Dozakhnama

by Rabisankar Bal

  ‘Woof … woof,’ I responded in jest.

  — Mirza sahib …

  I retreated in fear. Could a dog speak like a human? You never knew, anything was possible under British rule.

  It called out again, ‘Mirza sahib …’

  — You uncultured dog!

  — I haven’t eaten for two days, Mirza sahib.

  ‘Kallu … Kallu, you swine!’ I shouted.

  Kallu came running. He stared at me in bewilderment. Kallu had virtually stopped talking by now. He could not live without stories, but who was going to tell him stories in this Karbala that Dilli had been turned into?

  — Give the dog something to eat.

  — Where will I find food for him, huzoor?

  — Why, don’t we have any food, Kallu? The English government is in the country now—they have so much food in their country, so many different wines—red, blue, white … why is there no food for us? Go see if there are any bones of anything.

  — Huzoor …

  — What, huzoor? Are you just going to stand there? Do you want the dog to starve to death?

  — You’re starving too.

  — So what? Don’t you know that if anyone wants something from a staunch Muslim, they cannot be turned away?

  — Woof … woof …

  — What is it mian? Wait a bit, something is bound to turn up.

  Wagging its tail, the dog said, ‘Let’s go for a walk. We’re certain to find something to eat on the road, Mirza sahib.’

  I laughed at this. Putting my hand on Kallu’s shoulder, I said, ‘See how Dharmaraj Yudhishthira himself has appeared at our home. I shall set off for the last long walk to death now. You needn’t be unhappy anymore, Kallu. You will hear stories about my journey towards death. Go fetch my walking stick.

  — Where are you going, huzoor?

  — Let me take a look around Shahjahanabad before it is lost forever.

  That was the beginning of my final journey, Manto bhai. Dharmaraj decided to live in my veranda. I used to address him as mian. I found it hard to walk, my legs kept swelling; my vision wasn’t clear either. Mian used to take me around everywhere, showing me the sights. One lane after another, one neighbourhood after another, was razed to the ground. The British were rebuilding the entire city. There could be no labyrinthine lanes or congested neighbourhoods in it anymore. A maze only meant danger lurking around the corner; revolutionaries always holed up in such places. Therefore, wide roads would have to be built, so that nothing could take place out of the Englishman’s sight. All the houses that extended into the distance beyond the gates of the fort were demolished. Appeals made by senior citizens saved Dariba Bazaar somehow. Can Shahjahanabad be thought of without its bazaars, Manto bhai? Urdu Bazaar, Khas Bazaar, Kharam ka bazaar, and, above all, Chandni Chowk. You only had to walk through the bazaars of Shahjahanabad to hear its heartbeat. They weren’t just places for buying and selling, all kinds of relationships were forged here. I had roamed around these bazaars by myself many times. Do you know why? Just to watch the fountains of colour and the new faces that flashed every now and then—faces that I had never seen before. It was while wandering around the bazaars that I had picked up many of my shers. Only a bazaar could give you the craving to walk around amidst a crowd of people. But they did away with all of them—Urdu Bazaar, Khas Bazaar, Kharam ka bazaar.

  — Woof woof … Mirza sahib …

  — Yes, mian? Woof … woof …

  — Where are we in that case?

  — Underground. When I came to Shahjahanabad for the first time, they had risen from the depths to talk to me. Do you know who, mian? Those who had been buried when Shahjahanabad was built. Such is the tradition of building a city. The British are building a new city now, so we have no choice but to go beneath the earth. It won’t be so bad, mian, we will lie there with our arms around each other.

  What would I do in the new city of the British, Manto bhai? Our city and theirs were different. You will see very few straight and wide avenues in the cities built in our country. Here we had a profusion of lanes, and clusters of mohallas around those lanes. There was a different sense of life behind this sort of urban planning. We wanted to live near one another. The lanes allowed us to walk unhurriedly, stopping for pleasant conversations, for a smoke in our neighbours’ balconies, for unexpected glimpses of beautiful women in windows out of the corners of our eyes; fruit sellers and flower sellers and kulfi sellers walked alongside us. These paths were not just for walking; you could call them a sort of gathering place, where neighbours as well as strangers could meet. The new city that the British were building was meant to keep watch over us. All the houses and shops in the extended area around the Jama Masjid were demolished. The Dar-ul-Bakao made by Arzuda was razed to the ground. Literature, medicine and religion used to be taught here free of cost. But what need did they have of our literature or medicine or religion? The lord was merciful; I had become hard of hearing. Otherwise my head would have been filled with nothing but the noise of demolition.

