— Very well, huzoor. One day, Asad had wandered off to the banks of the Yamuna near the Taj Mahal. He hadn’t met his mother for several days. He had to confine himself to the diwankhana—only if his mother called him to the mahalsarai could he visit her. Why didn’t she ask for him? He spent most of his time hovering around the mahalsarai, earning rebukes for his behaviour. What are you doing here, Asad? Why are you loitering near the women’s chambers? Don’t you have anything better to do? He went up to the terrace, panting with rage, talking to himself, abbajaan, where are you, where have you gone leaving me behind, you’ll never come back, you’ve abandoned me in this house … they don’t let me meet ammijaan, why don’t they, abbajaan?
— Why didn’t they, mian?
— Why, huzoor?
— You’re telling the story, and you don’t know? Mirza Ghalib burst into laughter.
— Asad’s father didn’t leave anything for him, janab. Abdullah Beg Khan didn’t even have a home of his own. Only if he had a home would his wife have lived there, and only then would Asad have got his mother’s company. What sort of marriage was it anyway between Abdullah and Asad’s mother? How much time did they even spend with each other, tell me. Abdullah spent his days travelling from one battlefield to the next; Asad’s mother only spent her days waiting, in Kale Mahal. Then came the news of Abdullah’s death. Only the news, huzoor. Abdullah Beg seemed to vanish into thin air. No one knew where, in which alien land, he was buried. The Turks had a strange custom, huzoor, you know, don’t you? When a man died, his sword was inherited by his son, and his property, by his daughter. Abdullah Beg was lost somewhere; Asad did not get his sword. And Abdullah had nothing by way of property.
— Abid mian …
— Huzoor.
— Have you forgotten what happened on that particular day?
— Which day, huzoor?
— Asad sat down by the Yamuna next to the Taj Mahal. What happened after that, mian?
— Gustakhi maaf, huzoor. This dastan has a mind of its own, I cannot control it. Huzoor, my uncle used to say, stories are unpredictable, you may have chosen a particular direction for it, but soon you’ll discover the dastan taking you down a completely different path.
— He was right. Mirza Ghalib smiled. Only the history of the British is direct, treading a single path. A story has thousands of paths. Haven’t you heard Amir Hamza’s dastan?
— Yes, huzoor. Like they say …
— Right you are, mian. Are we ordinary beings, after all? For billions and billions of years the galaxies have been rotating. Only after that time passed was the curtain of earth pushed aside to give birth to mankind. Can a story ever travel along a single road?
— Asad was sitting on the bank of the Yamuna, huzoor. I’m told he didn’t particularly care for the Taj Mahal.
— Why should he, mian?
— Huzoor …
— Do you know where Mumtaz Mahal’s grave is? It’s in Burhanpur. Nobody goes there. A tiny grave. Why build the Taj Mahal, then? All these things are the whims and fancies of kings, mian. And if it’s beauty you’re talking about, the Taj Mahal is a trifle compared to Fatehpur Sikri. As for the Jama Masjid, it’s a flower from heaven.
— A dervish surfaced from the blue waters of the Yamuna. Round-eyed, Abid mian recounted the story.
— Do you dream, mian? A dervish surfaced from the water of the Yamuna?
— Yes, huzoor. Is there any place on earth where a dervish or a fakir cannot appear?
— And then?
— The dervish asked Asad, why do you wander around alone, Asad? Would you like to be a bird?
— Will you turn me into a bird? Asad looked at the dervish in surprise.
— I will. The dervish put his hand on Asad’s head. —You want to fly across the sky, don’t you? Let me tell you the story of a bird. A merchant used to keep his favourite bird in a cage. He had to go to India on business. It was from India that he had brought the bird. Before leaving, the merchant went up to the cage to ask, ‘What should I get for you?’
— Azadi, janab. Get freedom for me mian, the bird said.
— Azadi? The merchant laughed. —That would mean setting you free. How is that possible? Ask for something else.
— Then please visit the forest I used to live in. Tell the birds there about me. Find out how they are.
— All right. Don’t worry, I’ll get you all the news.
