Dancing with Shadows

By Shiraz Pradhan

Scientific determinism, Tarot cards, Cinema, Music, Love, and Quantum Physics. The narrator negotiates love, murder, and war in this captivating philosophical journey. Pradhan is exceptional in showing the narrator's holistic approach to understanding.

Quantum physics and love. A united theory of everything? It is an idealistic adolescent goal, and this is what makes Dancing with Shadows so interesting. This is a coming of age story of a young man in East Africa whose intuition tells him that these things are all connected. In his growing self-awareness and world weariness, he is obsessed with connecting the dots of his life in order to reveal some profound significance (i. e. the "music of God"). Who hasn't pondered such questions? How is my life unique or significant? How much more would life mean to me if I understood, say, the music of God...and what is the music of God?

Although he is a young man continually preoccupied with sex and love, he is essentially a philosopher. He wants to understand things such as the life application of a quantum wave collapse or the difference between sex and love. This story is a Hamlet-esque self-portrait in his constant questioning. It echoes the uncertain and awkward, yet outwardly confident manner of Holden Caulfield. But above all, this story made me think of the kind quest for mystical self-importance that I recall from Joyce's narrator in "Araby."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482835953

Shiraz Pradhan

Shiraz Pradhan was born in Uganda and attended universities in Kenya and USA attaining graduate and postgraduate degrees in Engineering and Mechanics. He is a practicing professional engineer and had resided in Canada, USA, Japan, and Singapore and is currently living in London, UK, with his family. He has previously published essays on philosophy and mysticism and has written for technical publications. This is his debut novel.

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Copyright © 2014 by Shiraz Pradhan.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

All the characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental. Jerusha and Pala have no geographical specificity.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Acknowledgements

Circles of Life

Garrison Hill

Fate: Not in my Scientific Dictionary

Garrison Hill

Stupidity of Juniors: Bang of KMLs

Violence… Fire… Cataclysm

Birthday Promise

Broken– Head to Toe

We Only Remember the Past– I

The Meeting with 007

Green Ford

Yet another Circle of Life?

Confessions

We Only Remember the Past– II

More Trials of Love Await You

MG and the Lady with Marble-White Thighs

Joan of Arc

Build Up to CID Release

Spring of First Love?

Gama Garrison and Beyond

Bonfire of Love

Back to Green Ford

We Only Remember the Past– III

The Aftermath of the KML Affair

Back to Filmfare

Back in Green Ford

The Ghost of Somero Square

Don’t Stand and Stare

The Arrow of Time

End of the Dark Night of Despair

Mumtaj Mahal

The End of an Affair

Congruence of Events

Back in Green Ford

Nairobi – The Star of Africa

You Touched My Heart

We Are Who We Are!

Israeli Spy

Garrison Hill

The Land of the Rising Sun

Pieces of a Jigsaw Puzzle

Japanese Rainbow– Azul’s Version

Glossary

Dancing with Shadows

To Mariam

If you can’t smell the fragrance

Don’t come into the garden of Love

If you are unwilling to undress

Don’t come in the stream of Truth

(Rumi)

Acknowledgements

M y special thanks to Shabir Dhanani and Khatoon Noonan for their editorial comments. It was their interest in my work that gave me the encouragement to continue with my effort. I thank Saroj D. Ellis for her tireless effort and valuable editorial comments on the first draft of my work. My thanks to Tajdin and Zahra Pradhan, Ramik and Bharti Dattani, Ashwin Raichura, Rahim Hami, and Aleem Nasser for their valuable comments and suggestions on various aspects of the book during its formative stages. I specially thank Ormond Noonan, William Crisp, and Indravadan Patel for sketches, photographs, and design of the book cover. I have consulted Wikipedia extensively during the formative stage of the book for ideas on various subjects including Urdu Poetry, Gazals , Indian Classical Music, Hindu Trinity, and Krishna. For concept of Udhric, I have consulted The Passion of al Hallaj by Louis Massignon, Princeton University Press. The quotation of Rumi is taken from an Internet site ‘Write Spirit Sharing – Ancient Wisdom and Modern Inspirations’. The poem by Amir Khusro is a free translation of the original recited to me by Ashraf Kabuli many years ago. The images used in the cover design are in the public domain and/or meet the US Fair Use definition per US Copy Right and Wikipedia web sites. To my wife Mariam and my daughters Shainila and Yasmin go my thanks for their critical assessments of my work which encouraged me to try and excel.

