The servant re-entered to ask Gohar Jan if she needed anything.
“I must leave…” Ustad Ramzi said before he was interrupted by Gohar Jan.
“Please uncover the sitar,” she said to the servant girl.
She saw Ustad Ramzi looking enquiringly as the girl removed the protective brocade cover from Gohar Jan’s sitar.
“Please sit down, Ustad Ramzi,” Gohar Jan said.
“Bring some water for Ustad Ramzi,” Gohar Jan addressed the servant girl. “That would be all.”
Ustad Ramzi sat down reluctantly.
Gohar Jan would have found it indecorous to send Ustad Ramzi away without some token of hospitality after he was shown in by mistake, but it was on an impulse that she had asked him to stay.
When the servant girl brought water, Ustad Ramzi emptied it in one gulp.
Gohar Jan held up the sitar.
She noticed Ustad Ramzi was unable to concentrate during her recital. The news about the end of the mehfils had disturbed him deeply. As someone who had learned how painful it was to end a lifelong routine that gave purpose to one’s life, Ustad Ramzi’s disorientated manner reminded Gohar Jan of how she herself felt.
Even though it felt strange to her to play for her lone audience, Gohar Jan experienced a familiar joy upon touching, after many days, the well-seasoned wood of the sitar. The fingers of her hand glided over the wooden neck of the instrument, curled around the frets, caressed the strings, and with their touch breathed warmth into the wood. She felt she had recovered a part of herself as her hands held the instrument. Playing it gave her a sense of completeness. As if the coordinates of space were synchronized with the pulse of her emotions, she felt in control of her surroundings. She again felt at home.
As Gohar Jan regarded the silent and lonely man sitting on the carpet, it occurred to her that among the many men who frequented her kotha, Ustad Ramzi was the only one for whom she remained only a voice. It was strange that at the end of her career he was the only person with whom she shared her deep relationship with her art.
The accident of Ustad Ramzi’s presence that evening had revealed to Gohar Jan something about herself. She felt indebted to him for making it possible for her to rediscover her art’s purpose. It was the first time that, from a feeling of affinity, she felt drawn to him.
After the recital ended, Ustad Ramzi sat for a while with his eyes lowered. He looked up briefly and it seemed he would say something but he silently rose.
Gohar Jan also got up. In a departure from her usual custom she came out to see Ustad Ramzi to the door.
The moneybox where patrons left money had been removed. As Ustad Ramzi tried to inconspicuously put the money in his kerchief and leave it on the side table, Gohar Jan’s hand gently touched his.
“Ustad Ramzi,” she said, “you will be our guest from today.”
For a moment he seemed lost for words. He looked away briefly. Then putting the kerchief with the money on the side table, he looked at Gohar Jan and said, “It would be improper…otherwise.”
The manner in which Ustad Ramzi had spurned her hospitality and gift rankled in Gohar Jan’s heart, but her face did not betray it.
“It shall be as you wish,” Gohar Jan replied with a smile.
The rough manner of the man who had a reputation for never asking anything of anyone was awkward, almost hostile, but not an insult, she told herself. And since it pleased her to have a reason to continue her recitals without receiving men at her kotha, she felt it was best if Ustad Ramzi felt encouraged to visit on his own terms.
Ustad Ramzi bowed his head slightly and went out.
❖
On his way home Ustad Ramzi was thoughtful. Gohar Jan had accepted his visit, and given him to understand that he could continue. If in her refusal to accept money there was an acknowledgement of a unique quality to their relationship, he had decisively put an end to it by insisting on making the payment. And yet, he knew that he could not compensate for the privilege he had received from Gohar Jan.
For the first time Ustad Ramzi was assailed by thoughts that questioned his presumptions of himself. He could not rid himself of the feeling that the forthrightness that had guided his conduct in all undertakings, was markedly absent in this affair.
Return
Ustad Ramzi’s instincts about Imama were right. Kabira brought the news that Imama had started coming to the akhara and had resumed his exercise regime.
Imama sent his challenge to Ustad Ramzi within a month.
