Street in Srinagar, A

19

1

DUSK SETTLES GENTLY

 over Ailan Gali. The setting sun lingers as it touches the snowy heads of the houses that seem to prop each other up. The evening sun carries only the warmth of its years, but that is enough to get the triangular roofs dripping. Drip-drop-drip. Rather like a wizened old man immersing his grey head gradually into the swollen Vitasta, pausing to look wisely at the people of the gali. In some places, the sheets of ice have cracked and come sliding down the roofs. They pile up in unwieldy mounds reaching as high as the windows. Inside the houses, women roll slender wicks on their palms to light the evening lamps. These little flames will bravely challenge the dark for a brief while, flickering in alcoves and on window sills before the deepening shadows swallow the street, pushing it into the formlessness of the new moon night.

People here have built such amazing houses! Bungalows on a finger’s width on land! Some of them giddily reach up five storeys high, stretching crookedly as if to touch the moon. The narrow crevices between them are barely large enough to let in the sun.

It’s no better in the daytime…to say nothing of the night. It is as if the ghosts of darkness have taken up permanent residence in the gali!

The dark upsets Ratni, even though most people in the gali are used to it. Ama, Ratni Bhabhi! For me, it’s not dark even at night. If I leave my humble abode with my eyes shut, I’ll find my way straight to your royal palace and will sit cross-legged on your embroidered Anantnagi rug leaning like a lord against your tasseled pillow. I swear! Try me…if you don’t believe me…really! Anwar Miyaan, who has learnt to laugh anger and sorrow away in a joke, does not rue the darkness. Kanth Kaka is much the same! Bhai, light is born from the womb of darkness… he pronounces.

Kanth Kaka is a respected elder, Ratni cannot argue with him. But Anwar Miyaan is a different kettle of fish altogether. Ratni has never minced her words. There is nobody quite like you Anwar Bhai! You catch a cold when the breeze blows from the Nishaat and Shalimaar and you get a headache listening to the tinkling of a fountain! People say their souls are refreshed when they drink the waters of Chashmashahi, but you get a stomachache. Who could possibly match up to you?

Not for nothing is Anwar Miyaan known as the raja of repartee, Absolutely right Bhabhi, true till the sixteenth anna! I get to hear the music of the waterfall in your voice. When you talk to me, your laughter refreshes my soul. Then tell me, Bhabhijan, why should I leave the gali and go anywhere else to find joy?

Never mind what Anwar Miyaan says, you can’t deny the truth forever.

The houses in the gali are stacked against each other in shoulder-rubbing intimacy. Something’s going on in this house! What’s cooking in that kitchen? This one’s bahu—is she any good, that one’s daughter—she’s up to something? Just take a peek from any courtyard, window or skylight and find out so that your stomach doesn’t get into a twist. Why did our elders not leave even a few yards of space between these houses when they were building them?

There is an instant, readymade rejoinder, Arre Bhai, let those people who want to hide from each other worry about distance and space. If there are no facing windows, you simply remove a few bricks from your kitchen wall so that you create a peep hole. How else will you exchange special dishes? If someone is taken ill, you just stick your head into the opening and call and watch how quickly people will turn up to give you whatever help you need. There are other reasons too. Whispers and confidences exchanged among the women and shared secrets about the family’s izzat….

Take the case of Himaali’s bahu who went into labour after midnight. Now was Himaali supposed to rouse the men out of bed and broadcast this piece of news? Does it make sense to ruin the sleep of the men, tired after a hard day’s work? In any case, the men are good only to fuss, it is the women who actually bear children. That is why Himaali called out softly to Satwant from her doorway. Satwant ran to call Noora dai. Noora dai arrived with her kit, rubbing her eyes, with her phiran worn inside out. When Chunni bahu’s tiny son wailed his way into the world is when the men were startled out of their beds. As if it were a miracle and before any questions were raised, all the women came smiling with blessings and congratulations!

All these stories may seem absurd but they hold a deeper meaning.

Young men sprouting scraggly hair on their upper lip might like to call this poking your nose into other people’s business or whatever, but the truth is, a neighbour who does not share your joys and sorrows is no neighbour.

