The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  Suddenly, he stopped and, in a voice filled with fear, he whispered, ‘Serpent.’

  The two of them stopped, too. A long serpent was slithering just a short distance away from them. Maimuna clutched Munnan’s fingers in her hand with terror. The serpent completed its serene, swaying journey to the clump of bushes that grew beside the wall of the dharamshala, and disappeared from sight.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ Munnan announced. And immediately the three of them turned back. They walked slowly for some time; suddenly, they began to run. Bholu was in front and Maimuna was at the back.

  They stopped to draw breath only when they reached the Persian wheel where the camel was going round and round at its steady pace and drawing water at a steady pace that was flowing through a channel and reaching the fields. Bhupat sat nearby, smoking from his chillum. He looked at the three of them as he drew on his chillum and saw that they were panting for breath.

  ‘Where have you been running around in this heat?’

  ‘There is a serpent, Bapu,’ Bholu informed his father. ‘It was near the dharamshala; it was soo long.’

  ‘Was it jet black?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bhupat became thoughtful. He took a long draw on his chillum. Then, he said, ‘It is extremely poisonous. I was about to kill it but an ascetic came out of the dharamshala and stopped me. He said, “You fool, are you about to cause pain to the son of the Serpent God?” And I broke out in a cold sweat and my staff lay where it fell.’

  The three of them were transfixed. Maimuna wiped the sweat from her face and neck with the end of her shirt. How terror-stricken she looked! It was only at night when she lay beside Phuphi Amma and narrated the afternoon’s adventures that her fear dissipated somewhat.

  ‘Amma, do you know what happened this afternoon. You know those bushes near the dharamshala, those clumps of sugarcane …’

  ‘Near the dharamshala?’ Phuphi Amma interrupted him. ‘My dear, what had you gone to do there?’

  ‘I wasn’t going. Munnan got after me that we go to the dharamshala to see who lived there.’

  ‘Lies,’ Munnan, who was lying on the other side of Phuphi Amma, immediately shot back. ‘It was this wretched girl Maimuna who told me that there was a langur on the peepal tree in the dharamshala and I said let us go and see it.’

  ‘No, my darling, you should not go there and in any case it is very desolate in the afternoon. Those ascetics are busy doing their sorceries out there. And all sorts of ghosts and spirits haunt the place.’

  ‘Phuphi Amma, I am not at all scared of ghosts.’

  ‘Not scared at all,’ Maimuna mimicked his voice and said, ‘He began to shiver with fright at the sight of a serpent. Amma, we saw such a long, such a thick serpent today. It swayed right past us.’

  ‘Hai Allah, you unfortunate creatures, why do you run around here and there?’

  ‘Phuphi Amma, if only I had my catapult; I would have taken such a perfect aim that it would have died of pain.’

  ‘My darling, don’t ever do such a thing even by mistake. May God keep us safe from such a poisonous creature! It brings misfortune whether it dies, or survives. A wounded serpent is very dangerous. But if it dies, its mate goes around hissing and biting in revenge.’

  ‘Amma,’ Maimuna raised a question, ‘How will the mate know who killed the serpent?’

  ‘Ai, how will it not know? It comes running when the serpent dies and peers into the dead serpent’s eyes. The serpent looks at whoever has killed it in such a way that a picture of the killer forms in its eyes – almost as though someone has taken a photograph. And the mate immediately sets out in search of the killer to take her revenge. And if the serpent survives, then it does not rest until it has taken revenge on whoever tried to kill it. And if can’t take revenge from the person who tried to kill it, then it goes after that person’s son, if not the son, then the grandson. That is what happened to King Parikshit.’3

  ‘King Parikshit? What happened to him?’ Munnan and Maimuna asked in unison.

