Basti

by Intizar Husain

  . . . Then the Buddha opened his lips: “In a dense forest lived a tiger. Springtime, the night of the full moon. The tiger and his cub were enjoying themselves in the forest. One time he roared so loudly that the whole forest echoed. Hearing his roar, the jackals too shook themselves. They began howling and wailing at the top of their voices. For a long time they kept howling and wailing. They aroused the whole forest, but the tiger remained silent. His cub said, ‘Oh my father! You, so brave, the king of the forest—it’s surprising that the jackals are making so much noise, and you are silent.’ The tiger replied, ‘Oh my son! Keep one word of your father’s close to your heart: when jackals speak, then tigers fall silent.’”

  Hearing this parable, one monk said, “Oh Lord Buddha, when did this take place?” He smiled and said, “In the time when I had taken birth as a tiger and was living far from Banaras in the foothills of the Himalayas. Rahul was with me.”

  . . . After these words, the Buddha fell silent. When he had remained silent for a long time, the monks fell into perplexity: had the time to keep silent come once again? When the wise will fall silent, and shoelaces will speak. This is the time when shoelaces speak. So don’t speak, for fear you might be recognized. They spoke, and were recognized, and the harvest of heads began to be cut down. When I reached the edge of the water-channel, the branches of the leafy tree were loaded with heads.* The cut-off heads, seeing me, burst out laughing, and began to fall into the water-channel with a plop! plop! like ripe fruits. I was afraid my head might have ripened too. Before the fruit could fall from the branch, I leaped into the water-channel. Struggling to stay afloat, I somehow reached the far bank. I came out of the water-channel and decided to head for the city. But there were no vehicles at all. The bus stand was deserted. Not a scooter-cab, not a taxi. Not even a private car to be seen. I asked a passerby, “What’s this? There’s not a vehicle to be seen.” He replied, “There’s a strike in the city today. All the vehicles are off the road and all the bazaars are closed.” I set out on foot. I had gone only a little way, when a procession overtook me. It was a very big procession. A countless multitude. A turbulent ocean of heads. But where are the heads? I looked closely—no one had a head. Where had their heads gone? And was my head still there? Since coming out of the water-channel it hadn’t occurred to me to see whether I had brought my head out intact, or lost it. I touched my head with both hands, and found it safe on my neck. I offered thanks to the Lord. It was as hot as Doomsday. “Oh Lord, save us from the fire of Hell.”* The sun had come down to only one and a quarter spears’ length from the earth,* and skulls were bubbling like cooking-pots. Today heads are burdens on the shoulders. Those who have been released from this burden are fortunate. If I’d left my head back there, I would have been safe. Those who have heads, and have brains in their heads, are in trouble today. Those who have brains in their heads, and tongues in their mouths. “I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.”* “It’s evening. The river has stopped flowing,”* the tents have already burned. “Burnt-out fires here, broken tent-ropes there.”* A few tent-walls are still burning. In their light I saw that the corpses had no heads. Where are their heads? Oh brother, they have been lifted on the points of spears.* Now you’ll see them at the court of Damascus. Shoelaces are speaking. The speaker’s head is on a platter. “Ai my dear friend! Now what news of the city?” “Oh brother, now the heads of the head-cutters have been cut off and brought into the court.” And a centipede crawled in through the nose and out through the mouth and in through the nose again. The head on the platter is that of the wretch who cut off the blessed head and lifted it on the point of a spear and put it on a platter and presented it at the court. At that court how many heads were presented on platters! And how many more will be presented. Then the son of David said to his son, “My son, that which is crooked cannot be made straight. Those who have died are fortunate, those who are alive are unfortunate.* Least fortunate of all are those who are yet to be born.” “Ai, traveler, if you’ve passed through the blessed city, tell us the news.” The camel-rider wept. “Ai brother, don’t ask how things are there.” The corpse of that valiant man hung for three days on a gallows in the center of the blessed city. Then his mother emerged from her house. She came to that spot, looked at her son’s hanging body, and said, “My chevalier, your time for dismounting has not yet come.”* There is peace in the city. The wise men are silent. The harvests have been reaped. The harvest of heads, the harvest of virgins. How many children died, writhing with hunger and wailing with thirst. How many laps were emptied. How many women, the women of the blessed city—the wells of Jahanabad are choked with the corpses of women. Those whom even the sun never saw unveiled, are exposed to public view. Ai city, how did you become sacred, how did you become dishonored? Alas for your ruined lanes—and for those who have ruined you, despite your benefits to them! How do cities become sacred, how do they become dishonored at the hands of those who benefit from them and know them as sacred! Then where did the sacredness of that sacred city go? Its protector, breaking his flute, smashing his pitcher, went off—into what forests? And a white snake emerged from that wise man’s mouth and slithered off into the waves of the ocean. Water at first, water at the last. Om, shanti, shanti, shanti—“I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.” Those people are like spiders, they have built their houses; and of all frail houses, the spider’s house is frailest. So alas for those towns that were overpowered by a cry, or swept away by a torrent of water, or wind, or fire. How many mansions lie with their roofs fallen in. How many wells of cold sweet water have been filled with dust; how many have been choked with the corpses of virtuous women. “From the Jama Masjid to the Rajghat Gate is a desolate wasteland.”* Special Bazaar, Urdu Bazaar, Khanam’s Bazaar, where have all the bazaars gone? No water-carriers, no clinking of water vessels. Lanes that were like leaves from a painter’s album have been laid waste. “Now Jahanabad lies in ruins—”*

