River of Fire

by Qurratulain Hyder

  Talat ran back to her office and informed her editor, “Miss Garnet . . . Queen Mary adored pulao—I mean pilaf—”

  “Isn’t that interesting.”

  “And King George V and Edward VIII loved shami kababs, and George VII . . . Miss Garnet, these are Indian dishes. Super-fine Mughal delicacies . . .”

  “Yes, yes?” She had removed her hearing aid.

  “And the late Queen Mary often commanded her Muslim cook—”

  “Muslim what?”

  “Cook. The headline can be ‘Queen Mary’s Indian Chef in Tears’.”

  “Fine,” Miss Garnet beamed. “Housewives will love the story. And do put in a bit about Queen Victoria’s traditions as well, how she loved India and so on. Don’t forget to add the recipes.”

  Talat returned to her room and started typing.

  The telephone rang. Now it was Zarina who whispered, “There has been a minor crisis at your place. I came here to meet Saulat Rehman and found her reading Dante to Gautam in the original, which he was pretending to understand.”

  “That’s no crisis. He loves such tomfoolery . . .”

  “And Shanta is standing in your sitting room, looking like the goddess Durga in all her fury.”

  “Zarina, I have to send down copy in 20 minutes flat—on recipes I don’t quite know. Tell me how much yakhni . . .”

  “Shanta has walked out on Bill and told him it’s either her or C—see?”

  “How many almonds . . .”

  “And she has come to tell G to tell C to leave B alone. Got it?”

  “No. Can you quickly give me the recipe for galawat-ke-kebab?”

  Zarina rang off.

  55. End of an Exile

  Shiv Prasad Bhatnagar ‘Ranjoor’ Barabankavi had come from Barabanki, U.P., before 1939, to study at Oxford. When the war broke out he stayed on in England and married a Latvian refugee whom he renamed Maya Devi. He was given to brooding and writing Urdu poetry, she ran a boarding house, their slender and only means of income. Any Indian or Pakistani who failed to find lodgings anywhere else headed straight for this shabby three-storeyed building in Camden Town. Ranjoor Saheb looked after his paying-guests as if they were his long-lost relatives. Often they disappeared without paying—he never complained.

  BBC’s Hamraz Fyzabadi was his tenant in the first floor flat. Ranjoor Barabankavi was a Hindu and an Indian, Mr. Fyzabadi was a Muslim and a very staunch Pakistani. Still, both were Urdu poets from Oudh, and they shared the same Urdu culture. Ranjoor often took out the Ramayana in Urdu verse and after a few glasses of whiskey, said tearfully: “You unholy Muslims cut Mother India into two.” Whereupon Hamraz, who did not drink, came out with some choice remarks about what the Kafirs had done to Muslims during the Partition riots.

  Then Shiv Prasad would say, “All right, listen to this ghazal which I composed last night.”

  All his lodgers who belonged to Uttar Pradesh, attended the evening sessions in Ranjoor Saheb’s front parlour, where a lot of Urdu poetry was recited. Once Kamal turned up and was amazed to find Hamraz Fyzabadi holding forth on U.P.’s glorious culture. “Your country is Pakistan, what on earth have you got to do with Uttar Pradesh now?” Kamal had said to him.

  “One’s heart is still in Fyzabad, even if one has taken up residence in Quetta or got a job in Peshawar. Every year when one goes to Fyzabad to meet one’s old folk at home, one is shadowed by Indian C.I.D. Back in Pakistan it is said that refugees from U.P. have descended upon a young and struggling country only to exploit the new opportunities. For the rest they still look upon Bharat as their real country. In short, one is neither here nor there.”

  Hamraz Bhai offered some perfumed tobacco to Ranjoor Saheb who was busy preparing a paan with enormous gravity. Betel leaf was a holy object, specially flown from Karachi to London, and Hamraz Fyzabadi gave Ranjoor Saheb two leaves, morning and evening, as a sacred offering. After finishing the paan-preparing ritual Hamraz Saheb turned towards Kamal. “The trouble is, Kamal Mian,” he said mildly, “that you are a visionary. All young men are. Upright, honest. They don’t like facing uncomfortable facts. The problem is that the world is run by politicians, not poets. Be realistic, for a change, Kamal Mian, and stop taunting me about Pakistan.”

