Chautha Hadsa by Swyam Prakash

Translated from Original Hindi by Barnali Saha

When I was transferred to Jaisalmer and observed in the atmosphere of the place so much

serenity, melancholy, such leisure and such inattentiveness that I thought it had a strange

ambience and decided I should do something different here, something that couldn’t be done

anywhere else. I thought, for example, what if I were to go to my office dressed in a lungi, or put

on a number of beaded neckpieces and scrutinize people’s palms, or stand and bathe in the nude

on the terrace in the middle of the day! Since I had come from a comparatively large place to a

smaller one, I felt the jollity more ardently. People got up from the dreamless in apparent ease,

sat indolently for half an hour at least before partaking the morning tea, spend a couple of hours

over their newspapers and not less than an hour in getting ready for office. If they met somebody

they knew in the streets, they would evidently stop, shake hands and after a pause of a few

minutes start the conversation— so how are things with you? In case you had asked them first

about their whereabouts, they would pause for nearly one and half minutes, as if to formulate

their replies correctly in their minds, and then retort that things are quite all right with them!

People were never in a hurry to go somewhere, there were days devoid of incidents, and nights

devoid of any grandiloquent dreams; people had only a handful of relations, there were the oft-

repeated narratives of the war in sixty-five and tales of famine which took place once upon a

time. There were kids in the place who seemed to be eventually growing up on their own and

finally, there was a solitary, unexciting, unimportant, and languid life that was gradually

attaining color overtime.

I was astounded to encounter this ravenous laxity in Jaisalmer. Oh, dear God, I thought to

myself, India have been relentlessly moving forward and times have been changing so fast that

one wouldn’t recognize a place if one visited it after a hiatus of even a couple of years. The

fluxion of change was such that even in one’s own town one had to carefully search for roads

one had know well and even one’s own home, one’s childhood seemed like some story read from

a book, the holy tickle of one’s own boyhood, one’s juvenile love interests seems stained in

unreasonableness, the memory of one’s own younger brother seemed wooden and the friends of

one’s father seemed like actors in some old documentary film. The principles and values one

cherished in one’s youth seemed like a bunch of lies, those poems one used to sing time and

again as one roamed about seemed laughable…and here? Here it seemed that the mutiny that

occurred in the year 1857 must have taken place the year before!

I wished I could create huge ebb in the peaceful looking pond that had been sleeping for

centuries. I wanted to startle the boring and unrelieved life out of its slumber. I wished to jump

from some tall building, spread some sensational rumor in the society, or perhaps elope with a

girl belonging to a noble and respected family … I wanted to cast a few slaps on the boring

contentedness of the place and laugh out loud in mirth.

I wondered in which century exactly the people of Jaisalmer thought they had been dwelling in.

They considered Dinkar’s ‘Urvashi’ as book of contemporary poems. If they ever spot an

airplane in the sky, they would desert their respective works and stare at the sky; if you tell them

that Rahul Sankrityayan had long been dead they wouldn’t believe you, and if they ever talk

about politics with you they would ask you whether you thought Indira Gandhi were a Hindu or

a Muslim. If unfortunately you managed to lose your handkerchief in the morning then by

evenfall you would get not less than fifty people would say to you— I heard you lost your
handkerchief this morning, how did that happen? Even such a minor incident as the loss of a

handkerchief could create a sensation in the community. Did you hear the news that Falan sahib

lost his handkerchief?

All the same, while I was planning to take over the inertia of the place, the inertia itself started

closing in on me and judging me. Like aquatic plants floating on lakes…like mistletoe in the

hedges…like parthenium in the fields…like locusts in the sky… like bubbles…they were all

over me. I pulled myself together, did five-ten push-ups and squats and fifteen minutes of

kadamtal, and then I left the house in search of chaps who were fond of boisterousness. In the

meantime, I had allowed my beard to grow and dedicated the growth to the depressing inertia

that dwelled in the place. My regard for the sanctity of the human civilization and the fear of

how it might take my hirsuteness, I hadn’t let my beard grow in my younger days—my society

was prejudiced against it. Now I let it grow. It was a seemingly frivolous incident that in the long

run turned out to be of great importance. It provided ample fodder for the brain. Now, this story

that I am narrating deals with me and my (former) beard.

