Gohar Jan poured him some water from the ewer.
“I heard of your brother’s death,” she said, passing the bowl. “I am sorry.”
Ustad Ramzi gripped the bowl with both hands. But he saw she was not looking at him.
“I heard that you two were the last remaining of your family. One never forgets a childhood spent together.”
He stared at her. His pride and guilt put him on guard at her first words, but now his concentration wavered. Because of their significant age difference, he and Tamami had no shared childhood. It was also said about Ustad Ramzi that childhood never visited him. He had always been serious and somber.
“Sometimes it is a difficult thing,” Gohar Jan’s voice interrupted Ustad Ramzi’s thoughts, “To go through life carrying all the memories of your family, knowing that both the memories and family will end with you.”
Gohar Jan said something a moment later that Ustad Ramzi did not quite hear, but it registered sufficiently in his mind to attract his attention.
“…I could talk about it,” she said, “as I do not have many years left.”
Something more than the words caught Ustad Ramzi’s ear. It was the grief in Gohar Jan’s voice, so much at odds with her usual tone.
Then Ustad Ramzi’s attention wandered away. He could not tell how long his mind was blank. When he regained his attention, Gohar Jan was saying:
“A girl’s face is the only memory I have of our family. She may have been my sister, younger than myself, for I remember her following me around the house. I don’t know if my father was around, but I can feel the presence of my mother. It surprises me sometimes that I do not recall her features. My sister’s face is all I remember. I wonder if she remembers me still. It is a harsh sentence to know that somewhere, someone who was a part of you and whom you will never see, perhaps still lives. The thought has not left me since the day I was separated from my family.”
Gohar Jan fell silent. It was the first time that she had mentioned her family.
An incident from many years ago rose with great vividness from some vault in Ustad Ramzi’s memory at her words.
When Tamami was eight or nine, he had stolen some guavas from a neighbor’s tree. The neighbor had complained to the elders. Fearful of the punishment that lay in store for him, Tamami had come running to his brother. He was still carrying the guavas in the folds of his kurta, and his mouth was full of the half-unripe fruit as he mumbled, “Don’t tell anyone!” and slid under the charpai where Ustad Ramzi was sitting. Shortly afterwards one of the ustads had entered the enclosure with a rattan cane in his hand. He looked around and asked, “Have you seen Tamami?” Ustad Ramzi stood up, exposing Tamami who was still nibbling at the guava. He was pulled out by his ear and dragged away. Tamami had cried and tried to clutch on to his legs, but he did not intervene.
As he recalled that scene now, Ustad Ramzi realized he could have saved Tamami a beating that day.
Ustad Ramzi felt a constriction in his chest. He could think of nothing but Tamami. His heart was pulsing and beating with the usual rhythm, but with a strength that was almost painful. All his senses were alert but he felt that his heart was sinking.
“Are you all right?” Gohar Jan asked.
“I do not feel well, I’m sorry,” he said with his eyes lowered.
Gohar Jan offered him another bowl of water.
“I think I must go,” he said returning the empty bowl.
“Rest your mind,” she said to him as he got up.
The door had been left open and he quietly walked out.
By the time he reached the enclosure his nauseous feeling had subsided.
❖
That night Ustad Ramzi again dreamt of Tamami.
He dreamt he was alone in the enclosure. The sand swept past him in waves. Something came floating over it from his right, and a smell like camphor’s— only stronger and strangely altered, and so strong he could almost taste it—assailed his senses. The object came to rest at his feet. It was a human body clad in winding sheets. Without seeing the covered face, he knew it was Tamami’s corpse. He tried to step away but could not. He tried to reach down to touch the sand but felt dizzy. Then a crow alighted at his feet and began digging into the sand with his beak. He stepped back in terror. The smell was still in his nostrils when his eyes opened. He sat up and stepped out into the courtyard where the freshly smoothed clay of the akhara shone in the moonlight.
He could no longer avoid answering the questions that had haunted him since Imama’s death, and had subsequently taken on new meaning.
Did the essence of his art not lie in creating a delicate harmony between strength and the opposing force? Did it not lie in keeping power bridled?
When he had set out Tamami’s training routine these had not been his considerations. It had caused the death of two men. He had then aggravated his crime by a false sense of rectitude.
The base passions that he had detected in Tamami lived inside himself: in his anger, ambition, and pride.
In obedience to them he had compromised every principle he sought to save and disgraced himself more than words could express.
The guilt Ustad Ramzi carried in his heart etched his face in this moment of reckoning.
❖
He visited Tamami’s grave. There were no other graves beside it. Marked with a tombstone commemorating Tamami’s life, it was surrounded by budding rose bushes planted by Kabira. After saying the benediction Ustad Ramzi sat down at the foot of the grave where the caretaker found him when he made his rounds at night.
Retirement
The clan wondered what motivated Ustad Ramzi to remove his fighter’s belt and retire. It did seem to them that Ustad Ramzi had aged many years in one day. He had turned old and haggard overnight.
