The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  ‘From Mathura?’ Guru Maharaj opened his white eyelashes. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Maharaj, this is Narendra; your old disciple.’

  ‘Narendra!’ Guru-ji tried to remember. ‘Yes, yes, I remember now … Narendra! How is Mathura?’

  ‘I am fine, Maharaj, but Mathura is not fine; we are the dwellers of a desolate land.’

  ‘Om tat sat.’5

  ‘Guru Maharaj,’ Ganesh spoke hesitantly. ‘Even Dwarka is not in a good state, and Narendra here has asked me a most incredible question. He wants to know what were our elders thinking when they decided to leave Mathura.’

  ‘Sons,’ Shambhu Maharaj said, ‘Everything is the handiwork of Time; we are helpless before it. We sleep but Time is forever awake. Then it is Time that shakes us awake and when we rub our eyes and look around ourselves, we find that everything has changed. Om tat sat.’

  ‘Om tat sat!’ Ganesh muttered and said, ‘O Guru-ji, but Shri Krishan Bhagwan is himself an incarnation of Time; he was awake.’

  Guru Shambhu Maharaj sighed and then said, ‘When all five of Draupadi’s sons were killed, she went crying to Gandhari. Mother Gandhari saw her and said, “O Draupadi, five of your sons have been killed and you are lamenting. Look at me, for I am still quiet despite having lost a hundred sons.” Then she looked at Krishan Maharaj and spoke wrathfully, “O you Divine Born, you are the root cause of all evil. You have destroyed my womb. So you wait and see, son, the sons of Yadavas will also be destroyed.” Bhagwan Krishan answered sombrely, “O Mother, no one else can destroy the Yadavas; only I can do it. You have made my task easier with your curse.”’ Guru Maharaj paused then continued, ‘Sons, Krishan Bhagwan is an incarnation of Time, but after all how long can that moment be postponed of which Mother Gandhari had warned?’ And then Guru Maharaj closed his eyes and began to mumble, ‘Om tat sat. Om tat sat. Om tat sat.’

  Oh, so this story is from that time … that time when … Though every city has the same fate. It is as though cities are settled simply in order to be laid waste … Then Abdullah spoke thus, ‘My dear fellow, you are right in crying for your ancestral city of Seville. It takes a long while for a city to be settled but when it is time for it to be devastated, it can be laid waste within a few moments – like the city of my ancestors, Cordoba, was devastated. I read in the memoirs of my great-grandfather that was written during the upheaval of decline, though, of course, during that time one could only read at night. So I read in my great-grandfather’s memoir about that blessed city which my ancestor remembered by the the title of ‘The Bride of Andalusia’. It had countless markets and squares, with a bath-house at every corner and a mosque at every square. And among all the mosques was the Grand Mosque that was like an ornament on the forehead of Cordoba. The crowds who thronged it were unmatched compared to all other mosques around it. Further away, at the Madina Azahara,6 the drums would be beaten morning and evening. But when this fragrant city was about to be laid waste, nothing could save it – not the crowds or the drums, not the calls to the faithful to prayer, nor the voices of the proclaimers of faith. Only Allah’s name remains. There is no Victor except Allah.’7 And Abdullah drew a long sigh and fell silent. Then, after some hesitation, he resumed, ‘My dear friend, I want to say one more thing but I am scared that it may hurt your fragile heart.’

  ‘My friend, this heart is no longer fragile; it has become used to enduring the most terrible of misfortunes. So tell me freely whatever you wish to say.’

  ‘My friend, my great-grandfather remembered his city very dearly. He went about with the picture of the scented gardens and squares of Cordoba in his eyes, and cried constantly. So much so that he died one day. His son, that is my ancestor’s ancestor, was a man of good sense. He drew a lesson from his father’s sorry state; one day he called his son and grandson and said, “My son and my son’s son, you saw what sorrow for Cordoba did to your grandfather and how he left this world in a sorry state. Understand this: the sorrow of being separated from your city is deadlier than the sorrow of being separated from a woman. Whoever is afflicted by this sorrow, you can rest assured he is for all practical purposes dead and gone. And so my sons, surely we belong to the soil of Cordoba, but what is gone is gone. So bid farewell to that city or else its memory will eat you up like termites. Now, Granada is our Cordoba.” And so, my friend, I will say to you what my ancestor said to his son and to his son’s son.’

