The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  ‘We were talking about Qadir.’

  ‘Yes, Qadir … He turned out to be a strong lad. Do you remember his wrestling bout with Jani Pehelwan?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course we remember.’

  ‘The Hindus had brought Jani all the way from Meerut with great fanfare. He was a much-renowned wrestler. When he entered the pit and rubbed the earth on his body, he looked like a bull elephant about to go on a rampage. Compared to him, Qadir looked like a gnat, but the fellow knew a mean shoulder throw. Qadir hoisted that giant of a man over his shoulder like a washerman throwing a bundle of dirty clothes and left him spread-eagled on the ground.’

  ‘But, Agha Miyan, that singing woman was the end of poor Qadir.’

  ‘What can I say, Miyan Bulaqi? I tried my best to tell Qadir to stay away from these wretched women. I told him he would be finished. But words did not penetrate his thick skull.’

  ‘Agha Miyan, once I had thought of grabbing that woman by her hair, giving her one tight slap and saying, “You harlot, go look for some other home if you must ply your trade. Leave our wrestler friend alone.” But what to do, you know, I kept quiet.’ He drew a long sigh and then continued, ‘The strength of our ring was confined to Qadir. After him, there will be nothing. All these lads who come along, rule for a few days and think they are going to be the next legendary wrestler Gama Pehelwan. And then, with stars in their eyes and dreams of becoming a hero, they dash off to Bombay.’1

  ‘You are right, Miyan Bulaqi. Take the case of that faithless Shaddan. I poured canisters upon canisters of ghee into him. What a good looking youth he turned out to be! Such a wide chest he had! And then what happened? The wretched fellow went and saw the film called The Cat of Bombay and was floored by Sulochana.2 After that, all he wanted to do was to go to Bombay. I tried my best to reason with him. I told him she was a Jewess; she would eat him up and not even spit out the bones. But he didn’t listen to me. I said, “Fine. Go, go and die there.” He went. And then what happened was that he could not even reach Sulochana’s doorstep. He roamed about like a vagrant in the bazaars of Bombay. And when he returned, believe me, Miyan Bulaqi, he had turned into a mouse.’ And after a long puff of the huqqah, he continued, ‘Miyan Bulaqi, woman is an evil spirit. He who is caught in her snare is as good as dead.’

  And so, this was the Phupha Agha who arrived at the time of a wedding or birth or death in the family, but in such a manner that he would spend his time sitting with cooks and helpers, among whom he scattered the pearls of his wisdom, and then disappeared till the next such occasion. Phupha Jaani was his exact opposite. A Turkish cap on his head, a shervani cut in the Hyderabadi style on his body paired with Aligarh-cut pajamas and laceless pumps with little bows on his feet, he looked magnificent. Really, he looked like a Phupha should! He was employed in Hyderabad. When he arrived, it was always with great pomp and ceremony and he would sit in the men’s quarter and have elegant conversations with special guests. His usual topic of conversation would be anecdotes about the nobility of the Asif Jahi dynasty. Our local worthies would be greatly impressed by him and listen with the utmost amazement to his stories. Chhoti Phupho, on the other hand, seemed a bit subdued. She was so overshadowed by the splendid personality of her elder sister that she seldom found the courage to open her mouth in Phuphi Amma’s presence. And it wasn’t just Chhoti Phupho, most people did not have the temerity to speak when Phuphi Amma was around. In fact, even Phupha Agha turned into a pussycat when he appeared before her no matter how much he threw his weight around in front of the cooks in the kitchen. He left all his airs behind the moment he set foot in the women’s quarter. In any case, he hardly ever entered the women’s quarter, and when he did, he seemed distant. What is more, I don’t remember ever seeing him talking to Phuphi Amma. It appeared as though they were separated by a distance of many miles.

