‘There you go, it’s done!’
Chetan started. Hunar Sahib had dropped his feet back to the ground, and held the writing pad in both his hands as he prepared to read the poem. Ranvir and Nishtar both jumped up when they heard his voice.
‘Please observe the simplicity with which I have described the desires of a widow in just a few lines,’ said Hunar Sahib, and he began to read the poem. Chetan also perked up.
Life is full of restlessness
A continuous torment
Where weeping is hidden in every line
Life is like a chapter of longing and grief
‘Wah, wah!’ Ranvir’s eyes shone with praise.
‘Amazing!’ praised Nishtar. ‘Recite it again.’
Hunar Sahib read the same verse again, then continued:
The sun was everywhere, once
The moon was everywhere, once
Life was full of light and music
There were the sweetest dreams, once
But now the pages are faded
Like a book with no charm
Every chapter a desert
And it is most distressing
‘Wonderful! Wah wah!’
Ranvir and Nishtar began to sway. ‘It’s amazing how you’ve described the wasteland of a widow’s life in so few words!’ enthused Nishtar.
Hunar Sahib beamed and began to explain how his mind had been completely blank before sitting down at the table. He just sat down and picked up a piece of paper so that he would get in a ‘topics dense as clouds are rushing towards me’ type of mood.
And Chetan began to wonder—had Hunar Sahib truly just written this poem, or had he found it fitting after rifling through the work of some master. For just a moment, he watched him quietly—but he himself had seen him recite an entire ghazal or poem in a matter of minutes several times before. ‘Why doesn’t this man go back to Lahore?’ he thought. ‘He was fairly respected there and it’s second nature to him to write the poems on contemporary problems in the Sunday editions of daily papers that everyone asks for, so what does he get out of writing the editorial for Widows’ Aid or for the two-page Sadaqat?
‘Tell me, Hunar Sahib,’ he asked, ‘why don’t you go back to Lahore—here the flowers of your genius blossom in the desert.’
‘Bhai, I took a one-month vacation and came here when my father died, then circumstances changed such that I was forced to take on the responsibility of managing the household and wasn’t able to return.’
‘But are you sitting at the shop in the village?’
‘Can a free spirit like me not do the work of sitting in a shop?’ he laughed. ‘Besides that, I help my brothers as much as I can. Who can look after this court case that’s going on right now besides me? I do think about Lahore, but “what to say of such desires that have turned to dust”?’
And he sighed deeply.
‘But instead of writing for the papers here, you could be writing for the papers in Lahore.’
‘I consider writing for Widows’ Aid my contribution to service to the nation,’ he said. ‘As for the Lahore papers, wherever I used to write, “Dozakhi” has settled in and you know how I feel about him. Actually, when I was in Lahore, he saw the way I shut down all those people and complained horribly about it and that’s why he wrote that essay against me.’
This Dozakhi was a famous poet in Lahore who wrote satirical columns and humorous poetry under an assumed name in the papers and magazines to earn extra money. Once he’d taken a poem of Hunar Sahib’s and proven that he’d written it by plundering the work of four other poets, and ridiculed him terribly. Hunar had given his response (that he was sure would render him speechless), but no one was convinced, and in newspaper circles he was now considered nothing but a poet-thief. If he truly possessed a high class of original genius, he would submit new poems and work with unstinting labour to break through this gossip surrounding him, but he didn’t have it in him to do the work required to write fresh material. He had in abundance the desire to attain cheap brilliance and the genius of being able to write ghazals or poems at a moment’s notice, talents that are required for the ‘Our Special Poet’ columns that appear in daily Urdu papers. He’d read the complete oeuvres of all the poets: Mir, Sauda, Ghalib, Momin, Dagh, Atish, Asghar, Fani and Jigar. He had an amazing memory. He knew by heart ghazals of various masters written in one metre. And when he had to write on some contemporary problem (and in those days, amongst the special poets and satirists of rival papers there was daily ribbing—from which the readers derived a particular pleasure) he unknowingly used those poems by changing the refrain or metre or rearranging the words! But he was so used to getting praise every second or third day for writing ghazals and poems quickly, he was no longer in the habit of writing original material. Hunar Sahib was like an artist who takes refuge in commercial art to earn a living while still producing original material, and with the help of dozens of national and international journals, makes new designs daily for advertisers and then, when some details or colour-scheme or original idea is reflected in his own pictures, he considers it completely original and falls prey to self-deception.
