In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  What is an old woman’s heart anyway, that fills with grief

  The hearth of her home already long extinguished, but

  There is fire in her heart

  Now it is like night, there is a dark sky

  There is one lamp

  Empty of oil, its wick dry

  Enduring every pain and sorrow, she says today with ‘Nishtar’

  What a terrible thing is poverty!

  All that was different was that ‘Nishtar’ had replaced ‘Chetan’; otherwise it was exactly the same poem. Chetan was astonished at how much he’d liked it at the time, and that he’d actually submitted it for publication. And all those poems and couplets—they were devoid of feeling, of experiences; just simple mental exercises that hadn’t been touched in the slightest by real life and which rang completely false, like Hunar Sahib’s own life.

  As he sat there, Chetan felt that the past few days had aged him. He’d been accustomed to living in an emotional fantasy world, but now he’d come to know the reality of sorrow and joy, and this one incident—Neela’s wedding—had given him new insight.

  The poem filled two entire columns. In the other two columns was printed a story by Janab ‘Hunar’, Nature Writer. He’d heard this story the first time he’d met him. It had been printed before in a little-known Lahore weekly and a monthly, and now it adorned the pages of Sadaqat.

  The famous Urdu short-story writer Devdarshan used to write ‘Nature Writer’ after his name so frequently that Chetan had begun to have his suspicions about his ‘nature writing’—and Hunar . . . Chetan recollected him reading the wedding song for Neela’s wedding . . . how he’d compared a middle-aged, sunken-cheeked groom to the full moon . . . He crumpled up the issue of Sadaqat, threw it in the corner and got up to leave.

  *

  Nishtar’s sister was seated to one side in the courtyard, reading a novel perhaps. Her pose suggested extreme concentration. Her eyes were strangely wide and watery.

  ‘Hunar Sahib didn’t come by?’ he asked, as though addressing the door frame.

  The girl started and quickly hid the book behind her back. She looked as though someone had caught her stealing. For just a moment she stared at him alarmed, then leapt up.

  Chetan repeated his question.

  ‘If anyone came, I didn’t see them,’ replied the girl, staring at the ground. ‘But he didn’t eat before he went out. He said, “I’ll be right back.”’

  ‘Okay, so tell him Chetan came by.’

  And he walked quickly across the courtyard. The darkness on the stairs had slowed his pace and he had to feel his way along as he descended.

  11

  Just after the point where Papadiyan Bazaar meets Lal Bazaar by way of Gali Patpheriyan, on the left side, there’s a tiny, narrow lane full of twists and turns that goes to Juttiyanwallah Chowk. This was the gali where Nishtar’s home was. When Chetan came out of the doorway, he stopped for a moment. He couldn’t decide which way to go. He had absolutely no desire to go back home. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone from his mohalla. ‘Amichand’s a deputy commissioner now’ (the people in the neighbourhood had made him a deputy commissioner effective immediately): There was nothing else they wanted to discuss besides that, and just hearing Amichand’s name made Chetan think of the Scandal Point incident. What he wanted to do was go some place where he could completely forget about Neela’s wedding, his own pain, Amichand becoming a deputy collector, and his feelings of inadequacy in that context. He had no hope of sympathy from Anant. He’d just give him a couple of derisive pokes, and if he went to Dina Nath, he’d be forced to hear his entire epic, Marriage: Home-making or Home-wrecking? which was why he’d come to Nishtar’s home—to avoid both Anant and Dina Nath. He had thought he could listen to Nishtar’s new poems and his vain boasting; he’d hear about his schemes and, if he was in the mood, he’d say to him, ‘Yaar, sing me a few verses from Heer Ranjha.’ Nishtar sang Heer Ranjha in a lovely melodious voice and Chetan wanted to hear that passage where the villagers force Heer into her bridal palanquin and set off:

  As they lifted the palanquin, Heer screamed,

  They’re taking me, Papa, oh, they’re taking me away!