  It is only now that I have fully understood the situation thanks to Badi Bhabhi and her stories. The root of all the trouble between them was Mushtari Bai.3 Phupha Agha’s nights were spent in the dancing hall of Mushtari Bai; how long was Phuphi Amma expected to tolerate this? One day she came back to her parent’s home in a huff and never went back. The attachment she had for her brother’s well-lived well-kept house never let her feel lonely. And Phupha Agha’s attitude was ‘I don’t give a damn for your anger’. He was safe from the taunt of celibacy and at the same time free of the perils of married life, and a daughter was enough to lend credence to the fact that their marriage was not entirely fruitless.

  Perhaps Phuphi Amma’s influence rubbed off on my Papa Jani as well because he too ran away in mortal dread. For as long as he lived, he remained abroad. He would visit us once a year laden with all manner of gifts, enough to fill the house. He would meet friends and relatives and then go back. He was content with his firstborn. On one trip, he saw his young niece chattering away and was so entranced by her that he asked for her hand for his only son. Perhaps that was the reason why he had come that time. After that, he never came himself; only his dead body reached us. A clamour was let loose both inside and outside the house. There was no one who did not have tears in his eyes. But the one person who was most affected by this death was my Ammi Jan. As it is, she had been slowly suffering the pangs of separation; now she was reduced to skin and bones, and within a year she passed away. But the reason behind that untimely death was revealed only now. ‘Chacha Jani was so happy on that last visit, and when Phuphi Amma gave her consent for Maimuna, his happiness knew no bounds. He felt as though his sister had gifted all the wealth in the world to him. But, soon, she would lose everything and so would he. Some wicked person advised the king against him. The king was easily influenced. Where once he had trusted Chacha Jani implicitly and had entrusted him with all the important work of his kingdom, he now turned his face away. Heartbroken, Chacha Jani swallowed a diamond and ended his life.’

  Having taken me on a whirlwind tour of countless bright and dark moments from the past, Badi Bhabhi finally came to the real issue. ‘Bhaiyya, I must say something to you if you will listen to me.’

  ‘Yes?’ I could not guess what Badi Bhabhi was trying to say.

  ‘Bhaiyya, I am not your enemy. Whatever I say will be for your own good. You married outside the family; how much happiness did it bring you? You are as alone now as you ever were. It is still not too late. Marry Maimuna.’

  I was flustered. All I could say was, ‘Now?’

  ‘Ai Bhaiyya, it isn’t as though I have said something wrong. It is for your own good, and what your father had thought for you was also for your own good. May Allah grant him the choicest place in paradise, but when Phuphi Amma gave her consent, his happiness knew no bounds. And to be fair, even Phuphi Amma doted on you. When you went away, believe me, it was almost as though a silence descended upon her. The sorrow of your departure weighed her down. Maimuna, poor child, was left all alone. And after Miyan Jan’s death, she became lonelier than ever. Who does she have now in the whole wide world? The poor, poor girl!’ She was silent for a moment; then she addressed Chhote Miyan who had quietly come and sat down near us and was puffing away at his huqqah. ‘Arre, why don’t you say something? Surely, you must have some opinion too?’

  ‘My sister is very nice, very virtuous,’ Chhote Miyan answered briefly.

  ‘Well, if she weren’t virtuous, would she have spent her life like this? There was no shortage of proposals for her. There were several, each better than the other, but the poor girl had her heart so broken that she never agreed to any of them.’

  ‘She is a very good girl. She has never made us feel the lack of a daughter. Now she is like a sister to me, and a daughter. She has filled two gaps in my life.’

  ‘What do you think, then?’ Badi Bhabhi shot a straight question at me. I remained quiet, hesitated and then said, ‘It is very late.’

  ‘Ai Bhaiyya, come on! How is it late? It seems like yesterday when you had gone happily from here. God knows what misfortune befell you there that half your ha
ir turned white. In any case, I have seen people get married in their old age.’ Once again she addressed Chhote Miyan, ‘Aji, what do you think? Do people not get married at this age? And Maimuna, with the grace of god, looks exactly as she did then. The sorrows of her life have pulled her down a little, that’s all.’

