Basti

by Intizar Husain

  And Sabirah! How tall Sabirah had grown, and how her bosom had swelled out, so that she always kept it covered with her dupattah. Nevertheless, two round swellings made themselves apparent. Now she didn’t even meet his eyes, as though he was a stranger.

  He wandered through lane after lane, bazaar after bazaar. He was like a thirsty man whose thirst was being assuaged, after so long, by these familiar sights. How impatiently he looked at things, impatiently and desirously—as though he wanted to suck everything in through his eyes. Things were sometimes the same as before, sometimes changed. How numerous the electric poles had become. Except for the Small Bazaar, their wires now spread everywhere. The monkeys, avoiding the wires, were leaping from roof to roof. Rupnagar’s monkeys had learned to live in the age of electricity.

  From the Black Temple to Karbala, from Karbala to the Fort, from the Fort to the Ravan Wood, all was as before. For a long time he wandered there, he bathed himself in the scene, but he was not entirely satisfied. The mysteriousness that used to permeate everything seemed to have departed. Calling to mind his former fears, he looked from afar at the Black Temple, at its big pipal tree, and at the stout monkey sitting on the topmost branch, but no amazement arose in his eyes, no amazement and no fear. Everything was as before, but perhaps he had changed, or perhaps his former relationship with it all had changed—his relationship with the Black Temple, with the big pipal tree, with the pipal’s monkeys, with the silent enclosure of Karbala, with the Ravan Wood, with the banyan tree standing in the midst of it, perhaps with Sabirah too.

  Unsatisfied, restless, tired, he went back to the house. The heat was intense. He took up a towel; crossing the courtyard that simmered in the afternoon sun, he went toward the bathing-room. The bathing-room was still the same as before, and couldn’t be fastened from either inside or outside. People knew by intuition whether anyone was in it or not. But now perhaps he had lost his intuition, for he opened the panels of the bathing-room door—and then, before they were fully open, closed them. Lightning had struck in his eyes.

  For a long time he was lost in that lightning-like moment. He was astonished to think that his cousin Tahirah was a full-grown woman. That day he couldn’t even meet her eyes. The next day, avoiding her eyes, he inspected her from head to foot. That white, rounded body rose up in his imagination. With all its details. His cheeks reddened with shame. How many reproaches he heaped on himself in his heart! But Tahirah hadn’t the slightest idea of it. She talked freely with him, and asked him every detail about the College.

  “Zakir, does your College library have Rashid ul-Khairi’s Evening of Life?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Oh my God! Zakir, when you next come you absolutely must bring Evening of Life!”

  Seeing that the talk had turned to novels, Sabirah too hesitantly approached, and squeezed in next to Tahirah. How passionately she was listening to the talk of novels! From the kitchen Khalah Jan’s voice came, “Oh Tahirah, check on the food, don’t let it burn. I’m kneading the flour.”

  When Tahirah went, Sabirah was left silent and ill at ease, but she wasn’t even able to get up and go away. He too sat awkwardly, embarrassed.

  Gradually he gathered his courage: “Sabirah, have you read Paradise on Earth?”

  “No, is it a good novel?”

  He at once began to tell her the plot of Paradise on Earth. He told her the whole story.

  “Zakir, will you bring Paradise on Earth for me?”

  “Yes, I’ll bring it when I come.”

  “When will you come next?”

  “During the Christmas vacation.”

  He gradually told her the plots of several of Sharar’s other novels as well. Including those details that he was hesitant in mentioning, and she was shy about listening to, for Sabirah had now come close to him. She was somewhat bored now with the usual household tasks. While Khalah Jan and Tahirah did the housework, she sat listening to him and talking with him. Sometimes loud conversations, sometimes very soft ones. Sometimes so soft that the words became whispers, and Sabirah’s face reddened. And when, on the pretext of admiring her earrings, he touched the lobe of her ear, suddenly his breath grew warm and began to come faster. How soft and warm that earlobe was, so that a soft warm wave started in his fingertips and surged throughout his body.

