Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  The moment you mentioned Calcutta, my friend

  My heart bled, pierced by an arrow

  The wondrous spread of green

  The beauty of the women

  The glances, the gestures

  Weakened even the strongest of hearts

  Blessed is its fruit, sweet and fresh

  Memorable is its full-bodied wine

  I had never tasted wine as fine as the one in Calcutta. Nor mangoes. I fell in love with mangoes immediately upon my arrival in Calcutta. I had tasted the fruit before, but Bengal’s mango was like the lover’s kiss after a prolonged wait. My tongue would drip at the very sight of the fruit. My eyes closed in joy as I put a piece in my mouth. Even if every fruit in heaven were laid out before you, Manto bhai, you would never forget the Calcutta mango. I was such a glutton that I even wrote to the Mutawalli at the Imambara in Hooghly to send me some mangoes. I want the kind of fruit, Mutawalli sahib, that not only looks beautiful when used to adorn the dining table, but also pleases the heart. As you know, only the mango can boast of this quality. And Hooghly’s mangoes in particular are peerless, like flowers freshly plucked from the garden. If you deign to think of me once or twice before the mango season ends, I shall be grateful. Mutawalli sahib responded to my plea. My servants would soak the mangoes in water; I would have a mango every morning, and then again in the afternoon. Do you know what chilled mango tastes like, Manto bhai? As though you’re running your tongue over the body of your favourite woman.

  Since the subject of mangoes has come up, let me tell you a story or two, my brothers. They’re not really stories—but then my life is nothing but a story now. Rajiduddin Khan, a doctor from Shahjahanabad, was a great friend of mine. He abhorred mangoes. We were sitting in the balcony of my house one day when a man passed along the lane with an ass. The ground was littered with mango peel, which the ass sniffed but didn’t eat. The doctor chortled, saying, ‘Look, Mirza, even an ass won’t touch the mangos you love so much.’

  All I said was, ‘That is true. An ass cannot savour the taste of mangoes, doctor.’

  The doctor laughed initially, but began to look grim suddenly. ‘Meaning?’ he asked.

  Laughing, I said, ‘No ass has ever enjoyed a mango.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and left.

  Where mangoes are concerned, Manto bhai, only two things are important. They must be very sweet, and there must be a sufficient quantity for me to carry on eating as long as I want to. Calcutta ensured both. I didn’t just eat the mangoes, sometimes I would simply run my fingers over the fruit soaked in water. What a joy it was! Such a pleasure for the eyes too. Consider the Himsagar—the light orange hue of the sunrise is gathered in its body. Or take the Langda—green all over, with streaks of pale yellow. The Gulabkhas is a striking red in part, the rest being green or yellow. No other fruit can boast of such a play of colours, Manto bhai. You can never say enough about the beautiful mango. I was so besotted with them that friends and associates from near and far used to send me different varieties of mango. ‘Considering how much you love mangoes,’ Begum told me once, ‘why don’t you give up drinking?’

  — You know I have a life outside the house, Begum. But have I left you? I want both.

  — And what about what I want?

  — You want me to become the perfect husband. Not in this lifetime, Begum. But I cannot leave you either. Or else I would have divorced you long ago.

  — Why can’t you, Mirza sahib?

  — You’re the one sanctuary in a life gone astray.

  — Really?

  — Why do you think I return to this house after all’s said and done? Even if we don’t talk all day, why do I feel I still have a home?

  I didn’t tell Begum any of this, Manto bhai. All of this is a dream—things I said in my dreams. I only talked to Umrao Begum in my dreams. She must have talked to me the same way. How else could we have spent all those years together? There must have been some soul somewhere, which neither of us recognized.

  Soul! Such an elusive word. It wasn’t until I went to Calcutta that I learnt it. Nawab Sirajuddin Ahmed, my friend in Calcutta, said to me one day, ‘Come with me, Mirza, today I shall take you to someone who will fill your heart with delight.’

  — Who?

  — Nidhu-babu.

  — Where is this babu from?