The merchant left. After he had completed all his business, he remembered that he had to enquire after his bird’s family and friends. In the forest, he found a bird just like the one in his cage. The moment the merchant told the bird in the forest about the bird in the cage, the forest bird fell off the tree like a stone. The merchant realized that learning about his cousin after all these years had made the bird die of shock. He felt regretful too; the poor thing died only because of him.
Eventually the merchant returned home. When he went up to his birdcage its occupant asked, ‘How are my friends? Tell me about them, mian.’
— What can I tell you? As soon as I gave the news about you to a bird that looked just like you, he fell off the tree and died.
At this the merchant’s bird also folded its wings, shut its eyes, and fell to the floor of the cage. It did not stir even after being prodded repeatedly. Taking it out of the cage and running his hands over it tenderly, the merchant mused, if only I hadn’t given him this news, my bird wouldn’t have died on being informed of his friend’s death. He placed the bird on the windowsill.
At once the bird flew off to the tree outside the window. Astonished, the merchant ran out to stand beneath the tree and call out to his bird. The bird said, as it flew away, ‘My friend didn’t die, mian. He showed me how I could start flying again. You’re the one who brought me the information. Salaam.’
The bird disappeared.
— Do you know what Asad mian told the dervish after listening to this story, mian? Mirza Ghalib asked.
— No, huzoor.
— I still haven’t understood what life really is, Abid mian. Not even stories can touch it. Only fog—there’s nothing else. Listen, then, I shall tell you the next story.
— What story, huzoor?
— Asad told the dervish, take me with you, Khidr.
— Where?
— Wherever you’re going.
Putting his hand on Asad’s head, he muttered a long incantation. Asad didn’t know what he said. Sitting on the riverbank, he was cold despite the sunshine. Eventually the dervish said, ‘Don’t go away, Asad. Your father did not pass on his sword to you. You will never be able to use a sword, Asad. It’s very difficult, with each stroke you too will die, Asad.’
— Then take me with you, said Asad.
— Where?
— Wherever you’re going. I’ll become a dervish like you.
— This is not your path, Asad. As he spoke, he pulled a mirror out of his bag and handed it to Asad, whose face became dimly visible in it. —Wipe it, polish the mirror properly.
Asad started wiping the mirror. Swaying from side to side, the dervish immersed himself in song.
— And then?
— Asad kept polishing the mirror; the more he did, the more the mirror sparkled. Finally the dervish’s song ended. He said, ‘Look into the mirror now.’
Asad was amazed when he looked into the mirror. He should have seen himself in it, but he wasn’t in the mirror. Instead, it reflected a sky as blue as his mother’s pashmina. Just like the myriad patterns on the shawl, birds were making patterns in this sky. One large bird was followed by numerous smaller ones, their multiple colours and motion forming the design. Asad raised his eyes towards the dervish.
The dervish said, ‘Do you recognize this bird?’
— No.
— That’s the hoopoe. And all those other birds you can see are flying with the hoopoe in search of their king.
— Who is their king?
— Simurg.
— Where does he live?<
br />
— On Mount Qaf.
— What will they do when they find Simurg?
— You’ll understand later. The more you polish the mirror, the more clearly will you see the birds flying over one valley after another. They have to cross seven valleys. Eventually, you’ll see Simurg. You will have to keep writing until then.
— What shall I write?
— You shall write of love. You will never find love, Asad, but it is the same love that you’ll have to write about.
— And then? Mirza Ghalib’s eyes seemed to be drifting around an empty expanse. An expanse where the only things alive were bushes of thorns and thistles.
5
I gaze at the flowers, the mirror, the sun and the moon
Wherever I look, your face is all I see
y boat sailed on an infinite sea, Manto bhai. The beginning of my lifelong pursuit of what cannot be seen. It was then that the pen became my pennant. Do you know what my quills were made of? They were made of the broken arrows of my warrior ancestors. The first day that I wrote a sher, I felt as though I had been carrying the seeds of poetry within me since the beginning of time. Don’t you agree that you cannot try to write poetry? Poetry must come to you on its own. But we don’t know why it comes, or how. Do you know what I think? I think you cannot call someone a poet even if he has written a thousand ghazals, but if he can write even a single sher like a howl of pain, smeared with all the blood in his heart, then and only then can we call him a poet. Poetry isn’t a sermon delivered from a mosque, after all; it is one’s final words from the edge of the ravine, face to face with death. I wrote about my love, my ishq, on bloodstained paper day after day, Manto bhai, my hand became numb, but still I wrote. I knew that my ghazals would provide comfort to many people one day. It wasn’t pride, Manto bhai, but wounds—I wrote about each of my wounds—how could it not touch people?
