Soon, the day of departure dawned. That day Artaza had woken up before the muezzin’s call and rushed towards the mosque. Badi Boo, too, had woken up at the crack of dawn. She had once again started saying her fajir prayers at the prescribed time.
Badi Boo was still seated on her prayer mat when she heard a commotion in the neighbourhood; she mumbled, ‘May the good Lord keep us safe from misfortune, what is this noise?’
But the misfortune had already struck. The congregation had barely gathered in the mosque when a couple of Kalashnikov-toting masked men barged in and sprayed the devout with bullets. Some of those who had bowed their heads in supplication never raised their head again.
People heard the gunshots and raced towards the mosque. Some neighbours brought Artaza home. He was drenched in blood. A doctor was sent for, but Artaza’s time had come. He died before the doctor could reach him.
Badi Boo beat her chest inconsolably. She cursed herself for asking her son to bring Artaza along. Then she cursed the terrorists. May they die a terrible death! The monsters had no reverence even for the House of God! The scoundrels, what sort of Musalmans were they that they couldn’t even let the boy complete his namaaz? And she burst into loud sobs and began to cry like a baby.
In the middle of her tears, she suddenly remembered her dream about the train and sat stock-still. ‘Oh my God! At that time, I couldn’t understand what the rail babu was trying to say. He was saying, Maa-ji, this seat is not meant for you; it is reserved for someone else. And at that very moment someone came and sat down in the reserved seat. It was a boy. But I was so engrossed in my own troubles that I didn’t pay any heed. How was I to know who it was! I should have seen who it was who had sat down in my place. ‘
Badi Boo once again started beating her chest and howling with grief. ‘Hai, I was left behind; he went away.’
Clouds1
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He wandered far in search of the clouds. He walked down several winding paths and alleys until he reached the old mud hut. From there he took the dirt track that skirted the fields. A grass-cutter was coming from the other direction, carrying a bundle of freshly cut grass on his head. He stopped him and asked, ‘Did you see the clouds there?’
‘Clouds?’ The grass-cutter was amazed, as though he had been asked the most unexpected question.
‘Yes, clouds.’ But when there was no lessening of the grass-cutter’s surprise, he felt disappointed. He walked on until he reached a farmer ploughing his field. He asked the farmer the same question: ‘Did the clouds come here?’
The farmer too couldn’t make head or tail of this. Taken aback, he spluttered, ‘Clouds?’
‘Yes, clouds.’
He was asking about the clouds like one who has lost a child and asks wayfarers if they have seen it wandering about. Perhaps the clouds, too, were lost children and he was going around asking people about them, but no one could give him a satisfactory answer.
His mother was the first person he had asked in the morning. ‘Amma-ji, where did the clouds go?’
‘Who went where?’ Amma-ji asked as though he had asked an exceptionally stupid question.
‘Clouds.’
‘Clouds! Have you lost your mind, boy? Hurry up now. Quickly wash your hands and face, eat your breakfast and go to school.’
Amma-ji’s brusque behaviour had a depressing effect on him. He washed his hands and face dejectedly, ate his breakfast, slung his satchel of schoolbooks around his neck and left home. But as he stepped out, the same question rose in his mind: where did the clouds go? He remembered the sight he had seen the previous night: how the clouds had billowed and surged in the night sky. Yet when he had gone to sleep, the sky had been empty of clouds and spangled with stars. There hadn’t been a trace of a breeze and the oppressive heat made it difficult to sleep. After a long time, he had managed to fall asleep. Then, after some time, he had woken up. God knows what the time had been. To him it looked like the middle of the night. Up there in the sky, clouds were rumbling and rolling, gathering momentum. Occasionally, there would be flashes of thunder and peals of lightning, and in those brief moments of illumination, the clouds looked very dense and black. It seemed as though it would rain soon. But the rain would spoil his slumber. With that thought, he closed his eyes. He pretended he was completely oblivious to the thunder. Soon, he fell asleep. When he got up in the morning, he was amazed. The sky … the sky was clear and empty! There was not a trace of rain in the courtyard. At first he was surprised, then sad. He was surprised that the clouds had surged and scudded across the skies without shedding a drop. And it made him sad to think that he had fallen asleep. Had he stayed awake, perhaps the clouds would not have disappeared like that. Perhaps they would have shed at least some of their rain … if only he had not fallen asleep. Had it rained, it would have been the season’s first rainfall. But the clouds had come – massed, billowing, rumbling clouds – and gone away while he slept. Not a drop of rain had fallen from them.
The month of the rains was slipping away. He looked up once again to inspect the skies as he walked along. There wasn’t a patch of cloud to be seen anywhere. The sun beat down on his head from a clear, molten sky. He left the road that went to his school and began walking towards the fields.
