The Great War

by Rakhshanda Jalil

  The back of love is against the world

  Who will ride on it, who knows?

  That is why my devotional songs about beauty and virtue come to a full stop at this point. Perhaps, by this time you are astonished, listening to my rant. Perhaps you are also getting angry as you normally do. No? You should. This is my nature. I speak so much rubbish that people not only get irritated but would like to beat me up.

  Forget about all that rubbish. What was I saying? The peaceful sky of the morning has made me very restless today. On top of that, our kind bugler, Mr. Gupichandra, played No Parade — that is, there will be no parade today. It is natural that suddenly getting all this free time has made my restless heart open up like the sky. That is why I gave Gupi all my blessings with my four hands and feet. Do you want to hear the blessing I gave him? ‘Ashirbadong shiroshchhedong bongshonashong ashtangey dhabol kushtong purey morong.’3 Intimidated by this terrible blessing, Gupi threw down his bugle and fled. We are really enjoying ourselves.

  We also used to enjoy ourselves like this when our school closed during the rains. The boys would shout and play in front of the school and splash in the puddles on the road before running back to their hostel. There they would go to the hostel superintendent and demand that on such a rainy day, they be given bhuna khichri and

  korma.4 They would expound on the benefits of bhuna khichri and korma. Then they would laugh for the fun of it. Ah, how happy those days were! Those happy days that will never return, no matter what price we are willing to pay! It is only when our school days are over that we realise that there are no days as happy as our school days. And the sweet pain of the memory of those happy days manifests itself during one’s unhappy existence.

  From early morning in the room next to mine, a fountain of songs has started to spout. People are singing all the Megh Malhar, monsoon songs that they know. Someone is singing like an ustad, ‘Aaj badari barikhare jhamjham.’(Today the rain is pouring down heavily.) Someone else sings in a classical manner: ‘Bondhu, emon badari dine tumi kothaye?’ (My friend, where are you on this rainy day?) In this upside-down world, it is raining in Magh. And though it is quite clear that it isn’t Bhadra, but Magh, late January, still someone sings, ‘E bhara bada rmah bhadar, shunya mandir mor.’ (The sky is covered with rainclouds in this month of Bhadra and my temple is empty.) After everyone finishes, Havildar Pandey starts singing, ‘Heriye shyamla ghono nil gagane, sajal kajal ankhi parila mone.’ (Seeing the deep blue sky, I remember those moist, kohl-lined eyes.) The song seems to touch some hidden pain in me. Whether Havildar sahab does have someone with dark, kohl-lined eyes or whether the dark clouds inspired him to remember a pair of dark eyes, I do not know. However, it seems that the sad notes of this monsoon music reflect my own hidden pain.

  Seeing the deep blue sky

  I remember those moist, kohl-lined eyes

  Steeped in tenderness

  Drawn in pain

  Gazing silently

  At the time of parting

  Seeing the deep blue sky.

  The rain falls in torrents, the lightning flashes

  The wind whirls its mad song through the forest

  Within my soul

  Somewhere a pain arises

  Whose thought rings out

  In the corner of my heart

  Seeing the deep blue sky.

  The singing continues. A couple of those present pound on whatever they can get hold of — table, book, bed — to keep time with the music. Some of them are betal ponchobingshati,5 blissfully out of tune. And then a couple of soldiers, intoxicated by the music, sing in Golap Ray’s manner, ‘Dada gayi dekse, goru tar kidekhbo; dekh Thakurdada’r biye, dhuchni mathaye diye; dada re paetgelo re, sha... tor ki holo re?’ (Come, elder brother, come, look at the cow. Why should I look at your cow? Grandfather is getting married, a straw hat on his head. O father, I am hungry. Ras…6 What is the matter with you?) As they sing, they gesticulate wildly with their heads, hands, feet, faces. There are cries of ‘Encore please, again please,’ and the song is repeated a couple of times. Then, just when Samar’s head receives a blow, a loud cry rises above all the different voices: ‘De gorun ga dhuiye.’ (Wash down the cow.7 Let your son’s father die, brother. If you die, your father will die.) Immediately, the legs shod in boots and wrapped in putties start a mad dance. Despite the song losing much of its sweetness, it seems this is another form of student life. Pure joy dances here all the time. The laughter on the faces of those who will die tomorrow is unmixed with sadness or pity.

