The Sea Lies Ahead

by Intizar Husain

  ‘That’s all right; you can recall it some other time and tell me. Don’t put any sort of burden on your mind now,’ Majju Bhai said and called out to Nemat Khan. Nemat Khan came running.

  ‘Look here, Nemat Khan, I am going out for a while. You take care of Jawad Miyan; give him some broth after some time. And for lunch, give him only gravy and the top half of a roti.’ Then he addressed me, ‘Yaar, this Ghazi sahab is well and truly stuck to me. I had said a few perfunctory words of praise, simply as a courtesy, and he seems to think I have also become a disciple like Baji Akhtari and Tausif. He is about to deliver an important sermon and he is very insistent that I go and hear him.’

  Startled, I looked at Majju Bhai, ‘You are going to hear Ghazi sahab?’

  ‘What can I do? He is so insistent. One has to do these things for the sake of civility. I am going to ask Rafiq sahab to be with me in my difficult time. If I will go with him it will be easy to come back early; he is adept at making quick getaways. I simply have to mark my presence; I will peep in and rush back.’

  ‘Go, then; May Allah have mercy upon you.’

  And Majju Bhai left with a few more words of apology. The fact was that Majju Bhai was fond of being out and about. My condition had chained him for a bit; all during my hospital stay, he had remained by my side. And now that I had been freed from the hospital, he too had, in a way, been liberated. So he had to leave the house for one reason or another. He couldn’t be expected to sit with me in the house as though he was imprisoned. After all, Nemat Khan was there to look after me. He had no reason to worry. And I too sighed with relief after he left. He was constantly in the way of this new series that had begun: of meeting myself. These meetings demanded solitude, and solitude was something I wasn’t getting. In fact, a new thought occurred to me. I had emerged unscathed from the tussle between life and defeat. My life was obviously stuck somewhere, for it refused to leave my body despite all odds. I was fine now. But that pleasant feeling that I had regained full health went away after only two mornings.

  I had got up feeling fresh and happy on the second morning since coming back home. I felt as though I was as healthy as before, or perhaps healthier. But the feeling vanished with the morning. I couldn’t understand why this feeling perished. Earlier, I couldn’t understand why I was feeling cured so quickly. Perhaps Nemat Khan had a role to play in the decline of that pleasant state of mind that had arisen from the sense of physical well being. At the first opportunity and – as always – behind Majju Bhai’s back, he had narrated all the recent alarming news and gossip. With the decline of that bright morning, I began to sense the decline of the morning inside me. As though my old state of mind was returning, as though I was flowing along the same track as before. But soon I became alert. I thought I mustn’t let myself flow along in the same way, on that same path as before, lest I am swept away completely. Gather yourself, get a grip on yourself, find the strength to defend yourself, and build a dam to keep out scattered, distracted thoughts and vagrant memories. So solitude was truly a necessity right now. Majju Bhai had tossed a new ember; he thought he had done his duty by telling me not to burden my mind, and that I should tell him about that incident when I remembered it. But I was steeped in anxiety. Had I really given away something to Majju Bhai when I was in that state? Or had I given him the impression that I was about to spit out something, but didn’t? I checked myself: What did I have to give away? Perhaps this was some ploy of Majju Bhai’s. Be that as it may, I had to search myself to make sure if I had, indeed, remembered something when I was in that state and had I really said so in front of Majju Bhai. And so solitude was essential to do all this and search myself. But I wasn’t fated to get it. Majju Bhai had barely left when Mirza sahab showed up.

  ‘Arre Bhai, why have you gotten yourself in this state?’

  ‘Come, Mirza sahab,’ I tried to sit up in bed.

  ‘No, no, you must lie down. I had just peeped in to check on you. I had met Rafiq sahab; he told me. I was stunned. I went home and told my wife and she too was shocked. She has been after me all morning to come and see how you are. So tell me: how are you?’

  ‘I am fine now.’

  ‘Thank God for that. You life has been saved. You must rest now. Insha Allah, you will be fully recovered in a few days. But how did this happen?’

  By now I had remembered everything, that is, I had come out of that stage when I could remember all sorts of other things but not this recent occurrence, and even when I could recall this incident, it was as though it had happened centuries ago. But now I could narrate the incident in every detail. But my health was still not permitting me to speak for very long. Then there was also the feeling that why go over that incident again and again? Anyhow, Mirza sahab had only made a token enquiry. And after some customary small talk, he launched upon his own lament: ‘This city has no place for people like us. How do we find the courage to see what is happening around us? Miyan, I want to die now. No one believes me; they seem to think I have lost it in my old age. No, Miyan, no … I am saying this in my full senses. I am ready to go in any case; I have lived to a full old age. How much longer do I need to live? I have seen enough of the world. Given the present state of the world, I no longer have the strength to see anymore. So, Miyan, I truly want to die now.’