  Maya was a homebody, quiet and complacent, and always cooking. She must have been beautiful when Ranjoor Saheb married her fifteen years ago. Ranjoor Saheb was too busy with his books to pay any attention to his wife. Then one day, a young Parsi student came to stay in Ranjoor Saheb’s boarding house. The London Majlis was going to stage a variety show in aid of the ailing Bengali poet, Qazi Nazrul Islam, who had been brought to London for medical treatment. Pakistan had also declared him a national poet. (The other national poet, Iqbal, had died in 1938.) Nazrul was a citizen of India and lived in Calcutta, and it was rumoured that he had been indulging in Tantric practices which adversely affected his reason. His mind had long been paralysed, and he was blissfully unaware of the partition of the subcontinent.

  One Saturday afternoon, members of the London Majlis divided themselves in to several groups and went forth collecting funds. Talat and Feroze made for Camden Town. They met Hamraz Fyzabadi in the gallery of Ranjoor Saheb’s house. “Hand over a fiver, Hamraz Bhai,” Talat demanded sinisterly, Chicago-style.

  At that very instant a catastrophe occurred in the life of Ranjoor Barabankavi, who was strolling in front of his house composing a melancholy ghazal.

  At this time Maya Devi could usually be found arranging supper in the basement kitchen. However, today Ranjoor spotted something through the window which convinced him that his wife was conducting a passionate affaire de l’amour with their new lodger, Hoshang Matchiswalla. Right under his honourable nose! Mr. Ranjoor darted towards the house.

  Talat and Feroze were standing in the hall with Hamraz Bhai when they heard a crashing thud in the basement. They rushed down and were appalled to find Maya lying prostrate on the ground, bleeding profusely. Her ten-year-old daughter Leela knelt beside her, howling with all her might. Ranjoor Saheb stood in the doorway, very quiet.

  “What happened?” Talat gasped.

  “Nothing,” he replied serenely. “She slipped on the stairs. Don’t you worry,” and he went upstairs.

  The next minute they heard another loud bang on the first floor, and by the time Talat telephoned 999 to get the ambulance, Ranjoor Barabankavi had finished beating the daylights out of Hoshang Matchiswalla. Hamraz Bhai and other lodgers hastened to the spot to intervene, and in the confusion, the aggrieved husband boxed all of them on the ears, one by one, and actually had a terrific fifty second free-style wrestling match with Hamraz Fyzabadi. The staircase landing was completely dark while this blood-and-thunder enactment took place.

  It was discovered later that Hamraz Bhai and Ranjoor Barabankavi had both taken each other to be Hoshang Matchiswalla. Now Ranjoor Saheb was requested to get some brandy from the local pub for his poor wife.

  He didn’t return. A scout who was sent down to the pub, returned with the news that Ranjoor Saheb had settled himself at the bar and was drinking away happily. The ambulance arrived and Maya Devi was taken to the hospital for first aid. Hoshang Matchiswalla, meanwhile, packed up, hailed a cab and made himself scarce.

  A few leading movie stars like Raj Kapoor and Nargis began arriving in London, but they failed to make a splash because the Indian population in the city was still quite small.

  “‘The Beauty Queen of Indian Cinema’ is in town these days,” a London Majlis friend told Talat. “I have made an appointment with her to see you and Feroze. The lady has cartloads of jewels given to her by the four biggest maharajahs and nawabs of India. She’s staying in a luxury flat in Knightsbridge, and is bound to give us a large amount for Nazrul’s Aid.”

  Talat remembered her appointment with the Beauty Queen, and rushed to Knightsbridge along with Feroze.

  The Beauty often came to England to visit her children who were studying in two very expensive schools. “This indicat
es the sociological changes which are taking place in our country.” As usual, Talat started an academic discussion on the way to Knightsbridge. “When the British-educated son and daughter of the Beauty Queen go back home they will not be referred to as such and such Baiji’s grandchildren.”

  “Yes,” agreed Feroze, “but such classy Baijis were always accorded special status in our male-dominated feudal society. Chanda Bai of the Deccan was a child of her times, the troubled eighteenth century—so she even raised a little army of her own. She gave away millions in charity. The Beauty Queen is bound to donate at least twenty pounds—our demand is so modest.”