Shiraz Pradhan was born in Uganda and attended universities in Kenya and USA attaining graduate and postgraduate degrees in Engineering and Mechanics. He is a practicing professional engineer and had resided in Canada, USA, Japan, and Singapore and is currently living in London, UK, with his family. He has previously published essays on philosophy and mysticism and has written for technical publications. This is his debut novel.

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Circles of Life

I t was the day that would decide if USA had the supremacy in space. NASA was to launch the Mercury Rocket. Unable to contain my excitement, I was up early waiting to catch the blast-off commentary on the radio. Jeff sat by the old Phillips shortwave radio, chewing on his lower lip, reading an old copy of The Telegraph, and listening to the muffled news commentary on BBC World Service. He was oblivious of me. All at once, he dropped The Telegraph , walked to the patio door, and flung it open. Fragrance of ylang-ylang filled the breakfast room. Jeff usually got a burst of energy in the mornings. He rushed out and sprinkled birdfeed by the garden shed. A squadron of birds swooped in from the trees nearby to feed on these. I thought Jeff would come back in. Instead, he disappeared behind the mass of bougainvillea which covered the granite rocks that stood like guards at the back of our garden. Behind it stretched the deep green of Suwakaki Forest. Droves of bees buzzed around the blooms of African Tulips and Moons near the garden shed, adding to the hiss from Jeff’s radio and the hum of the bicycles of workers rushing to work on Zanzibar Road. A pair of ducks, the newest residents of our garden, quacked their way across the lawn to get their fair share of morning feed. No one knew where these had come from. Henna, who was a walking Encyclopaedia, had said that these were falcated ducks from India and were migrating to South Africa. ‘No way, sis,’ I had told her, ‘look at their green necks. These are from Canada.’ Henna was unprepared to back down. ‘In that case, did they fly here on Air Canada?’ she had asked.

Wherever they had come from, the ducks took up residence in the pond by the hen house, to the delight of Rehmat. From the way they quacked and roamed around the garden, it did not appear that they were leaving for South Africa anytime soon, which was fine with Rehmat. ‘They will soon have ducklings,’ she had said and had asked me to erect a nylon net around the pond to ward off any predators. I did so, but had told her, ‘Ma, the way Simba is barking and running around them, they might be his evening meal one of these days.’ This had petrified Rehmat. ‘Good lord, he dare not,’ she had declared with the forcefulness of Pope Urban and had put the monkey on my back by saying, ‘from now on, it is your responsibility to keep Simba out of mischief.’

As the ducks waddled across the lawn Simba started pursuing them. I ran out, ‘No, Simba, leave them alone.’ I caught him and chained him by the doghouse. This distressed him, and he whimpered an apology, rubbing my leg with his head. ‘Then be good,’ I said and released him and went back to the breakfast room to find Azul having his breakfast. He was surprised to see me. ‘Son, why are you up early?’ Instead of answering him, I asked him, ‘Daddy, where are you going, smartly dressed?’

‘To Pala, for a business meeting. And what’s your answer?’

‘Oh, don’t you know, Daddy? Today is the most important event of the century. NASA is launching the Mercury Rocket for module tests and man will be on the moon in one year.’

‘One year?’

Just then Jeff walked in. ‘What is he on about, Daddy?’ he asked. Azul repeated what I had said.

‘Daddy,’ Jeff reacted, ‘on the moon within a year! I told you he imagines these things.’

‘No, Jeff, he has researched it well,’ Azul defended me. This made me feel good. Jeff and I were like cats and dogs. Ordinarily, I would have reacted angrily to Jeff’s name-calling. Lately, he had been propagating this myth about me being delusional. I remained calm. ‘Jeff, if you don’t stop name-calling, I will return the favour.’ My cool reaction confused him. I added more punch to my attack. ‘The only person delusional is you. My information is from the United States Information Service (USIS). What have you read to refute?’ He backed off. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘don’t take it so seriously.’

Azul gulped his tea, and said, ‘Son, keep me informed about the Mercury Mission.’

From that point on, Jeff stopped his propaganda for a while.

