Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  But my father-in-law Mahroof sahib had the answer to every question in the world. When we came to Dilli, Umrao Begum and I put up at his house to begin with, we even stayed there for some time. But the man was intolerable. He would count everything in pennies. How can a human being be sized up this way? So I used to mock him. What else can you do with people who tell you at every step what your choice should be? The more you mock them, the more you will see their mirrors shatter. All these pious people, I’ve noticed, have mastered only one art. How—and in how many ways—to humiliate others. My father may not have had a house of his own, but Turkish blood flows in my veins; how could I stomach such humiliation? So the ace up my sleeve was my mockery. Mock that swine Mahroof sahib so ruthlessly that the idol would be smashed.

  I used to love street dogs since childhood, Manto bhai. The dogs of Akbarabad would follow me about everywhere. I used to cuddle them, talk to them. I believe with all my heart that no one can be your friend the way a street dog can. They used to snuggle up to me too, sniff at me, and look at me as though they really did have a lot to tell me. But I didn’t know the language of dogs; if the Lord had been kind enough to grant me this gift, my life would not have turned more and more arid by the day. And Mahroof sahib couldn’t stand dogs at all. One day he said, ‘You live in a haveli, mian, why so thick with street dogs?’

  You damned dog, I had wanted to retort. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly say this to the person I lived off. But I wasn’t his slave just because I enjoyed his hospitality. So I began to play the fool with him.

  — They haven’t done you any harm, have they?

  — Could any animal be dirtier? You should bathe if their shadow falls on you. Do you?

  — No.

  — Tauba, tauba, don’t you follow any of the precepts of the Quran?

  — Of course I do.

  — Then why so thick with dogs?

  I laughed. —I’m a dog too, Mahroof sahib.

  — Meaning?

  — My father didn’t have a house. I grew up in my grandfather’s house. Now I live in yours after marrying your daughter. Why shouldn’t you call me a dog, then? By rights I should have remained on the street.

  — You talk too much, mian. You want to shit on the hand that feeds you. Mahroof sahib growled in rage.

  — Just like a dog does.

  — Mind your tongue, mian.

  — Have you seen a dog on heat, Mahroof sahib? Have you seen how it behaves on the roads? There’s a dog on heat hidden inside some human beings. Such human beings cannot cleanse themselves even if they bathe a thousand times.

  — What are you trying to say?

  — Cleanse yourself first.

  Why does someone who spouts the Quran and the Hadith at the drop of a hat visit the kothas even when he has a wife at home, Manto bhai? Does such a person have the right to comment on others’ purity?

  I never claimed to be pure. To tell the truth, it was greed that brought me to Dilli. Mahroof sahib’s was an aristocratic family with connections to the royal court, I had expected to find a place in court as a shair and lead a life of my choice; I was hopelessly addicted to wine and women at the time. I had no relationship with the Begum. She was involved with her prayers and the Quran and the Hadith; her obsession only kept growing. Eventually she even began to use her own set of plates and dishes. Why? Because I drank, I wrote ghazals, both of which were haraam according to her Quran. She was extremely conscientious, ensuring that all my needs were looked after, but this couldn’t be termed love. Or, I don’t know, maybe this was the form of Umrao Begum’s love. But you know what, the older I got, the more I lost faith in the word called love. Did I really lose faith? I do know that my life grew more and more bereft by the day. Why? Maybe I lacked love within me, I couldn’t love anyone. Today in my grave I feel I was a beggar for love, but I didn’t love anyone myself. I am not Mir sahib—think of how much he had endured just for the sake of love. All of us know the story of Laila and Majnu, but how many of us know about those days in Mir sahib’s life? He demonstrated with his own life what it was like to lose yourself over love, to be diwana for ishq.

  Yes, I’m talking of Mir sahib now, I know you cannot take too much whining about one person’s life. I know I’m telling the story of my life in great detail, but if I had to tell it in just one word, I would only have to draw a question mark on a piece of paper. Let’s go back to those days in Mir sahib’s life instead.

