The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

The man finished the newspaper after reading a bit and turning the pages. He put it down and muttered, ‘May Allah have mercy on me.’ He slid the paper in my direction and said, ‘Do you want to read it?’

  I felt as though he had guessed from my furtive glances that I was waiting for him to finish reading so that I could start. The thought made me a bit nervous and I immediately said, ‘No, no, please carry on. I am not at all interested in these news reports.’

  I didn’t have the slightest idea that I would be trapped by my own statement. He started off in right earnest, ‘You are right. Why would any decent person have any interest in such reports? Murder, abduction, rape, firing, bomb blast – it is as though there is nothing else happening in the city. At least the newspapers show that. God forbid that there should be any useful information! They simply want to fill their newspapers with terrifying incidents. Shouldn’t there be some good news from somewhere? What do you think? After all, why don’t these newspaper people ever give any good news? Or could it be that there is no good news to give? What do you think, sir?’

  I was at my wits’ end: what answer should I give? I couldn’t even evade by humming and hawing because he had asked me a direct question. ‘Your complaint is perfectly correct.’ I gave a brief answer. ‘But they can only print good news if there is one.’

  ‘You are right. Truly that is so. What can the newspapers do if there is no good news; they can’t produce it. The poor things are helpless. After all, they have to sell their newspapers. If they can’t get good news, they have to publish bad news. What a strange time! Good news has disappeared. Whatever news we get is terrifying. I can’t understand what is going on. What do you think? Tell me, what is going on.’

  ‘First I should understand it myself,’ once again I tried to get away by giving a brief answer. But that man was not one to be evaded.

  ‘You are right; indeed it is so. No one can understand what is going on. But how long will this go on? What do you think? Surely there must be a cure. The government is deaf to everything that’s happening. I am saying we can no longer sit idle and do nothing. We must give some thought to what is going on and what is the cure. So what do you think? What is the cure?’

  ‘Cure?’ I seemed to be getting deeper into trouble. ‘I don’t know; what do you think?’

  ‘I have thought about it. I am convinced that there is only one cure for this affliction. And I am not suggesting a rhetorical measure. Verbal answers get swept away in the wind. I had once written a letter and explained in detail what our ailment is and what its cure is. I had sent that letter to several newspapers but no one printed it. These newspaper people are heartless; they have no sense of nationalism. They fill their newspapers with all sorts of useless news and have no place for things that are needed. Anyhow, I fulfilled my duty. In my letter, I told the people in no uncertain terms that this is our punishment for turning away from Islam. No cure will work. There is only one treatment: Islamic rule should be implemented with immediate effect. Tell me, what do you think?’

  ‘And how will it be implemented?’ the question slipped out of my mouth inadvertently.

  ‘By use of force, how else? My dear sir, we need a Man of Iron who will beat us and straighten us out. We have tried out democracy. It is no cure for our disease. You can see with your own eyes what democracy has done to us.’

  From the nearby table, an irate man, who had been eavesdropping on our conversation for quite some time, erupted, ‘Arre sahab, why don’t you ask what we have done to democracy?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the man on my table asked angrily.

  ‘The meaning is clear: will you call all that is going on democracy?’

  The boy serving tea happened to pass by. I stopped him and asked, ‘Miyan, how much longer will you take to bring the tea?’

  Perhaps when I spoke up, my neighbour was reminded that he too was sitting here in anticipation of his tea. He reminded the boy in a wrathful tone, ‘You twit, how much longer will you make us wait? Am I going to get the tea or not?’

  ‘I am just bringing it.’

  ‘Get it quickly.’

  ‘Coming up right away!’ The lad said this and ran away so swiftly as though he was indeed getting it right away.

  By now my neighbour was quite unconcerned with me. So when he resumed the thread of the conversation, he did not feel the need to address me. His pronouncement was directed at the man sitting at the adjacent table, ‘The West has given us two gifts: democracy and shamelessness.’

  ‘May I ask: what is the conection between the two?’