  ‘What a thing to say, Mirza sahab!’ I remarked casually.

  ‘So, you don’t believe me either. No, Miyan, really; I am telling the truth. But death is not in my control. There was one such person who saw that the world was not meant for living in any longer and he announced that he was going; and he went away. He put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. His disciples thought he was sleeping; they didn’t know that he was sleeping the eternal sleep. Subhan Allah, what a willing death! And look at me! I live in the street of death, yet I do not die. Believe me, these sinning eyes of mine see a couple of people die every single day, but no bullet comes my way. What happens is that the moment I step out of my house, my neighbours tell me that the firing has stopped a moment ago, and when I go out and return home, I hear that the firing has resumed. Now hear what happened yesterday: I usually go to the mosque to offer my prayers. Yesterday, I happened to miss my maghrib prayer, and yesterday itself a bomb went off in that mosque. Look at my deprivation; had I gone to the mosque, I would have gained the death of a martyr. But how could I have gained it? It was not acceptable to Nature. I don’t know how my death is foretold. O You who sustain, take me away with dignity.’

  I listened in silence. I didn’t at all feel like speaking. Still, in an attempt to keep up his spirits, I said, ‘But Mirza sahab, why are you so disenchanted with life?’

  ‘Yes, Miyan, you are right; life is a God-given gift. Live what has been granted to you with patience and gratitude. You have to live it – whether you are happy or unhappy. But Miyan, where should I take my thoughts and fears? After all, why is Nature keeping me alive? What else is left to show me?’ And then after a pause, he continued, ‘My Delhi is called ‘the Threshold of 22 Sufis’, yet it has been devastated seven times and resettled seven times. Our ancestors had witnessed the sixth devastation and I witnessed the seventh one. Yes, we saw it and suffered it. I had heard from my mother’s mother that at the time of the Revolt, you couldn’t see a lit lamp in Delhi till as far away as 12 kos, and Delhi was a city without lamps. You just saw cats and dogs on the streets, not a human face in sight! I used to hear this and be surprised; in 1947, I saw it with my own eyes. I had left my mohalla perfectly intact and stepped out till Chandni Chowk. I passed the Jama Masjid; the market around it was full of people. Its stairs were crowded as always though there was a slight tumult. I paid no heed to it at the time. I had barely set foot in Chandni Chowk when a stampede broke out. I asked people around me what was happening, but no one told me anything. Anyhow, I retraced my steps back home. As I went past the Jama Masjid, Miyan, believe me, it was completedly deserted – with neither shopkeepers nor buyers, neither imam nor those offering the namaz. Thou
gh, yes, on the topmost step, a cage had got left behind; in the cage was a partridge that was flapping wildly and creating a din. I felt sorry for it but under those circumstances, it was foolhardy to stop and release it. I moved on. But I couldn’t help myself. I returned, leapt up the stairs and opened the window of the cage. The partridge rushed out and flew away. Quickly I came down and hurried home. I had barely set foot in my neighbourhood when I realized that it was in tumult. People were running out of their homes. I tried asking each one of them but who had the time to answer? A good neighbour said as he ran, “Mirza sahab, there is going to be an attack. Just leave this place.” I somehow reached my house and told my family, “Come, let us go; it is time for us to leave Delhi. We can’t live here anymore.” My wife said, “After all, which calamity has struck? We have been living here for generations. We are not vagrants that we can get up, dust our clothes off and get ready to leave.” I said, “Of course, calamity is upon us and within a matter of minutes, the water has risen above our heads.” And my wife dug her heels in while I kept shouting and asking her to hurry up.’ Mirza sahab paused and then said, ‘So, Miyan, I have seen that day; may God never show such a day even to one’s worst enemy. But we saw it and we suffered.’

  ‘You are absolutely right; it was just such a time.’

  And do you know the first complaint my wife made when she came to Karachi? She said, “Ai hai, there is no Jamuna river here!” And I said, “My dear, there is the sea here.” She replied, “This wretched sea fills my heart with terror.”’ And after a pause he continued, ‘But you know, gradually we learnt to live in this city beside the sea. You must be thinking that I am digging up old corpses, and you would be absolutely right. Why, we had buried the corpse and thrown tonnes of dirt over it. We had forgotten everything and settled down here. But, God knows why, those things are coming back as though they had happened just the other day.’

