“Many have to die still, I am going before them. I am going with them. I look back—what happened to those who are dead already? I look ahead—what will happen to those who die after me . . . ?” she said thoughtfully. “There is only one life and one death. There is no return.”
“The little ant, it climbed the hill with elephants in its ear,” Kamal was heard singing a Purbi folk song. “I saw a strange happening: the river was drowning in the boat.”
“Light spread on the hills every morning. I repeat the seven voices with King David,” said Michael who had turned into a rabbi.
Kamal went back to his singing.
“We have found the world wanting,” said Hari Shankar. “Our innocence has been our doom. We are tied to each other with this bloody innocence. The day one of us cuts loose we shall be scattered. The rope of our culture has already snapped and we hang in mid-air on its separate ends.”
“Forget your ghosts, forget your ghosts,” said Gulshan the materialist.
“Whatever I do, I feel as if all my actions are directly connected with the cosmic cycle. I try to laugh in order to hide the importance of my actions which can adversely affect others. The voice of the Lord our God is above the waters, his terrifying, destructive, annihilating voice which breaks the cedars of Lebanon into pieces,” Michael continued.
“Then the voice turns into Nataraj’s Tandav Nritya,” Surekha spoke through her own mystery.
“A thousand yogis sat in the forests, singing. I heard their chant,” said Hari Shankar.
“I roamed the meadows of Babylon and Judea playing on my harp,” said Michael.
“I heard your voice, too,” said Talat, “but you picked up a machine-gun.”
Kamal had come back. He began speaking abruptly. “Then the glass door opened. Champa was among those who came in. ‘Hello,’ she said, ambling towards me. ‘Who are these people? What is this place?’ This is The Rose of Sharon. And I am telephoning Cook’s office. At the moment I am safe, surrounded by tall stone buildings. A solid, marble floor under my feet. Champa is in front of me, she has the same hair-style, same looks, same smartness and poise. She is in a silk sari, her favourite orange. She is glowing in the bonfire of time.
“And I also have the uncomfortable feeling that I am not particularly happy to see her. I haven’t felt anything—sorrow, irritation, nothing at all. As a matter of fact I want to run away. Now what can I do if you are Champa Ahmed? How on earth can I help it? In fact, I won’t mind in the least if I don’t see you for another ten or twelve years.
“Today you look more beautiful than ever. More sensible, dignified, confident of yourself. ‘I heard the other day that you were going to Rome, Champa Baji, to dub your voice for the Urdu version of “Bitter Rice” or something, someone told me at the BBC,’ I said, to be casual.
“I felt that she wanted to tell me something very important, but checked herself.
“Outside it had started drizzling. ‘What are they showing in Studio One, Champa Baji?’ I tried to make small talk. People who were coming out of the cinema houses looked extraordinarily sad. The lights were dim, the street-musician on the kerb had never sounded gloomier. The double-deckers and cars in the traffic seemed to be lumbering painfully. Time went limping by on Oxford Street. She pressed her nose against the glass-and-chrome window and quietly observed the street scene. I said goodbye hurriedly and came out.
“Now I have left her far behind, and I am going home. She continues to stand in the noisy whirlpool of boundless silence, her little nose against the glass door. Why am I so tired? Let me sit down here quietly, let me be still,” said Kamal and sat down on a rock.
“Like pious thieves we evoked special devas, but our gods betrayed us,” said Talat. “Our Thieves’ Kitchen has closed down.”
“Now I remember nothing,” said Kamal raising his face. “Passing years float around me like soap bubbles. Lights glisten on rain-filled streets, the moon rolls over sleeping chimneys, slipping away towards the sea. Sharp winds whistle tipsily across the Southern moors, birds of the night are circling over the still, oily waters of heaving harbours.
“Crowds pass by on the bridge, canoes sail on shaded streams. I am on the shore.
“I have to search for a ship whose lights have gone out, a ship which will quietly enter the dark ocean, going towards a place where, I have this gut feeling, there is nobody to say, ‘Welcome home, Kamal Reza’ . . .” He stood up and started walking back towards the street. Then he repeated, “There is no one to say ‘Welcome home’ . . .”
