The Truck to Bengal

The Truck to Bengal

By

Mariam Karim

(Published in the South Asian Review, USA)

     Nazrul crept into the makeshift shelter, bending his head low to avoid the clothes

hanging damply on the line in the small space. It was early dawn, and the smell of last night’s fish curry still lingered in the room. It made him feel he had come home. A cock crowed in the narrow lane, a dog’s sleepy bark turned into an apologetic yawn. Nazrul  lay down beside Yaseen, who slept heavily; he was about the same age as Nazrul, fourteen, only much taller and broader. He was also a master goldsmith. And all the boys were in awe of him. He could help them out with the most difficult pieces of jewelry.

   Nazrul was trembling despite the heat of the September morning. He was back, but he

was not home. A sudden hope had stirred in his breast when he had mounted the steps of

the rickety truck. Perhaps they would actually take him to the border of Bangladesh ...and

he would get to see his mother and sisters again, before he was brought back to India by

his employer’s men across the porous borders between the two countries.

     “Munna, Pappu, Raju, Pinky, Laloo!” A loud voce called.  The wake up call for many

nameless boys. They did not use their real names here…either false ones, or nicknames.

No one must know they were Muslims from Bangladesh.

   Not far from Sarraafa Bazaar, Meerut’s gold souk, the area famed for its delicate gold filigree work, the only of its kind  done in India…not far down a few narrow streets -- is one even narrower, from which  emanates the smell of fish : the Bangladeshi hideout. The Bangladeshi style of working gold is delicate, much in demand in the gold market, among the sophisticated as well as the bulk-buying Baniya community.

    Ravinder Sarraaf sat in his shop surrounded by clients. Fat men and women leaned

over the counters, contemplating necklaces, earrings, girdles, more for the shine than for

the workmanship, Ravinder knew. Ravinder knew many things, but they were things

which must never be spoken aloud. Could he tell the lady with the painted mouth

chewing betel nut that she had bad taste? No, he catered to bad taste. But he knew what

good taste was. He had studied the art of diamond-setting in France, and seen the

museum of Mycenaean jewelry in Athens.  But in these narrow streets where he had

grown up, where he would grow old, these thick, unwieldy rings and earlobe-wrecking

danglers must pass through his hands again and again, until he became inured to their

ugliness and like his clients saw only the size of the lumps of gold.

    For his discerning customers, however, he had a small upstairs sitting room…fine filigree work appeared there along with Coca Cola on silver trays…gold sets lying in blue and red velvet boxes encrusted with pearls and rubies and sapphires, intricate designs, lovingly drawn out from the same metal used to make the thick, rough patterns of the downstairs showroom…

    Ravinder kept many secrets in his heart, some open secrets, but which were never

uttered: one such secret was the narrow sloping lane with the clotheslines across it, the odour of fish frying in mustard oil, and of curries, perpetually winding itself about the lines, telling tales of another clime; the sounds of another tongue, boys calling to each other, laughing,  sometimes squabbling, teasing, in Bengali.

     The residents of the legal Bengali settlement at Durgabaari, (Abode of the Goddess)

would never visit this lane. No one would come to know of it, or if they did, by accident,

they would choose to forget it: Ravinder Sarraaf knew what he was doing. It was his

responsibility. Why interfere in his work? He was an honourable citizen. He was, in fact

so honourable, that he advocated a picture of the cow be printed on the inner cover of

every school text book—the cow, the mother, the symbol of Hinduism. So honourable,

that although his shop was near the “Chhatta”, the Hornets Nest, the hotbed of Muslim

fundamentalists, he could walk across it without fear. Most people cringed before the

arched stone gateway…they said cows were slaughtered here in household yards, and

their uneaten remains buried so no one would know. Every man emerging from there

with a beard and prayer cap was dangerous; every burqa clad woman slipping in or out

was suspect.  Every communal riot began and ended at the Chhatta.

      But a crease knit Ravinder’s brow as he sat with his fat clients, serving them fizzy drinks and laying out case after case of  trinkets for their perusal, for he had heard of

Nazrul’s disappearance. He was anxious. He had allowed the boy to go up to Noida, an

hour- and- a - half by bus from Meerut. The boy had an aunt in a village near the town, an

urban village. He normally visited her and returned the very next day. He was normally

discreet. Called himself Pappu, or by some Hindu name. Always came back on time.

    At this very moment, however, a crowd of boys was standing around the supine

Nazrul, all of them talking at the same time, asking questions but getting no answers.

Later, later, pleaded the boy. They left him, finally, for they had to get to work, in another

narrow lane not far from Ravinder’s showroom.  The boys passed through winding

streets where people performed their morning ablutions, spitting into the drains with loud

hawking noises. A small naked child defecated near a drunken beggar who was feeding a

dog.  A little girl of about five sat on her haunches scouring utensils outside her home.

