Mirza sahab narrated this account and fell silent. Then, he spoke in a sorrowful tone, ‘Who can tell who was more unfortunate: he who was not given permission to leave by the earth or those who were given permission in such a way that, in the blink of an eye, they became homeless and shelterless?’
‘Ai Bhaiyya, now listen to my tale,’ Achchi Bi said. ‘We were settled in the Suiwala Mohalla, like a staff planted deep in the ground, but suddenly we were uprooted and had neither home nor roof.’
Mirza sahab sighed and said, ‘Yes, it was almost as though the earth had suddenly become narrow. I am now reminded of my dear father who said, “Son, when you see the earth becoming narrow, shake yourself free and leave. Understand that the waters of this land are no longer for you.” So while the land of Delhi gave us much joy and nurtured generations of our family, now its gaze had turned. So we bid farewell to it and said, “Wise men have come and camped here, but now you dislike our company so we will pull up our tents and leave.” And we set off for this land.’
‘Arre Bhaiyya, we had thought that if our own people hurt us, they will at least let us lie in the shade. Who could have known that our own people would turn strangers? Once we came here, even our own family turned away in case someone asked for help. Just think … why would we need help from anyone? We were the sort of people who fed four others before we put a morsel in our own mouth. May God forgive me if I am wrong but here too we have given, not taken anything from anybody! But the people here have become ungrateful. And why complain about others? Our own daughter-in-law has become a stranger to us.’
‘There you go again … talking about your daughter-in-law! Let her be.’
‘How can I let her be? Ever since my boy has been taken from me, I haven’t known a minute’s rest. Ai Majju Bhaiyya and Jawad Bhaiyya, tell me truly: that witch has cast such a spell on my boy that he has left us here to face a shower of bullets and gone off with her to live in Clifton.’
‘My dear, he did tell us: “Leave this neighbourhood; this is a never-ending calamity. Come and live with us in Clifton.” We are the ones who wanted to be excused. We said, “Son, you are a family man now. Live comfortably on your own. Let us stay where we are.”’
‘I know well enough how he said it. Ai Bhaiyya, my daughter-in-law is a clever woman; she clips away at the roots in such a way that one doesn’t even come to know. She seems so sweet on the surface whereas she is a poisonous pill in reality.’
‘Mirza sahab, there is one clear advantage of staying in this neighbourhood; there is no shortage of mushairas. I hope you are coming for the one this evening.’
“No, Miyan.’
‘Why, Qibla?’
‘There was an excitement in the mushairas till there were poets like Ustad Sahail Dehelvi and Ustad Bekhud Dehelvi; what is left in these gatherings now that they are gone? I can’t understand the new-fangled nonsense that your modern poets recite.’
Majju Bhai had deliberately broached the subject of the mushaira. After all, we needed an excuse to make our getaway. We left them and went to meet Rafiq sahab. Actually, Mirza sahab’s home was on our way and Majju Bhai – who was never one to tread the straight path – decided to peep in for a bit. Though his real plan was to first meet Rafiq sahab catch up on gossip and then take him along to the mushaira. Rafiq sahab saw us and beamed with delight.
‘Yaar, so you are both alive?’ How happy he was to see us! ‘We’ve been getting extremely worrying news from your neighbourhood. We had heard about the gunfire.’
‘Yes, there was was some gunfire but mostly tyres were burnt,’ Majju Bhai said. ‘But no matter how much gunfire we may have had, it was far less compared to yours.’
‘You can never compare yourselves with us; we have set a new record.’
‘So if you can survive your shower of bullets, why can’t we?’ Majju Bhai replied.
‘It is an everyday affair for us; we have learnt the art of living in the midst of all this. So don’t talk about us. But tell me: how did these blessings come this way today?’
‘What shall I say?’ Majju Bhai spoke with great ennui. ‘I have bid adieu to the Coffee House days, but those days won’t leave me alone. There used to be some lads who used to write some excruciatingly bad poetry. At the time, I thought there was no harm in uttering a few words of encouragement. But the times have changed and now they are regarded as respectable poets in the city. Today some of their cronies and fans have organized a mushaira here; they insisited so much that we thought of popping by for a bit. We thought we will meet you, too. What is more, I had Jawad’s car with me.’
Rafiq sahab let out a mighty laugh. ‘So the mushaira has pulled you here.’ And then after a pause, he said, ‘You and I have our compulsions. These people are your friends and disciples from long ago. And I have to show good neighbourliness, so I must go. But what crime has poor Jawad sahab committed? What are you punishing him for?’ And immediately he turned around to address me, ‘Jawad sahab, what is this? Are you going to attend a mushaira?’
‘It is not necessary,’ I said. ‘The intention was to ensure Majju Bhai reaches his destination; and then I was hoping to meet you, too.’
‘Nice … so you have killed two birds with one stone.’