1 Prophet Solomon’s cap.
2 Siraj Aurangabadi.
65. Stateless
On a frosty morning, a few days later, Talat took the earliest tube to Chelsea. Warm gusts of air blew in the tunnelled gloom of the half-empty Underground station. She emerged on the road and started walking towards Amala’s apartment.
Mr. Jenkins was on morning duty. Poor old man, he had gone out to fight for his King and Country, lost an empire as well as an arm. The Big Boys had come back as generals and proceeded to write bulky memoirs, but many Tommies became crippled beggars and porters.
Sometimes Mr. Jenkins looked like an Eliotonian character who saw women come and go, talking of Abbot & Costello. Did he have any children? Why didn’t they look after him? One could not ask personal questions in the West.
“Lousy weather, Miss,” he said, beaming. “But we’ll hear the first cuckoo pretty soon.”
Talat nodded. Optimism and fortitude had kept this nation alive.
Amala had been posted to Ottawa. She stood in the midst of her packed luggage and broke into a recital of lines from “Ash Wednesday”. Then she said, “Do you remember how Hari used to copy Prof. Sidhanta: five long years with the length of five long winters—I spent seven years in this lovely country.”
Nargis Cowasjee had come to say goodbye. She was soon going to marry her English fiancé.
“Rejoice, rejoice, the best is yet to be,” she said happily.
Talat rushed back to St. John’s Wood to finish packing for her brother, who was shortly leaving for India.
In her own foyer she was greeted by Mrs. Harding, the caretaker. She had a flatlet on the ground floor and, like Mr. Jenkins, was also the solitary, silent chorus of the drama.
Kamal was making breakfast. “Why are you sulking so early in the morning?” he frowned.
“I am all right, Jack!” she replied. “I was merely thinking that I’m also like Mrs. Harding.”
“You’re not as fat . . . yet.”
“I mean I’ll always remain the reporter, the observer, the chronicler.”
“You’ll always remain the Super Idiot. You’ll keep worrying about other people’s problems and never give a thought to yourself. Chances are you’ll quite mindlessly miss your boat . . . That reminds me . . . just find out the exact time of departure of my boat-train, pack my jing-bang properly, and stop scowling. With a mug like that nobody will ever marry you.”
The ship’s orchestra played its farewell tune. Kamal leaned over the railing and looked down at the quay. His eyes welled up. He was as emotional as ever, despite having lived in cold Britain for so long. An old European gentleman who stood next to him placed his hand supportively on his arm. He looked at the stranger in gratitude; he introduced himself as Prof. Hans Krammer from Vienna. Kamal went to his state-room. His cabin-mate turned out to be an American, Thomas Samson, an economist, going to India on a Fulbright scholarship.
All Kamal’s friends had come to Euston station—his Bengali comrades had even burst into the Nazrul Islam chorus, “On, on, on, drums are rolling in the sky . . . On . . .” He was a soldier marching onwards to take part in battles whose purpose was not quite clear.
In Portsmouth he was all alone. The world had begun to look strange from the moment he ascended the gangway. In the afternoon he made a round of the boat. The voyagers included families of Pakistani and Indian diplomats, American tourists, students returning home. He ran into Pandit Gaur,
a young Gandhian from Western U.P. Kamal used to know him in London. Together they befriended a group of European Indologists who were going out to India. Some were planning to stay there for a few months to attend the 2500th birth anniversary of the Buddha. The Government of India was going to celebrate the event with great fanfare as an international festival. Dr. Hans Krammar was an Austrian scholar of Pali, and a British poet was en route on an assignment for the BBC. All of them began to spend their time together.
A French bhikshu called the Rev. Premananda remained aloof, engrossed in his meditation. A Pakistani Ahmediya missionary based in West Germany tried a couple of times to preach Islam to the misguided White infidels, but they were too deeply involved with Booda to pay him any attention. In England Kamal had noticed two different kinds of Orientalists—the Islamicists were Pakistan-oriented while the scholars of Hinduism and Buddhism were indifferent or even subtly hostile to Islam. Well, everybody can’t be omniscient like Arnold Toynbee, Kamal consoled himself. On board, they had all the time in the world to thrash out these matters. As they approached the Suez the world became sultry and Kiplingesque. Till only ten years ago it was still Pax Britannica.