But the fact is that it is dark. Ratni is not wrong. The people who live here have grown used to it. If a stranger comes to the gali, he is bound to stumble at least five times before he has walked ten paces. This has actually happened often.

A romantic young couple, on a magical quest for beauty happened to pass through the gali. Master ji thinks they were part of some Marxist group who wanted to get an insider’s view of the back alleys of paradise. The wife, who was taking careful steps on very high heels slipped in the sticky slush so badly that her slender waist hula hooped a hundred times! Somebody must have thrown some slimy muck on the road. They, poor things, are slaves to habit. Somebody looked out of one window and soon every window framed many animated faces. Many pairs of glinting eyes and ringing catcalls. The unfortunate wife was so embarrassed that she angrily shook off her partner’s hand even as he tried to help her up.

People say that not only did she twist her ankle, she began throwing up because of the awful stench. She took tetanus shots and swore off the alleys of paradise forever. Gule Hauzi carried all the gossip back to the gali because they had hired his boat for their excursion.

Reactions from the gali were varied, Must be a woman who keeps her eyes fixed on the sky when she walks. How can you have such a bad fall in the middle of the afternoon? As for her vomiting, she must have been a vegetarian from U. P or M. P. She must have been overpowered by the smell of fish. This wretch, Phata, she must spread her catch right across the gali!

Sansarchand Purohit smiled as he shook his head, There are so many wealthy seths and sethanis who come to our temple to pray. They’ll give away hundreds of rupees in the name of God but they will eat only dal and porridge! It’s such a wonder! How does their liver digest so much dal?

Dayaram Master solemnly added, Indeed, there are these dal-daliya eaters here and snake-frog eaters in China-Japan. There are all kinds of people in the universe. The ephemeral, wispy heroines of Bihari and tough, leathery-skinned blades like you and me.

"Oh, call them tender beauties, nazneens, Master sahib, nazneens! Lahaul Bila-koowat! glinted Anwar Bhai, there is no dearth of beauties in this world created by Allah, the pure! Talk veered back to the wife with the twisted ankle. I took a look at her, said Anwar Miyaan appreciatively, Ah! She looked like Majnu’s rib, her waist could not have been more than four fingers wide. Miyaan Lal Bujhakkad could not hold on to her. Poor thing, twisted her knee. Master sahib had told us about that real princess who couldn’t sleep for a pea under a hundred mattresses, she reminded me of her."

Maheepa was rather regretful that he had missed seeing this nazneen, this real princess.

The women showed no interest in this elaborate description of the wife. They merely said that if someone will not use their eyes they are bound to stumble. What is so exceptional about that? Ratni did add a few things such as, She must have thrown up and had a headache. Our gali is like no other place in the world. There is all kinds of rubbish strewn all over. Nobody has the time to think about cleaning up the gali when everyone must first gossip about the whole wide world and then give their considered opinion on the political situation also. And if that weren’t enough, there is the darkness that is not dispelled even by the mid-day sun…

It gets dark everywhere once night falls. In the big markets or winding narrow alleys. The tall transparent fronts of the Bombay Dyeing showroom or Ganpat’s squat provision shop with its untidy thatch; the darkness spares neither.

As the picturesque lake tucked away among the high mountains is shrouded in darkness, the wavelets shiver with dread. The swaying reeds and the water weeds move restlessly, confined by its darkened canvas like a frightened man’s fast beating heart. It does not matter that the mercury bulbs on the boulevard remain lit all night bravely in the face of the dark The little specks of light dancing on the surface of the water only bring the overwhelming darkness into sharper focus.

And this gali? Packed tightly with little dwellings made of bricks and lime under the bare sky. There is not a tree to be seen for miles around it, to say nothing of mountains. In spite of numerous bulbs being fixed on electric poles hung with untidy squiggles of tangled wire, not even a thin sliver of light dares show its face. How can it? After all that can only happen if the bulbs stay on the pole.

Master Dayaram sits among his friends on the fourth floor of Arjunnath Arzinawis’s sitting room and declaims, Dark ness is dark, dear Sir! Death and darkness do not make a distinction between the haves and have nots!