  Chhote Miyan took a long pull of his huqqah and said, ‘Let Jawad decide for himself. He does not have to give an answer rightaway.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Bhaiyya, think about it. Don’t turn around tomorrow and say, Chhote Miyan and Badi Bhabhi trapped me.’

  How grateful I was to Chhote Miyan! If Badi Bhabhi had her way, she would have put a knife at my throat and got me to say ‘Yes’.

  How terrible that night was! I tossed and turned all night long. It seemed like I had been split in two halves: one part said ‘Yes’, the other said ‘No’. Who should I listen to? Who should I ignore? A desire from long ago, that had got buried somewhere along the way, reappeared. Its influence was growing within me. But a voice of dissent was welling up from deep inside me too. The decision was reached by my memories, for every memory that rose up provided nourishment to the yearnings that surged inside me, and the voices of opposition seemed to subside.

  By the time morning came, I began to feel as though I was at peace now. Perhaps a decision had been reached inside without my knowledge. And I was feeling hesitant about accepting that decision, or perhaps announcing that decision. I thought it might be better to postpone it for another day. But Badi Bhabhi had conceded me one night’s respite with the greatest trouble; there seemed no possibility of any further reprieve. Suddenly, I remembered that I also had to meet Khairul Bhai. And so I announced even before I had reached the breakfast table, ‘I am going to Meerut today.’

  ‘Really? Badi Bhabhi said.

  ‘To meet Khairul Bhai.’

  ‘Khairul Bhai?’ Chhote Miyan looked a bit perplexed. ‘That madcap? You are going to meet him?’

  ‘You are calling Khairul Bhai mad whereas our entire generation considered him a genius.’

  ‘Genius,’ Chhote Miyan said in a tone laced with dersion. ‘Are geniuses like that? Good-for-nothing fellow, he has done nothing in life. Anyway, who can stop you? Go, by all means, go and meet him.’

  I was amazed: Ya Allah, is this Khairul Bhai? This can’t be him. What happened to that perky, wilful, happy-with-himself Khairul Bhai? Perhaps Chhote Miyan was right when he gave him the moniker of ‘madcap’. But when did he become like this? He was always a bit eccentric. When I was leaving, God knows what got into him and he unpacked his luggage. Our group had resolved to go to Pakistan only because of his support. We had always believed him to be at the forefront of the Pakistan Movement; in fact, he was supposed to have access to all the top leaders. If he were with us we need fear nothing. And truly, had he been with me would I have had to live in a shanty? But at the last moment, he served us a notice, ‘Yaar, you carry on; I won’t go.’

  We were perplexed, ‘But why?’

  ‘I will stay here.’

  ‘But … and we …’

  ‘You go; I am telling you: I will stay here. After all, someone must stay here, too.’

  No one could make him budge once he made up his mind. And now when I had returned after a lifetime away, I was surprised and shocked to see how much Khairul Bhai had changed. And everything around him had changed too. I mean everything except that alley in the Kotla Mohalla where Khairul Bhai lived. The old hustle and bustle had gone from that alley and also from that house that used to look large and full back then; now it looked so empty and deserted that, except Khairul Bhai, all I could see was a cat. The alley was deserted too, though its appearance was the same, with not a whit of change. I mean to say it looked the same except that it wasn’t as inhabited as before. In fact, except the alley, the entire city seemed to have changed. All those things with which I associated this city seemed to have been rubbed off. New things seemed to have taken their place. Buildings, shops, street corners – everything had changed. And the crowds! God save me from the crowds! As I walked along, several times I felt as though this was not that city. Perhaps I had come to some other city by mistake. Perhaps the problem with all cities is that only the most stubborn of signs remain from the past; everything else changes. It is a good thing our Vyaspur is not a big city because at first glance, I had thought that nothing had changed. You can say that it was the rubble of Dilkusha that opened my eyes because till then, everything had seemed to be the same.

  ‘Khairul Bhai, your Meerut has changed a lot,’ I said because I couldn’t find the courage to say, ‘Khairul Bhai, you have changed a lot.’