Walking on the narrow boundaries between the fields, he went far away. The heat was fierce. His body began to burn. His throat was parched. After crossing many fields, he spotted a large tree under whose ample shade a Persian wheel was turning gently. He felt as though he had reached an oasis in the middle of a desert. He reached the shelter of the tree, threw down his satchel of books, splashed the cool water churning out of the Persian wheel on his dusty feet. Then he washed his hands and face and drank the water to his heart’s content.
He felt refreshed after washing his hands and face and quenching his thirst. He looked around to inspect his surroundings. An old man sat on a crumbling wall near the edge of the Persian wheel, puffing away at a huqqah. He looked at the old man as though he wanted to say something, but quailed at the prospect. Finally, he plucked up the courage to ask, ‘Did the clouds come here?’
The old man puffed at his huqqah, looked closely at him and said, ‘Son, the clouds won’t come here in disguise. When they come in all their massed splendour, the earth and sky will know of their coming.’
‘But the clouds had come last night and no one knew.’
‘The clouds came last night?’ The old man thought for a moment, then called out in a loud voice, ‘Allah Din, did the clouds come last night?’
Allah Din was ploughing the field with his bullock. He stopped and said, ‘I fell asleep the moment my back rested against my bed. I don’t know.’
The old man said, ‘It is not enough for the clouds to come. I once lived in an area where it didn’t rain for ten years.’
‘Ten years?’ He was horrified and his mouth fell open.
‘Yes, ten years. The clouds would come. They gathered and rumbled with such force once when I was there, but not a drop of rain fell from them.’
‘That is strange.’
‘No, there is nothing strange about it. It rains on His command. When He commands it, the clouds drop their rain; when He does not give the command, the clouds do not drop their rain.’
The old man’s words conjured up images from many past showers. He remembered dense, black clouds that emerged from black nights with great ferocity, looking as though they would unleash torrential rain, but scudding away without shedding so much as a drop. Then there were also those other clouds that had come in the guise of a few meaningless, seedless tufts, yet let loose such a downpour that it made ponds and lakes brim over.
The old man looked at the smouldering sky and muttered, ‘The season is slipping past. When will He give the command?’
He too muttered, as though in answer, ‘God knows where the clouds went.’
‘Son, either it doesn’t rain or, when it does, reports of floods start coming in. The sky has become a miser. The ea
rth does not have the strength any more. Either it doesn’t rain, or if it does, it causes floods.’
He could barely understand the old man’s words, yet he sat there listening to him. Suddenly he remembered how late it had gotten. He picked up his satchel of schoolbooks, slung it around his neck and got to his feet.
He walked for miles in the sun and dust. He went back on the same dirt tracks he had taken to come here. The sun was still fierce and hot. But by the time he reached the mud hut, he sensed a nip in the air and the earth felt damp beneath his feet.
As he neared the village, he saw the roads were wet, trees that had been draped in the usual layers of dust when he had left in the morning now looked freshly bathed and the little gutter that had been dry since the last monsoon was gurgling like a mountain stream. A wave of happiness coursed through his body. He was in a hurry to get home. He wanted to see how fresh and clean the jamun tree in his courtyard looked.
When he reached home, he saw that the rain had changed everything. A lot of leaves had fallen from the jamun tree and were now lying soiled and a little bruised in the wet earth. The tree stood clean and scrubbed, freshly showered, and Amma-ji was saying in a rare moment of contentment, ‘That was a good rain! Thank God for it! The heat was killing me.’
Drops were still falling from the leaves of the jamun tree. He stood beneath the tree and let the drops fall on his head and his face. His eyes lifted towards the sky; it looked clear and scrubbed. There wasn’t a trace of a cloud there now. It occurred to him that he had walked so far in the dust and the sun in search of the clouds, and in his absence they had come, shed their rain and gone away. The thought made him sad. The rain-soaked air, redolent with the smell of damp earth, suddenly became meaningless to him.
Needlessly1
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The wife looked at him and asked, ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘I am not laughing, am I?’ He looked alarmed.
‘Not laughing? Why, you are grinning from ear to ear!’ She tried to probe, ‘Are you remembering someone?’
‘Whom would I remember?’ he mumbled, then fell quiet.
He tried to make his wife go away so that he could laugh to his heart’s content, but she refused to budge.
She put away the breakfast dishes in the kitchen and hurried back. Soon it became very clear that he was not likely to have the freedom to laugh in the house.
Where was he to go?
Weary at the prospect of home, he began to rack his mind for other possibilities. He thought of places he could go where he could laugh in peace. He desperately wanted to laugh today and had planned to sit peacefully at home and laugh.
But now that the chances of being able to laugh at home had grown slim, he stood up to leave.
‘Weren’t you supposed to go late to the office today?’ asked the wife pointedly.
‘Yes, but I have suddenly remembered some urgent chores. I might as well finish them.’
‘Very well. Since you are going out, pay the electricity bill too. The last date is day after tomorrow.’ She got up to get the bill and the money.
Just as he was about to leave, she remembered another errand. ‘We have to send the money order to Khala Amma. Once you have paid the bill, send the money order from the post office nearby.’ She dived in again and returned to hand him a hundred-rupee note.
