Basti

by Intizar Husain

  He and Irfan went on, without stopping, without paying any attention, and walked in silence for some time. Then he said, “Salamat was right.”

  “Why was he right?” Irfan looked at him angrily.

  “He was right that I’m responsible for this defeat.”

  Irfan glared at him, then said, “Zakir! You aren’t by any chance trying to become Gamal Abdel Nasser?”

  “No, how could I do that? How could a teacher, cowardly and fearful, become Gamal Abdel Nasser?”

  “Then?”

  “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.”

  “Up to this point your thinking is correct, but there’s one more thing to think about.”

  “What?”

  “This: that to take up the burden of this trust, a man ought at least to be Gamal Abdel Nasser.”

  He fell into thought, then said, “You’re right. The trust is great. The one who takes it up is small.”

  After this a long silence. They walked for a long time, together but absolutely separate. Then Irfan suddenly stopped. “All right, yar, I’m going.”

  “Where? You’re on night duty.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And immediately he turned down another street.

  •

  Left alone, he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps not only Irfan, but also he himself, needed to be alone now. Perhaps each of them inwardly felt the other a burden, and wanted to be alone. In such a long friendship, for the first time they had become a burden to each other.

  He went on walking, without thinking where he was going. He stopped at a cigarette-seller’s shop. Without meeting the shopkeeper’s eyes, he bought a packet of cigarettes and went on. Normally he ought to have stopped at Nazira’s shop on leaving his house, and bought his cigarettes there, for that had been his custom; but today he had passed by on the road, avoiding Nazira’s eyes as though he owed him money.

  With a cigarette in his lips he went on, until he passed by Jinnah Garden and paused. Why am I wearing out my legs for no reason? With this thought, he turned off the road into the garden. Following one path after another, he reached the wide lawn with flower beds and stone benches. But instead of sitting on a bench, he chose to sit on the lawn, with his legs stretched out. Then he cast a glance around. For a long way, there was no one. Today the garden is quite empty. And as this thought came to him he realized that he hadn’t been roaming around without a purpose. He had been searching for some solitary corner. But why? For the same reason Khvajah Sahib had wanted one? This thought startled him. As if I’d been wandering everywhere all day, so I could find a solitary corner and—No, Irfan is right. Defeat can be endured, sentimentality cannot. But then another wave came and swept him away with it. Any public show of tearfulness is vulgar. To release one’s emotions in solitude is the proper human thing to do. What’s the harm of it? Afterwards, a man feels lighter. And he tried once more to feel the disaster fully and intensely. For a long time he sat there and tried to let emotion overpower him. Then he lay down and closed his eyes. But despite all his efforts, the only emotion he could summon up was a kind of listlessness.

  “Fellow! What are you doing here? Are you asleep?”

  “No.” He jumped up. Afzal stood before him.

  “Then what are you doing?” Afzal asked, sitting down on the grass.

  “Yar, I didn’t know what to do; when I couldn’t tell what to do I came here. Here at least there’s solitude. Why are you here?”

  “I always come here from time to time, to visit the flowers. The flowers, and the trees. They’re good people, they’re all my friends.”

  “To visit the flowers? Today?”

  “Yes, today.” Afzal was silent, then said, “Yar, this morning my eyes opened before daybreak. I thought I ought to see how the morning of a defeat dawns. I opened the window of my room and looked out. I kept looking for a long time. Outside there was nothing at all. I closed the window and pulled the sheet over my head and went to sleep. I slept till the afternoon, and finally my grandmother shook me and made me wake up. Yar! Have I ever told you about my grandmother?”

  “No.”

  “When we left it was the rainy season, there was a flood. On the one hand riots, on the other hand a flood. But my grandmother wouldn’t leave the land. My mother explained to her that we were leaving because of the flood, and when it went down we’d go back. My simple grandmother was taken in. But those words stuck in her mind. Every few days she demands, ‘Daughter! The flood must have gone down, take me back.’”