  — Oh no, he isn’t a babu. But everyone calls him Nidhubabu. His real name is Ramnidhi Gupta. He composes songs, and sings them too, though he cannot sing anymore now.

  — Then why should we go?

  — You’ll enjoy talking to him, Mirza.

  It was a small room in a two-storeyed house in a lane that remained dark even in daylight. We arrived in the late afternoon. He was still asleep. When his servant awoke him, he sat up, stretching, and asked Sirajuddin sahib, ‘Why at this odd hour, nawab sahib?’

  — I have brought a friend of mine.

  — A musician?

  — A poet. From Dilli.

  Greeting me, he said, ‘The nawab sahib has brought you here. I’m nearly ninety now. Your servant has no means to entertain you. I cannot sing anymore.’

  — You could give us a song or two if you like. Sirajuddin sahib spoke.

  — I do wish I could. But my voice does not come alive anymore, nawab sahib, how can you sing when there is no life in the singing? You know that.

  — Heaven will materialize on earth if you sing.

  — It isn’t possible, nawab sahib. Both of us know that. Why are you lying? The notes come from the navel—the melody comes from the notes—how will there be melody when the navel is shrivelled? You know very well that fooling people by croaking like a crow is not my calling. Please sit down, gentlemen, don’t keep standing.

  There were no sitting arrangements in the room; we took our seats on Nidhu babu’s bed. ‘Are you in Calcutta on work?’ he asked.

  I explained everything to him. After a few moments’ silence, he said, ‘These bastards have come here to suck this country dry. They will do nothing for you and me. You’ve never heard Sadhak Ramprasad sing. Do you remember him, nawab sahib?’

  I came full of hope, but all in vain

  Like the bee deceived by the flower in the picture

  You said you’d play, but you threw me back to earth

  Your games this time have dashed my hopes

  Like the Englishman, this city has no heart either, Mirza sahib. You won’t get anything here. Go back to Dilli. We have a new breed of gentlemen in this town now, who claim that all of Nidhu-babu’s songs are obscene. You shit-eaters, will the English now decide what is decent and what is not? Where will you make room for Bharatchandra then? Will you wipe Vidyasagar off altogether? That bloody foreigner—that damned Derozio—is teaching people to drink and eat meat and claim that an English education is the best education. Do you think we drank any less or ate any less meat than you? We had our kept women too. Doesn’t mean we became dissolute rakes. Listen to this song:

  You never understood my desire, my soul

  The regret kills me, but you don’t know

  Let the lotus claim the heart, I don’t care

  What value in a soul that dies of only virtue?

  Tell me, is this song of Nidhu-babu’s obscene?

  He sang a succession of tappas for us. And each of them included the word ‘soul’. He seemed to be offering us a fully-bloomed flower with every utterance. Exhausted with this singing, he sat in silence for a long time.

  ‘How fortunate I am!’ declared Sirajuddin sahib. ‘I have heard you sing again after such a long time.’

  Turning to me, Nidhu-babu said, ‘Go back, mian, go back to Dilli. Calcutta will offer you nothing at all. All you’ll get is humiliation. The blind have the best eyesight today. People here care for nothing but scandal. Mahananda Rai Bahadur, the maharaja of Murshidabad, used to spend a few days in Calcutta from time to time. He had a fixed whore named Srimati. I used to sing for his pleasure every evening. I cannot tell why, but Srimati was f
ond of me too; she would ensure I was looked after while I was there. People began to whisper that she was my whore. I may have composed many of my songs with her in mind, but did that make her my whore? This is how Calcutta interprets things. The longer you stay here, the more you’ll come to understand. Talent has no value here, what you need is the gift of the gab. All this is the result of Western education, Mirza, they do not think of anyone beside themselves as human beings.’

  When we were leaving, Nidhu-babu put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t despair, mian sahib, you have a long road ahead of you. I am done, which is why I was babbling.’