Tamami could not believe it when he heard that Ustad Ramzi had finally nominated him to fight. Upon hearing Ustad Ramzi’s decision, Imama’s clan elders protested that Imama had already defeated Tamami. But Ustad Ramzi contended that it was Imama’s choice to fight Tamami. He reminded them that Imama was not bound to fight Tamami according to the established rules of the two clans. He could have disregarded Tamami’s challenge since he was not the clan’s nominee, so the bout had no significance. Imama’s clan elders wished to dispute the point further but Imama put an end to it by declaring he was ready to fight Tamami again.
Regimen
Tamami’s preparations for the bout began. He was awakened at two in the morning. After saying his prayers, he drank milk in which the flowers of blue lotus and barberries, sandalwood powder, dry endive, myrobalan, and green cardamoms had been soaked. He started his sit-ups under the supervision of Kabira and an assistant trainer, and then swung the pair of forty-kilo Indian clubs. Later, he set off on a five-mile run from the akhara to the clock tower and back.
Those who stood along the way or were headed towards the vegetable market in the mornings sometimes caught a glimpse of Tamami leaving or coming back from the run. In the beginning, the bystanders looked at him for a moment or two with indifference and turned away, but after a while, people in the enclave’s neighborhood instinctively began looking out for Tamami in the mornings. His rhythmic, unhurried breathing would reach them long before his shape materialized from the morning mist. They remained silent as he ran past them. Clad in embroidered silken shorts, Tamami ran with his eyes fixed on the ground a few feet ahead of him.
Tamami’s mind was preoccupied. He was the official nominee of his clan and Ustad Ramzi’s involvement in his training was an acknowledgement of the fact. It had provided him with a chance to prove his worth to his brother. He also wanted to avenge his defeat. Even though Tamami found the training regime grueling, he endured it with complete submission, never complaining of its unusual harshness. His body, too, kept responding and adjusting to the demands he was making on it by growing stronger.
Often onlookers waited for Tamami in the streets and alleyways, and pointed him out as he came within their range of vision. They no longer looked on with indifference, but with growing interest. Women looked out from the doorways, neighborhood children ran with him for as long as they could keep up.
A few people began following Tamami to the akhara. Then more came: vendors on their way to the market, carters with hampers who worked in the bazaar, people from the neighborhood. Some took detours to watch Tamami exercise. As they stood at the open gates of the akhara talking among themselves, Ustad Ramzi watched them silently. Sometimes he caught himself slipping into nostalgia for days when the exhibition grounds used to be full of spectators and rang with their loud cries when the champions grappled.
The number of onlookers swelled daily. After the akhara gate was crowded, a few began climbing up onto the enclosure walls.
Warmed up from the run, Tamami would exercise the muscles of his arms and shoulders, and turn the akhara clay and smooth it. Afterwards he was fed a quarter-kilo of myrobalan preserve and given a breakfast consisting of two kilos of mutton fried in butter.
A short rest was followed by Tamami’s wheelbarrow exercise, with two trainees who lifted his legs for support as he walked on his hands. Then he took a two to three-hour nap.
When he woke up, he was fed a kilo of rabri and handed a mattock to turn the clay of the akhara for an hour. For lunch Tamami had one and a half kilos of roasted meat and after his siesta he again turned the akhara clay and followed that with five hundred push-ups.
The next set of exercises was meant to develop his fighting stamina. A team of five trainees would enter the akhara and attack him: one would secure a lock on his right leg, another would apply a neck lock, one would hold him around the waist and two others would pinion his arms. Tamami grappled with them and when he had tired them out, a fresh team of five trainees would take their place.
On alternate days, the post-breakfast routine was changed and he plied the mattock in the akhara for a half-hour and followed that with push-ups. The moment he finished, Kabira and the assistant trainer would climb onto his back and Tamami would set off on a one-mile run to the bridge that stretched over the canal. He would then smooth the clay in the akhara with two of his trainees straddling his back. Another set of push-ups and a short break later, a fifty-kilo iron ring would be put around Tamami’s neck, forty kilo weights would be placed in each hand, and he would be sent on a long run. His trainers made sure that he ran at an even pace until he returned to the akhara. A preparation of gold foil, pearls and green cardamom in butter would be fed to him upon his return. In cold weather, soup made from five chickens was added to Tamami’s regimen.
