Basti

by Intizar Husain

  “Oh?” He crashed his way back from the forest.

  “Son, are these people having a rally, or just being rowdy?”

  “Abba Jan, this is how political movements are. People get enthusiastic, and then they get out of control.”

  “What did you say—movement? Is this a movement? Son, have I not seen movements? Has any of them ever been bigger than the Khilafat Movement? And Maulana Muhammad Ali—oh God, oh God! When he spoke, it seemed that sparks were raining down. But not a single word ever fell below the standard of cultured speech. Well, that was Maulana Muhammad Ali; but I never saw a single volunteer say anything below the standard of cultured speech, either. They said, ‘Death to the English,’ and not a word more.” Abba Jan fell silent. Then, as though lost in memories, he began to mutter, “That venerable personage committed one fault: in the matter of shrines and tombs he supported Ibn Saud. May God the Most High forgive him this sin, and fill his grave with light. Afterwards he himself very much repented this support.”

  He smiled inwardly: Abba Jan is a good one! Even now he’s still dreaming of the Khilafat Movement.

  “And what are you doing?”

  “I thought I’d prepare my lecture for the morning, but—”

  “As though you could get any work done in this noise!” Abba Jan cut in.

  “Yes, there’s a lot of noise, but perhaps tonight the rally will be over quickly. Yesterday it dragged on because of the leaders from outside.”

  “Son, it doesn’t look to me as though it’ll be over quickly.” He paused, then said, “In my time there were rallies, too. If there was noise, it was before the rally. Then a speaker came on stage, and at once the people sat down respectfully. What a cultured time it was!”

  Again he smiled: Abba Jan still hasn’t emerged from the time of the Khilafat Movement. But while he was forming the thought, it seemed that he too was following Abba Jan, moving into a past time. What a cultured time it was. If anyone spoke loudly, Abba Jan at once reprimanded him: “Child, I’m not deaf.” And when sometimes Tahirah spoke in a harsh voice, Bi Amma cut her off: “Girl, do you have a split bamboo for a throat?” And when Tahirah and her girlfriends, full of the joyful mood of the rainy season, swung high in the tall swings and laughed loudly, Bi Amma at once stopped them: “Daughter, what’s this noise, are the dishes breaking?” The rainy season, the swing, the songs, the ripe seeds of the neem tree—

  “All right, I’m going. I’ll never get to sleep.” With these words, Abba Jan was going back. “And now you get some rest, too.”

  Zakir let his words go in one ear and out the other. A distant voice was drawing him toward itself.

  •

  “Ripe neem seed, when will the rains come?

  Long live my beloved brother, he’ll send a palanquin for me!”

  What long long swings Tahirah was enjoying with her girlfriend, and how wistfully Sabirah was watching them! Just then Khalah Jan’s voice came from the kitchen, “Tahirah!”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Daughter, how long are you going to swing? Come and do some frying. Make a few fritters.”

  After Tahirah left, he went to Sabbo: “Sabbo, come on, let’s swing.”

  When he sat pressed close to Sabirah in the swing, he felt that tenderness was melting and spreading inside him. He wanted to keep on swinging, but Sabirah’s moods never held steady for long. “I won’t swing with you.” She suddenly jumped down from the swing.

  “Why?” He was dumbfounded.

  “I just won’t, that’s all.”

  He was left standing, surprised and unhappy. Then, very slowly, he approached her.

  “Sabbo.”

  “I’m not speaking to you.”

  When he found Sabirah impossible to placate, he went sadly away. He happened to wander off toward the stairs. Climbing them, he reached the open roof. The roof was made of unfired clay; since the rainy season had ended long ago, the mud had hardened. From his pocket he pulled out the broken penknife-blade he always carried to sharpen his pencils. He began to slice the hardened mud with the tip of it as though he was cutting out sweets. In a little while Sabirah too wandered up there. With great attention she watched him cutting sweets. But now he was absorbed in his work. He paid no attention to Sabirah. When he had had his fill of cutting out the sweets, he invented a new occupation for himself. Where the mud had grown driest, he began to dig into it. When he had dug a small hole, he put one of his feet into it, and pressed all the loose dirt firmly back on top. Then he slowly pulled his foot out. A kind of dirt cave remained. Sabirah was watching with great attention. Then she said, “What is it?”