  They were welcomed by a smiling Beauty Queen. She introduced them to her very fat mother who was a beauty in her own time, and a famous singer. Once, during the First World War, Lawrence of Arabia had attended her mehfil in Delhi. The hostess spoke to the girls most charmingly and offered them pakoras which her mother had been frying. Both mother and daughter wore huge emeralds and diamonds.

  “Remember the Princes’ jewels and ask for thirty pounds,” Talat whispered to her friend. Feroze made the request.

  The legendary Beauty gave them an enchanting smile. “Unfortunately,” she said in her silvery voice, “due to foreign exchange restrictions, I do not have a penny to spare. I offer my heart and soul to your good cause.” She saw them off at the ornate door of the lift, made a little bow with her courtly salaams, and stood there till the lift went down. Talat and Feroze boarded a bus and settled down to another academic discussion.

  “A few points are verified by today’s episode,” said Talat gravely. “(a) What the books say about these ladies being the last word in charm, culture, etiquette, etc. is absolutely correct; (b) this was the reason why besotted men crowned them queens or lost their kingdoms; (c) no man would thrash them for being unfaithful. Harrassed housewives like Maya Devi get bashed up.”

  Back in shabby old Camden Town they found all Ranjoor Saheb’s lodgers assembled in Hamraz Fyzabadi’s drawing room. Feroze told him about their unsuccessful mission and he said, “You should have asked me before going there. Mother and daughter are well-known for their meanness. The mother used to come to sing at the radio station when I was with AIR Delhi.” He was about to lose himself in pre-Partition nostalgia when somebody resumed the discussion on the evening’s fracas.

  The curtain moved and Ranjoor appeared, framed in the doorway. “Do come in,” his guests chorused, awkwardly.

  The unhappy landlord glanced around. “No,” he said, “I don’t want to disturb your gossip session. Came up just like that—goodnight.” He disappeared again.

  Shiv Prasad Bhatnagar didn’t return home. His wife resumed her household drudgery with bandaged head and poised demeanour: she was a woman of remarkable resilience and dignity. After a couple of days Shiv Prasad Bhatnagar, Ranjoor Barabankavi, was found lying frozen and dead on the Embankment.

  56. Light on the Hilltop

  The sanatorium glimmered at the top of the hill like a bonfire lighted by an unseen boy scout. Gautam drove uphill, passing through an immense silence. Mechanically he got out of his car and ascended the flight of stairs and, walking through soundless corridors, entered Nirmala’s room.

  Her eyes lit up when she saw him. She had been lying with her face to the wall. Away from the crazy, selfish world, what was she awaiting with such unnerving tranquility? He shuddered a little as she sat up.

  Hurriedly she tidied her hair with her fingers, worrying unhappily if her nose was shining too much.

  “Nirmal, how robust you are! Soon you’ll start looking like Lala Rukh,” he remarked with forced gaiety.

  She smiled politely.

  Nirmal, I never took any notice of you; and now you are a part of my being. Maybe it’s too late. Champa was the tumultuous Ganga in flood in the monsoons. Nirmala had always been the gently flowing Gomti. Despite her schoolgirl prattle she had somehow remained detached, a silent devotee of Krishna. Or sublime like a goddess, hidden inside a white temple on a hilltop.

  With great effort he had managed to banish Champa from his thoughts, and successfully avoided meeting her despite living in the same country and moving in the same social circle for some years. Grant me some peace, goddess. He placed his hand upon Nirmala’s forehead.

  “Gautam Mashter, tell me the latest.”

  “A new character has landed up from India, Mr. Tughyan Bhagalpuri,” Gautam began.

  “Ha, ha, what a funny name. Is he a crack-pot too?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What is Surekha’s new flat like? I believe it has a lovely garden room.”

  He described the said room in detail. “Get well soon and see it for yourself,” he added.

  “Yes, yes, I will,” she replied with faked enthusiasm.

  He told her the latest off-colour jokes about the Queen and Prince Philip. She laughed heartily and told him some jokes in exchange.

  Before they knew it, the visiting hour was over.

