by A. A. Jafri
When Mansoor returned home after dropping Mehrun, he saw Athanni, who came running towards him.
‘Did you hear about Nana Jaan? He is dead,’ he said.
*
That night after his grandfather’s funeral, Mansoor slept restlessly, with nightmares about Mehrun and Sadiq torturing his sleep, his heart pulsating with anxiety. At one point, he woke up thinking of Uncle Zahid. The next day, he asked his father about his uncle. Noor had telephoned him in Germany, but because Zahid was in the middle of his course, he wasn’t able to come for the funeral.
Zahid, it seemed to Mansoor, had vanished entirely from the face of the planet. In the beginning, he wrote frequent letters to his father and to Farhat about the loneliness in a foreign country, a loneliness that he struggled to keep at bay by immersing himself in his studies and work. He also sent a couple of postcards to Mansoor. But with time, his letters became sporadic, and then they stopped altogether. And six months after the death of Javed Sultan, they received the terrible telegram informing them that Zahid Sultan had been killed in a fiery car crash. For the first time, Mansoor saw tears trickle down his father’s cheeks.
*
Seasons rolled by without any fuss. The new general in charge of the country finally announced the date of the first election to be based on adult franchise. The people, however, didn’t believe him. Demagoguery reached new heights as thuggery got enshrined in the body politic. The brilliant foreign minister granted himself the grand title of The People’s Leader. Noor called him the Tippler. Holding one successful rally after the other, the man became genuinely popular. Sniffing victory, The People’s Leader also became arrogant, not realizing that the ultranationalist leader of the eastern province, known as Bangabandhu, the Friend of Bengal, could rob him of the premiership. The eastern province, separated by India, was the largest, and if Bangabandhu took all the seats there, he was sure to become the next prime minister. A hung parliament would be good for the country, Noor had thought. It would weaken the dictatorial leanings of The People’s Leader.
On the hustings, The People’s Leader gave electrifying speeches to the poor farmers in the villages. In one such public address, he asked the villagers, ‘How many of you have gone to those big cities of the exploiters?’ A few in the crowd raised their hands.
‘How many among you have seen these kaloo, black sahibs walking with their wives, holding their hands?’ A few more raised their hands again.
‘When I am elected, you will freely roam around in cities with your wives, holding their hands without shame. Are you in any way inferior to those bastards in the cities?’
And the farmers looked at each other, puzzled. Why would they want to roam around uselessly with their wives, that too holding their hands? Someone in the crowd yelled a new slogan: ‘Surkh hai! Surkh hai! Asia surkh hai! (Red! Red! Asia is Red!)’
The leader of the G.O.D.s gave a befitting reply, ‘And to the socialists and the godless communists, I have a simple message: We will do unto you what was done unto them in the Islamic Republic of Indonesia!’ This was a reference to the communist purge of 1965 in Indonesia that killed at least five hundred thousand people.
And his crowd chanted: ‘Subz hai! Subz hai! Asia subz hai! (Green! Green! Asia is Green!)’
And Noor, of course, would not be Noor, if he did not react to this. He chanted: ‘Subz hai na surkh hai! Asia ko kabz hai! (Neither green nor red! Asia is constipated!)’
And Bangabandhu said, ‘This time, the struggle is for our freedom! This time, the struggle is for our independence! It has nothing to do with green or red!’
*
As the election day approached, people worked their enthusiasm up to a fever pitch. It was to be the dawn of democracy, as promised by Rangeelay Shah. Amid the chaos, they saw glimmers of order; amid anarchy, they noticed flashes of hope. Haider editorialized: ‘From the cinders of dictatorship, the phoenix of democracy is rising.’
It seemed as if everyone except Noor was thrilled by the new politics. Ordinary men and women who had no political bones in their body now got drawn into the exhilaration of possibilities. It was as if the mere sight of a real ballot box was enough to bring deliverance from dictatorship and a relief to their tired lives. Zakir wrote an op-ed column concluding:
Our democracy will succeed only if it has a Pakistani character. We cannot superimpose foreign institutions and foreign laws on domestic structures. Our democracy can only draw sustenance if it is indigenous, intrinsic and original. Otherwise, it will remain an illusion at best and a delusion at worst.