She looked distractedly around, and hummed a film song as her tiny hands worked away

inside the metal pans. Every morning similar scenes greeted the boys’ eyes as they made

their way to their place of work.

    You might think there was nothing there, for in a low - ceilinged barrack smelling of sal ammoniac, borax and melting lac, hidden behind tarpaulins and plastic sheeting used as curtains to conceal them, worked at least thirty boys aged between twelve and eighteen, masters of their craft, makers of gold filigree work, the special designs of Bangladesh.

    Cleverly smuggled in across the borders by the sarraafs , the jewelers, the young

goldsmiths worked day and many a night in the crowded, airless  barrack, too hot in

summer and too cold in winter, motherless, familyless, without play or schooling, mouths

to their blowglasses,  for a monthly salary of four thousand rupees, which  was sent home

to their parents back in Bangladesh… and part of which was eaten up by the middlemen.

     When the other boys had gone, Nazrul drew a sheet over his eyes and lay still. He felt

as though he were still jolting along in the beating rain in the truck, the cold metal

banging against his thin back, the wails of the women ringing in his ears. Someone

singing Nazrulgeeti:  “Modhukor monjeero bajey”.  Nazrul’s mother had given him that

name after the great poet and writer of Bengal, Kazi Nazrul Islam.

       A terrible anguish raged through him, like a storm. What would he tell Chonda when

she returned? Could he ever face her again?  Would Maashimaa and her husband be able

to come back? They had given him their hundred-rupee note….perhaps it was the only

one they had…how would they have managed to eat during the arduous journey?

       It had been a perfectly routine visit to his aunt’s. He had done it before, a number of

times, in the past two years that he had been employed by the Indian jeweler. His aunt,

Maashima , as he called her ,was not really his aunt at all, but had been his  grandfather’s

neighbor in Khulna before they had left for India, driven by hunger and homelessness. Mashimaa’s family did not possess a talent or a craft, they were plain daily wagers, and

work was scarce. So was food. They left for India, paying off security on both sides with

whatever they had, concealing themselves by day and traveling by night under false

names. It wasn’t that difficult, they had to go into West Bengal, and they would speak in

Bengali, which is almost the same on either side of the border.  After that the passage to

Delhi was exhausting, but safe.

      Nazrul had, of course been brought by the jewelers’ middlemen, quite boldly, with

the other boys, with false papers in case of detection. Their families had been given an

advance, and money was sent to them regularly. It wasn’t such a bad deal after all. They

would have had to work anywhere, for they had to practice their trade, and getting to

Dhaka and finding a place for oneself in the jewelry market was not an easy task. Hiding

wasn’t such fun, though. Living under false names, pretending they had family in West

Bengal, pretending to be Hindus so that they could remain unnoticed, all of it took a toll.

Eid came and went, and they celebrated quietly while the others in Meerut rejoiced openly, lighting up their homes and streets with little electric lamps, going to the mosque

in spotless white dresses with their families, while the little lost boys of Neverneverland

looked on, depending for happiness on the gifts given to them by Ravinder, and the

sweetmeats made by the few women who inhabited their settlement.

   

    

Yes, it had been an ordinary visit to Maashimaa’s in the village.

     It was a balmy September morning, and when he awoke he could see Chonda, the young wife of the neighbour, hanging clothes out to dry on the terrace. She saw him looking at her and smiled warmly. Her hair was billowing in the wind and her round, smooth face was full of sleep and gentleness. Her teeth were perfect when she smiled. Nazrul had a bit of a crush on her. She would sometimes come for a chat when Nazrul was there. She was more his age than her husband’s who must have been in his late twenties. They would play Ludo or Snakes and Ladders, and she would laugh at Nazrul’s  rough Bangladeshi accent. She was from West Bengal, and her language was more refined, she insisted.

       It was about five in the morning. Maashimaa had made him some kheer with milk she had bought specially. Maashimaa’s children were grown up and on their own.  She liked mothering Nazrul when he came to visit. The neighbours made much of him too, because they liked Maashimaa. There were many Bengalis, both from India and Bangladesh, both Hindu and Muslim, living in that area, in rented rooms around small yards, some cemented; the bathrooms and toilets had to be shared by several families, but the water supply was uninterrupted, so it wasn’t difficult. The terraces were open and a good place to dry clothes, to sun pickles, red chillis, lentils, fish. The poorer refugees lived with other poor in a hutment area down the Dadri highway, in makeshift homes of cardboard, discarded plywood and plastic.

    Nazrul was just sitting down to eat his kheer when the rumble of wheels, the revving of

engines, and the shouting of men broke the peace of the morning. Dust rose in the cool

morning sky as two trucks came down the dirt road towards the settlement. The residents

ran up to the terraces to look: there were policemen in a jeep and a few official looking

men in plain clothes and dark glasses, with long sheets of paper, looking very busy. The

policemen had thick sticks in their hands and they shouted out that the Bangladeshis had ten minutes to collect their belongings and get into the trucks—they were to be deported to Bangladesh.