  My ears still ring with the song.

  I remember those eyes

  Steeped in tenderness

  Drawn in pain

  Gazing silently

  At the time of parting.

  That is why somewhere in my soul grief rises, and thoughts of someone ring in the corner of my heart.

  Sitting in my lonely room, I wonder whose noble message resonates in this restless tune so that like me, the thoughts of hundreds of unfortunates and their heartfelt pain quicken and take shape before our eyes? My dear, who is that great poet whose couple of ink-scratched words have the power to arouse hidden pain into consciousness? The poet who draws out from the forgotten recesses of one’s memory the sad recollection of one’s beloved, which falls upon the layers of one’s heart and writes it out in words of fire? The poet who makes new and fresh the half-forgotten, half-remembered, old embarrassed love mixed with passion and anger? Who is he, my dear? Let his noble message stamp itself on the world. Let the notes of his music overflow the entire universe. At his feet, a million obeisances!8

  The silent memory of the time of parting shook my heart so violently that my eyes grew wet with tears. Bhai Monu, the cruel memory of the past has made me sad. Perhaps the rain will again fall in torrents. There is no place large enough to contain this sky-shattering rain.

  Dark clouds come from behind the hills9 and cover the entire sky. I cannot see the paper any more, everything has become hazy. Yes, now I must finish the letter. After singing for some time in the morning, I feel much lighter now.

  The letter has become a little too long. What can I do? Whenever I sit to write, I only wish to write frankly all the thoughts of my heart that I would hesitate to utter aloud. But can I say everything? Everything of me is in shadows. My life itself is steeped in haziness.

  Last evening I wrote a letter to Robiul. I tried to provoke him quite a bit. I cannot reciprocate the whole-hearted friendship that Robiul demands of me. I do not know why, but truly I feel a humble veneration for him. Still, because I feel he might be hurt, I exchange letters like a friend with him. Do you know what the truth is? He is somewhat like a murabbi, an elder. He is reserved in speech and manner and has become a complete family man. Thin-skinned people like me do not get along with people like that. But when the two of us studied at Bankura Collegiate School,10 things were not like this.

  However, the man has one virtue — he is extremely straightforward. If Robiul had not been there, perhaps the current of my life would have flowed in some unknown, different direction. Robu looks upon me as a bosom friend and loving brother — I have not received such beautiful affection from anyone other than Robiul.

  Even though I have no one of my own in the world, when I think of Robiul’s family, it seems as if I have everyone — brother, sister, mother.

  When I think of Robiul’s loving and honoured mother, the wound of the loss of my mother throbs afresh. I am very ungrateful, no? Very, very, ungrateful.

  I must end now, Bhai — I am feeling very depressed.

  Your unfortunate,

  Nurul Huda

  Nurul Huda’s letter to Bhabhi Saheba (Rabeya)11

  Karachi Cantonment

  15 February (Afternoon)

  Bhabi Saheba,

  A million salaams. Received your letter. I don’t have the time or the inclination to understand everything and then reply to you. Later, if I do get the time and feel like it, I may, after much introspection, reply to all
your allegations. However, I must tell you all not to hurt me in this manner again. All humans have weaknesses but only now do I understand that revealing them is itself a great weakness. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been hurt so much. You do have the right to inflict such hurt and I have the responsibility to endure the same, but alas, I do not have the strength. This you should have known. Do forgive my harsh response by trying to appreciate my state of mind.