Dear Goldie Locks

Truth be told, if I did not have clarity of mind, I would have easily branded a hot afternoon incident in Suwakaki Forest behind our home, as a delusion. It was a strange experience. It happened during the week when Jerusha was gripped in a heat wave. The tar on an abandoned section of Mao Highway, which ran to the edge of a precipice, began to flow like a black river. This section of the Highway had become a drag race venue at night. Despite the treacherous road conditions during the heat wave, a gang of youths decided to race on it one night. One of the cars overturned, skidded some 300 yards, and hung precariously on the edge of the yawning precipice. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Jeff was there that night without Azul’s knowledge. At breakfast the next morning, he winked at me not to say anything. Jeff was multi-faced.

Jerusha was buzzing with news of the accident. During the afternoon, half the town converged to the accident site to witness the car being salvaged. Azul gave me strict instructions not to go there. To escape the heat, I took refuge in Suwakaki. I made my way through the leaf-litter, past a cluster of palm and almond trees to a gurgling brook close to a fig tree. This deep in the forest, it felt cool. I dipped my feet in the gently flowing waters of the brook and sat watching the kaleidoscopic dance of sunlight filtering through the canopy of Suwakaki, lighting up a clearing to my right like a stage. Suddenly, I heard the jingling of anklets. I heard someone humming a haunting tune. I turned around to see where it was coming from but could not tell. The jingle became louder and the humming more pronounced. Suddenly, I saw a girl dancing in the clearing bathed by sunlight where a few seconds ago there was none. The shafts of sunlight gave her silhouette a magical aura. Her sudden appearance seemed out of this world and startled me. A shiver ran through my spine. I pinched myself to make sure I was not dreaming. ‘Good gosh, where did you come from!?’ I asked. She ignored me and continued dancing and humming the haunting tune which was very familiar and which stirred up strange emotions in my heart. I could not quite recall the lyrics to the tune. My mind drew a blank on any memories associated with the tune, and emotions without associated memories were deeply disturbing.

‘What are you humming’ I asked. The girl stopped dancing and stepped closer. ‘Dear Goldie Locks,’ I pleaded, ‘lift the locks from your face and tell me.’ She did a whirl on her toes. Her hair fanned out. I was getting desperate by the second. ‘I am not telling,’ she replied. That was cheeky. ‘Why?’ I asked.

‘What, don’t you understand by I am not telling?’ she asked as she lifted her hand with air of a royalty and moved the locks covering her face. Her elegant move was deliberate. A beautiful, moon face emerged from behind the clouds. The tune that she had hummed had invaded the recesses of my heart like a sweet poison, and knowing what song it was, was the only antidote that would cure me. ‘Please tell me, what song is it?’

‘What will you give me if I sing the words?’

‘Anything you want.’

‘Anything?’

‘Yes, name it.’ She moved closer and pointed at my neck. ‘That chain and the pendant.’ I was intoxicated by my desire. A bargain was a bargain. I reluctantly unclasped the chain that I had worn for as long as I remembered and gave it to her. She took it gracefully, examined it, then turned, and ran. ‘Come find me if you can,’ she yelled. I was frozen. In the flash of a moment, she disappeared in the thick of Suwakaki, only the echoes of her laughter lingered. I was stunned.

I traced my steps back to our garden, startling Henna who was skipping under the mango tree. Someone had told her that skipping was the best way to maintain a trim figure. She stopped skipping. ‘Henna, did you see a girl run out of the forest?’ I asked.

‘What?’ Henna immediately rushed and felt my forehead. ‘Do you have a heat stroke?’

‘No.’

‘Then why are you asking about a girl running out of the forest? Which crazy girl would run out of the forest?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You silly boy, what girl are you dreaming of?’ I was embarrassed. Despite the oppressive heat, I hid in the garden shed for the rest of the afternoon. Towards the evening, dark clouds began to gather in the sky. Thunder and lightning followed. During dinner, the sky opened up, and it began to rain hard. Henna jumped up and clapped. ‘Hooray, Ma, can I go dancing in the rain?’ Rehmat had to curb her zeal. ‘Henna, sit and eat. Dancing in the rain… are you crazy?’ I ate quietly. Rehmat noticed that I was repeatedly putting my hand to my collar and pulling it up. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, Ma,’ I replied trying to keep a straight face. She came over to my side, pulled my collar, and examined my neck. ‘Where is your chain?’

‘Ehm… Ma, I think I lost it.’