The trainees kept the akhara in use, turning and smoothing the clay on alternate days. A few older pahalwans still came to the akhara, more out of habit than anything else. Sometimes when an exhibition bout was held, the place came to life. The senior pahalwans supervised the contestants’ training regime, and judged their fights. Then quiet returned to the place.
Lost in his thoughts, Ustad Ramzi kept a silent watch on everything from his seat by the side of the akhara. He did not react to promoter Gulab Deen advancing his coterie of pahalwans through rigged bouts. He similarly remained impassive when the promoter instituted new titles and some members from Ustad Ramzi’s clan broke away and joined the promoter’s group.
Ustad Ramzi continued his visits to Gohar Jan’s kotha. Sometimes she noticed him sitting with a vacant air, often staying longer than usual as if he had lost the sense of time.
A few times the trainees heard Ustad Ramzi crying in the cemetery.
Changes
Ustad Ramzi’s enclosure was re-zoned into the commercial district. Subsequently, it attracted the interest of builders. Aware of the news that the imposition of a higher property tax had added to Ustad Ramzi’s financial troubles, the builders’ representatives had approached him and offered a substantial contribution to the clan if he would agree to sell the land. They did not hide the fact that they planned to build on the site. They explained that the graves in the cemetery would be moved to the municipal graveyard at their cost and in accordance with the religious law.
Ustad Ramzi turned them down.
❖
Gohar Jan’s enclave was re-zoned as well. She was disturbed to hear of plans by the municipality to declare buildings in the tawaifs’ enclave as hazardous for living and have them demolished. With necessary repairs the buildings could have had a long life, but none of the tawaifs, including Gohar Jan, had the money for the extensive renovations needed. The builders had already made offers for properties in the enclave.
Gohar Jan knew that the age and condition of the buildings were not the only factors behind the municipal councillors’ decision. The builders
’ money was behind it. Their plans were abetted by recent objections raised about the tawaifs’ enclave. A new wave of immigrants whose attempts to squat in the enclave had been unsuccessful objected to the tawaifs’ kothas on moral grounds. That propaganda had made it easier for the municipal authorities to act.
❖
The monsoon had returned and it was raining heavily. One afternoon when there was a lull, Banday Ali found two men in khaki uniforms standing in the alley scribbling in their logbooks. A while later they started knocking on the doors of the kothas.
“What is it about?” Banday Ali asked when they knocked on the door.
“Municipal inspection,” one of the men said. The supervising inspector looked sullenly at Banday Ali.
“What is it for?” Banday Ali said.
“You will find out soon enough,” he replied, stepping in. “How many rooms do you have here?”
The supervisor also entered and began to look around. Then he saw the signs of water seepage on the ceiling.
“Make a note of this,” he said to his subordinate. “Very risky.”
Gohar Jan entered the room and stopped when she found Banday Ali with strangers. “Who’re these people?”
“Municipal inspectors,” Banday Ali answered.
“We need to see the other rooms,” the supervisor said.
“Come this way, please,” Banday Ali conducted them inside after Gohar Jan nodded her permission.
The ceiling of the Music Room was also leaking. The municipal inspectors noted the bucket that had been placed under the leak to collect the rainwater.
“The place is falling apart,” the supervisor said. “How long ago was it constructed?”
“It was built ninety-five years ago,” Gohar Jan answered. “The construction is sturdy. Only the ceiling needs some repairs.”
The supervisor sniggered but said nothing.
“What is the purpose of this inspection?” Banday Ali asked.
“To determine whether or not the building is habitable.”
“It is habitable. It just needs repairs,” Gohar Jan said calmly.
“Please listen,” Banday Ali said to the supervisor. “Sometimes there are small cracks like these in new constructions, too. Once the rains are over, we will get the repairs done. All the roof needs is a new layer of plaster. That is all. The building itself is very sturdy.”
“Do whatever you like,” the supervisor said looking around. The other man noted something in his logbook.
“At least make a note that the roofs will be plastered in a month’s time,” Banday Ali insisted.
The subordinate looked at the supervisor.
“Yes, yes. We have noted it down,” the supervisor said, casting an angry glance at his subordinate.
“When will we know the results of your inspection?” Gohar Jan asked.
“The municipality will send you a letter.”
“Do you know when?”
“We don’t know all that. Once the inspection is done you will hear from the municipal office,” he replied as he turned towards his companion. “Let’s go,”
Banday Ali saw them look around as they went out.
“Ask the old man now,” Banday Ali heard the supervisor whisper as he saw them out.
“What time is the mehfil tonight?” the subordinate asked.
“There are no mehfils here now,” Banday Ali replied.
The supervisor stepped out of the door, but the other lingered.
“Don’t lie,” he said. “I saw the ankle-band and the instruments.”
“What is he saying?” the superior shouted from the bottom of the stairwell.
“We will pay,” the man said patting the wallet in his breast-pocket.
“No mehfils are held here,” Banday Ali said curtly and began closing the door on him. “This is a private residence now.”
A scowl appeared on the man’s face but Banday Ali had shut the door.
When he came inside he saw that Gohar Jan looked pensive.
“I do not have a good feeling about it,” Banday Ali said. “You should go straight to the mayor. You know him… He will not refuse you.”