  “Really?” He burst out laughing.

  “Absolutely. Even now she thinks that when the flood goes down we’ll go back. So today she shook me and woke me up. I got up, rubbing my eyes. She fed me, most lovingly. Then she said, ‘My child! The flood must surely have gone down. So take me back!’ I stared at her face. It came to me to say ‘My dear little granny! If the flood has gone down back there, it has risen over here. How can we go back?’ My heart told me not to say it—she would go on to ask more questions. I decided to go out. Then I left, and as I went out I thought that today, rather than meeting disgusting people, it would be better to go and visit the trees and flowers.” He fell silent, cast a glance around, then said, “The sun is good right now, but it’s going down.” Sadness came into his voice. “The December sun is good, but it sets so soon.”

  Afzal is right, he thought. When a man’s heart and mind are empty, and his power to think and feel is taken away, then he ought to go and sit politely in the company of trees, and chat with the flowers. Unquestionably the trees are wise, and the flowers make good conversation. He looked at Afzal, who was paying no attention to him and was staring at the trees in the distance. His glance too began to travel along with Afzal’s, and settled on the trees in the distance. Both their bodies were here, their eyes on the distant trees. Their hearts and minds too were drawn that way.

  “Fellow! Listen.” Afzal addressed him in a confidential tone.

  He came back with difficulty from the world of the trees, and didn’t look happy to be back. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Yar! Shouldn’t I take the management of Pakistan into my own hands?”

  “What?” He gave Afzal a strange look.

  “Yar, this is what I’ve thought of. If I find two virtuous people and they become my arms, then I can take on this responsibility. One is you, and Irfan can be added as the other. Sometimes he says disgusting things, but still he’s a good person. If you two give me a hand, I can make Pakistan beautiful again. Yar, these ugly ones have spoiled the face of Pakistan, they’re very disgusting people.”

  He laughed somewhat bitterly, and said nothing.

  “Fellow, you have no faith in me.” Afzal’s mood changed.

  “I have faith in you, I have no faith in myself.”

  “You don’t trust yourself? Yar, among those disgusting people we are the only beautiful ones.” He paused, then said, “You know that some acres are going to be allotted to me.”

  “I’ve been hearing that for a long time.”

  “I didn’t take it seriously either. But now it’s happening. The allotment is about to come through, I’ve prepared my map. One acre will be used for beds of roses.”

  “A whole acre?—What’s the point?”

  “Yar, in Pakistan the flowers have been growing fewer, that’s why people have been growing uglier and hatred has kept on spreading. I thought I ought to save those bastards’ faces from growing distorted. So the scheme is that one acre will be beds of roses, two acres will be a mango orchard. Yar, the truth is that listening to the voices of those disgusting people has ruined my hearing. If there’s a mango orchard, then at least we can hear the call of the koel. How about it?”

  “It’s a good idea.”


  “All right, then get ready, we have to make Pakistan beautiful.”

  At that very moment there was a rumbling in the sky, loud enough to burst the eardrums. He and Afzal both raised their eyes to the sky. “Air-raid!” burst from his lips.

  “Air-raid,” Afzal said with surprise. “The siren didn’t sound.”

  “Our sirens have been silent all day.”

  Afzal stared at the sky. Gradually the atmosphere grew still. Afzal drew a breath of satisfaction. “Yar, I was afraid a bomb would fall, and all these flowers—” He fell silent.

  “And you say that we have to make Pakistan beautiful.”

  “Yar, can’t we stop the wars?”

  Afzal asked the question with so much innocence that he burst out laughing.

  “Zakir, you’re laughing. I’m asking the question seriously. Can’t we stop the wars?”

  “No.”

  “Fellow, you just don’t know me. But I need two virtuous people—Zakir!”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be my arm?”