  •

  The vacation was over so quickly. Rupnagar had caught hold of him, but after all he had to go back to the College, and before that he had to go and at least show his face to Ammi Jan at Vyaspur.

  “Well, man, so you’re back? You said you’d spend a week there, and now you’ve stayed such a time!”

  In response to Surendar’s remark he at first made some evasive reply, but how long could he keep the secret hidden?

  “What did you do then?”

  “What did I do? What could I have done? Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “It’s the truth, beyond that nothing more happened.”

  “You’re really an oaf!” Surendar reproached him, and then fell silent.

  Then he spoke as if to himself: “Yar, her hands were very soft.”

  Surendar’s disgust vanished. “Really?”

  “Yes.” He fell silent, immersed in thought, then very slowly said, “And her lips too.”

  “Lips?” Surendar’s eyes opened wide with astonishment.

  Then he went on confiding. What he hadn’t been able to tell there, he told when they were both back at the College, sitting comfortably together. When he had finished telling everything, he told everything again, and then told everything once more. Every time, he told it as if he were telling it for the first time.

  “All right, now when are you going?”

  “In the Christmas vacation.”

  “That’s still far off.”

  “Yes, yar! It’s still far off.”

  “Write her a letter or something.”

  “A letter, yes, I ought to write a letter.” And a letter-writing madness seized him, for days and weeks. Every day he sat down with pen and paper, wrote something, then tore it up.

  “Yar, what should I write?”

  “What you ought to write.”

  “But yar! If someone else should read the letter, what then?”

  “Then?” Surendar fell into thought. “She asked you for novels, didn’t she? All right, write that you don’t remember the names of the novels.”

  “Just the thing.”

  Then finally the Christmas vacation came, and he groped around in the library cupboards for novels by Rashid ul-Khairi and Sharar, and had them entered on his card.

  “Yar, you’re not going to Rupnagar?”

  “Why shouldn’t I go? I’m going. Tomorrow, as soon as the College closes, I’ll leave.”

  Surendar paused, then said, “Yar, don’t go.”

  “Why?”

  “Yar, it’s a long trip, and there are reports of trouble in the trains.”

  He fell into thought. “Yar, there’s trouble here too.”

  “Yes, there’s some trouble here too. Something can happen at any moment.”

  “Then?”

  Surendar thought, then said, “We’ll go to Vyaspur, both of us together.”

  The trip to Vyaspur had become an immensely long journey. Any traveler who moved around too much was now an object of suspicion. The platform at Vyaspur was so silent. And when they came out, they were dumbfounded: “Yar, there aren’t any horse-carts here at all!”

  “Then we’ll go on foot. After all, everyone else is going on foot.”

  For a little while, the travelers who had gotten down from the train could be seen walking along ahead and behind. Then suddenly they realized that the street was empty. For a long way, the street was empty. The Jagat Talkies movie house, which was the noisiest place on the street, was closed and absolutely silent. The billboard-like affair on its front, which had been there for ages with the face of Kanan Bala smiling down from it, had fallen into the middle of the street. Kanan�
�s face had been torn in half, and bricks lay scattered all around in the street.

  “Yar, we made a mistake,” Surendar said slowly. “We shouldn’t have come.”

  Then they walked on in silence. The evening was deepening, and for a long way there was no one. Only bricks and more bricks. He looked with fear and wonder at the scattered bricks—imagine there being so many bricks in Vyaspur!

  Walking on, they came to Meerut Gate. On the road straight ahead was Khirki Bazaar, which was shut and lightless. This was the road that came out in the Hindu neighborhoods. Nearby was a lane that went to the Muslim neighborhoods. At this fork both hesitated, looked at each other in silence, and set out on their different roads—

  •

  “Zakir, my son! Did you hear it? They’re shooting outside.”

  “Ammi Jan?” Coming back with difficulty from the thicket, he looked at Ammi Jan. She seemed about to faint; her voice was full of panic.