The rest of the exercise component remained the same with teams of trainees grappling with him at intervals. It had started with two teams, and at the height of his training it progressed to four teams of five trainees each. Tamami grappled with them, and even when he was exhausted, sparred with them for as long as he could hold up.
The exercises ended a few hours after sunset, and then for two hours, Tamami’s body was massaged with mustard oil by the trainees to release the tension in the muscles and soothe his nerves.
❖
The spectators cheered Tamami daily. Awed by Tamami’s strength, they applauded him as he destroyed the combined attack of several trainees. They egged him on, and booed the trainees who dropped out after sparring with Tamami.
Later, when they discussed these grappling sessions before others, they often exaggerated the number of trainees Tamami fought. When Tamami did his push-ups, they remarked on the pooling of sweat from his body that traced the outlines of his form on the ground. When he began his leg-squats, they made bets on how many more he would do during that session. The trainees made bets among themselves to see who would last longest against Tamami.
Returning from his run one day, Tamami noticed Imama and other members of his clan standing at one end of the exhibition grounds. They had come to watch how his preparations were progressing. They regarded him intently for some time and left.
❖
Tamami grew both heavier and wider in the chest and shoulders. Covered in sweat and clay, his skin shone with the vigor of youth. His intense and punishing training regime was not only transforming his physique, it was also building up a fierce rage inside him. Pain assailed every nerve in his body, but he gave no indication that he felt it, as he stared fixedly at the wall of the enclosure while exercising. The presence of the spectators and their encouragement kept Tamami going from one routine to the next. The thought that after winning the bout he would have an undeniable claim on the title made every sacrifice worthwhile for him.
During one grappling session, Tamami was feeling overwhelmed by the fresh trainees, when he heard the crowd jeering. Instilled with a new vigor, he attacked the trainees hitting them on their temples and shoulders.
The trainers stopped the session but the same thing happened again a few days later. The trainees complained to Kabira who suggested that Ustad Ramzi allow some light modification in the grappling session so that Tamami was not exhausted and violent at the end. Ustad Ramzi overruled him and maintained the same routines, instructing Tamami to check his violence.
❖
Promoter Gulab Deen returned from organizing exhibition bouts upcountry and at Ustad Ramzi’s invitation came to see Tamami grapple with the trainees. He was surprised to see people crowding the akhara gate and sitting astride the walls. In the eyes and faces of those assembled there, the promoter read something that astonished him. They were not there as mere spectators to see the grappling match and its outcome. They had come to watch Tamami; they seemed involved in his life. Gulab Deen had never witnessed such popular interest in a pahalwan.
Later, when he saw Tamami in the akhara, he could not recognize him as the pahalwan he had seen a few months ago.
“What do you say, Gulab Deen?” Ustad Ramzi asked.
“This isn’t the Tamami I knew!” promoter Gulab Deen exclaimed. “People will come when he fights,” he muttered. “Yes, they will come.”
Ustad Ramzi did not comment. Tamami’s physical development had surprised him too.
Tamami had weighed so little at birth that the elders decided he did not have the frame or constitution of a pahalwan. In the beginning his interests lay outside the akhara. Stray kittens were attracted to him by instinct, and pye-dogs followed him around. He spent his time painstakingly teaching fledgling parrots to mimic speech. And at school, neither birching nor the promise of reward could turn his attention to studies. Ustad Ramzi had given up his hopes for him, until at the age of seventeen Tamami developed an interest in the akhara. Ustad Ramzi told himself it was a passing fancy. Despite a certain fickleness that remained in his manner, Tamami persevered and his body filled out from the rigors of exercise.