  His heart was a pockmarked city, Mir sahib’s. He wrote about this city in his masnavi Muamlat-e-Ishq—Stages of Love. In my opinion, of all the masnavis about love that Mir sahib wrote, Muamlat was the best. It was like a lamentation echoing in the sheesh mahal. Do you know what the lament was for? It was for the moon. Ever since his grandmother used to tell him when washing his face as a child, ‘Look at the sky my child, there’s the moon,’ it had become part of his life. And then he was stricken by the same moon. He used to see his lover in the moon, which was how he went insane one day. Who was his lover?

  I don’t know her name, Manto bhai. In the society in which we lived, a woman’s name was only available in stories. Who needed her name? The mullahs had shrouded her in a burqa, obliterating her very identity as an independent person. But we can easily give her a name today, can’t we? What name shall we choose? How about Mehr Nigar? Isn’t it a beautiful name? So Mir sahib fell in love with this Mehr Nigar when he was about eighteen. Mehr Nigar, who was married, was somewhat older—rather than younger—than Mir sahib, but because they belonged to the same family, there was no purdah between them; she could be in Mir sahib’s company without restrictions. Everyone in the family was full of praise for the way the Begum conducted herself. With those praises ringing in his ears, Mir sahib fell in love with her one day. He would spy on her secretly, but didn’t dare tell her what he felt. What could he say? When the things you want to say have accumulated inside you, how can you possibly speak, Manto bhai? Gradually the secrecy was lifted, Mir sahib even touched her physically. In Muamlat he wrote, I cannot describe her beauty—she seemed to have been born in the mould of my own desire. Mir sahib used to discover the cadence of ghazals in her walk, in the way she raised her eyes for a glance, in the tilt of her neck. Do you know what happened one day? Mehr Begum was having a paan, her lips were as crimson as the sky at sunset. When he saw those lips Mir sahib could not restrain himself anymore, he asked for their nectar. Although Mehr Begum declined smilingly at first, eventually she did sip the nectar of Mir sahib’s lips. You can imagine what was likely to ensue. He wanted to meet her in private, and so did she. When things continued this way for some time, Mehr Begum said, ‘This love can have no fulfilment, Mir. We cannot go on this way.’

  Mehr Begum withdrew. And Mir sahib seemed to slip into a dreamy trance. In his imagination, he spent every night with Mehr Begum, but the days grew unbearable. Neither of them saw each other for years after that. What happens to a man in this situation? The entire world becomes a lie, ceasing to exist. Meanwhile, people had come to know. Friends and family had turned away from Mir sahib, branding him mad. As you know, Manto bhai, when the elephant trips, even an ant can kick it. Mir sahib was in a similar situation. Then Mehr Begum herself came to him in secret. ‘We have to be apart, Mir,’ she said. ‘All lovers like us have to be parted one day. You will remain in my heart as long as I live.’ Now the separation was complete. Only memories, the weight of memories, remained. Mir sahib went mad. In Khwab-o-Khayal-e-Mir—Mir’s Dreams and Fancies—he wrote about his days spent in the grips of this insanity. He would be afraid to look at the moon, but still his eyes would be drawn to it; it was Mehr Begum whom he’d see in the moon. He couldn’t sleep anymore, believe me. He forgot about food and drink. Wherever he looked, he could only see Mehr Nigar. He was lost in a spiral of images.

  Many hakims tried to cure him, many spells were cast and witch doctors brought in, but none of them could understand that just when his desire for his lover had swollen like the moon, the moon wa
s lost from Mir sahib’s life. Do you know what they did when their best efforts could not cure him? Mir sahib was locked up in a tiny chamber, yes, let me tell you, it was even smaller than a grave. How do people define a normal life? Eat, shit, eat, shit, and say the things you don’t believe in. Do you know what followed? They decided that the poisoned blood would have to be drained out of this body. Mir sahib fell unconscious bleeding, but so what? The poisoned blood had to be removed, after all. Later Mir sahib wrote a sher, be a slave, rot in a jail, but don’t let love get you in its clutches. Once upon a time his love had burst into flames, all that remained afterwards were the ashes.

