Authors: Adib Khan
A ferocious scowl. ‘“And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, neither whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie…ah…the…the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, sorcerers, idolaters and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.” A-Amen!’
‘Amen,’ I echoed tonelessly. ‘Amen.’ A variation on what the
mullah
had said. Less sensual. Silently I rejected the cold splendour of Heaven.
He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. ‘Stay and think about the glory of God and His Kingdom. But keep away from the altar. Christ can enter your heart from any distance.’
He stood up and walked towards the side door.
Faa…ther Daan…iel.
I had this unfounded suspicion that Rekha had something to do with his departure.
I sought the altar again. Distance did make a difference—for me, anyway.
Jesu, I am not a Christian. I am no longer certain that I am even a human. But I have come to ask a favour for a sufferer. Jesu?
Don’t you find the desert air cool in the evening?
I willed myself not to move, in case he disappeared.
Can you cure Chaman? Will you see her? I can bring her to you.
He had the same air of resignation that marked his presence on the cross. A tall, thin figure draped in a roughly spun robe.
It is best to avoid greed. Seeking life beyond its natural course is unwise.
But I love her. She is my mother…sister…friend…everything that comforts me.
Love can be a form of greed. It is never satisfied. Do not desire what can only cause anguish.
Will you help her?
You mean help you.
It’s the same thing.
We had better sit down.
Why do you roam the desert at this hour?
Solitude is the source of all my strength.
You can perform miracles, I am told.
Only if people are prepared to participate in them.
About Chaman
…
Look about you. What can you see?
Emptiness.
Look again.
A fading horizon. Evening stars. The humped back of sleeping camels. There should be a moon. A vast emptiness that girdles life.
And you are able to see all this?
I sense it.
And what do you feel sitting here?
My insignificance.
Anything else?
The need for accepting whatever there is.
Why?
Because there is a fixed order, even among the uncertainties.
You learn quickly.
About what?
Limitations.
Yours or mine? Jesu?
Help should never seek to create illusions.
Does that mean you cannot help us?
He had not moved. Was that a crack running down his chest?
In my dreams I saw and grew. Read the signs and found the sinewy roads. Whatever was unborn came alive, took shape and imparted wisdom. As I travelled, I learned to ask without seeking replies. How strange it was that there was neither light nor dark in places without time. I had not yet learned to accept what had to be…
I called Father Daniel. I wanted his permission to bring Chaman to the church.
She is a whore with a terrible illness. Will you let her touch Jesu?
‘Faa…ther Daan…iel! Faa…ther Daan…iel!’ It was a fair imitation of Rekha.
No reply. Wings fluttered somewhere inside. Pigeons? I preferred to think that there were angels hovering over me.
Outside, the weather had changed. Thick, suffocating clouds blanketed the sky. Explosions in the air. The first of the monsoonal rains arrived like an impatient lover, breathing furiously, straddling the city with its overbearing presence. There was a short burst of torrential rain and a flurry of hailstones before steady drizzle set in.
Chaman had agreed to meet me in a
dhaba
on the edge of Chandni Chowk. Salim Jaffrey, who also controlled a chain of brothels in the city and claimed familial connections with the imperial Moghuls, owned the restaurant. Whenever his ancestry was questioned, he pointed to his fair skin as if it were the conclusive proof of his royal lineage.
‘We came from Persia after Babur’s conquest of India,’ he boasted to me one day. ‘My ancestors were skilled craftsmen, masters of their trade. They were stonecutters and jewellers. The Moghul emperors employed them. The women were taken into the imperial harems, and so began the royal connection.’
‘And generations of bastards were born,’ I added.
He looked offended. ‘Ah-hem…say what you will, but there is royal blood in me. That is more than you can say for yourself.’
‘I am a bastard, and you are the descendant of one. What is the difference?’