    “They had said this would happen,” said Maashimaa, her voice trembling, “but so

soon!”

    Nazrul saw Chonda race wildly down the stairs –her husband Prokash was running a

high fever, she cried.

    “What should I do, Maashimaa? “ Nazrul asked, suddenly lost.

    “Run, Nazrul, run back to Meerut, and don’t tell anyone you real name!” she said.

“They will take us to the border, then let us go. We will make our way back. You run!”

    Nazrul put on his slippers and shot towards the only door of the yard, but as he stepped

out his arm was caught by a hefty policeman, who grimaced and waved his stick at him.

“Where are you going Bengali pup? Trying to get away? Get into that truck!” He pointed

to a truck that was filling quickly with Bengalis under the surveillance of the armed

policemen. A man sitting on a three legged stool with a list kept calling out names,

writing in others, yelling orders, abusing, and laughing mockingly from time to time.

      An old bent woman in a dirty white sari fought tooth and nail as they tried to shove

her into the truck.   “Ami Bangladeshi nai!” she cried over and over.  I am not a Bangladeshi. She said she was from Midnapore. “ Amar jaati Hindu!” I am a Hindu. But she had no papers to show them, they were with her son, she said.

   

     The men laughed. “Bhenchod Bangalis!” one of them said – sister-fucking Bengalis

what did it matter if they were from Bangladesh or not? Hindu or Muslim?  Who was to

tell?    They had to clear the area of refugees, and numbers were important. How many they had deported. They would be handsomely rewarded. Who had the time to check their credentials? Figures were all they needed. All Bengalis better go back to Bengal, this side or that side of the border did not matter to the North Indians.

      For more than an hour the mounting carried on. Babies cried, men fought and were

beaten, women cursed and wept alternately, the dust rose higher as the sun rose, dogs

barked, and there was no one to see, no one to help, no one to appeal to, as the two trucks

filled with human beings, as the sheets filled with names and numbers…..that would tell

how many refugees had been sent back from the National Capital Region, enough to

satisfy the rightist elite who insisted the Bangaldeshis  were eating into India’s funds, being firstly Muslims, then on top of that, Bengali! Whether they had come during or after the Partition was also immaterial to these people.

    Luckily for Nazrul , Maashimaa and her husband were bundled into the truck he was

in. Maashimaa clambered on, cursing the policemen roundly, cursing their children and

the children of their children. How would there be enough water for them all? How long

would it take? How would they eat? How would they attend to natures call?

    Chonda , too, came into their truck , supporting her sick husband . Nazrul saw her face

was streaked with tears. A policeman slapped her chubby bottoms as she mounted,

helping Prokash, who looked delirious. At this the bent woman in the white sari let out a

stream of invective at the policeman who laughed devilishly.

    At last the two trucks started out, sucking in dust off the track and spraying it liberally

over the occupants. The trucks were to take different routes. The policemen and the white

clad men with dark glasses were left behind. Some strongmen with lathis were to

accompany them to the border.  As the truck drew out onto the main highway, the wails

and cries suddenly stopped. A hush fell like a blanket over the occupants. All one could

hear was the roar and the beeping of the traffic on the highway. It was strange, but all the

people seemed to be looking inward, very far away… at this abrupt end to their

precariously constructed lives, their dreams, their hopes of a future. Their heads were

bowed before the injustice of it all. The ones who were actually Partition refugees had no

domicile certificates, and could be treated as infiltrators as well. And the infiltrators, too,

were human after all….and could not be treated like cattle.

         It began to drizzle, the last of the monsoon showers. The rain fell over the roof of    

the truck, and as the drops fell faster a drumming filled the truck, a familiar drumming,

that quieted everyone’s thoughts, and lulled them into a kind of stupor.

      From somewhere in that heap of crushed humanity a voice rose above the din of the

rain: “Modhukor monjeero bajey”.  A few weak voices joined in, among them that of

Nazrul, the boy named after the poet. What would the poet have said had he seen this

condition of his people? The poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, who had said at Albert Hall : "To

those who complain why I'm not like them: Does the nightingale's songs belong to

anyone? Can you call wild flowers your own? Just because I was born into a certain

community or society doesn't mean it owns me. I belong to the world and all its corners.

I'm a devotee of eternal radiance and because I can rise above petty communalism, I'm a

poet."

    The poet who had said :

“I sing the song of equality, in unison

Where all the differences and barriers are gone.

United where, the Hindus-Buddhist, Muslim-Christian

I sing the song of equality, in unison.”

