Intizar Husain
(Translated from Urdu by Nishat Zaidi and Alok Bhalla)
B
ete Akhlaq, what wilderness have you dumped us in? Even the sound of the azaan does not reach this godforsaken place.” She would pause and begin again, “Arre, I had warned him against moving to this place miles away from nowhere. But your father cast such a spell that I couldn’t think. Ae lo, he passed away in peace soon after coming here and left us to deal with this bleak forest. How can one live in a place like this? I haven’t even heard the call of an unfortunate street-vendor. All one hears from morning till evening is the caw-caw of crows. Arre, I’ll become a heart patient if we continue to live here.”
In a way, Bu Jan was right. She had recently migrated from Chiragh Haveli where there was so such hustle and bustle from morning till night that the beetle-nut cracker in her hands never stopped clattering inside the zenana, and the tray of paan made its rounds continuously in the men’s quarters outside. But here, the evenings were haunted by ghostly silence. It’s not as if the days were full of noisy activity. And how could they have been? There wasn’t a house or a shop nearby. Only a few small houses were scattered here and there in the vicinity. From a distance they appeared to be uninhabited. A little away from them there was a broken gate. Every summer at dawn, one could find five or six carts loaded with slabs of ice stopped outside it. In fact, an ice-factory was located there. Once the carts left, the road was empty again. During the day, one heard only the chirping and screeching birds that flew in and out of the dense trees in the area. The shadow of crows seemed to cover the entire sky. Except for the small houses, the surroundings were covered with trees that changed colour with the change of seasons; dark green leaves turned yellow and brown. In spring, the leaves were so dense that it was difficult to guess how many processions of birds flew in and out of them. In autumn, when the trees shed their leaves they appeared dry and dead. But as soon as spring returned and fresh leaves sprouted, even the driest of branches were clothed again in rich green leaves. Flocks of birds found ways of playing hide and seek in the trees and lay foundations for new nests. Even the courtyard of my house had several trees. One of them was a maulsari, whose tender fragrance filled the air in spring. The other was a sprawling peepal tree. These two trees were enough for me and I didn’t make any effort to find out about the others.
In fact, the home I lived in was the annex of an abandoned red-brick building known as Lal Kothi. Who had forcibly occupied it now? I never tried to find out. Occasionally, a heavy-set man in soiled clothes could be seen going in and out of it on a bicycle. He never tried to introduce himself and exchange pleasantries nor did I make the effort. When he did introduce himself, it was only to inform me that the entire building had been allotted to him. Without any further discussion, I accepted my status as a tenant. When he saw the matter so amicably settled without an argument, he, too, made no demands. He happily accepted me as a tenant. Then a few days later, he locked the house, gave me his address and left for Multan where he had been allotted a wheat mill. As I noted down his address, I learnt that his name was Barkat Ilahi. Every month, punctually, I sent him a money order for my rent.
Initially, I too felt disoriented here. These surroundings were as alien to me as they were to Bu Jan. But slowly, along with the trees and birds, the surroundings became a part of my being. Every morning, when I went out for a walk, the isolation of the place seemed to touch the recesses of my heart. Ancient monuments, with their air of antiquity and desolation, make a deep impression on us and their impact can be felt. Here, however, there were no remains of old buildings that could leave their imprint on one’s feelings.
The house was built on a large, low-lying plot of land where a few broken, dust-covered steps made from the decorative nanakshahi bricks from the Mughal era were partly visible. One morning, absorbed in my solitary contemplation of the land as it was slowly lit by the rising sun, a stranger, brushing his teeth with a neem twig, joined me. Morning walks instil a sense of comradeship in men. Strangers begin to exchange pleasantries: comments about the weather first turn into a discussion about politics and world affairs, and then into a more intimate conversation, as if the men had known each other for ages. At first that man and I chatted with each other about this and that; but as we walked on together for a while, I don’t know how or why we continued to talk and talk. Then, quite causally, I asked about the desolate, uninhabited ground we were walking through.
He replied, “This is Sita Kund!”
“Sita Kund?”
“Aho ji! Sita Mai used to bathe nearby.”
“Sita Mai? Do you mean Sita ji? When did Sita ji ever come here?”
“That’s what is said. This city was founded by her son. A mother, after all, lives with her son.”
I didn’t quite believe the legend but it aroused my curiosity about the place. I quietly resolved to seriously explore the story further. I thought I would do so on Sunday morning when I didn’t have to go to work and would be more relaxed. But something happened before Sunday that made me change my mind and lose interest in the place. Barkat Ilahi suddenly returned from Multan and announced: “Now ji, I will live here!”
