Basti

by Intizar Husain

  “Shroud?” Zakir looked at her with surprise.

  “Yes, son, the shroud. When your grandfather came back from his pilgrimage to Karbala, he brought with him two shrouds that had been specially prepared there and had touched the Imam’s tomb. He himself was buried in one. Are, that’s why for forty days a sweet smell like musk came from his grave.”

  “Forty days? You speak of forty days, but I know that whenever I went there to read the Fatihah, I felt that a sweet smell was coming from his grave. It was a remarkable kind of sweet smell.” Abba Jan was silent, then sighed and said, “God alone knows what condition all those graves are in.”

  “I did whatever I could. When we left for Vyaspur, I gathered all our family heirlooms carefully in the storeroom and locked it up. And before we left for Pakistan I told you again and again that I wanted to have just a final look around Rupnagar, and pick up anything that we should take with us, but you never listened to a word I said. Oh, if only I could have unlocked the storeroom just once, and at least aired things out in the sun! So much time has passed, I’m afraid the wretched termites will have been at them; there were so many termites in that house.”

  I ought to go before the termites nibble everything away, he thought to himself. Then the question arose in his mind, as time passes why do termites get at things? What relationship is there between time and termites? Is time a termite, or is a termite time?

  “Zakir’s mother! You don’t remember what was going on with the trains at the time. I myself wanted to have a last look around Rupnagar before leaving. I would have read the Fatihah one last time over my ancestors’ graves.” Abba Jan paused, then said, “And at least I would have brought my shroud.” After a pause he addressed Zakir: “Son, there I had made all the arrangements for my burial. The shroud was ready, and I’d chosen a place for my grave too. My family would only have had to take the trouble of cutting a few filbert branches and washing me,* then lifting me to their shoulders and lowering me into the grave. But here, there’s no arrangement. You’ll have to arrange everything.”

  What great power the grave has in Muslims’ culture. A phrase from Surendar’s letter came to his mind.

  “Oh, this is just the anxiety that eats at my heart, how will our deaths be!” Ammi said worriedly. “Our lives have passed somehow or other, but for death a hundred arrangements have to be made.”

  So death requires more arrangements than life, he thought to himself. Just then there was a knock at the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Irfan.”

  “Coming.” He rose and went to the door.

  Ammi at once left the room, but Abba Jan waited for Irfan to come in. As he entered, Abba Jan threw out the question, “Well, young man, is there any news?”

  “No sir, there’s no special news.”

  “Young man, what kind of a journalist are you?” After a pause he said, “But it’s not your fault, that’s the state the newspapers are in nowadays. Once they used to publicize the news, now they conceal the news; in any case, may God have mercy, things don’t look good.” As he spoke, he rose and went inside.

  “Yar, I was waiting for you, it was very boring, the Shiraz was absolutely empty today.”

  “Really? Nobody was there?”

  “Only that white-haired man. Today he found me alone and pounced on me. He was very boring.” He paused, then said, “Yar, that man seems a very suspicious character to me.”

  “You’ve said something like this before.”

  “But today I’m convinced of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Yar, anybody who makes a show of national feeling, I’ve begun to have doubts about.”

  “Oh, let’s drop the subject, yar. I’ll tell you some news.”

  “Really? All right.”

  “Yar, today a letter came,” he said confidentially.

  “From where?”

  “From India.”

  “From India?” Irfan looked him over doubtfully from head to foot. “A letter from India? In these times?—It was from some relative.”

  “No, it was from my old friend Surendar.”

  “A letter from Surendar, in these times?” Irfan said ironically, “Zakir, sometimes I have doubts even about you.”

  “I’ve often had doubts about myself too. But anyway, for the present, read this letter.” He put the letter into Irfan’s hands.

  Irfan read it carefully from start to finish. He was reading the letter, and Zakir was trying to understand his reaction from the expressions that passed over his face. After finishing the letter, Irfan laughed. “Yar, I thought that Sabirah was a figment of your nostalgic imagination. But she really exists.” He paused, then said, “Be that as it may, your love shows a wonderful sense of timing! What a season the fruit of love has chosen to ripen in!”

