5 The uniform of students as well as ‘Old Boys’ of the Aligarh Muslim University was a fitted black shervani worn over narrow pant-like white pajamas (known to this day as ‘Aligarh-cut pajamas’). Even those who had not studied at the venerable University wore the trademark black shervani-over-white-pajamas as a sign of belonging to an educated class.
6 A velvet version of the Jinnah cap or the Karaquli topi came to be known as the Rampuri topi. It was made popular by Liaqat Ali Khan, the first Prime Minister of Pakistan and was popular among the muhajirs, or those who had migrated to Pakistan from India.
7 Named after the qasbas and towns of Uttar Pradesh, it shows how those who migrated from ‘there’ to ‘here’ wished to cling to the roots they had left behind. The Urdu poet has traditionally adopted the name of his ‘native’ place as his pen name or takhallus as, for instance, Kaifi Azmi took the ‘Azmi’ from Azamgarh.
8 A verse from the Quran used variously to express disgust or dissatisfaction; loosely translated it means, ‘I turn my face away from Evil’.
9 The clients are jinns who, it is believed, can be made to obey one’s commands by special prayers and the practice of chanting certain wazifas or special prayers.
10 Refers to the verse by Delhi’s pre-eminent poet Mir Taqi Mir (1722–1810) who wrote plaintively of the desolation of his beloved city in the terrible years leading up to the great revolt of 1857. Its fragment has, over the years, been used to evoke the image of a desolate or wrecked city, the mockery of the Delhiwallas at the hands of new emerging elites from other cities. The complete verse is as follows:
Dilli jo ek shehar tha aalam mein intekhab
Poocho ho boodo baash kya purab ke sakino
Hamko ghareeb jaan ke hans hans pukar ke
Dilli jo ek shehar tha aalam mein intekhab
Rahte the muntakhib bhi jahan rozgar ke
Jis ko falak ne loot ke barbad kar diya
Hum rahne wale hain ussi ujde dayar ke
In essence, it means: ‘Delhi that was once the pre-eminent city in the world/I belong to that desolate place.’
11 Raisina Hill in New Delhi housed the government offices in colonial India; it continues to be the seat of government in India.
12 Intizar sahab uses one word where I have inadequately resorted to five; in the original, he uses the Hindi word chhab which also means style.
13 The play of words in the original is on zubaan, which means tongue, and also ahl-e-zubaan or ‘people of the language’, an expression used for those for whom Urdu is the mother tongue. In the newly-established Pakistan, there was a great deal of snobbery. While the newly-arrived muhajir were often penniless or destitute, they nevertheless prided themselves on their ‘native’ command over the Urdu language, especially in comparison to the other communities, such as Punjabis, Sindhis, Bengalis, etc. for whom Urdu was a national language but not their mother tongue.
14 Ghulam Hamadani Mushafi (1750–1824) was a major poet from Delhi.
15 Refers to a sea-facing area in uptown Karachi.
Majju Bhai’s curiosity put me in a strange dilemma. He dug and delved into the details of my journey so much that I myself fell into doubt: Was I really trying to hide something? And not just from Majju Bhai but from myself too? But what was it that I was trying to hide? Surely, I should not try to hide anything from myself. After all, I am not a stranger to myself. There are those who treat themselves as aliens. I should not treat my own self as an alien. I should tell myself clearly whatever the matter is. So, I began to scrape away at myself. I did not have to dig too deep. As I went back in time, I soon reached the spot from where this whole story had begun. And I didn’t have to go very far back either. It wasn’t very long ago when, in my days of hard living, I had asked Majju Bhai a simple and straightforward question. And the entire story began with that. And as a result, I got caught in Majju Bhai’s snare and kept getting more and more entangled.