  ‘It so happened that King Parikshit’s grandfather was a great warrior. Once, armed with a bow and arrow, he entered a forest full of serpents. He killed the serpents by piercing them with his arrows, one after the other. But Arjuna’s arrow lanced past one of the serpents and it escaped. But even though it escaped, it was enraged and it vowed to take its revenge against the brave Arjuna. However, it could not touch Arjuna and even his son remained unharmed. However, when the grandson ascended the throne, the poisonous serpent said, “The grandfather and father have managed to get away, but I will not leave the grandson.” Parikshit came to know that a certain serpent was after his life. Don’t think I am lying, but he got such a palace made for himself where even a bird could not enter from above and an insect could not crawl in from below. But this poisonous serpent was made of sterner stuff. One day, he saw that a basket of fruits was going in for the King. Immediately, he turned himself into a worm and entered a guava. And now here is what happened inside the palace … Of all the fruits before him, it was the guava that caught the King’s eye. He was about to cut the guava and eat it when he saw a worm wriggle out of it. He laughed and said, “So this is the creature that is supposed to bite me to death.” Barely had the words left his lips when the worm shuddered and turned into a huge serpent. With a hiss, he bit the King in his neck. And while people ran around here and there, the serpent slithered away. And within the blink of an eye, the King died.’

  ‘Munnan Miyan, you had seen this place. You remember what was here before … four broken walls that were crumbling down, one door and the peepal trees.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I drew a long sigh. The scenes from my imagination scattered.

  ‘And that sandy stretch too has gone.’

  ‘And this spot where I am standing?’ I said to myself. It felt strange to see that the place that was green and verdant yesterday had turned into a wilderness and in contrast that piece of land that once held nothing but a mysterious-looking desolation had become so populous that the air of mystery around it had entirely gone. ‘Yaar, Shankar, this place is ruined; let us go.’ And I began to turn away with leaden steps.

  ‘Munnan Miyan, are you going to the haveli?’ Bholu asked.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I will come with you.’ Swiftly, he flicked the ragged curtain aside, went in, and within the blink of an eye, came out, with a kurta over his vest, and began to follow us.

  We went back to the road that had once had trees and fields from one end to the other on one side and a long red-brick wall on the other with arches in which pigeons had made their nests. Now, there were two rows of shops; of these, a few had proper roofs, the rest were tent-like structures that sold a variety of items ranging from bangles and combs to assorted hair accessories to kohl-boxes, pipes and trumpets, spinning toys and tops. There were also several shops that sold kites and had all sorts of strings and bobbles draped over the shop front. But the excitement that had built up inside me while coming here was absent now. I was angry at the narrowness of the street and the large numbers of people present all around. ‘Yaar, Shankar, why has this mass of humanity descended upon Vyaspur?’ And with it, these words escaped from my lips, ‘Vyaspur has changed so much.’

  And after this, whichever bazaar or street I passed, I was amazed. The same sense everywhere: how much Vyaspur had changed! Time, Miyan, Time! I was reminded of Majju Bhai’s blasé remark made with such blithe unconcern, and a sudden sadness enveloped me. Time, Miyan, Time!

  ‘Look, here is our alley …’

  I looked around. Yes, it is the same alley, I thought. But suddenly I was overcome by surprise. How did this alley become so narrow? It used to be fairly wide once. How spacious it used to look! And there aren’t any new shops here either. There are the same old shops: some selling milk and rabri, others selling kites and hair braids, and in the end a shop selling itar. I looked especially closely at the itar shop because I wanted to see if the old man who used to sit there with his bac
k bent as he pounded some herbs in his pestle or folded them carefully between a square of paper. But I saw a stranger sitting in his place. My enthusiasm dampened. Immediately after the itar shop came the gate of the haveli. I was astounded. I was happy to see it but also surprised. How high this gate used to be, and how wide too! Now it appeared so small. I now began to realize that it wasn’t just the roads that had become narrow in Vyaspur, but even those houses that once seemed so large and spacious now seemed small and weary as though they had shrivelled and shrunk. The old haveli too looked shrivelled. How high and mighty it used to look! And a spate of images swelled in my eye. My Dada Miyan in his trimmed white beard and white kurta-pajama would stand amidst the assembled mourners and say in a loud voice: ‘Ya Hussain!’ And suddenly the dirge-like crying and beating of breasts would stop. He would raise the index finger of his right hand4 and start speaking, ‘Ya Assalam alaika ya abd Allah, Ya Assalam alaika ya Ibn-e Ali, Ya Assalam alaika ya Ibn-e Husain …’