‘Yaar Rafiq sahab,’ Majju Bhai said, ‘Talk some sense into Jawad.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘This man has driven me round the bend. Every now and then he asks me the same question: Majju Bhai, what is happening in this city?’
Rafiq sahab let out a peal of laughter. ‘Great! But I should love to know what answer you gave.’
‘I have only one answer: Dearie, stop thinking. Or else, leave this city.’
Rafiq sahab let out another peal of laughter. Then he said, ‘There is no need to leave the city. You just need some panache to live in this city. If you have acquired the art, then here is no hardship for you.’
‘Tell us the trick too, yaar,’ Majju Bhai said.
‘I have told my wife … As you know, when my wife and I set out, she drives the car … So I have told my wife that when a Kalashnikov-wielding person asks us to stop the car, she must do so immediately and, before he can say anything, hand over the car keys to him. And for my part, I remain mentally prepared to hand over my wallet as soon as the car keys have been given to him.’
Majju Bhai laughed. ‘Subhan Allah! What a wonderful technique you have devised to stay alive!’
‘It isn’t a laughing matter, Majju Bhai; tell me, will he be able to say anything after this? In any case, it is tried and tested.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really; it was just last month. Two masked men appeared from nowhere and my wife was terror-stricken. I said, never mind, just hand over the keys. We gave them the keys and immediately I took my wallet out of my pocket, and gave them that too. They took the wallet, but one of them, who appeared to be the leader of the gang, asked if we had enough money to pay the taxi fare. I said, “Dear Brother, don’t worry, we shall go on foot.” He said, “No, how can you go on foot?” Then he instructed the man who had taken the wallet, “Deduct Rs 50 from this.” And the youth took out a fifty-rupee note and swiftly handed it to me. Then they got into our car and disappeared from sight.’ I showed them courtesy; they extended the same to me. They even gave us fifty rupees so we may be spared the trouble of walking. And from that fifty, we even saved ten!’
‘Well done!’ Majju Bhai said.
‘And look at my wife … she asked me who those people were? She wanted us to file a report with the police. I said, “Begum, let it be. What good will it do? And don’t ask who they were. They looked like lads from Lucknow.” That was enough to enrage her. We seemed to have an ethnic riot in our home; I immediately withdrew my statement.’
Majju Bhai spoke with the utmost seriousness, ‘Rafiq sahab, I fully agree with you. After all, what else can we do in these circumstances? Good sense demands that we learn to bend our stiff necks, hand over whatever we have without the
slightest demur, and do our bit. The rest is up to them. If indeed your name is written on a bullet, then there is no getting away from it. Do you understand, Jawad Miyan? This is the way to survive in this city.’
‘Yes, I am beginning to understand,’ I answered with great distaste.
‘No, Jawad sahab, you don’t understand,’ Rafiq sahab’s tone became suddenly serious. ‘My wife thinks like you do. I have been trying to make her understand, but she doesn’t. Exasperated, finally one day I told her clearly, “My dear, this is not your Lucknow. This is Karachi … You understand … Karachi.” She was irritated and said, “Yes, it is Karachi and so what should I do?” I said, “Do what your slang asks you to do: When in Rome, do as Romans do.”’
Rafiq sahab was in full flow when his wife appeared looking worried. She said, ‘You are sitting here and talking; do you have any idea what is happening outside? Gunfire has started again.’
‘Is that news? It is a daily occurrence. I thought some new calamity has befallen us.’
‘Yes, it is not new for us anymore. We live in hell. This is written in our fate. But what about these two respectable gentlemen who have come as our guests? I am worried about them.’
‘Begum, do you think they have come from heaven? They too have walked over from hell. The only difference is that they have come from their hell to set foot in ours.’
‘That is all very well but what if these poor things get stuck here?’
‘That’s nothing to worry about; all you have to do is serve them tea; the organizers of the mushaira have arranged the dinner.’
‘Mushaira?’ Begum Rafiq asked with part amazement and part anger. ‘Who are these wretched people? Will they hold a mushaira in this hail of bullets?’
Rafiq sahab was pretending as though he was least concerned by the turn of events and therefore his guests too had no real need to get worried. But I could not hide my anxiety. Actually, I had left the house thinking I would drop off Majju Bhai here, chat with Rafiq sahab for a bit and slip away before the mushaira. Now I was beginning to feel cornered. Rafiq sahab sensed my unease. He said, ‘Arre Jawad sahab, you are getting needlessly worried; this is perfectly routine here. The youth of this neighbourhood have only two pastimes: firing and mushairas. And today they don’t have the patience for lengthy firing. After all, they have to go to the mushaira too.’
‘You are quite incredible, Rafiq sahab!’ Majju Bhai said. ‘You are living so contentedly between two raging fires.’
Rafiq sahab laughed and said, ‘Well, actually, this second fire, that is, the poets, is actually far more cruel. Believe me, Majju Bhai, they don’t let you live in peace. Even if you were to give the mushaira a miss, they catch hold of you as you go about your business. My life is a torment. Whenever a new ghazal is revealed to any one of them, calamity rains down upon me. And look at my helplessness; I have to perforce applaud every verse of every ghazal.’