  Sitting amidst those ruins, I could no longer touch ghazals, Manto bhai. I, was it I who wrote ghazals once? I would be overcome by confusion when I pondered over things. There was no comfort either in Ibn Sina’s philosophy or in Naziri’s poetry. All of it was meaningless—all poetry, empire, philosophy—none of it made any difference. Nothing was more important than living happily. The Hindus had their avatars; the Muslims, their prophets—what difference did they make? I wrote to Hargopal Tafta, it doesn’t matter whether you become famous or remain obscure. To live, eat, and dress well are the only things that count. Art is actually an execution ground, Tafta, where you’re both judge and executioner. Release me from this web of illusion, my lord. All these years, I have shed my own blood, the blood of my dearest ones; and this blood has reddened the flowerbed of my art. I support you, Jahanpanah Aurangzeb. Destroy all the paintings and sculptures—throttle Mian Tansen—behead Mir Taqi Mir—what will we do with all this illusion? In my darkened room I could recognize nothing, Manto bhai. Not the world around me—not anyone. Even if someone were to pronounce my names along with Sadi’s or Hafiz sahib’s, how would it matter? I lived only like a persecuted street dog.

  Muslims were nothing but stray dogs to them. Sometime after they had captured Dilli, Hindus were allowed to return to the city, but not Muslims. They were given permission much later. Women and children from aristocratic families were begging on the streets then, Manto bhai. The begums from the fort, whose faces were once as radiant as the moon, now wandered about in rags, muttering to themselves and giggling. On the road to my death I saw these destroyed people, the living dead. And I prayed to the lord, take me to my grave. Put aside a sheet of cloth to cover me, keep my kafan safe.

  One day I slumped to the ground in the front yard of Jama Masjid. I couldn’t breathe; I thought my final moment had arrived. I could make out clearly, Manto bhai, that its shadow was on the door. I sat upright in bed every midnight. In my sleep there was only death and more death. Corpses hanging from rows of trees. I would wake up with the pain of a dagger plunged into the left side of my chest. I would be afraid, what if my heart stopped beating this very moment? Have mercy on me, O Lord, send death now, I would say this to myself all the time. But why then did I wake up in fear, why did I clutch the left side of my chest and wait for dawn? As I panted in the courtyard of Jama Masjid, my mian barked.

  — Woof … woof

  — Let me rest a bit, mian. Woof … woof …

  — Resting already? There’s so much more to see, Mirza sahib.

  — Woof … woof. Go away, mian. I shan’t walk the road to death anymore.

  — Very well, listen to some poetry then. Woof … woof …

  — I don’t give a damn for poetry.

  — Woof … woof. You mustn’t curse what you love, Mirza sahib. I know you never loved anything or anyone besides poetry.

  — I loved nothing? Loved no one?

  — No. No one. You saw the form and b
eauty of this world only in words, Mirza sahib. Words were the only flesh and blood for you. I shall recite your final poem to you, listen.

  — My final poem?

  — Woof … woof. Which will be written a century later.

  — Recite it then, mian.

  — Woof … woof. How well poetry travels through centuries, does it not, Mirza sahib?

  Sitting still, my Dharmaraj mian looked at the spire of the Jama Masjid and began to recite:

  Here I kneel towards the west now

  Spring has arrived empty-handed today

  Destroy me if your will so desires

  Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

  Where has his transparent youth vanished

  Where does decay gnaw away furtively

  Abject defeat in the corner of my eye

  Pours poison in my arteries, lungs and veins.

  Let the azan from a grey emptiness

  Awaken the extremities of the city

  Turn me to stone, make me quiet, still

  Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

  Or is there no relief for the future

  In the germs of sin that my body bears?

  In celebrating my own barbaric win

  I summon death to my own house.