       And the people in the truck sang too. The songs they sang appeased their outrage. As

did the rain, caressing away their pain. Where was equality? Where was unison? They

may belong to the world, they thought, but did any part of the world belong to them? The

motion of the truck, too, mollified their anger, changed it into a kind of acceptance.

      Only Chonda seemed distraught. Prokash’s fever had risen again. He moaned and

asked for water time and time again. On either side of the road were houses and shops,

and finally the truck stopped at a small teashop on the outskirts of a village, and they

were allowed to go one by one into the fields to relieve themselves, or to buy tea and

biscuits at the shop. The man with the stick who sat at the back with them took a few

hundred rupees off some of the men, and let them make off into the fields. Nazrul

watched terrified, as he huddled close to Maashimaa, who said they did not have the

money to buy their freedom. “We will return later,” she said bravely.

     The rain had stopped completely. Sundown seemed to come quickly, as they were

traveling eastwards, and the condition of Chonda’s husband worsened. They had laid him

out on the floor of the truck and the others made place for him to be comfortable. He had

refused all food and drink. He mumbled deliriously and called out for his mother. The old

bent woman put her hand on his brow and began to chant a mantra.  He was quiet for a

while, then began moaning again. He turned from side to side as the moving truck jolted

his fevered body.

     Nazrul looked at Chonda sitting so still beside the prostrate man, her eyes terrified, her

lips sucked inward in fear and anxiety. Was she the same happy girl he had always met,

played Ludo with? The same girl who laughed at his rough accent? She caught him

looking at her, and tears sprang into her eyes.

       There was another stop. The darkness was thick and insects called from the

surrounding fields. Tea went around. Prokash again refused to let anything but water

pass his lips.  The driver and the conductor-cum-guard were talking in whispers.  The

driver came around to take a look at Prokash. He shook his head.

     “We can’t take him any further. Let’s put him down here in the field. We can say one

died. But we can’t have his body on us. That would be too risky.” Chonda heard and let

out a terrible scream. One of the men caught her mouth and the other two pulled Prokash

out of the truck. The Bengalis in the truck tried to stop them, but they had a gun, and

knives. They put the sick man down by the side of the road, and the engines sprang back

to life. Chonda struggled and fought, but the men held her. Maashimaa undid a knot in

the loose end of her sari—she pulled out a hundred-rupee note from it  ,quickly put it into

Nazrul’s palm and closed his fingers over it. To the driver she said, “Wait, wait, I have to

go to the field! Have pity on an old woman”.  To Nazrul she whispered, “Jump out if you

can when I have gone. Don’t let them see you. Your uncle will hide you –he will stand in

front when you jump…try, try. Be silent. Go, save Prokash. Take him back. I know you

can do it. “

     The driver cursed, but let Maashimaa go. Her husband stood in front of Nazrul and the

slim, lithe child slipped out, unseen in the dark. He ran, concealed by the truck’s body,

towards the elephant grass growing just off the road.   He hid himself in the prickly grass

that cut his skin. He saw Maashimaa return to the truck, slowly, while the driver and the

guard both cursed her loudly. He waited in the grass – the engine revved and the vehicle

started with a groan. Soon it was far away, disappearing down the road into the distance,

two tiny red lights.

        Nazrul was trembling violently. He emerged from his hideout and set about looking

for Prokash—it was so dark he had to wait for a vehicle to pass to be able to see anything

at all---he finally found him by the headlights of a passing car, lying quite still, his eyes

closed, his hands folded over his chest, as if in prayer.    Nazrul felt for his pulse….

***

Learning

Why am I afraid?

When I see pictures of faraway lands I am afraid

that they will take me away from the familiar

already I have lost too many loves

when my heart needs love

more than it can give

then only the known is beautiful

and I know how those who

all their lives have needed more love

than they can give

are afraid.

Poems 6

Nebuchadnezzar was King

Of Mesopotamia

His talons grew

And he dreamed dreams of fallen empires

Those days when dreams were caught

And naked bound and questioned

With hot lights in their eyes like police cells

They were not allowed escape nor

Treated as vaporous falsehoods

And empty rainless cloud

Or were dreams respected and invited in like friends

Whose hands were held to lead the caravans across deserts

And across forests the elephants.

Dreams today make madness engulf the civil world

Ignored, scoffed, derided,

emerge in delirious forms

With gnarled hands and feet

Nocturnal beasts

With hairy arms

Creeping along the highways

Searching prey

Poems 5

Summer

When the coffee is brewed

Sometimes the fragrance is carried away by mischievous zephyrs

A great weight

Sits upon us

Like a monitor

In a suspended moment

Yellow eyes waiting to swiftly slide sideways

Crusty leaves in hot devils brew

Small twists of wind

Collapse

Into a fleeting lull

Summer approaches

Poems 4

Home

In a home

There must be recesses

into which one can withdraw

small places bearing not many things

but friendly things

like a mother’s kumkum box

or a stool where grandfather sits at times

or a tree peeping into a window

and when no one’s looking

I can be there

Haiti

Pompei, Bhuj, Tangdhar, Port au Prince
Not my turn yet, not yet.
The sun still shines across eclipses on my doorstep.