  Chetan had been turning that passage over and over in his mind. He wanted Nishtar to sing it while he listened quietly. He knew this desire was no better than reopening his wound, but just as picking at a scab can be oddly pleasurable, it made him happy to hear that passage from Heer Ranjha and use it to imagine the sight of Neela’s leave-taking. When Neela had come to see him before her departure, and Chetan had bowed at her feet to ask her forgiveness, she had said, ‘Jija ji, what are you doing!’ She had lifted him up, then fled, suppressing a sob, and he’d no longer had the courage to go downstairs and look her in the eye. He didn’t even go to give her the shagun. Chanda was the one who gave the shagun for him, and afterwards, she came and told him that Neela’s eyes had overflowed with tears as she was leaving; she had been beside herself with grief, and hugged everyone as though she didn’t want to leave and was being forced to go . . . ‘After all, how old is she? She’s just a child,’ Chanda had said. And this reminded Chetan of Heer’s leave-taking:

  Heer says—Papa, put me down,

  the Kahaars have lifted the palanquin, they’re taking it away!

  Oh, Papa, you used to give me whatever I pleased

  Where have those days gone?

  I rested in your tree-like shade, like a traveller

  I had hardly four days of peace

  I leave now, after sorrow, joy, disaster

  Forgive my sins, oh Papa

  I am leaving after just five days in your home

  When Nishtar sang it, that passage stayed with him all day. But now that Nishtar had become an Urdu poet, who knew if he even sang Heer Ranjha any more, thought Chetan, and he shook his head with displeasure. At first he felt like going by way of Bara Bazaar to Imam Nasiruddin, but he doubted he’d run into any friends there. He could go to his old school via Adda Kapurthala and say hello to some of his teachers, but he did not have one good memory associated with that school. He turned back, crossed the gali and stopped for just a moment—should he go to the right or the left? First he thought he’d walk by Jaura Gate and Rainak Bazaar and come out by Kutchery and Company Bagh. ‘But what’s the point of all this aimless wandering?’ he thought. ‘Why not go to Bohar Wala Bazaar via Qila Mohalla and end up in Puriyan Mohalla?’ Puriyan Mohalla . . . Kunti. Memories of the flickerings of his first love; and he turned to the left. Just then he heard the loud melodic voice of a Punjabi bait singer:

  Who can know the sorrow hidden in my heart?

  The world looks at me and smiles

  A wildfire blazes inside the ocean

  But you can’t tell on the surface

  He stopped and turned. A few lay-about Punjabi poets sat at the poet Rehmat’s shop, across from the moneylenders’ shops, in the direction of Jaura Gate. There was also a gathering just across the way, at Bansi the vegetable seller’s shop. Chetan had completely forgotten about the existence of either of them. He turned back towards them quickly. The poet was singing:

  The louse is eating the wood from within,

  But the paint remains unharmed

  Darling, the fire of pining is also hidden

  and burns deep inside

  Quite a few passers-by had gathered round when Chetan got there. He went and stood behind them.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful! Wah, wah! How true, how true!’ sighed one listener delightedly—‘Darling, the fire of pining is also hidden!’

  *

  Before Bansi and Rehmat had come, Lal Bazaar had been famous because of Billa Saraf the moneylender, who had declared bankruptcy three times and whose relatives had taken over half of Kot Pushka, but since the arrival of those two, the bazaar had become famous for them. Chetan didn’t know which of the two had arrived first. For as long as he could remember, or at least, since he’d started writing poetry himself, he’d seen them both there.
Before he’d ever met them he used to listen to couplets at their shops. There weren’t just card, chess and chaupar games in the open market in those days, there was also baitbaazi—Punjabi poetry matches. Billa Saraf became famous much later, but after the 1921 Movement, Bansi and Rehmat were the most famous, not just in the bazaar, but throughout the city.

  Whenever Bansi appeared, abandoning his vegetable business, wandering about the city ringing a copper bell in one hand and carrying a wooden hammer in the other, people understood that a national movement had begun. The strange thing is that when the Congress movement began, Bansi forgot all about his shop and roamed about from morning to evening, from gali to gali, mohalla to mohalla, announcing the news, rallies, processions and meetings related to the movement. When it came to national service, this was what he considered his responsibility and he became quite skilled at it.

  ‘Sisters and brothers . . .’

