Ibn-e Habib hesitated and then said, ‘Every day I see something in this city that makes me feel more scattered and distracted than ever and a hundred different doubts assail me. I look at the twists and turns of the world around me and I am amazed that this city of yours was once like a mother’s embrace for me; now it is a sea of fear. Listen to what happened today: I was passing by the al-Qaisar when my gaze fell upon a mendicant who had appeared from somewhere and seemed not in full possession of his senses as he was reciting “There is no Conqueror except Allah” in a loud voice. He stood in the middle of the avenue, looked up at the sky and spoke as though he was making an announcement: “Wata izzu man tashao wata zillo man tashao”.4 And then after a moment’s hesitation, he called out again, “Alas! Alas! Alas!” Hearing this, the agents and shopkeepers, shoppers and buyers, pedestrians and passengers stopped in their tracks and became motionless. An elderly man found the courage to ask, “O Ye Who Knows the Truth, why do you lament?” The mendicant looked closely at the elderly man and said, “I do not have the permission to speak anymore.” And with these words, he moved on. I followed him quickly but he dived into a narrow alley and disappeared into thin air. I combed through all the alleys and streets in the neighbourhood but I couldn’t find him.’
Ibn-e Habib seemed lost in thought. Then he spoke in a sorrowful voice, ‘I had set out in search of one thing and I ended up searching for something else.’
Abdullah looked at Ibn-e Habib with curious eyes, ‘What a strange thing to say! What had you set out in search of?’
‘That which my eyes are for ever searching for.’
Abdullah’s curiosity increased with this remark. ‘What are your eyes forever searching for?’
Ibn-e Habib hesitated and then said, ‘My dear friend, I don’t want to hide things from you. I will now show you the one wound I have hidden from the world. That moon-faced beauty, whose name is Kulsum, is enshrined in the hidden chamber of my heart. These yearning eyes of mine are forever searching for her.’
‘Kulsum? Which Kulsum? Tell me in which street of this beautiful city does she live? Tell me her whereabouts so I may help you in your quest.’
Ibn-e Habib drew a long sigh and said, ‘If only she were in this city! That moon had risen from the soil of Malaqah. I was deeply, passionately in love with her. Yearning for one glimpse of her, I would spend the entire day roaming around her alley. And when I did see her, for days I would remain intoxicated with the sight of her. What a beauty she was! Heavy-hipped, big-bosomed, with hair as dark as rain-heavy clouds and a face as fair as a full moon on a cloudy night. When the harassed populace began to leave Malaqah, I lost sight of her in that tumult. In the last few days, I have felt as though she is somewhere here, in this very city. And ever since then I have been roaming around restlessly, searching for her in every street and alley.’
Abdullah heard this and said, ‘No wonder I was suspicious that my friend is heart-sick and hiding something from me!’
‘As always, I was going around from street to street looking for her when I saw that mendicant and followed him. From al-Qaisar, I came out into the Zina Qata al-Vari and turned towards Bab Almeria and there I stood stock-still.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know but whenever I pass Bab Almeria I don’t know what happens to me and I stop. Anyhow, I came out of Bab Almeria and walked till I could see the domes and parapets of the Madinat-ul
Hamra. And at that very moment, I heard the rustling of a bird’s wings from somewhere close beside me. And a fear came over me and I turned back.’
Ibn-e Habib fell silent. Abdullah, who had been listening quietly, remained quiet and still. After a long time, he said, ‘O Ibn-e Habib, may the Almighty have mercy upon you. Listening to your fears, my own fears – which I had buried for so long – are beginning to resurface. Listening to you, I am reminded of a legend I had heard from the people of Baghdad.’
‘What was that legend?’
‘My friend, legend has it that one day at the time when day and night meet, a black bird with crooked claws and bent beak appeared in the skies above Baghdad like a dense black cloud. It descended on the Caliph’s palace and sat down on the top-most parapet from where it called out in a human voice, “O people of Baghdad! O people of Baghdad!” It called out thrice in this manner as though it was forewarning. And then it flew away God knows where. Its call was heard all over Baghdad. No one could understand what sort of bird this was and what its call meant. But everyone was terrified. And then what happened to Baghdad thereafter, how it was ruined – you know that well enough.’
Abdullah sighed and fell silent. For a long time, both sat silently and kept looking at the sparks flying out of the oven. For a long time, they sat lost in their thoughts till ash began to settle on the embers in the oven and the fire gradually went cold. Finally, Abdullah and Ibn-e Habib noticed this and got to their feet.
Abdullah and Ibn-e Habib had got up because the furnace had gone cold but what about the fire that was raging inside them? Its heat made them restless and they walked on and on. The night was getting drenched with dew. The streets of al-Qaisar were silent and the lights in the Grand Square were being dimmed, and so was the hustle and bustle. Abdullah and Ibn-e Habib moved on in the direction of Bab Almeria. Then passing through the Rabta al-Tuut, they moved towards Bab al-Nabuud. Ahead lay the Mosque al-Jauza. They skirted it and went past the Jauza Baths and on towards the Bab al-Vari. It seemed as though that night they would traverse the entire city of Granada. When they got tired of walking, they sat down beside the Fakh al-Vaza. ‘My friend, my legs are giving way,’ Abdullah said and sat down on a white alabaster bench beside a water tank as though he would collapse.