As he sat there, Chetan gazed at Hunar Sahib with silent contempt and pity—‘It’s not written in the fate of this man to leave the mark of his talent on literature,’ he thought. ‘He’ll write in these small journals and earn praise for his work from young whippersnapper pupils like Nishtar and Ranvir, and this will satisfy his ego. It’s not in his fate to become a great author.’ And he decided to himself that even if it took him years to write a good poem or story (he wasn’t yet satisfied with his own works), he’d write original ones. Instead of stealing other people’s experiences or ideas, he’d express only his own experiences—he wasn’t going to plunder the wealth of others.
*
Hunar Sahib was reciting with great ebullience the poem with which he’d shut the mouth of Dozakhi, when suddenly Sister Saraswati Devi entered the room and announced that the Mahatma ji was now free and awaited them.
She arrived suddenly and stood before them with her plump body, her round face and her slightly protruding upper row of teeth. Chetan had been lost in thought; he started, and stared at her hard for a moment. Finding this fool staring at her so intently, she looked ill at ease. She pulled her sari border over her forehead a bit, grimaced, and returned upstairs, her sandals slapping.
Hunar Sahib got up and proposed they meet Mahatma Banshiram, and they walked upstairs to Mahatma ji’s chamber; Hunar ahead, his disciples behind. Sister Saraswati Devi stood right inside the doorway to welcome them.
The room they now entered was even more unadorned than the first. That room had had a table, a chair and a bench; here, all these were missing. There was not a single picture or calendar on the walls. The whitewash had flaked off in several places and the bricks were bare—perhaps the paint had come off as soon as it had been applied—and the walls seemed to smile at newcomers with a strange disgust. A mat was spread out along the right wall in the middle of the room, on which sat Mahatma Banshiram ji. His elbow rested on the bolster and his legs were scrunched up in exactly the same pose as Mahatma Gandhi. He was writing something with a writing pad propped on his knees.
They greeted him, and Mahatma ji showed his broken teeth in response, motioning for them to sit down. Sister Saraswati Devi spread out a mat for them in front of Mahatma ji on which all four sat, although altogether only two of them could actually fit. Sister Saraswati Devi sat down on the stool near the door and began to spin silently.
Chetan and Nishtar were a bit farther from the Mahatma ji. Ranvir was sitting right next to Hunar Sahib. ‘Yaar, what is this boring place you people have brought me to?’ Chetan whispered into Nishtar’s ear as he managed somehow to sit right against him.
He had whispered into Nishtar’s ear, but Hunar Sahib overheard him. He turned and scolded him with a frown.
Mahatma Banshiram asked what he was saying, using a hand gesture.
‘Ch
etan ji is saying,’ Hunar Sahib grinned, ‘that sitting here like this, you look just like Mahatma Gandhi.’
And he turned towards Chetan and winked slightly. Chetan wished he could burst out laughing. He stopped himself with great difficulty.
At this, Mahatma ji again smiled to reveal his broken teeth, and placing a finger to his lips, he assumed his thinking pose; he turned over the page on his pad and wrote: ‘I can’t even be compared to the dust on his feet.’ And, removing a sheet of paper from the top of the pad (on which he’d already been writing something), he handed it to Hunar Sahib.
Chetan raised himself up slightly and read the sentence written on the pad over Hunar Sahib’s shoulder. He wanted to say loudly, ‘What you’ve written is one hundred per cent true!’ But he managed to restrain himself using all his self-control. The boredom he’d felt for so long in Hunar Sahib’s company as he waited for Mahatma Banshiram ji to finish his spinning was filling him with a need to liberate himself of all restrictions. But he managed to keep himself under control and sat down again as before, focusing his gaze on Sister Saraswati Devi’s spindle so that his eyes wouldn’t betray his secret.
