by Saurav Jha
The bitterness in me begins to abate. In the clear pool within myself, I can see the reflection of his face. Not as it is now: for now it is greyer, thicker at the edges, marked with tired lines, dark circles under the eyes. But as it used to be when he was nineteen and we had first met and he filled my head with ideas. In the curious light of memory, I can see the seasons recede until it is the light of late September in Calcutta, eight years ago, and the clunking sound of trams linking with overhead cables fills College Street. Another time, perhaps, we shall get to know the golden fort; we shall return in that future, older, greyer, only to remember how we had been so afraid of time and its consequences when we were still young and foolish and full of love.
A quarter of an hour later, the British gentleman will be heard reporting to his wife, ‘And – she’s back.’
Afterwards, we will walk through sun-dappled streets. We will climb up to a rooftop restaurant and even at this curious hour – after lunch, before tea – the friendly waiters will agree to serve us. We shall sit in the terrace that affords stunning views. We shall wait for the food, eyes riveted on the glorious golden fort perched on Trikuta Parvat; tiny windows and latticed balconies jutting out from a height. The sunlight, already texturally transformed by the sandstone walls and pillars it has encountered on the way, will fall on the burnished copper urns kept on ledges and decorative tables in the corner, and bounce off in a honey haze. We will link our fingers under the table. A hundred pigeons shall mill on the ramparts of the fort, grey fluffy balls pecking at grains, and behind the fort, the blue sky will begin to mirror the white of their breasts in larger and larger patches. One hour later, appetites sated, chins apologetic, we shall walk the streets again as the sun dips west. We shall laugh about the names of hotels: Laughing Camel Inn, Mr Desert Hotel. At Gadi Sagar, which Motty and Zvika had recommended heavily, we shall line up to hire a boat. Since the camel safari is off, S will allow the boating. That’s where we will run into the couple.
24
We had met Yam Shaham and Tally Prozanski in a tea shop at the bottom of Ratnagiri in Pushkar. We’d chatted with them for a few minutes. Yam was busy taking pictures of the owner of the tea shop. The old man, after posing, instructed him to email the snaps to his son. The tea was milky and very sweet, and in the late blue of dusk, it had felt very travellery to sit in the dhaba and talk to other backpackers.
Tally reminded me a little of my friend Zarine from university. Tally was thin and chic, loose-limbed in the hippie clothes she preferred. She gave off the air of someone trying things out. Unravelling, if temporarily, the skein of her privileged upbringing through this whole India tour of cheap hotels and ganja shared with dirty strangers, long winding bus journeys and people with funny English. (In Zar’s case, her posh bungalow in south Bombay and holidays abroad had given her a certain sureness in her skin, something we admired but never could get our pulse on exactly. The rest of us had all been twenty and awkward. But Zar strived to override this cloud of privilege in the shabby hostels where we lived, with their shared loos and fixed hours for water, where a few girls washed clothes obsessively and hung them in the corridors to dry.) In an impetuous moment, Tally Prozanski and I had exchanged email IDs. We’d even sent one-liners to each other – ‘It was nice meeting you, hope you have a lovely trip,’ stuff like that. Yam Shaham, her companion, was tall, muscular, and sported the Israeli army shaved head. He had a bit of a mysterious salt-of-the-earth thing about him. He hadn’t cared much for our conversation in the tea shop, the questions posed either way – on their Israeli armed service and the nature of our English. And now, several days later, S has spotted them from far away; even before we have neared the shore.
Gadi Sagar is a stately tank surrounded by small temples and shrines, and it used to supply water to the fort. It is a sparkling blue bed of water with horizontal striations of glitter. The sky above is mostly blue too, though in the western corner a handful of red vermilion seems to have been carelessly strewn. But it is the sandstone structure in the middle of the lake, the small neat observation post perhaps, now golden in the fading light, which ultimately makes it so charming. There are many people around, both locals and tourists and the flavour is that of a mela.
