. Why don’t you sit properly?’

  ‘No, I am all right.’

  I could hardly insist. Who knows what she might infer? Throughout the journey, she sat like that and kept getting wet. She would talk quite a bit in the office; now, she was silent and also a little anxious. She answered in monosyllables whenever I tried to make conversation.

  She asked the rickshaw-puller to stop at the corner of her alley. ‘I will get off here.’

  I peered out; there was water and mud everywhere. I said, ‘How will you go? There is so much slush.’

  ‘I will manage.’

  ‘You will slip.’

  ‘No, I will manage,’ she said and got off.

  I too got off. I told the rickshaw-puller, ‘I will drop her and come back.’ And to Ishrat I said, ‘Here, hold my hand.’ Perhaps she too realized how slippery the ground was as soon as she got off; a
nd so she immediately held my hand and began to walk carefully. Whenever she felt she might slip, she would clasp her fingers more tightly with mine.

  Somehow or the other, we reached her doorway. When she turned to go in after thanking me, I made a jovial remark just to tease her, ‘Now you have held my hand.’

  And she retorted, ‘Don’t let go of it.’

  And, suddenly, a change came over her. She looked coyly at me and sped inside after waving her thumb at me! I stood transfixed.

  With much difficulty, I made my way back and sat down in the rickshaw. And thereafter I did not know if it was still raining or not and whether the rickshaw-puller was taking the right route. This new side of Ishrat that I had just glimpsed had so embedded itself in my imagination that I was completely lost in it. Sleep proved to be elusive that night. All I could visualize was that scene. The next day, I was among the first to reach the office.

  A short while later Ishrat too came in. Usually, she would be the first to come in; today, I had reached before her. That was good; the others had not yet arrived. So, we gained a few precious moments of solitude.

  ‘Jawad sahab, thank you for giving me the ride home yesterday. It rained very hard soon after. If you hadn’t offered the lift, I don’t know how I would have managed. So, thank you once again.’

  ‘I too should thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For showing me your thumb.’

  She laughed out loud. ‘Sorry, Jawad sahab.’

  ‘What is there to be sorry about? I have only one complaint.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You had only a thumb to show me.’

  ‘Should I have shown you my eyes, then?’

  ‘No, you should have shown me a glimmer of your true self.’12

  Making a face, she said, ‘Hmm, shown my true self!’ and then, with great coquetry, she stuck her tongue out at me. Once again, I was wounded. That narrow, red tongue looked so good. I laughed, ‘There is no need to show your tongue. I know you have a mother tongue.13 By the way, where do you come from? Lucknow?’

  She looked back sharply at me and retorted, ‘Lucknow? Why should I be from Lucknow? I belong to Delhi.’

  ‘Ah, Delhi! Then I am done for,’ I said.

  ‘Why? Why are you done for?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Nothing. Just like that. Actually, I was reminded of a warning once issued by a poet.’

  ‘What warning?’

  ‘Mushafi14 had given the following warning in one of his verses:

  Ai Mushafi tu unse muhabbat na kijio

  Zaalim ghazab ki hoti hain yeh Dilliwalian

  (Ai Mushafi, do not fall in love with them

  These Delhi girls are terribly cruel)’

  ‘Nonsense! Who was this shameless poet?’

  ‘He liked adolescent boys.’

  ‘No wonder!’ And then after a pause, she added, ‘You have recited a very vulgar verse. I shall not talk to you anymore.’

  I tried to offer my defence, but other staff members had begun to walk in. I immediately got up and came to sit down at my own desk.

  And then, it was almost as though a transformation came over our relationship. So far, our relations were confined to the office. We would talk in the office as colleagues do or sit together and drink tea, or once they become a little more comfortable with each other they might indulge in some informal banter. Anyhow, there had never been such informality between us that she or I could exchange casual remarks. But that incident of showing her thumb was a major turning point; it brought about a sea-change in our attitude towards each other. A strange sort of informality crept in between us, and also a hesitation. Suddenly, mid-sentence, it would cross our mind that perhaps one of our colleagues was watching us and may, perchance, get an inkling of what was going on. Immediately, we would fall silent. But what was there to guess? What was there between us? There was nothing.… No … But doubts and misgivings had begun to raise their head.

  One day, as we were talking, I asked, ‘Our boss, Mirza sahab, is also from Delhi. Is he related to you?’

  ‘He is my Phupha Jan several times removed.’

  ‘So he is distantly related?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, he won’t raise any hindrance.’

  ‘Hindrance? In what?’ she sounded bemused.

  ‘I mean in yours and my …’ I didn’t know what else to say. I fell silent.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she was now sounding worried.

  ‘Now, how do I make you understand …?’

