The Death of Sheherzad

By Intizar Hussain

'Intizar Husain's stories often tread that twilight zone between fable and parable. His narratives are spun on an oriental loom' - Keki N. Daruwalla A man scours the town he left fifty years ago for some little evidence of past joys. Javed, who's returned to Lahore from East Pakistan, won't speak of what he witnessed 'there'. An old woman boards a train full of dead ancestors in her dreams. A sage who cannot control his anger must seek out a butcher for redemption. Mahaban, home of the monkeys once, is now a city full of human beings. Sheherzad, who once told Emperor Shaharyar a thousand-and-one stories, is now an old woman who has forgotten her yarns of fantasy. The stories in The Death of Sheherzad ably represent Intizar Husain's oeuvre, defying narrative tradition and exploring the past, specifically Partition, as a means of unravelling the present. He imaginatively revisits a syncretic, tolerant pluralistic past to analyse why the tide turned so irreversibly. Questioning everything - faith, violence, society - Husain probes the horrors of Partition in a manner as oblique as it is trenchant. Imbued with dark wit and literary brilliance, these stories at once shock, agitate and entertain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperPerennial
• Release date: Jul 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9789351362883

Intizar Hussain

Intizar Husain was born in the United Provinces, India, on 21 December 1925. He emigrated to Pakistan in 1947 and lives in Lahore. A chronicler of change, Husain has written five novels and published seven collections of short stories. Naya Ghar (The New House) paints a picture of Pakistan during the ten-year dictatorship of General Zia-ul-Haq. Agay Sumandar Hai (Beyond Lies theSea) contrasts the spiralling urban violence of contemporary Karachi with a vision of the lost Islamic realm of al-Andalus in modern Spain, and will be published in English translation by HarperCollins in 2015. Basti, his 1979 novel, which traces the psychic history of Pakistan through the life of one man, Zakir, has just been republished as a New York Review of Books Classic. He was nominated for the Man Booker International Prize in 2013. Dr Rakhshanda Jalil is a writer, critic and literary historian. She has edited three collections of short stories: Urdu Stories (Srishti, 2002), a selection by Pakistani women writers called Neither Night Nor Day (HarperCollins, 2007) and New Urdu Writings: From India & Pakistan (Westland, 2013); a collection of essays on the little-known monuments of Delhi, called Invisible City (Niyogi, 2008, revised third edition 2011); two co-authored books, Partners in Freedom: Jamia Millia Islamia (Niyogi, 2006) and Journey to a Holy Land: A Pilgrim's Diary (OUP, 2009). She was co-editor of Third Frame, a journal devoted to literature, culture and society brought out by the Cambridge University Press. She has edited and introduced a volume of essays entitled Qurratulain Hyder and the River of Fire: The Meaning, Scope and Significance of her Legacy (Aakar, 2010; and Oxford University Press, Karachi, 2010). She has published eight works of translations: Premchand's short stories entitled The Temple and the Mosque (HarperCollins, 1992; revised and enlarged 2011); a collection of satirical writing in Hindi by Asghar Wajahat entitled Lies: Half Told (Srishti, 2002); 32 satirical cameos by Saadat Hasan Manto entitled Black Borders (Rupa & Co., 2003); Through the Closed Doorway, nazms by Urdu poet Shahryar (Rupa & Co. 2004); short stories by Intizar Husain entitled Circle and Other Stories (Rupa & Co. 2004; Sange-Meel, Lahore, 2012); a collection of Premchand's short stories for children called A Winter's Tale and Other Stories (Puffin, 2007);Naked Voices and other Stories, a collection of stories and sketches by Saadat Hasan Manto translated by her from Urdu (Roli, 2008); and Panchlight and Other Stories by Hindi writer Phanishwarnath Renu (Orient Blackswan, 2010). Her PhD thesis, 'Progressive Writers' Movement as Reflected in Urdu Literature', has been published by Oxford University Press as Liking Progress, Loving Change (2014). Another book, a biography of Urdu feminist writer Dr Rashid Jahan, has been published by Women Unlimited under the title A Rebel and her Cause (2014). With over fift een books behind her and over fi ft y academic papers at seminars and conferences, at present she contributes regularly to national and international newspapers and magazines, writes book reviews, opinion pieces and travelogues, and appears on television to talk about culture, literature and society. She also contributes regularly to Himal (Kathmandu), The Herald (Karachi) and The Friday Times (Lahore), apart from The Hindu, Biblio, The Literary Review, etc., in India. Her debut collection of fiction, Release & Other Stories, was published by HarperCollins in 2011, and received critical acclaim. At present, she is engaged in a study of Indian secularism. She also runs an organization called Hindustani Awaaz, devoted to the popularization of Hindi-Urdu literature and culture, and blogs at www.hindustaniawaaz-rakhshanda.blogspot.com and another at IBN Live.

