The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  ‘Thank you,’ I smiled.

  The truth is that by now we had both become quite at ease with each other. We had become so comfortable with each other that I had told her every detail of the joys and sorrows of my years in Pakistan and the story of my life. She had scraped out every bit of information from me: how did I get married? How was my wife? What was her illness? How did she die? No one had asked me these things ever before. And I had never told them to anyone either. And if someone were to ask, I would have told them the bare facts. But Maimuna asked me with such familiarity that I narrated every detail of every incident in the most heartfelt manner possible.

  ‘There is only one son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have sent him to America. Why didn’t you keep him with you?’

  ‘The thing is, Maimuna, in Pakistan the sons are doing exactly what the fathers had done to their fathers. They had turned their faces away from their fathers and taken the road to Pakistan; now their sons are leaving them to their fate and running off to America.’

  Bit by bit, I told her every detail of the entire story of my life, and she heard me out with the utmost attention and sympathy. And, later I felt so much lighter. The burden that had been weighing down my heart for years – and getting heavier by the year – was miraculously removed. I had never met anyone who would listen to my tale with such empathy. Badi Bhabhi and Chhote Miyan had shown only a cursory interest in my departed wife and son, and had been satisfied by my perfunctory answers. Only Maimuna’s behaviour had shown the true meaning of asking questions and listening to answers.

  So, now, I was lightened. And if there was some disquiet in Maimuna’s heart, that too had been subconsciously removed. How close we had come to each other! With the utmost absorption, she was wrapping the arbi leaves in the spicy chick-pea batter and frying them in hot oil, and I was eating them with great relish. After such a long time, my taste buds had reawakened. I was eating them myself and urging Bhabhi to eat them, too.

  ‘Arre, Bhaiyya, what can I tell you … we have changed and so have the rains!’ Badi Bhabhi was less interested in eating and far more engrossed in narrating tales of the rainy seasons of long ago. ‘The wok would be brought out in the month of sawan and stay in use till bhadon. And the rains used to come down in buckets. And heaps of pakwan would be fried; after all, there were so many of us. And every day there would be new requests for new delicacies.’ Badi Bhabhi suddenly fell silent. She drew a long sigh and when she spoke, the sadness had thickened in her voice. ‘Those times are long gone. Now, when it rains, I sit and gaze at the cold hearth. I don’t know how Maimuna thought of putting the wok on the fire.’ She paused and then said, ‘Even the wretched rains have changed. How they used to last and how an entire week would go past without the sun showing its face! And once it rained so hard that an entire fortnight passed and the water would not stop coming down. Sometimes a trickle, sometimes pitter-patter, and sometimes a deluge! Till finally, Phuphi Amma went and hung a rosary on the tree and, as the day slipped past, a rainbow could be seen arcing across the sky shaped like a perfect bow.’

  ‘Maimuna, do you remember,’ I said as I too recalled one rainy season from long ago. ‘Once when, in the middle of a blisteringly hot day, we were wandering about in that sandy stretch catching will o’ the wisps. Suddenly, the clouds rolled up and it rained so hard that the sandy basin turned into a mini lake. And Bhupat had pulled us out with such difficulty.’

  ‘And, Munnan, do you remember,’ Maimuna also remembered another rainy season from another time, ‘when lightning had struck the old neem tree in the garden at Dilkusha? It had seemed as though the sky had burst open. And the tree had smashed into smithereens. Bhupat had told us that at that very moment a snake had appeared from under the tree, and the lightning had actually fallen on it.’

  And then a train of memories of monsoons of long ago followed. Badi Bhabhi perhaps felt that these were our common memories in which she had no share. She must have felt like a spare wheel, and so she quietly got up and left us.