  She was quiet. Anyhow, soon she began to understand everything on her own.

  Actually, the person who set up obstacles turned out to be Majju Bhai. God knows how he got wind of what was brewing. Perhaps he saw the two of us together at some opportune moment. It so happened that when I bought a scooter, one day I also found a suitable time and place and invited Ishrat, ‘Come with me today.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You are from Delhi. But there is no Qutub Minar here; where can one go? There is only Clifton.’15

  She laughed.

  I started my scooter. ‘Get on.’ She hopped on behind me. And when I increased the speed of my scooter, she put her arm around my waist. No doubt, Majju Bhai must have seen us on one such occasion.

  One day, he looked closely at me as we were having our breakfast. ‘This girl who is being seen with you these days … she works in your office, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And presumably she belongs to Delhi.’

  ‘Yes, but how do you know?’

  ‘Ustad, I walk about this city with my eyes open. And now you listen very carefully to my words.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is no harm as long as things are confined to romance, but don’t entertain any thoughts of marriage.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My boy, she is from Delhi; you have had it!’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The fact is that those families that have come from Delhi lived with the utmost respectability there. There was a time when their women did not even set foot outside their door. Those girls who set foot outside to go to college did so wearing a burqa and getting into a covered tanga the moment they came out. They have thrown their burqas away since coming to Karachi. And there is neither doli nor tanga here for transport. One should be scared of such girls.’

  ‘So, you regret that there are no more curtained ekkas and tangas and these muhajir girls can be seen going about bare-faced to colleges and offices?’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I am not a sympathizer of purdah. But, Jawad Miyan, these girls have not come out of purdah in a normal way; they have torn their burqas asunder and burst out on the crossroads. And that is why I am fearful of them.’

  ‘And it is because of this fear that you have decided to remain a bachelor?’

  Majju Bhai let out a hearty laugh. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be convinced. The most well meaning of friends the world over have never managed to convince a lover. Anyhow, good or bad, my job was to warn you. So, tell me, what do you plan to do?’

  I was in no hurry to open up. Or, perhaps, I myself had not made up my mind yet. Nor had Ishrat given any serious thought to the subject of marriage. At present, we were content to flow along without a thought or a decision in mind. This was the only testament to the sincerity of our feelings. But what is the point of remembering such things after such a long time? Arre, the romance ended the day the words of the nikah were recited. Actually, the only measure of success in romance is its failure. I have always pitied those men who turn from lovers to husbands. The experience of love gets lost somewhere in married life, and is eventually frittered away. In any case, my married life did not last very long. The business of giving birth made it so very brief; hers was a caesarean case. The mother died; the child remained. Marital life left behind a fruit as it ended … a new nuisance. But then what is the point of remembering those things. That short-lived love and the
marital life that was born of its womb left behind its fruit, and disappeared! And with it, I bid farewell to that office, too. It seemed as though I had gone to that office only to savour the taste of that life. I turned one page of life after this experience of working in an office and the romantic interlude, and moved on. There is a time and age for every emotional experience. So the lifespan of this experience and that emotion was over. Whatever traces remained were gradually lost in the worries and anxieties of life. The last remaining trace was lost when I narrated the entire incident to Maimuna; and when she heard me out with sympathy and attention, I was freed of that entire episode. Though, indeed, later I was surprised by her interest in this part of my life.

  Anyhow, the old sorrow was gone. There were new incidents and issues, and new sorrows. But I could not understand where to slot that old sorrow that had mingled with these new sorrows: should I put it in the pigeonhole of new sorrows or call it the revival of an old sorrow? It was strange; once where there was a pain, now there was only a scar. And where there was neither pain nor scar, a pain lay buried.

  1 Abd ar-Rahman I was the Emir of Cordoba from 756–788 ad.

  2 Abu Amir al-Mansur, in Latin and Spanish known as Almanzor (born c. 938 – died Aug. 10, 1002, Spain), was the chief minister and virtual ruler of the Umayyad caliphate of Cordoba for 24 years (978–1002).

  3 Tariq bin Ziyad was a Muslim general who led the Islamic conquest of Hispania in 711–718 ad. Under the orders of the Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid I, he led a large army from the north coast of Morocco, consolidating his troops at a large hill now known as Gibraltar. The name ‘Gibraltor’ is the Spanish derivation of the Arabic name Jabal Tariq, meaning the ‘mountain of Tariq’, which is named after him. Legend has it that Tariq ordered the ship he crossed over in to be burnt so that he and his men would not suffer from cowardice.

  4 Refers to the special trains that ferried passengers to and from the two sides of the border all through the Partition years, i.e. carrying Muslims to Pakistan and bringing Hindus to India.