While they were crossing the Canal the discussion drifted towards E.M. Forster. The British poet said, “Forster wrote his novel in 1924, at which time he created Dr. Aziz as a representative Indian. Dr. Aziz is no longer Indian—Muslims are now identified only with Pakistan.” He glanced at Kamal and added, “Now, our Kamal Reza is not the typical Indian, only our Pandit Gaur is.”
The remark hit Kamal between the eyes. He sat there motionless. Lightning seemed to have struck him. Perhaps he was now stateless. The friends continued to sip beer and talk of other things while they passed slowly through the date-palm lined muddy waters.
In another corner of the deck a Maharashtrian woman began singing a Mira song in which the naughty child Krishna told his mother he hadn’t stolen the butter.
Maiyya mori, main nahin makhan khayo,
Bhor bhai gayyan ke pachche Madhuban mohe
Pathayo, Maiyya mori . . .1
Kamal forgot the unexpected anguish caused by the Briton’s realistic comment, and was instantly lost in the song. Pandit Gaur began to beat time with his hands and soon, both he and Kamal strolled towards the singer.
“Every culture has its secret language,” said the British poet, “and Kamal and the Pandit share it. That is the whole point. If a westerner were to write a novel about India he probably wouldn’t understand why they’re both so carried away by that song.”
Strains of a waltz floated out of the ballroom, outside an old Robert Taylor film was being shown. Kamal moved away and prowled around aimlessly, greeting some acquaintances with feeble ‘hellos’. On the deck, Sikh businessmen from Glasgow were singing Heer2 at the top of their voices. They also shared a secret language with the Muslims and Hindus of Punjab, and yet they had butchered one another in the riots of 1947. Politics has always been mightier than culture.
A full moon was rising sluggishly over the horizon. The boat moved forward with ease and dignity; the French Buddhist sat on a deck-chair in a corner. They entered the Arabian Sea.
Snow-white foam shone in the moon. Everywhere, on all the oceans of the globe, all manner of ships were sailing on this seemingly shoreless sphere of liquid moonlight. The Constitution, The Queen Elizabeth, The United States, yachts of the rich, cargo boats, destroyers, aircraft-carriers. All kinds of people voyaged on the high seas—diplomats, cardinals, American tourists. Gujarati and Sindhi businessmen. Indian dancers. Pandit Nehru and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad were in New Delhi and all was well with the world.
“I have probably become stateless, and this is not your sukhvati, your state of bliss, Brother Ananda,” Kamal said politely to the French monk, and went back to his cabin. He banged the door shut and didn’t go down for dinner.
Half the ship emptied at Karachi. The Indologists exchanged addresses and points of contact with Kamal as they approached Bombay harbour.
The Colaba lighthouse was sighted.
Kamal reached Lucknow, which by now had become a derelict and shabby city. Gulfishan looked deserted. The garden had withered, the garage and stable had been turned into godowns. (“All Pakistan-bound relatives dump their extra luggage in here,” his mother told him placidly.) His eyes searched for Ganga Din, Qadeer and Qamrun. He called out, “Hussaini’s wife, Ram Autar, Ram Daiya!” No one answered. They were not there. Ganga Din had died of old age, the driver had gone back to Mirzapur, Hussain to Karachi with Mrs. Amir Reza. And Ram Autar had found a better-paid job as a gardener in Sikander Bagh.
Finally, Kamal went into his room, fell on his bed and began to cry. Was he really so disturbed by his father’s destitution? He had spent his life railing against the feudal order. Now, after the abolition of zamindari, they were almost starving in Gulfishan. “Long live the Revolution! You ought to be pleased to see your old Mian Jan a pauper,” Taqi Reza Bahadur told him bitterly. “They abolished zamindari first in U.P. because most of the landowners were Muslims.”
“Oh, no, Mian Jan,” he had protested.
His sister Tehmina had come to meet him from Jhansi. She told him, “The Raja of Nanpura is selling his crockery and Mummy has sold off half her jewellery. The money you and Talat have been remitting from Britain was all spent on Mummy’s very expensive medical treatment. And, of course, they won’t accept a penny from me, being a married daughter. However, I have sent this girl to cook for them.”
