Musharraf Farooqi - Between Clay and Dust

“A girl’s face is the only memory I have of our family. She may have been my sister, younger than myself, for I remember her following me around the house. I don’t know if my father was around, but I can feel the presence of my mother. It surprises me sometimes that I do not recall her features. My sister’s face is all I remember. I wonder if she remembers me still. It is a harsh sentence to know that somewhere, someone who was a part of you and whom you will never see, perhaps still lives. The thought has not left me since the day I was separated from my family.”

Gohar Jan fell silent. It was the first time that she had mentioned her family.

An incident from many years ago rose with great vividness from some vault in Ustad Ramzi’s memory at her words.

When Tamami was eight or nine, he had stolen some guavas from a neighbor’s tree. The neighbor had complained to the elders. Fearful of the punishment that lay in store for him, Tamami had come running to his brother. He was still carrying the guavas in the folds of his kurta, and his mouth was full of the half-unripe fruit as he mumbled, “Don’t tell anyone!” and slid under the charpai where Ustad Ramzi was sitting. Shortly afterwards one of the ustads had entered the enclosure with a rattan cane in his hand. He looked around and asked, “Have you seen Tamami?” Ustad Ramzi stood up, exposing Tamami who was still nibbling at the guava. He was pulled out by his ear and dragged away. Tamami had cried and tried to clutch on to his legs, but he did not intervene.

As he recalled that scene now, Ustad Ramzi realized he could have saved Tamami a beating that day.

Ustad Ramzi felt a constriction in his chest. He could think of nothing but Tamami. His heart was pulsing and beating with the usual rhythm, but with a strength that was almost painful. All his senses were alert but he felt that his heart was sinking.

“Are you all right?” Gohar Jan asked.

“I do not feel well, I’m sorry,” he said with his eyes lowered.

Gohar Jan offered him another bowl of water.

“I think I must go,” he said returning the empty bowl.

“Rest your mind,” she said to him as he got up.

The door had been left open and he quietly walked out.

By the time he reached the enclosure his nauseous feeling had subsided.

❖

That night Ustad Ramzi again dreamt of Tamami.

He dreamt he was alone in the enclosure. The sand swept past him in waves. Something came floating over it from his right, and a smell like camphor’s— only stronger and strangely altered, and so strong he could almost taste it — assailed his senses. The object came to rest at his feet. It was a human body clad in winding sheets. Without seeing the covered face, he knew it was Tamami’s corpse. He tried to step away but could not. He tried to reach down to touch the sand but felt dizzy. Then a crow alighted at his feet and began digging into the sand with his beak. He stepped back in terror. The smell was still in his nostrils when his eyes opened. He sat up and stepped out into the courtyard where the freshly smoothed clay of the akhara shone in the moonlight.

He could no longer avoid answering the questions that had haunted him since Imama’s death, and had subsequently taken on new meaning.

Did the essence of his art not lie in creating a delicate harmony between strength and the opposing force? Did it not lie in keeping power bridled?

When he had set out Tamami’s training routine these had not been his considerations. It had caused the death of two men. He had then aggravated his crime by a false sense of rectitude.

The base passions that he had detected in Tamami lived inside himself: in his anger, ambition, and pride.

In obedience to them he had compromised every principle he sought to save and disgraced himself more than words could express.

The guilt Ustad Ramzi carried in his heart etched his face in this moment of reckoning.

❖

He visited Tamami’s grave. There were no other graves beside it. Marked with a tombstone commemorating Tamami’s life, it was surrounded by budding rose bushes planted by Kabira. After saying the benediction Ustad Ramzi sat down at the foot of the grave where the caretaker found him when he made his rounds at night.

The clan wondered what motivated Ustad Ramzi to remove his fighter’s belt and retire. It did seem to them that Ustad Ramzi had aged many years in one day. He had turned old and haggard overnight.

The trainees kept the akhara in use, turning and smoothing the clay on alternate days. A few older pahalwans still came to the akhara, more out of habit than anything else. Sometimes when an exhibition bout was held, the place came to life. The senior pahalwans supervised the contestants’ training regime, and judged their fights. Then quiet returned to the place.

Lost in his thoughts, Ustad Ramzi kept a silent watch on everything from his seat by the side of the akhara. He did not react to promoter Gulab Deen advancing his coterie of pahalwans through rigged bouts. He similarly remained impassive when the promoter instituted new titles and some members from Ustad Ramzi’s clan broke away and joined the promoter’s group.

Ustad Ramzi continued his visits to Gohar Jan’s kotha. Sometimes she noticed him sitting with a vacant air, often staying longer than usual as if he had lost the sense of time.

A few times the trainees heard Ustad Ramzi crying in the cemetery.

Ustad Ramzi’s enclosure was re-zoned into the commercial district. Subsequently, it attracted the interest of builders. Aware of the news that the imposition of a higher property tax had added to Ustad Ramzi’s financial troubles, the builders’ representatives had approached him and offered a substantial contribution to the clan if he would agree to sell the land. They did not hide the fact that they planned to build on the site. They explained that the graves in the cemetery would be moved to the municipal graveyard at their cost and in accordance with the religious law.

Ustad Ramzi turned them down.

❖

Gohar Jan’s enclave was re-zoned as well. She was disturbed to hear of plans by the municipality to declare buildings in the tawaifs’ enclave as hazardous for living and have them demolished. With necessary repairs the buildings could have had a long life, but none of the tawaifs, including Gohar Jan, had the money for the extensive renovations needed. The builders had already made offers for properties in the enclave.

Gohar Jan knew that the age and condition of the buildings were not the only factors behind the municipal councillors’ decision. The builders’ money was behind it. Their plans were abetted by recent objections raised about the tawaifs’ enclave. A new wave of immigrants whose attempts to squat in the enclave had been unsuccessful objected to the tawaifs’ kothas on moral grounds. That propaganda had made it easier for the municipal authorities to act.

❖

The monsoon had returned and it was raining heavily. One afternoon when there was a lull, Banday Ali found two men in khaki uniforms standing in the alley scribbling in their logbooks. A while later they started knocking on the doors of the kothas.

“What is it about?” Banday Ali asked when they knocked on the door.

“Municipal inspection,” one of the men said. The supervising inspector looked sullenly at Banday Ali.

“What is it for?” Banday Ali said.

“You will find out soon enough,” he replied, stepping in. “How many rooms do you have here?”

The supervisor also entered and began to look around. Then he saw the signs of water seepage on the ceiling.

“Make a note of this,” he said to his subordinate. “Very risky.”