Shankar stopped mid-stride and said, ‘Jawad, this is an ancient temple. There is a story about it among the local people. I will tell you about it later; first, come and see it.’
Indeed, its moss-encrusted walls and parapets were indicating that it was a very old temple. Eagerly, I stepped forward. But I paused as I was about to enter. ‘No, yaar, I have seen it.’
‘Yaar, see it from inside. No one will say anything. In any case, you hardly look like a Muslim.’
‘It isn’t that.’
Somehow or the other, I got out of it, and we moved on. Do you know what the matter was, really? There was a monkey sitting on the parapet of the temple. A lone monkey sitting silently atop a blackened moss-encrusted wall of the old temple … a fear came over me. I felt as though it would come down from the parapet at any instant, stand on its two hind feet and embrace me. Or, perhaps I thought it may not embrace me but – sitting right there – its tail would get longer and longer and it would appear before me in such a way that I would neither step forward nor move back. And who was to know if he would remain a monkey, or not. That is to say, who could tell if he might become something other than a monkey? You can never trust a monkey and a cat, for who knows what they might turn into at any instant? But my Phuphi Amma used to say something else altogether; she used to say that monkeys were not monkeys to begin with.
‘Really?’ I was amazed, so was Maimuna. ‘Phuphi Amma, what were they then?’
‘They were God’s own children, just like you and me. But the wretched things had stopped offering namaz. Such a calamity befell them that they turned into monkeys.’
I was scared, and so was Maimuna. We began to offer namaz five times a day. Soon, a fresh doubt began to torment me. ‘Phuphi Amma, are these monkeys actually monkeys?’
Phuphi Amma paused to consider. Then she said, ‘They are monkeys, but some of those wretched monkeys are actually not monkeys.’
‘Not monkeys?’ I was astounded. ‘What are they, then?’
‘Son,’ Phuphi Amma cautioned, ‘don’t ask too many questions. The world is a riddle. And Allah Miyan has kept many answers with Himself. He alone knows the answers to His riddles.’
‘Amma,’ Maimuna spoke up suddenly, ‘Why did Jan-e Alam turn into a monkey?’10 Phuphi Amma had told us the story of Jan-e Alam; much later we also read it in a book. Yes, I remember now … A monkey got aboard a ship. That story too had been told to us by Phuphi Amma. Or perhaps we had read it in Alif-Laila.11 Anyhow, the monkey boarded the ship like all the other passengers. But the ship that was ready to sail, stopped still. There was nothing wrong with the ship, but it just wouldn’t move. The ship’s captain became suspicious. He announced, ‘Gentlemen, something is the matter for the ship is not moving. Pen and paper has been placed before you. Each one of you should write your name so that we know who is who. Everyone wrote down their name. When it was the monkey’s turn, he too held the pen in his hand and wrote his name on the paper. Commotion rippled through the ship: the monkey was a calligrapher! How beautifully he had written his name, each letter as perfectly formed as a pearl. An elderly man looked knowingly at the monkey, and then warned his fellow-passengers: ‘My dear gentlemen, get a hold of yourselves. Is it necessary that this monkey is a monkey? Obviously, it is an unsoundness of your intellect if you don’t follow what I mean.’
‘Shankar, do you remember that man with the monkey?’
‘Which man with the monkey?’
‘Arre, have you forgotten? There was only one man who used to come with unfailing regularity to the chowk and play his little drum as all the children gathered around him.’
‘Yes, I remember now. He had turned into a monkey because he spent all his time with his monkey. Do you remember his face? He looked vile.’
‘And that monkey,’ I said. ‘He looked as though he wasn’t the monkey, but its owner.’
