Basti

by Intizar Husain

  It’s like this, Irfan: defeat too is a trust. But today in this country they’re all putting the blame on each other, and they’ll do it even more as time goes on. Everyone’s trying, and will keep on trying, to prove that he’s not responsible. I thought that someone ought to take up this trust.

  Husain worked on Basti for a number of years, and the novel finally came out in 1979. Widely read and greatly admired in Pakistan, it also caused a good deal of controversy. In particular, critics attached to a politically activist concept of literature were disappointed at Zakir’s ineffectuality, objecting that the book offered no clear political perspective or resolution, though that of course was the point. Husain is averse to making prophecies or giving marching orders or filling out prescriptions. Other critics of the book, as Husain’s excellent translator Frances W. Pritchett has noted, complained that the novel offered “a ‘negative impression’ of their culture, a mood of ‘nostalgia.’” But then as Pritchett sensibly remarks, “surely no intelligent reader will expect [the book] to be . . . a definitive, complete picture of modern Pakistan.” Finally, the novel’s unconventional form led some aesthetically conservative critics to wonder if it was a novel at all. The challenge of Basti to readers in Pakistan, and indeed everywhere, is to read it not as a handmaid to history or the valet of ideology, whether political or aesthetic, but precisely as a novel, one that mixes different narrative modes with extraordinary skill to describe a crisis that is as spiritual and universal as it is national. Mahfouz combined the influence of the European novel with that of indigenous traditions, like the Arabic maqama, creating what he called “a mold of his own,” and Husain has done something similar. His vision of the novel is also close to that of Milan Kundera, for whom the novel “puts itself exclusively at the service of ‘what only the novel can say.’”

  Basti ends with a dramatic and ambiguous pronouncement. Afzal, one of the circle of friends, calls for everybody to be silent. Then he whispers, “signs always come at just these times . . . . This is the time for a sign.” What this sign may be, whether in fact it will appear—these questions are left hanging. The novel is open-ended. The reader is left in a state of suspense, suspense that reflects the dread felt in so many of its pages but that may also recall, however distantly and dimly, the experience of questioning, of wanting and waiting to find out about the world that is so beautifully evoked in its first luminous pages. In a sense Basti itself is the sign, or at least a sign of the possibility of a sign, just as Zakir is shown to keep faith in the possibility of revelation, a shimmering nearness that evades our grasp even as it hovers within reach.

  —ASIF FARRUKHI

  BASTI

  ONE

  WHEN THE world was still all new, when the sky was fresh and the earth not yet soiled, when trees breathed through the centuries and ages spoke in the voices of birds, how astonished he was, looking all around, that everything was so new, and yet looked so old. Bluejays, woodpeckers, peacocks, doves, squirrels, parakeets—it seemed that they were as young as he, yet they carried the secrets of the ages. The peacocks’ calls seemed to come not from the forest of Rupnagar, but from Brindaban. When a little woodpecker paused in its flight to rest on a tall neem tree, it seemed that it had just delivered a letter to the Queen of Sheba’s palace, and was on its way back toward Solomon’s castle. When a squirrel, running along the rooftops, suddenly sat up on its tail and chittered at him, he stared at it and reflected with amazement that those black stripes on its back were the marks of Ramchandar-ji’s fingers. And the elephant was a world of wonder. When he stood in the entry hall and saw an elephant approaching from the distance, it looked like a mountain moving. The long trunk, the huge ears waving like fans, the two white tusks sticking out and curving like scimitars—when he saw it all he ran inside, wonderstruck, and went straight to Bi Amma.

  “Bi Amma, did elephants once fly?”

  “What, have you gone crazy?”

  “Bhagat-ji was saying.”

  “Well, that Bhagat-ji has rocks in his head! Imagine, such a huge heavy animal, how could it fly in the air?”

  “Bi Amma, how were elephants born?”

  “How else? Their mommies gave birth to them, and there they were.”

  “No, Bi Amma, elephants came out of eggs.”

  “What! Have you put your brain out to pasture?”

  “Bhagat-ji was saying.”

  “That wretched Bhagat has lost his mind. Such a big animal, an elephant—as though it would come out of an egg! Not to speak of coming out—how would it ever fit into an egg in the first place?”