For days on end I’ve seen how blood oozes out of the heart. Let me tell you about my childhood, then. My blood has been seeping out ever since those days, and now it has clotted into a rock that weighs me down. You know what Mir sahib said in his sher, don’t you?
Yes, I am the flame of twilight
My story is indeed short
Consider, when I was born, an empire was ending. So many times I have dreamt of having been born in the time of Jahanpanah Akbar; if I had even been born in the eras of Jahanpanah Jahangir or Shahjahan, I would not have had to spend my entire life like a stray dog on the streets. Khuda sentenced me for my sins to a hell where the royal court had been reduced to a leftover. And I had to wait hand and foot on that Bahadur Shah, who couldn’t write a line of a ghazal to save his life! But then, Allah is merciful, perhaps this was his plan for me.
I never saw my father. Many people used to say I resembled him. When I was a little grown up, I used to stand before the mirror, looking for Abdullah Beg Khan in the reflection of my face. He died on a battlefield somewhere, my mother didn’t even get a chance to see his corpse. A man disappeared suddenly, without leaving a trace behind, no one had even drawn a portrait of him to remember him by. In Jahanpanah Aurangzeb’s time, painting was considered immoral. Otherwise, just consider, has anyone ever seen an art gallery of the likes of the Mughal court’s? Are there better artists in the world than the musavvirs from Persia? Have you heard of Bihzad? It’s doubtful whether a painter of such calibre is born even once in a thousand years.
Alas for my mother. Not a single picture remained for her. If I don’t tell you about her you will not understand my childhood and my adolescence, Manto bhai. Much later, when I was nearly an old man, thinking of my mother made me realize that her entire life was actually a single word: waiting. You know that the colour of waiting is blue, don’t you? The blue that drips from depression. She had no family of her own, no home of her own. All she could do was wait for my father to come home. He would come for a few days at best, spending those few nights with her. That was how Yusuf, Chhoti Khanum and I were born. I don’t know whether there were other births between ours. Sometimes I even wondered whether Abdullah Beg Khan really was our father. Apparently the walls of Kale Mahal held many secrets. But never mind all that. Dilli and Agra were full of secret stories anyway.
I had wanted to write a dastan about ammijaan, Manto bhai. But writing stories isn’t easy. You have to keep writing the way daily labourers do. I didn’t have such stamina. Since I’ve written the history of the Mutiny, the Dastambu, since I’ve written reams of letters, you might ask why I couldn’t have written the dastan about my mother. Maybe I could have. I would even sit down with my quill from time to time, but I would find myself shrouded in the darkness of fatigue. I couldn’t write a single word—my eyes would brim with tears. It felt as though we had never had a home in this world—as though my mother never had a home of her own.
Let me tell you what happened one day. I had woken up suddenly in the middle of the night. I saw my walid and my ammijaan sitting quietly on the bed in one corner of the room. My mother’s hands were in his; a bloodstained sword lay at his feet. The sound of horses neighing could be heard, like a continuous storm. My mother’s head was laid on Abdullah Beg Khan Bahadur’s chest.
— What are you so afraid of? Abbajaan was asking her.
— I never get to know where you are, janab. So …
— I live far away bibijaan.
— Where?
— Where nothing but blood flows. Abbajaan’s voice was fogged with exhaustion.
— When will you come again janab?
— I don’t know. If I ever die, don’t look for my grave on earth, bibijaan. I shall be buried in your heart.
— Janab …
— Bibijaan.
— Will we never have a house of our own?
— If I can come back for the last time, never to go away again, we will.