At least there is no such fear in the case of a cat. The cat is made of an altogether different sort of clay. No matter how much man may come to love a cat and no matter how much a cat may become attached to a man, both remain fixed to their own appearances. And cats have their own inclinations. Sheikh Abu Yousuf ’s cat was wont to be pleased at the sight of saints and would stand on its hind legs to embrace them. Khairul Bhai’s Sandali was forever morose. She would get bored if a guest dropped by. She would get up indolently, yawn mightily and then go inside the house. Yes, I remember another cat. I had read about her somewhere. She was a new age cat; she stood on a bus stop with an eight-anna coin in her mouth. When the bus came, she too got on the bus with the other passengers. When the conductor approached her as he gave the tickets to the other passengers, she rose on her two hind legs and placed the eight-anna coin on his palm, took the ticket and held it between her teeth. She got off when the bus stopped at the next stop. When she got off, the conductor realized that she too had bought a ticket. He was surprised: what sort of cat was she and who was she? But the bus had moved on and the cat too had gone far away by then. But in Phuphi Amma’s stories, all the birds and animals, all the creatures that crawled and swam, seemed full of mystery – as though every animal was a riddle and every bird carried the grain of a mystery in its beak. ‘And so my dear, it so happened that that day, too, the fisherman went to the river with his fishing-net. But he only managed to catch one fish in his net and then he set off for the market with that one solitary fish. And my dear when he reached the market, the fish began to laugh. All the buyers were surprised to see the laughing fish.’
‘Phuphi Amma, the fish was laughing?’
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘Why was it laughing?’
‘Be patient, my son. There was a mystery even in this; it will be revealed later. So there was the fish laughing away and the people in the market who were surprised out of their wits and worried by this strange sight.’
The world seemed full of mystery in stories. But it wasn’t just limited to the stories; the world around me, too, seemed full of mysteries. Temples, monkeys, banyan trees, peepal, the roller bird sitting on the highest branch of the peepal, the snake slithering and swaying on the ground – everything was a mystery and there was no knowing who was what, who was in its own form and who had changed form and become something else. As though all guises were false and everyone had adopted more than one guise. And on top of it all, there was the business of rebirth. What were once the swan and its mate were now the king and queen! And who was now the princess would later become …
After an age, as I sat with Maimuna that evening, taking in the antiquity of that haveli, I don’t know how my mind wandered in that direction. ‘Maimuna, do you remember that sadhu who used to say he remembered his last birth?’
‘Which sadhu?’ she said and became pensive. Then she said, ‘Yes, I do, but how did you remember him suddenly?’
‘That is what is surprising me too … it is strange. I am reminded of all sorts of things from long, long ago as though … as though I too remember my last birth.’
Maimuna looked closely at me. I don’t know what was there in her glance because I could not complete my sentence. My comment dangled mid-sentence as I fell silent. And then for a long time, she was quiet, and so was I. But that sadhu was roaming around in my imagination. People were gathered around him – old and young, men and women. In the middle of them all, he stood with his white matted locks, his eyes closed, hands folded, mumbling something incoherently. He spoke in strange tongues, asking all sorts of questions.
‘Maharaj, when was this?’
‘My children, this was centuries ago. I used to live in Dwarka then. It was a good time. Blessings rained down upon the place. Every morning, at day break, the Lord himself appeared, his chariot looking like the clouds, as though it had just descended from the skies. The two milk-white horses pulling his chariot looked like two white clouds and, when they neighed, the entire firmament echoed with the sound. Nymphs accompanied his chariot, in the front and back, and a primordial sound rose from the gro
und till the skies. And the music of love …
Tring-tring-tring … the grating sound of the telephone struck a discordant note. There I was, and suddenly here … It was as though someone were scaling the heights engrossed in his thoughts and suddenly his foot slipped and he came tumbling all the way down. How hateful was that sound at that instant! Not that I had ever liked its sound. It was just another discordant sound in the many discordant sounds of the modern age. Whoever has kept a telephone in his bedroom, has arranged to ruin his life. But there was no getting away from it either. How I had hated that sound at the time! Yet I had to attend to the telephone. The wave that I had been riding had quite subsided by now. I was back in my present dissipated times, holding the receiver close to my ear and listening to a worried voice.
‘I had called in the morning itself and informed you that I am not well and wouldn’t be coming in today.’
‘But, Sir, there is a crisis here; it is very important that you come.’
‘Crisis? Why?’