Book preview

The Death of Sheherzad

INTIZAR HUSAIN

Translated from the Urdu by

RAKHSHANDA JALIL

NEW YORK • LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY • NEW DELHI • AUCKLAND

To Najmi

Contents

Circle

Sleep

Captive

Those Who Are Lost

The Wall

Reserved Seat

Clouds

Needlessly

The Sage and the Butcher

Noise

Between Me and the Story

The Death of Sheherzad

Dream and Reality

The Story about the Monkeys of the Big Forest

The Last Man

PS

About the Author and Translator

Copyright

Circle

¹

It is as though someone is urging me to rake the ashes. Compelled, I sit down to sift the fifty-year-old ashes. What is left to explore? But I have the bad habit of scouring the past. Some dusty alleys, some half-grimy faces, some voices, a mildewed parapet, a tumbled-down turret, a few trees, birds – that’s all that appears in my mind’s eye. Gradually, a tableau unfolds: a shop front, some people sitting and chatting on the shop’s stoop, the shopowner standing behind a huge cauldron of milk, stirring its boiling contents with a ladle. The scene is straight out of my very first story. It comes back to me now with the realization that something is lacking here. In fact, this isn’t the story I had wanted to write. Most important of all, the main character is missing from this story. Qayyuma was not the central figure of this story.

It was someone else. I don’t know how I could have forgotten that while writing my story. I remember it now, fifty years later. I can clearly remember that whole set of characters and that group of people sitting and chatting at the shop front. Those days my mind had become so hazy. It is only now, after so many years, that my memory has become nimble again. Now, those pictures are emerging clearly before my eyes.

Should I rewrite the story I had written fifty years ago? I remember something that Karn had said. In the forests of Khando, Arjun had slain the serpent that was Ashwasen’s mother. When Karn aimed his arrow at Arjun, Ashwasen thought it was a good opportunity to avenge his mother’s death. He slithered up from the bowels of the earth and wrapped himself around Karn’s arrow. But by a single stroke, Lord Krishan caused Karn’s chariot to get stuck in the mud at that very moment, and Karn’s arrow went to naught. The serpent, Ashwasen, beseeched Karn to let him entwine himself once again around his arrow and shoot Arjun once more. But Karn said he did not believe in re-using an arrow that had once left his bow. If the arrow was wasted, so be it; that was its destiny. I am lost in thought … should I attempt to rewrite the story that has been squandered already? After much dilly-dallying, I make up my mind. Karn’s words went away with him. I must attempt to write that story once again.

No, now this story has gotten away from you. Now someone else will write it.

I hear these words and am confounded. Where did these words come from? Who said them? Did they come from within the story or from one of its dramatis personae? Well, never mind. Someone else can also write this story. But it must be written once again. Who will write it? Anybody else can do the job. I wasn’t the only one who was present at the time. There were scores of others. Though everyone else had left at some point or the other, save for that one person. So, who will be the ‘other’? I am the only ‘other’. Now, I shall write this story. Yes, I. Even though I am one of those who left; all the others have made new homes in new lands. I was the only one who never found peace and tranquility. Sometimes I am seized by doubt. Have I left that place or not? It seems as though that other person has got left behind, and the rest have all come here. And I, I am neither here nor there. Like a restless spirit. Anyhow, I am not about to tell my story here. I have to tell the story of the person who is the central character of that story.