Master Dayaram talks in aphorisms. He thinks he has a right to do so. He has a secure perch as one of the educated, learned elders of the gali. But there are times when aphorisms lose their meaning and degenerate into clichés. Master ji is not aware of this, or maybe he is, but is loath to admit to it in company. He is a bit of a kainyan, a stick in the mud.

Darkness has grades and nuances here. Most people can see the dark, but in Ailan gali you can actually touch it. It terrorises you as if it were a living deity, armed with knuckle dusters. Even thieves quail in the face of this darkness, to say nothing of ordinary men. You think this is funny? Or hard to believe? Avatara also did not believe it, when he was very young. But as he grew somewhat older, he would hold his father, Sansarchand Purohit’s finger tightly after they had locked the temple doors. Painted faces of ghostly thieves seemed to flash before his eyes on every corner. He felt his breath choke in his throat. If he let go of Bapu’s hand, and that thug swathed in a blanket from head to toe grabbed him at the corner, then where would he be?

Avatara’s little heart thudded like a piston. His legs felt as if they would crumple. It is not a happy secret but many times, he would wet his pyjamas. Then Sansarchand would tell his son to be brave. He would tell him stories. The gali is rich in stories. A thousand stories, countless incidents, once someone got started, the listener would begin drooping, and soon the narrator too!

Bapu had narrated one such tale to Avatara. Of Mai’s bravery, something that happened years ago. Before Avatara was born. Many years had gone by, but no thief has shown so much as a hair in the gali again.

It was the night of Yagya Amavasya, or Khichdi Amavasya. Delicious, steaming khichdi with moong dal and rice and lots of ghee is cooked in most households. Along with it there is fish curry, mutton kalia, rogan josh and more, according to each family’s custom. The people in the gali also made khichdi and the accompanying menu was a fair indication of their means. Sansarchand’s wife, Arundhati served the khichdi—along with fish, meat, pickle in a pattal with raised corners—and kept it in the courtyard. This plate is kept in some corner of the house for the household deity. They say that Yaksharaj or the household deity go around to all the houses and wherever they find pure khichdi, untouched by any other creature, they are pleased to accept it as prasad. In return, they send Goddess Lakshmi to that house. If they do not find a pattal, they leave in anger. Henceforth, it is impossible for Lakshmi’s feet to find their way to this house and there are many stories about the misfortunes that befall its inmates. Anyhow!

Dayaram Master ji narrates a different story altogether. He says, according to Neelmat Purana, that a caste of dacoits called Yakshas plagued the lives of the people in the valley in ancient times. The dacoits came and plundered the valley at will. The people held consultations and sent a message inviting them on Pausha Amavasya when they would be fed well, and asked them to stop indulging in pillage and destruction. That is why this plate full of food is left out for the Yakshas. This tradition continues although the Yakshas don’t come; it is the mice and cats who get to eat the food!

Sansarchand is a devout man. His feelings are hurt when someone says that mice and cats eat the food. But Master ji is an educated man, he knows his history and science, that is why his interpretation is bound to be dif ferent from that of an ordinary person. For the moment, the story is that Sansarchand remained busy on that Khichdi Amavasya until midnight performing ceremonies with his various clients. He had to perform prayer ceremonies in many households. In the homes of devout Brahmins steeped in tradition and sanskaras they understood the meaning of the slokas and the recitation. Therefore they would be pleased enough to offer dakshina only after the ceremony started with Shuklambardaram vishnum and concluded with Om Jai Jagdish Hare, from the Ganesh Stuti to the Arati, when all the deities had been duly propitiated. Arundhati knew how busy her husband was, so she put the children to bed and lay down herself to catch a nap until he returned.

Suddenly around midnight, Arundhati heard the sound of footsteps in her sleep. This can only be Yakshraj, she thought to herself. She thought of Mother Lakshmi and sent up a prayer to her with folded hands and then concentrated on the footsteps of the devata in her house. He enters, opens the door softly, thap, thap, thap you can hear his footsteps advance. Now, he will pick up a mouthful of food from the pattal, now…Arundhati cannot control her curiosity any more. She must get a glimpse of this divine form, the darshan of Yakshadevata. His face will be divinely beautiful and radiant! Will he have four hands or eight? Which hand will he use to accept the prasad? She got up very quietly and moved towards the courtyard. What a brave woman! But what is this? Why does Yaksharaj need to open her wooden trunk? He is the Giver himself, then why this thief-like act?