‘Sir, there has been a robbery in the bank next door. Four masked men came. They killed the gunman at the entrance, came in and tied up the manager with ropes, brandished their guns and silenced the others, looted all the cash from the cashier at gunpoint, and fled.’
‘Really? … That is terrible news.’
‘So, Sir, as a result there is a crisis in our office.’
‘But surely this concerns their bank. Why is it a crisis in our office?’
‘The staff has decided to go on strike.’
‘Well … But there is no car here at this time.’
‘Sir, Jamaluddin has left for your home; he must be about to reach you.’
And indeed the sound of the horn could be heard after a few minutes. Jamaluddin had reached. I pulled on some clothes in a hurry and set off.
Indeed there was a full-blown crisis in my office. The entire staff was in a tizzy. From the peon till the cashier – everyone who ordinarily sought permission to enter my room and spoke ingratiatingly to me – were speaking to me in the most threatening tones. ‘The bank makes us work hard, but what has it done to ensure our security?’
‘What can a gunman do in this day and age? They finished him off in the beginning itself; the field was clear for them thereafter.’
‘So, how many gunmen should we have to ensure our safety?’ I asked.
No one had a clear answer to this question.
‘My dear brother,’ I said, ‘It isn’t exactly great foresight to have far too many gunmen. Too many gunmen can themselves pose a danger.’
But logic doesn’t work in such a charged atmosphere. A union was formed, several demands were placed and many slogans were raised. And then someone announced, ‘Sir, the bank will be closed tomorrow.’
‘The bank will be closed? Why?’
‘The corpse of the slain gunman will be taken away tomorrow. The union has decided to strike work in the bank tomorrow. We must take part in the funeral procession.’
It was no use making them see reason, or offer arguments. Who listens in such times, and who comes round to good sense? A crowd had gathered outside and slogans were being raised. The smoke from burning tyres and the noise from raised voices were seeping indoors.
1 In Hindu mythology, Manu is the first man and law-giver. In the story of a great flood, reminiscent of the Biblical story of Noah who preserved life from extinction, Manu is warned by a fish of a coming deluge that will wipe out humanity. Manu ties his boat to the fish and is steered to safety.
2 Parda-e-Ghaib or the curtain that demarcates the visible and seen world from the invisible and unseen, referring to the mysterious forces or the hand of destiny that has unknown things in store for mere mortals.
3 The reference is to the dream of Aazar, the master sculptor who sculpted a perfect female form and promptly fell in love with it. English readers would be familiar with the story of Pygmalion.
4 Muhammad ibn Abbad al-Mu’tamid (1040–1095) reigned c. 1069–1091, was the third and last ruler of the taifa of Seville in Al-Andalus. He was a member of the Abbadid dynasty. Not only was he a great ruler but also a fine poet. In 1091, Al-Mu’tamid was taken into captivity by the Almoravids and exiled to Aghmat, Morocco where he died in 1095. His grave is located on the outskirts of Aghmat.
5 The historic ancient city of Malaga in Spain, along the Costa del Sol.
6 Lalu Khet is a neighbourhood in the densely-populated Liaqatabad area of Karachi; the reference here is to the muhajirs who spoke fondly of the Lal Quila or Red Fort they had left behind in Delhi when they had crossed over to find a new home in this migrant-dominated neighborhood. Lalu Khet was once an agricultural farmland; the Government procured it to build a rehabilitation colony for the muhajirs.
7 An old neighbourhood in Meerut.
8 A busy neighbourhood in Meerut; its full name at present is Kotla Bazaar Chauraha.
9 Reference to a verse by Mirza Ghalib: Sabza-o-gul kahan se aayein hain/Abr kya cheez hai, hawa kya hai, meaning ‘Where does the flower and greenery come from/ What is the cloud, what is the wind?’
10 Intizar Husain has written an entire story on Jan-e-Alam called Mahaban ke Bandaron ka Qissa (‘The Story of the Monkeys of the Big Forest’); see my translation of this story in my collection entitled The Death of Sheherzad (Harper Perennial, 2014).
11 Refers to the stories contained in the Arabic work of fiction, better known as The Arabian Nights.
‘Miyan, I want to die.’