‘Lost it? You careless boy, do you know what you lost? It was a family heirloom.’ She turned and looked at Azul. ‘Now, tell me what am I to do with your son?’ I had never seen Rehmat so exasperated. Azul continued to eat in silence, which incensed her. ‘Spoil him, and he will give away the whole house.’ Jeff looked at me disdainfully, Henna made a dismissive hand gesture, while, Salim, my younger brother, clapped gleefully. He was too young to understand everything that Rehmat was saying. All he understood was that Rehmat was chastising me. I sank in my chair with shame. Henna rubbed salt in my wound. ‘Ma, this afternoon he ran out of Suwakaki, talking about some girl.’

Jeff added insult to injury. He looked at Azul and asked, ‘Isn’t it too soon to dream about girls? I told you, Daddy, he is always dreaming. How often have you told him not to go to Suwakaki?’ Azul maintained his composure. ‘Let him eat in peace. You all are overwhelming him. That is unfair. We will talk about it some other time.’

Ecstasy of the Nine Spheres

I lumped my dinner as best as I could and returned to my annex, which was connected to our house through a vestibule lined with pots of orchids and overgrown lime and rubber plants interlaced with morning glories. During the day, sunshine, filtering through the latticed panes above, made the vestibule look like an enchanted garden. At night, it assumed a sombre appearance. This dramatic contrast gave flight to my imagination. At one time, Rehmat suggested trimming the plants, which were beginning to kiss the panes above. I reacted strongly against it. This surprised her. ‘Son, I didn’t realise you liked it so much.’

This personal universe of my annex and the vestibule leading to it, I had christened Uhuru, a word which in our part of the world had gained coinage as a paradisiacal state of freedom from the tyranny of the British Rule.

When I stepped in Uhuru, a rain-laden wind was howling in through an open window, which was banging against the wall. In the orange glow of the street lamps filtering in through dancing branches of the trees, the garden was like a grand cathedral celebrating midnight mass on Christmas Eve, with gusts of wind singing hymns through the trees and a wind chime ringing somewhere in the darkness. I stretched out to close the window, relishing the cool rain spray in my face. In the ochre glow of Uhuru light, I saw Simba shivering by his flooded doghouse. I put on my raincoat, grabbed a towel, and ran out to him. He was wet like a sponge. I guided him to the safety of the shed and dried him. He sat down on a dry rag and rested his head between his legs. As I left, he barked, thanking me.

The rain continued to pelt down with fury, and would continue to do so for the next three days, causing the great flash flood of Jerusha, which affected the area around the Town Hall. Years later, I would find that the aftermath of this flood was interwoven with my life.

I returned to Uhuru, dried myself, and lay down in my bed. Sleep eluded me. What a strange afternoon! I thought about the girl in the Suwakaki. Who was she? What melody was she humming?

Music had the magic of creating sweetness in the soul. I felt its vibrations deep in my heart. I always found charm and some unknown meaning to it. My earliest recollection of music was when I was very young, before we had electricity in the house. Every evening, I watched Jeff perform the ritual of lighting the Petromax. As the menthol of the Petromax became incandescent, by magic, ‘there was light’ and the world became translucent silver. This miracle never ceased to amaze me. Jeff then hung the Petromax like a chandelier in the dining room. Dinner was enjoyed in regal fashion under this blazing light.

Once dinner was concluded, the Petromax was extinguished, and we sat talking in the glow of a kerosene lantern, while Jeff tuned his new, battery-powered Phillips shortwave radio to the Overseas Service of All India Radio, which commenced with news followed by a ‘music hour’ during which, on the canvass of the night, enlivened by the dull orange glow of the lantern, Lata Mangeshkar, the nightingale of Indian cinema, conjured up strands of music and weaved an enchanting garland of Indian film songs, until I felt as if I saw music. Its sweet wavelets floated in my mind like little fairies and then in a procession, a carriage drawn by colourful butterflies delivered me to the bosom of sleep.

Radio became a powerful tool that connected me to this world of music. In those early, lantern-lighted nights, there was a picture of a man wearing a Turkish fez and holding a packet of cigarette, hanging above the radio. In the dim lantern glow I had strange ideas about where the music was coming from, and I always thought that the man in the Turkish fez had something to do with it. I had seen his lips move. When I told Jeff about it, he laughed. ‘Silly boy, you are dreaming. It is an advertisement poster of Clipper Cigarettes.’

I believe it was from this time that Jeff thought I was delusional. For me from that time music became a conduit between deep mystery of the heart and intense joy.