After reading Mahatma Banshiram’s reply, Hunar Sahib smiled appreciatively. ‘But this is your modesty,’ he said. ‘People don’t call you “The Gandhi of the Doab” for nothing.’
At this, Mahatma ji took the pad back from him and wrote a long statement to the effect that those people are the poor servants of Gandhi—like the twinkling stars swirling around the sun. If Mahatma Gandhi were before them, perhaps they wouldn’t even be visible. They only shine in his absence and attempt as much as possible to give light in darkness with their twinkling glow. Just as he’d taken on his shoulders the task of improving the plight of the widows of his region and decided to spend his life in this work. If he could work towards the uplift of the widows and lost women of his region, he’d consider himself fortunate . . . etc. . . . etc. . . .
He handed the pad back to Hunar Sahib and again placed a finger to his lips.
Hunar Sahib read it and beamed as he praised Mahatma ji’s service and sacrifice fulsomely. Then he said he was thinking of writing Mahatma Banshiram’s biography: India was proud of her Gandhi, but the Doab was no less proud of its own Gandhi.
Chetan was getting bored. ‘Who knows how much butter he’s going to slather on here,’ he thought to himself. ‘Maybe he even gets something from Mahatma ji for editing the Widows’ Aid—but why has he brought me along?’ . . . And he stood up.
Hunar Sahib pulled on his sleeve and sat him back down, signalling that they would soon leave. Then he continued with his statement: the battle for independence was not just being fought by decorating ‘temples to self-rule’. It was also being waged with the handle of the spinning wheel; with the thread from the spindle; on homespun looms; and for the liberation for women; and that the work Mahatma Banshiram had taken on as his responsibility was no less important than going to jail.
Having pleased Mahatma ji, Hunar Sahib added that he had actually come to discuss collecting materials for the new issue, but had forgotten about his vow of silence, so he would come back tomorrow. He then acquainted Mahatma ji with Chetan’s brilliance and told him that Chetan would also write for Widows’ Aid on a regular basis. With this, he said his goodbyes and stood up.
But then, as though he’d just remembered something, he kneeled back on the mat and asked if he could take home the issues of the weekly in which his own work had been published.
Mahatma Banshiram wrote on the pad that he’d already taken the files away twice.
Hunar Sahib replied that it was thanks to those that he’d already signed up two lifetime members of Widows’ Aid, and that he’d promised himself he’d sign up one hundred new lifetime members for the weekly. He was taking these issues to Lala Jalandhari Mull ji ‘Yogi’ and, if God wished it, he too would soon become a lifetime member of Widows’ Aid.
At this, Mahatma Banshiram smiled and very generously granted him permission to take the issues. He summoned Sister Saraswati Devi and wrote out instructions to her allowing Hunar Sahib to take the past year’s files with him.
*
Fifteen minutes later, after they’d walked down the stairs, Nishtar and Ranvir were carrying the issues of Widows’ Aid and Hunar Sahib was walking happily along as though he was making off with some great treasure.
23
There was a huge amount of mud in Mandi Bazaar, but there was not as much traffic on the paved street coming from above Ramjidas Mill. The street was sparkling clean after the rain. The office of the Widows’ Aid Society was a furlong or so on the other side of Mandi Bazaar, so they hadn’t seen any of the mud on their way there. Chetan could never have imagined that there could be so much mud on the street, or more accurately, in the bazaar, for such a distance. After wandering the sparkling streets of Shimla for three months, he’d forgotten how much mud ran in the galis and bazaars of his own city. The thing is, actually, that shops had begun to spring up suddenly on that street because of its proximity to Mandi—first on one side, then on both sides. And where the street going to the city from behind Mandi came out on the left side, the bazaar had grown quite dense because not only did the bullock carts coming to Mandi ply down that road, but so did the ikkas and tongas travelling back and forth, night and day, from the city to the station and the station to the city. And then there was so much other traffic as well—handcarts, hawkers, cyclists, pedestrians—and the street was so broken up, that with just a small amount of rain, the bazaar was no longer a bazaar, but a muddy swamp.