Finally, I am able to see Yam and Tally. Tally is sitting on a stony ledge that looks over the water. Next to her is an old man in a pink pagri and a bunch of kids. Once again, her bearing, her warm open restraint, reminds me of Zar. She is humouring everyone; smiling at the old man and allowing the kids to play with her shawl; but the core of her is elsewhere. Yam stands next to her but he is facing the lake. He’s taking photographs. We walk towards them. And after a moment, because that is what it takes for our faces to separate from the sea of brown Indian faces that have surrounded them all these months, to become familiar, they come forward. Yam is surprisingly chatty today. ‘You know,’ he says, after the initial pleasantries, ‘old people everywhere are just the same. In Israel, we have people of my grandfather’s generation. Always complaining how everything has become worse. This old man too has been saying the same thing. Everything was fantastic in the past. Everything sucks now.’ He indicates the old man in the pink pagri who is now looking mournfully at the water. A bunch of people are clustered in a corner. They are feeding the fish there, where the water is brown and laps against the shore and the fish perform cutely, slapping their tails and bobbing up and down. ‘Broken English goes a long way.’ Tally laughs. ‘Many deep meaningful things can be said.’
There is, of course, another problem here, and she tells us as we walk. The frank male gaze she has to bear. Something sticks in my eye and I begin to rub it. The children always ask her if they can touch her. Not the men. They never ask. But there it is – the unnecessary handshake, the casual hug, the clammy skin forced upon her whiteness, which is seen as licence. We stop walking. ‘But hey,’ Tally says, ‘I am a big girl.’ She can take care of herself, she says. She understands the context. It makes us blush, apologize. But Tally and Yam now suggest the lake.
We stand in the queue for boats and get tickets. It’s the second time this afternoon for them. We rent small paddle boats shaped like swans; and the first ten minutes are great fun. S paddles away happily and I take pictures. We sluice through the water and there is the shadow of fish glimmering below. There are races with Yam and Tally’s boat; improvised games as the boys try to ram the boats into each other’s and I stow my camera safely in the bag, away from the cool spray that rains on my face. Then both boats get stuck in the shallows, though some distance away from each other. All around us is the blue lake. The sandstone structure close by, now catching the red sun. Hundreds of pigeons suddenly take flight; the simultaneous flutter of their wings detonating on the ground – and for an instant we are blindsided and our boat rocks. Before the rescue boats arrive, there are several minutes when it is just us and the red sky and the blue lake and the birds.
Afterwards, we walk through the lanes inside the fort, and in the post-fight phase of extra courtesy towards each other, we buy a book each from a quirky bookshop run by an old gentleman who had walked from Karachi during Partition. He tells us how the Ahmedabad–Hyderabad (Pakistan) rail link undercut the importance of Jaisalmer. I cannot remember which book S got for himself but I do remember the memorable first line of the novel I bought: ‘My mother told me I would cut off my nose to spite my face, and when I was thirty-three, to prove it she died.’
We enter a restaurant– just to check out the prices – but then we see Yam and Tally there, again, and we go straight to their table. They see us and scooch over. I sit next to Yam, S joins Tally. ‘Children,’ I say, ‘I think we are meant to spend this evening together, so let us not fight it.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ replies Tally, and offers me her plate of spaghetti. I eat a forkful and order a cup of cinnamon coffee. She looks at the books we’ve bought.
The restaurant is owned by the Bhatias, a Marwari couple who have Australi
an citizenship. Something like that. There is a map of Australia hung over the counter. There is a large sign that says: ‘This Restaurant Is Run by a Permanent Resident of Australia’. They come and chat with us intermittently. The subject is mostly the many splendours of Sydney. In between, when the Bhatias leave us, we talk about our lives and travels.
My hunch about Tally is correct. Her parents are both doctors and she’s grown up in the capital. She went to a posh school, at university she studied graphic design, and these days she speaks to her parents once a week. ‘Do you need money?’ is the first question they ask. ‘Are you doing drugs?’ That’s the second. Like Indian parents, they do not want to know too many details though – lest they hear something they cannot file away in a proper folder. Yam Shaham’s grandfather had fled to Israel from Transylvania, with only his wife and the clothes on his back.
‘We have seen him in the sunlight, so I suppose it’s okay,’ S says seriously, nodding at me.
‘That’s what I checked when I met him first!’ Tally squeals in mirth. ‘Those days I used to keep garlic in my purse.’