  He rose and went to the window. He opened one shutter, and took a look outside. The rally-ground was in chaos. The tent-canopy had fallen to the ground; some of the canvas walls were still standing, while others were askew. Smoke was rising from one corner of the canopy. The crowd was in turmoil: some people were running away, others were fighting. He closed the window and came back. He muttered, “Nonsense.”

  “Ai hai, I leaped up from my sleep. It’s like Doomsday! Then there was the sound of a shot. My heart began to pound. It’s still pounding. I called out to your father: ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Are you asleep, or awake?’ He muttered, ‘Do these wretches let anyone sleep?’ I said, ‘I thought I heard a gunshot.’ He began muttering, ‘From now on it’ll be this kind of thing.’ I said, ‘Whatever happens, you just mutter about it! Shall I go tell Zakir?’”

  “Somebody must have fired. It’s nothing, really. This kind of thing happens in rallies nowadays.”

  “Ai, my son! If bullets start flying like this, then what will happen?”

  “Nothing will happen. You go back to sleep, and don’t worry.”

  “You won’t believe it, I’m all shaken up inside.”

  “Ammi, it’s nothing, please go to sleep.”

  Sending Ammi off somehow, he once more opened the window and took a look outside. The crowd had dispersed, the rally-ground with its collapsed canopy lay empty, and all the lights were burning just as before. Where smoke had been rising from one corner of the canopy, the smoke was now only a thin thread.

  In the lights, he watched the ruined, desolate, abandoned rally-ground for a long time. He had come back after a long journey, and was now breathing the air of his own time.

  TWO

  THE RAIN poured down all night inside him. The dense clouds of memory seemed to come from every direction. Now the sky was washed and soft. Here and there a cloud swam contentedly in it, like a bright face, a soft smile. How deeply self-absorbed he was! For him, the outer world had already lost its meaning. Seated at the breakfast table, he ran an indifferent eye over the headlines and slid the newspaper toward Abba Jan.

  Abba Jan had already eaten breakfast, and was absorbed in the Urdu newspaper. When Zakir sat down at the table, Abba Jan looked at him with surprise. “Zakir, don’t you have to go to the College today?”

  “Yes I do. But I woke up late.”

  “Then eat your breakfast quickly and go.” With these words, Abba Jan again turned to his newspaper.

  He had certainly woken up late today, but he still wasn’t in any hurry. He had washed and dressed at a leisurely pace, now he was eating breakfast at a leisurely pace.

  Ammi came and felt the teapot: “Hasn’t it gotten cold?”

  “No, it’s not so cold yet, it’ll do,” he said, testing the pot with his palm and cupped fingers to make sure.

  “Son, from now on please have your breakfast early! After all, I’m by myself. I have to do all the housework alone.” Then at once she addressed Abba Jan: “Well, what have they written about Dacca?”

  “There’s no special news.”

  Turning away from Abba Jan, she slid over to Zakir the English newspaper lying nearby: “Son, look in the English newspaper! There must be something in it?”

  He again glanced over the newspaper and said indifferently, “No news worth mentioning.”

  “Oh dear, then how will we get word of your Khalah Jan? There’s not even any news coming from there!”

  “Trust in Him.” Abba Jan gestured with a finger toward the sky.

  “Yes indeed, I trusted Him!” Ammi said with bitter anger. “Trusting Him was what brought me to this pass!”

  Abba Jan looked gravely at Ammi, and then reprimanded her: “Zakir’s mother, a single heedlessly-spoken sentence is enough to wipe out a lifetime of piety.”

  Repentantly, Ammi lowered her head. She fell silent. Then she began another topic: “Well, do you remember what I said to Batul then?”

  “What did you say when?”

  “When we left.”

  “Zakir’s mother, when was the time you’re remembering? I don’t remember what you said to whom at the time!”

  “Well, you may not remember—I remember every single word spoken at the time! The moment we arrived here I wrote her, ‘You come here, God is the Provider.’ She was ready to come here, but Tahirah’s husband was so crazy that he went to the East instead. The poor thing had to go there too, for her daughter’s sake.”