— I don’t like living in Kale Mahal, janab. This isn’t my home, after all. Won’t you build your own mahal?
Bursting into laughter, abbajaan said, ‘The battlefield is my mahal. You can’t ever go there.’
— I shall go.
— Where?
— With you, janab. My mahal is wherever you are.
I saw Abdullah Beg Khan Bahadur pull my mother even closer. He was looking at her as though clouds were gathering in the desert sky. Have you ever seen the baramasa pictures, Manto bhai, which depict the twelve months of the year? Oh, these pictures I have seen once, the books too, each of them a picture. It started with the book of Amir Hamza’s dastan—in Jahanpanah Akbar’s era—whose pictures were drawn by Mir Syed Ali. Jahanpanah Humayun had brought him over from Persia. There were many illustrators in the workshop at the emperor’s palace, all from Persia. Khwaja Abdus Samad was known as the Sweet Pen, Shireen Qalam. So many illustrated manuscripts were created—the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, there was even a book about Nala and Damayanti; and yes, Keshav Das’s Rasikapriya. That was such a wonderful book, Manto bhai. Keshav Das wrote of many different women in Rasikapriya, and the painters created pictures of each of them. They were so beautiful, all of them, radiant like the full moon. You know of the chakor bird, don’t you, which survives by eating moonlight? When it saw one of these ladies on a full moon night, the bird lost its bearings completely, unable to decide which moon to gaze at. Jahanpanah Aurangzeb put an end to all this. Paintings were immoral for him, haraam. The Mughal workshop was closed down. The painters abandoned Shahjahanabad, taking up assignments in the royal courts of the Pahadi kingdoms in the mountains. Dilli’s art workshop, the tasveerkhana, was emptied out; the scraps left behind were wiped out by Nadir Shah and the Marathas, followed by the Englishmen. Do you know what Mir sahib wrote after Nadir Shah looted Dilli?
Dilli, which was the chosen city of this world,
Which the finest people on earth made their home,
Has now been ravaged by time and left in ruins
This devastated city is where I come from
You’re laughing, Manto bhai? You’re right, I’m just a
s bad as you are, once I start talking there’s no knowing where I’ll meander—I lose my bearings. You know what, once the words begin to flow, I wonder where they came from. I wasn’t even born when they were created. Who is actually talking within me? I am astounded Manto bhai, really astounded—how many different people do you suppose are hidden inside each of us? Do people who lived even before you were born still live inside you? Do you know how it feels? As though a distant mist is rolling over my mind.
I was telling you about the baramasa pictures, wasn’t I? These pictures originated in the Pahadi kingdoms. I was reminded of them from the way my father was looking at my mother. The painters would sometimes come down from the hills to Shahjahanabad to sell their works. I had seen a painting of the month of Bhadon from one of them. First I must tell you the mystery of Bhadon, Manto bhai. No one can stay away from their beloved in this month of love. Even those who travelled abroad on business returned to their wives in Bhadon. Overcast skies, water dripping from leaves all night, the vines trembling in the breeze, can you possibly bear to be separated from your lover at this time? The fragrance of the magnolia and the frangipani carried on the moist wind is bound to make bodies long for one another. In that picture I saw a golden streak of lightning caressing the thick dark clouds, a flock of cranes flying like parched creatures into the depths of those clouds, the breeze flirting with the trees, lovers sitting in the balcony upstairs. If you had seen them, Manto bhai, you’d have known at once that they were Radha and Krishna. A peacock on the parapet beneath the balcony gazed at the dark grey sky, and in the uncovered balcony downstairs sat a woman, passionate, waiting for someone. Perhaps it was my mother. Ammijaan was like the dark clouds spread across the sky, like the golden lightning, Abdullah Beg Khan had come to her unexpectedly. It takes such a long wait for two people to want each other so, Manto bhai, the way the azan longs to meet Allah. Abdullah Beg Khan kissed his wife so tenderly that night, Manto bhai, and made love to her. The dream unfolded before my eyes; I feel no guilt about it, Manto bhai, can there be any guilt in watching Krishna make love to Radha? That was the only time I saw my father—in my dream.
Dozakhnama Page 4