  Since I’ve mentioned Nidhu-babu, I must mention another poet too. The poet Ramprasad Sen had died long before Nidhubabu. He was a devotee and a poet, Manto bhai. It was said that the goddess Kali had appeared in the guise of his daughter and joined in the work of mending the fence around his house. There were many other stories about him. Devi Annapurna from Kashi had come to listen to him sing. He used to write his songs in the ledger of the office where he worked. One of his tunes, in Pilu Bahar, buzzed around my mind like a bee for many years; but it too was lost. All colour, all melody bid farewell to me gradually.

  What Nidhu-babu had said made me see a different Calcutta through his eyes. And this same Calcutta—which did not know how to honour its noblest—soon sucked me into its quagmire. A big mushaira used to be held on the first Sunday of every month. Even Dilli did not have mushairas as large as this one. Nearly five thousand people would gather. After my ghazals, a group of people questioned the language and style of my work, citing Qateel. No matter what people say, I never considered Qateel one of the great Persian poets. How could I? He was actually Dilwali Singh, a Khatri from Faridabad who converted to Islam later. Yes, I can accept it if you talk of Amir Khusrau. When I said as much at the mushaira, people started shouting. I remembered what Nidhu-babu had told me. I went home without prolonging the argument. But my silence didn’t matter. Why should Qateel’s followers spare me? They began to harass me. I thought it over and decided that I was in Calcutta to settle my pension; there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing people, for there was no telling who could prove useful. I wrote a poem in Baad-e-Mukhalif, seeking forgiveness. But I did not abandon my stance, Manto bhai. People were astonished. ‘What have you done, Mirza sahib?’ asked Raja Shohanlal.

  — What do you mean?

  — Why did you have to demean yourself this way?

  — Don’t you know that even the ant kicks the elephant when it falls into a pit? The elephant has to plead with the ant for rescue.

  — But still, you …

  — I’m no one. You could say I’m an eternal slumber.

  — Meaning?

  As if I knew the damned meaning. I just said things that popped into my head. If I could have thought things out carefully before speaking, life would have become a bed of velvet, Manto bhai. But I didn’t want that either. I went back to Dilli from Calcutta filled with despair, but I couldn’t forget Calcutta. Many small incidents come to mind, you know. I met many senior English officers in pursuit of my case; I don’t remember them anymore. But there was a fishwife whom I cannot forget. I used to visit Shimla bazaar every day with a servant in tow to buy fish and vegetables and fruits. I became friendly with a fishwife in this market. She used to get topshe for me regularly—what the English referred to as ‘mango fish’. Small fish, orange in colour. It was a delicacy when fried. Especially with a drink. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, this fishwife used to tell me a new story every day. If someone came up to buy fish during this time, she would snarl, ‘Get out, can’t you see I’m having a heart-to-heart with mian?’

  ‘Heart-to-heart?’ the customer would ask. ‘So you won’t sell fish now?’

  — No I won’t. It’s my fish, none of your business whether I sell it or not. Turning to me, she would say, ‘Now listen, mian, you’ll die laughing when you hear what Bhattacharya the Brahmin said.’

  The lure of the story would make me sit down by her side.

  — All that these Brahmin Bhattacharyas did was to pore over their textbooks and stare at the sky, rapt in thought. Nothing in the world caught their eye. One of these Brahmin’s wives was making dal in the kitchen. Suddenly she ran out of water. Leaving her husband to watch over the dal, she went out to fetch some water. While she was gone, the dal began to boil over. This was a crisis. Do you know what he did eventually? Winding his sacred thread around his hand, he held it out over the dal and began to read the scriptures. Have you ever heard of such a thing, mian? Imagine reading the scriptures to stop the dal from boiling over!

  — And then?

  — When his wife returned and saw what had happened, she said, ‘What! Couldn’t you have put in a little oil?’ As soon as she poured oil into the pan, the boiling dal subsided. Do you know what Bhattacharya did then, mian?

  — What did he do?

  The fishwife rolled against me with laughter. She was shameless. Running her hand through my beard, she said, ‘The Brahmin put his head on his wife’s feet, saying, who are you, Goddess? Even I admitted defeat, but you conquered all simply by sprinkling a drop of oil.’