The beard I cultivated turned out to be fulsome and beautifully golden. A little of my

unfamiliarity of the place, a little of my Urdu accent, and a little of my ruined face, which was

now pleasantly covered with beard— together led to an highly amusing outcome. People started

taking me for a Muslim. Initially, I had no knowledge of this; when, however, I learned about it,

I felt pleasantly amused. I made no attempts to refute the people. Why on earth would I? I smiled

in jest. Their supposition became strong overtime. Subsequently, a few sweet and sour incidents

took place which I would like to narrate if you have time at hand.
The first incident went like this: one day I went to the drinking fountain to quench my thirst. The

old woman who had been serving water asked me who I was. It was a rather philosophical

enquiry, I thought. I wondered what I should say in reply. It was certainly evident that I was a

human being after all. I thought if I should say that I was in love or that I was employed

somewhere. But then she might start asking me about my workplace, my official position, my

basic pay, and so forth. No, probably she won’t ask me all that. She was to give me water and not

the hand of her daughter in marriage. Frustrated, she asked me once again who I was. I

stammered – What do you mean? She then stretched out the palm of her left hand and tried to

explain— Are you a Hindu or a Muslim? Oh, so that was it! I hurriedly replied—I am a Hindu. I

said that even though I had been a Hindu when I was born, I wasn’t a Hindu any longer. She,

however, seemed satisfied and reassured with my replies and offered me water to drink. The

water was nice. It was refreshingly cold and sweet. Once my thirst was thoroughly quenched I

looked at her wrinkled and shriveled face and smiled, and then when I had moved a few steps

away from her grasp, I said—I hope Allah showers his mercy upon you! Surprised and shocked,

she gazed at me for a long time abusing and cursing me all the while. The profanities she voiced

in my direction were rarities that were fit to be collected. They could well have been saved in a

tape recorder and compiled for posterity. These days you seldom hear such anathemas voiced by

women; they are evidently forgetting everything.

The second incident occurred at home. There I used to wear lungi and kurta and spend my time

listening to ghazals by Ghalib bhai and Mir bhai. My house was in the street where the

goldsmiths had their houses; behind those houses, the Muslim workers and craftsmen who

worked on stone-crafting had their lodgings. One of my neighbor’s was a young lecturer who

used to address me as badein miyaan, barkhurdar, etc. Later, we made our meals together. Our
cooking preparations were done at the back of our streets that edged the locality of the stone-

craftsmen. They had a meat-shop there from where we used to procure meat every Sunday and

cook it. There were a number of young, uneducated, and poor women in the locality who tried to

attract our attentions.

One day I was sitting at home when a man arrived. His name was Ramjan Miyaan. He was a

housing contractor. He asked me if I had any program fixed for the evening. I replied in the

negative. He said that there was a lecture in the evening and asked me if I would like to come. I

replied—Why not! It seemed to be a great opportunity to imbibe a bit of wisdom and judge the

nature of the lecturer as well, about whom the poets had made a great deal of disparaging

remarks. But even before we had reached the venue of the lecture in the evening, Ramjan sahib

asked me my opinion about his daughter and the name and address of my father. My opinion

about his daughter was pretty sound; he, on the other hand, seemed pretty shocked to hear my

father’s name. To tell you the truth, I never thought somebody could be so traumatized to hear

my father’s name. After that, I had no idea what agonies daughter or the rest of the people

suffered because of my distressing background.

The third incident occurred while I was travelling on a bus. I was on my way to Jallore. The bus

was overcrowded. When I descended at a stop for a bit, some gentleman grabbed my seat and

positioned himself comfortably in it. This caused a bit of unpleasantness between him and me.

Another gentleman playing the role of the mediator said — Please come and sit here, Khan

Sahib. It’s only a matter of two hours…it really doesn’t matter that much. Anyway, we are all

travelers here…
Ultimately, I gave my rightful seat and seated myself next to this empathic stranger. The one

who usurped my seat started dispensing a bit of wisdom among his neighbors. He said the

miyaan, meaning me, was undoubtedly a traitor and that most of the men like him were Pakistani

spies and so forth! What surprised me most was the sight of a man next to him who looked at

him with considerable respect and nodded his head now and then in approval of his comments.