Years later, in my limited understanding of reality, it dawned on me that events did not happen in isolation. There was a connectedness to them. There was a method to the madness and that my early ideas of music were building blocks of what was to come. The Universe had a way of charting out a road map from this confused jumble of events. A year before my encounter with the mysterious girl in Suwakaki, during the year-end primary school Variety Show, an event happened that had a great deal to do with the mysterious girl and the unknown melody she had hummed in Suwakaki.

It was a grand send-off evening for the junior graduating class. We chatted excitedly, enjoying cakes and sodas and comparing notes with our classmates as to who was in the science and who was in the arts stream in the big world of secondary school. Majority of girls fared badly, being assigned to the arts stream with cookery, needlework, and sewing classes. We were feeling sorry for them when teachers came and herded us to the auditorium. I have a vague memory of how the Variety Show commenced. I remember an entertaining folk dance, followed by a mediocre solo dance to a good music. Next, a group of boys performed several hot numbers from the latest Shammi Kapoor picture to a rowdy ovation from the audience. Towards the very end of the show, a girl by the name of Ratan came on stage. After the razzmatazz of the earlier performances, which were vibrant with colourful costumes and energy, plain Ratan did not arouse much interest from the audience. However, she had some charm; a kind of mysterious magnetism radiated from her. She stood in the centre of the stage, with a white flowery pin in her hair. Without much fuss, she came closer to the microphone, raised one of her hands to her ears as if in prayer, and started with an aalap, which was singing each note of her song in syllables without pronouncing any words, starting with lower octaves. When the first notes of her aalap danced on the airwaves, everything turned electric. Everyone sat down, and the murmur died down. Ratan sang with her eyes closed, her left hand raised to her ear, and the other extended forward as she gave verve to the notes and increased the tempo and scale of the aalap. Then driven by some mysterious power, she progressed from aalap to gayaki, singing in words, on a sweet note that was three octaves higher. The auditorium shook with the energy of her melody, the windowpanes vibrated, and everything turned magical. To this day, I remember the song she sang. It was number one on Radio Ceylon’s Hit Parade. Her classical rendition of it held every one spellbound.

What realm is this, O beloved magician,

Beyond stars, what dreamy world are you

Leading me to…

I knew this song very well. Dreamy-eyed Bina Rai had lip-synched it to Lata’s voice, accompanied by superb music in a black and white picture. Ratan had no need for any musical accompaniment. Her voice had the boon of sweetness. I sat enraptured through the song. Her tonal voice gave me goose pimples. The depth and purity of her rendition took me to the world of dreams that she was singing about. Her act captivated my soul. That such pure magic could flow from the voice of a diminutive girl astonished me. She showed me an aspect of music that I had not experienced before.

Ratan moved away to Pala after junior school, and I felt that her sole role in life was to introduce me to magic of music. Later, when I told Henna that Ratan had opened up a seam of treasure in my heart, she laughed. ‘My gullible brother, you are a fool. What treasure seam? If you are not careful, people will take advantage of such sentimentality.’

The connectedness of events did not stop with Ratan. Echoes of infinity had a way of reinforcing the theme. I had been begging Azul for months to take me with him to our coffee estate. He always resisted it. ‘Why, Daddy?’ I asked. ‘Son, it is in the jungle. There is nothing around but mountain villages.’

‘Daddy, I still want to see it.’ During one school holidays, he surprised me by inviting me to join him to the coffee plantation. ‘Really, Daddy?’

We spent a week on the plantation. The terraces of coffee shrubs nestled on the slope of forested Nirambeya Mountain astounded me. ‘Daddy, this is fantastic,’ I said as we roamed the paths between rows of coffee shrubs.

‘It is the cool mountain air which gives our coffee an edge,’ Azul explained. ‘Coffee growing is an art. A day’s difference in harvesting the berries and the aroma and the magic are lost.’ It was the best biology lesson I ever had. We walked up to the summit of Nirambeya to an exclusive section of the plantation. ‘This section is dedicated to export-grade coffee. The soil here is rich in minerals. Like quality Shiraz wine, the coffee from this patch has an aroma, a wild tropical scent that sets it apart from other coffee. We get good money for it in London.’ On our way down, we stopped by our coffee grading station where Azul showed me the tricks of coffee grading. I loved my time with Azul.

One night, we sat around a log fire and ate boiled groundnuts, the first crop of the season. They melted in the mouth and were unlike anything I had tasted. ‘Daddy, these are so sweet and different,’ I commented.