  Actually, the rest of the household had been shifted from the old haveli to Dilkusha. Only the Azakhana had not been shifted. The alam are strange objects. Once they are put in a place it is almost as though they take root there. And then such a growth comes up around them, that to shift them is like uprooting a lush green tree. My Dada Miyan had agreed to accommodate his son to the extent that the family moved from the narrow congested lane to a large house in a spacious place. And so a kothi was built in the middle of the family orchard. But my grandfather insisted that once a year the entire family – with all their attending paraphernalia – move to the old haveli for ten days and camp there. These ten days were ten counting days, but actually they encapsulated an entire age. So much happened during that time and how agile and energetic Dada Miyan seemed during those days. He had handed over the family estate to his dearest son, along with all the responsibilities regarding family issues and matrimonial alliances. He had kept his own engagement limited to Muharrum. All day long, he would run about getting things done; the only time he sat down was at the time of the majlis. Sitting in the front, right next to the pulpit, he would sway to the words of the person reciting the marsiya, shower praises on particularly evocative verses, invoke blessings upon the Prophet and his family at appropriate intervals and intersperse the proceedings with loud cries of lamentation. With his sonorous cries, he was the life and soul of the assembly. In fact, the assembly would break into sobs only after his pathos-laden shout of anguish rang out. And the mourners would take their cue not from the speaker but from that heart-rending shout. And they too would begin to cry loudly and, yes … Suddenly, another picture rose before my eyes. Once again, my lost existence came and stood before me in the form of Munnan, an existence that had entirely vanished for me. Adjusting the little cap studded with star-shaped spangles on his head, he would enter the Imam Bara hesitantly and run to sit beside his grandfather. ‘Dada Miyan, I will also recite.’

  ‘Certainly, my child.’

  And when he would sit on the pulpit, Dada Miyan would say, ‘Recite the rubai by Dillu Ram Kausari.5’ And he would launch forth almost immediately:

  Kya pahuncha masiha jo falak pe pahuncha

  Maqsood ko apne na Sikandar pahuncha

  Allah ghani Kausari aisa chaalak

  Ganga se jo phisla lab-e kausar pahuncha

  (Look where the messiah has reached the high heavens

  Where even Alexander could not reach his destination

  O Allah, this prosperous Kausari is so clever that

  He slipped from the Ganges and reached the rim of the paradisal fount)6

  And suddenly the Imam Bara disappeared and another image of Dada Miyan appeared before my eyes. This time, he is seated in the old haveli. Bande Ali is sitting with him. A huqqa is placed between them. A lament on the decline of the Muslims is presented by Bande Ali, after a thorough perusal of the Zamindar newspaper, followed by a requiem, rendered with the utmost strenuousness by Dada Miyan.

  ‘Saiyad sahab, I can not understand one thing. The Muslims are an ancient people. Allah has promised them salvation on the day of resurrection. Why are they then being disgraced and dishonoured today?’

  ‘Bhai Bande Ali, every individual must pay the price of his misdeeds. See the state of the Muslims’ conduct. Why go far? Let us look at the Turks. Turning away from the word of god in Allah’s own tongue, they have ruined their namaz. So when Muslims do not remain Muslims, naturally the wrath of God will smite them.’

  ‘You speak the truth, Saiyad sahab. All this is the result of a disinclination towards religion.’ How quickly Bande Ali seized the nub of the argument.

  ‘Bhai Bande Ali, you must read Jawab-e Shikwa by Dr Sir Muhammad Iqbal. You will understand the true reasons for the downfall of the Muslims.’

  Bande Ali drew on the huqqa and said, ‘I have heard that Dr Sir Iqbal has written a poem in which he has written about the ruin of the people of Andalusia in an extremely powerful way. My nephew Yaqub-ul Hasan studies at the Aligarh College. He had come a few days ago and he was telling me that the poem is being much talked about in Aligarh. And Dr Sahab’s poetry is such that it is leagues ahead of the likes of Maulana Altaf Husain Hali.’

  ‘Really? If that is so please ask your nephew to get us a copy of that poem.’ He sighed deeply then continued. ‘Bhai Bande Ali, the history of Andalusia is in itself a cautionary tale. How the Muslims reached a zenith and how they fell into the abyss of humiliation that they became extinct from the pages of existence. And there is only one reason for this: because they turned back from their faith. Till the day they remained true to their faith, they made such progress that all of Europe watched in awe. And so many enlightened men were produced during this period. Bhai Bande Ali, have you ever heard of a conqueror, or emperor or ruler who had conquered Koh Qaaf?7’

  ‘Koh Qaaf.’ Bande Ali fell in thought. Then he said, ‘Saiyad sahab, Koh Qaaf is the abode of fairies and spirits. How can a human survive there?’