  He ignored Irfan’s words, and said, “Yar, I want to go there.”

  “What did you say? You want to go?”

  “Yes, yar! I want to go and see her one time, before—” In the midst of speaking, he stopped.

  “Before—” Irfan sarcastically repeated the word. Then he said, “My dear friend, a long time has passed.”

  “Yes, a long time has passed, but still—” As he spoke, he fell into thought.

  Ammi peered into the room. “Are, son, what’s making that noise outside?”

  “Noise? What noise?”

  “They’re saying that war has broken out.”*

  “What? War has broken out?” They both jumped up at once, and hastily went out.

  Now it was evening, and in the lane there was darkness from one end to the other. Light filtered out from the windows and air vents of many distant houses. But near them in the lane a clamor was rising, “Put out the lights!” “Turn off the light!”—and the lights in the houses were gradually going off. Now, into the far distance, the darkness was complete. A group of young volunteers, blowing whistles, swiftly entered the lane. Zakir advanced. “What is it, brother?”

  “War has broken out.”

  “Who says so?”

  “There was an announcement on the radio.” And the group, blowing their whistles, swiftly turned off into another lane.

  They both stood for a little while in silence. Then, sitting down in his own doorway, he said, “Yar, war has really broken out.”

  “Yes,” Irfan said, thinking about something else, and sat down beside him.

  They both sat there in the dusty doorway for a long time. In the dark lane, two silent shadows.

  Suddenly a siren began to wail, and with it the sharp sounds of whistles from near and far. The sounds of whistles, and the thup-thup of running footsteps.

  “Shouldn’t we go inside?” he said slowly.

  “Is it any safer inside?” Irfan asked in a disagreeable voice.

  “No.”

  “Then?”

  The sound of the siren gradually died out. The thup-thup of running footsteps, the sounds of whistles, people’s cries and calls, the angry instruction “Turn off the light!”—gradually all these sounds ceased, and silence spread through the night. In that silence ears waited to hear some huge noise. They waited for a long time, no huge noise, no explosion could be heard.

  “Yar!”

  “Yes.”

  “Yar, I’m thinking that Sabirah—”

  “So you’re thinking about Sabirah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  From the distance a low droning noise silenced them. They again strained their ears.

  “Are they Indian planes?”

  “Yes, from India, like the love letter you received today.”

  “But yar, I was thinking something else.”

  “What?”

  “That now Sabirah will forget about Dhaka and seek out news from here.”

  “Listen,” Irfan whispered ominously, and they both strained their ears again. The distant sound of an explosion, as though a bomb had fallen in some fa
r-off unknown town. And then unfathomable silence, a fearful quiet. The whole city seemed to be motionless, holding its breath.

  SEVEN

  CARS, TAXIS, scooter-cabs, horse-carts, all the vehicles were in a hurry and were trying to crawl over each other. It looked as though he’d have trouble crossing the street. He watched the vehicles. It happened that one car, with “Crush India” written on its bumper, full of passengers, loaded with luggage, rushed rapidly past him. The slogan written on the car’s bumper was before his eyes for a little while, then was obscured in a cloud of dust. The car was in such a great hurry that it left the paved road for the dusty shoulder and kept moving, kicking up clouds of dust.

  Now he examined the passing traffic with care. The cars and taxis had lost their shine. Their bodies were smeared with dirt. Every car, every taxi was full of passengers, loaded with luggage. In the horse-carts the luggage and the passengers were all jumbled in together. Oh God! Where were these people going? When he reached the Shiraz, he told Irfan of his astonishment. “Yar, today there was heavy traffic on our street—it was hard even to get across. After all, where are people going?”

  “You’ve only seen the traffic on the road. I’ve just come from the scene at the train station.”

  “What’s it like there?”

  “Don’t ask! There are so many passengers on the platform that it’s hard to breathe, and not a single train coming. It’s like Doomsday.”