When Noor read his piece, he did not understand what exactly Zakir was talking about. Democracy was not like European food that needed to be spiced up to rid it of its bland taste. And what did he mean by the superimposition of foreign institutions over domestic structure? The country had appropriated and embraced colonial institutions for goodness’ sake! Mansoor listened carefully to his father’s criticism of Zakir’s article. He, however, could not vote because he never registered, but that did not stop him from debating and arguing with the other students in his university. All political leaders disgusted him. They represented the worst elements of society; they were all thieves—wicked and shameless as far as he was concerned. Athanni, however, found a new purpose in his life, a new self, something that excited his soul. He joined the Guardians of Divinity and began purveying their venom. Whether he genuinely believed in their cause or he found in them an outlet to feed his ignorance, Mansoor could not decide; but like a new cultist, Athanni spoke in tongues.
‘When we come into power, our Faith will be our Code, and our Code will be our Faith. The thieves will have their hands chopped, the drunkards will have their buttocks flogged with eighty lashes and the haramis will have their heads severed. There will be no Christmas, no New Year’s Eve and no cinemas. If you go to a brothel, you will be castrated; all the whores will be stoned to death.’
His orgiastic lectures about barbaric retributions sent chills down Mansoor’s spine.
‘How can you think of going backwards while the rest of the world progresses?’ Mansoor challenged him.
‘Our future is in the past. Our past is our present. You are slaves of the West; we are God’s slaves. We are the true believers, and you are jahannami, you are hell-dwellers,’ he replied, his face tense, spit flying out of his mouth when he shouted out the word ‘you’. With animus, he added the English word ‘hell-dweller’ as if to deliberately make sure that Mansoor understood the meaning of the keyword ‘jahannami’. It was also to warn his cousin that his English-medium education would not save him, the sinner, from the eternal flames of hell.
*
On the day of the election, Noor stayed home, but Athanni, along with his father and mother, dragged Farhat out and took her to the polling station. Noor told her, ‘You can vote for anyone, but for God’s sake, don’t vote for the G.O.D.s.’
Once inside the voting booth, however, Farhat defied her husband and voted for the G.O.D. party. For the second time in her life, she went against her husband’s wishes, the first being when she had hired Maulvi Nazir to impart religious education to Mansoor. In disobeying her husband, she not only denied his politics but also challenged his patriarchy. Democracy had emboldened her; the tiny ballot box emancipated her, and she cherished every microsecond of that moment, the fleeting excitement, the sweet liberation, thumbing her nose at her husband’s belief. That the party she voted for would be the first one to trample on her self-esteem and treat her like a legal minor under the guardianship of a blood relative never entered her stream of consciousness. Noor had told Mansoor in front of Farhat that this was the party that would send the country crashing back to the Stone Age, when they literally used stones to kill non-believers, in a matter of minutes. And Farhat had replied, ‘I long for those simple times; I crave for those happy days.’
The elections divided the population along linguistic lines. Bangabandhu’s party won every seat in the eastern province, and the P.O.O.P
.s won 80 per cent of the seats in the western province. The G.O.D.s, wholly routed, cried foul. Athanni was stunned, and Farhat wept bitterly. To the utter disbelief of The People’s Leader, Rangeelay Shah announced that Bangabandhu would be the next prime minister of the country. But that was not to be. The idea that a Bengali could rule the entire country was deeply offensive to The People’s Leader. Like a sore loser, he warned his party men that he would personally break the bones of anyone who joined the new assembly without his approval. Then, in an about-face, he offered a novel idea—although Noor called it a moronic idea—to share power in a system of dual prime ministership. The foolishness of a hydra-headed federal government was evident to everyone except to him.
Rangeelay Shah tried to placate The People’s Leader, but his bullheadedness came in the way. In the process, he alienated the Bangabandhu and his eastern brethren, who now openly called for secession from the west. The seeds of secession, truth be told, had been implanted back in 1948 when The Great Leader had declared that ‘the state language of Pakistan is going to be Urdu, and no other language.’ The relentless discrimination and the open disparagement could only be tolerated for so long, but what broke the camel’s back was the ultimate humiliation of denying the Bengalis the right to govern when they had a clear victory. The east rebelled and used bullets and bayonets to take back what they had rightfully earned through the ballots. Rangeelay Shah sent his army to East Pakistan to crush the rebellion.