‘Ha. Ha. Very funny. Very funny,’ says Yam good-naturedly. ‘See, that’s the only thing I know about my original homeland,’ he adds, shrugging. ‘Dracula!’
The grandfather had held down three different jobs and worked like a maniac to build himself a new life. It was the phase of hungry nationalism in Israel. Jews from across the world had gathered there, most getting away from persecution of one sort or another. (It was only while travelling here that Yam learnt how India is possibly the only country in the world where Jews have never faced discrimination.) In the Israel of Yam’s grandfather’s time, there were North African Jews who looked black, Bene Israelis who looked brown, and Kaifeng Jews who were yellow. Yam’s grandfather joked that had he not been married before his escape, he’d have made a colourful marriage. With the stories of the Holocaust branded into them and their own individual exile stories recounted again and again, it was a generation of warriors masquerading as men. A direct parallel to this is perhaps post-Partition India, when traders from western Punjab flocked into Delhi, having lost everything they had, and started from scratch to build large business empires that, post-liberalization, have put their owners in a different league of wealth altogether.
And yet, though there is the overarching theme of pushy innovative entrepreneurship in the context of Israel, there has also been the kibbutz. A unique institution that offered an alternative model to society, providing possibilities outside the world of commerce. Thus, while it is likely that Yam’s grandfather might still have understood the life his son chose – Yam’s parents lived in a commune where work and property occupied a strange grey zone – one doubts if he would have understood the life Yam has chosen for himself. He still lives in the same place he grew up in, though the commune is no longer current. The land was divided up between the original members and so there is a small house he now owns. Yam never went to university. He studies at his own pace, he does a lot of manual work at minimum wages, and he has a large number of Arab friends. Labourers, with whom he’s shared countless smokes and sorrows. He has seen their poverty up close. That has made him dubious about Israel’s politics, its king-sized nationalism. Yam is Israeli alright but distances himself from Zionism. He has made his peace with the violent history of his people.
‘Both of you did army service though?’
‘Oh yes,’ Yam says, laughing. ‘Long ago. We are not that young.’
‘Is there no way to get out of it?’ I ask, persisting.
Tally thinks for a moment. ‘See, there are some who go abroad immediately after school. The understanding is that they won’t come back to Israel ever. If there are valid medical grounds, psychiatric reasons maybe, one can get out of the army. But for the rest of your life you will have to explain to employers why you did not get drafted. Not good for the CV. But though I have been in the army, later on, when I was in university in Tel Aviv, I went to peace marches and signed petitions.’
I smile as I remember my phase of peace marches in college.
‘What were you marching about?’ S asked. ‘Nuclear weapons?’
‘I seem that type, no?’ She laughs. Then she looks earnest again. ‘We were mostly protesting inequality. The state of Arab Muslims in Israel is, how shall I say, not very worthy. They are not given access to many kinds of jobs. It is humiliating.’
‘Access to white-collar jobs you mean?’
‘That’s right. That’s not the only form of inequality though.’
‘Aren’t they 15–16 per cent of the population?’
‘Yes, and that too is a big concern with many Israelis. They are afraid Israel will get swamped by Arabs. Arab women have three or four children each while the Jews maybe have one or two.’
‘Jewish women, very clever,’ Yam says. ‘Unless you make at least 7,000 shekels per month, they won’t marry you or have your kids!’
‘Yam,’ says Tally, looking at me, ‘is full of shit. But what I was saying is that the fertility rates of Bedouins in the Negev and Sinai are very high. So I actually know of some Jewish groups who are actively converting them to Judaism.’
It is around ten-thirty and the Bhatias are getting antsy. The clatter of utensils from the kitchen is getting louder by the minute. The restaurant has cleared out, and the cheque has been lying on our table awhile. We get up and, after one or two final anecdotes about the beauty and nobility of Australia, we are allowed to collect our change, leave a tip, and walk back to our room where dessert awaits.