“Really?”
“Yes ji, an abandoned shop has been allotted to me in Anarkali.”
“How about the mill allotted to you in Multan?”
“That too will continue. I’ve left my employee there.”
“Well, it’s good that you are back. This house is in urgent need of repairs.”
“Yes ji, I will have to do something about this place as well.” Looking around at the surroundings, he said, “It’s overgrown with trees and bushes. I will clear the area and build shops here. I have learnt that this place is going to be declared a commercial area. These shops will then turn into gold mines.”
“But what about these trees?”
“I’ll cut them all down.”
“What? You will cut down these trees?” Anxious and shocked, I stared at his face in disbelief.
“Yes, why not? Why should the place lie unused, especially, when it can fetch good money?”
I was very worried. I suddenly remembered the maulsari and peepal trees to which I had become so attached.
“But this maulsari tree?”
“Yes ji. This maulsari is occupying a lot of space.”
I continued to stare at his face.
“But this peepal tree is very old.”
“Yes ji. It’s very old. It too needs to be chopped down. I’ll take care of them in a day or two. The entire place has turned into a jungle. It’ll have to be cleared.”
“So soon?” I was very worried.
“Yes ji! Once I decide, I don’t hesitate or delay. But you needn’t worry. I’m not going to touch the building for the time being. I’ll think about it later. You can continue to live here. I’ll not ask you to vacate it.”
“No, you won’t have to ask.” Saying this, I walked away. He kept surveying the trees for a long time.
“Son, have you gone mad? I tell you, we should not leave this place. How long can we move like nomads with our pots and pans from one place to another?”
Bu Jan had gradually reconciled herself to the place that she had earlier called a wilderness. But I had lost interest in it.
“No, Bu Jan! We’ll not live in this house any more. This Barkat Ilahi is a man without any grace.
“Bete,” Bu Jan sighed, “There is no grace left in the world now. Besides, why should we bother about that wretch? We’ll remain huddled in our own corner.”
“By the way, I have already rented another house.”
“Okay. As you wish. I was only concerned about your troubles. I am very old now. Who will do the packing and cart the luggage?”
“Everything will be taken care of. You only have to give instructions. We’ll move in the morning.”
“Ai hi, you should’ve taken some time. Such haste is not good.”
“Bu Jan, once we have decided to leave, why delay?”
“You seem to be possessed.”
Yes, I was possessed. How could I explain to Bu Jan that in the morning men will arrive to cut down the trees and I wanted to leave before that calamity?
I spent the night with difficulty. I kept tossing in bed till late into the night and slept just before the dawn only to wake up again when I heard the rooster call. I stood up as though I had not slept at all. I splashed water on my face, folded my shirt-sleeves and pyjamas, and began packing. There wasn’t much to pack. It was not like the luggage we had in Chiragh Haveli. If one lives in a place for long, one accumulates household goods. We had not yet settled here. We had only a few things for our daily needs. How many times Bu Jan had complained to me, “Bete, I can’t sit on my haunches and work. Once I sit down, I am unable to get up. Get me a low stool. And I have asked you again and again to buy a rolling-pin! You should have bought it along with the tongs and the blowing-pipe.” But I bought neither a stool nor the rolling pin for her. That should give an idea of how much luggage we had. By the time the sun rose, I had finished my packing.
Then I went out to take a breath of fresh air. I decided not to go for my morning walk. I thought I would like to meet my neighbours for one last time; my last day here was also the last day of their lives. We met. I was sad. But they bore no sign of regret. On the contrary, at the touch of morning sun light, they seemed to be smiling. More than others, the peepal and the maulsari tress stood in their majestic grace, neither exuberant nor gloomy, but silent. After all, there was no wind at that time. I took a deep breath under the shade of maulsari, picked up a few tiny flowers from the ground under its shade, and went back into the house.
Bu Jan had finished saying her morning prayers and was busy making breakfast. I quickly ate my breakfast.
“Ai Beta, did you not sleep at all in the night?”
“Why, Bu Jan, why wouldn’t I sleep?”
“Ai Beta, when I woke up in the morning, you were already puttering around.”
“Bu Jan, you got up late today. I woke up with the first call of the rooster.”
“Yes, may be I got up late this morning.” After a pause, she said, “Son, you have packed everything, but who will carry the luggage? Have you arranged for it or shall we carry this junk on our heads?”