  You see, people tend to alleviate pain by applying pressure on the spot that hurts. Similar is the pain that resides deep in one’s heart. So, knowingly or unknowingly, if someone touches the tender spot, it gives an inebriated pain — from which one cannot dissociate oneself — and one loses the resolve to avoid it, so vicious is this temptation. I dare say though the pain inflicted by you is pleasurable — to me it is heartless and intolerable. It will surely lead to my ruin. Succumbing just a little to this temptation will cause me to drift like debris on the waves of the river Padma — how devastating! A chill runs down my spine. I beg of you, please do not agitate me in this manner. Knowing the very roots of my painful weaknesses, do not plunge your butcher’s knife on that very spot. Save me — free me from the bonds of your love. The very weaknesses that I have myself revealed thrash about in my restless breast as if whipped by the executioner’s cat-o’-nine-tails. As I write this letter, my whole body convulses in rage. I don’t think there is another stupid fool like me in this whole world.

  Orders for our mobilisation have been issued. All around preparations are afoot. Very soon, we cross the Arabian Sea and jump into the fires of Mesopotamia,12 so my joy knows no bounds. I pray for fire, only fire all around, inside my being and outside it.

  I pray that I may be engulfed by that inferno as the fire in my heart rages in its own maelstrom, to see which fire devours the other in the conflagration. I feel like beheading all human beings and drinking their blood. Maybe that will slake my insatiable blood lust. Why, oh why, do I have such a rage against all humanity? What have human beings done to me? I just can’t say. If they are not my enemies, why do I have this burning desire to drink their blood? How strange, when the slightest grief of these very people causes my heart to cry out in pain like a parched desert. Why does such rage reside in my heart? Alas, no one knows. This madness has no right to exist. You will not understand this pain, Bhabi Saheba, you will not understand the hustle and bustle, the restlessness. Nevertheless, I write quickly whatever I can. Read the letter twice or thrice and try to understand what I am saying.

  You have written about Mahbuba. That’s a long story. The time hasn’t yet come to reveal everything. But this much I must say: I enjoy killing people by hurting them. The cruel rage of mine is not against humans but against their Creator. Whoever this Powerful Creator is, I can never forgive Him — never. The Almighty, the All-Powerful, the Omnipotent does not have the power to shackle me even if He burnt me in hell a hundred thousand times over. I have the power to devour His sun, His earth with my minuscule power. Why should I fear Him then?

  You will call me Satan, will be astonished at my audacity — so be it! Let the whole world address me as The Devil Incarnate — little will that temper my rage. Indeed, I get real joy. Ah! I who do not fear the Creator, why should I fear humanity and hide the truth that resides in my heart? Am I that small, that insignificant, that despicable? I will not let my heart be untruthful. Yes, what was I saying? I am a traitor — a hangman! To entice the doe by playing the flute and then slaying her by plunging a poisoned sword in her heart or shooting a poisoned arrow — that gives me pleasure. Oh what joy, Bhabi Saheba, what joy in this slaughter! My hands, feet, breast are strengthened like rolling thunder.

  What intoxicates me with rage and the same time what endless wailing from time immemorial rents my heart asunder — like unfathomable confusion! I don’t have the strength to write anymore! Goodbye.

  The Devil Incarnate,

  Nurul Huda

  Nurul Huda’s Letter to Shahoshika13

  Baghdad

  23rd Chaitra

  Shahoshika Di,

  I take the dust of your feet upon my forehead. Perhaps this is my last letter. But it took me a year to write it. Have you ever seen a flower that has, petrified, turned to stone? But I have… But never mind. I have not come to talk about those matters. I have some news to give you, so let me do so. It is not that I have no free time. In fact, I do. The free time I have now is more than I need or want. And perhaps so much of it has collected that I feel too miserly to use it. Now I think that instead of wasting my time writing letters, I should sit and think about my past. There is greater satisfaction in diving into the sea of recollections about you all. Those who once were human beings have, in my temple of meditation, turned into deities. They only accept adoration. They do not talk, they are silent. Lest they disturb my meditation, I have turned my deities to stone — deities of white marble formed of my frozen tears.