  Mir sahib had felt the heat from this fire, but I had only managed to roll in its ashes. I couldn’t love anyone the way Mir sahib did. Do you know why? Either Khuda did not give me the capacity for love, or spending my life as an orphan robbed me of the power; I learnt to love words, but I did not learn how words could touch people.

  When we were starting our life together, Umrao Begum had asked me one day, ‘Why don’t you talk, Mirza sahib?’

  — Talk about what?

  — Don’t you want to talk to me?

  — Of course I do. But …

  — But what?

  — You are so far away from me Begum.

  — How far?

  I had pointed to a star in the sky.

  14

  There’s music, float away on its currents

  There’s wine, forget everything

  There’s a beautiful girl, fall in love hopelessly

  Piety is for others

  irza sahib, hey there Mirza sahib! Look, the old man is fast asleep. All these years in the grave haven’t taken away his ability to sleep. Or do you suppose he pretends to be asleep? It’s hard to read this old man, my brothers. Just like his ghazals—if you’re taken in by the appearance, you’ll never know what lies within. When the Momins and Zauqs were either repeating themselves ad nauseam about the moon and flowers and birds and ladies, or composing encomiums to the emperor, Mirza sahib arrived on the scene to breathe new life into the dead ghazal. How can an artist create such magnificent works? Such heights can be reached only when a person sets his own life on fire to keep the flames of his art alive. People like these are most unpredictable, you know, beyond comprehension; trying to gauge Mirza sahib with the measuring stick of our routine lives would be a grave error. At times the man will appear to be nothing but the devil. Maybe that is what he was, the devil, someone who can toy with his own life. I’m reminded of a funny story about Mirza sahib. None of his contemporaries could match him when it came to humour, but he would often turn his satire on himself. No, my brothers, don’t be annoyed, here’s the story. Please don’t imagine I’m making excuses for Mirza sahib. Who am I to make excuses for him? And besides, Mirza sahib’s life is nothing but a story now. Only his ghazals live; we’re wrong, my brothers, it’s very easy to defeat an artist in his lifetime, but the artist’s real life begins after his death, a life which not even the best efforts of people like Ibrahim Zauq can tarnish.

  Now for the story. The room that Mirza sahib spent his entire day in was on the roof over the main entrance. On one side was a small, dark chamber. The door was very low, forcing people to stoop before entering. Mirza sahib used to sit on a sheet in this room from about ten in the morning till three or four in the afternoon. Sometimes he’d be alone, at other times he’d pass the afternoon with chausar—a game of dice—if he found someone to play against. It was the month of Ramzan. Maulana Arzuda arrived one afternoon. He was a great favourite of Mirza sahib’s. That particular afternoon Mirza sahib was playing chausar with a friend. Chausar in the month of Ramzan? This was a sin for the Maulana. He said, ‘I have read in the Hadith that the devil remains imprisoned in the month of Ramzan. I can no longer believe the Hadith.’

  — Why not?

  — Since you’re playing chausar, how do I believe the Hadith?

  — Can’t you see the unshakeable truth of what the Hadith says? Mirza sahib smiled.

  — What do you mean?

  — The Hadith is absolutely right. The devil is indeed imprisoned in this chamber here, don’t you see? What do you think, mian? Directing the last question at his opponent, Mirza sahib burst out laughing.

  — You’re calling yourself the devil?

  — But of course. Without a devil like me how could you have been a priest?

  — What do you mean?

  — Is it so difficult to understand? It’s only because the devil exists that the Shariyat needs so many rules. I have told you so many times, Arzuda sahib, that I’m only half a Muslim. I drink, though I don’t touch pork.

  I could have said something similar. A friend had once asked just how much of a Muslim I was. I’d answered, ‘I’ll cheer if Islamia College scores a goal against DAV College. That’s as far as my being a Muslim goes. No further.’