  “A grave.” He answered casually, without looking toward Sabirah.

  “It’s a grave?” Sabirah asked in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  She regarded the grave with wonder. Then she spoke with a kind of warmth in her tone. “Zakir, make me a grave too.”

  “Make it yourself,” he answered shortly.

  Sabirah, giving up on him, began to work on making her own grave. She scratched out a considerable amount of dirt. She put her bare foot into the scratched-out place. Then she pressed the loose dirt down on top of it. Then she slowly pulled out her foot. The moment her foot came away, the dirt roof fell in. At her failure, he burst out laughing. But Sabirah didn’t lose heart. She tried a second time, and again was unsuccessful. She tried again a third time, and this time she really drew her foot out so delicately that not even a grain of dirt fell. Sabirah gave herself airs at her success, and glanced at his grave, then looked at her own. “My grave is better.”

  “Sure, it’s very fine.” He made a face at Sabirah.

  “Put your foot in and see.”

  He hesitated at this proposal. He thought a bit. Then, very slowly, he put his foot forward, and slid it into Sabirah’s grave. Then he was convinced in his heart that Sabbo was right. And for some time he kept his foot in that soft, warm grave.

  After that, his vexation disappeared. His relations with Sabirah again became friendly. When Sabirah’s grave collapsed as she was remaking it, he cleaned off her white foot with his hands. Then he pulled out a shell from his pocket.

  “Sabbo, would you like a shell?”

  “Yes I would.” She looked covetously at the shell.

  Taking the shell from him, Sabirah made an offering in return: “Come on, let’s swing.”

  As they were coming down from the roof, they heard Tahirah and her friend singing:

  “Mother, the fruits are soft, Mother, I won’t eat them, Mother.

  Mother, the water is high, Mother, I won’t bathe, Mother.

  Mother, the yellow-green dress is ready,

  Mother, I won’t wear it, Mother.

  Mother, my husband has brought a palanquin, Mother, I won’t go, Mother.”

  They turned back, and again went and sat on the roof. Now what to do? He proposed a new scheme: “Sabbo!”

  “Yes?”

  “Come on, let’s play bridegroom and bride.”

  “Bridegroom and bride?” She was taken aback.

  “Yes, as though I’m the bridegroom and you’re the bride.”

  “Someone will see.” She was nervous.

  Just then thunder rumbled in the clouds, scaring them both, and at once the rain came down so hard that before they got from the open roof to the staircase they were both drenched.

  •

  How forcefully the rainy season began! Inside, outside, everywhere was commotion; but when it went on raining at a steady pace, the atmosphere slowly filled with a kind of sadness and voices were gradually silenced. When evening fell, the stray call of a peacock came from deep in the forest, and mingled more sadness with the sad, rainy evening. Then night came, and the rain-soaked darkness grew deep and dense. If anyone woke in the night, the rain was falling as though it had been raining for an endless eternity, and would keep on raining for an endless eternity. But that night was so well-populated by voices.

  “Look, Krishan
hasn’t come, the clouds have closed in,

  The night is dark and black, the rain rains so cruelly,

  Sleep won’t come to my eyes, the clouds have closed in,

  Cloud-dark Krishan hasn’t come, the clouds have closed in.”

  “Oh, these Hindu women won’t let us get a wink of sleep tonight! And on top of it the rain keeps coming down.”

  “Bi Amma, this is the Janamashtami rain!” Auntie Sharifan elaborated: “Krishan-ji’s diapers are being washed.”

  “Well, by now Krishan-ji’s diapers have been washed quite enough! The water is overflowing.” Bi Amma turned over, and again tried to get to sleep. Just then in Vasanti’s verandah a drum struck up:

  “Oh Ram, I went to the Yamuna to draw water,

  On the way I met Nand Lal,

  Ai, my sister-in-law wept—”

  And from somewhere far away a voice was coming,

  “The night is enjoyable, lover, will you go or will you stay?

  The bed is springy, lover, will you go or will you stay?”

  It was as if the whole season’s rain had made up its mind to fall during the night of Janamashtami. In the morning when he woke, no rain or clouds at all. Everything around was glowing, freshly washed. Sky, trees, electric poles, walls, roofs.