  But he had a lot of faith in Bhagat-ji’s knowledge. With his sacred thread around his neck, his caste-mark on his forehead, his whole head shaved except for one tuft, Bhagat-ji sat in his little shop, sold condiments, and told wise stories from the Ramayan and the Mahabharat. The children called out, “Bhagat-ji, a penny’s worth of salt! Bhagat-ji, two pennies’ worth of brown sugar!”

  “Children, don’t make a fuss! Be patient.” As he spoke, he weighed out the salt, packed up the brown sugar, and then picked up the story where he had left it. “Children, when Brahma-ji saw this, he said to Shesh, ‘Look, Shesh, the earth is very unsteady these days. You give it some help.’ Shesh answered, ‘Master, lift it up and put it on my hood, then it will stay still.’ Brahma-ji said, ‘Shesh, go inside the earth.’ Shesh saw a hole in the earth. He slipped into it. When he went inside the earth, he spread out his hood, and supported the earth on his hood. When the tortoise saw this, he felt worried, for under Shesh’s tail was nothing but water. He went down under Shesh’s tail and supported it. So, children, the earth rests on Shesh-ji’s hood. Shesh-ji rests on the tortoise’s back. When the tortoise moves, Shesh-ji quivers. When Shesh-ji quivers, the earth shakes, and an earthquake happens.”

  But Abba Jan gave a completely different reason for earthquakes. Hakim Bande Ali and Musayyab Husain came every day and sat in the big room—the room with its fringed fan hanging down right in the middle, with its cornice running all around near the high ceiling where wild pigeons, doves, and wrens had built their nests. What difficult questions they used to ask Abba Jan! And without hesitation Abba Jan recited verses from the Quran and recounted sayings of the Prophet, and answered every single question.

  “Maulana! How did God Most High make the earth?”

  A little reflection, then the answer. “Jabir bin Abdullah Ansari asked, ‘May my mother and father be sacrificed for Your Lordship—From what substance did God the High and Exalted shape the earth?’ The Prophet of God replied, ‘From the expanding of the ocean.’ Then he asked, ‘How did He make the ocean expand?’ He replied, ‘From the waves.’ Then he asked, ‘Where did the waves come from?’ He replied, ‘From water.’ Then he asked, ‘Where did the water come from?’ He replied, ‘From a single pearl.’ Then he asked, ‘Where did the single pearl come from?’ He replied, ‘From the darkness.’ Then Jabir bin Abdullah Ansari said, ‘You have spoken the truth, oh Prophet of God.’”

  “Maulana, on what does the earth rest?”

  Again a moment of reflection. Then with the same easy elegance, the answer. “The questioner asked, ‘May my mother and father, oh Your Lordship, be sacrificed for you—what holds the earth steady?’ He replied, ‘Mount Qaf.’ Then he asked, ‘What surrounds Mount Qaf?’ He replied, ‘The seven earths.’ Then he asked, ‘What surrounds the seven earths?’ He replied, ‘A serpent.’ Then he asked, ‘What surrounds the serpent?’ He replied, ‘A serpent.’ Then he asked, ‘What is under the earth?’ He replied, ‘A cow with four thousand horns, and the distance between one horn and another is five hundred years’ journey. The seven earths rest on two of her horns. A mosquito sits near the cow’s nostrils, and for fear of him she cannot move. All she can do is change horns, and it causes an earthquake.’ Then he asked, ‘What does she stand on?’ He replied, ‘On the back of a fish.’ Then the questioner was convinced, and he said, ‘You have spoken the truth, oh Prophet of God.’”

 
Abba Jan fell silent. Then he said, “Hakim Sahib! This whole world comes down to a mosquito sitting near a cow’s nostrils. If the mosquito goes away, where will the world be? So we exist at the mercy and good pleasure of a mosquito, but we don’t realize it, and we’re vainglorious.”