‘Truly my friend, you are caught in a net,’ Majju Bhai said with a show of sympathy.
Rafiq sahab laughed uproariously. ‘Majju Bhai, you are telling me that I am in a net according to your estimation. One of our Lahori relatives said to me, “Pa-ji, you are in a net; get out of this place.” My wife says the same thing in her own way. I said to her, “Begum sahiba, you are from Lucknow; what harm can these verses of the flower and the nightingale do to you? Ask me how I suffer? Where am I to go?” She said, “The city is big enough. If we must stay in a rented house, we can go and live anywhere. And your friend was helping us get a perfectly good flat in Gulshan.”2 I said, “But what is the guarantee that there won’t be more poets where we go to live than there are here, and that we shall not have to offer praise to worse ghazals?”’
‘You are right,’ Majju Bhai said. ‘No one can give such a guarantee about any neighbourhood in this city.’
‘Majju Bhai, I am truly caught in a net. Do you know how many poets live in this very alley? Believe me when I say that every shopkeeper on this road, and every buyer in every shop, is a poet. And such is the flow, that a ghazal is completed at every transaction. I try and sneak out of my alley, yet by the time I have made my way out, I have drunk the bitter draught of at least ten or twelve ghazals. The moment one sets foot outside one’s house, one gets pounced upon by a poet. You escape from the clutches of one only to fall prey to the next. It is almost as though they are sitting in ambush.’
‘But is it necessary to go out? It is not as though you must go out to work.’
‘I have tried that too. They land up at home then. “Rafiq Bhai, I haven’t seen you for several days. I hope you are not unwell.” And immediately thereafter, they launch into their new ghazal. Majju Bhai, soon enough a queue forms. Someone is a Naginvi, another is a Pilibhiti, one is a Kasmandvi and yet another is a Khurjvi. Poets from every town and hamlet have gathered in this city. One has to listen to every one of them; after all, it is a matter of good neighbourliness.’
‘Well, that is the price you must pay for living among your brothers.’
‘By the way, I had found a locality that had very few of our brothers. The house was a fine one, too. Everyone around me was a true-blue Lahori. But there was another sort of problem with them. Every Lahori in that neighbourhood thought he was a Meeraji.3 I would have ended up from the frying pan into the fire. I thought it better to stay among the pupils of Dagh rather than live among the disciples of Meeraji; at least I could savour the taste of the language. And at least I know what they are talking about.’
‘The fact is my dear,’ Majju Bhai said, ‘The sheep will be sheared no matter where it goes. You are a decent bloke; so, my friend, hold on to your patience.’
‘Arre sahab, I have been patient. People keep making me acutely aware of it. Listen to what one kind soul had to say. He said, “Rafiq sahab, I have heard that there is a torture chamber behind your house.” I stayed quiet. He persisted, “You have not replied.” I said, “What can I say? Arre sahab, if not a torture chamber, I would have had a whorehouse, and if not a whorehouse then a police station. In any case, there would have been something or the other.” He said, “But it is very dangerous to have a torture chamber in one’s neighbourhood, and very painful too. Don’t the screams of anguish trouble you?” I said, “My brother, nothing is more painful than the din of political sloganeering. When we have learnt to tolerate that noise, what meaning can the cries coming from the torture chamber have?”’
I was getting restless; Rafiq sahab was not saying anything clearly. He was brushing aside the truth in jest. Finally I asked him, ‘Is there really a torture chamber behind your house?’
Rafiq sahab sighed. ‘Jawad sahab, you and I are living in a gigantic torture chamber. So if there is some small torture chamber in the neighbourhood, what possible significance can it have? So, let it go.’
Meanwhile, a boy appeared with the tea trolley. Rafiq sahab pulled the trolley close to himself and said to the boy as he poured the tea, ‘Dina, has the firing stopped yet, or not?’
‘I don’t know,’ and then as he was about to leave, the boy asked, ‘Shall I go and check?’
‘Yes, go out and see and come and tell me.’
A wave of energy coursed through Dina. He rushed to the door and swiftly went out.
I drank my tea and unlocked my tongue once again. ‘Rafiq sahab, shall I ask you something?”
‘Yes.’
‘It is a very personal question.’
‘Feel free.’
‘Majju Bhai and I are helpless before this cruel city. But you have an ancestral home in Lahore. So what is your compulsion in staying here?’
‘My compulsion is my Lucknowi wife,’ he said and laughed.
‘Well said,’ Majju Bhai added. ‘Can there be a greater compulsion anywhere in the world than a wife?’
How beautifully Rafiq sahab side-stepped the question and began to drink his tea with great contentment.
Dina returned after some time.
‘So what is the news?’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s over now, though it went on for a long time – rounds after rounds.’
The Sea Lies Ahead Page 26