  Or do the flashing lights in the palace

  Burn all my bones, even my heart,

  And allow a million foolish worms

  To find a home deep within my frame?

  You have endowed me with many things

  Where will you put me when I’m in ruins

  It’s better that you destroy me, oh God

  Let my descendants remain in my dreams.

  But I had no dreams left, Manto bhai. The British had minced all my dreams and made meatballs out of them. When I returned home that day I found a group of people outside my house, and Umrao Begum standing in the veranda. She broke down in tears when she saw me. ‘Mirza sahib …’

  — What’s the matter, Begum?

  — Kallu …

  — What has that swine Kallu done?

  After all these years, Kallu had left us, my brothers. How could he have survived, after all? Who was going to tell him stories? So Kallu fell asleep, a line of froth trickling from his mouth. Running my hand across his forehead, I called, ‘Kallu … my son …’

  — Huzoor …

  — Don’t call me huzoor, Kallu. You’re my father … you’re my son … where did it hurt, Kallu?

  — Where did all the dastangos disappear, huzoor?

  — But I used to tell you so many dastans, Kallu.

  — Forgive me, huzoor, but your dastans were colourless.

  — You want colour? Come, take my hand.

  — Where will you take me, huzoor?

  — To the court of Emperor Solomon.

  — Mashallah!

  — Can you see the light flashing off all those pearls and diamonds and rubies and sapphires?

  — Yes, huzoor. So much light … so much light … my release is in all this light, huzoor. Amaar mukti aloye aloye. I could see just such lights in stories, huzoor.

  — There, see how the court poet Shahed has flung himself at the emperor’s feet. He doesn’t know what to say—his speech is garbled.

  Solomon asked, ‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you so distraught?’

  Shahed’s lips were blue with fear. ‘Save me, emperor,’ he said, his voice quavering.

  — What’s wrong? Who wants to kill you?

  — The wind, Jahanpanah … the same wind everywhere … so cold … piercing my chest, my stomach, my eyes, like a knife … it won’t let me survive.

  — Who?

  — Israfel, emperor. I saw him as I was coming to your court. His face was covered in black. His eyes pierced me like a dagger. Save me from Israfel’s breath, Jahanpanah. I have so much left to do. I don’t want to die yet.

  — What do you want me to do?

  — The wind is your slave.

  — Hmm.

  — Tell it to carry me to India. I will live on the other side of the ocean, far from Israfel.

  — So be it.

  Emperor Solomon summoned the wind. He ordered it to take his favourite poet across the mountains and the seas to the remote forests of the Himalayas.

  The next day the emperor spotted Israfel among the crowd in his court. Summoning the angel of death, he asked, ‘Did you frighten my favourite poet yesterday?’

  — No, emperor. I was surprised to see the poet Shahed. The lord had ordered me to take him to India by the very next day. So I thought, the poet will not be able to reach in a day even with wings. So …

  — Huzoor … Kallu opened his eyes to look at me.

  — Yes, Kallu.

  — Which country is this, huzoor?

  — India.

  — Salaam aleikum, huzoor. Kallu shut his eyes again.

  Having laid Kallu in his grave, I returned to my tiny room. It was like sitting under a starless sky. I didn’t even realize when Begum entered. When I heard the sound of weeping, I asked, ‘Who is it?’

  — It’s me, Mirza sahib.

  — Umrao … what is it … you haven’t slept yet?

  — Nor have you.

  — Do you want to say something?

  — Come, let us leave this country.

  — And go where?

  — You decide.

  — There’s nowhere to go besides the grave, Begum. Only the lord knows when he will summon each of us. You just have to dream for a few days till then, Begum. That you’re still in Shahjahanabad. Listen carefully—there’s Mian Tansen’s invitation wafting in from Fatehpur Sikri …

  It was raining. My Dharmaraj mian was whimpering as he got soaked.

  Have pity on me, Manto bhai, let me sleep now for the last time. God is merciful. Allah meherban.