Echo, echo, rumbling, calling, 
Once more, one more, yet one more…
Civilization falling

Cry, cry, rising, 
Distant wordless sky
And we remain, 
Here, 
Only here, 
Under it all
Unheard, unable to hear
Crumbling, bit by bit. 

Short Story: I , Muzammil

                                                  I, Muzammil

Srinagar, September 1985


“Today is Friday, Muzammil.”
His mother stood in the doorway, her plump work worn hands tied across her large belly. “Must you go out even today?”

“My teacher said he would take an extra class for the weaker students, Mauji,” replied Muzammil. “He says it is more important for me to obtain my degree at least this year, and stand on my own feet, than go to the Dargah.”

His mother shook her head sadly. “There is little difference between a man who is too educated and a kaafir. Too much worldly knowledge makes you forget God.”


Muzammil could see from the corner of his eye, his sister Hameeda sitting in the next room, her eyes alight with anger. “Nyabarim!” she muttered ominously. An outsider. Muzammil said nothing, but looked down at his toe sticking out from beneath his summer pheran. Shehzada, the younger of the two girls, came out carrying a cup of tea and a bun on a tray. She put it down on the mat in front of her brother.


“The rice will be ready by the time you change your clothes,” she said to him.

“ No, “ said Muzammil, ” I have no hunger for batta this morning.” He took a sip of the salty red sheer chai and bit into the bun. He knew there would be only a little green haak with the rice and no meat. Better to leave it for Hameeda…she was always hungry these days, with the baby kicking lustily inside her.

Shehzada watched Muzammil through her unbecoming black rimmed spectacles as he donned his only jacket, a mousy brown one with collars that were too large, and stepped out into the cobbled street on both sides of which the drains were filled with refuse. Then she turned back into the front room that served as cellar for the coal and sawdust used in the bukhari during winter, and latched the large wooden door. She went over to where her sister sat knitting.

“See, now you made him lose his appetite!” she said crossly

“He should not get too close to outsiders.” Hameeda’s eyes smouldered again. “The time has come to weed them out and save Kashmir “

“At least he’s trying to do something, since Father is no more. For our sake, and you know that. What good is that Muqaddis of yours to you? He has left you with child and doesn’t even send any money.”

“He’s working too. It’s people like him who will liberate Kashmir, not boys like Muzammil. We, too, must make sacrifices for our land.”

“You talk like a man”, Shehzada looked at her sister with some contempt. ” What is our land? Tomorrow if you were to marry an outsider you would lose your State Subject-ship. To women, nothing belongs, not even our own bodies. Men own everything---they even make us think like them…in terms of frontiers…and bloodshed.”

“Your education, Shehzada, has done you, and us, great harm. Father made a mistake, sending you to Delhi. It would have been better to let you finish your degree here itself.”

“And remain short-sighted forever, like a frog in a well!”

“You are a traitor! You side with the nyabarim! You have no love for your country!”

“Because you say so? I can see that there are good and bad everywhere. I will not hate a man simply because he is a nyabarim. Neither do I believe bloodshed is the answer. Men are all the same—they kill each other for power and for land—then both will turn upon us, and our children, like hounds…”

“Shehzada!” their mother called anxiously from the kitchen. Shehzada rose immediately and went to her. “Shehzada, myon koor, daughter! Must you argue like this with your sister when she is in a delicate condition? You know her views, and Muqaddis’. Go and make up with her.”

The young girl went back to her sister, kneeled down and flung her arms about her. “Didi! I’m sorry! Don’t worry about anything. Things will go well for all of us.”

And the two sisters stood at the open window, arm in arm, apple-cheeked, silent, watching the tiny street behind the wall of the Jama Masjid get busier and busier.




Even Muzammil, who was not tall by any standard, had to duck his head to get through the little arched doorway that led to the outer compound of the Jama Masjid. It was early, but already the walled area of the mosque had become alive with the Friday traders putting up their stalls. Muzammil walked across it slowly. To his left the imposing pagoda-like structure with its green roofs and high spires rose up, indifferent, it seemed, to the fate of humans who strode about purposefully in their beige and green Pathan dresses. Muzammil glanced towards the stone doorway of the mosque, by force of habit, almost as if expecting a miracle to occur each time he passed by: he saw against the light a familiar figure.

Tohfeeq smiled warmly and moved toward him. “Assalaam-aleikum!” he said,
“Waar e? Khosh poeth? “

Muzammil returned the other youth’s greeting with as much warmth. He liked Tohfeeq. He was perhaps the only one who did not treat him for a dullard—maybe because he was above the pettiness found in most people—he was a poet.