  . . . After a long silence, the Buddha opened his lips: “Monks, just imagine a house which is burning on all four sides. Inside it some children are stumbling around, trembling with fear. Oh monks, men and women are children, stumbling around in a fiercely blazing house.” “I swear by Time, man is surely in loss.”

  . . . “Ai my son! How did you find the towns?”

  “My father, I found the towns uneasy. East, west, north, south, I went in all directions searching for joy and peace. In every direction I found the children of Adam unhappy and troubled.”

  “My son, you were searching for something not to be found under the blue sky.”

  “Then, ai my father, what do you say to me?”

  “I will say to you what the son of David said to his son: my son, scattered clouds never come together again. Clouds that have rained themselves out never rain again. So before the birds fall silent and the sound of the grindstone ceases, and before those who gaze out of the windows are darkened and the gates of the street are shut, and before the silver cord is loosed and the golden bowl is broken and the pitcher is smashed at the well and—”*

  •

  “Fellow, what are you doing here?”

  He looked up with a start at Afzal, who was somehow there, standing by his head.

  “Yar, I came to my father’s grave. Then I was trapped here. Today the whole mess took place right around the cemetery. But how do you happen to be here?”

  “I have the same matter of graves to deal with that you do. My grandmother is buried here too.” Gesturing: “That one over there, that’s her grave.” He paused; then, brokenly—“Zakir, my grandmother’s death has taken away my strength.” He fell silent. For a long time he sat in silence, lost in his thoughts. Then he said slowly, “Zakir, doesn’t it seem strange to you?”

  “What?”

  “That we’ve met, in the turmoil of the day, among graves.”

  He’d forgotten about that. He sat up with a start, and looked around him. Graves and more graves. And now evening was falling. “Yar, evening is com
ing, let’s go.”

  “Where shall we go from here?” Afzal asked innocently.

  “Anywhere. Let’s leave.” He got to his feet.

  The road was empty for a long distance, and also full. From one side to the other, how many bricks lay scattered. Broken bricks, shattered bits of car windows, half-burned tires. How many traffic signals stood blindly, deprived of their lights, and how many had been bent out of shape. The silence betrayed the earlier tumult. It’s strange that in such cases the deep silence that falls afterwards is in exact proportion to the tumult that raged before. It was becoming hard to walk. So many scattered bricks and fragments of car windows and rubble from ruined mansions.