Kamal went to Water Chestnut House and had a good cry, remembering Nirmala. Her aged parents were shattered because they had lost a daughter, his own parents didn’t realise that they had unwittingly lost a country.
He asked his father, “What do you intend doing now? Migrate to Iraq like the Raja of Mahmudabad or go to Pakistan?”
“I will stay right here,” the old man replied serenely. “Why should I run away?”
Kamal was puzzled, “But Mian Jan, you’d made such a show of joining the Muslim League.”
“That’s all right. Pakistan has come into being, well and good. In the circumstances, there was no alternative. Muslims had long been exploited economically. That does not mean that I run away from my own country,” he said wearily and looked at the clock. He had to sell another government compensation bond at one-third its value for Kalyanpur lands today. That was their only means of income in Gulfishan.
“Do you think I would go and stay as a poor relation at Amir’s place in Karachi? Certainly not!” said his mother. “At least we live in our own house over here.”
Kamal began to look for a job.
“Get a letter of recommendation from some influential person,” his father advised him.
“Why should I? Don’t I have confidence in myself?”
“Yes. But you belong to the wrong community.”
“Are Hindus given good jobs in Pakistan?” he retorted.
“No. But Pakistan does not claim to be a secular state.” Same arguments. Same answers.
Kamal wrote to Talat: “Continue working in London. Join the Indian diaspora, but don’t go to Pakistan.”
Talat replied: “Why are you so demoralized? This is precisely the time when your integrity and courage of conviction will be tested. Keep up the fight.”
He heard from Gautam who was in New York, but didn’t write back. Hari Shankar had returned from abroad and was posted in Bangalore. Kamal didn’t contact him, either.
Amir Reza sent him letter after letter from Karachi: “Come over at once. We need highly qualified scientists like you. Stop being such an ass—a man’s career should come before everything else. Don’t waste any more time.”
He stopped opening Amir’s letters.
Amir Reza had opted for Pakistan in 1947. Somebody in the Department of the Custodian of Evacuee Property woke up to the fact after eight years. Since one member of the Reza family had become a Pakistani, Gulfishan was deemed evacuee property—Syed Taqi Reza and his son were dedared ‘inte
nding evacuees’. They filed a suit challenging the Custodian’s decision.
Now Kamal spent most of his time going round the law courts, briefing the lawyers, writing out petitions. He had become extremely bitter; he rarely laughed, and his natural gaiety had given way to sourness and irritability.
He went to Delhi in search of a job and, as usual, stayed at Laj’s place on Bela Road. One morning as he walked up to the Maiden’s Hotel post office, he ran into Thomas Samson who had travelled with him on board the ship from England.
“Hi, Kim! So glad to meet you again!”
“Ah! You did tell me you would be staying at the Maiden’s. I was meaning to contact you. Have you ‘done’ Delhi, Tom?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll show you ’round,” Kamal said eagerly. In an instant he had became the Kamal of old, free from the worries of earning a livelihood, the zealous, proud son of free India. In the afternoon he took Tom to see the new National Physical Laboratory, in the evening he planned to go to Sapru House for a sarod recital by Ustad Ali Akbar Khan. He telephoned Gulshan to meet them at ‘Alps’.
“What are you doing these days?” Tom asked him while they were sipping cold coffee in a restaurant in Connaught Circus. Gulshan had also joined them.
“Nothing in particular, looking for work,” he replied, trying to sound casual.
“Unemployment is a major problem out here,” observed Tom earnestly.
“It’s a problem for everyone, not just for me. When prosperity comes to the land, it will also be for everybody, it won’t go distinguishing between Hindus and Muslims. We shall sink and swim together. Now, with the Second Five Year Plan . . .”
“You are an aristocrat,” Gulshan interrupted him with his usual frankness. “You can never declass yourself . . .”
“This is not true, Gulshan. Countless feudal families have been declassed in one stroke with the abolition of zamindari, reduced to abject poverty. And most of them happen to belong to my community,” Kamal replied.
“Even you are talking like a communalist!” Gulshan remarked.
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