“I have come here after many days,” said Tohfeeq in reply to the surprise on Muzammil’s face. “I do come from time to time. I stand in the inner courtyard… the sunlight on the roses gives me a feeling of peace and belonging.”

“Then you must come and see us too, your old friends?” said Muzammil

“But you’re off! I shall go see your mother and sisters.” Tohfeeq felt about in his breast pocket and took out a piece of paper. “See, Muzammil, I have written a new poem.”

“I shall read it on the bus.” Muzammil took it from him. The two friends embraced, and Muzammil began to walk towards the doorways leading out onto the main road. The bus stop was becoming very crowded. Several SRTC buses marked “Dargah” were getting ready to leave for Hazratbal.

“Rainwor’—Dargah! Rainwor’—Dargah!” screamed the conductors. Men, women and children clambered noisily into the buses, happily, for it was Friday, always a festive day. Muzammil felt a little out of place in his coat and trousers: everyone would know he was not going to pray at the Dargah. He was just pushing himself into a seat when he heard Tohfeeq’s voice close to him.

“ Muzammil!” Tohfeeq panted, “Wait! I’ll come with you a little distance!” They sat in the crush of chattering passengers, and Tohfeeq said he wanted Muzammil to read his poem. “It’s very important!” he said. Muzammil unfolded the piece of paper he still clutched in his hand. He began to read it aloud:

A Cool, Clear Day in Kashmir

If I            could only                    touch
that f              athomless depth
could I know?
atoms of aimlessness
can they learn?
the sky the sky
fire snow flaming snow
jagged moving mountain faces
can I learn?
myriad moving particles
burning burning
churning somersaulting waves
glorious straining sparkling waves
waves of mountain snow and sky
waves of apple cider air
waves of freezing sunshine air
zigzagging blue flame white
sparking whirling waves
streaming searing blinding waves
tornado!
quaking sky and earth
tornado!
alive soundless moving
death death.



In spite of the noise in the bus Tohfeeq had been listening as if in a trance. When Muzammil finished, Tohfeeq looked directly at him. “It’s a prophecy, “he said, “I felt it was a prophecy when I wrote it.”

“But I don’t understand it!” said Muzammil a little sadly.

“I don’t very well either,” said Tohfeeq passing his fingers through his hair, “not yet, anyway.”

The bus had not begun to move, so Tohfeeq got up and pushed his way out through the crowd, shouting to Muzammil that he would go see his mother and sisters. A fat old woman in a grey pheran elaborately embroidered with the silver tilla work typical of the valley, sat down heavily next to him. All the windows were closed and some of the men had started to smoke. When the air in the bus became unbreatheable, it started, with a jolt; the conductor jumped onto the footboard, still screaming, ”Rainwor’! Dargah!” The bus would go via Rainawari to Hazratbal.

Muzammil was still thinking about Tohfeeq’s poem. What did it mean? Perhaps he could not understand it because he was not a visionary like Tohfeeq. Of course even ordinary human beings have their lucid moments, but for the most part we seem to be lost in a kind of fog. The fog around Muzammil seemed impenetrable.

The bus lurched and jolted along the potholed road, destroyed by the snows and never repaired. Almost there, thought Muzammil, as they went over the Nageen Bridge. He gazed, fascinated as always, at the shadows, the deep moving shadows, green and translucent shadows the willow trees made in the clear water where the two lakes, the Dal and the Nageen, met. Muzammil always imagined the rickety wooden bridge breaking down, and all of them splashing down into the soft caressing depths of the lake. They passed the Nageen Club, and as he sighted the strong wire fences of the Regional Engineering College, he thought of his little cousin Rasheed, who lived across at Nageen Bagh. Should he get off and look for Rasheed, as he still had some time? He thought the better of it, for Rasheed was probably out with his loutish friends, making vulgar graffiti on people’s walls, and scribbling in bold black lettering ‘INDIAN DOGS GO BACK’ or ‘FREE KASHMIR’. Besides his stomach was growling and the picture of the little bakery near the Dal was infinitely more inviting.

The bus halted, as was the custom on Fridays, in the square near the first gate of the University Campus. Muzammil was elbowing his way through the yelling, pushing, rather intimidating Friday crowd, when Jim and his friends waved to him from the little teashop at the corner. All the boys there were from the R.E.C., all nyabarim, outsiders. Jim was a Khasi, addicted to hashish, which was freely available in the valley; he wore beads around his neck and even on his guitar. He fascinated Muzammil, and frightened him at the same time. The others were from Bihar and Maharashtra. Muzammil had never been outside Kashmir, but he imagined the world beyond the ring of mountains to be rather bizarre. How else could one explain that the ‘low caste’ Hindu boys from U.P. and Bihar at the R.E.C. would touch the feet of the Kashmiri Pandit boys (who were their own classmates!) before an exam? It was really amazing. Of course there were castes among the Kashmiri Muslims too, and Shaikh attached to the beginning of your name entitled you to respect while at the end of your name it made you a gor, or grave-digger!