  “Zakir’s mother! Hazrat Ali, peace be upon him, always used to say, ‘When wishes are thwarted, I recognize my Lord.’ Our wishes are dependent on His pleasure; what He desires, that’s what happens.”

  Ammi once more fell silent and lowered her head, as though she bowed before the Divine will.

  Abba Jan turned to him: “Perhaps you don’t have to go to the College today?”

  “I’m just going.” Hastily he finished his last sip of tea, and rose.

  Leaving the house, he stopped at the corner of the lane, at Nazira’s shop. Coming and going, he always stopped at that shop and bought cigarettes.

  “Zakir, sir! There’s a lot of trouble today,” Nazira said abruptly, giving him the packet of cigarettes.

  “And wasn’t there trouble yesterday?”

  “But today there’s a lot of trouble.”

  Today there was, in fact, a lot of trouble. When he reached the College he saw that here and there the big clay flowerpots had been smashed to pieces, the classrooms were empty, and the glass panes of the doors had been shattered, with broken glass lying both inside the classrooms and outside on the verandahs. The boys had disappeared. Where had they gone, all the boys? It seemed that all of them, shouting slogans, wreaking havoc, had left the college and run off somewhere else. He went to his office, sat down, and remembered which lecture he was supposed to give today. But how could he give a lecture today? Pointlessly, aimlessly, he opened the drawer and shuffled some papers; he opened the books on the table and glanced through them, then closed them and put them aside. He couldn’t decide what to do. He had left the house richly drenched in memories, self-absorbed, detached from the outside world. But in the time it took him to arrive here, the outside world had gradually taken on meaning. Now it was no longer possible for him to take advantage of the leisure and solitude to sit at his ease, smoking a cigarette, and lose himself in the world of his memories. Seeing the college all topsy-turvy, he felt a kind of oppression. Now what’s to be done? All right, I’ll go to the Shiraz. Perhaps the group might be there. No matter what, Irfan ought to be there at this hour. He stood up.

  In a little while, he was in the Shiraz, sharing confidences with Irfan. Irfan was astonished!

  “But after all, who was she?”

  “She just was, and that’s enough.”

  “And until now you’ve never even mentioned her?”

  “I’d forgotten her. How could I have mentioned her?”

  “You’d forgotten her?” Irfan looked at him in surprise.

  “Yes, yar, I’d forgotten her. And a lot of time has passed.”

>   “So why have you remembered her now?”

  “This is the season when all my memories are returning. All kinds of forgotten things, from I don’t know when, are coming back to me.”

  “Now, when there’s so much turmoil everywhere?”

  “Yes, now when there’s so much turmoil everywhere.” He paused, then spoke again. “Do you know what my mother does nowadays? Every morning when the paper comes, she asks what news there is from Dhaka. You know, don’t you, that some of our relatives had settled in Dhaka? My Khalah Jan. So my mother is worried all the time, and every morning when the paper comes, she asks what news there is from Dhaka. And when she doesn’t get a reassuring answer, she remembers that when we arrived here she wrote Khalah Jan a letter and advised her to come here: ‘Don’t go to the back of beyond, come here.’ And then all kinds of forgotten bits of stories from the time of Emigration come to her mind.”

  “Then she’s in Dhaka?” Irfan hazarded a guess.

  “No, she never came to Pakistan at all.”

  “She didn’t come to Pakistan? I see.” He fell into thought. “And since then you haven’t been to India?”

  “Never.”

  “Then indeed a lot of time has passed.”

  “That’s just what I’m thinking.” His voice sank to a whisper. “A lot of time has passed.”

  “The procession is coming!” A group of frightened people entered with the news.

  “Procession?” Various people sitting at the tables pricked up their ears.

  “Yes, it’s a very big procession. It’s coming along breaking up things in its path.”

  “Oh!”

  Everybody sitting in the Shiraz was alarmed. A number of them rose and quickly left. Abdul shot out of the kitchen like an arrow, closed the door in an instant, and drew the curtains over the panes.