Hunar Sahib, however, was completely unconcerned about the mud. He was so pleased with his day’s labour that the mud didn’t even exist for him. His sandals might get stuck here and there, splats of mud might fly up and paint flowers and petals on his dhoti, and someone coming from the other direction might force him from that narrow path (where the mud tracked by the pedestrians had dried, and where they now walked, one behind the other) into the thin strip of mud in the bazaar, some tonga passing by from the bazaar might force him to climb on to the front step of a shop, but he noticed none of this. He did all these things as he walked along, talking continuously. If for a moment the thread of his conversation was broken by one of these obstacles, he’d overcome it, then take up the thread again right where he’d left off. Ranvir and Nishtar walked along with him, sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, holding the Widows’ Aid files aloft. They responded, ‘Hmm hmm,’ to him, or contributed their own two cents here and there.
Chetan picked his way along behind them all, hitching up his trousers. Although the crease in his trousers had been completely erased since morning, first in the dust and then walking through the storm, they hadn’t yet transformed into pyjamas although they’d certainly started to look like them. Nonetheless, Chetan was making every possible effort to save them, because this was his only pair, and he was afraid he would be forced to spend one more day in Jalandhar. But he had fallen behind his companions in this effort. Hunar Sahib would end up way ahead, stop, and wait for him to catch up; when he reached them, they’d set out again.
Suddenly, in order to jump from the path of a tonga, Chetan climbed into a shop on the left side. Just then his gaze fell on the other side of the bazaar, where the ‘Mandi Soda Water Factory’ signboard hung above a wide shop, and the memory of Chacha Fakir Chand’s face rose up before his eyes. He looked down from the board, and saw that Chacha himself was seated on a stool to the left side on the front step of the shop, with one leg up on the stool and the other dangling. He was dozing, his head leaning against the large door.
Suddenly, Chetan felt incredibly thirsty. He hadn’t drunk any water since eating tandoori parathas and mutter paneer at the Khalsa Hotel. He had even thought of drinking water at one point at Mahatma Banshiram’s, but after seeing Sister Saraswati Devi and Mahatma Banshiram ji, he didn’t have the courage to ask for any. When the tonga had gone by, he managed to lift the legs of his trousers somehow, and
, avoiding the mire in the street, he crossed to the other side and stepped on to the fourth wooden step in front of the shop, where he cried out loudly, ‘Namaste, Chacha ji!’
Chacha Fakir Chand started and stood up. He was of medium height, with a round body, pyjamas that fell to the ankles, a two-day beard, cropped salt-and-pepper hair, plump lips and a large cataract in his left eye. As soon as he saw Chetan, a tired smile appeared on his face and he said, ‘Come, come, take a seat, have a soda.’
From the stoop, Chetan cast a glance at his companions. Hunar Sahib was walking along, enthralled with his own words. At first he considered calling out to him, but then he thought that he’d just drink a soda and catch up with them later, so he kept quiet and said, ‘If you give me a fresh soda, Chacha ji, then we’re talking.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll give you a fresh one, a fresh one!’ cried Chacha Fakir Chand, and he called out to his worker, ‘Hey there, crank boy! Hey, you bastard, over here!’
*
Chacha Fakir Chand was among Chetan’s father, Pandit Shadiram’s, most intimate friends, of which there were four types.
The first type of friend was what Chetan’s mother considered his true friends. Principal among these were Chowdhry Tejpal and Chowdhry Gujjarmal—both were tall, fair and hearty. Chowdhry Gujjarmal was stronger than Chowdhry Tejpal because he was a wrestler. His akhara was at Devi Talab. He had a saraf shop in Bara Bazaar. But he went to the akhara both before opening his shop in the morning and after locking up in the evening. Chowdhry Tejpal was a cloth merchant. His shop was right at Chaurasti Atari. Ma had told Chetan that both men had been heavy drinkers in their day, and key members of Pandit Shadiram’s goonda party.
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 22