Muzammil waved to the nyabarim boys, and made his way down the street that skirted the gleaming marble mosque with its pure gold spire, into the marketplace, which was milling with the early devotees breakfasting on a variety of fried goodies emerging hot from the oil in immense pans. Drowning the din of their chatter the microphone at the mosque blared prayers for the muslimeen. Muzammil wished the prayers would be said without a microphone. The noise seemed undignified, and surely Allah would hear even a whisper?

Yet above it all, the September air hung tranquilly and limpidly glowing as though with thousands of suspended particles of moisture. Muzammil took the narrow street that cut across to the lake, where the tiny bakery was situated. Business was slack on Fridays, as all the customers went to the main market square, and there was only one tray of freshly baked bread: the doughnut shaped tsochwor’, studded with sesame seeds. He bought only enough to sustain himself, and stood gazing at the lake. The mountains reflected perfectly in its mirror-like green surface, and if you kept your gaze focussed in the distance, you needn’t see the foaming dirt at the edge. September was warm, still, limpid; where were the ‘waves’ of Tohfeeq’s vision?

Muzammil had dreamt a few nights before of a great dull-yellow snake that lay with its head in the Hazratbal Square, and spread right across to the University Campus…to Umar Bagh…Lal Bazaar…to goodness knew where. And in the dream, it devolved upon Muzammil to save his people from this terrible reptile. He ran hither and thither, trying to warn folk who seemed oblivious of its existence. Finally someone handed him a large saw, and told him he must saw off the head of the viper, for the town to be saved. Muzammil had just begun his awesome task, and sawed his way halfway into the great yellow neck when the dream ended suddenly. And he awoke perspiring, as one often does after such dreams. It was still vivid in his memory.

Muzammil dragged his gaze away from the hypnotically still Himalayan range and began to wend his way back to the market. He would go through it, just out of curiosity, and then go to his Department via the Naseembagh gate. He crossed the old one-eyed fisherwoman, asking her conversationally, ”Gaarh chha?’ Any fish today? “Aa,” she replied with a nod and a smile, knowing well he was no customer.

The little old man with his glass box of curiosities was there as usual, in the middle of the bustling square. He was so tiny that he seemed to have no body at all, only a lean elongated face, with a long hooked nose, rheumy eyes under bristling brows and the white beard trailing over the glass box right onto the road. From his dirty grey pheran emerged two long-fingered, knotty hands, with fingernails large and bluish as petals. Indeed, he seemed more puppet than human. There he was all the same, a very poor man, who had a hard time selling his meagre wares. Muzammil stopped by the glass box, more to observe the vendor than his curiosities, and the old man brightened, quickly opening the glass lid so Muzammil could get a better look. Muzammil’s eye went to something gleaming in the corner, and he bent closer—it was a copper ring, in the form of a coiled serpent.

“Only one rupee,” croaked the old man.

Muzammil put the ring on his index finger, wondering at the same time why he was doing so. He paid the old fellow and examined the trinket-- he noticed it was damaged: the coil cut halfway through at the neck of the serpent.

“Exactly as I had left it in the dream!” it suddenly struck Muzammil. ”Maybe I should break it off altogether…to ward off the effect of an evil prophecy.” Then he laughed at himself, thinking it would be a better idea to give the ring, which was a rather pretty one, to one of his sisters. After all, he’d paid a rupee for it.

Muzammil looked up to see the fat botany professor, Wanganoo, coming towards him, his mouth full of sweetmeats and his arms full of vegetables. His name fitted him particularly well at that moment—wangan means brinjal in Kashmiri.

“How come? “ asked Wanganoo, indicating Muzammil’s trousers and his coat, which now hung on his arm.

“Going for an extra class, sir”, replied Muzammil, smiling deferentially. “It begins in a quarter of an hour.” He then decided to ask Wanganoo what he made of his dream and the ring. The Professor, being a Shaivite, as are all Kashmiri Pandits, considered it a portent of good luck.

“Keep it on your finger, my boy. It is a sign from Lord Shiva. Great things are ahead of you.”






Muzammil smiled to himself as he walked towards the cool green shade of Naseembagh where his department was housed. The four hundred chinar trees had been planted under the auspices of the Emperor Jehangir, four centuries ago. According to Muzammil, it was the loveliest of the Mughal gardens of Srinagar, unadorned and neglected though it was, full of army barracks and chattering students. On Friday it was quiet, of course. As he walked under the symmetrically planted giants, their leaves beginning to turn orange at the edges, he breathed deeply of the air laden with the heady scent of the first fallen apples in the outlying orchards. How beautiful was his homeland!