  ‘There is a huge connection. This new-fangled independence that you see among the youth is due to democracy. And girls have been completely ruined by it. Do you know the extent of shamelessness that is spreading all around us? Every girl watches TV through dish antenna. But our West-afflicted people do not consider it shamelessness; they call it emancipation of women. I ask you: What is meant by emancipation of women? What else but not giving the husband the respect that is due to him? And that is why I say we need a Man of Iron; we do not need democracy.’

  ‘And what will he do?’ the irate man asked angrily.

  ‘First he will punish these politicians.3 And rightly so! That should be the first course of action. He should line up all the politicians and ask them to squat and hold their ears. And then after punishing the politicians, he should …’

  ‘And then he will make the people squat and hold their ears,’ the irate man cut him off mid-sentence.

  ‘In my opinion, what he should do is shoot someone if they even let out a squeak! I tell you this nation will turn over a new leaf in a matter of a few days. And if it doesn’t, I promise to crawl from under your legs.’

  The irate man’s face flushed red. ‘So you want martial law?’

  ‘Mister, I want to be rid of this democracy. And I want Islam, understand?’

  At that very moment, the sound of firing came from somewhere nearby. And with it an outcry, ‘They’ve come!’ A stampede broke out. Within a matter of seconds, the tables all around me emptied. I couldn’t understand how people disappeared so quickly. I was still trying to understand when two taxis passed by. And close on the heels, came the sound of firing. And after that … And after that, I lost consciousness. Swift as lightning … I felt I was blown into smithereens.

  1 Ayatul Kursi or the ‘Throne Verse’ is the 255th verse of the second chapter, Sura Al-Baqara of the Holy Quran. It is the most famous verse of the Quran and is widely memorized and displayed due to its emphatic description of God’s power over the entire universe. The practice of hisar khichna or drawing a circle is practised in South Asia as a way to ward off evil and to keep the believer safe within that circle.

  2 A verse in the Quran from the Surah Fateha which says: ‘an’amta (You bestowed reward and blessings) alaihim (upon them); Ghair (not) al-maghzoob (those having violent anger or wrath) alaihim (over them), wa (and) la (not) az-zawllin (the losers of the Path).’

  3 The expression used in the original is ‘murgha banana’ referring to a form of corporal punishment practised in schools across South Asia where errant school children are made to squat and hold their ears by looping their arms from under their bent knees. The position resembles a rooster or murgha.

  I was dead. Or so it seemed at the time. As though I was no longer alive. That I was a corpse lying on the footpath. Yes, indeed. But a last gasp of life was still stuck somewhere inside me, or rather not a gasp of life but the trace of a sensation. Or you could say my entire being lay shattered. An atom fell away and lay quivering. Some voices came to my ears as though someone was speaking from miles away, or several people were speaking together. What happened … Has a bullet hit you … Okay … Yes … You can say that at the right time … The driver showed amazing presence of mind … Took him to the hospital immediately … What happened … They came suddenly and went away spraying … Blindly … They came and went in the blink of an eye … And the police … Show some fear of God …
It’s nothing new … May Allah have mercy … This is nothing short of a miracle … Yes, must be a miracle if his life is saved … If God wills … What are the doctors saying … The reports are still …

  The sounds were coming as though one was asleep, or in a state where one was neither fully asleep nor fully awake. In that state of half sleep-half wakefulness, I could not understand fully who was being talked about. Who had been shot? When did it happen? Who was it? … Was it me? … No … All right … How surprised I was! That is, this atom that had fallen away from the dying self and was quivering. Whatever life remained was now in this atom and the atom now believed itself to be the entire being. It was thinking as though it was a complete self. It was surprised. When did it get hit by the bullet? … How? … And now … Am I still there or has someone … After all, I should know what … And somehow I, a quivering atom, collected myself … Not that there was much left to collect. Anyhow, as much as was there and as much as could be collected. I groaned, ‘Khairul Bhai.’

  ‘Yaar, how can Khairul Bhai come here? It is me … Majju Bhai.’

  ‘Oh … so Khairul Bhai is not here. Where is he?’