  Dada Miyan smiled, ‘Yes, you are right, but Sheikh Moosa Abu Imran al-Sadrrani offered the namaz on top of the Koh Qaaf. And not one among the meanest of spirits had the temerity to hinder his namaz.’

  ‘Really?’ And Bande Ali’s mouth flew open with surprise. ‘This is the first time I am hearing of it. Who was this elderly man?’

  ‘He was from Andalusia and he was a leading light of his time! One day he decided that he would go to Koh Qaaf and offer namaz at the top of the mountain. He only had to say the words in his head and lo and behold, he found himself on Koh Qaaf! He offered the zuhr namaz on the mountaintop and the asr namaz at the foothill. A devotee asked him, “O Sheikh, how high is Koh Qaaf?” He answered, “It is equivalent to a journey of three hundred years.”’

  ‘Subhan Allah, Subhan Allah,’ and for a long time, Bande Ali kept saying ‘Subhan Allah, Subhan Allah’ over and over again.

  ‘Bhai Bande Ali, do you know what is around Koh Qaaf? There is a python that protects the mountain. Hazrat Sheikh Abu Madeen had told Sheikh Moosa, “I can see that one day you will go to Koh Qaaf. When you go there, don’t forget to offer your salutation to the one that protects it.” The Sheikh was reminded of these words as he climbed the mountain. Immediately, in a loud voice, he proclaimed, “O Protector of Koh Qaaf, may my Salaam reach you!” The python replied, “Walekum Assalam!” And then it asked, “How is Abu Madeen?” The Sheikh asked, “O you who live on the ground, you who are the protector of Koh Qaaf, how do you know Abu Madeen?” The python laughed and said, “O simple soul, is there anyone on this earth who does not know Abu Madeen?”’

  Dada Miyan fell silent and brought the nozzle of the huqqa to his lips. He sat gurgling away at his huqqa as Bande Ali kept sitting beside him, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he said, ‘Allah be praised, I can sacrifice my life for His creation!’

  ‘Bhai Bande Ali, these things are divine secrets; you and I cannot fully comprehend them. And the coming and going of sultanates is also part of the divine secrets. Think how large this sultana
te once was and how many children of Allah were born during this era. I have already told you the incident of Abul Hallaj Sheikh Yusuf. But you know what happened later: the unfortunate Muslims became neglectful of their faith. They got into squabbles over colour and creed. They fell into the pleasures of a luxurious life. Poetry, dance, music, wine, food, dancers, promiscuous entertainers, and those who talked of the beloved’s lips and cheeks and the curls of her hair … naturally the sultanate had to go. And with the sultanate, they too were lost.’

  After a moment’s hesitation, Bande Ali said, ‘But Saiyad sahib, surely this must have been already written by the Inscriber of Fate. I have read a certain Hadith regarding this. It is ascribed to Hazrat Ibne Abbas Razi Allah. He says: “Once I had gone to meet the Prophet – may peace be upon Him. I saw that he was crying. I watched for a long time, then I said to Him, “O Prophet of Allah, I have seen that you have been crying so hard that you are drenched in tears. After all, what is the reason for this?” The Prophet answered, “O Ibn-e Abbas, I have seen far from the peninsula of Arabia, there is a land called Andalusia where Islam is flourishing. But suddenly there is a decline. The Muslims are thrown out of Andalusia and all trace of Islam vanishes from that soil.”’

  Dada Miyan listened to the narration of this Hadith very attentively and then said, ‘But we also find a prophecy in the Holy Book where it says that on that very soil the sound of the azaan will be heard once again. Three victors will march upon that land from three different directions and a day will come when all three will sit down at the same table and break bread together.’

  ‘When will that happen?’

  ‘When Hazrat Imam Mahdi appears,’ Dada Miyan said and bowed to offer his Salaam to Imam Mahdi who is here but hidden from this visible world.8