  — And then?

  — What do you think? ‘What nonsense!’ shrieked his wife and left. The fishwife asked, laughing, ‘Can a man ever compete with a woman, mian?’

  If it’s masculinity you want to talk about, Manto bhai, there’s only one man I can think of, and that’s Rammohan Roy. I never saw him myself. But I heard about him everywhere in Calcutta. Apparently courtesans used to dance at the feasts he hosted at home. There were many famous courtesans in Calcutta at the time—Begumjaan, Hingul, Nannijaan, Supanjaan, Zeenat, Syed Buksh. No, my brothers, I didn’t see any of them. They were contracted to the rich gentlemen of Calcutta. I had no connection with these babus. I was told that babu Rammohan used to publish a Farsi newspaper named Meerat-ul-Akhbar. But it had closed down before I reached Calcutta. However, another Farsi newspaper named Jamijahanuma was still being published. Not to mention several other newspapers in English and Bengali. Calcutta got me addicted to reading the newspaper. There were no newspapers in Dilli yet. How could there be? Newspapers needed printing presses, after all. And Calcutta had so many such presses. Sirajuddin sahib showed me a book. Bharatchandra’s Annadamangal, which, he said, was printed by someone named Gangakishore Bhattacharya. I also heard of someone named Panchanan Karmakar. He was the first to create a Bengali typeface for printing.

  I was talking of Rammohan Roy, wasn’t I, Manto bhai? I never saw him with my own eyes, though I heard many canards about him. But when I heard about his fight against the Sati system, none of those other things mattered anymore. I saw an act of Sati being committed at the Nimtala cremation ground. And I saw people on their way to death. Dying people would be carried to the bank of the Ganges and put in a room there; every day, when the tide rose, his family would submerge him partly in the water. It was called the antaryali yatra, Manto bhai, dying in the holy water of the Ganges. They would die after days and weeks of suffering under the sun and in the rain and the cold. After minimal rites, their bodies would be floated out on the currents. During the Sati ceremony, the pyre would be made with sandalwood and the flames lit with ghee; the wife would be burnt to death along with her husband’s body. Incantations would be chanted, bells would be rung, drums would be beaten—it was like a celebration. No one could hear the painful sounds of a woman being burnt alive. When I saw this scene for the first time, Nidhu-babu’s songs kept reverberating in my breast—soul. I learnt afterwards that Rammohan’s efforts did lead to the end of this practice.

  I abandoned all my hopes when I left Calcutta. I went away only with memories such as these. Yes, Manto bhai, a wondrous spring breeze may indeed blow there, but I had to return from the same city with my forehead bloodied from banging against walls. When I returned to Dilli, it was with a debt burden of some forty thousand rupees.

  26

  ur work on translating M
anto’s novel was held up for a long time. For, Tabassum had become the mother of a little angel. So I didn’t disturb her for a couple of months. She had named her daughter Falak Ara. Meanwhile, I too had passed through an unfamiliar phase in my life. My drinking had unexpectedly increased so much that I had had to be admitted to a hospital. During the fortnight that I spent among addicts and the insane, I realized that these individuals also had their own dialogue. It was just that they were not like our normal, everyday exchanges. Instead, they were much more strongly coloured by dreams and incoherence. Sitting at the window of the mental hospital, I sensed the sour smell of the sky that Sukumar Roy wrote about in his nonsense verse. Madness is nothing but the name of a soul without an address.

  To tell the truth, I was losing interest in translating Manto’s novel. Because those people in the mental hospital were drawing me to themselves; over and over again I wished I could return to their midst. Why, when, where, how—questions like these did not exist there; only the continuous monologues from some, and the shadow of silence from others, cast a long way in the distance.

  One day I phoned Tabassum to find out how Falak Ara was.

  — You cannot imagine how much this baby can smile. Come and see for yourself. What kind of tarbiyat is it to merely enquire over the phone?

  — One of these days.

  — And what about our work?

  — You mean Manto’s novel …

  — You seem to have forgotten it completely.

  — I haven’t.