‘Yes, these are a local, purple variety. They only grow on this mountain.’ We talked about many different subjects as we savoured boiled groundnuts and enjoyed fresh coffee boiled with cloves and cinnamon. I asked Azul about religion. He laughed and said that Karl Marx had said that religion was opium of the masses. ‘Daddy does God exist?’ He fell silent. Then he said, ‘You do know Einstein?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Well, when he was asked the same question, he reflected on it for a long time and then said, There is something out there.’

‘So what is your answer, Daddy?’ I asked. He chuckled and said, ‘There is something out there. But, son, how could mind which is created understand that which is uncreated?’ We fell silent. The jungle around us pulsed with strange noises. I continued to open groundnut pods for Azul. He looked at the sky and pointed to a cluster of stars. ‘That is Orion. When the Egyptian pharaohs were anointed as kings by their priests, they were drugged and were hypnotized to believe that they were from Orion, which was home of Osiris, their ruling god.’

‘Seriously, Daddy?’

‘Yes, the ceremony was very cleverly done. And this is how the myth of Son of Osiris perpetuated.’ I looked at Azul. In the dancing flames of the log fire Azul looked like a sage. ‘Daddy, it is an incredible story.’

I handed Azul a fresh mug of coffee and a plate of peeled groundnuts. He took it, but his eyes were riveted to the sky, as if looking for something special. Then he turned 180 degrees. ‘Ah, there it is! That bright one is Venus.’ He looked at it for a long time and then said, ‘Do you know, son, when God first put the spheres in motion and they danced in their orbits, they produced a Celestial Symphony.’ This powerful statement had immediate resonance in my heart.

‘Really, Daddy, a Celestial Symphony, God’s Music?’

‘Yes, that is what the ancient Greeks told us.’

‘Daddy, is it still playing?’ He smiled. ‘Yes, if you become one with nature, you can hear it, even now. May be then you will know about existence of God.’ My mind immediately reeled back to the time when Ratan had sung her classical song and the girl in Suwakaki had hummed the mysterious melody.

All at once, everything seemed to fall into place. My Aristotelian mind went into an overdrive and the magic quadrilateral of logic was complete. The garland of music that Lata had weaved during those lantern-lit nights, Ratan’s dream song that had taken me to the height of ecstasy, the mysterious girl’s tune she had hummed in Suwakaki, and Azul’s powerful statement about Celestial Symphony were all connected. Sitting on the slope of Nirambeya, with my back cold and my front hot from the log fire, with a mug of fresh, spiced coffee in my hand and the sweet taste of purple groundnuts in my mouth, the inspiration and enlightenment came. What I had heard the mysterious girl hum in Suwakaki was God’s Symphony. And the mysterious girl was no other than a divine nymph. I had seen a picture of a painting titled ‘Nymph on the Seashore’. I felt sure that the mysterious girl was this nymph. The locks of curly hair, the enchanting smile, lips like tulips, the resemblance, between the two, I felt was uncanny. The very next minute, my Aristotelian mind took a sharp turn. What if I was under narcotic influence of fresh coffee and purple groundnuts? How could I be so blessed that divine nymph came down to reveal to me God’s own Symphony? But, there it was. A conclusion was reached, and it was not possible to reverse it. I questioned and debated it many times, but the premise stood intact. The swirling, misty face of future, as always, was facing me. Innocent and not coloured by science, I looked at it with joy and anticipation.

Circles that Rule Life

In the days that followed, the conclusion that I had reached on the slope of Nirambeya began to grow like a pearl in the oyster of my heart. I began to look for clues and facts that supported my conclusion. I searched our local library, and in one of the volumes of Collections of Great Paintings, I found the painting of the ‘Nymph on the Seashore’ (which I learnt was housed in a Madrid museum) and re-examined her face. It reinforced my conviction that it resembled the mysterious girl in Suwakaki. In looking for other clues, the depth of my perception became even deeper. Grass became greener. I had unbounded joy at this realisation. It was as if I had stumbled upon a fourth dimension and became aware of ‘circles’ that ruled life.

It was natural that anything to do with music captivated me. One Friday evening, passing by Kabir Mosque, I heard strains of music wafting from the Majnun Hall opposite the Picture House. My steps naturally gravitated towards it. I stepped into its atrium and was about to enter the hall when a bearded man barred my path. ‘You are not allowed. This is not for children.’

