“For what reason?”
“Don’t ask the reason. Look around, and understand. It happened that a horse with reins hanging loose, neighing, went into the forest. When he saw this, he lost all hope. Getting down from his chariot, he placed his flute on a pitcher and broke it, smashed the pitcher into pieces, and went into the forest, searching for his brother.”
When I heard this tale of disaster, I left the town. Traveling far, I came to a forest. An uninhabited forest. Unfathomable silence. Under a tree I saw his brother sitting, with ash-smeared limbs, on a deer-skin. His hair was knotted and tangled, his eyes closed, his mouth open—and from within his mouth a white snake thrust out its head. It came out hissing, and began to grow long, and kept growing longer and longer. It grew so long that its hood touched the waves of the distant, surging ocean. I saw with fear that the long white snake’s body kept emerging from the wise man’s mouth, and vanishing into the ocean. Then I saw that the snake’s tail had emerged from his mouth, and the breath had left the wise man’s body.
Seeing this, I marveled: Oh Ram, what mystery is this? With this worry I turned back, so I could say, Oh people of Dwarka! Here, you are fighting to the death; there, the snake has gone down into the ocean. But before I could get to the town, the ocean waves had already reached it. The town, which had been a light of peace in the ocean of existence, now looked like a bubble in the churning ocean waves.* Thus as he was dying in the midst of the field of Kurukshetra, Bhisham said to Yudhishtir, “Oh Yudhishtir, in the beginning there was water, for everything is made only of water. And now I’ve realized that in the end too there’s only water. The source is water, the end is water. Om, shanti, shanti, shanti—”
. . . He shook himself, and looked at his sleeping companion—who seemed to have been sleeping through many births, oblivious to the world and everything in it, snoring long and loudly. He glanced out of the cave and at once pulled his head back in, for it was very dark outside and a hurricane had begun to blow. He muttered, There’s still a lot of the night left. The nights of mischief are so long—he looked at his sleeping companion. How restfully he’s sleeping, while outside a hurricane is raging. And how long he’s slept, though he meant to sleep for only seven hundred years! But now his own eyelids too began to feel heavy. Yawning hugely, he muttered, Now it’s time to go to sleep.
ELEVEN
“SON, THAT bunch of keys is still lying around.”
He saw the bunch of keys lying on the table, and felt ashamed. Abba Jan had, in his last moments, confided them to him so carefully! “Ammi, today I’ll put them away for sure.”
“Yes, son, they’re a trust from your forefathers. You should keep them carefully.” As she spoke, Ammi Jan left the room. After all, she had other household tasks to attend to.
A trust from my forefathers, he murmured. “Son, these are the keys of a house to which you no longer have any right.” The keys of that house, and of that land. The keys of Rupnagar. The keys are here with me, and there a whole time is locked up, a time that has passed. But time doesn’t pass! It keeps passing, but it doesn’t pass. It keeps hovering around. And houses never stay empty. When those who lived in them go away, the time lives on in the houses. So many empty old houses in Rupnagar came and occupied his imagination. That house with the jujube-tree, the one in the lane near the mosque, the one that had a big lock on its main gate. There’s no telling who used to live in that house, and when they shut it up and went away. By then it had been locked up for ages, and the padlock had gotten rusty, and inside the ceilings of a number of rooms had fallen in, leaving only the walls still standing. And one afternoon, chasing a kite, he came to its threshhold and saw that inside it was like a forest. The grass was so tall, and a papaya had sprouted and grown until it looked like a small tree. How surely houses that lie empty turn into forest. And how surely time—time too—that lies locked up inside, turns into forest. My memory—my enemy, my friend—leads me into the forest and abandons me there.
The night is enjoyable, will you go or will you stay?
The bed is springy, lover, will you go or will you stay?
The rain kept on coming down. From somewhere, from some house or other, in that rain-filled night, the sound of a drum kept coming—
“Zakir, make me a grave too.”
“Why should I? Make it yourself.”
Sabirah scrapes the moist dirt together and piles it around her white foot, and when she pulls her foot out, the mound, with its hollow, stays in place.
“Zakir! My grave is better than yours.”