  In this terribly empty gathering of the world, I consider

  The flame of love, like a lamp, is all I have

  44

  This shroudless corpse is indeed the heartbroken Asad’s

  May God forgive him, his will was far too free

  or three months after I reached Lahore, my mind was in a whirl, Mirza sahib. Sometimes I felt as though I was still in Bombay; sometimes as though I was at my friend Hasan Abbas’s house in Karachi; and at other times it seemed like Lahore after all. Every hotel in Lahore used to host music and dance performances at the time to collect money for Quaid-e-Azam Jinnah’s fund. I could not determine what I should do. A sandstorm seemed to be raging in the desert that was my head. Like a tangled montage of scenes on a giant cinema screen. One moment, Bombay’s markets and roads were visible, dissolving into the small trams and donkey-carts on Karachi’s narrow streets; the very next moment, one of Lahore’s riotous bars came into view. Where was I, exactly? Sitting in my chair like an Egyptian mummy, I was tossed about by waves of thoughts. ‘How long will you stay cooped up at home like this, Manto sahib?’

  — But where should I go?

  — You have to get a job. How will we survive otherwise?

  — Who will give me a job, Shafia?

  — If you could start visiting the industry people … By ‘industry’ she was referring to the Lahore film industry. Shafia didn’t know that the Lahore film industry was not worth its name at the time. Many film companies were heard of, they even had some sort of offices; but they had nothing to show besides the signboard outside. Producers used to brag of making films worth lakhs of rupees, setting up offices and hiring furniture for them, and then they’d disappear without even paying their bills at the small restaurants nearby. Each of them was a cheat. How could I expect those who lived on borrowed money to give me a job? But I really did need to work. The money I had brought from Bombay was almost exhausted. It wasn’t just household expenses; I had to pay for the liquor at Clifton Bar too. Gradually I realized that I was indeed in Lahore, and that I would have to spend the rest of my life in this same chaotic Lahore. Not just the refugees, but also those who had not a
ctually moved from India were involved in the racket of acquiring a shop or a factory with a trumped-up story. Many people advised me to take this opportunity and get something for myself. I couldn’t bring myself to join the gang of robbers, Mirza sahib. Here the country had been partitioned because of misguided politics, and was I supposed to cash in on this and become a rich man overnight? It wasn’t possible to stoop so low. I had never seen such an atmosphere of uncertainty. If a man here smiled, another one was smothered in sighs of despair over there. The price of one man’s survival was another’s death. On the roads we could hear slogans, Pakistan zindabad, Quaid-e-Azam zindabad—long live Pakistan; long live Muhammad Ali Jinnah; and within those slogans I could hear smothered sobs. It wasn’t just people who wept, but also the birds and the trees. The refugees who had found no home but the streets stripped the bark off trees and lit fires with them on winter nights; how else were they to live? Hundreds of trees and branches were chopped down to be used as kindling for stoves. Only bare trees could be seen on the streets of Lahore—if you paid just a little attention, you could hear them crying. The houses all seemed dark with grief. People’s faces looked as though the blood had been sucked out of their bodies—paper figures, all of them.

  I would either sit at home in a chair like a marionette, or wander about the streets of Lahore like a vagabond. I would observe the expressions on people’s faces and listen to their conversations. Yes, I would listen closely, devouring their discussions on their gains and losses, how their dreams had been shattered, even their nonsense. As I walked around and listened to people talk, the smog that had gathered in my mind lifted. The words and sentences that floated about, the warmth clinging to their bodies, the sobs that had dried into sighs, all percolated into me; when I returned home and sat in silence, these words and sentences tried to emerge. I felt as though every pore on my skin would burst—they—the words—were trying to force their way out in rage and misery and hatred—all lost words actually want to reach someone, Mirza sahib. It seemed that they wanted to live their migrant life through me.

  I resumed writing gradually. I didn’t have much choice anyway. There was no film industry to supply stories with to make a living. So it was down to whatever I could make writing for newspapers and magazines. I used to hire a tonga for the day and go out. You could call me a peddler of stories. Asking the tonga to wait outside the newspaper office, I’d go inside and start writing my story. Stories served hot for instant cash. Then off to another newspaper or magazine office. This one wants a piece of satire; I sit down to write it out. Tuck the money into my pocket and off again in the tonga. I never did count my earnings; it wasn’t in my nature. If I made a reasonable amount of money, the first requirement was a drink, after which the rest went into household expenses.