  Mirza sahab fell silent. For a long time, he sat silently. I too remained quiet. Then he spoke in a sad tone, ‘Jawad Miyan, this isn’t only about the present times. The Muslims have never done good to themselves. When the hurt becomes unbearable, I tell myself: “Mirza Dilawar Baig, what are you complaining about? Just think of all that has been happening in your history. The fact is, Jawad Miyan, we have been stung by our own history. We are not scared of anyone; we are only scared of our own history.’ He was quiet for a moment and then he began to mutter, ‘We had our Maulana Hali.1 May Allah have mercy on him! What a Mussadas he wrote. My father used to read it and weep … “Go and see the ruins of Cordoba …” And at that point, he would begin to cry uncontrollably. And he would say, “Why go there to see the ruins? Is there any shortage of things here to learn a lesson from? If only someone were to see. These wretched people are blind to the world around them.”’ He stopped then said, ‘Not that I am saying don’t see there; of course, you must look there as well. That too is our history. And what an awe-inspiring history it is with its admonitions and lessons!’ And after a long deep sigh, ‘Jawad Miyan, if only someone were to derive a lesson. I tell you the Andalusians were a very unfortunate people. What an edifice they constructed and, with their own hands, they brought it down!’

  Mirza sahab was in full flow and I was reminded of those years when I used to be his sole and constant audience. Gods knows what he saw in me for, from his entire staff, he had chosen me. He knew that page of history by heart. The sorrow of leaving Delhi was still fresh. He would describe the past glory of Delhi with such ardour and such exquisite anguish. And one way or another, the references to Cordoba and Granada would also come in and, with those references, he would inevitably jump and reach Andalusia. However, when that pain lessened, the references too gradually disappeared. Or perhaps they still appeared; it was just that I didn’t meet him as often. Since leaving that office, I met him only infrequently. And suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I was influenced by him. It was odd! At least, Majju Bhai should have noticed it. No, I instantly put a stop to my misgivings. It is true that I would give a patient hearing to his lyrical musings but I was in no way influenced by any of it. I used to hear him as I heard my grandfather. But then I always heard my grandfather’s ramblings with great interest …

  ‘Dear Brother Bande Ali, I am saddened to read about the history of Andalusia. It holds so many admonitions and lessons.’

  ‘You are absolutely right.’

  ‘But Brother Bande Ali, that age had a lot of miracles but the unfortunate still did not come to their senses. One incident in particular was truly remarkable.’

  Bande Ali drew a long puff of the huqqah and looked closely at Dada Miyan. ‘What was that?’

  ‘It is said that when the books of the Muslims were being burnt …’

  ‘Books were also burnt? But what was their fault?’

  ‘Was it not enough that they were written by Muslims? Ten lakh books were piled at the Bab-ur Mila and set on fire. It is said that a copy of the Holy Quran was also among them.’

  ‘The Holy Quran was also burnt?’ Bande Ali’s eyes opened wide with disbelief. A quiver ran through his body.

  ‘Listen, Brother, when all the books were burnt, people were surprised to see one book shining brightly among the pile of ash. It didn’t have so much as a mark on it. When they opened it, they saw it was the Quran.’

  ‘Subhan Allah! Subhan Allah!’ Tears rained down from Bande Ali’s eyes.

  And I was reminded that if Mirza sahab had lived during my grandfather’s time, they would have got along very well. He too would have been seen sitting beside Bande Ali and reciting ‘Subhan Allah! Subhan Allah!’ Anyhow, after an age, I had seen the same reference in his conversation. After an age, too, I had seen him speaking in his typically emotionally-charged way. He was alone for a change today. He was hardly able to hold his own in front of Achchi Bi. Today that Achchi Bi was not around, the field was clear for him. Moreover, Majju Bhai wasn’t there either; only I was there. He must have found such a quiet listener after an eternity. He was showing no signs of getting up. In fact, he had just about reached his real topic. The ancient history of the Muslims – that was his favourite topic. He knew so many pages of this history by heart. My fear was that any minute now he would begin to recite the Mussadas. I remember the last time when the subject of the Mussadas was raised and how he had gone on. He remembered so many paragraphs by heart. Anyhow, it so happened that every now and then, my eyes would droop. This probably made him realize that I was not listening attentively to him, or perhaps he realized that he had put too heavy a burden on a patient. Who can tell? Anyhow it was his decency and civility that after such a realization – whatever that realization may have been – he got up immediately. ‘Well, my dear, I have wasted far too much of your time. You rest now; I will take your leave.’