  •

  Again a low rumbling began in the sky. The sound grew louder and louder until it became an ear-splitting roar. Today, ever since the late afternoon, the attacking planes had been flying very low. They came swiftly and passed on, without dropping bombs. He glanced at the ticking clock before him. It was almost 7:30. So apparently this was the last air raid. And he remembered that in ’65, the night of the cease-fire had been just like this—I abruptly awoke from sleep. The walls of the room were trembling, the windows and doors rattling. I looked at the clock. Twelve o’clock was striking. I was stupefied and frightened. At that time the cannons ought to have fallen silent. Had the cease-fire agreement failed, and war broken out afresh? The guns were thundering so loudly that the roaring and thundering of the past sixteen nights paled by comparison. But suddenly the roar and thunder stopped. Perfect silence, unfathomable stillness. Just a moment ago there was such a roar and thunder that the earth trembled and the walls quivered, and now in a moment such silence, such stillness. I was shaking. Perhaps a cease-fire is more terrifying than a war. I had emerged from one terror and had taken refuge in another terror—in a deeper terror. Then all the rest of the night I couldn’t sleep.

  The minute hand of the clock, after a long terrifying journey of twenty-nine minutes, has arrived at the thirtieth minute and is stuck there. The sky is silent. So the Indian planes have shown their power for the last time and gone back. So the cease-fire has taken effect. I get up and open the window, peer out and look at the sky, run my gaze around for a long distance in every direction. I don’t see anything. The atmosphere is dark, the whole city is immersed in darkness. Afzal was right. There’s nothing at all outside.

  I close the window and grope through the dark room to my bed and lie down. There’s nothing at all outside. Afzal was right. Everything is the same outside. Then where has all this taken place?

  . . . “Then where does this smoke come from?”* From where? From inside me? But where am I myself? Here, or there? There in the ruined city? And the ruined city? But I myself am the ruined city. “It’s as if my heart is the city of Delhi.”* When it falls and when a man is destroyed, when sturdy young men become hunchbacks and the keepers of the house tremble. “And when we had obtained your promise that there would be no bloodshed between us, and our own would not be exiled from their own land. Then you swore all this, and you are a witness to it. Then you are the one who murders your own, and exiles a group of your own from the land.”* “You murdered, then you were murdered. You exiled, then you were exiled.”* And then when terrors camped on the roads, and the gates of the streets were closed, and the sound of the grindstone no longer came from the houses, and the cooking stoves grew cold. “And when I was in the Fort of Susa, it happened that Hanani, who was one of my brothers, came, and I asked him about the remnant of the survivors, and also about Jerusalem. He said, ‘The remnant who survived are suffering trouble and shame. The wall of Jerusalem is broken down, and its gates are destroyed by fire.’”* “Jahanabad is a wasteland. Don’t consider it an exaggeration—all, rich and poor, have left. Those who stayed were forced to leave. The feudal landlords, those with special Company pensions, the rich, the artisans—not one is left. I fear to write the story in detail. The servants of the Red Fort suffer violence, and are caught up in investigations and detentions. I sit in my own house, and cannot go out the door. Someone might come to see me, but who is left in the city? House after house is lightless—‘A river of blood is flowing; if only that were all!’”* Restlessly he stood up, then sat down. In the darkness he strained his eyes to see around him. Where am I? Words said where? By whom? Stories told when? My brain is seething like a cooking-pot over the fire. Then he thought it would be better if he sat down to write in his diary. After all, I never swore to write in my diary only during wartime! And I certainly ought to record in my diary the events of today. He turned the flame of the lantern up higher, and began to write.

  DECEMBER 18

  . . . The Red Fort rang with silence. I went to the tomb of Hare-bhare Shah. The mad faqir wasn’t there. I searched for him, but he was nowhere to be found.

  Delhi is now a ruined city. “Lanes that were like leaves from a painter’s album”* have been laid waste. So many leaves have blown away with the wind, so many others have been utterly erased. So many houses are lightless, reduced to rubble.