Ibn-e Habib too sat down nearby and said, ‘You are right; we have taken a long walk today. My legs are numb but oddly enough, my heart is as restless as ever and sleep is miles away from my eyes.’
‘Who knows which hour of the night this is, though it seems to be one of the last watches of the night,’ and Abdullah cast his eyes towards the sky where the brightly-twinkling stars were spangled from here to there. ‘It seems as though there are only two people awake – and restless – in Granada; all other living things are engrossed in dreams.’
‘My dear Abdullah,’ Ibn-e Habib spoke thoughtfully. ‘Sometimes I think there is a great deal you know and understand, but for whatever reason, you have sealed your lips. Or perhaps you do not consider me worthy of your confidence.’
Upon this, Abdullah said, ‘My dear friend, you have made the wrong supposition. I have nothing to tell. If there is anything I know, it is that there is a time to row your boats and there is a time to make your boats. That time is long gone when our forefathers got off at the shore, turned their backs to the sea and burnt all their boats. Now the angry sea is not behind us but ahead of us, and we have made no boats.’
Ibn-e Habib heard this and cried. ‘My dear friend, I had guessed right, for indeed you know more than me. And if only I had not tried to find out what you know. The fact is that I am petrified whenever you speak up. O Abdullah, understand that I am a terrified soul. Your words have made me even more scared. Now I feel that, that bird is flying somewhere close beside us and at any moment …’
‘Sahab-ji, shall I bring the food?’
‘What?’ I was startled as I looked at Nemat Khan.
Actually, I did not even come to know when Nemat Khan came into the room. Even earlier, he had the habit of entering a room silently; now he had become even more careful since he didn’t wish to disturb me as I rested. He tiptoed into my room as though walking on eggshells. So I don’t know when he entered my room and came to stand beside my bed.
‘Food … Oh, so it is ready … Yes, bring it.’ I had to come back from far away to answer Nemat Khan’s question. But possibly I had not quite come back fully. I was eating my food but in an entirely mechanical manner where the morsel would enter my mouth and my jaws would begin to move. And once the jaws began to move, a kind of w
heel began to turn inside me. The mouth was doing its job and my wandering imagination was doing its job. You could say that the carder sitting inside me was at work. It was carding away at the cotton. I was surprised because there was very little cotton but the carding had turned it into a mountain. The thing is that the same practice was continuing: all sorts of memories from all over had come and mingled with my memories. Of course, then I had been far too exhausted; I didn’t have the strength to stop other memories from getting mixed up with mine. But now I was not so weak. I was much better now. I was on a liquid diet; I was eating roti with gravy.
‘Sahab, you have eaten very little,’ Nemat Khan looked dissatisfied with my diet.
‘The fact is, sahab, your appetite has gone down. You will recover your strength only if you eat well.’
‘All right, get me some water.’
Nemat Khan quickly handed me a glass of water. I drank the water and immediately slid down to lie on the bed. My eyes began to droop almost immediately. I felt sleepy and it seemed that soon I would sleep. But the carding inside me did not let me sleep. A mound of cotton was forming.
But, yes, as I was saying that at that time I could see my memories mingling with memories and incidents from the world over, yet I was far too weak to stop it. Now I was not so weak, yet the same thing was still happening. Perhaps now I was not even aware of it. Incidents from all over, anecdotes from here and there …
‘My precious one, how many times are you going to hear that story?’
‘Once more, Phuphi Amma!’
‘All right, then, listen. Once there was a mynah. Her neighbour was a crow. The mynah had a nest but the wretched crow was homeless. The mynah would dive into her nest every day as evening fell and spend the night peacefully asleep. The poor crow would get back tired and settle down on the branch next to the mynah’s nest and spend the night somehow on his perch. One day, the mynah taunted, “O Brother Crow, how long will you be homeless and roofless like this?” The crow was stung by the mynah’s words. He thought, I must build a nest too, that too a nest that will make the mynah turn green with envy. And so the crow identified a grocer’s shop; he would fly in repeatedly and fly out with a bit of rock salt in his beak. In this way, he collected a lot of salt and with that salt, he built a nest for himself.’
‘Phuphi Amma, a nest made of salt?’ How surprised Munnan was!