“He may, or may not.”
“But we may not have a roof over our heads soon…”
“There’s still time. Let me think carefully about it.”
❖
In the continuing daily rains Ustad Ramzi’s enclosure was inundated by the overflow from the sewers of the inner city. Sewage water stood waist-high over the graves of Ustad Ramzi’s forefathers in the cemetery. He had to herd the peacocks into a shed in the enclosure, but it was a small place, and he felt sorry when dirt soiled their tail feathers.
It was alleged by many that the builders had conspired to divert the sewer water to Ustad Ramzi’s enclosure. The walls of the drains had been breached overnight. But no one was caught or seen making the breach. Ustad Ramzi had no proof.
The rains became less intense, but did not end. It was a near impossibility to drain such a large area with manual help because the sloping land had made it a natural pool.
Having failed in their attempts to drain the water by carrying it away in buckets, the trainees told Ustad Ramzi that it would be futile to continue with the labor until the rains stopped. Ustad Ramzi, who had worked with them, realized that this request was not motivated by a lack of will. It was simply not practical to go on. And yet the sight of the graveyard inundated with sewage did not let him have any peace.
One morning Ustad Ramzi put on all his decorations and medals and tied a starched turban on his head in preparation for a visit to the municipal director.
After a long wait the clerk called out his name. He parted the dusty curtains and entered the office whose sole occupant was a shriveled, bespectacled man. Without looking up, he wrote steadily in a file that lay open before him. Ustad Ramzi softly mumbled a greeting. Receiving no response, he hesitantly drew out one of the empty chairs, and sat down to wait for the director to finish his work.
A few moments later the director raised his head and looked at Ustad Ramzi. Thinking that perhaps the director had forgotten his name, Ustad Ramzi introduced himself and briefly told him about his renowned clan’s history.
The director listened to Ustad Ramzi’s recital impassively and without interruption. Ustad Ramzi finally explained the situation and requested that the director send over one of the trucks fitted with pumping equipment to his enclosure. He offered to pay the expense of the staff required to do the work.
The director listened to his request with a growing expression of incredulity and then replied in a studied tone of voice, “It is not possible to send government equipment on private business. Once that sort of thing starts it will throw the functioning of the department into disarray. I have disciplined the staff on previous occasions for such activities. Where would I stand if I were to sanction such a thing myself?”
Ustad Ramzi spoke a little excitedly then, reminding him that the akhara was taxed as a commercial property, and it was the responsibility of the municipality to provide assistance when required.
The municipal director sat back in his chair, clasped his hands together as if to compose his thoughts, and after a few moments of silence began to explain impassively that his resources were already constrained. He could not keep offering favors. He did not mean any disrespect to the dead, but the living had a greater right to municipal services. And it was best for the dead to sleep in graveyards. He had heard recently that the builders had made Ustad Ramzi an offer to that effect. He wondered why Ustad Ramzi did not move the graves to the graveyard and the akhara elsewhere.
There had been complaints about stagnant water from other parts of the inner city as well, he told Ustad Ramzi, and if a recommendation was made, and one or more tankers were assigned to drain the areas, Ustad Ramzi’s request would be con
sidered on its merit. He could fill out a complaint form on the way out.
Ustad Ramzi quietly took his leave and stepped outside. His hands shook as he filled out the complaint form. During the humiliating interview he had controlled his anger more than once.
❖
When he visited Gohar Jan’s place that evening it was drizzling again. The Music Room’s roof was still leaking. At regular intervals a few drops fell into the vessel on the floor.
After the recital ended Gohar Jan looked searchingly at Ustad Ramzi.
He had not touched the cup of tea that had been offered to him. Hearing a crack of thunder Ustad Ramzi started and made to leave, but Gohar Jan stopped him.
“You look preoccupied. What is the matter?”
Ustad Ramzi mentioned the flooding in the graveyard and his visit to the municipality. He told her he had decided to go and plead again with the director.
“Your rose garden must have been damaged too,”
Gohar Jan said after a moment’s silence.
Ustad Ramzi remained quiet.
“You must not worry,” Gohar Jan said as Ustad Ramzi was leaving. “It is a matter of a cemetery’s sanctity. The municipality will act on your request, I am sure.”
Her words did not console Ustad Ramzi.
“Please remember to send Ustad Ramzi some of your red rose branches,” Gohar Jan said to Banday Ali, who had come to remove the teacup.
“Certainly.”
“Banday Ali says he has cultivated this variety himself,” Gohar Jan said, turning towards Ustad Ramzi with a smile. “He claims it does not grow wild as often, when manured with used Darjeeling tea leaves.”
“That I guarantee,” Banday Ali smiled. “And once the stocks have taken root, I shall keep you supplied with scions.”
❖
Two days after Ustad Ramzi’s visit to the municipality offices no action had been taken by the authorities. To complicate matters, it rained heavily again one night. In the two intervening days he had filled buckets in the graveyard’s pool and carried and emptied them into the main sewer, no longer caring if and when the rains would stop.
Between Clay and Dust Page 11