  Every day these conversations, every day these stories, as though Bhagat-ji and Abba Jan together were explicating the universe for him. As he listened to the conversations, an image of the world took shape in his mind. Well, the world was born, but what happened after that? Mother Eve wept a great deal. From her tears were born henna and eye shadow. But from her stomach were born Cain and Abel, two sons, and one daughter, Iqlima, who was partly like the sun and partly like the moon. The father bestowed this daughter upon the younger son, Abel. At which the older son, Cain, waxed wroth, and lifted up a rock and smote Abel with it, so that he died. Then Cain arose and lifted up Abel’s corpse on his shoulder and walked all around the earth. And in the spots where Abel’s blood fell, lo, the earth became alkaline. Then Cain began to ponder what he should do with his brother’s corpse, for his shoulder had begun to ache with the burden of it. And it came to pass that he saw two crows fighting, and one of them slew the other. The slayer dug a hole in the earth with its beak, then buried the victim in it, and went and perched on a tree. Then Cain made lament, “Alas for my wretchedness—I could not even do as much as a crow, and bury my brother!” Then the brother buried his brother, following the example of the crow. And that was the first grave that was made on the face of the earth, and that was the first human blood that was shed by human hands, and that was the first brother who was slain by the hand of his brother. He closed the book with its yellowing pages and put it back where he had found it in Abba Jan’s bookshelves; then he went to Bi Amma.

  “Bi Amma! Abel was Cain’s brother?”

  “Yes, dear son. Abel was Cain’s brother.”

  “Then why did Cain murder Abel?”

  “A curse on his blood—it was thinner than water!”

  He heard this, and wondered, but now there was a little touch of fear mixed in with his wonder. In his encounters with wonder, the first ripple of fear. He rose and went into the big room, where Hakim Bande Ali and Musayyab Husain sat as usual, asking Abba Jan questions and listening to the answers. But Abba Jan had made a leap from the beginning of the world, and had already reached the end of the world.

  “Maulana, when will Doomsday come?”

  “When the mosquito dies, and the cow is free of fear.”

  “When will the mosquito die, and when will the cow be free of fear?”

  “When the sun rises in the west.”

  “When will the sun rise in the west?”

  “When the hen crows, and the rooster is mute.”

  “When will the hen crow, and when will the rooster be mute?”

  “When those who can speak fall silent, and shoelaces speak.”

  “When will those who can speak fall silent, and when will shoelaces speak?”

  “When the rulers grow cruel, and the people lick the dust.”

  After one “when” a second “when,” after a second “when” a third “when.” A strange maze of “whens”! The “whens” that had passed away, the “whens” that were yet to come. What “whens” and “whens” Bhagat-ji recalled, what “whens” and “whens” were illumined in Abba Jan’s imagination! The world seemed to be an endless chain of “whens.” When and when and when—

  •

  But now the thread of imagination abruptly snapped. The sound of slogans being shouted outside suddenly penetrated the room and scattered his memories in all directions.

  He rose and looked out the window. Glancing over the field opposite, which for some days had been serving as a rally-ground, he saw countless heads crowded close together. The rally was in full swing, and suddenly people had begun shouting slogans. Closing the window, he sat down again in the chair, and began to leaf through a book and read bits of it here and there. After all, he had to prepare his lecture for the morning. But even though the window was closed, the sound of slogans could still be heard. He looked at his watch: eleven o’clock. The rally has just begun, there’s no telling when it’ll be over. What if it should be the same bother as yesterday, and the night’s sleep lost! Nowadays rallies are like that. They begin with shouts, and end with shots. But it was strange; he began to wonder at himself. The more the turmoil increases outside, the more I sink into myself. Memories of so many times come to me. Ancient and long-ago stories, lost and scattered thoughts. Memories one after another, entangled in each other, like a forest to walk through. My memories are my forest. So where does the forest begin? No, where do I begin? And again he was in the forest. As if he wanted to reach the edge of the forest; as if he was searching for his own beginning. As he moved along in the darkness and encountered a bright patch, he paused, but again moved on, for he wanted to arrive at the moment when his consciousness had first opened its eyes. But he couldn’t grasp the moment. When he put his finger on a memory, dense crowds of other memories drifted along in its train. Then he moved on to explore what he remembered as the first event in Rupnagar.

  •

  But every action in that town seemed to be spread out over the centuries. The caravan of nights and days passed so slowly there, as though it weren’t moving at all, but had halted. Whatever came to rest somewhere settled down and stayed there. When the electric poles arrived for the first time and were stacked here and there along the roads, what a revolutionary event that seemed to be! A thrill ran through all Rupnagar. People paused in their progress, and looked with wonder at the tall iron poles lying there.

  “So is electricity coming to Rupnagar?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Swear on my life?”