  Ibn-e Habib heard these words and wept, ‘My friend and counselor, the memory of Seville is leaving me on its own. What shall I tell you about the new incident that has befallen me? I knew the way to my ancestral house in Seville but God knows what has happened to me that I have forgotten the way now.’

  Abdullah was surprised, ‘What are you saying, my friend? When did you go to Seville that you would remember any of the ways in that land?’

  Ibn-e Habib laughed a feeble laugh and said, ‘Believe me, my friend. In my dreams, I have walked so often in that deserted place that I remember each and every pathway, but last night I had a strange dream. In my dream, I have gone to Seville and I am lost in a maze of streets. I am surprised: Ya Allah, which is that street where, the moment I enter, I see that tall and stately date palm and my feet would swiftly move in the direction of that house? The cat would spot me from a distance and run towards me. Dear Lord, where did that date palm disappear, what happened to the cat, and where did the house go? I am walking along, lost and wandering, when I see that up ahead the road is closed. Ya Allah, where should I go now? I had never ever thought that there would be a blind alley in the maze of alleys in Seville. I was wondering what to do and where to go when I woke up.’ Ibn-e- Habib fell silent and then after a moment’s hesitation, continued, ‘I couldn’t sleep thereafter. Perhaps it was the last watch of the night, for soon I heard the sound of the azaan. I got up and performed the ablutions, offered my prayer and then raised my hands, wept and cried a hundred times, ‘Keep me safe from that day when I go to Seville and my land hesitates to recognize me and my streets decline to show me the way.’ I cried so much that I went into a frenzy.’ Ibn-e Habib fell silent. His eyes were moist and his voice choked.

  Abdullah, who had been listening quietly all this while, spoke after careful consideration, ‘O Ibn-e Habib, I understand your pain. In a way, I consider you fortunate because you are rich with the wealth of the pain of separation. I am the unfortunate one who has forgotten Cordoba and is happily sitting in Granada and there are so many homeless ones like me who have made their way to this city. Granada gave them refuge, honour, wealth but regrettably, it took away the wealth of pain from them. So, Ibn-e Habib, compared to them you are fortunate because Granada gave you refuge but did not snatch the wealth of pain from you.’ After a pause, Abdullah continued, ‘But it is the way of the world and such is the Constitution of Life. And it is out of respect for this Constitution that my forefather told his son and his son’s son to stay away from the behaviour of my ancestor. The son took heed of the father’s advice and began to think of Granada as Cordoba and kept getting mingled with its soil and air. My friend, this is the interpretation of your dream. Whether this is a sign from the Unseen or your mind has told you so, it is best that you understand this sign and recognize the demands of life.’

  Ibn-e Habib heard this and ducked his head; for a long time, he remained engrossed in his thoughts. Then he raised his head and said, ‘O my friend and sharer of my sorrow, your advice is sound. But you have not told me what I should do with the wealth of my memories, a wealth that is my sole heritage. If only there was a grave where I could bury them! O Abdullah, it is strange that when I had first entered this city of yours I was scattered and so were my memories. How well I remember that evening when I sat beside your warm oven and ate hot bread for the first time since entering this city! I don’t know what sort of grain that bread was made from, for its taste is still alive on my tongue. I am grateful to that roof under which I sat and the oven from where I drew warmth and gathered my scattered being as well
as my scattered memories. And the strange thing is that the more I began to feel settled in this city, the stronger these memories became, so much so that an entire country of memories was formed, a country that lives in my imagination and is attached to Granada. And right in the middle of this country stands a palm tree laden with bunches of dates, and under it sits a black cat. Now these are twin cities but …’ Ibn-e Habib paused and then said, ‘The one thing I cannot understand is …’ And Ibn-e Habib fell silent.

  ‘O Ibn-e Habib, why have you stopped? Tell me, what is worrying you?’

  Ibn-e Habib hesitated, then said, ‘O Abdullah, the very thought makes me worried that this city of yours was a very kind city. I swear upon Him who nurtured me, I found it more large-hearted than the ocean; so, why has it now begun to scare me?’

  Abdullah gaped at Ibn-e Habib. Then he spoke in an anxious tone, ‘My friend, after all, what did you see that has so scared you?’