  One monsoon, second monsoon, third monsoon … we suddenly remembered so many monsoons together, like the surging of dark, swollen clouds. The rush of memories is a cruel surge. We turned into children again. Maimuna and Munnan, holding each other’s fingers, wandered far and wide. That day it had rained so hard that a river ran through the middle of the courtyard. The two sat in the verandah counting the bubbles as they formed and burst ceaselessly. A bubble would form suddenly amidst the falling raindrops and get swept away by the rushing waters. ‘Look, look, that one there is as round as a sahab’s hat!’ they would shout gleefully. But at that very moment, the bubble would burst, and another bubble would form, and then a third! Then they made their paper boats and put them in the rushing water. How their paper boats sped along. Filled with joy, Maimuna clapped her hands. ‘Look, my boat is going faster than yours.’ Munnan was beginning to feel peeved when Maimuna’s boat capsized suddenly. A large brick was lying in the middle of the courtyard and Maimuna’s boat collided with it, stopped and, as it began to get drenched, also began to come apart. Now it was Munnan’s turn to clap his hands with glee. His boat was swimming along marvellously. Maimuna was close to tears. Munnan’s boat came to a halt when its bow struck a tub full of mangoes that was lying in the middle of the courtyard, and began to disintegrate almost at once. Both the boats had capsized, but Munnan had already found something else to occupy his attention. He took out his top and twirled it really fast between his fingers and slid it down to the floor where it kept whirling and spinning away till as far as the twine would let it go; with one expert tug of his hand, he would pull it back and scoop up the still spinning top in his palm. Maimuna kept watching this. Then, as though in response, she took out her yellow and red toy windmill and began to twirl it about. Maimuna always had to do something rightaway in response to anything Munnan might do. That day when Munnan had bought a nice Tesu from the bazaar, Maimuna had wanted one too, but Phuphi Amma scolded her, ‘Tesu is not for girls; girls go out with a Jhanji.’

  And so a clay Jhanji was brought for Maimuna; it had eye-shaped slits and on the slits were colourful bits of red and green kite paper. A small earthern lamp was lit and placed inside. Soon, people began to toss a few coins beside the Jhanji. ‘That’s a good one … Look at you, collecting money for free! Shouldn’t you be singing the Jhanji song to collect money?’ But how could she? She didn’t remember the words. So, instead she promptly sang the Tesu song:

  Mere Tesu yahan arha

  Khaye ko mange dahi bada

  Dahi bade mein panni

  Dhar de mai atthanni

  (Here stands my Tesu

  Asking for curd dumplings

  There’s tinsel in the curd dumplings

  Give me eight annas, O mother)

  ‘Phuphi Amma, what’s all this about Tesu and Jhanji,’ I think it was Badi Bhabhi who had asked this question. And Phuphi Amma launched, almost immediately, into an explanation, ‘Arre, that wretched fellow, that son of Gandhari, was not letting the Pandavas get on. Kanhaiya-ji created Jhanji and got her married to him just so his attention would get diverted.’

  ‘Hai Allah!’

  ‘These are Hindu beliefs. Who can tell how much truth there is in it, and how much lies? The good and bad will rest with the Hindus; I am telling you what I have heard. People say that Jhanji was actually Tesu’s wife.’

  ‘Tell us the truth, Phuphi Amma.’

  ‘Ai Bibi, how would I know? I am telling you what the Hindus say. Though I must say, who would give their daughter to this black-faced Tesu? Kanhaiya-ji did him a favour by creating a doll and giving it to him and saying, “Here, play with her.”’

  And Maimuna broke into a song:

  Gaajar ki paindi, gulkhiro ka phool

  Lo miya gudde tumhe gudiya qubool

  (A belly made of carrot, a flower of hollyhock

  Here, my dear, is a bride for you)

  ‘It is raining harder.’

/>   ‘What?’ I was startled.

  Maimuna had looked at the swiftly falling rain and made a casual remark. But it served to scatter the clouds of my memories.

  The rain had indeed started to fall faster. At first, it was coming down in straight lines, then it became slanted, and after a phase of pouring down in sheets, it had settled down to a steady downpour. Its pace had slackened, so had its noise. But such was its steadiness that it seemed as though it had been falling for ages and would continue to fall for ages to come. For so long, and with such absorption, the two of us sat and watched the falling rain that we did not realize that the rainfall had changed direction and was now drenching us.

  With a start, she said, ‘The drizzle is making us wet.’ And pushing her mondha backwards, she admonished me, ‘Munnan, you are getting wet; get your mondha out of the rain.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Maimuna looked at me with surprise. ‘The drizzle is quite strong; your clothes will get soaked.’

  ‘Indeed they will,’ I answered carelessly. But then I elaborated, ‘Don’t you remember, Maimuna, how much I used to enjoy getting wet in the rain?’

  ‘So your childhood is not quite over yet?’