‘Sir, I am not a child,’ I replied. He laughed and felt my face. ‘Child, your beard is some springs away, and your pubic hair is waiting for fertiliser. Come when they are in bloom.’ The musical manner and rhyming tone in which he said this did not offend me. He turned and walked away. My unbound curiosity and my obstinacy anchored me to the atrium. I hung around, listening to excellent lyrics to the accompaniment of harmonium and tabla coming from the hall. I did not fully understand all the verses, which were recited in Urdu, but the few that I understood were enough to hook me to this genre of music. After a long time, the bearded man came out for a smoke, and seeing me, he rebuked me, ‘Are you stubborn or deaf? I told you to go and you are still sitting out here. It is late now. Go home.’ I was not prepared to leave, so I argued. ‘You told me that this is for adults. There is nothing adult about it. It is crying about love.’

‘That is what you will not understand. What do you know about heartbreak?’

‘Do you suffer heartbreak?’

‘Le . . .,’ the man thundered, ‘silly boy, now you are becoming personal. Leave now!’ As I climbed down the steps, I asked, ‘What music is this?’

‘It is ghazal. It is not for children. Chalo futo, come on, get lost.’

‘I am leaving now. But I will come back next week to see your bleeding, broken heart,’ I threatened him. He took a deep drag on his cigarette, its scarlet circle, becoming a red-hot star. Puffing out the smoke, he said, ‘Sala haramzada, bastard, arguing.’ This was my introduction to the first of the Circles of Life in Jerusha, the Music Circle and specifically the Ghazal Circle.

In fact, the Circle of Music, I found, had two more circles within it. On Saturday nights, the suburban township of Gembe became a Mecca for revellers. Scattered among its narrow streets were three clubs where they played African Jazz, the soul of Africa. It was curious, how jazz, which took birth in America from the pain and humiliation of homesick slaves, was exported back to Africa and found expression in old African ballads to the accompaniment of hand piano, guitar, trombone, and cow skin drums. And in Gembe, it was rendered with authentic elegance; Gembe was not a venue for the faint of heart. Here African jazz mingled with Warage, a potent concoction brewed from millet, reached a high level of frenzy. Despite the fear of reprimand by Azul, I ventured to Gembe one evening and stealthily entered one of the clubs on South Africa Street. It was a tiny room, packed with people, wall to wall. It reeked of intoxicating fumes of Warage. The jazz musicians sat on a raised dais under a light bulb that cast ghostly orange shadows on the brown mud walls. As the music progressed in intensity, with the lead singer singing what I thought was only half-intelligible mumble, the crowd began to sway with potent energy. I was squeezed between several tall men, high on Warage, who swayed in synchronised rhythm to the beat of the drums. They had in their hands long bamboo straws and sucked from a large pot of Warage in the middle of the room. All at once, the man to my right thrust his bamboo straw to me. ‘Drink and be merry,’ he screamed. I was scared and was struggling to breathe. I refused to take the straw from him. He felt insulted and grabbed my shoulder. ‘Why, you think my mouth stinks? You rascal, drink.’ I held the straw in my hand. The man shouted, ‘Suck.’ I put the straw to my mouth and felt revulsion and began to pass out. I steadied myself, had a gulp of Warage, and wriggled out of the club with difficulty. As soon as I was on the street, the gulp of Warage, which I had held in my mouth, ejected like a ballistic missile. A passer-by shouted, ‘you filthy young drunkard, if you can’t stomach it, why do you come here?’ I knew there and then that the ABC of mastering the second Circle of Music, the Jazz Circle, was not easy.

With my bad experience at Gembe, I thought that perhaps the jazz that wafted from the crazy Flamingo Bar along Boja Road was a safer bet. But like Gembe, Flamingo was not a place to hang around for ong. Beside, despite my bad experience, the little jazz that I heard at South Africa Club was riveting and had a quality and energy that was missing elsewhere. The jazz at Flamingo was tripe, a third-rate imitation of American jazz, without a soul.

My sobering conclusion was that Majnun Hall was safer to progress my knowledge of God’s Symphony. The next time I went there, the bearded man was reconciliatory. ‘Ah, it is my young friend who wanted to see my bleeding, broken heart.’ I apologised to him for my insolence. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘sit quietly in that corner and no one will disturb you. If I ever see you touch Scotch, I will box your ears,’ he warned. Gradually, I introduced my friends to the delight of ghazals and we made a habit of hanging around Majnun Hall on Saturday nights.