Before I begin my story, I must first outline the map of that town for you. But before I explain that to you, you too must understand that towns are not just about geography; neither are they just a cluster of dwellings rooted in solid earth. A part of them is on the ground, the rest inside one’s mind and soul. And that is why there is no point in giving the geographical name of that town. Of course, you can see the town as it stands with your eyes, but there is far more to it than that which meets the eye. I have seen the town in so many guises that I have started calling it Guisetown.² And what a town it was! I mean, on the surface it was like any other town, colourless and drab, as is the destiny of all small towns. There used to be such a crowd in the grocer’s market. The air would be heavy with the pungent smell of asafoetida. Sacks of asafoetida, turmeric, chilly and salt would be piled inside the shops. You could find everything there. When pulao or qorma had to be cooked at home for special guests, I would buy cardamom, mace, nutmeg and saffron wrapped in scraps of paper from this very market. But the big market would be even more crowded, what with bales of cotton stacked in piles and carts laden with grain and slabs of raw jaggery jostling for space. And such a crowd of buyers that God save you from that crush of people! It wasn’t so much the buyers as the slabs of jaggery that took up all the space. And among them were sparrows and pigeons, also a few partridges. If you wanted to see a bigger crowd, you could go to the open-air market beside the pond. The place was so full of dirt that by evening a film of dust coated the radishes, turnips, cauliflowers, cabbages, pumpkins, spinach, potatoes and an assortment of greens and vegetables.

The pond would be full of water only during the monsoon. What a large and deep pond that was, with steps on all sides. It looked like a large overflowing sea. In the monsoons, its water became green. In the summer, its water sank to the lowest step, and clouds of dust billowed all around it as the water completely disappeared. In its dry days, the pond was distinguished by the two bulls that were usually found standing inside it. One was a dirty white, the other black. They stood in splendid silence: one on the right edge of the pond, the other on the far left. The dirty white bull was more fretful; he would begin to snort and paw for no reason. Sometimes he would rush towards the big market, snorting and hissing. He had such an awesome presence, the crowd would part, like a layer of algae on the surface of a pond, and he would rush through with complete disregard. Sometimes the black bull too would get restless. He would get out of the pond with measured, imperious steps and walk, snorting and bellowing all the way, towards the grocer’s market, and then towards the open market and the gaggle of small shops.

Talking about the cluster of shops reminds me that once the two bulls had come face to face with each other here. It had seemed like the end of the world. There they stood, with their horns locked in mortal combat. How far the white bull had pushed the black one! But when the black bull pushed back, all the sweet-laden trays at Mitthan Lal’s halwai shop were overturned. So you can imagine.

Mitthan Lal was one of a kind. His gujiya was so fantastic that peda-makers from Mathura and Badayun would come to kiss his hands. How grand his shop looked on the eve of Diwali. Trays laden with sweets rose in tiers from the floor to the ceiling. You could find just about every type of sweet here – from gujiya to tangani.

And what could you find at Qayyuma’s shop? Only pedas. And those too were no match for Mitthan Lal’s pede and gujiya. Anyway, this was not a marketplace. This was the only shop in front of Hafiz-ji’s chaupal. So there was never any hustle-bustle here. Though, every six months or so, or on special occasions, you could hear the cry ‘Ram naam satya hai, Ram naam satya hai’. And a dead body would be rushed by on its funeral pyre. Following close behind would be a group of Hindu mourners, clutching the firewood for the pyre and chanting their prayers for the dead. This was a Muslim neighbourhood, but still nothing much could be done since the way to the cremation ground went through this mohalla. No other Hindu procession or party ever came this way. Hindu marriage parties, which were led by horses festooned with kite-paper and tinsel streamers, would come right up till the edge of the lane, then turn left towards the Red Temple Lane. The wedding procession of Ramchandarji would also duck into this lane. All those who sat on Qayyuma’s shop front had to get up and come to the edge of the lane to watch the elephant with the red and yellow checks painted on its forehead carrying the howdah in which Raja Ramchandar-ji, the groom, and Sita-ji, his bride, sat dressed in their wedding finery. All those who wanted to play Holi also took the same route.