  “Oh, gosh, listen, I forgot to ask you . . . According to Champa-watchers, she has also hit town, back from Cambridge. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh,” Nirmal said simply, “I thought Talat would have told you. You must meet her, poor old thing, drifting like an oarless boat.”

  Her new compassion for Champa upset Gautam. Those who have an inkling that they are about to go tend to forgive whoever has hurt them. Nirmala put her head back on the pillow, a little exhausted. With a woman’s sixth sense she understood that Gautam had lied to her about Champa. She switched the light off after he had left and turned her face to the blank, white wall once again.

  Gautam had telephoned Champa a day earlier. “This is Gautam,” he said, a trifle nervously. “Is that Champa?”

  “Ah, you Tarzan, me Jane,” she replied flippantly. That put him at ease—she had certainly become hard-headed. She expressed neither surprise nor anger at his having materialised out of the blue after all these years. He arranged to meet her on Saturday evening.

  She came to the door of her mews, and greeted him. “Ah, long time no see, no nothing,” she said smoothly as though they were two Anglo-Indians meeting casually on a Saturday afternoon on the Mall in Hazrat Ganj. With great courtesy he gave her a bouquet of flowers and a musical box. She lifted the lid and it played ‘Auld Lang Syne’. She felt like crying. He looked away. No. She had not become a Jezebel, she was the same old Champa of yesteryear.

  “This is a cigarette box!” she said, wiping her eyes.

  “I know you smoke.”

  “I remember you once said you didn’t like women who smoked and drank. I do both.”

  “You do a good many things now that we don’t quite approve of, but that is none of our business.”

  “And pray who is we?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “My friends—”

  “The Lucknow Gang?”

  “Yes. You always considered yourself to be too much of an individualist to identify with it.”

  He manoeuvered his American limousine out of the lane. “Charles Dickens once lived here,” she told him.

  “Oh, did he?” He was very quiet, thinking guiltily about Nirmala. It’s pure hell for a man who is torn between two women. They headed for the countryside and had their tea in a road-house.

  “I have bought a Mayflower,” she told him, another conversation piece.

  “Why a Mayflower? A Hillman is always better.”

  “Do you realise that we have met after so many years and you have started arguing with me all over again,” she said ruefully.

  “One doesn’t change, the way you have.”

  She turned pale. He tried to soften the blow—“Both you and my Bhabi, Shanta, both of you have gone overboard, totally westernised.”

  “Ah! Please don’t bring up that Bharatiya Nari Sati-Savitri business!” she answered curtly.

  “No. But when I hear people calling you Nabob Cyril’s Bibi I do feel unhappy. I’ve been away in the States all thi
s time, so I didn’t quite know what you had been up to over here . . .”

  “You have become a gossipy old mohalla woman. And for your Information and Broadcasting, Cyril Ashley wanted to marry me. I refused.”

  “It seems to have become your pastime, refusing offers of marriage.”

  “He wanted to divorce his wife and marry me, but I am not a home-breaker so I said, no.”

  Gautam smiled fondly. Good old Champa. Living in Britain may have changed her as a person, but it had certainly not improved her English. “Home-wrecker, you mean,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that. So once again you sacrificed your personal happiness for the sake of another woman. First Tehmina, now Mrs. Ashley—that was very noble of you. Tell me, then, why are you trying to entice poor Bill?”

  “Oh, that! You’ve done your homework about me all right.”

  “Shanta Nilambar is my relative,” he reminded her.

  “Well, I wanted to hurt her: a) because she was very uppity with me, b) I am intensely jealous of her. I know you still care for her a great deal, and I’ve always wondered why on earth you let her shack up with Bill . . .”

  “I told you, I am a conservative person and she is still my bhabi. I can only admire her from a distance. She’s a rare combination of beauty and brains, like Attiya. She is waiting for the Hindu Code Bill to become a law, then she will be able to divorce my cousin and marry Craig. So, please Champa, leave Mr. William Craig alone—I hate talking to you like this.”

  “You think I’ve become a slut.”

  He winced. “Ladies don’t use such language, Champa.”

  “Oh, forget it. Even in Chand Bagh/Badshah Bagh I had acquired a kind of reputation. And here, too, Indians love scandal-mongering. That’s why I only meet foreigners.”