After my momentous conclusion that divine nymph had come down specially to guide me to God’s Symphony, I took all signals and signs that I came across, however trivial, very seriously. Hence, I took keen interest in ghazal and found that it had its origin from the royal courts of Persia but was influenced by Indian and Pakistani music. This Ghazal Circle, I found, was an exclusive retreat for the heartbroken and the unrequited lovers, where they expressed their laments in Court Urdu, in ghazals which could be recited as poetry or could be sung, gayaki, accompanied by harmonium and tabla. Some of the ghazals were addressed directly to the Architect of the Universe, complaining to him about the misfortunes of loves or the rejections the poets had experienced.

The bearded man became friendly, and one evening, in a light-hearted mood, he explained to us the protocol of the Ghazal Evening. The reciter usually recited the first couplet in a controlled measure and introduced the theme of the composition, which was called misra. Thereafter, he repeated the same couplet, but with more emphasis, following which there was unison of accolades from the listeners in the form of ‘vha vha’ if what they heard reflected the pain and sadness in their hearts. It was from this quarter that I developed love of ghazal and Urdu poetry:

Reduced to ashes in your futile love,

Blow not hot air of passion to re-flame me.

These Ghazal nights were strenuous for the attendees, because both the reciter and the listener re-lived the heartbreaking moments of their failed love affairs and were emotionally drained by their secret pining for their beloveds. To recharge them, there was a free flow of Scotch and soda, although at the end of the evening, sodas were left untouched, most of the ghazal lovers preferring to drink neat Scotch, for it seemed to heal their wounds well. When the ghazals and Scotch had worked their healing wonder, late at night, succulent biryani was served in the hall, to console the broken-hearted and to replenish and strengthen their saddened souls to enable them to survive another week of living in a bad world, which had robbed their pleasure of love. Some nights, the bearded man arose above his love-grief and brought us plates of biryani and brimming goblets of sweet, falooda, a concoction of milk, rose water, vermicelli, and ice cream.

My introduction to ghazals I thought was my giant step towards God’s Symphony. However, something else waited for me round the corner. I felt that I was flying a rocket homing towards a loftier destination than Ghazal Circle. The target I was approaching was from the minds of gods and hence more close to God’s Symphony, at least that was what I was told. Like a time traveller, I was approaching the target of my destiny, at breakneck speed, and there was always a chance of overshooting the target or crashing.

However, Brother Jeff was unaware of all of this music mumbo-jumbo and even if he knew, he would not care. His immediate concern was my ‘Friend Circle’. Honestly, I had never known Jeff to be so boorish and stiff. He was not always like that. There were times when he was fun to be with. I used to run like a puppy behind him and his friends when they used to raid Riyama Orchard for jackfruits and papaya. They used to post me as lookout at the fence. The real trouble started after he got married and crossed into the ‘Married Circle’. This was when his own ‘Friend Circle’ changed, and he started mixing with other like-minded married couples. I think he felt compelled to become an adult. I was certain these ‘adults’ must have applied peer pressure on him and forced him to adhere to their rules and customs. In a way, Jeff was always the ‘legal’ type, and in his mind, he was following the legal dictum that ignorance of rules was no excuse. As you well know, a judge gets very angry with that sort of excuse. Jeff did not want to offend social judges and this was how he morphed, and he morphed into a personality with four faces.

However, as they say, ‘shit happens’ and my use of this very slang was pounced on by legalist Jeff that led to a fracture of my relation with Azul. But, long before that, he told me, ‘I do not like your Friend Circle. You should not be friends with that tall fellow with spiked hair. What’s his name?’

‘Do you mean Joger?’

‘Yes, him. Joger.’

‘What is wrong with him?’ I asked.

‘It is not a question of what is wrong. It is a question of what is right for you. A man is known by the company he keeps. Running around with a boy older than you and who goes around wearing those striped T-shirts like thugs from Indian pictures does not do good for your image.’

I was beyond rage. ‘Jeff, what is wrong with you? You have become so boorish. You are reading too much of The Telegraph. What about equality and respect? One day, even South Africa will belong to the blacks. In such times, you are telling me that Joger is no good?’

‘What you talk is idealism of foolishness. World does not work like that. These communist ideas are good only on paper.’

‘Look, I don’t want to argue with you. What do you know about