The largest of all Hindu parades and pageants was Ramchandar-ji’s wedding procession. Only one other procession had been bigger than that. That had been when Master Piyare Lal had courted arrest. There had been such a crowd here, and such an angry one at that, that had they stormed the police station they would have torn the policemen from limb to limb. The police, too, had their guns trained. Master Piyare Lal had paused before entering the police station and addressed the crowd. ‘Friends, don’t forget the words of Mahatma Gandhi. We don’t talk about an armed revolution; we only advocate non-violence. This is what Gandhi-ji has taught us. This is our belief and therein lies the key to the success and happiness of our people. Mahatma Gandhi ki …’ And the crowd roared ‘Jai!’ The air was rent with jubilant cries of ‘Inquilab Zindabad!’ and ‘Mahatma Gandhi ki Jai!’ Master Piyare Lal folded his hands and said ‘Namaste’ to the crowd and entered the police station. The massive iron-barred gate clanged shut behind him. After the historic battle of the bulls, this was the second major event in the lives of those who lived here.

Only one procession went past Qayyuma’s shop. And it wasn’t a particularly large one either. It was the procession of the saint Shah Madaar’s rods. They weren’t exactly rods. There would be just one long staff-like thing, as long as the tallest alam. It would be carried to the accompaniment of drums and cymbals. A dervish-looking person would walk alongside, wearing green robes. He had long, unkempt hair and wore a yellow and red string around his neck. He was the keeper of Shah Madaar’s shrine. He would plant the staff in front of Uncle Farooq’s gate. The drums and cymbals would begin to beat furiously. And some kind soul would come and start distributing malida.

There, I nearly forgot to tell you about the big procession. The zuljinah procession took the same route too. After all, the way to the Karbala also went through here. If you went straight ahead, you reached the ruined Chamunda. If you turned left and walked up a little, you could see the moss-covered spires of Karbala. But let me not talk about Karbala now. If I go that way again, I will never return. But there is no harm in going towards the Chamunda. I used to roam around a lot near its ruined ramparts. I have kicked dust from here till the little bridge on many a scorching afternoon. Drained by the heat and unable to take another step, I would often go and sit on the roof of the Chamunda temple where an ancient peepal tree gave respite from the relentless sun. This was the only sheltering tree for miles around. Not a single banyan, mango or tamarind tree grew in this wilderness. The ruins of Chamunda further added to its desolation. It must have been a large temple a long time ago, but time had not been kind to it. A few broken-down, moss-encrusted walls and a roof were all that remained. Under the roof was an idol that, as far as I could remember, had not seen any fresh offerings of flowers. Behind it stretched the eerie stillness of the cremation ground. One never knew when a corpse was brought here or when it was burnt. At least on those blistering afternoons, one never saw another human being around. Though, if you sat under the shade of the peepal tree on the roof of the Chamunda, you could see a few ploughmen in the distance, digging at the base of the yellow dunes and loading the dun-coloured earth onto donkeys. From this vantage point, that scene looked like it belonged to some other world. You never ever saw another human face near the ruined temple. There would be just us and a few monkeys dangling from the branches of the peepal tree. But we were never scared. It was only at night, when we heard the call of the jackals coming from the direction of the Chamunda, that we were frightened. In the silence of the night, their howling could make my heart thud with terror as I lay in bed. Listening to those calls, I used to imagine that all the jackals from the neighbouring jungles had gathered atop the Chamunda and were baying with their snouts turned towards our homes.

It was only once that I had felt scared during the day. But I wasn’t the only one. There were a whole lot of us. On a blistering hot afternoon, we