  What terrible events took place this year! Not just in my life, but in all creation. After the great churning, creation is lifeless, unmoving, soundless. It is as if it has opened its account book and is checking its profits and losses. The red ink of debts is overwhelming the green ink of credits.

  That war14 is ending. The armistice15 is here. It is as if after the Great Flood, Father Noah is sitting in meditation, with all creation awaiting eagerly at his door. All it is asking for is the boon to turn its sorrow, weariness and shame into a flower. Wealth, wine, women have come as beggars to the door of the beggar’s hut. This scene is unique, strange, isn’t it, Didi?

  This year of mine has passed in the deserts of Iraq, on the banks of the Euphrates, at the feet of the arid, death-dealing mountains. It’s not that if I had wanted to, I could not have written letters. I didn’t write deliberately. This whole year I was terrified that I would get someone’s letter. It’s not that it didn’t come. And all those letters from you all! Even today I haven’t read many of them. I myself do not know why I am so weak. I was afraid that bad news and curses were hidden in them. But I didn’t throw the letters away. I thought that one day, when my mind is calm and at peace and when no outside news could have the power to upset me, only then — when I had that faith in myself — would I open the letters.

  I do not see the need to open any more letters than the ones that I have read so far. I know all that I need to know from what I have read. It seems that the accounts of my friends and acquaintances are complete. For the time being, my buying and selling are over.

  Achcha, Shahoshika Di, aren’t men a little more short-sighted than women? It appears each of them is short-sighted.16 Without an extra eye, they cannot see things close by. But they can see things far away. I saw Sophie — even closer than Mahbuba — but I didn’t notice the buds of grief hidden inside the leaves until I came away these thousand miles. This long-sightedness has become a curse for me.

  Today when I search deep within myself, I start with fear and amazement. I think someone is watching me. All my life I firmly believed that only one person’s face was reflected in my heart. When I saw someone else’s face reflected there, shattering my being, even though far away, I grew still in fear, wonder, grief. I kept thinking that this time without a cataclysm nothing would take place. If two suns ever rose in the sky, something terrible would happen. I am sure of this even though it is not written in an almanac.

  That cataclysm has perhaps come in my life, Shahoshika Di. One sun gives light, but two sons fight. My heart is aflame — that is why to destroy poison with poison I have come to this scorching desert. I thought that I would come to this burned-out land to get peace. Today, in the furnace of my heart, I am trying to do penance for my sins. Pray that I am not unsuccessful.

  I will not write any more letters, to no one, not even to you. And do not look for me. Imagine that for two days you saw something unlucky like a comet17 and cared for it, loved it. Today it appeared suddenly and disappeared suddenly. It is impossible to see it again. But if comets follow certain laws of the univers
e, then I will appear again, even though you might not want to see me again.

  I have heard that Sophie has married, but that immediately after her wedding, she fell very ill, so ill that she might not survive. You know the news better than I do. I have received another piece of terrible news. The unfortunate Mahbuba has become a widow. Her old husband has passed away. Mahbuba wrote the letter herself. She wrote that she had become the owner of the entire zamindari. She is no longer interested in material matters. She will soon travel to holy places, to Makkah and Madina. She has also written that she might even come to Baghdad. I have not told her not to. I am no longer afraid of her.

  The Mahbuba who rejected my love with both her hands lest my future prospects be destroyed herself thrust me into the jaws of death. If I am afraid of her today, I will never be free in this life or the hereafter, Shahoshika Di.

  Our battalion will be returning. Soon all of my brothers will be going back home. But I will not be returning.

  I have signed up for another three years in the army. Even if I wished to, I could not return during these three years.

  Another scene of the drama of my unfettered life has been staged. What is in store for me in the future only the mad Nataraja of my life knows!