  “Zakir! Come on, let’s go catch rain-bugs.”

  When Bundu made this proposal, they at once set out from the house, and went in search of rain-bugs beyond the Black Temple to Karbala. How soft and bright the earth and sky were just then, and here and there in the grass so many rain-bugs, like soft bits of velvet, were crawling. What pleasure it was to touch them! In those days he wanted so much to touch soft things, but the moment they were touched, the rain-bugs pulled in their legs and stayed still, as though they were dead. Why do soft things shy away so much from being touched? He marveled at it.

  “Sabbo! Look at this.”

  “Oh my, so many rain-bugs!” She was full of amazement and delight. And then she treated him so warmly. In a single moment how close she used to come to him; in a single moment how far away she used to go.

  “Sabbo! Come and play.”

  “I won’t play.”

  “I have cowrie-shells.”

  “What do I care?”

  “Look at this, it’s a whirligig.”

  “Huh.” She turned her head away.

  He went on twirling the whirligig all by himself, for a long time. Then he pulled out his yo-yo and began to play with it. How much he enjoyed spinning the yo-yo!

  “They say it was Laila’s custom . . .”

  In the midst of spinning the yo-yo, he paused with a start: “Majnun has come.” And forgetting the yo-yo, he ran off like an arrow toward the door. When he stood in the doorway, he saw that Sabirah was standing there too. “Zakir! It’s Majnun!”

  “Who else? Of course it’s Majnun!”

  With his collar ripped open, his hair tangled, a begging bowl in one hand, a brick in the other hand, chains on his feet that clinked as he walked—Majnun. He paused and stood still:

  “They say it was Laila’s custom

  To give alms to any beggar who came.

  One day Majnun too went with a begging-bowl

  And called out, ‘In God’s name, give me something.’

  Laila came and gave them all something,

  From Majnun’s hands she took his begging-bowl.”

  As he finished singing, he took the brick and struck his forehead so hard that it was drenched with blood, and he fell to the ground with a thud and lay motionless.

  “Zakir, is Majnun dead?” She was trembling violently.

  “No, he’s not dead.”

  “No, he’s dead.” She burst into tears.

  “You silly girl, he’s just pretending.”

  “No, Majnun’s dead.” She went on crying.

  Majnun suddenly stood up. She was amazed. Taking up his begging-bowl, in which the bystanders had put some small coins, he walked away.

  “Sabbo! Have you ever seen ‘Laila-Majnun’?”

  “No, what’s it like?”

  “Master Rupi plays Majnun and Ilahi Jan plays Laila.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “Then Master Rupi falls in love with Ilahi Jan.”

  Looking at each other, they suddenly felt embarrassed. Sabirah at once frowned: “Go away, you shameless creature, or I’ll tell Bi Amma this minute!”

  “What did I say wrong?” He was anxious.

  But how could she have told such a thing to Bi Amma? She simply grew annoyed, and began to hold herself aloof from him. He himself felt awkward. He hesitated to meet her eyes.

  “Kau bas, kau bas.” All of a sudden he pricked up his ears; voices coming from anywhere, near or far, used to have a strange effect on him. Whether he understood them or not, he was drawn to them. “Kau bas”—he had never understood what kind of words these were. He only knew that when Vasanti’s father, Lala Chunni Mal, stood on the roof and gave this call, crows came from all over and fluttered around his head. He ran like an arrow to the roof. Behind him was Sabirah.

  Over on Vasanti’s roof two huge leaf-plates had been spread out. In them was rice that had been cooked in milk. The crows were making short work of the rice. Sometimes a kite came coasting down and pounced on a leaf-plate. Lala Chunni Mal was standing there calling out, “Kau bas, kau bas.” And a cloud of crows and kites had gathered around his head.

  “Do you know what it is?” Seeing Sabirah’s amazement, he decided to enlighten her. “Ramchandar-ji’s leaf-plates are being cleaned.”

  “Ramchandar-ji’s leaf-plates?” She was even more astonished.

  “Of course, what else? When Ramchandar-ji had finished his dinner, then the King of the Crows used to come and eat the remaining food and clean the leaf-plates.”