The orange walls of our room hold the light in a way that makes it seem expensive and warm. The dessert is unveiled – it draws claps of delight from Tally – and divided up. (For some reason, during the fight, when we were both starving, neither of us had remembered the gateaux.) And then, over the next few hours, we eat the chocolate bombs and trade stories. They are narrated, like stories are told at night, with breaks and corrections and liberal doses of drama. Half a story here, then some personal anecdote, a bit of ‘we-are-not-a-couple-but’ on the part of Yam and Tally, and then the rest of someone else’s story. At one point, S insists on checking three facts on the laptop since his story is packed with historical detail. Yam demands a personal mystical story and suddenly my mind draws a blank, so I root around my in childhood closet and tell him the one story that my mother would tell me, and every time she finished, her eyes would be bright with tears. It is impossible to recreate that conversation or the effulgence of that night here. I am not even going to try. What I am going to do is simply tell the four stories here.
Saurav’s Story or How Jaisalmer Was Sacked
Two-and-a-half Times
The first part of the story goes back to ad 1294, when Rawal Jethsi was on the gaddi of Jaisalmer, and Alauddin Khilji reigned in Delhi. Jethsi’s brave sons heard rumours of a great treasure caravan passing via Bakhar, 1,500 horses and 1,500 mules, laden with valuables. This was actually the tribute of Tatta and Multan to Delhi, but en route, the sons of Jethsi ambushed the convoy and made off with the treasure. Alauddin Khilji was furious at this and his army marched upon Jaisalmer. When Rawal Jethsi heard that the army from Delhi was camping at Anasagar, Ajmer, he sent the children, elderly and sick, together with some troops to a safe haven deep inside the desert and applied a scorched earth policy to the countryside surrounding Jaisalmer. All the small towns were laid barren. The Rawal, with his two elder sons and 5,000 warriors remained inside the fort to defend it from inside, while his grandson Deoraj and great-grandson Hamir, a mighty warrior, led an army that would deal with the attackers outside. The sultan, meanwhile, remained in Ajmer and sent a great force of Khorasanis and Kuraishes in steel armour, who, according to the bards of Jaisalmer, ‘rolled on like the clouds in Bhadon’. A fierce battle ensued. There were casualties on both sides.
The siege of Jaisalmer lasted eight years.
During this
time, Ratansi, the younger son of Rawal Jethsi, formed a friendship with one of the prime leaders of the adversaries, Nawab Mahbub Khan. Every day at dusk, they would meet under a khejra tree, between the advanced posts, and play chess. Their heroic courtesy towards each other is the stuff of legends. After the death of Rawal Jethsi, Mulraj ascended the throne. Skirmishes escalated into a renewed attack, and this time, the besiegers had sufficient reinforcements at hand and were able to impose a complete blockade of the fort. The Bhattis, facing certain defeat, decided there was no alternative but to perform a sacrifice or sakha. The brave queens did not hesitate and gave instructions for a giant pyre to be prepared. Approximately 24,000 women took their lives, most on the pyre, while many embraced the sword. The brothers, having borne witness to this unimaginable horror, now prepared to die in battle. They bathed, prayed, gave gifts to the poor, wore the salgram around their necks, and along with 3,800 warriors awaited dawn when the sultan’s army would arrive.
Ratansi had two young boys, Gharsi and Kanar, the eldest not yet twelve. He wanted to protect them from the terrible fate of Jaisalmer and so he appealed to his courteous foe. Nawab Mahbub Khan sent two of his most trusted servants to receive the boys, in trust, and appointed two Brahmins to take care of them. (Many years later, the brave Gharsi would, through services rendered to Delhi, win a grant from the then sultan, as well as permission to re-establish Jaisalmer.)
In battle, every one of the Rajputs fought like a hero and every one of them embraced death at the hands of the enemy.
The royal garrison kept the fort for two years, after which they blocked up all the entrances and abandoned it. It remained in that state for several years until reclaimed by a Bhatti chief, Duda, who was later elected Rawal. Duda was aided by his brave brother Tilaski, who quickly extended the sway of Jaisalmer over its neighbours. It was Tilaski who carried off the prize steed of Sultan Ferozeshah from a camp in Ajmer, and this led to another disastrous attack on Jaisalmer. The siege led to the second sakha of the prophecy, the suicide of 16,000 women and the death of Rawal Duda and Tilaski, together with 1,700 warriors, only ten years after coming to power.