“Oh really?”
“Put your foot in and see.”
My foot—in the grave molded by Sabirah’s soft white foot. How soft, how cool—
•
“Zakir, son! Have you heard? The son of the woman who runs the bakery has been shot.”
“Shot—how?” Startled, he looked at Ammi, who had come, badly upset, into his room.
“Why, Doomsday has come to the neighborhood! The poor woman had only the one son.”
“Who shot him?”
“Who? As though it were some one person we could name! The neighbors say that on Mall Road there’s a hail of bullets. Are, people are crazy for blood—they’re going mad! Just tell me, what did the bakery-woman’s son ever do to them?”
A hail of bullets, he muttered. Outside there was a hail of bullets, and inside he was wandering in the forests. One forest, then another forest, and then another forest. He went on advancing, and the forests kept on getting denser. What forest is this that I’m in? How dense, how deep. And this town—
“Oh Zakir, have you heard, they’ve been setting fires!” Ammi said in a terrified voice, the moment she entered the room.
“Fires?” Coming back from the forests, he looked at her. “Where have they set fires?”
“You know the house with the horses, where those wretches have their office? What party is it? It’s been driven right out of my head. I can’t remember the names of those parties and such at all!”
“It’s all right. There’s no need at all to remember their names.”
“The neighborhood women have been driving me crazy. They say, Let’s go out and see what’s happening.”
“Ammi, nothing is happening outside, please just sit down and stay calm.”
“Son, that’s just what I’ve come to say to you. Let anything happen outside, what’s it to us? I won’t let you go out today,” Ammi said, and at once left the room.
That’s just fine, let anything happen outside, he muttered. Nothing is happening outside. Everything is happening inside me. Everything that has already happened.
•
What’s happening is that the lock on the Great Gate has opened. The Small Bazaar is silent and desolate. The sound of footsteps only comes when a funeral procession sets out from one of the houses. After that, more silence, which grows even deeper. Will Rupnagar become entirely devoid of people?
“Nasir Ali, my son! You sent back the bullock-cart that had come from Danpur, and you did well. But do you know how many houses have been emptied since this morning, and how many funeral processions have set out?”
And when the house with the tamarind tree burned down, and all the water-carriers of Rupnagar came with their leather water-skins. But the water acted like kerosene, for after the water streamed onto the fire, the leaping flames grew even fiercer.
Hakim Bande Ali looked angrily at the whisperers. “But I ask you, what reason would some outsider have to come and start the fire?”
“Then who started it?”
“People! Don’t force me to speak. Quarrels over property have shattered this family.”
“Zakir, I’m afraid, let’s get out of here.”
“Sabbo, don’t be a coward, we’ll go in a minute.”
“I’m afraid, let’s get out of here.”
An explosion! The roof-beams were burning the way a forest burns.
•
“The fire engine has come.”
“Why, if it had come a little later, the flames would have spread to the neighboring houses as well. And our house isn’t exactly detached, either!” As she spoke, she turned on her heel and went back, as though she had only come to tell him this news. But then she thought of something and stopped. “Zakir, shall I make you some tea?”
“Tea!” He looked at her, startled. “No, Ammi.” And at the same time he stood up.
Ammi looked at him suspiciously. “Ai hai, the moment I come you get up!”
“I’m going now.”
“What did you say?” Ammi almost screamed. “You’ve lost your mind! Is today any day to go out?”
“Ammi! Khvajah Sahib insisted very strongly. Abba Jan’s grave has subsided. I’m going to the cemetery to see to it.”
Ammi, hearing this, wavered, but then she said, “Son, you could do it tomorrow instead.”
“Tomorrow! Ammi, you have a lot of faith in tomorrow.” He looked hard at his mother. “Tomorrow might be even worse than today.”
Ammi was completely crushed. She couldn’t even think of an answer. And he quickly put his shoes on, combed his hair, and went out.
At the door he encountered Khvajah Sahib. “I was just coming to see you. Where are you going?”
“I’m doing as you told me yesterday. I’m going to the cemetery.”
“But,” Khvajah Sahib said uncertainly, “How will you go? There’s a lot of disturbance over that way.”
