Rohzin Read online

  ROHZIN

  RAHMAN ABBAS

  ROHZIN

  Translated from the Urdu by Sabika Abbas Naqvi

  To my daughter, Mahira, and my son, Rumi Abbas

  And to my beloved city, Mumbai

  ‘He was still too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.’

  —Gabriel García Márquez,

  Love in the Time of Cholera

  ‘It may have happened, it may not have happened: but it could have happened.’

  —Mark Twain,

  The Prince and the Pauper

  CONTENTS

  1. Let Me Acquaint Myself with My Being’s Poison

  2. Will I Find a Way to Return if I Wish?

  3. For Want of a Voice, in Answer of My Own

  4. I Wish to Alter What My Words Mean

  5. Neither Any News About You, nor of My Own Existence

  6. This Routine Journey Desires an Adventurous Accident

  7. My Conversation Desires Distance

  8. I Do Not Want the Winds Over My Head to Be My Guide

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  1

  Let Me Acquaint Myself with My Being’s Poison

  (Jo Zeher Hai Mere Andar Wo Dekhna Chahun)

  It was the last day in the lives of Asrar and Hina.

  The sea that had its arms around Mumbai was ferocious. It desired to finally win the centuries-old battle, gulp the island and be victorious. Tall waves rose and fell, rose again and dashed against the shore. It had been raining for the past three days, so much that now the dark alleys, narrow lanes, the wide roads and the crumbling streets of the city were all submerged in knee-deep water. Black clouds veiled the sky. The city no longer remembered how the rays of the sun felt and looked. The sky was leaking through huge holes in its being, as if it had transformed into a never-ending waterfall. The waters of the sea had found a comfortable entry into the underground drains. The drains were a battleground for the unstoppable rainwater and the roaring sea, in a continuous struggle to make space for themselves.

  This war had caused great damage to the embankments or the concrete sides of the newly constructed drains. The streams of water merged and made their way into the deepest layers of the soil. The residential areas around the inundated drains were submerging. The Mithi River was overflooded and the land around it lay submerged in deep waters. There were power cuts in most places. The condition of low-lying areas of the city reflected the wrath of rain and the destruction it had caused. All linkages between the city administration, government and the public had been snapped.

  According to old dwellers of the city, it had never rained so heavily and destructively in the past. In the heart of the city an apocalyptic silence spread over the Mumba Devi’s temple. Mumba Devi’s deity looked sad. It was said that such sadness on her face was last seen by Brahma 6000 years ago when she had to counter ‘Mumbaraka’, an evil giant who terrorized the local population. After his defeat, Mumba Devi’s temple was constructed and Brahma himself came to shower his blessings at the inauguration. When the deity was installed, there was an ambiguous and unexplainable silence on her face. Had Brahma already told her about the future Mumbai would soon have to face? Was there any other power in the universe except Brahma who knew the reason behind the transformation of Mumba Devi’s natural smile into the sad ambiguous silence?

  Asrar’s father, Malik Deshmukh, along with his childhood friends Sajid Parkar and Abid Parkar, hunted for fish along the shores of the Arabian Sea.

  They belonged to Mabadmorpho village and the name of their boat was the Queen of the Sea.

  Everyone in Mabadmorpho knew the name of Malik’s boat by heart. After extensive fishing in the turbulent waters, they returned to the shore each time and divided the catch among the three equally. Their wives sold it in the local fish markets. The sea, the fish and the boat were their lifelines. Their families lived off whatever little they earned from fishing. Happiness and food security were still a far-fetched dream for each of them. They were oblivious of the world and were very busy fishing in the seas. The sole aim for the three of them was to earn money, a lot of money. But fate had something else in store.

  An unfortunate fate awaited them. The Queen of the Sea got caught in a severe whirlpool. All three friends were familiar with the movements, characteristics and various moods of the sea. They had spent most of their lives tossing over the waves. It wasn’t the first time that they had seen a whirlpool. They had witnessed many, but the one which their beloved boat faced was so wide in circumference and so powerful in strength that they lacked the words to describe its intensity. Even their elders had never told stories of such a ferocious swirl in the waters. They stole a glance at each other but there was no time to even exchange words; all three jumped into the water to save their lives.