  ‘My friend, it is precisely this that is troubling me most: in real terms, I have seen nothing clearly, yet there is a fear swirling inside me and outside. Sometimes I get terribly scared. I don’t know if this is a mere doubt on my part or …

  ‘Or … what? Whatever your doubts may be, my friend, tell me without hesitation.’

  ‘My dear, I would tell you if it were clear to me. Something like a suspicion is growing inside me. Sometimes it seems to me, as dusk falls or late at night when a bird flutters close beside me or rushes past me with a rustle of its wings, that rustle seems ill-omened and a ripple of fear courses through me.’

  The door opens with a bang. A stretcher appears and Majju Bhai is issuing urgent instructions to the attendants as well as the nurses and others who have entered the room with him. The instructions seem to be about showing utmost care for me. And I seem as though I have scattered into bits; I couldn’t care less. Let Majju Bhai take care of what he knows best, I thought to myself. Once again, I began to collect myself. So, it is about those days, those times when the heydays of Granada had passed and …

  ‘Careful, my dear fellow!’ Majju Bhai was saying. ‘Which floor is the operation theatre on?’ Now this subject, now another … Majju Bhai was going on talking whereas possibly the attendants were in a hurry to pick me up, take me away and reach me to the operation theatre. I was anxious – not because I was in any physical discomfort, but because my train of thought had scattered. Naturally, this caused me no small measure of agitation. I was angry because I was stopped just as I was about to reach the real issue; I was a mere hair’s breadth away. Since I had remembered so much, if only I could have recalled the little that was left then I would have known … What would I have known? I fell in doubt. What was the issue? Why was I scraping my mind? If I remembered that incident would the rest of the things also … Rafiq sahab had also said something to this effect. Actually, at that point, I couldn’t focus my thoughts; I was lying on the stretcher. I felt as though I was sitting on a bullock-cart and the bullocks were speeding along. When will we reach the operation theatre, how far is it, which floor is it on? I felt I was entering a tunnel, as though the bullock-cart was going through a blind tunnel and the tunnel is showing no signs of coming to an end. ‘Why is this train crawling?’ a voice asks in the darkness. ‘Thank your stars at least it is moving,’ says another voice. ‘The last special was slaughtered right here; if only we could get away from here …’ ‘Then they should move the train very fast from here; why is it crawling like an ant?’ Indeed, the train is crawling and it feels as though I am lying on a stretcher …

  1 The Zu-al Hajj is the twelfth and last month of the Islamic lunar calendar. The hajj pilgrimage is performed on the 8th, 9th, 10th day of this month. When the haj occurs on a Friday, it is generally considered to be Hajj-e Akbar or the ‘greater Hajj’.

  2 In the convention of the qissa-kahani tradition, this is how most qissas usually ended.

  3 The story of Nal and Damyanti is told in the Mahabharata. Damayanti was the princess of Vidharba who married King Nala of Nishadha. Married to each other in their previous birth too, they are symbolic of eternal mates who will triumph over the cycle of birth and rebirth, trial and separation

  4 The Mausala Parva, the 16th of the 18 books of the Mahabharata, describes the death of Krishan in the 36th year after the end of the Kurukshetra War. Initially the kingdom of Dwarka is prosperous and peaceful, but soon the Yadavas become frivolous and hedonistic. Several ill omens afflict the city including the disappearance of Krishan’s fabled Sudarshan Chakra as well as his conch and chariot. The incidents described in the above passages are from the Mausala Parva.

  5 This is a Sanskrit phrase that was used by Krishan when he was teaching the meaning of the universe to Arjuna and as a means of self-awakening. ‘Om Tat Sat’ has no physical component. It is purely spiritual and beyond. It starts from the most primordial spiritual form Om and leads to the ultimate Impersonal God, the Formless One (Nirakar Brahm), Tat and the Non-dualistic Existence, Sat.

  6 Literally meaning ‘the shining city’, the Madina Azahara is a vast, fortified medieval palace-city built by Abdur Rahman III (912–961), the Umayyad Caliph of Cordoba.

