Musharraf Farooqi: Between Clay and Dust

The servant girl surprised Gohar Jan by announcing the arrival of Ustad Ramzi one evening. Gohar Jan could not imagine the reason for his visit.

The servant girl had answered the door as Banday Ali was away on an errand. Without knowing or asking the reason for Ustad Ramzi’s visit, she had conducted him into the Music Room where Gohar Jan received guests. She found Ustad Ramzi standing in confusion at the entrance of the Music Room.

“I believe I’m early today…” Ustad Ramzi addressed Gohar Jan as soon as he saw her. “Unless, there’s some change,” he added uneasily.

Gohar Jan realized that Ustad Ramzi was unaware of the news of the kotha’s closure. “I regret the inconvenience,” she said hesitantly. “The mehfils ended some weeks ago. I am sorry you were not informed.”

Ustad Ramzi stared at her.

Something reminded Gohar Jan of a time many years ago when Ustad Ramzi had first started visiting her kotha. He rarely spoke, though he might commit to a word or two if someone sought his opinion. After her recital ended he would stay only as long as propriety demanded, and leave after putting his contribution in the moneybox. It was on one of those days that, amused by his demeanor, and acting on a sudden impulse, Gohar Jan had attempted to break through his reserve. He did not react. She desisted when she found out that Ustad Ramzi’s strict formality was guided by his dedication to his art and vows of celibacy. From that day she received him in the same courteous manner as her other patrons, but never sought to further cultivate his acquaintance.

The servant re-entered to ask Gohar Jan if she needed anything.

“I must leave…” Ustad Ramzi said before he was interrupted by Gohar Jan.

“Please uncover the sitar,” she said to the servant girl.

She saw Ustad Ramzi looking enquiringly as the girl removed the protective brocade cover from Gohar Jan’s sitar.

“Please sit down, Ustad Ramzi,” Gohar Jan said.

“Bring some water for Ustad Ramzi,” Gohar Jan addressed the servant girl. “That would be all.”

Ustad Ramzi sat down reluctantly.

Gohar Jan would have found it indecorous to send Ustad Ramzi away without some token of hospitality after he was shown in by mistake, but it was on an impulse that she had asked him to stay.

When the servant girl brought water, Ustad Ramzi emptied it in one gulp.

Gohar Jan held up the sitar.

She noticed Ustad Ramzi was unable to concentrate during her recital. The news about the end of the mehfils had disturbed him deeply. As someone who had learned how painful it was to end a lifelong routine that gave purpose to one’s life, Ustad Ramzi’s disorientated manner reminded Gohar Jan of how she herself felt.

Even though it felt strange to her to play for her lone audience, Gohar Jan experienced a familiar joy upon touching, after many days, the well-seasoned wood of the sitar. The fingers of her hand glided over the wooden neck of the instrument, curled around the frets, caressed the strings, and with their touch breathed warmth into the wood. She felt she had recovered a part of herself as her hands held the instrument. Playing it gave her a sense of completeness. As if the coordinates of space were synchronized with the pulse of her emotions, she felt in control of her surroundings. She again felt at home.

As Gohar Jan regarded the silent and lonely man sitting on the carpet, it occurred to her that among the many men who frequented her kotha, Ustad Ramzi was the only one for whom she remained only a voice. It was strange that at the end of her career he was the only person with whom she shared her deep relationship with her art.

The accident of Ustad Ramzi’s presence that evening had revealed to Gohar Jan something about herself. She felt indebted to him for making it possible for her to rediscover her art’s purpose. It was the first time that, from a feeling of affinity, she felt drawn to him.

After the recital ended, Ustad Ramzi sat for a while with his eyes lowered. He looked up briefly and it seemed he would say something but he silently rose.

Gohar Jan also got up. In a departure from her usual custom she came out to see Ustad Ramzi to the door.

The moneybox where patrons left money had been removed. As Ustad Ramzi tried to inconspicuously put the money in his kerchief and leave it on the side table, Gohar Jan’s hand gently touched his.

“Ustad Ramzi,” she said, “you will be our guest from today.”

For a moment he seemed lost for words. He looked away briefly. Then putting the kerchief with the money on the side table, he looked at Gohar Jan and said, “It would be improper…otherwise.”

The manner in which Ustad Ramzi had spurned her hospitality and gift rankled in Gohar Jan’s heart, but her face did not betray it.

“It shall be as you wish,” Gohar Jan replied with a smile.

The rough manner of the man who had a reputation for never asking anything of anyone was awkward, almost hostile, but not an insult, she told herself. And since it pleased her to have a reason to continue her recitals without receiving men at her kotha, she felt it was best if Ustad Ramzi felt encouraged to visit on his own terms.

Ustad Ramzi bowed his head slightly and went out.

❖

On his way home Ustad Ramzi was thoughtful. Gohar Jan had accepted his visit, and given him to understand that he could continue. If in her refusal to accept money there was an acknowledgement of a unique quality to their relationship, he had decisively put an end to it by insisting on making the payment. And yet, he knew that he could not compensate for the privilege he had received from Gohar Jan.

For the first time Ustad Ramzi was assailed by thoughts that questioned his presumptions of himself. He could not rid himself of the feeling that the forthrightness that had guided his conduct in all undertakings, was markedly absent in this affair.

Ustad Ramzi’s instincts about Imama were right. Kabira brought the news that Imama had started coming to the akhara and had resumed his exercise regime.

Imama sent his challenge to Ustad Ramzi within a month.

Tamami could not believe it when he heard that Ustad Ramzi had finally nominated him to fight. Upon hearing Ustad Ramzi’s decision, Imama’s clan elders protested that Imama had already defeated Tamami. But Ustad Ramzi contended that it was Imama’s choice to fight Tamami. He reminded them that Imama was not bound to fight Tamami according to the established rules of the two clans. He could have disregarded Tamami’s challenge since he was not the clan’s nominee, so the bout had no significance. Imama’s clan elders wished to dispute the point further but Imama put an end to it by declaring he was ready to fight Tamami again.

Tamami’s preparations for the bout began. He was awakened at two in the morning. After saying his prayers, he drank milk in which the flowers of blue lotus and barberries, sandalwood powder, dry endive, myrobalan, and green cardamoms had been soaked. He started his sit-ups under the supervision of Kabira and an assistant trainer, and then swung the pair of forty-kilo Indian clubs. Later, he set off on a five-mile run from the akhara to the clock tower and back.

Those who stood along the way or were headed towards the vegetable market in the mornings sometimes caught a glimpse of Tamami leaving or coming back from the run. In the beginning, the bystanders looked at him for a moment or two with indifference and turned away, but after a while, people in the enclave’s neighborhood instinctively began looking out for Tamami in the mornings. His rhythmic, unhurried breathing would reach them long before his shape materialized from the morning mist. They remained silent as he ran past them. Clad in embroidered silken shorts, Tamami ran with his eyes fixed on the ground a few feet ahead of him.