Arundhati is not literate but she is a woman of sharp intelligence. Warning bells clanged in her head. This man covered in a blanket from head to toe could not be Yaksharaj. She felt sure of this. She padded silently back to her room. Immediately, she pulled Sansarchand’s phiran over her head. She planted one of his turbans on her head firmly. Pulling loudly on the hookah, she pinched Jawa and Makhna so hard that they whined in their sleep and then woke up and began to bawl loudly. Putting on her best male voice she called out to a few imaginary servants, Mehde, Gulab, where are all of you? Top up my hookah, I can’t sleep.

Arundhati switched on the light. She banged the window open. The black blanketed thief was about to beat a retreat after hearing all the noise when Arundhati pulled at his leg with all her strength. Before he could shake her off, she sank her sharp teeth into his leg. Jawa and Makhana were wide awake by now and they shrieked, chor-chor for all they were worth.

Lights went on instantly in all the houses. Half clad men and women left their warm beds and hanging out from various doors and windows challenged the thief. The brotherhood of the gali was on full display. Anwar Miyaan heard the shouting and screaming and scrambled forth in such haste that he realised only at the doorway that he should have knotted his tehmad before appearing in public! In a panic, the thief rushed headlong through a window mistaking it for a door, and fell three floors down in the gali on stony ground. His head split open and he died instantly.

This saga barely escaped reaching the police station. The whole town was agog with the news of the thief’s death. Never mind what people said but the thief lost his life. That was regrettable. A murder in the house of a Brahmin! Arundhati had to perform penance. But the final consequences were quite positive. Thieves across the town were terrified. They were in mortal dread of the gali.

Rumour had it that in a meeting of thieves, it was said that a certain gali was most inauspicious—any thief who set foot there did so at his own peril. Man-killer amazons like Arundhati lived there.

This piece of news was carried into the gali by Anwar Miyaan. It was also heard that the thieves were hell bent on revenge. One of their men had lost his life. But for some odd reason, Anwar Miyaan stuck to this version. Anwar Miyaan is like nobody else. Whether it is a thief or a mendicant, Salamaleikum and Ram-Ram to both. This man of Allah is a very mysterious character. He was missing from his house for eight hours that day. He returned after night fell and called some of the elders of the mohalla for a meeting in Arjunnath Arzinawis’s sitting room. Many words were exchanged and he reported that thieves had taken some decisions in their meeting.

Everybody could not help but be impressed, especially, Arjunnath Arzinawis. He was anyway obsessed with the safety of his heavy iron trunk with a double lock.

Anwar Miyaan removed an imaginary sliver with a toothpick and began, Brothers and respected elders, no thief is going to dare to set foot in our gali again. I’ve settled the matter.

What matter? What do you mean? How? Obviously, he had to field a lot of questions.

Anwar Miyaan cleared his throat and shifted his weight, Now listen to me brothers, whether thieves or pickpockets, or criminals or decent folk like you and me, we are all human beings!

Sure, we are all created by God!

That is so, no doubt! the five wise men, the Panches, collectively nodded in agreement.

Now, these men, they also have needs like you and me! Anwar Miyaan sought to reinforce his position before he was bombarded with questions.

Hm…

I’m not talking about very big needs…. Two square meals of dal-roti, sag-bhat…. Not even meat and chicken! After all, we all work to fill our stomachs. Isn’t that so?

Dayaram Master ji listened to the average drift of Anwar Miyaan’s words but could not tease out any meaning. He said impatiently, Anwar Miyaan, what you say is true one hundred per cent. I won’t go so far as to say that you are acting as a broker for the thieves but have you ruined my sleep to repeat these clichés?

Anwar Miyaan stroked his beard as a thin smile played on his lips, "I plead guilty, Master ji, of ruining your sleep. But such discourtesy was unavoidable as Nabi Seth will come to me before