“No, I’ll get there.”
Khvajah Sahib paused, then said, “If you’ll take my advice, don’t go today. Go tomorrow.”
“Very good! I thought Ammi was the only devout optimist. Khvajah Sahib, you too believe that tomorrow will be better!”
Khvajah Sahib was at a loss for words. Then, after a pause, he said apologetically, “Son, I don’t know how you feel about this. Since the Maulana Sahib’s death, I’ve perhaps begun to assume some rights over you. Or perhaps now in Karamat’s place I—” Khvajah Sahib’s voice became a bit choked up. Before finishing his sentence, he fell silent.
He tried to reassure Khvajah Sahib. “You’ve never been one to lose hope! What kind of talk is this? Now that you’ve waited so long, you should wait a bit longer. Who knows when—and why not? People have been known to come back, even after years. I know one man myself who’s knocked around here and there for years, and has just now come back.”
“Son,” Khvajah Sahib said hopelessly, “the time for coming home has passed. And now what’s the point of anyone’s coming here? Don’t you see what’s happening? Maulana Sahib was lucky to depart in peace.” He paused, thought, then said, “Go, son, I won’t stop you. Maulana Sahib was disturbed. But when you come back, tell me, so I can feel at ease.”
Passing through that narrow street, he hesitated. Ammi was right. He had not imagined then that the fire could spread. And the area where it was burning was not too far from their house. So many houses in the neighborhood had come within the range of the flames and been blackened. The fire brigade had arrived and were standing by. Their long hose passed from the road into a burned-out house which had lost its roof and was filled with black, smoking ruins. Groups of people stood around, staring at the burned-out house and at the firemen with their brass helmets.
Passing by Nazira’s shop, which was closed, he reached the road, which was empty for a long distance. Empty and silent. In the middle of the road a flock of birds had alighted; hearing the sound of footsteps, they were startled and looked at him with surprise, then flew away with a whir of wings. A little way ahead of him a kite, with its wings spread, was strolling down the road. At the tap of footsteps it hesitated, looked at him with round astonished eyes, seized a scrap of carrion in its beak and flew off. Then for a long way the road was absolutely empty. In the silence how loud the tap of his footsteps sounded, and what a burden it became to his ears. Ahead, in the closed bazaar, bricks lay scattered everywhere. Smashed car windows, a half-burned tire. His loud, sharp footsteps. He slowed to a pause. Some hesitation. Something had happened here, and while he was wondering what might have happened he suddenly felt that someone was watching him. He glanced to the right and the left. The shops were all closed. But near them policemen with truncheons were standing, rank upon rank, absolutely silent. Only their eyes moved, following the passersby. But who was passing by? At that time he alone was walking.
Ahead, the road grew more and more frightening. Emerging from the zone of silence, he entered the zone of noise. Somewhere very near, slogans were being shouted and smoke was rising. Is something burning? No, I think somebody just set fire to a tire. But anyway, what do I care? I should think about something else. Now how far is the cemetery from here? Surendar’s letter. I cruel? He’s talking nonsense. But beyond this he couldn’t think of anything more. From a cross-street a flood was pouring in. The next moment he found himself in the midst of the crowd. Tense faces, bloodshot eyes, necks with swollen veins, slogans and abuse on their lips. Who are these people? All the faces were strange to him. After a while, out of the flood of strange faces a familiar form appeared, saw him, and paused.
“Are you part of the procession too?”
“No.”
“Then why are you going with them?”
“I’m not going with them. I’m going to the cemetery. To my father’s grave.”
“They’re going toward the cemetery too.”
“Toward the cemetery! —Why?”
“Near the cemetery, in that red building, there’s a police post. They’re going to raid it.”
“That’s a real problem, what should I do?”
“Do you have to go by this road? Go by some other road. If you turn here on the road to the church, from there you can go through the back lanes and get to the cemetery.”
“Yes, that’s what I can do.”