Meanwhile, my neighbor, perhaps to estrange my attention from the ‘poignant ’and acerbic

comments of the usurper of my seat asked me—Where are you going? I replied—Jallore. He

then asked—Where are you coming from? I replied—Jaisalmer. He then said that Jallore did

have a number of Muslims. I replied in the affirmative even though I had no idea about it. I was

going to Jallore for the first time. After a brief pause the man asked—Do you have a business

there? I said, yes. The man then said—What kind of business? Bangles, I said in reply. Upon

hearing this, my neighbor became quiet.

The usurper had now started narrating to his audience a story about a miyaan from Jodhpur who

during the war in 1965 came out of his home one night (upon discerning a Pakistani airplane in

the sky) and used his torchlight to communicate with the people in the flight and invited them

with his gestures to throw bombs at his home (a set-up which was complete with wife and

children)! In the mean time, my compassionate neighbor brought out of his pocket a box of Paan

bahar and after a couple of spoonfuls of its contents himself, he offered me the box. I took a

spoonful of the stuff. I was happy to think that mister generous next to me would probably sit

quietly for some time now.

On the other side, the usurper seemed full of high-spirits. People had been responding favorably

to his ideas. He said—Sir, these ‘circumcised’ chaps are destroying our country. These bastards

keep three-four wives and beget innumerable children, because they hope that someday their
people would outnumber us Hindus and then they will dominate us. And yet, despite this

implied threat, our government never does anything to them. These people deserve to be thrown

out of the country. Bloody scoundrels!

I now wished to get up and slap that blighter. Nevertheless, such a move wasn’t possible. By this

time the man was surrounded by at least ten people who agreed with him such that an

atmosphere a sort of religious fundamentalism now prevailed in that corner. Some of the people

were heaving with anger. I knew they took me for a Muslim because of my damned beard and

my accent. If I raised any opposition then together they might beat me to a jelly. I wondered if I

should mention it to them that I was a Hindu after all, and not a Muslim as they took me for…

But no, I couldn’t say that either. My conscience would prevent me from saying it. I decided that

even if I were to die I wouldn’t confess that I was a Hindu. In any case, these people wouldn’t

believe me even if I un-zip my trousers for them. I sat in silence drinking imbibing the poisonous

remarks thrown in my direction. I wondered when idiots like the usurper who grabbed my seat

and the people who surrounded him would develop some sense. (And when would people whom

they intimidate and oppress would be brave enough to provide them with befitting rebuttals?)

As I sat at the Minerva hotel in Jodhpur and drank a cup of tea, I narrated these three incidents to

my friends. By this time I had already shaved off my beard. Nandu, Paras, Rambaksh, and Habib

were my four friends who laughed heartily upon hearing my three personal narratives. Habib

suddenly stopped laughing and sat in silence for a while, then he lit a cigarette and exhaling a

number of smoke rings, he paced up and down the terrace of the Minerva hotel. Seeing Habib,

who was always jovial and smiling, now sunk in silence Paras asked—What’s the matter with

you? Mr.Swayamprakashurahman? And then we all started to laugh out loud once again. After a

while he said—Dear Nandu, let it be known among your people that nothing whatever happened
to me. Let it be known that I was thinking about a movie. Let it also be known that Hindustan

doesn’t belong to your father only, it belongs to our fathers as well…!! Dhamadam,

dhamadham, dhamadham, dhamadham!!

Habib’s little joke amused all of us. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was indeed

joking, what do you think?

Glossary of Non-English words:

1. Lungi: A cloth, often of brightly colored silk or cotton that is used as a piece of clothing,

especially the traditional skirt like garment of India, Pakistan, and Myanmar.

2. Badein miyaan, barkhurdar: Forms of addressing people common among Muslim men;

barkhurdar means gentleman, a polite form of address.

3. Ghazal: The ghazal is a poetic form consisting of rhyming couplets and a refrain, with

each line sharing the same meter.

4. Ghalib: Mirza Ghalib was a classical Urdu and Persian poet from the Mughal

Empire during British colonial rule.

5. Mir: Mir Taqi Mir, a leading Urdu poet of the 18th century, and one of the pioneers who

gave shape to the Urdu language itself. 

6. Paan bahar: A kind of paan masala, a preparation of betel leaf combined with areca

nut and/or cured tobacco.

7. Kurta: A type of loose-fitting shirt.