He drew a long breath of relief as he came out of his house. I can laugh now, he thought. A smile quivered on his lips as he revved his scooter. And close on its heels came the thought: what will people say when they see me riding a scooter and laughing? A man sitting on a scooter and laughing is a strange sight, and with that he straightened his smile and sobered up.
He reached the bank counter to pay the electricity bill and saw a long, snaking queue. He too lined up and grew steadily bored. His turn came, he paid the bill and left for the post office. By the time he had collected the money order form, a long queue was forming here too. He found himself at the end of the line. Finally, this chore too was done.
The bank and the post office had left him thoroughly dejected. He longed to find a cool, quiet spot where he could drink a cup of tea and feel refreshed. He spotted a hotel and went in. He took a gulp of cold water and sighed with relief. As the hot tea slid down his throat, he felt even better. Once again, he remembered his desire to laugh.
He had to laugh, but he was also aware that the customers at nearby tables would think it very odd to see him sitting alone and laughing. They would think he had lost his marbles. He looked around. All the tables were taken. It was lunch time. People were engrossed in eating. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on any face. ‘I have finally found the time to laugh, but I am on my own. If a man is alone and laughing, the obvious conclusion to be drawn is that he is mad. So it is imperative to have company in order to laugh. What a strange restriction!’
He figured he might as well go to the office. ‘I will never find a better place to laugh. There are always enough people to join in when one laughs. Most of the time is spent in idle chatter – sometimes about politics, sometimes cracking jokes. Faruqi has an inexhaustible fund of jokes; he simply needs an excuse to crack one, and then he can go on forever.’
He reached the office and found things to be not quite normal. The hot topic of discussion was that Faruqi’s promotion had been stalled and, in his place, Ali Ahmad had been elevated even though he was much junior to Faruqi. Faruqi’s mood was decidedly ‘off’.
Helplessly, he left the office to return home. By now he was besieged with one overriding question: why, after all, did he want to laugh?
‘Why do I want to laugh?’
And the question brought him to another question: ‘Need there be a reason to laugh?’
He remembered that in the morning when his wife had asked, ‘Why are you laughing?’ the question had left him unnerved.
‘To ask why are you doing this at every turn in life, on every occasion – how absurd it is! Surely one should do certain things that are reasonless, meaningless. Why must I ask myself why I laugh or even why I need to laugh? I want to laugh, that’s it … For no reason, just like that …’
By now he had sufficiently convinced himself with his own arguments and counter-arguments, but how was he to make others see things his way? Others always ask why one is laughing or crying. As he thought of more reasons to bolster his arguments, he took a look around. Everywhere, he saw at least one thing that could make one laugh. Despite so much material for laughter, why do people always ask ‘why’ when someone is laughing? And why is it necessary to give a reason: this is why I am laughing? It seemed surprising to him that despite the abundance of reasons to laugh, one laughed so rarely … hmm … now he was mocking himself …
He reached home and found things very much in his favour. The state of affairs now was just the opposite of what they had been in the morning. The evening meal was late in being put on the stove. The wife had no time to come and sit beside him. He savoured his solitude. Solitude is very much a thing to be savoured – there is no one to check on you, to see what you are doing. It makes a man feel free, liberated.
Aimlessly, he switched on the radio and equally aimlessly, he twiddled its knobs. He found a station airing a radio play. The play was a comedy. He listened for a while and felt quite happy. Then he moved to another station. This one was playing songs. Happy songs …
He did some more surfing. Whichever station he chanced upon, he found programmes of happiness. ‘How happy everyone seems!’ he said to himself.
‘Yes, everyone seems happy, don’t they?’ he muttered and grew sad. For no reason whatsoever!
The Sage and the Butcher1
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Once there was a rishi named Kaushik.2 Even though he was a rishi, he would often get very angry. And it was no ordinary sort of anger; he would turn such a wrathful gaze on the object of his rage that it would immediately be burned to cinders. Later, he would at times repent his wrath.
Once it so happened that he was
sitting beneath a peepal tree, immersed in meditation. A poor crane, who had flown a long distance, spotted the tree and alighted upon it. The moment he had settled upon a branch, he released a few pellets of shit. As luck would have it, the rishi was meditating under that very branch. The droppings fell directly on his head and disturbed his meditation. It enraged him. He glanced up and spotted the crane. So this creature has caused the rupture in my meditation, he said to himself and shot such a wrathful gaze at it that the poor crane immediately went up in flames, and in a matter of seconds, dropped in front of him like a lump of burnt-out coal. The sight of the cinders immediately put out his anger and he was overcome with remorse. ‘The poor bird,’ he said to himself, ‘it was only bird droppings after all. It was hardly a sin grave enough to deserve death. I am such a fool … why did I not stop to think? I have taken the life of the poor crane!’
The Death of Sheherzad Page 7