  “Oh go on, you liar!”

  “I swear in God’s name!”

  “Shall I ask Bi Amma?” And she at once went and told on Zakir to Bi Amma.

  “Son!” Bi Amma glared at him. “Why were you born in our house? You should’ve been born in some Hindu’s house! Your father is always invoking the names of God and the Prophet—he doesn’t realize that his son has taken to Hindu stories!”

  But Bi Amma no longer had her former energy. She supervised everybody just as before, she scolded everybody, but her voice was no longer so lively. She had withered like a raisin; it was as if she was slowly collapsing inwards. “Enough; before I turn into an invalid I pray that God will call me away.”

  “Ai, Bi Amma, what are you saying! You’ll live to see your grandson’s wedding day.”

  “Ai Auntie Sharifan! I’m so dried up and thin that my stomach is sticking to my back. What do you think—that I’ll live to carry God’s bags for him on Doomsday?”

  Bi Amma had undoubtedly lived a long time. She always told how in her childhood only one torch, in the Small Bazaar, was lighted at night. Everywhere else, in the streets, in the lanes, was darkness. Before her very eyes the torch vanished, and lanterns appeared in the streets and lanes; and now in their places poles were standing, and here and there on the streets electric light could be seen.

  Electricity had now begun to be installed in the mosque as well, but Abba Jan had thrown a spanner into the works. “This is ‘innovation.’” And equipping himself with a cudgel, he stood on guard in the doorway of the mosque. The electricians came, received a reprimand, and went away. Hakim Bande Ali and Musayyab Husain tried very hard to convince him, but he gave only one answer: “This is ‘innovation.’”

  On the third day of his guard-duty, Bi Amma fell ill; her breathing became fast and shallow. Abba Jan, giving up the guard-duty, hurried home; but Bi Amma did not wait for his arrival.

  The next day when Abba Jan went to the mosque for the dawn prayer, he saw that the electricity had already been installed. When he saw this he came right back, and for the first time in his life offered the dawn prayer at home. From then on he never entered the mosque, and never offered his prayers excep
t at home. Though for many days he did go, morning and evening, to Bi Amma’s grave, and recited verses from the Quran there.

  How hard Abba Jan tried to halt the spreading “innovations” in Rupnagar! During Muharram, when big drums began to sound, he seized them and ripped out the drumheads. “Playing drums is forbidden by the Shariat. I won’t permit them to be played in any majlis or procession!”

  “But in Lucknow, they play drums in every procession!”

  “Let them play. The Lucknow people have no power to change the Shariat!”

  That year drums were in fact not played in any majlis or procession, but by the next year, Abba Jan’s power had been broken. Every procession was accompanied by drums except the one that left from the Khirkivala Imambarah, for that was Abba Jan’s family imambarah and he had power over it. And also because that procession, which was in honor of Hazrat Hur, was recognized as the quietest of Rupnagar’s Muharram processions. No small drums, no big drums, no singing of elegies—for Abba Jan declared elegy-singing too to be contrary to religious law. Abba Jan had taken a firm stand against elegy-singing, but the results were the same as in the case of his other firm stands.

  Abba Jan’s grip on Rupnagar was loosening. Bi Amma had been called home by God, and electricity had come to the town. Abba Jan couldn’t prevent electricity from being installed in the mosque, just as he couldn’t prevent drums from finding a place in the Muharram processions. His firm stand against electricity was the last of his firm stands against the “innovations” of the time. After that, he retired to his room. He offered his prayers in his house, he passed the ten days of Muharram in his house. Then one day, sitting on his prayer-carpet, he inquired through istikharah,* and found favorable prospects for a journey. The indications were there; preparations for the journey began to be made.

  “Ammi Jan, are we going?” Since Bi Amma’s passing, he now asked Ammi everything.

  “Yes, son,” Ammi said sadly. She fell silent, then began to murmur to herself, “What’s left for us here any longer? The lands have already passed out of our hands. We still have a broken-down old house, but can we eat it when we’re hungry?”

  “Ammi! Are we going to Vyaspur?”

  “Yes, son, we’re going to Vyaspur. Your uncles and everyone, they’re all in Vyaspur. Bi Amma refused to budge, otherwise we’d already have left.”