  •

  . . . Saadat Khan’s estate, the General’s wife’s mansion, Sahib Ram’s garden and mansion, all destroyed, filled with dust. From the Jama Masjid to Rajghat is a wilderness. If the heaps of bricks lying around could be removed, there would be total emptiness. At Hare-bhare Shah’s tomb, the same mad faqir was sitting there again. I was frightened, I was afraid he might roar at me again. But today there was no roar. Then I myself approached him. I asked respectfully, “Shah Sahib, what do you foresee?”

  “What has already happened will happen again.”

  “That is already occurring.”

  He looked at me with furious eyes. He roared, “Go away! I have no orders to reveal anything further.”

  I came away.

  •

  “Zakir, my friend!” Afzal paused, then said, “It seems there’s been a lot of tumult.” In fact he had seen spots of blood on the road, and was frightened.

  “Yes, it does seem so.”

  “People have grown cruel,” Afzal muttered.

  Cruel—hearing that word on Afzal’s lips he was somewhat startled, but remained silent.

  They had both fallen silent. They were only walking, together but not connected to each other.

  “The Shiraz too!” they both exclaimed at the same time. They had unconsciously headed in that direction, and when they arrived they were taken aback.

  The Shiraz was closed, but not merely in the ordinary way: all the glass panes in its doors had been smashed. Its door and walls were covered with soot. The signboard that had hung in front of it had been burned, and lay on the ground right before the door. There were so many bricks scattered around that they could be seen inside as well as outside. So here too there had been a furious attack, and here too a fire had been set. They both stared fixedly at the Shiraz. Then, avoiding the scattered bricks and broken glass, they sat down right there on the sidewalk.

  They sat in silence, and the shadows of evening spread. The road before them lay in deep silence. No sound of feet, no noise of vehicles. Then in the dusk a shadow appeared, coming toward them. They looked closely to see who it was. “Irfan,” he said to himself, and in his mind’s eye he saw the Imperial’s tawny cat—the way he had seen her as he passed, during that silent evening when he had wandered in the debris of the Imperial.

  Irfan, without surprise, saw him and Afzal sitting there. Then, without saying a word, he sat down beside them. All three sat like statues. In the deepening dusk of the evening, three motionless shadows.

  Suddenly Afzal stood up, as though he was sick of sitting silent and motionless. He stood before them both, hands submissively folded. “Yar, you two are good men. Forgive me. I wasn’t able to protect the city.”

  They both looked at him, went on looking at him, in silence. Today this manner of Afzal’s didn’t cause Irfan any irritation.

  Afzal stood for a while. Then he sat down, then he said slowly, “Yar, we weren’t virtuous either.” He fell silent, and looked at them both. “We’re cruel. We too.”

  Zakir looked quietly at Afzal. “I’m cruel?” He wanted to correct Afzal’s words, or perhaps he was only murmuring to himself.

  Afzal pulled a notebook out of his pocket, glanced over the list of names, inked all the names out with a pen. “There are no virtuous men.”

  Neither he nor Irfan showed any reaction. For a long time the three sat silently. Then he grew somewhat restless.

  “Yar,” he said to Irfan, “I want to write her a letter.”

  “Now?” Irfan stared into his face.

  “Yes, now.”

  “Now when—” There was no telling what Irfan had wanted to say; in the midst of his sentence he fell silent.

  “Yes, now when—” He paused in the midst of his sentence, then took a different tack. “Before—” Confused, he fell silent.

  Before—he tried to get it clear in his mind—before—before the parting of her hair fills with silver, and the birds fall silent, and before the keys rust, and the doors of the streets are shut—and before the silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is shattered, and the pitcher is broken at the well, and the sandalwood tree, and the snake in the ocean, and—

  “Why are you silent?” Irfan was gazing steadily at him.