Looking at Salim Jaffrey, it was impossible to conclude that he was one of the most successful crooks in the city. His gentleness, and the fluency with which he spoke Urdu, belied his ruthless professionalism. He was a well-mannered fellow, especially courteous to elderly people. His behaviour was his greatest ally. He disarmed policemen with flattery and cooperation. It was never any trouble for him to go to the police station to make statements. Police officers were lavishly
entertained in his brothels. He double-crossed his associates without a gulp of guilt, and it was rumoured that he never slept in the same house on successive nights. No one could say exactly how many houses he owned, or whether there was any truth in the story about his nights spent in abandoned railway carriages and in open fields to elude his vengeful enemies.
‘I have clean hands,’ he was fond of saying, and he meant it too, in every sense. He professed to be an honest and diligent businessman who was wrongly maligned by business rivals. Salim Jaffrey was discreet and shrewd about his activities behind the harmless façade of the
dhabas
he ran in various parts of the city. Supposedly the police had never gathered sufficient evidence against him to fight a successful court case. It was rumoured that the police were exceptionally lenient with him in exchange for the favours they received from him and for the information he supplied about the criminals in the city.
Salim Jaffrey barricaded himself behind those he considered to be dispensable, and that could be anyone—friend, acquaintance or foe. A dangerous man, with a strong passion for self-survival, lurked beneath the veneer of politeness and culture. On a more literal level, Salim Jaffrey had a fetish about washing his hands frequently with warm water and sandalwood-scented soap. Afterwards he rubbed his fingers, palms and the back of his hands with a moisturising cream and perfumed them with an expensive
attar
called Rose of Arabia.
‘I have never been formally educated,’ he confessed dejectedly to me once as I stood watching him perform his cleansing ritual in the small backyard of one of his roadside restaurants. ‘All my learning has been from the streets, watching and listening to people. There is more knowledge in Chandni Chowk than in all the schools and colleges in Delhi.’
A fortuitous meeting with Salim Jaffrey had led us to an immediate realisation of a common interest in stories. A late
night at the railway station. How long ago was that? Of course, I am unable to say. It was during my earlier days, when I was establishing my reputation as a storyteller. Farishta accompanied me everywhere, reporting, not always accurately, to Barey Bhai about my competence as a thief.
The train for Ajmer was running late. The platform was crammed with passengers and coolies with enormous loads of luggage balanced on their heads. Food hawkers pushed wooden trolleys along the edge of the platform, displaying savouries and calling out the prices of various items. Irritated passengers sat in their compartments and relieved their boredom by eating voraciously. Unnoticed by the guards, Farishta and I entered a compartment. It stank of unwashed bodies and urine. We paused inside the door, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dim light inside. A group of men sat on the floor, playing cards and drinking tea. Women fanned restless toddlers with hand
punkahs
and conversed among themselves in low voices. Young mothers breastfed their babies. There were children sleeping everywhere, on the floor and seats, on top of trunks and baskets.
We scanned the faces and scrutinised their clothes. Appearances could reveal potential danger. This was a harmless group of travellers, we concluded. Not rich, but with enough money for travel in a second-class compartment. We waited until a vendor exhausted his supply of sweetmeats and had to leave.
The sound of a bell. Farishta’s joyful voice. ‘
Bhaiyun aur Behanau
…’
Curious eyes turned towards us. A few smiled when they saw me. Half-awakened children reached out to touch me. There were murmurs of approval when Farishta explained the reason for our presence. We figured that any form of entertainment would be welcome to relieve the tedium.
I told them about Zohak the monster, and then about the birth and boyhood of Rustem. After a brief description of his journey to Mazendaran, I launched into a spirited account of his battle with Puladvend. In the middle of Rustem’s fight with the Juranian warrior, I saw Lightning Fingers enter the compartment and go about his business with customary stealth. Rustem’s final struggle with the deceitful Sheghad, and his death in the pit beside his horse, Raksh, was a winner. Moist eyes were riveted on me as I dragged out the final moments of a heroic demise. Lightning Fingers left the compartment before I finished the story. Farishta took a tin plate around, cajoling the passengers to donate generously to the dwarf who was destined to die of an incurable illness.