  ‘I am Majju Bhai.’

  ‘And I?’

  ‘You are Jawad.’

  ‘Jawad? … Really?’ How surprised I was!

  ‘Do you recognize me?’

  ‘Khairul Bhai, you …’

  ‘Yaar, I am not Khairul Bhai … I am Majju Bhai and you are …’

  ‘Me … where am I?’

  ‘You are in the hospital.’

  ‘In the hospital? … Really? … But why?’

  ‘I think his memory is affected,’ someone said.

  ‘Do you remember anything, Jawad? How did you get hit by the bullet?’

  ‘Bullet? … Did I get hit by a bullet? … But when?’

  ‘Yes, try and remember. When did you get hit?’

  ‘This is why I used to tell you to be careful. You can’t afford to just walk off wherever you wish. I was scared of precisely such a day. Anyhow, Allah will show mercy …’ I felt as though Majju Bhai was speaking from far away. And as though he was going on and on, and I did not have the strength to listen to so many words. How much capacity can there be in the hearing power of someone who has been reduced to a mere atom? How much can an atom hear? To hear even one word should be more than enough. But how was I able to hear? My entire being was lying in a heap there; only one atom was left quivering here, thinking itself to be an entire being as though it was whole and complete and full of all its strength. But its reality was soon revealed. The voice grew faint.

  I was dead. Then what was going on inside me? I was surprised. So feelings remain even after death, as well as strength and hearing. The pulse of feeling was erratic and feeble; nevertheless, it was still beating. And not exactly beating but falling slowly and steadily. What if it were to sink altogether? It shouldn’t sink anymore. Then I would drown completely. Once again I tried to collect myself. I had enough perception to know that I was completely scattered. How will I gather myself? Still, I found the courage to make another attempt to somehow collect myself. I collected myself and tried to remember what had happened. That is if I were to remember what had happened, I will enter myself. Was I really hit by a bullet? I began to struggle with my memory. I could remember a little but in such a strange way as though such an incident had happened a long, long time ago. The two taxis hurtling by, the stampede … Why were people running? Who were these people? No clear picture could emerge in my mind. The picture disintegrated before it could form properly as though my pulse was sinking yet again, as though the atoms of consciousness that I had gathered were scattering once again. Still, only one atom remained, a mere particle, no more than a speck … It is strange how one’s entire being scatters and life ebbs away, but somewhere one atom remains, one speck saves itself and declares its self-sufficiency. So somewhere a speck remained. My entire being was now in that speck and my shattered self was trying to remember where was I when I was whole, when I had not been hit by the bullet. But when was I hit? Where did it come from? Where was I at that instant? Had I collapsed? Who had picked me up? Or not picked me up? If no one picked me does it mean that I am still lying there? It is strange when a grown-up man with a full-size body crumbles in an instant, and disintegrates. One’s entire self disperses into scraps, and the shards and smithereens spread and scatter. There is another miracle in this strange phenomenon. Asserting its right to exert its own authority, one particle announces its self-sufficiency. It becomes a whole being in itself. And in that instant, I was entirely in that particle and fighting with my memory. I was trying to bring it under my control, but my memory had become rebellious; it was refusing to come under my control. It was playing strange tricks. I couldn’t recall the things that I was trying to remember, and those that were not in my wildest imagination were coming back to me and that too as though they would sweep me away in their rush. It seemed as though everything that was there in my Niche of Forgetfulness had come rushing out, and the niche itself was either empty or destroyed. In any case, it had to end. If one’s being is blown into atoms and particles how can the niche remain intact? It too must have got smashed. It was only now that I realized how important the Niche of Forgetfulness is for us; how many memories it contains; or else there would forever be a tumult of memories raging inside us – as was happening inside me at that instant. The Niche of Forgetfulness was broken. I was reduced to a speck, yet I was billowing and spreading with my endless memories – like the fish of Manu which was the size of a little finger, but when it grew and grew, it became so enormous that the river became small for it; it became so large that it swam into the sea. And I who had been reduced to a speck was now enlarging into a cosmos in the sea of my memories. A doomsday of memories had risen within me – as though someone had played a tune. Buried memories came to life – each intent upon settling its accounts but also shy of clearing debts. No memory was ready to fully settle old accounts. In the case of some memories, the beginning could not be found; in other cases, if the beginning could be found, the end was missing. Some memory would appear from the middle – with both its beginning and end missing. Then there were some memories that were mine, others that belonged to others but had come and mingled with mine – like a pigeon that belonged to someone else but would fly over and sit on our roof, see our pigeons pecking on their grain, get off the roof and mingle with them. So many memories from so many places, wandering, drifting and mingling with my own memories – what could I do to stop them? I was exhausted, almost in the last throes of life. I no longer had the strength nor the discernment to sift my memories and separate them from others. At the time, it seemed as though there was darkness all around, an intense darkness, which had countless fireflies flitting about in it. And memories seemed to be flickering like fireflies – burning bright one minute and dying out the next. And I was trying to catch them. I had collected so many fireflies in the hem of my kurta …