  Let me tell you another story, my brothers. This is from the later years of Mirza sahib’s life. Dilli was in the grips of an epidemic of cholera. Mir Mehdi Husain Mazrooh wrote in a letter, ‘Has the epidemic fled from the city, Hazrat, or is it still raging?’ Mirza sahib answered, ‘I cannot understand what kind of epidemic this is. An epidemic that cannot kill an old man and an old woman of seventy needn’t have bothered.’

  You or I will never be able to fathom this Mirza sahib. But a man does want to understand another. That’s where they go wrong. When a man cannot even understand himself—when all he can see is only the tip of the iceberg—isn’t the attempt to understand someone else laughable? Leave alone us, even a Sufi saint like Fariduddin Ittar could not fathom Omar Khayyam. Do you know why?

  Khayyam sahib used to believe that there was no resurrection after death. Like the philosopher Ibn Sina, Khayyam sahib was convinced that the lord might understand the concept of fragrance, but the individual fragrances of each flower did not reach him. Ibn Sina used to say, there is no creator of the universe, such as Allah—it has always been and always will be. And Khayyam sahib wrote in one of his rubaiyats, since there is no place for me in the world, it would be a mistake to live without my lover and my wine. But how long can there be doubt over whether the universe was created or whether it has always existed? Questions like these will have no meaning after I die. So, the way Ittar sahib had pictured Khayyam sahib on Judgement Day had left no room for a devil like him at the court of the Lord. Why not? One of Khayyam sahib’s whores had asked as much to a shaikh. Imagine the temerity. The shaikh had told the whore, ‘You’re a drunkard, always busy deceiving people.’ The whore had answered, ‘I am indeed what you say I am, but are you what you think you are?’

  Khayyam sahib had himself predicted what would happen after his death. Nizami sahib had become a disciple of his. The last time he saw Khayyam sahib was at a friend’s house in a lane of the slave market at Balkh. Many people were present to listen to Khayyam sahib talk. Apparently he had said, ‘I shall be buried where the trees shed their flowers twice a year.’ Nizami sahib hadn’t believed him. Four years after Khayyam sahib’s death, Nizami sahib visited his guru’s grave at Nishapur. When he saw the grave buried under flowers, he couldn’t keep himself from crying.

  Pardon me for digressing, my brothers. The thing is, the story about Mirza sahib that I’m telling you is not his story alone. The lord made all of us from dust, after all. Consider, then, what ancient dust from distant lands and its memories we hold. I’m perpetually amused by the fact that we exist somewhere or the other eternally, concealed in the dust.

  [Translator’s interpolation: Manto stops suddenly at this point. I am reproducing what he wrote on a page before resuming the story. I could easily have omitted it. But we would like to remain as faithful to the original as possible. Therefore I see no reason not to consider this statement of Manto’s part of the novel. I am putting down exactly what Manto wrote both within and without this story.]

  Sometimes I wonder whether this really is turning out to be a novel about Ghalib’s life. I wasn’t in as
much doubt before as I am now. But ever since I moved to Lahore I have been drinking so much more, and playing so many dirty tricks to keep body and soul together—not that I paid much attention to the household; you could say the dirty tricks are for self-preservation—that I have long since lost track of things. The film script I wrote about Mirza Ghalib was nothing but fraud, the whole world of films is fraud. They had wanted a story about Mirza Ghalib’s illicit relationship. So I wrote one for them. I used to write treatments and film scripts strictly for the money. But the Ghalib of my novel is like that man in Gogol’s ‘Overcoat’, whom I cannot quite pin down. So I read out what I had written to my wife. Ever since I moved to Lahore, I have had no one to read my stories to. Shafia Begum had to bear the brunt of it all.

  — What do you think, Shafia? I asked.

  — What do I know of literature? Shafia smiled. ‘Ismat would have understood.’

  — But Ismat isn’t here. You have to tell me.

  — Pardon my insolence, Manto sahib.