‘He is treating the province like a giant slaughterhouse! And the government-controlled media keeps vomiting lies to the people,’ Noor thundered.
‘Stop listening to the BBC and the Voice of America. They are enemies of our country, of our religion; they are the real liars,’ Farhat retorted.
Noor could not understand Farhat’s inability to accept the truth. The context of her reality had an altered meaning, a different direction. The denial of reality, according to Noor, was the product of a chaotic mind.
‘Shut your eyes, clog your ears and pretend that the genocide against your brothers and sisters is not happening!’ Noor literally shouted.
Mansoor had never seen him so emotional. This was a different Noor, and that was a defiant Farhat.
Sixteen
War broke out again between India and Pakistan, in early December 1971, and like a broken record, they both accused each other of starting it. The Indian prime minister declared that she could not shake hands with a clenched fist. The barbaric lust for war and the urge to inflict sadistic cruelty on each other’s people were seen as the best solutions. Following the Malthusian nostrum to periodically tackle overpopulation, they willingly sacrificed their people to Ares, the god of war.
While the propaganda machine played jingoistic war songs on the radio waves, the revolutionary poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz lamented:
Sajaey to kaisaey sajaey qatl-e-aam ka mela
Kisey lubhai ga mere lahoo ka wa waila?
Mere nizar badan mein lahoo hi kitna hai?
Charaagh ho koi raushan na koi jam bharey
Na is se aag hi bharkey na is sey pyas bujhey
Mere figar badan mein lahoo hi kitna hai?
Magar woh zehar-e-halahal bhara ha nas nas mein
(How to adorn the carnival of this massacre
Who will be fascinated by my blood-curdling cries?
How much blood remains in my shrivelled body?
To light up the candles or fill up the wine glasses
To stoke the fire or quench the thirst
How much blood remains in my wounded body?
As the deadly poison streams across my veins)
*
The war in 1971 was much shorter than the previous war. Operation Chengiz Khan lasted a mere thirteen days, four days less than Operation Grand Slam of 1965. But the bombs were more destructive, the noise more deafening, the annihilation more pervasive and the humiliation more complete. The morning after, the nation was stunned. The people of Pakistan woke up to a truncated land. The eastern wing of the country became the independent nation of Bangladesh, and Bangabandhu became its first prime minister. As a parting gift to the people of a torn country, Rangeelay Shah handed over power quietly to The People’s Leader. The Daily Jadal published an almost-blank front page with a single line from a couplet by the philosopher–poet Mohammad Iqbal:
Khamoshi guftugu hai, bezabani hai zubaan meri
(Silence is my speech, speechlessness is my tongue)
It was a Day of Silence, almost as though the entire nation had duct-taped its mouth. Sadiq published a poem in the Morning Gazette, entitled ‘The Rape of the Nation’, and asked, ‘Who should she go to demand justice?/ Who is there to grant justice?/ Who is going to pass judgment?/ Who will be the hangman?’
Noor, the talkative barrister, became reticent, his tongue slashed by hysterical events. He had told his son that this war would destroy the country; he had argued with his wife about her naiveté; chastised Zakir about his blinders, but now he could say no more. Mansoor saw the pain writ large and clear on his father’s face. He also mourned with the nation.
*
Several months after the war, Noor invited his highbrow friends for a late lunch to vent his muffled thoughts and to resurrect the life of pleasure that had died out in this defeated country. He had asked Mansoor to join them now that he had attained the level of intellectual sophistication that Noor had often demanded of him in the past.
When the friends arrived and settled down in the mardana, Mansoor joined them quietly. Opening a bottle of Johnnie Walker, he began pouring the whisky into the crystal glasses that had stood idly on the mahogany side table for a while. As he got ready to pour some for Zakir, he exclaimed, ‘None for me, Mansoor! I will have chai. I have stopped drinking alcohol.’
