Musharraf Farooqi - Between Clay and Dust

For many years now Ustad Ramzi had regularly attended Gohar Jan’s mehfils. He never realized that his visits to her kotha had now become for him a need; he felt restive without attending her mehfils once every few days. Over the years, the ragas themselves had been suffused with Gohar Jan’s inflection and intonation; when Ustad Ramzi heard another’s rendition, it hardly stirred a thing in his breast. It was as if the ragas only existed embodied in Gohar Jan’s voice.

The akhara routines fell into disarray soon after Ustad Ramzi relinquished these duties to Tamami.

After a few weeks, the trainees slackened in their appointed chores. It was plain to see that they took their cue from Tamami. Instead of being the first to arrive at the akhara to supervise work, Tamami was often the last. And even then, he displayed no sense of urgency but idled away some more time talking to his friends from the neighborhood. On some days the trainee who was supposed to turn the akhara clay would start late; on other days everyone would be held up because nobody had allotted the trainees their duties. The trainees had to wait for Tamami. In the meanwhile their bodies cooled down, and if they sparred without another warm-up they ended up with torn ligaments.

Even on the rare occasion when Ustad Ramzi saw Tamami get to the akhara early, he did not seem to exercise any control over the place. And yet, Tamami’s exaggerated sense of self-worth seemed to have increased after Ustad Ramzi delegated many of the akhara’s duties to him.

Ustad Ramzi witnessed his brother’s fecklessness at every stage, and regarded Tamami’s swagger and affectations as a contemptible substitute for character. The sight revolted him, and he bitterly regretted his decision to delegate the duties, notwithstanding the fact that he had been forced to do so by circumstances beyond his control.

Ustad Ramzi’s inability to come to terms with this predicament, and the growing dread that he would now be at the mercy of others in matters that concerned him dearly, frequently made him despondent. The thought that the defense of the title of Ustad-e-Zaman and the future glory of his clan would fall on Tamami greatly disturbed Ustad Ramzi: in view of his brother’s fickle nature and heedless ways, he doubted Tamami’s ability to defend the title that was his clan’s pride.

Reflecting on his many misfortunes Ustad Ramzi sometimes feared that, in the continuing decline of his art and clan, he may not have seen the last setback. As the custodian of his ancestors’ akhara and clan’s honor, he vowed to uphold his self-appointed destiny resolutely and at all costs.

Gohar Jan’s stately and austere beauty had been mellowed somewhat by age. Her hazel green eyes were surrounded by wrinkles, and time had begun to cast her features in its soft, cruel mould. Her kotha still attracted patrons but the number of its visitors had dwindled.

That sudden and radical turnabout in life after Partition had created a deep feeling of uncertainty. A growing sense of frugality in all affairs had followed. It had adversely affected the fortunes of the tawaifs’ enclave — a world that thrived on extravagance, and where people traditionally flaunted their wealth and fine taste.

The mehfils ended in many kothas. The drapes in the kothas remained drawn. The wooden staircases smelled of dampness. The carpets had not been aired in a long time and were musty. In the music rooms, tanpuras gathered dust under their silken wraps and their necks became bent from the humidity. The silence of the sarangis continued unbroken and the heads of the tablas and pakhavajs became wrinkled and dry. The quiet of the music rooms was broken sometimes by the sound of a string snapping.

The neighborhood seemed more alive in daytime than at night. Most of the nayikas had moved out from the kothas to find a trade in which their musical training could advance a career. Many had joined the fledgling film industry. In the last year, two nayikas had left Gohar Jan’s kotha. One had migrated. Another tried to open her own kotha in another neighborhood, but failing to attract new patrons closed it down. Only one nayika, Malka, remained with Gohar Jan.

The only other occupant of the kotha was Gohar Jan’s old retainer, Banday Ali, who had been associated with it for nearly three decades. He was in charge of the mehfils and also looked after the kotha’s finances. Every evening he made sure that the paandans were stocked, the drinks ready, the white floor coverings spread in the Music Room, and bolsters placed for the guests. Two servants were also on hand to fill the hookahs for visitors, refresh them at regular intervals, and run errands if the guests wished to send for food from the bazaar or call a conveyance at the evening’s end.

Banday Ali usually finished his preparations an hour before the mehfil started. Then he had his customary cup of tea before opening the doors of the kotha. After the musicians arrived he sat on his sofa at the entrance where he greeted visitors. Malka received the guests at the door of the Music Room, offered them paan, and ushered them in where the musicians were already seated and awaiting Gohar Jan.

At the end of the mehfil the guests left their payment in a moneybox. While the servants cleared up the room, Banday Ali did his accounting. After the house staff left he closed the kotha doors and retired to his room on the top floor of the building to sip his cup of opium.

Banday Ali regularly gave an account of the kotha’s finances to Gohar Jan on the fifth of every month. But in recent days the exercise made him uncomfortable. Having been associated with the kotha and its finances for so long, he felt he was himself somehow to blame for its declining income.

Gohar Jan had been quietly selling her gold since the previous year to maintain the kotha on the same lavish scale as before. Banday Ali was the only person who knew about this. Gohar Jan had forbidden him from discussing it even with Malka. He had quietly suggested to Gohar Jan a few times that she could rent out the kotha’s western wing which had a separate entrance and was no longer occupied by the two nayikas. But each time Banday Ali made his suggestion Gohar Jan declined it with the same equanimity with which she received the account of her diminishing income.

Gohar Jan’s relationship with her nayika, Malka, was an unusual one, perhaps because of the special circumstances of her presence at the kotha. Unlike other nayikas who joined kothas in their youth or were sold to the mistresses of the establishments, Malka had arrived at Gohar Jan’s kotha as a foundling. One winter morning — twenty-three years earlier — Banday Ali had discovered the baby wrapped in a piece of felt cloth lying at the kotha entrance. Gohar Jan made every effort to find the mother, but had no success despite all her contacts and influence with the city administration. As Gohar Jan had feared, the orphanage refused to take in a child sent from the tawaifs’ enclave.

Gohar Jan decided to raise the girl at the kotha.

But she never showed her any fondness. Banday Ali, who saw no emotional bond between the two, mentioned to Gohar Jan a few times that the child needed more affection from those around her. He never received a response from Gohar Jan.

It was perhaps a result of Gohar Jan’s frosty demeanor towards her that Malka herself grew up cold and reserved. She was pretty and her sharp features finely balanced her natural, graceful air but her manner was quiet and aloof. Even Banday Ali who nursed a filial feeling towards Malka saw that she did not return his affection with any warmth.

In view of Gohar Jan’s impassive attitude towards Malka, Banday Ali could not understand why she gave her a room near her own living quarters instead of in the kotha’s west wing reserved for the nayikas. The other nayikas saw that as an unfair privilege for Malka and it laid the foundations of constant animosity between them.