A belated handclap came from a man who stood against the door on the other side of the compartment. He asked me if I would step out on the platform with him. Farishta had slipped away.
‘I am not a policeman,’ the man declared cheerfully. ‘My name is Salim Jaffrey. Where did you learn the stories from
Shah-Nama
? It is so rare to hear them these days.’
He bought me a kebab roll and told me about the author, the Iranian poet, Firdausi. I didn’t know that his real name was Abul Kasim Mansur, nor was I familiar with the fact that it had taken him thirty-five years to complete the poem from which I had learned the stories.
‘You must have made a reasonable sum of money in there.’ I noticed that he was looking over me towards the carriages at the back of the train. ‘How much did your
other
friend collect, do you think?’
I pretended not to understand, concentrating instead on the succulent pieces of spiced meat inside the bread.
Salim Jaffrey smiled patiently. ‘There are guards behind you. He’s very good, your friend. A clean operator. Quick, steady
hands. Not too greedy. The timing was perfect. The three of you have a great understanding.’ His voice became authoritative. ‘I want you to work for me.’
I didn’t think it was advisable to run. Salim Jaffrey whipped out a small notebook and a pencil from the front pocket of his Kashmiri jacket and scribbled an address. ‘Can you read?’
I nodded. He tore the page and handed it to me. ‘Come and see me, tomorrow afternoon. Yes?’ His grin revealed a set of perfectly shaped teeth. ‘I have eyes all over the city. When I wish to find someone…’ He clawed his fingers through my hair and then ambled over to chat with the guards.
Our association was profitable. It was trouble-free and occupied only those evenings when Barey Bhai made no demands on me. I made a modest sum of money without contributing any of it to the communal life of the
bustee.
I delivered drugs to different parts of the city and collected payment and handwritten notes for Salim Jaffrey.
‘Never steal,’ he warned me. ‘I know exactly how much is to be delivered to each customer and how much money is to be collected. If you wish to have some
charas
or
ganja
, a small supply will be provided for you.’
And so it was that I discovered the relief of painless nights and exotic imaginings. A weightlessness that enabled me to leave behind the wretchedness of the slum. The calmness in my body crept through my limbs like a winter’s fog, noiseless and without texture, smothering the weariness, soothing my anguished limbs and numbing despair. Inhaling the smoke through a
chillum
made me feel light inside, and I drifted upwards to an explosion of coloured lights and grinning faces. Monsters and ghoulish creatures, with razor-sharp teeth, emerged from crevices to guide me through the dimensions of hell. It wasn’t a bad place at all, I decided.
Salim Jaffrey arrived in a taxi, complaining about the weather and the filthiness of the old city.
‘Water can make everything more dirty,’ he announced, sitting at a special table reserved for him in a corner of the
dhaba.
The table was strategically located next to a small door. Salim Jaffrey was a cautious man. There was avenue for escape in every one of his business houses. A young boy brought him a cup of milk tea, heavily sugared and spiced with cinnamon and cardamom.
He did not greet me with the customary smile. His frown indicated a serious problem. It wasn’t often that Salim Jaffrey was displeased, but when he was upset his eyes glinted with a rage that his speech did not reveal.
‘I believe the police were here,’ he said, stirring his tea, ‘looking for you.’ Salim Jaffrey was a patient man who used silence as a weapon to extract explanations and admissions of wrongdoing from his employees.
‘I am in trouble,’ I confessed meekly.
There was no forgiveness in his voice. ‘Clean hands, Vamana! I insist on having clean hands. What sort of trouble?’
I saw Chaman standing outside, sipping tea.
‘I set a businessman’s house on fire.’ There was no point in lying. He played a game to see how convincingly people could fib.
Salim Jaffrey asked for another cup of tea. ‘Not just any businessman. Jhunjhun Wallah happens to be an influential man in the city. He is related to a minister. The police benefit from his generosity and are glad to help him, even if it means twisting the laws. One of his brothers is a lawyer.’ He looked at me moodily.