  Khairul Bhai heard the news of Meerut having changed with great surprise. Then, when I began to list those changes according to what I had observed, his astonishment grew. He heard me out with the greatest amazement.

  ‘Really?’

  When he repeated these words again and again, I had to eventually intervene. ‘Khairul Bhai, your amazement surprises me. You live in this city. Have you not realized how much has changed here since then?’

  Khairul Bhai said, ‘Miyan, till I was in Meerut College, I used to pass through these bazaars and I never noticed any change.’

  ‘Khairul Bhai, surely you are talking about those early days, for you bid farewell to the College long ago. When I heard about it there, I was surprised that you chose to give up a perfectly good teaching post.’

  Khairul Bhai was quiet. Then he said, ‘Miyan Jawad, the thing is that I never realized this when I was studying in Meerut College. But I began to experience a strange disquiet when I became a lecturer. “Arre,” I said, “There are too many Hindus here.” And that was that; I left.’

  ‘But in that case, you should have felt at home in Aligarh.’

  ‘Yes, I should have,’ Khairul Bhai spoke pensively. ‘After all, I had studied at Aligarh too. But the strange thing is that those days I never realized it. But when I went to teach I saw that there were too many Muslims there. Wherever you turned, you saw Muslims. Miyan Jawad, believe me when I tell you, I began to feel suffocated. And so I left.’

  ‘And you came and settled down in Meerut,’ the words came out of my mouth instinctively.

  ‘Yes, on my roost. But now you are telling me that Meerut has changed. So then it is a good thing that once I came home to roost I never set foot outside.’ As he spoke, he spotted Rahimuddin Baba coming towards us. ‘Look, Rahimuddin Baba got wind of your coming. See how quickly he has made tea for you.’

  I could recognize Rahimuddin Baba with some difficulty. He was hardly a young man when I had last seen him, but now his back was truly bent over. ‘Hope you are well, Rahimuddin Baba.’

  ‘Allah is merciful.’

  As he put the tea down and began to go away, Khairul Bhai stopped him. ‘Rahimuddin Baba, it seems you haven’t recognized him. This is Jawad Miyan; he has come from Pakistan.’

  Rahimuddin stopped and peered closely at me. He was pleased and blessed me. And as he was going back, he turned around and came near me. ‘Miyan, my Karmu is also in Pakistan. Did you ever see him?’

  ‘No. Which city does he live in?’

  ‘I would know if that wretch had ever bothered to send a letter. He is somewhere there in Pakistan. Miyan, have pity on my old age and find him. And if you find him, beat him with a shoe on my behalf and tell him, “You miserable creature, go and show your face to your old father. And if nothing else, at least write him a letter to tell him you are well.”’

  ‘All right, Baba, I will if I ever find him.’

  When he went away, Khairul Bhai laughed and said, ‘Rahimuddin Baba tells me that I should have an advertisement placed in the Pakistani newspapers announcing that he is worried about and waiting to hear of his son’s welfare. I tell him that if we get such an advertisement taken out, there will be many such notices with the same sort of appeal. To this, he said that I should get a visa for him to go there: To see his son’s face and to see Pakistan.’ Khairul Bhai paused and then sa
id, ‘It is strange, but everyone here gets this worm inside their brain at some point or the other. The worm wriggles out and says that they should make at least one trip to Pakistan.’

  ‘But Khairul Bhai,’ I seized the opportunity and finally asked him, ‘Did you never want to visit Pakistan even once?’

  ‘Me?’ he stared hard at me and said, ‘No.’

  ‘But Khairul Bhai, it isn’t as though you were cut off from Pakistan. After all, you were at the forefront of the Movement.’

  Khairul Bhai was quiet. Then he said, ‘Yes, that is true. But at that time, it was not a country; it was a dream.’ And then he added softly, ‘A dream contains the promise of a morning till it remains a dream, but …’ And at that very moment his cat, which he had turned away because of me, jumped in. Khairul Bhai cuddled the cat, and he became so engrossed in tickling it that he did not feel the need to complete his statement.