  When his voice echoed all around after the ringing of his bell, the children of the galis and mohallas would gather around him. He was of medium height, with a broad forehead, innocent eyes and smiling lips. He wore a (usually wrinkled) Gandhi cap on his head and a homespun Bengali kurta with high pyjamas—he’d smile when he saw the children, then announce enthusiastically:

  ‘This evening at five thirty, the Congress Committee will hold a wonderful rally at Nadiram Talab, where Syed Ataullah Shah Bukhari will give a powerful lecture. This is the same Ataullah Shah, who joined the Congress with Maulana Mohammed Ali and Shaukat Ali, and whose lectures are hugely popular in Punjab—what a speaker! His words are gems. He makes people laugh, he makes them cry. Before the lecture, the poet Jhumman will recite his new baits, and bring a new flavour to the proceedings!’

  And another long clanging of the bell . . .

  Sometimes Bansi did not speak one word on the stage, but when he was making his announcement, he’d string couplets together like so many pearls. And at the Congress meetings, even in those days when the movement was in a lull, Bansi’s skill played no small part in rallying whatever size of crowd that gathered.

  But not a word came from his mouth on stage. One time in Qila Mohalla—his own chowk—there had been a meeting. He publicized it throughout the entire city, and the crowd was chock-a-block, but he couldn’t even say what he’d said in his announcements in order to introduce the speaker.

  *

  By contrast, the poet Rehmat hadn’t been influenced at all by the national movement, although several of his pupils had gone to jail in the Congress movement, and he also helped them with their nationalist poems, even writing them where necessary. He had become famous because the city’s greatest goonda—the very first to enter the self-rule movement in 1921, and whose baits spread like wildfire—was his pupil. He spent his own energy dyeing clothing; wandering about with young boys, a kameez and tahmad hanging from his skinny, wasted body, a trailing turban on his head, and his arms and hands dyed to the elbows; and preparing young men for the baitbaazi at the Harvallabh Festival or chairing the poetry gatherings there. Wherever Punjabi poetry recitations were held, for Ramnavami or Janmashtami, Eid or Muharram, he was the chair of the Doaba Punjabi Poetry Association.

  As he thought of Rehmat Sahib, Chetan recalled a particular incident. At the Dharam Sabha (Mai Hiran Gate), a huge poetry recitation had taken place under the auspices of the Doaba Punjabi Poetry Association. Chetan didn’t remember what the occasion was, all he remembered was that that enormous space had been absolutely jam-packed. Although Chetan had been in college, and had started writing in Urdu by then, he still enjoyed Punjabi poetry, and if it was a good reading, he always went. He’d heard Lahore and Amritsar’s most famous poets were taking part in this one.

  Two chairs had been placed behind a table on the stage; on one was seated Ustad Rehmat, his skinny frame attired in a tahmad and kameez, with a long-tailed turban on his head. His arms, resting on the table, were dyed to the elbows. On the other chair sat the successful doctor Captain Doctor Bhagwan Das, of Bhairon Bazaar, in the role of Session Chair. He was a hearty man with huge pointed moustaches and a proud and handsome face, wearing a Gandhi cap and matching suit. Chetan spent a long time mentally comparing the two of them as he sat in the front row: Ustad Rehmat looked a complete mouse compared to Captain Doctor Bhagwan Das.

  Captain Doctor Bhagwan Das would state the names of the poets, and then Ustad Rehmat would rise and introduce them. Each poet would read a poem, then the audience would applaud and cry out ‘Wonderful, wonderful!’, as they listened to two poems each from their favourite poets. Just then Captain Doctor Bhagwan Das called out the name of Sardar Ishwar Singh of Lahore.

  Ustad Rehmat rose and stood to the right of the table as he introduced the poet:

  ‘Sisters and brothers, you’ve probably heard of the English’s Tangore . . . ’

  (At Tangore, Chetan started—English’s Tangore—but then, from the next sentence, he realized that Ustad Sahib meant the great poet Rabindranath Tagore.)

  ‘At this time the English poet Tangore is known throughout the world. He has brought glory not just to Bengal, but also to all of Hindustan. The poet who is about to come before you now is no less than Tangore. He is our Punjabi Tangore.’