It is about those days when I had freed myself of all my sorrows and was leading a quiet and disinterested life. The tumultuous years of my life were behind me. From the sorrows of love to the sorrows of earning a living – I had known everything. How much I had been through! How much humiliation I had known! How I used to roam around like a vagabond! But now I was free of all my worries. I had been freed of the sorrows of romance after marriage; I had found release from marital life after putting to sleep under mounds of earth the woman I had loved. The jewel of my life had gone off to America, and so I was freed of the anxieties of parenting as well. My working life too had seen some stability. I had been promoted. Now I was quite senior in my bank. I was the manager of a branch. I was content. I had had my fill of parties and socialising. But Majju Bhai had still not had his fill. The Coffee House had closed down a long time ago. But his gregarious spirit had discovered new avenues. Now, he was to be found in the drawing rooms of his wealthy friends and acquaintances. He attended mushairas and marriages with great pleasure. I would come straight home after office, whereas Majju Bhai would dress up and go off to a mushaira or a wedding reception. We lived under the same roof, but he minded his business and I mine. We seldom met before the weekend. He would come late at night and promptly go off to sleep. In the morning, I would be busy in my own routine: I would bathe, dress, eat breakfast and rush to the car. I had to get to the bank on time. At the time, Majju Bhai would be lazing in his bed. The bed-tea beside him would go cold on most days.
And so we were living our lives in this manner when a disturbance occurred and kept becoming more and more disturbing. I mean in the life of the entire city. The peace and calm disappeared suddenly. Dacoities, kidnappings, murders, bombings … masked men would appear from somewhere and fire in the middle of crowded bazaars … one would fall here, another lay trembling there. Warm bodies would turn cold as one watched. A frenzy would course through the bazaar and then there would be silence! And suddenly tyres would be burnt. The burning tyres would catch a bus in their grip and, within minutes, the bus would be burnt to the ground. The shops that were about to open would shut again. And curfew would be clamped. Today one neighbourhood would be under curfew, tomorrow another.
Just as he was about to step out of the house, Majju Bhai stopped at the sound of the phone. He spoke to someone at the other end and postponed his plans, then flopped down in the armchair.
‘Majju Bhai, weren’t you about to go out for a mushaira?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I had to, but that area is under curfew. Our friends have barred our way.’
Increasingly, Majju Bhai’s way would be barred. The curfew would be in one neighbourhood today, and in another tomorrow. And Majju Bhai would mention the curfew with such simplicity as though he was talking of an unexpected bout of rain that can spoil a respectable man’s plans for an outing.
‘Majju Bhai, things seem to be getting out of hand.’
Whenever I said anything of the sort, I always got the same response from Majju Bhai. ‘Why are you losing sleep over the state of the city?’
The practice of robbing banks reached such a pass that armed robbers first caught hold of the guard in the bank in our neighbourhood, then held up the staff at gunpoint and leisurely walked out after robbing the entire vault. They fired at the crowd that had gathered to watch. People ran away and the robbers calmly got into a Pajero car and drove away.
I felt as though the waves that had been pounding the distant shore were now lapping my threshold. That evening I addressed Majju Bhai with utter seriousness, ‘Majju Bhai.’
Majju Bhai understood from my tone that the matter was serious. He looked closely at me and asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Majju Bhai, what is happening in this city?’
‘Why, what is happening?’ he answered with complete unconcern.
‘How surprising that you have no idea what is happening! Do step out of the ambience of the mushaira and look at the city; then you will know what is happening. It doesn’t seem like the city we knew; it has undergone such a transformatio
n that it is unrecognizable. After all, where are we heading? Aren’t we on the way to destruction?’ I blurted out everything in one breath. I had been holding it all in for so long.
Majju Bhai heard me out in silence and looked closely at me. Then, he said to me with utter seriousness, ‘Miyan Jawad, shall I give you a suggestion?’
‘Please do.’
‘Stop thinking, or leave this city.’
This was such an unexpected reply that, for some time, I didn’t know what to say. Stop thinking, or leave this city. How could I … From the shanty to this flat where I was now living and that I owned, my entire journey in this city, all my days and nights, flashed across my eyes like lightning. For the first time, I felt that a wave may have brought me and dumped me here, and for a long time, I may have floated about like a broken leaf in a current of air, but now I had put down fairly strong roots. Should I uproot myself again? But why? What was Majju Bhai saying?
‘Majju Bhai, are you giving me this suggestion in your right senses?’
‘Do you have any doubt?’ Majju Bhai laughed. ‘I am in my full senses. You are the one who has lost his senses; not me.’
‘Stop thinking, or leave this city.’ I mumbled angrily. ‘That’s a good suggestion.’
‘All right, you don’t have to follow it; there is no compulsion. It isn’t the order of some dictator; it is simply the advice of a friend. I have let you in on a secret. This is the only way to live in this city. Stop thinking about what is going on. Whoever thinks has had it!’