Gulab Deen often came to the akhara and Tamami learned from him that the two exhibition bouts he had organized upcountry were well attended and the pahalwans paid good money. Things were not looking quite as bleak for the pahalwans because of Gulab Deen’s efforts.
One day a pahalwan named Sher Ali from upcountry accompanied Gulab Deen to Ustad Ramzi’s enclosure. Gulab Deen had been promoting him in exhibition bouts. Although young and not representative of any clan, Sher Ali was more experienced than many trainees from the two wrestling clans. After Tamami had sparred with the trainees Sher Ali entered the akhara.
Ustad Ramzi saw Tamami grapple with him for a few minutes. The thought occurred to him that Tamami had missed a few opportunities for takedown, before he realized that Tamami was deliberately prolonging their engagement. The trainees who had not understood it became restless wondering why Tamami was unable to bring down Sher Ali. Another few minutes passed before Tamami finally took down Sher Ali.
“What were you trying to show others? That Sher Ali is your match?” Ustad Ramzi said to Tamami after Gulab Deen had left.
“No Ustad… I was just trying to see what he knew.” Tamami smiled sheepishly.
“Don’t waste time playing with your opponents,” Ustad Ramzi said.
❖
When Gulab Deen called on Ustad Ramzi with a gift of fermented tobacco, he said, “Ustad Ramzi, I would like to do something for Tamami. He has not fought an exhibition bout since he started his training. You know it helps in promoting a pahalwan’s name.”
Ustad Ramzi stared ahead at the trainees cleaning up the akhara.
“If you will give me permission I will organize an exhibition bout for Tamami.”
“With whom?” Ustad Ramzi turned to him. “With Sher Ali.”
“Sher Ali? The one who sparred with Tamami the other day?”
“Yes, Ustad,” Gulab Deen answered. “He is young and strong. You have seen him fight.”
Ustad Ramzi remained silent for a moment, then said, “Tamami is under preparation for something more important. Why don’t you organize a bout for one of the trainees? It would give them something to look forward to.”
“It will be a good opportunity for publicity, Ustad. If Tamami fights with Sher Ali, and it’s a tie, more people will come to watch him when…”
“A tie!” Ustad Ramzi ro
se angrily before Gulab Deen could finish. “You know well our clan never participated in fixed fights. Not even for exhibition bouts. Nor did we fight those who did. That was the only way to make sure nobody could ever claim a pahalwan from our clan won by prearrangement.”
“The money will pay for the trainees’ training…” Gulab Deen said.
“We don’t need the money! If one has the determination to be a pahalwan, he can build his constitution on a diet of just one almond a day.”
“Why don’t you discuss this with Tamami?”
“I know his answer. He will refuse,” Ustad Ramzi said.
Suddenly a suspicion entered his mind.
“Did you speak to Tamami about it?” he asked.
“He asked me to talk to you first,” Gulab Deen replied.
What the promoter said made it clear that Tamami had an understanding with Gulab Deen.
That Tamami should fall so low as to agree to a fixed fight enraged Ustad Ramzi. He felt vexed at him also because it was his prerogative alone to discuss all issues related to Tamami’s bouts with others. He was furious at Gulab Deen’s temerity in approaching him with an offer for a fixed fight for Tamami.
Ustad Ramzi told the promoter that he would give him an answer in a few days.
❖
The next morning Tamami was turning the akhara clay when Ustad Ramzi came out of his room. Most of the spectators had left, but the trainees were present. Tamami noticed the frown on Ustad Ramzi’s face and felt a vague unease. He had been wondering what Ustad Ramzi would decide about the exhibition bout. Gulab Deen had not disclosed his plans, but he had advised him on several occasions not to overwhelm his opponents too quickly. He explained that people felt encouraged to come to bouts when they expected to witness a drawn-out fight; that he always made this a condition for the exhibition bouts organized by him upcountry. He knew it went against the spirit and tradition of the art, which aimed at defeating the opponent in the shortest possible time, but in the absence of any patrons and benefactors it was the only way to keep people’s interest alive in wrestling bouts and provide a livelihood for the pahalwans.
Between Clay and Dust Page 5