  After he’d introduced the poet, Rehmat turned, looked behind him and said, ‘Please come forward, Sardar Ishar Singh ji.’

  And a slender Sikh poet, about thirty years of age, came forward and recited a poem in a thin voice:

  Oh ill-fated one, you sleep deeply

  Your husband stands outside

  Open the door immediately!

  Never again will you hear the sound of a knock

  Why have you fallen?

  You’ve fainted—

  Open the door!

  Come now—the spring of love is flowing

  Take a dip in its waters

  Open the door

  The poet was saying something very deep about darshan—the mystical qualities of the gaze—in the style of the great mystic poet Bulleh Shah, using the ill-fated beloved, sleep and the husband as symbols, but how could ordinary people understand such deep philosophy? The poem’s refrain was ‘open the door’, which sparked the audience’s imagination in numerous ways. They had listened to two or three couplets, and the poet had only just recited the qaaffiya—the rhyme before the last word of the line—when the audience shouted out in unison—‘Open the door!’ Instead of paying any attention to the poet’s words, everyone was waiting for the refrain, and when they heard it, they’d all shout in unison, ‘Open the door!’ and some would even burst out laughing. Not yet one quarter of the poem had been finished when someone seated in the back called out loudly, ‘Come on and open that door, lucky lady, that guy’s been standing out there forever!’ The audience erupted in laughter and instead of reciting the next verse, the Punjabi ‘Tangore’ quietly went and sat back in his place.

  *

  Daal—Why such sorrow, oh heart?

  Is there anyone who does not suffer in this world?

  There was a long taan, and a supple voice full of pain—Chetan moved forward in the crowd a bit. The poets were not at their shops and their pupils were engaged in baitbaazi practice as they waited for them:

  Oh heart, why do you pine?

  But who in the world doesn’t feel sorrow?

  There’s no time for complaining

  This world is but a momentary stop on the road

  And all the guests who come here are full of sorrow

  All the Hindus and Muslims who come are sorrowful

  Oh beloved, the truth is hard to see

  But truly the whole world is sorrowful

  ‘Fantastic! How true—truly, all the world is sorrowful!’ one listener enthused.

  The poet let loose a new couplet:

  Laam—The days of friendship are behind us

  Nowadays will we find friends only rarely

  Love all you want

  The earth will only get worse, nowadays

  Chetan felt a
s though someone were saying this to him on Neela’s behalf:

  Tell me, friend, again wanting evil for a friend

  Because that’s the way of the world nowadays

  Oh stars and moon keep your love by your side

  That time is not today and truly those friends remain

  The poet had written the couplet about friendship, but Chetan twisted it towards love. He’d fallen in love with Neela and because of that, she’d been sent across the sea to the prison of Rangoon. That was a nice sort of love he’d committed . . . and he turned his steps away from the crowd . . . but a self-rule-loving poet seated at the shop of Bansi the vegetable seller began to sing ‘Toady Baccha’ to the tune of Motiram’s Baarah Maase—‘Twelve Months’:

  Chetra6—

  Get this in your head, you toady, our rule will come for sure

  Your lords, the English, they’ll have to leave, their motives are impure

  Death calls for everybody’s head, it does, whether nobleman or king

  If you don’t serve our nation well, your name won’t mean a thing

  Baisakh—

  You’ve forgotten to be a patriot and turn your nose in the air

  You dress too fine and eat too much, a fatted lamb you are

  You live in a palace up on the hill on this earth we all must leave

  Toady child, listen dear, in the end, we all must leave

  For a while the crowd listened to the parody of Motiram, but the intensity of the movement had dimmed. People were talking of turning the country into national governments. They had no interest in cursing the toadies of this world. The crowd began to thin. Chetan was walking on ahead, when someone slapped him hard on the shoulder from behind. Chetan turned.

  ‘Oh, Hamiiid!’

  ‘Well, hello, Chetan brother, what’s up?’

  In the old days, Hamid would not have asked after him without cursing at him or calling him a lover of his own mother. But Chetan didn’t notice this slight formality in address and, giving up on the thought of going to Puriyan Mohalla, he embraced him.