  “And here’s the Shiraz empty,” he said, casting a glance around. Today the Shiraz was absolutely empty. He and Irfan, two souls, sat at one table. “Yar, today not even our friend the white-haired man has come.”

  Suddenly the door opened, and Afzal entered. He cast a glance around: “Empty?”

  “Empty,” Zakir answered bleakly.

  “Where have the mice gone off to?”

  “They got tired of waiting for your flute. They were so frustrated that they set off all by themselves and headed for the ocean,” Irfan answered sarcastically.

  Afzal looked steadily at Irfan. As he slid out a chair and sat down, he said, “Disgusting man! Order tea.”

  “Abdul!” Irfan called out.

  Abdul came instantly, as though he had only been waiting for an order. “Yes sir!”

  “Tea.”

  Afzal said thoughtfully, “Yar, the birds are very worried. I’ve just come from the Ravi. When the planes come, the birds from all the neighboring gardens fly up in a state of utter confusion, circle around wildly in the air, and then the poor things hide in the trees again.” He paused, and muttered, “The birds in this town are worried.”

  “And you?” Irfan looked steadily at him.

  “I’m worried too.”

  “Don’t you know that those who are worried are leaving the city?”

  Afzal fell into thought. Then he said, “A traveler, passing through a forest, saw that a sandalwood tree was on fire. The birds who had been sitting on its branches had already flown away, but one wild goose still clung to a branch. The traveler asked, ‘Oh wild goose! Don’t you see that the sandalwood tree is on fire? Why don’t you fly away? Don’t you value your life?’ The wild goose replied, ‘Oh traveler! I’ve been very happy in the shade of this sandalwood tree. Is it right for me to run off and leave it in its time of trouble?’” Afzal fell silent, then said, “Do you know who it was?—The Buddha told this story, then looked around at the monks, and said, ‘Oh monks! Do you know who that wild goose was? I myself was that wild goose.’”

  “Good!” said Irfan sarcastically. “I was hoping to hear you make that very announcement!”

  Afzal stared at Irfan’s face, then said, “You’re right. Absolutely right. I myself was that wild goose.” He stood up and went to the door, but then something occurred to him and he turned back again. He approached Irfan, and said, “The Buddha was truthful, I too am truthful. In fact, in an earlier birth we two were one.”

  Afzal had turned and begun to leave, when Abdul brought the tea. Irfan said, “The tea has come.”

  Afzal looked benevolently at Irfan. “Irfan, you’re a good man.”

  Afzal sat down. Irfan poured out the tea. Afzal, drinking tea, said, “Yar, whatever has happened has been for the best.”

  “What has been for the best?”

  “That the disgusting people are leaving the city. How pure the Shiraz looks today!” He paused, then said, “Yar, I’ve thought about it a lot. Finally I’ve reached the conclusion that virtuous people can save this country.”

  “And where are they?” Irfan asked in his special sarcastic tone.

  “Where are they? Fellow, don’t you see them? You and I are two. Yar, three are a great many.” Then he pulled out a notebook from his pocket, unscrewed the cap of his pen, opened the notebook, and said while writing something, “Irfan, I’ve forgiven you. I’ve entered your name on the list of virtuous people.” Then he murmured, “In my notebook the list of virtuous people keeps getting shorter and shorter from day to day.”

  Suddenly a siren began to wail. Along with it, shrill piercing whistles were being blown. Afzal stood up: “I ought to go.”

  “It’s the air-raid siren. Don’t go out, stay right here.”

  “Zakir, you’re very fearful.” He paused, and said, “Fellow, don’t be afraid. Today I’ve arranged things with Data Ganj Bakhsh. I said, ‘Data, shall I take your city under my protection?’ He said, ‘Take it.’ So this city is now under my protection. Nothing will happen to it.” With these words, he rose and went out.