  Only one made it to the shore.

  Though the shores and the sea were thoroughly searched, Malik Deshmukh and Sajid Parkar were nowhere to be found.

  Fifteen to twenty days later, a broken piece of the unfortunate boat found its way to the shores of Mabadmorpho. People were surprised to see that it was the very piece on which the name of the boat, the Queen of the Sea, was engraved. Immediately after this ill-fated incident, Mabadmorpho had to face one more inexplicable occurrence which kept it in a seemingly hypnotic state.

  The day the broken piece of the Queen of the Sea was discovered, it was kept on elevated ground near the shore. Surprisingly, this coincided with the sighting of dolphins in the sea alongside. Many felt that the dolphins were trying to catch a glimpse of the broken piece of the boat. Initially, no one believed the sighting. In fact, those who claimed to have seen the dolphins were rebuked and pulled up for being intoxicated even in broad daylight.

  But the dolphins kept returning each day. When this went on for four to five days and the dolphins jumped out of the water, apparently to see the broken piece, people started believing the earlier story. Someone informed Abid, the sole survivor of the accident, about the dolphins. He immediately left his bed and went to the shore. More than half the population of Mabadmorpho was present there, watching the show of the dolphins. When people saw him coming, the crowd parted. He shook hands with a few and started looking in the direction of the dolphins. He kept staring at them attentively; his expression was ponderous. Then he climbed up to the elevated area and raised his hands in the air and waved at the dolphins. The onlookers stared at Abid and followed his gaze. They looked in amazement at the dolphins as they rose and fell into the sea. The rhythmic dance continued for nearly half an hour. Soon, they vanished into the deep.

  Abid stepped down and the crowd surrounded him. A man named Karim Mujawar asked him in mock seriousness, ‘Tell me honestly, do dolphins drink beer too?’

  The mob chuckled. Some found it so hilarious that they had tears in their eyes. One more reason to laugh even louder was that everyone knew that Karim had just set up a liquor shop recently.

  When seriousness returned, an elderly man asked, ‘Abid, what is this all about?’

  The man who had recently returned from the claws of death recalled that when they went fishing and were quite far in the sea, the dolphins would jump and dive around their boat and look at them. So, they also stopped to wave back. Having said that, Abid turned and walked away. The people who stayed back continued discussing and debating the dolphins. They finally concluded that what Abid had claimed was next to impossible. After all, he just had a close encounter with death and was not yet out of the shock. The silence of the crowd gave legitimacy to the idea that Abid was facing some severe mental issues after the accident. The dolphins were never seen near the shore again. This made people rethink what they had been told earlier.

  After Malik Deshmukh’s death, his wife Haseena earned a livelihood by selling dried fish. She also took the responsibility of continuing their son Asrar’s education. Asrar was aware of his mother’s difficulties and the hard work she had to put in. The day his tenth standard examination ended, that very evening he told his mother that he would go to Mumbai to acquire a new skill and to find work. Haseena tried persuading him to stay but he wouldn’t budge. He told his mother that three of his classmates would also be accompanying him. They had planned to temporarily put up in ‘Jamat Ki Kholi’, which was a property of Mabadmorpho in Mumbai. Anyone coming from the village could find residence here at a very meagre rent. Such properties existed since the beginning of the twentieth century in Mumbai and belonged collectively to the villages in the coastal region.

  After being satisfied with the necessary details, she gave her permission. A day before he had to leave his village, Asrar sat alone at the seashore for a long time. He stared at the beautifully scattered sunlight on the waves. There was a peculiar melody in the union of the waves and the rays. He had found that melody touching since childhood.