  Her comment made me sad. ‘If only I could have saved my childhood.’ With these words, my eyes fell upon the neem tree standing in the courtyard and getting wet. I was transfixed as though I was seeing the tree for the first time since I had come back. How contendedly it stood there, getting wet. As though that contentment had burst out of it and steeped into the very air around it. There had been a restlessness in the rain when it had first started falling down, which had caused an unrest in the atmosphere. But now there was a steadiness about it. It was coming down at the same measured pace. Trees, plants, walls, parapets – everything was soaked in the water as though they had all quenched their thirst and were now sated. And the neem tree seemed to be in a state of surrender, yes almost a state of surrender. A scene from another age swam before my eyes. The neem used to shake from top to bottom when a storm raged, its branches trembling with the tumult. Thunder, lightning followed by a burst of torrential rain, and then the storm would abate somewhat. Its flailing branches would quieten and become still as they got drenched in the steadily falling rain. And then the neem would come into a state of surrender; first the neem, and then everything around it.

  ‘Maimuna, do you see the neem?’

  ‘Yes, I do … what about it?’

  ‘I hadn’t quite seen it till now … it is the same as it always was.’ And I was greatly surprised as I spoke these words. It had been just the same even then. There used to be two ancients around here: my Dada Miyan and the neem. It was as though they were the same age. But my Dada Miyan’s back kept getting bent with age. His hair had already turned snow. One day, his eyes too closed forever. That day the neem had appeared so sorrowful; it had been left all alone, after all. But once again it became glad and cheerful. The two of us used to run around it all day long, as though we were a part of it, as though Maimuna had emerged from its trunk – bit by bit – and I was one of its branches. But then I saw that the other branches were green and intact – as they had always been. At first I was saddened, but then an amazement overtook me. The tree was exactly the same. It was a miracle. We change, but trees do not. Our tree was still the same, though now … And then, so many different scenes, from so long ago, rose in my imagination.

  A swing would dangle from its sturdy branch. Maimuna used to take such long swings on it that her head, with her hair coming undone, used to nearly touch the topmost branches. But Maimuna could only sit in the swing and take those long, long swipes. She could not climb the neem; though actually even I could not climb too high. I could barely reach its lowest branch. It used to be such fun to sit on that branch, as though I had risen from the ground and become a part of the neem, a branch among its many branches. How Maimuna used to burn with envy! But I was hardly to be blamed; it wasn’t as though I stopped her from climbing the tree. If anything, I always offered her support to help her climb up. I used to like doing it. I used to feel a strange relish. The mere touch and the attempt to do so … so many such occasions suddenly rose in my memory. And some times, while I would be supporting her, she would slip in such a way that … The memory made me blush. I wondered if Maimuna also remembered those things. Surely, she would.

  ‘Maimuna,’I finally found the courage to say, ‘this neem has not changed one bit … I mean from the time when we …’ Embarassed, I spluttered to a halt. I don’t know if Maimuna remembered anything at all, for she said, ‘Hmm,’ and then fell silent.

  And then I was reminded of something else, ‘Maimuna, you used to have that hobby.’

  ‘Which hobby?’

  ‘Sitting on the swing and singing sawani.’

  This time Maimuna looked really sad. Though all she said was ‘Yes’ and then she remained quiet.

  ‘The wok was put on the fire, but the swing was not tied on the tree. The celebration of the rains has remained incomplete.’

  ‘These are the pastimes of young girls; do you see any girl in this house?’

  ‘What happened to your interest?’

  ‘Can you not see my age?’

  ‘I can see it; what’s wrong with your age?’

  Confused, she became quiet. Then she got to her feet and went inside the house. The rain kept falling at a steady pace, in the same slanting way. And I was indeed soaked to the skin. But I felt good. And in front of me, a river ran down the middle of the courtyard. Raindrops were falling like dumplings in boiling oil. Some drops would fall in such a way that they would blow into a bubble; the bubble would flow some distance and then burst. One bubble, two bubbles, three bubbles … I was watching the bubbles form and burst. The rain kept falling and I kept getting wet. Actually, it was raining inside me too. And the accumulated dust was getting washed away and a clean new self was coming out. Or perhaps the old self had emerged and was gleaming. In any case, I was feeling lighter and glowing, as though I had been washed inside out.

  She came back and said, ‘Munnan, you are completely drenched. I have kept a pajama with a drawstring in place and a kurta in the bathroom. Go take a bath and change your clothes.’