  . . . I left this desolation and set out on the road to Lucknow. When I arrived near that city, I heard that the city had been turned upside down, and Navab Hazrat Mahal had left the city along with her devoted companions and set out for the forests of Nepal. The English army was pursuing her. Hunters stalked her like dogs, sniffing for her scent from city to city, forest to forest. I was astonished. What had the queen been thinking of, not to surrender? I grieved over the queen’s imprudence and went on.

  Passing by Jhansi, I asked a traveler, “Brother! Is there any news of Jhansi?” He replied sorrowfully, “The Maharani gave her life on the battlefield. Jhansi’s game is over.”

  I went on. I passed by so many cities. I found every city in disorder. I saw that every post lay unguarded. There was very little water in the Narbada, I crossed the river easily. When I crossed it and went on, I found dense forest.

  A MEETING WITH TANTIYA TOPI

  . . . Passing through the forest, I ran into Tantiya Topi. In this dense frightening forest he seemed like a lion in a thicket. I respectfully told him how things were in the cities.

  “Delhi has already fallen.”

  “So what?” he answered carelessly.

  “Lucknow too has been overthrown.”

  “So what?”

  “The Rani of Jhansi has been killed. Jhansi is done for.”

  “So what?”

  “India has lost the war.”

  “So what?”

  “Now there’s no point in fighting. The sensible thing would be to surrender. Furthermore, the rainy season is over. The Narbada has very little water. There’s no longer any obstacle in the path of the English army.”

  Tantiya Topi looked at me intently. He replied, “My friend! Formerly I was fighting to save the throne of India, now I’m fighting to save the soul of India. I’ve lost that fight, I won’t lose this one.” He fell silent. He stared at me, and said, “Are you a Muslim?”

  “Praise be to God, I’m a servant of Islam.”

  “So I see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Friend, what I mean is obvious. You Muslims are fighting only for the throne. And where are you even fighting? I know what used to happen in the Red Fort of Delhi.”

  What used to happen in the Fort of Delhi? Now, and formerly. At the hands of brothers, brothers—the Mughals’ rusty swords. But Prince Firoz Shah—and Bakht Khan. In what forest is he? Is he too wandering in the forests of Nepal? So many people have left Dhaka and staggered and stumbled half-dead into Nepal. The forests of Nepal have a wide-open embrace. Those who obstinately refu
se to bow their heads, and come here. Those who save their lives by fleeing, and come here. The dogs began to bark. My mind began to be confused. My sentences keep growing more and more disconnected. The dogs are barking exactly as they were barking last night. For them, there’s no difference.

  •

  He stopped writing and stood up. Opening the window, he looked out. In the two-story house opposite them there was light. Electric lights were burning in every room. This light seemed strange to him. He wanted to see how deep and black the night was.

  He came back, and as he lay down on his bed he glanced at the clock. He was surprised. It’s still only ten o’clock? Oh. And it seems that half the night has passed. Oh God! This night is longer than even the wartime nights.

  NINE

  KHVAJAH Sahib had just that moment arrived and sat down. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Yes, I did find out something.” Today there was a glimmer of hope in Khvajah Sahib’s voice.

  “Really? What did you find out?”

  “Somebody has come from over there. He says that he saw Karamat in Bangkok.”

  “In Bangkok?”

  “Maulana Sahib, what’s surprising about that? From such a Doomsday, everyone slipped out however he could. So many of them are hiding in India, so many have gone through India to Nepal. Many of them crossed the eastern border and came out in Burma. Some went to Rangoon, others reached Bangkok. So this man told me that he had come by way of Bangkok. There he met Karamat.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “Oh, you know Muhammad Din from my Amritsar, don’t you? It’s someone he knows. I got this man’s address from him. He’s in Sialkot. So today I’m going to Sialkot.”

  “Go, God will help you.”

  “Maulana Sahib! What’s your opinion? I’m convinced that Karamat is alive and will come back.”