  He used to go with his father to the sea on fishing trips. He had seen his village disappear from his sight, slowly, as the boat moved further away. He had seen the exclusive dance of the waves too. He was revisiting the moments spent with his father when the clouds appeared overhead, their shadows slowly spreading over parts of the sea. He was aware of the rush that lay hidden in these waters but had never enjoyed the serene beauty of the sea before in such a manner. He carefully observed the circles that the shadows of the hovering clouds made on the water’s surface, those brown and black lines. Some dark and some faint. While deducing the
se shades and hues, his domestic problems surfaced in his thoughts. He could see the shadows of financial inadequacies reflect on his mother’s face after his father’s death. He also observed that his uncle’s visit to his house had become more regular. His uncle often came to meet his mother around dusk and left at the time of the morning prayers.

  He kept staring at the waves and his mind tried figuring out what lay buried in the depths of the water.

  He dived into the sea and closely looked at the colourful and enchanting fish of all sizes that playfully swam around. When a fish came close to him, he felt it had something to tell, maybe a story. In fact, he usually felt that the sea was always ready to reveal its hidden truths to him!

  The first of May was the first day of Asrar’s life in Mumbai.

  A superfast train takes at least seven and a half hours to cover the distance between Ratnagiri and Mumbai. His friends Suleiman Vanu and Qasim Dalvi were well-versed with this city. They vividly described the hustle and rush of Mumbai through stories to their friends. So, during the journey the city was like a floating dream in their intoxicated eyes. They were impatient to see the city, to embrace its speed and become a part of its business. Asrar had seen so many films made on Mumbai—Bombay, Satya and Sadak were his favorites. In fact, he had seen Bombay several times and heard its songs on the tape recorder. He used to hum one song from the film quite often:

  Tu hi re, tu hi re

  Tere bina mein kaise jiyoon.

  Aaja re, aaja re

  Yunhi tadpa na tu mujh ko.

  Jaan re, jaan re

  In sanso mein bas ja re.

  Chand re, chand re

  Aa ja dil ki zameen pe tu.

  Chahat hai agar

  Aake mujh se mil ja tu.

  Ya phir aisa kar,

  Dharti se mila de mujh ko.

  Tu hi re, Tu hi re

  Tere bina mein kaise jiyoon.

  The train reached Panvel station at around nine in the night. They deboarded the train, kept their luggage aside, freshened up a little and drank tea at a nearby stall. They got into a local train after that. This was Asrar’s first journey in a local. There were few people in the compartment. He took a window seat. A few youths on the platform who were chatting jumped in as the train started. Even before it reached Vashi station, tall buildings all around, shopping malls, huge hoardings on the streets and the red, yellow and blue lights seemed to be pulling Asrar towards them. Asrar had never seen so many advertisements and such blinding lights! Before he could get completely lost in the magic of this glamorous light, the train entered the next station. Through the window he saw an ocean of people on the platform, which scared him for a second. Then he immediately recalled the various scenes of Mumbai that he had seen on the television where the crowds of Mumbai were beautifully showcased. Even before the train could stop completely, people started shouting and pushing each other to board. The coach was overflowing with passengers. Asrar silently observed them.

  An inquisitive-looking boy asked him, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Bombai,’ Asrar replied staring at him.

  Wherever his answer was heard in the coach, the tired faces started smiling. Some even laughed at it.

  A man, with smallpox marks on his face, smiled and remarked in a Bombay accent, ‘This is Bambai!’

  A Gujarati boy who had just boarded the coach and had secured seats for his friends mocked, ‘These “bhaiyyas” are going to ruin Mumbai.’

  ‘I’m not a “bhaiyya”!’ Asrar immediately snapped.

  This unexpected answer made the Gujarati boys smile. ‘The moron must be a Bihari then,’ one of them said and the others started laughing loudly.

  ‘I am from Maharashtra,’ Asrar clarified.

  The Gujarati boy spat the mawa he was eating out of the window and said, ‘Nowadays even Chinesewala have started calling themselves Marathi!’