‘Arre Mirza sahab, what a thing to say!’
‘Ai Majju Bhaiyya, make him see sense,’ Achchi Bi said. ‘This is the only thing he goes on about these days … I want to die, I want to die … I tell him that he should not speak such words of ill omen, but he doesn’t understand. He has lost it … it is always the same thing … I want to die!’
‘Yes, Miyan, I have lived long enough, After all, I don’t have to be around to lug the sacks of my misdeeds on the Day of Reckoning.’
‘But why, Qibla?’
‘Miyan, the thing is it is best if I were to move on now. If I am not around, I shan’t see …’ He paused and then said, ‘Majju Miyan, you are younger than me. Perhaps you may not remember that time so well, but I remember each and everything about it. When I came here and took charge of my office, there was a state of utter chaos. My staff complained that there was neither pen nor pencil nor paper; how was one to even start work. I urged them to show some patience; everything would be arranged. The very next day I bought some stationery from my own pocket, and so the office got going. Today, that office is located in a sky-scraper. If one were to tell someone of those days, who would believe me? But Miyan, you were there; you have witnessed it.’
‘You are absolutely right; it was just so. That’s the way things were in the beginning.’
‘So, Majju Miyan, I have seen this city become what it is.’ And after a pause, he continued, ‘Our Delhi too was once a vibrant city.’
‘Ai Majju Bhaiyya, I too can bear witness to that. I can barely describe its hustle and bustle.’
‘Miyan, just the steps of the Jama Masjid were such that if you went around them once, you didn’t need to see anything more in the world. And beyond that lay Chawri; the row of tall houses had moon-faced maidens from one end till the other. But Chawri was ruined by the time we came of age.’
‘Bhaiyya, everything changed so suddenly. We received such a jolt, such a jolt, that houses full of people became desolate overnight. And what had I said? That no matter what happens, yours truly would not forsake the city of twenty-two sufis1. Ask him how I refused to budge from that soil.’
‘Yes, indeed you held on to that soil, but that soil did not hold on to you,’ her husband said and then turned to address Majju Bhai. ‘The soil has its own compulsions. When it allows you to leave, it can do so within a matter of a few minutes. And if it refuses to give permission, you may beg and plead all you like, but it will remain unmoved. I read in the Malfuzat of some saint – I can’t recal
l his name (my memory isn’t what it was, you see) – who said he was sitting beside a tank. And close beside the saint sat a man muttering to himself, who did not seem to be in full possession of his senses. The man would sigh deeply and say, “When I had set foot in this city, I was like gold; now I have turned to silver. If I stay here any longer, who knows what I will turn to?” The saint asked the man, “My dear, do you live in this city of your own free will?” He said, “No.” The saint asked, “Why don’t you leave this city if you are unhappy here?” The troubled man drew yet another long sigh and said, “I went to my spiritual master and complained about my unhappiness with the city. My master asked me if I stayed in the ammunition depot. I said I did. My master told me that there was no peace in the city, nor would there be any in the future. But I shall remain here, my master said. If you can leave, you must do so. Happily, I returned to my room, gathered my belongings, tied them up in a bundle and set out to leave the city. But as soon as I tried to set foot outside the city limits, the earth caught hold of my feet. I said, ‘What are you doing? I have taken permission from my master to leave this city.’ She said, ‘I haven’t received the order yet; how can I let you leave?’ The next day again I set off from my room, with my bundle under my arm, but again the same thing happened: the earth caught hold of my feet and said that she hadn’t received the orders yet, so how could she let me go? My dear sir, this has been happening for the past twenty-five years. Every day I leave my room with my bundle under my arm, I walk till the outskirts of the city, but the earth catches hold of my feet and says she hasn’t received the orders yet so how can she give me permission to leave.” The troubled man narrated his story and drew yet another long and deep sigh. Then he said, “God knows when the order will come and when the earth will give me permission to leave the city. When I had set foot in this city, I was like gold; now I have turned to silver. If I stay here any longer, who knows what I will turn to?”’
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