Scene: 75

Preface

Whoever you see,

Whoever you meet,

They seem like someone else.

In this neighbourhood

It’s as if no one has an identity.

On the stairs

Once again, the sound of someone’s footsteps.

Once again, someone without a face,

Gilt-tongued, stone-hearted.

He will come,

And smiling,

Take away a sliver of my heart.

– RAHI MASOOM RAZA

Fade In

BEYOND THE bars of the window, on the other side of the grille, the moon had descended and paused at the cluster of coconut trees, and Ali Amjad, his face pressed against the bars, was gazing at this moon sinking amidst the coconuts. It wasn’t clear whether Ali Amjad was trapped inside the room or whether the moon was trapped outside it.

Perhaps they both were imprisoned. One inside and the other outside. The moon was lifeless, and for a few days now, Ali Amjad too had stopped counting himself among the living, and perhaps that’s why, for a few days now, he had taken a liking to the moon.

The room was filled with the silence of the night. Outside the room too, there was a deep nocturnal silence. The cluster of coconut trees was silent. The old ruined fort was silent. The road that embraced the crumbling ruin and, for no reason, suddenly stopped at a bay, now bereft of fishermen’s boats festooned with green, yellow, saffron and tricoloured flags, too was silent. The bay had undoubtedly been important or useful once, otherwise why would a fort have been built right at its mouth? Boats must have sailed down that bay, and that’s why a rough, makeshift road must have been built, which some corporation in newly independent India had then coated with tar and concrete, making it a respectable, proper road. And once that road became respectable and proper for no reason, it became necessary to give it a name. So after having lived in anonymity for a couple of hundred years, all of a sudden, the road acquired a name. A big cement board was erected and the words ‘Lala Asharfilal Marg’ were written on it in Roman, Devanagari and Marathi scripts. A deputy minister inaugurated the road and immediately afterwards, everyone – the deputy minister and all the people who lived on that road – promptly forgot its name, and the sturdy column supporting the grand cement board was used only by dogs to pee on.

No one asked the corporation why the road had been given a name, nor did anyone ask who Lala Asharfilal was. The make-up and naming of the road had cost three lakh twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and sixteen rupees and four and a quarter annas – annas, because this event occurred at a time when the naya paisa had not yet come into use and all transactions were carried out in annas and pice, even though young people of that generation didn’t know what a pice looked like. Students had only heard that something called ‘pice’ existed and was useful in matters of accounting and commerce. Four pice made one paisa. Four paise made one anna. Four annas made one chavanni. Two chavannis made one atthanni. Two atthannis made one rupee. Between the chavanni and the anna was a duanni. There was even an adhanni between an anna and a paisa. It was lots of fun, doing accounts in those days. You had to climb up a ladder to go from a pice to a rupee. But when the naya paisa and rupee were introduced, the rungs of the ladder vanished and doing accounts was robbed of all enjoyment. Rich moneylenders took advantage of this. By the time people began to understand the naya paisa-rupee system, prices had already shot up sky high and every Damdilal became a Lala Asharfilal. And only when the Lala – after whom our road was named – died because his heart stopped beating, did the whole country realize for the first time that the Lalaji actually had a heart in his breast. Magazines and newspapers had a field day. One journalist wrote that when Allah had fashioned Asharfilal’s likeness, the supply room sent a message that it had run out of hearts. But the likeness was ready. The bill had been raised. The delivery date had been finalized. That’s when Allah mian took a silver coin with Queen Victoria’s face on it, and put it inside Lala Asharfilal instead of a heart. Thus, Lala Asharfilal was ready to be dispatched. And that’s why whatever he touched turned into money. But this didn’t mean that Lalaji had installed a money-making machine in his house. Oh no. Lalaji was not that kind of man. He was a deeply religious personage. He did not discriminate on the basis of caste, religion or untouchability. Whether it was a Harijan or a Brahmin, he was impartial in extracting interest on loans, bringing lawsuits upon them, or confiscating and impounding their assets. He was the one who had borne the cost of erecting the elegant, shimmering Bharat Mata temple in the Chamartoli neighbourhood of his village Maharajganj. The Momin Ansar National Higher Secondary School in his city, that too was built on land he had donated. He also constructed many shelters, for cows and for humans. And on days when it was difficult to procure sugar even for weddings, Lala Asharfilal made sure his Maharajganj ants were still fed their daily dose. It is said that after Lalaji died, swarming circles of ants waited for him on those paths for months…

Lalaji made a lot of money in the Second World War. He got many army tenders. And from an ordinary man, he turned into a Big Man. But soon he realized that nothing was going to stop India from becoming independent, and that Gandhi’s party was going to rule the new nation. So, like many prominent nationalists, he cut off all ties with the British. He returned the title of Rai Sahib they’d conferred upon him, and went to jail. And when he was released after four months and twelve days of imprisonment, on 13 December 1945, he was counted among the patriots. In the 1952 elections, his older son became an MP, his younger son an MLA, and he himself passed away.