  The Gujarati boys again burst out in laughter. Suleiman could not resist speaking. He said loudly, ‘Apla manus aahe re [He is one of us].’ Asrar and his friends started conversing in Konkani delicately dipped in Marathi.

  The Gujarati boys fell silent. One of them also apologized. ‘You see it isn’t written on anyone’s face where they come from.’

  Asrar did not say anything. As a matter of fact, he did not even understand what was going on. Seeing that the Marathi-speaking boys were in a majority, the Gujarati boys were now quite polite. They offered Suleiman water and said, ‘We are true sainiks too!’

  The crowd reduced after a few stations. But the congregation of passengers at the station made Asrar inquisitive. He asked Qasim, ‘So many people even at this late hour?’

  ‘Till eleven nearly all stations are crowded.’

  ‘Everything shuts down so early back home.’

  ‘My friend, this is Mumbai. It is overflowing with people. You will soon get used to this place.’

  Asrar smiled and resumed looking out of the window. He looked at the slums along the railway tracks with dreamy eyes and craving in his heart. It was already ten in the night, and he was amazed to see how there was still music and life in those huts. Old men, women and children were sitting outside their houses and were chatting away or busy working. Some houses had dirty old curtains covering their doors. Some doors were open, and he could see the light of the television emitted from the rooms. In a few areas film songs were being played at a loud volume. Young men and kids were dancing away to glory. In a dilapidated house near the track he could see four or five eunuchs standing in the dark, wearing bright, provocative clothes. At a little distance near the senghat tree, he noticed a few shadows. Asrar wanted to see the scene closely, but the train moved ahead. For some time the shining clothes and faces with garish make-up floated before his eyes and later slept in his unconscious. When the train stopped at the Kurla station, Asrar saw many burqa-clad women and bearded men. The men were dressed in a white kurta pyjama. Asrar immediately inquired from his friend, ‘Is this “our” area?’

  ‘Yes, this is Kurla, this is the area of the Qasais.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that this area has a good population of Qasais.’

  ‘But in our village, they generally wear lungis. Do they wear white clothes here in Bombay?’

  ‘No, no. The ones that you see on the station are Chilyas,’ Dalvi tried explaining.

  Asrar was inquisitive. ‘Who are Chilyas?’

  ‘They don’t watch television. They belong to Gujarat. Initially, they were in the taxi business, but now they have taken to the business of hospitality and hotels as well.’

  Asrar didn’t say anything. He resumed looking outside the train.

  He was lost in the grandeur of Mumbai. He stared at every tree, house, building, road, hoarding and flyover. The city seemed like an ocean to him which had a lot of hidden secrets in its heart.

  The thought of the ocean reminded him of how a day before he was sitting on the seashore. The music of the waves had slowly entered his soul and merged with it. For a few seconds he could no longer see Mumbai because his eyes had beautiful images of water in front of them. He saw the disturbed sea. The sea, that was hitting its head on the shores, as if in anger. And in an instant, it fell silent. But the silence had much more to it. It was a mysterious silence with a hidden conspiracy. He saw that on the surface of the silent waters, the Queen of the Sea was floating slowly. His father was engrossed in a conversation with his friends. Suddenly, the silent waters roared, and one could see water till the end of the horizon. A whirlpool opened its mouth right under the boat. The boat whirled and took seven spins before the water swallowed it.

  Only Abid Parkar did not drown.

  The first of May was a holiday. It was Maharashtra Day.

  The inhabitants of the Jamat Ki Kholi were lost in deep sleep. At fajr, the muezzin coughed thrice into the mike and began reciting the azan and Asrar woke up. It was the muezzin’s regular habit to check the mic by coughing to ensure that his voice was audible and clear.

  It so happened that in the madrasa where he had studied, every Thursday evening, his teacher, Maulvi Abdul Haq Bijnori, would take him to a secluded place to feed him strawberry ice cream and would say, ‘La yajub, la hujub (It won’t melt, it won’t melt).’