  7 Muhammad al-Ghalib laid the foundations of the Alhambra while further construction was made by his son, Muhammad II. Inside and around the Alhambra are inscriptions in Arabic such as ‘The Kingdom is for Allah’ and ‘Wa la Ghalib illa Allah’ which means, ‘There is no Conqueror (Victor) except Allah.’ King Abu Abdullah (Boabdil) was known as ‘Al-Ghalib’ (The Conqueror). Yet, when recognizing his imminent defeat, he exclaimed otherwise proclaiming that none other than God was the Greatest. Hence, ‘There is no Conqueror except God,’ became the motto of his descendants.

  So I am alive! I feel surprise and such disbelief! From somewhere far away that sweet sound kept coming. It kept making constant assaults on my disbelief. The sound of a koel is like a magical spell. While the koel herself is a bird like any other bird, and not an especially beautiful bird either; as black as the crow, its voice is all there is to it. But where is this voice coming from? For a long time, I failed to understand that somewhere close or far, there must be a tree and the koel must be sitting hidden among its branches. It seemed as though the sound was coming from some land of dreams. That is why I couldn’t fully believe that this was me – complete with my living self as well as my full senses and hearing power. I was nearly half-asleep when it seemed as though somewhere very close, almost at my headstand, a bird was singing loudly. I opened my eyes immediately, turned on my side and looked towards the head of my bed. For the first time, I realized that a lush green tree stood on the other side of the glass window. The bird was calling out from somewhere within it. It was joined by the chirping of scores of other birds. So it is morning. And I am alive or have come to life. A wave of happiness rippled through me with the speed of lightning. With happiness mingled with amazement, I craned to look at that tree as far as I could as I lay on my bed and peered through the window. My anxious eyes were searching for that bird among the branches, which had pulled me out of my half-sleeping half-waking state and announced the good news of my being alive. But I couldn’t see it. Though, after a minute or two, I heard the sound of fluttering wings and the chirruping stopped. Perhaps it didn’t care for my curiosity. Anyhow, it had done its duty and now it had no further chore here; so it flew away.

  The door opened and a fair face appeared; the fair face came with a white gown. Light spread in the room for, indeed, it was morning. The thermometer clasped between those fingers looked so good. With a flick of the wrist, it was inserted in my mouth. Then, after a few minutes, it was pulled out and examined, the findings were jotted down in the chart kept at my headboard and she left the room as silently as she had entered. Anyhow, the atmosphere in the room had certainly changed by now as though a wave of freshness had coursed through it and so much light had spread all around. The haziness had dissolved and the morning looked brighter. Till yesterday, I did not know whether it was night or day, morning or even
ing. I had been breathing intermittently in a half-dark, pain-filled space. At some point, I went through the operation but that had been a time of unconsciousness. It was only now that I had regained consciousness. So this morning had come after a long night. And what a morning it was! Such a luminous morning had dawned for me after a very long time, and it was so fresh and peaceful too! Instinctively, I remembered the mornings from those days when I was still Munnan. One saw such luminous mornings only during those days. Every morning it seemed as though the earth had been born just then and the sky was freshly manifested. How pure the air felt and how invigorated the trees looked! And the birds … best not to ask about them for they chirruped all day long and sometimes set up a real din. Why did they do that? Possibly just for fun! But in the mornings they became so volatile, it seemed as though someone had given them a dose of mercury. The tail of the shama thrush wagged up and down furiously. And the cooing of the wild pigeons filled the air with a soft, low echo. And the parrots were known to create a racket but when they descended on the neem in our haveli, they became quiet; no one coud ever tell that the parrots were perched on the top-most boughs and amongst the green foliage. It was only when they flew away in a swirl that one realized that the neem looked so dense and so green because of the parrots. The branches began to look so bare as soon as the parrots flew away and also so much less verdant. Who knows what made an entire flock of parrots swoop down on the tree and what made them fly away equally suddenly to trace a long green higgledy-piggledy line in the sky. It seems as though the mornings were created only for the parrots, mynahs, sparrows and crows; men were content to benefit from whatever was left of the morning. They are the ones who got up first, they are the ones who used it first, they are the ones who were unhesitatingly exuberant and whatever was left came into the use of those human beings who woke up in the mornings. And it wasn’t just the mornings; both mornings and evenings were special times for the birds. It was as though evenings came especially for them and morning dawned only for them. As soon as the sun began to set, a tumult broke out among the birds – the crows became restless and the roller birds began to strut, anxiously craning their blue necks and looking hither and thither and calling out in their fear-filled voices.