But he couldn’t do it. There was such a sea of people all around him that he was entirely trapped. He was moving the way a straw is borne along in a flood. He looked helplessly at the faces around him. They seemed to have been stretched out and elongated. Then they began to be flat. Stretched-out necks, flat faces, red mouths, and hairy bodies that seemed to bristle with excitement. He was frightened. What if their necks should stretch and stretch, and their faces flatten and flatten, until their shapes changed entirely,* or even lost all shape? Am I one of them? Will I be raised up along with them? —No! Then should I make an announcement—an announcement in this crowd? Who’ll hear? You can’t even hear if somebody yells in your ear! At least, I mustn’t go with them. Let them go to the cemetery by their road, and I by mine. I must get out of this crowd quickly, for fear that I too—that my neck too might stretch, and my face flatten, and the veins in my neck swell, and my face— Suddenly there was a commotion. Firing had begun: panic, slogans, abuse, a rain of bricks, a hail of bullets. A truck passed swiftly by him, on which stood long-necked flat-faced troops with pistols in their hands, moving toward the red building visible ahead. It seemed strange to him that the troops who stood on the high roof of the building and peered out the windows of the lower stories suddenly also had stretched-out necks and faces growing more and more flattened. They too were armed with pistols. A hail of bullets began. Panic, shrieks and cries, a storm of non-human yells. He, a straw floating in the storm waves.
He didn’t know how much later it was, and how it came about, but when his mind began to clear somewhat he found himself lying by the cemetery gate. I should go inside, so I can hide among the graves and escape this Doomsday-chaos. Staggering and stumbling, he went inside and wandered among the graves. He paused: This is Abba Jan’s grave. He sat down beside the grave, thinking that when he came to himself he would say the Fatihah. He was still unable to catch his breath, and his body was trembling. The sound of firing could be heard. The sound of slogans too, but they were hardly slogans any more. Now they were a torrent of ferocious, inhuman yelling. And why was t
here this smoke? Startled, he raised his eyes above the buildings before him, where black and brown clouds of smoke were welling up, then coming together in a thick black column and rising into the heights. “Fire,” he muttered, in a shaky, frightened voice. Now the smoke was coming toward the cemetery, and then it seemed that the whole cemetery was full of smoke. Sitting among the graves, he was amidst clouds of smoke. Even more than his breath, his senses were gripped by the smoke. In his imagination the whole city was burning. Their tails were like torches, and swept through the city like a broom, the crackling, blazing city. So much had already burned, so much was burning. So many buildings had already been destroyed, so many were about to collapse. He crawled and crawled, trying to come out from under the rubble. He felt that he was not all in one piece. Am I myself, or the rubble of myself? “What a building sorrow has destroyed!”* Am I in pieces? Everything around me is in pieces. Time too. In the womb of that one time there were so many times. I’m wandering, broken up—through what times?
•
. . . “The city has already burned, but our tails are still burning. Where shall we put our burning tails?”* “Son, put them in your mouths.” We did. “Our tails have been cooled off under our teeth, between tongue and palate, but why have our faces turned black?” “The end of every fire is soot.”
. . . Then I asked that black-faced wretch, “Ai black-faced, black-fortuned one! May your mother sit in mourning for you! Were you one of the letter-writers?”* Bowing his head, he replied, “It was I myself who wrote the first letter: ‘The harvest is ready. Flowers are blooming in the gardens, the grapevines are heavy with bunches of grapes.’ Then I was the first of them all to swear allegiance to his envoy.” “Then after that, what happened to you?” “Not to me, to the city,” and he whispered, “Ai brother, speak softly, or rather, don’t speak at all, for the harvest of heads is ripe, and there’s a curfew in Kufa.” A curfew in Kufa! I was astonished, and wandered from lane to lane. The lanes were deserted, the streets empty, the windows closed, the doors locked, the mosque echoing with silence. When he stood to lead the prayer, those praying with him formed in rows that filled the courtyard of the mosque all the way to the back. When at the end of the prayers he turned to look, the rows of men had vanished, the mosque was empty. When he entered the mosque he was surrounded by men going to say their prayers, and when he left the mosque he was alone.* He wandered through empty streets and deserted lanes. Flowers were blooming in the gardens, the grapevines were heavy with bunches of grapes, and the harvest of heads was ripe. Don’t speak, for fear you might be recognized—
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