  And so, night and day alike, at frequent intervals the siren wailed, and with the siren, the whistles blew. Traffic police and civil defense volunteers appeared in the streets, blowing their whistles, gesturing, and issuing instructions. Traffic on the streets suddenly speeded up, then slowed down, as vehicles left the road and found shelter under trees. Gradually the streets emptied, leaving only the traffic police, and volunteers with whistles clenched in their teeth. The street was empty from one end to the other. On both sides of it long lines of cars, scooter-cabs, taxis, and motorbikes were standing. All the traffic noise, all the sounds of the city were suspended. Everywhere all was motionless and silent. Sometimes a swiftly passing jeep tried to break the silence and immobility, but then it vanished in the space of a breath. In its wake the silence welled up again, the immobility became even more profound. And he sometimes sat with his back against a tree beside the road, sometimes lay in a trench behind the trees among unknown travelers, sometimes crouched in a corner of the Shiraz with his ears pricked up. At every moment he expected some extraordinary noise to disrupt the peace of the atmosphere. But no noise came. No big explosion, no loud voices. Only a low drone in the distance. After it, perfect silence. And then the siren wailed, and this time its sound brought the hidden people out of their holes and corners, and scooter-cabs, motorbikes, cars, taxis instantly set off again with all their noise. Now the air was full of noise, and the traffic was moving at full speed, and again the siren began to wail. Again the whistles blew, again the people hid and the traffic stopped and silence spread all around. How many times this pattern was repeated each day! But when evening fell, the siren wailed in a different tone, so that the movement of traffic and the gait of pedestrians were suddenly disrupted. Instead of stopping, every vehicle dashed madly ahead, and every pedestrian hurried off at top speed. But gradually the noise faded into the distance. Silence spread with the evening haze, and joined with the lengthening shadow of night to fill the whole city. Taking advantage of this silence, the dogs began to bark at nightfall. Then it seemed that much of the night had already passed. So much of the night had passed, and so quickly! But after that the night did fall, and wouldn’t even dream of passing. Then suddenly the siren wailed. Again the whistles. At the same time the dogs began to bark with a new enthusiasm. It seemed that all the dogs in the city had suddenly jumped up with a start. The sound of whistles and the dogs’ barking saturated his senses. As he lay in bed, it seemed to him that the whole atmosphere was full of
that disgusting noise. Lying on a cot nearby, Abba Jan slowly sat up, and began to recite something under his breath. Then Ammi turned over, and sat up.

  “Zakir, son! Are you awake?”

  “Yes, Ammi.” And he sat up.

  And after that Ammi raised both hands in prayer: “God protect us!” Abba Jan recited something in Arabic under his breath. Sometimes a prayer in the name of Ali, sometimes the Verse of the Throne. Ammi prayed in a high, quavering voice. Since the war began, at Ammi’s wish we sleep in one room. In the darkness of night, three shadows sitting on their cots. Abba Jan is reciting verses from the Quran. Ammi is praying. And at such times I’m unable, even after so many nights of danger, to find any way to occupy my mind.

  In the stillness our ears are trying to make out something. Welling up from the layers of silence, a droning sound. In the day, how low this sound is, but in the night, how sharp and awe-inspiring. Suddenly, from somewhere far off, an explosion.

  “Zakir!”

  “Yes.”

  “Son! That sounded like a bomb.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did it fall?”

  Where did the bomb fall? The various lanes of the city rise up in my imagination. I try to guess from which direction the sound of the explosion came, and which neighborhoods are located in that direction. Abba Jan is entirely absorbed in reciting from the Quran, and my mind is wandering through the various lanes of the city. In Shamnagar I suddenly pause. That house in Shamnagar where we camped when we first came to Pakistan rises up in my imagination. Has the bomb fallen there? No, it shouldn’t fall there. I have no emotional relationship with that house. The moment we left it, the house slipped out of my memory without leaving any imprint on my heart or mind. But suddenly now that house rises up in my imagination. Before my eyes I see the room in which I spent my first night after coming to Pakistan. No, the bomb shouldn’t fall on that neighborhood. The house ought to stay safe, the whole house and the room which holds in trust the tears of my first night in Pakistan.