In response, I first showed anger then resorted to sarcasm and criticism, and finally tried to laugh it all away. But Majju Bhai did not budge an inch; he stayed true to his position. He heard me out in silence. Then he said, ‘Have you had your fill? Will you hear me now?’
‘Do you still have anything left to say? All right, say it.’
‘Listen carefully. There is no need to get emotional. I will tell you a true story. Jawad Miyan, this city is an extremely quarrelsome one: Sindhi, Punjabi, Balochi, Pathan, Muhajir … our friends have not made a city, they have cooked up a khichri!’
He paused then said, ‘And it isn’t as though muhajirs are all of one type. Some are from the east, some from the west, some from the north, some from the south. Rivers from across the length and breadth of Hindustan came tumbling and gurgling to meet the sea. But they did not merge in the sea. Every river says: “I am the sea.” Jawad Miyan, I have swum quite a bit in these rivers. For instance, there was a time when I moved extensively among the Amrohawalas. It seemed as though Karachi was full of only people from Amroha; as though it wasn’t Karachi but had become Amroha itself. These Karachiwalas think Karachi is a second Amroha, as though all muhajirs are Amrohvis and all Amrohvis are blissfully content in being an Amrohvi. Jawad Miyan, it is strange that Amroha may have been transformed since the days of Mushafi, but the state of being an Amrohvi is a constant.’
Majju Bhai paused for breath and then started off again, ‘And now listen to the tale of the Badaun-walas: Our friend Mirza Hadi Ali Badauni is a dear old man, but he is a Badauni after all. Once he decided it was not possible to rid oneself of all the poets in Karachi, so why not have a small mushaira of only poets from Badaun. But, you know, so many poets were found in Liaqatabad1 itself that they filled up several rows. Then telephone messages began to come from different neighbourhoods: “We too are from Badaun; don’t forget us.” Poor Mirza Hadi Ali didn’t know what to do; so much so that he decided to wrap up the proceedings and swore never to attempt anything of the sort again.’
Majju Bhai paused to draw another breath, and set off almost immediately. ‘Jawad Miyan, sometimes I feel that each and every muhajir is a Badaunwala. And because he is a Badaunwala, he is in dire straits. Anyhow, so that is Badaun for you … if not for the sake of Fani Badayuni,2 at least for its famous pedas, you can count the Badaunwalas among respectable folk. But the problem is of those qasbas of UP that were entirely unheard of then but whose people are busy blowing their own trumpet since coming to Karachi. Now, tell me, had you ever heard of Dibai3 in your entire life?’
‘Dibai? Where is that?’
‘Arre, don’t ever say that in front of a Dibaiwala or else all hell will break loose. I had met a Dibaiwala once during my Aligarh days. That Dibaivi gentleman was so pleased with me that he loaded me onto an ekka and took me to Dibai. It is a tiny qasba in Aligarh’s backyard … so tiny that it is no larger than the size of a man’s palm! There, of course, he was well within his limits. But when I met him here, he was an altogether changed man. He believed that
Sir Syed Ahmad Khan chose the wrong place; Aligarh College should have been set up in Dibai. I asked, “But then, yaar, where would the Dibaiwalas have gone? Anyhow, apart from its proximity to Aligarh, what is special about Dibai?” He said, “It has not one but two singular qualities and two special gifts: One, a chillum and the other a gujia.” I said, “The chillum is all very well, though its future is not very bright as the huqqa is on its way out, but what is so special about this thing called gujia.” He said, “Ai wah! How can you possibly ask what is special about our gujia? If the Badaunwalas were to eat it, they would forget all about their peda.”’
Majju Bhai was in full spate and I was listening intently. Perhaps my question had served to prod him. He was in full flow and showing no signs of letting up.