  I got up feeling sage and mature, and went towards the bathroom. I took a bath, wore clean fresh clothes and came out. The rain had stopped by now and Maimuna was sitting on the mondha and watching, with utter absorption, the water fall from the drainpipe like falling pearls. I nudged my mondha close to hers and sat down. At first the water fell from the drainpipe in a rush. Gradually, its speed slackened and the swollen stream became slender. And when this stream fell in the gutter, it looked as though molten silver was scattering.

  Suddenly, a mynah descended upon the parapet in front of us. Its body quivered, its wings trembled and, almost abruptly, it broke into a loud cry. Within seconds, another mynah flew down and almost immediately, it too began to cry loudly. The two set up a loud din and, just as abruptly, flew away.’

  ‘Maimuna, did you hear what they said to each other and why they flew away?’

  ‘You would have heard; no doubt you would know.’

  ‘The first mynah was a male. It called out and said, “My darling, the rain has stopped. Come on, let us go out for a bit.” The other heard this and came out of her hiding. Pleased, she said, “The weather is so nice; it will be such fun to go out.” And both went off for an outing.’

  Maimuna burst out laughing.

  But by now my eyes had slipped from the parapet and were examining the entire wall in front of us. That moss-encrusted wall had been swept clean and was sparkling brightly.

  ‘Maimuna, do you see the wall in front of us; how dark it had become and how the green moss was breaking out in patches all over it?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ and she began to look at the wall as though she was seeing it for the first time.

  ‘Looking at the wall, one can tell how many monsoons this house has seen. The monsoons must ha
ve come before us too, which our elders must have seen. But we too saw many seasons of rain in the time I lived here. It seems as though we have lived an entire age, an entire century of rains … yes, a whole century … those who come after us will see the next lot of rains.’

  ‘Those who come after us,’ Maimuna looked sharply at me. A slight bitterness crept into her tone. ‘Who will come after us? Everyone has gone.’

  I became quiet, like the culprit falls silent when reminded of his crime. For a long time, I sat quietly. I did not have the courage to meet Maimuna’s eyes, or even to talk to her. A few drops of rain began to fall once again. Then they began to come down harder, and I kept thinking that this house was witnessing its last rainy season.

  That day Badi Bhabhi’s betel-chopper, and her tongue, were both showing exceptionally good speed. She was recounting old incidents from long ago with such flair, as though every door and window of her memory had been flung wide open. In any case, she had told me so much over the past few days that by now I was intimately aware of every incident that had befallen our family since the day I had gone away – down to the smallest possible detail. I was in any case unaware of what had happened after I had left but now, listening to her, I realized I was far less informed than I had ever imagined about my family history even when I had lived here. I was at the crossroads between being informed and being uninformed when I had left. The history of a family is never revealed in its entirety to any of its members. As one travels from unawareness to awareness and from mindfulness to a full understanding, or as one listens to the words of one’s elders, and quite without realizing it or even meaning to, the history of one’s family seeps into one’s consciousness. I now realized there were so many things that I knew nothing about. For instance, I had seen Phuphi Amma living with us in our house from the time I had opened my eyes. She enjoyed immense authority and respect; her stature, if not more than Tai Amma, was certainly no less. After all, she was the sister of two well-to-do gentlemen of some means. One brother doted upon her as an elder brother should; and upon the younger one, she exercised firm control as only an elder sister can. At Dilkusha, the young and old alike held her in the greatest possible awe. Her word was law in the kitchen. And I never knew, nor bothered to find out, why Phuphi Amma lorded over Dilkusha when her own husband was not only alive and well but a gentleman of independent means living in a neighbouring qasba. It isn’t as though she and her husband were estranged, for had they quarrelled and separated, why would boxes upon boxes of mangoes arrive from his orchard monsoon after monsoon, and bundles of sugarcane and clay-pots filled with sugarcane juice come with unfailing regularity every winter? It is true, however, that he himself never came. I remember seeing him only once when he had come for the wedding of Pyare Miyan; he was accompanied by a barber who, according to him, could match any cook from Delhi when it came to making qorma and biryani. And all through the wedding, whenever I saw him, it was always in the kitchen. He would sit with a huqqa and puff away as he chatted with the cooks and their helpers about all sorts of things. If the maid came from the women’s quarter, he would chat with her and then go back to gossiping with the cooks. ‘Yes, so what were we saying, Miyan Bulaqi?’