The nation was newly independent. Immediately after independence there was a sudden increase in the number of Big Men, but no significant increase in the number of roads. The result was that there weren’t enough roads for all the Big Men. So every road was given two or three names. If, from this crossing to the next, the road was called Maulana Abdul Khaliq Marg, from that crossing to the next, it was called Babu Damdiprasad Marg. The road that used to be known as Clive Road became Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Marg one fine day, as if there was no difference between the paths taken by Lord Clive and Subhash Chandra Bose…

But even changing the names of roads or giving one road many different names didn’t solve the problem. The names of many important people were still left out. So, to accommodate all these other names, schools and colleges were opened. What we understand as the Education Development Programme was actually a Name Consumption Programme, and that’s why the people appointed to teach in these schools and colleges were those who were considered unacceptable for any other work by the government and society.

Lala Asharfilal’s sons, both the older and the younger one, were advised that they should take advantage of the situation and open a Lala Asharfilal Memorial National Degree College, and appoint their brother-in-law as its principal. It so happened that while the two brothers had separate wives, they had the same brother-in-law. And both the wives and the sole brother-in-law exerted their combined pressure on the two brothers to open a degree college. They explained the benefits of education to them. However, the brothers stubbornly insisted that they wanted a road. But there was no road left in all of India … With great difficulty, they found a dirt road of just three furlongs which ended abruptly at a nameless creek. Intensely relieved at the discovery, they decided to offload Lalaji there. But not before the road was made pukka and a deputy minister from Uttar Pradesh came to inaugurate it. It doesn’t need to be pointed out that this deputy minister was the same, one and only, brother-in-law of the two brothers, who was supposed to become the principal of the degree college and thus get some gainful employment. But it turned out that he had become successful in politics. And if he hadn’t been killed in a car accident, he might have gone on to become the chief minister of Uttar Pradesh … An editorial in an Opposition weekly declared that Uttar Pradesh would never forget this good turn Yamraj, the god of death, had done them.

If Lala Asharfilal had not been an important man, or if he had been but his two sons hadn’t been an MP and an MLA respectively, or if his sons had been an MP and an MLA respectively but their brother-in-law hadn’t been a deputy minister, and if his brother-in-law in turn hadn’t been an important social worker in Bombay, the road would never have been named Lala Asharfilal Marg. And if the road hadn’t been named Lala Asharfilal Marg, cooperative housing societies wouldn’t have constructed buildings along it, and if these buildings had not been made, Ali Amjad would not have been gazing at the moon trapped in the cluster of coconut trees, engulfed by the quicksand of that silent, deserted night.

What all this proved was that time is a series of ‘ifs’ and there is a noose of many such ‘ifs’ around every neck. If only life didn’t have this ‘if’ sticking to it like a tail, it would be so pleasant … But there is no way to escape these ‘ifs’ in life.

Like many people, I mean many respectable people, Ali Amjad was both a believer in chance and in an ideal life not based on chance. When he exhibited fear he became the former, and if he felt anger at that fear he became the latter. And between this fear and this anger lay his entire life.

Ali Amjad was a middle-class man. And like all middle-class people, he was discontented. He was not so brave that he could win a Mahavir Chakra, nor was he such a coward that he didn’t know how to fight. He was from Benares, where his grandfather had built a three-storey stone house in a dark alley in Govindpura Kalan. These small, many-storeyed houses of Benares had iron grilles over the courtyards so that the afternoon sun could trickle through. The lack of sunlight and fresh air meant that individuals could not flourish, and that’s why Benares hasn’t been able to produce a bigger political leader than Sampurnanand, or a greater physician than Hakim Kazim, or a greater poet than Nazeer Banarasi. And that’s why the city has remained famous only for its temples, ghats, tawaifs, Kachori Gali, Kanthe Maharaj, Bismillah Khan, Sitara Devi, and out-of-control bulls.

Benares!

God knows where, and how, Benares is today.

Ali Amjad moved away from the window. After all, who can win a staring contest with the moon? The past, present and future might all blink, but the moon’s steadfast gaze never falters. And what was Ali Amjad in comparison to the moon? His eyes, anyway, were prone to blinking. He had, anyway, more or less failed to meet his own gaze.

He looked at the moon once again. It was where it had been. Outside the room, the moonlit night was coming alive, and inside the room was an unnamed, sinister darkness. The pen lying on the table was awake.

I sold myself for the sake of ink.

So that a dry pen could not be

My reason for not writing.

I was compelled to write.

Helpless.

Crippled.

Powerless.

And the calendar on the wall was awake. 5 January. 1976. Sunday. 5 January. Oh god, it must be so cold there. Even the wind must be trying to escape the winter by burrowing into warm quilts. Now that cold was just a memory. A very warm memory. As if the doorbell would ring at that very moment, and the cold would race inside as soon as the door opened and wrap itself around him … Ali Amjad reached out and changed the date on the calendar. Instead of 5 January it became 6 January. Instead of Sunday it became Monday. Oh god! What a calamity! It was the day of the shoot. A nine o’clock shift. The scene wasn’t ready and the needle on his wristwatch was nibbling away at time like a little mouse. It was twenty-seven minutes and twenty-five … twenty-six seconds past two … And the file lying open on the table was awake.

SCENE: 75: DAY: POST OFFICE

He had written this heading on