‘Jawad, the biggest problem is that every qasba in our part of the world had cooked up a legend about something or the other. And each one claimed that the rest of India could not match their one single best thing. Once, I had the opportunity to meet an elderly gentleman at a party. He drew a long breath and announced, “I have spent 35 years in Pakistan. In all this while, I have not eaten a laddu. Ai sahab, I don’t know what’s wrong, but there is no taste in the food here, and the laddus here are nothing but lumpy mounds of sugar.” Later, I was told that the gentleman belonged to Sandila4. Well, at least the Sandilawalas can get grace marks on this subject, because their laddus were indeed very good, but I was shocked when I met an elderly man from Shikarpur and heard his tall tales about his city. I could not contain myself. I said, “Hazrat, forgive me, but wasn’t Shikarpur famous for its fools.” Angrily, he retorted, “Ai, Subhan Allah, aren’t you forgetting the gur dhani? This mixture of gur and chana was made so perfectly in our parts that if someone were to taste it even once, they would forget all about the halwa sohan of Delhi?”’
I yawned and said, ‘Majju Bhai, I want to know why you are telling me all this? It is hardly an answer to my question.’
‘What can I do if you don’t understand me? Well, never mind … forget about the UPwalas … let us talk about the Biharis. A Bihari friend subjected me to a long lecture on Islam, then pounced on me and asked, “What do you people think of us Biharis? You should know that Mahatma Buddha was also a Bihari.” I said, “Yaar, you are very simple. Some humourist wrote that line and you have made off with it. One should never take the words of humourists with any degree of seriousness.” He said, “But what’s wrong with it?” I said, “There is nothing wrong but, yes, Mahatma Buddha may well have been a Bihari, but he was not a Bihari Musalman.” Angrily, he shot back, “How does that matter?” I said, ‘Huzoor, of course it matters. Had he been a Bihari Muslim, he would not have gone to Banaras. He would have travelled to Dhaka; and you can well imagine what he would have done there and what might have befallen him.”’
The phone rang. I seized the opportunity and interrupted Majju Bhai. ‘Majju Bhai, wait a minute; let me get the phone.’ I ran to the phone, picked it up. ‘Hello … ji … Oh, it is Tausif sahab … How are you?’
‘Ask Tausif sahab when he is treating us to kabab-parathe?’ Majju Bhai called out.
‘Yes, Majju Bhai is here … he is sitting right here … He is asking when you will be treating us to kabab-parathe … Oh, really? … Yes, please come … No, no … Majju Bhai won’t go out at this time … He is talking to me right now … he is in full flow … On which subject? … Come and h
ear for yourself … All right … Come, we are waiting for you.’ I put the phone down and informed Majju Bhai, ‘Your Tausif sahab is on his way here.’
‘Let him come … Now, let me tell you about the Meerutwalas.’
‘Yes, I have been waiting for that,’ I interrupted. ‘Amroha, Badaun, Sandila, Shikarpur … we have heard about all of them. Why is my Meerut left out?’
‘Listen, yaar, this young man Tausif … he is a bit too proud of being a Meeruti. His sister, whom I call Baji Akhtari, was very keen to get a good wife for her brother. I suggested the daughter of Saiyad Aqa Hasan, and she was delighted. Believe me, she drove me mad! She kept insisting that I get Tausif ’s marriage fixed with her. And so I praised Tausif to the skies before the girl’s family. You won’t know the lengths I had to go to sing his praises. In fact, the match was nearly fixed. Do you know what Tausif did to undo all my hard work? He sat in front of his prospective father-in-law and launched into a panegyric on the gur rewri and gazak of Meerut. And that gentleman is an old-fashioned Lucknowi sort who does not refer to a sweet as a sweet but by its correct name, such as shirini for a sweet, qand for table sugar, nabad for crystal sugar, and so on. And, when he wishes to eat cream, he starts by calling it balai and not malai, then mixes a dollop of misri and is perfectly content with one teaspoon. This praise of gur rewri and gazak could do nothing but annoy a fastidious, impeccably-mannered gentleman of the Old School. The news reached the ladies quarter. Bishho Bhabhi very nearly died of alarm. With tears in her eyes, she wailed: “Ai Majju Bhai, our daughter’s fate is ruined. These people have turned out to be village yokels who eat gur and khand; how will our daughter manage to live with them?” Saiyad sahab added his bit, “My dear sir, we held our peace till the talk was confined to rewri and gazak; we swallowed the bitter pill and stayed quiet, but then the young gentleman launched into a paean on til bugga.” When we asked what on earth was a til bugga, he replied, “Qibla, it is a concoction of gur and til. The famed halwa sohan of Delhi is dirt compared to it.” My dear, I swear by the name of Ali, I was astounded …’
The Sea Lies Ahead Page 6