‘Yes, my son, a nest made of salt. In summer afternoons, it would glisten as though it was made of glass and not salt. But soon the rainy season came and it poured cats and dogs. And lo and behold, that nest dissolved in the water and disappeared. Again the mynah taunted, “O Brother, you made a nest and that too with salt of all the things. Did you not know that the weather never remains the same? The rains had to come after the summer. Your nest was made of salt; of course, it had to melt.” The mynah’s words pierced the crow like darts. He decided to build a home with material that would not be affected by the rain and, with this in mind, he collected a lot of wax and began to build a nest. His home was washed clean in the rain and looked as though it was made of marble. Winter came after the rains and the crow spent the entire season in great comfort. But soon after came the summer and, my dear, when the sun shone brightly, all the wax melted. Once again the crow’s nest collapsed, or rather melted in a puddle. The crow felt very sad. He sighed deeply and said, ‘There is no nest in the fate of a crow.’ And once again he began to live on a branch.
My attention wandered once again towards Queen Nageshwari. She was right; it was tragic to remember one’s previous life. Security and well-being lie in memory, going round and round in its designated gyre. Memory has it own Lakshman rekha. The moment you step over it, you land into trouble. Ahead lies nothing but a jungle and that too a dense, endless jungle. And a jungle full of ogres. So Queen Nageshwari was right when she cried, and indeed she cried rather a lot because her husband the King also remembered his previous life. Trouble was added to trouble. Is one life not enough to be disgraced and dishonoured? Then why a second life? And not just a second birth, for there is no end to the cycle of birth and rebirth; it is an endless series of disgrace and dishonour. Queen Nageshwari thought that when she and the King were the Swan King and his mate and lived peacefully on Lake Mansarovar, then they were happy. But how long did that happiness last? Once again, a storm had come upon them. Once again, they had been separated from each other. It took Queen Nageshwari some time to remember this. And once again she became unhappy. And look at Maimuna … she just couldn’t remember when Phuphi Amma had told this story. And when she remembered she became sad. But she still couldn’t remember that they had met again after being separated in the storm. ‘When did they meet again? They didn’t.’
‘They met again,’ I said and prodded her memory with several other details from the story that followed. She remembered with great difficulty. ‘All right, so they may have met again,’ she said as though she couldn’t fully believe that they had indeed met again. Then she stayed quiet for a long time, looking extremely sad.
‘The poor she-swan’s plight has made you sad,’ I teased her thinking she might respond.
‘That’s just a story,’ she said, ‘Actually, I was reminded of Amma.’
Now it was my turn to feel sad. I remembered Phuphi Amma all the time when I lived there, but Maimuna mentioned her in such a way that I felt her absence far more acutely at that moment. This happened before Badi Bhabhi had jumped into the picture. In fact, after that fiasco, I realized with painful certainty that had Phuphi Amma been alive that situation would never have risen. Had she been alive would Maimuna have spoken to me in that rough manner? Anyhow, this subject came up in the middle of nowhere. The topic here was the sheer number of stories Phuphi Amma had told me and especially the ones about a pair of swans. The swan and its mate would meet and separate, meet and separate yet again as though this epic of union and separation was a dastaan of eternity and successors.5 And which country did they come from and which lake would they descend upon or the parapet of which palace would they alight upon in such a way that the princess sitting inside the palace would see them and be instantly enamoured. And sometimes they would be seen flying high in the skies – unconcerned with lakes and ponds, indifferent to settlements and forests, disinterested in palaces and mansions – as though they were swimming serenely in a clean and pure lake. And within a matter of seconds, they would disappear from sight and, after aeons, one would come to know that they were actually the king and queen of some distant land, or a prince and princess who had become a pair of swans in this life, but in the next one, they would once again have to become king and queen. At the time, I couldn’t understand why all these stories about the swan and his mate were bobbing up in my memory, why I was trying my best to make Maimuna also remember these stories and why, upon every narration of the union and separation of the swan and his mate, she would become quiet and sorrowful – as though she too in a previous birth … And the thought troubling me was that I had a previous life and I … Anyhow, no wonder then that I was constantly reminded of that sadhu who used to say that he remembered his previous life. So many times I felt that I should look for him. Where was he? Was he alive, or dead? When did he die? After he narrated his previous life? … He was born in a good time. Wealth showered down upon Dwarka during those days. But towns and hamlets never have the same fortune for too long. Who can tell when the shower of wealth will end and calamity will be let loose?
‘O Narendra, when I looked at the sea, I saw there was nothing but serpents in the sea as though it wasn’t the sea but a sea of snakes. Immediately, I turned away and moved on. I saw Baldev-ji6 sitting in a meditative pose under a tree; his eyes were closed, but his mouth was gaping wide open like a pit. And, O friend, I saw that Baldev-ji, who was like an ox among warriors and brave men, had shrunk and become tiny. He was nothing but a handful of bones. And between those bones was his gaping mouth like a snake-hole and from that hole emerged a snake – a snake white as the ash that is ru
bbed on the bodies of ascetics.’
Narendra was looking at Ganesh with surprise. Then he said, ‘O Ganesh, then this city is surely in peril. Only a wise man can tell us the meaning of this play. All I know is that we should go to Guru Shambhu Maharaj and ask him the meaning of all this.’
The Sea Lies Ahead Page 35