  ‘Munnan! Come and see, Munnan … Look, it’s a beerbahuti!’

  Why was Maimuna calling out to me? Which ‘me’ was this? Is it the ‘me’ who was once Munnan and who is now ‘he’ for me? Is it he who used to go rushing after the beerbahuti, forgetting his butterflies? Maimuna is standing transfixed, her eyes filled with surprise and happiness, staring at that patch of land. So many beerbahutis are crawling among the damp green grass – like tiny red velvety knobs. How swiftly they are moving!

  ‘Munnan, see there are so many of them,’ Happiness is brimming out of Maimuna. Munnan goes to stand beside her.

  Both are looking with such wonder and such joy at the tiny red beerbahutis crawling and scurrying in the green grass. Munnan can control himself no longer; he wants to touch one and see. He touches one beerbahuti with his finger. What was that? It stopped moving and became stationary.

  ‘Munnan, what did you do?’

  ‘What did I do? I did nothing; I just touched it a little,’ Munnan said as though he ha
s committed a terrible crime and he must give his defence.

  ‘The beerbahuti is dead.’

  ‘It is not dead; it is just cheating and has gone still.’

  ‘You are lying! It is dead,’ Maimuna is on the brink of tears.

  ‘I am willing to bet it isn’t dead.’

  Munnan is holding his breath; his gaze is fixed at the still beerbahuti. What will happen if it is truly dead? May Allah will the beerbahuti to come back to life! ‘Allah Miyan, please bring it back to life.’ And Allah Miyan indeed hears his plea. There … it slowly unfurls its legs and begins to crawl.

  ‘Aha, the beerbahuti has come back to life!’ Maimuna is clapping her hands with joy.

  ‘Didn’t I say she isn’t dead? The beerbahuti loves to cheat. You just have to touch it a little and she pretends as though she is dead.’

  Then how does one catch them? They fall into a dilemma. Should they catch one, or should they not …

  ‘Maimuna!’

  ‘Yes, what’s it?’

  ‘Hush, speak softly! There’s a butterfly!’

  ‘Where?’ Mainuna asks in a whisper.

  ‘There!’ He shows by pointing his finger. It’s perched on a leaf of one of the higher branches of the jasmine creeper; it has white and yellow spots on its shiny black wings. He moves quietly towards the jasmine; it flutters away and begins to circle the air … And my dear when that princess would go to the garden, she would find the butterfly sitting on the same flower and she would be surprised as to why that butterfly always came and sat on that particular flower.

  ‘Phuphi Amma, why did that butterfly always come and sit on that particular flower?’

  ‘My dear, wait a while; wait and see what happens ahead. It wasn’t a butterfly.’

  ‘What was it if it wasn’t a butterfly?’

  ‘Be patient; listen to what happened next.’

  ‘Shall I tell you what happened?’ Maimuna interrupted.

  ‘Why are you butting in? Let me listen to the story. Yes, Phuphi Amma, what happened then?’