He saw two blue-clothed policemen strolling past, (this was perhaps the only university campus in India to have policemen on it), ogling lewdly at two jeans-clad students from the girl’s hostel, who, like Muzammil, must have come to Naseembagh on some work.

“I’ll fuck you with the penis of a goat!” one of the policemen mouthed a typical vulgarity and the two of them laughed uproariously. But the girls did not follow, or pretended not to, more likely, as one of them was a native of the valley. Muzammil felt his stomach churn with anger and a sense of injustice. The day was ruined once more.











Aharbal, July 1986



The tourists had been enchanted by the view of the silver waterfall at Noorabad, under the full moon. Now they sat outside the little guesthouse in the moonlight and listened to the cook and the sole room attendant singing folk songs to the music of the battered but still tuneful rubab.

Their guide, Muzammil, meanwhile, decided to take a walk on the road just above. The moonlight fell in sheets of silver across the silent landscape. Silent, except for the wind whispering in the pines on the slopes, thickly wooded, of an incredible beauty. As Muzammil walked, he saw here and there, the phosphorescent gleam of an occasional glow-worm, trying to match its light to that of the moon. From time to time, plaintive snatches of the song talai lati yaaras van… drifted up from the guesthouse. O please tell my lover…a song sung at weddings.

It was only a summer job, but it was something at least. Jobs were hard to come by, especially if you didn’t have the money to pay bribes. People wanted bribes even to do the work that was normally theirs. Even to pull a file out of a cupboard. Muzammil was not rich, unlike most of his classmates whose fathers had booming businesses in the carpet or tourist trade. His father had been a small trader who catered to local needs.

At the turn of the road three youths in Pathan suits and jackets sat on the low wall protecting the edges that fell away into the ravine. They called out cheerily to Muzammil. Muzammil stopped to chat. How did they manage to make a living in a remote place like that?

“We have people across the border”, one of them smiled, “in fact we are crossing over tonight”.

“On foot?” asked Muzammil, who was not much of a climber, having spent most of his life in the plains of the valley, by the lakes.

“ Of course,” replied the other, “it is the most silent. Tonight is a good night to cross, in the moonlight. Normally there is little surveillance. I know the mountains like the back of my hand. They won’t catch us in a hundred years.”

Muzammil asked them if they knew Muqaddis, his sister’s husband. They laughed derisively. How would they know him?

“Want to come with us?” asked one in a challenging tone of Muzammil. “ No need to search for a job then.”

Muzammil looked up. The other youth was looking him unflinchingly in the eye.










 
Srinagar, April 1989


Tohfeeq sipped the kahwa Shehzada had poured out for him from the ancient samovar. There were no almonds in it or cardamoms, or saffron. Only the green leaf and a little sugar. Shehzada’s face looked pinched and worn. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hand trembled as she poured out the infusion. She was working as a part-time teacher in a local school. Hameeda could find no work. She was hardly up to working anyway, Shehzada confided in Tohfeeq. Their mother had pawned all her silver and gold. It was hard to make ends meet.

Two large tears trembled in Shehzada’s young eyes. Tohfeeq’s presence made Muzammil’s absence unbearably acute. There was nothing else to talk about.

“All he wanted to do was to earn an honest living, so that he could look after us.” She must have uttered those words a million times. The fateful letter, posted at Khanyar, had reached even before his body had been dragged out of the Jehlum the preceding year: “I, Muzammil, take full responsibility for my own death.”

“No greater lie has been told,” Shehzada said to Tohfeeq. He knew it to be true.
“If Hameeda’s child had still been with us, we could have been more cheerful. We mourn two members of our family…even though our baby Aslam is still alive. But who knows if we will ever see him again?”

Hameeda, after Muzammil’s death, had refused to aid and abet her husband in his terrorist activities. In retaliation, one night Muqaddis kidnapped his infant son Aslam, leaving Hameeda desolate. It was a cruel blow indeed to the household of women.

Shehzada’s mother shuffled in on swollen feet. She sat down heavily, and without a word, began turning the beads of her tasbih between her fingers. They could hear the April rain pouring unceasingly outside.

”Khodayah!” Tohfeeq stared up at the blackened ceiling. “Vyn kya banei!” he cried, “What will become of us?”

Hameeda came from the inner room and leaned against the doorjamb. There was a wild look in her eyes.

“Tohfeeq,” she said, “no one believes me when I say the body wasn’t Muzammil’s!” She threw something that landed with a clink at Tohfeeq’s feet.
“Muzammil would never wear that!”

Tohfeeq picked up the trinket—it was a harmless-looking copper ring in the form of a coiled serpent, rather pretty, only a little damaged at the neck.




                                                         End

                                                                                Mariam Karim
                                                 Published in the South Asian Review 2006