  ‘Oh no, Mirza sahab won’t you stay? You have come after such a long time.’

  ‘No, no, my dear. I had only come to enquire after your well being. She was nagging me to go and find out and I was also worried; so I came. One shouldn’t trouble the patient too much. You need rest. Allah is the one who gives health. And Masha Allah, you are looking healthier now.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘There is one thing, though. Majju Bhai is like cat on a hot tin roof; he can’t sit still. He can’t rest in peace till he has gone and peeped into four different houses. But is this the time to be gadding about? This is the time to hide one’s face and sit at home. So my dear, whether you like it or not, my advice to you is to be a bit more careful. You must rest. And when you have recovered – and God willing you shall recover very soon – you must refrain from going out. Let the world go to blazes. God has shown great mercy: your life has been saved. Those wretches had left little to chance. For them, a Kalashnikov is any pistol; it makes no difference to them. Arre, we didn’t use our sling guns with such blithe disregard! Our pellets were not just stones and pebbles; it took some time and effort to prepare our pellets. It wasn’t as though the moment we saw a mynah or any bird, we would aim our sling
shots. One had to think before one took a shot. Not like these people for whom human beings are like birds and parrots and their bullets are like pebbles and stones. It seems they have an itch in their hands. The moment they spot a human being, they don’t stop to think. A man’s life has never been so cheap. May God keep us safe from the evil hour!’ And with these words, he got up.

  ‘Arre Mirza sahab, are you really leaving?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, you need to rest. And as far as I am concerned, if I am even a little late coming back, my wife gets very agitated. And I don’t blame her. The world is such. Listen to what happened to a neighbour of ours. He comes from Lucknow, from a good Syed family. He had to go to Sadar.2 I told him to take me along too as I needed to go to the bank. He reached a little later than the designated time. He apologized and said he got late in having the Imam Zamin3 tied. Surprised, I asked him if he was planning to go on a long journey. He said, “No, I only have to drop you off at the bank and I have an errand in Sadar.” I asked him why he needed an Imam Zamin. He replied, “Ever since the situation has deteriorated in the city, my mother insists on tying the Imam Zamin before I set foot outside my doorway and makes me walk under the Holy Quran.” And I say she does well, for the world we live in is a very bad one.’ Mirza sahab paused on his way out and said, ‘Miyan, remember one thing, for I am older than you and I have seen more of the world than you have. The signs of our times are not good. These wretched Muslims, may Allah give them sense, are bent upon repeating their history.’ And with these words, he left the room hurriedly.

  For a long time after Mirza sahab left, I kept lying there with my eyes closed, dead to the world. Perhaps I got tired listening to Mirza sahab’s long monologue. Nemat Khan brought me some broth. I drank it and felt some warmth and energy course through my body. But I could not get out of the mood Mirza sahab had created with his words. In fact, I was feeling as though once again I was being swept away. There I was thinking that at long last I had got my much-needed solitude; now I would gather myself and build a dam on my many scattered selves that were flowing in many different directions. But Mirza sahab had created such an ambience with his words and that too not just any ambience! And even though he had made only a passing reference to the devastation of Delhi, such is the skill of master artists that they can paint an entire picture with just a few brush strokes and recreate an entire history in just a few pithy sentences. We are attracted towards what we fear the most. Miyan, we are not scared of anything; we are only scared of our history. It is strange: Achchi Bi is scared of the sea and Mirza Dilawar Baig is scared of history. Go and see the ruins of Cordoba. And what about our own ruins? The echoing Jama Masjid and its deserted stairs, empty except for that one cage lying on the top-most stair and in that cage a fluttering partridge. And for 12 kos all around not a human being nor the flicker of a lamp. The lampless city of Shahjahanabad. The lamp was still flickering in Granada, and Abdullah’s oven was still hot, for fresh bread was still being baked in it and its moist sweet smell was spreading in the warm air. But it had not the slightest effect on Ibn-e Habib – neither the moist sweet smell nor the warmth. He sat morose. Abdullah looked closely at him and said, ‘My dear friend, I can see that you are listless today. Even the bread that I have made – which makes the people of Granada lick their lips – you have eaten today as though it is stale. What should I make of your mood, my friend? Tell me why you are so distracted today?’