“Bu Jan, there are carts in the ice factory. I have arranged for two of them. Once they finish carting the ice, they will come here. They must be already on their way. We will hire a tonga from the vicinity.”
As soon as I finished my breakfast, I went out to look for the carts and make sure that they had found their way. The woodcutters had already arrived with their axes and saws. Barkat Ilahi was giving them instructions.
“See, Barkat Ilahi Sahib, I had made a request yesterday.”
“What, ji?” He became nervous at my harsh tone.
“I asked you to cut the trees only after we had left.”
“Yes, ji. But you will leave today. This is what you said yesterday.”
“Yes, we are leaving today; in fact, now. But let no tree be axed till we have left.”
“Very well, ji.” He quickly turned to the woodcutters, “Ai bhai, look, go and have some tea. The work will start only after Akhlaq sahib leaves this place.”
Woodcutters stared at me in surprise. They continued to stare even after I turned away from them and walked toward the gate of the house. When I looked back, I saw Barkat Ilahi whispering something to the woodcutters. I heard only one sentence: “That man is a little crazy.”
The carts arrived. So did the tonga. I quickly loaded our luggage on the carts. Then I helped Bu Jan sit on the rear seat of tonga along with her bag and bundle. I carried a few things in my hand. I clutched the folder containing my father’s papers under my arm and sat on the front seat.
How strangely the woodcutters stared at me as the tonga drove away! As soon as we reached the gate of the house, I heard the sound of an axe falling on the tree. Anxious, I turned around to see. The damned fellows had begun with the maulsari tree.
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Glossary and Notes Allotment: After the partition of India in 1947 the governments of India and Pakistan ‘allotted’ properties left behind (called evacuee properties) by those who fled from the homes to the new migrants. In the context of this story, it is worth recording that Intizar Husain, who had migrated to Pakistan from India leaving behind property he owned, never asked to be ‘compensated for it by the government of Pakistan. When I (Alok Bhalla) asked him, he said with a smile that the government could never have compensated him for the two things he really missed: The Taj Mahal and the Neem tree in his courtyard. Anarkali: Name of a famous market in Lahore. Literally: Pomegranate flower. Bete: Son. Chirag: Oil lamp. Kund: Water tank or reservoir. Maulsari: An evergreen tree with white, fragrant flowers. Peepal: A sacred tree under which the Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment. Zenana: Women’s quarter
Intizar Husain (1925–2016) was a journalist, short-story writer, and novelist, widely considered one of the most significant fiction writers in Urdu. Born in Dibai, Bulandshahr, in British-administered India, he migrated to Pakistan in 1947 and lived in Lahore. Besides Basti, he was the author of two other novels, Naya Gar (The New House), which paints a picture of Pakistan during the ten-year dictatorship of the Islamic fundamentalist General Zia-ul-Haq, and Agay Sumandar Hai (Beyond Is the Sea), which juxtaposes the spiraling urban violence of contemporary Karachi with a vision of the lost Islamic realm of al-Andalus. Collections of Husain’s celebrated short stories have appeared in English.
Dr. Nishat Zaidi is a scholar, critic, and translator from New Delhi. Her recent publications include Day and Dastan, a translation with Alok Bhalla of Intizar Husain’s two novellas; Story is a Vagabond: Fiction, Essays and Drama by Intizar Husain, a collection which she coedited; and Makers of Indian Literature: Agha Shahid Ali. Zaidi lives in New Delhi, where she is a professor in the Department of English at Jamia Millia Islamia.
Alok Bhalla critic, translator, editor and poet has published more than thirty books. His recent ones include Stories About the Partition of India (4 volumes), Partition Dialogues: Memories of a Lost Home, A Chronicle of the Peacocks and Story is a Vagabond (stories by Intizar Husain); Life and Times of Saadat Hasan Manto, and The Place of Translation in a Literary Habitat. He has translated Dharamvir Bharati’s play, Andha Yug: The Dark Age as well as stories, plays and poems by Bhisham Sahni, K. B. Vaid, Asghar Wajahat, Kunwar Narain, Kedarnath Singh and others. He is also the author of a collection of poems, The Grammar of Ruins. His volume of nonsense verse for children, Wild Verses of Wit and Whimsy, was illustrated by Manjula Padmanabhan. His work on miniature paintings of the Gita from late 17th century Mewar by Allah Baksh was published in 2019 and is the first in a series of five volumes of paintings from the Mahabharata (the other four volumes are in the press). He was elected to the Executive Board of the Sahitya Akademi (the Indian Academy of Literature.)
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