The other three friends raised their eyebrows at the heresy, especially as it came from a devotee of fine liquor. Mansoor ordered Budhoo to bring two cups of chai, one for Zakir and one for himself.
The ex-diplomat had undergone quite a profound conversion—no to alcohol, no to any ‘profane’ discussions and yes to the ‘true’ faith—his brand-new personality was the most telling souvenir of another lost war. Noor was stunned. Zakir’s new set of orthodox beliefs meant that from now on he had to regard Sadiq, who was Ahmadi, and Haider, who was Shia, as belonging to heretical faiths. The ultraconservative Sunni religious parties had been trying to declare the Ahmadis as non-Muslim since before the Partition. They also considered Shias as renegades.
‘Can you tell me what is the true faith?’ Noor asked Zakir. ‘There are seventy-two different sects, each ready to call the others kafir, ready to slit their throats at the first chance. Your true believers will be the first ones to declare our agnostic Ahmadi friend, Sadiq, a kafir.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Noor. I have already been declared a kafir by my Ahmadi co-religionists,’ Sadiq replied.
Mansoor’s eyes abruptly went to the professor’s girth, which seemed to have doubled since the last time he had seen him at Chandni Lounge. Apparently, neither shame nor guilt had affected this man who wrote poetry about the rape of the nation while sitting oblivious to his dastardly role in Mehrun’s humiliation.
That night, after his friends left, Noor drank more and spoke emotively with Mansoor about his friend’s conversion. Zakir’s oration about true believers had unbuttoned him entirely.
‘Maybe he’s just going through a phase,’ Mansoor suggested.
‘Grown men don’t just go through a phase,’ Noor replied. ‘War twists us all, but a warped war coils us differently.’ Noor looked at his son, who in his young life had already seen two wars, short as they were.
‘My generation was distorted by the mayhem of Partition. Zakir should have gone through his conversion at that time, but he didn’t. I, however, did . . . especially when I saw the murdered . . .’ Noor did not complete his sentence, but Mansoor knew he was thinking about his father. The scars lay buried in his heart’s alcove. Had Noor lost his faith when he saw his
father’s murdered body? Had he been killed by greedy relatives? The evidence was substantial that this was the case, but the story that got sold was that he had been assassinated by fanatic Hindus as part of a broader land dispute called Pakistan. That property would trump kinship was something Noor had never thought of. All property is theft, he had argued, echoing Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, until he migrated to this new country and built his precious Kashana. And as his adopted country became publicly religious, he became privately secular. His conversion was a long-drawn-out process that probably went through several revisions.
But what happened to Zakir? Although he was part of General Dundda’s government in its dying days, he got recruited by Rangeelay Shah because of his foreign service experience. As an intrinsic member of his government, Zakir witnessed the slaughter of people, heard about the raping of girls and saw the looting of property, and yet he remained silent. Why? How could people who shared the same faith slaughter each other so quickly? But to Zakir, it was not the failure of religion; it was the bankruptcy of their inherited beliefs.
One of the members of The Unholy Quartet was now becoming holier than the rest. All these friends—well-read, profoundly intelligent, inversely affected—were now on a path that suddenly diverged, their friendship fissured by fervency.
*
Most bankers remained petrified by the rumours of nationalization, but not Ameer Abbas Alvi. For he was not a typical banker. When life gave him more than his share of tragedies, he accepted them with the stillness of a Stoic philosopher. Ready for a hostile takeover by the government, he sat calmly in his exquisitely decorated penthouse office, his feet crossed on top of the mahogany desk and his head tilted, resting against the black leather chair. The huge bay windows in the office were decked with a variety of plants, some brought by Mehrun. Two large leafy palms in red lacquer pots stood guard at each end of the windows. On the onyx ashtray on the table, a fat brown cigar lay burning, its smell, acrid and overpowering, permeating throughout the room. A picture of Alvi shaking hands with General Dundda hung defiantly on the wall across from his desk. On the adjacent wall, an enlarged photo of J.P. Morgan, the captain of the American banking industry, flaunted rugged capitalism. The fall of General Dundda and the election of a socialist prime minister had not convinced him to replace these precious pictures with the picture of the politician du jour.