  “Silence.” Afzal, placing a finger on his lips, signaled Irfan to be silent. “I think we will see a sign.”

  “A sign? What sign can there be now?” Irfan said with bitterness and despair.

  “Fellow, signs always come at just these times, when all around—” he paused in the middle of his speech. Then he said in a whisper, “This is the time for a sign—”

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  INTIZAR Husain chose to call his now-famous novel Basti, a word that can refer to any place where groups of people live, from a neighborhood to a city. The novel itself is full of towns, including not only present ones in Pakistan and India, but also at least one from the past (the Delhi of 1857), some mythic ones from Muslim and Hindu story tradition, and two invented ones, Rupnagar and Vyaspur. Although all the outward events clearly take place during Zakir’s adult life in Lahore, Lahore is never identified by name—it remains “this city” from first to last. And the inward events take place in Zakir’s memory and imagination alone, as he moves among the times and places of his personal and cultural history. The author has in some cases blurred the transitions. I’ve tried to clarify them a bit by using breaks in the text to show movements in time and place, and using “. . .” where fantasy passages begin. Parts of chapters seven, eight, ten, and eleven include fantasy and tangled thoughts. While I’ve provided footnotes identifying quotations and references, the tangle itself is part of the writer’s artistry.

  I have tried to make the translation convenient both to readers who know a great deal about South Asia, and to those who know less. Thus wherever possible I’ve preferred glossary entries to footnotes, since they are less obtrusive to the reader who does not need them. To avoid visual distraction, glossary entries are not identified in the text itself, but all the important names and terms, and most secondary ones, can readily be found. Since the cultural material presupposed by the novel is such a rich mixture of traditional and modern Muslim and Hindu (and Buddhist) material, the glossary is extensive; but it is focused narrowly on the use of each name and term in the novel itself, and seeks to convey only the minimum background information that the author clearly expects the reader to have.

  In places, the novel presents the translator with intractable problems—passages in which the language shifts radically from one register to another, in ways that are immensely evocative in Urdu but virtually impossible to capture in English. The use of traditional Muslim religious vocabulary (e.g., in the story of Cain and Abel in Chapter One) can be only feebly suggested by language reminiscent of the King James Version. Rhyming prose and other characteristic flourishes from the Perso-Arabic story-telling tradition (e.g., in the description of the flourishing city in Chapter Seven) lose much of their elegance in English. The changes in register used for the speech of servants (e.g., the energetic speech of the Hindu servant girl Phullo in Chapter One) cannot be sufficiently differentiated in standard English; nor can the effect of the Sanskritized style of some of the stories from the Hindu tradition (e.g., the questions asked by the raja of the sage in Chapter Sev
en). These losses are simply part of the price both translator and reader must pay.

  There are certain kinds of characteristic speech-markers, however, that I could and did retain. Traditional Urdu is notable for its love of direct address and direct discourse. Speeches often begin with a form of address—sometimes a name or kinship term, or very commonly a vocative particle of some sort; while omitting or translating most, I have retained a few of the more vivid, including the rueful ai and the ubiquitous, indispensable, untranslatable yar. In general, each sentence of mine translates one of the novel’s sentences, with a minimum of alteration. I have not “transcreated” the text or smoothed out its stylistic idiosyncrasies.

  My goal has not been to make the characters sound like Americans. I want a careful balance: sentences that are within the range of standard English, but a rhythm that retains the flow of Urdu. I want the reader to have an agreeable double experience: to realize through the semitransparent medium of English that people from a different culture are living their own lives, not ours. While the sentences swim in Urdu like fish in a sea, in English I want them at least to swim like fish in a well-designed aquarium. Urdu is an Indo-European language with a grammar not radically different from that of English, and modern Urdu prose does manage, for the most part, to come across into English without unacceptable losses. (This is unfortunately far from being the case with much of the older prose and poetry.)