  “I swear on your life.”

  Days passed, the curiosity diminished. Layers of dust settled on the poles. Gradually they grew as dusty as the heaps of stone chips which had been brought there in some prosperous time to repair the roads—but which had then been forgotten and had become a part of the dust-choked landscape of Rupnagar. Now the poles too were a part of the dust-choked landscape. It seemed that they had lain there forever, and would lie there forever. The affair of electricity was already a thing of the past. Every day when evening fell, the lamplighter appeared, ladder on his shoulder and oil-can in his hand, and went around lighting the various lanterns fixed to wooden posts or hanging from high walls. “Hey, you, Vasanti! It’s dusk, light the lamp!” With her tawny complexion, fresh young face, rumpled sari, forehead adorned with a dot, bare feet thup-thupping, she came to the doorway. She put a wick into the lamp in the wall-niche, lighted it, turned and promptly went back into the house, without looking toward him as he stood in his own doorway staring at her. In the Small Bazaar, Bhagat-ji put a drop of mustard-oil in the lamp on the dirty lamp-stand, lit it, and considered that his shop had been illuminated. By the gutter near Bhagat-ji’s shop, Mataru lit a torch and anchored it in the ground by his tray, and a few seconds later called out, “Ginger-chips!” But the brightest light was in Lala Hardayal the Goldsmith’s shop, where a lamp hung from the roof, its light reaching beyond the shop and making a spot of brightness in the street. In the town, this was the whole supply of light. And even this—for how long? One by one the shops closed. In the niches by the doors the flickering lamps grew dim and finally burned themselves out. Then only the lanterns fixed to wooden posts glimmered on a few street corners. All the rest was nothing but darkness. Still, in that darkness, wide-open eyes saw a great deal.

  “Bi Amma! Last Thursday it happened, just at twilight. When I passed by the village hall, I thought I heard a woman sobbing. I looked this way, I looked that way, no one at all. Near the door of the hall, there was a black cat sitting. My heart almost stopped beating! I shooed the cat away. When I went on, ai, what did I see, but on the wall of the old lady’s house by the neem tree, the same cat! I shooed it away again. From the wall, it jumped down inside. When I went on
and came out by the lane with the high well—ai, Bi Amma, believe me, there was the same cat again! It was sitting on Lala Hardayal’s terrace, sobbing the way a woman would sob. I was petrified!”

  “God have mercy upon us,” Bi Amma said apprehensively, and she fell silent.

  But there was no mercy. Two or three days later, Sharifan came with more news: “Ai, Bi Amma! All over the neighborhood, so many rats are dying!”

  “Truly?”

  “Oh yes, when I passed by the rubbish pile, I saw them lying dead in heaps.”

  First the rats died, then people began to die. From outside came the chant of “Ram nam satya hai.”

  “Oh Sharifan, just look and see who’s died.”

  “Bi Amma, Pyare Lal’s son Jagdish has died.”

  “Hai hai! He was a strong healthy young man, how did he die?”

  “Bi Amma, pustules came out on his body, and in a few hours he was dead, just like that.”

  “Pustules? You wretch, what are you saying?”

  “Oh yes, Bi Amma! I’m telling the truth. The plague—”

  “That’s enough, keep your mouth shut! In a house full of people you shouldn’t mention the name of that ruinous disease.”

  Pustules came out on Jagdish, then on Pandit Dayaram, then on Misra-ji. Then they kept coming out on other people. Funeral processions left from one house, then another house, then house after house. Bi Amma and Sharifan together kept count of them, up to ten. Then they lost count. In a single day, such a number of houses sent out funeral processions! As evening came near, the streets and lanes grew empty. No sounds of footsteps, no voices of laughing and talking people. Not to speak of all the rest, today even Chiranji and his harmonium had fallen silent—Chiranji who through winters, summers, rainy seasons, used to sit every night on the terrace with his harmonium and sing,

  “Laila, Laila, I called out in the forest,

  Laila lives in my heart.”

  When morning came, the feel of the town was utterly changed. Here and there a shop was open, all the rest were closed. Some houses had already been locked up, others were being locked up now. In front of one house a bullock-cart stood, in front of another a horse-cart. People were going, the town was emptying out. The town was emptied both ways: some people left the town, others left the world.