“Elli, you cannot come.”
“Oh, I am not going with you,” she says. A figure dressed in immaculate white is exiting Somraj’s house. “Someone else has kindly offered to take me.”
When I reach Chowk, it’s thronged with every kind of Khaufpuri. The Yar-yilaqis are out in force, Muslims of other communities, also Hindus and Sikhs, have come to watch the fire walk, some to join in. Of Elli and Somraj no sign there’s, but near where the pots-and-pans street joins the cloth bazaar I see Nisha with Zafar, they are talking quietly. I creep up until I am right behind them, they don’t notice so absorbed’re they. Nisha’s saying, “…left her husband in Amrika.” This much I catch, but not Zafar’s reply. Nisha then says, “He’s not himself,” after which there’s silence until Zafar puts his arm round her waist. Some kind of growl I must have given for Nisha whirls round and starts gabbling, “You wretched boy, so there you are, don’t you realise you’re driving everyone crazy with worry? No way are you doing this stupid thing, Zafar has already told Farouq, now they will not let you. No, don’t speak, don’t say a thing. I am so angry with you. Why are you spying on us? Don’t you realise what you’ve done, with all your antics? If you want to spy, go find my dad and the Amrikan, then let’s all go home.”
How I hate that “us, us, us.” Nisha can have no idea how painful are such words or she’d never say them. I’ve given every hint I can to Nisha that I love her and would like her to be with me. What more’s to do? You tell me. Give up the battle? What chance had I against Zafar? I know what you’re thinking, Eyes, that I should have accepted defeat gracefully and wished Nisha joy, but I just couldn’t do it. I never said I was a good person. How can I explain the rush of feelings whenever I saw her, how my heart seemed to jump when she entered a room? All I know is that I loved to be near her. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to stroke her hair and press my lips on her closed eyelids and tell her that I would always be there to take care of her.
Eyes, I know that such talk is the sorriest kind of bullshit. What to do? A creature in love, its brain is fully fucked.
The lanes of Chowk are so narrow, in most places you’ll hardly get two fat buggers past one another, it’s a total jostle from the alley of the tinsmiths to the gulab-baadi where strings of white jasmine buds hang down and the stalls are heaped with marigolds and roses. Near the masjid, all kinds of rugs and carpets are hung up for sale, plus saris and cloths. Here I’ve at last spotted Somraj and Elli and commenced navigating towards them through groves of legs, trying not to get my hands trodden on.
“Bastard,” says a loud voice, “you’re saved, you know that? Zafar has said you are not allowed to do it.”
It’s Farouq, wearing a black headband, barefoot, ready for the fire walk.
“I can still watch you make a fool of yourself.”
“If you misbehave I’ll throw you on the fire myself.”
“Fuck off. You love me.” With any luck Farouq will fall on the coals and burn to death like a big black moth. I am not going to tell Farouq that Zafar or no, nothing is going to stop me keeping my word.
We’ve exchanged a few more insults but his heart’s not really in it, he moves off and I’ve slunk closer to Somraj and Elli, who are slowly strolling towards the masjid. She’s looking around with a kind of eagerness, like a child, I’m hanging a few paces behind, struggling to hear.
“…never been outside Amrika,” it’s Elli speaking. “He would not believe this place. These rugs, they look like if you sat on one it might fly away with you.”
“They are of a good quality.”
“Oh really!” she says laughing. “If I said I wanted a magic rug, I do believe you’d take me looking for one.”
“But of course, it’s my duty.”
“Your duty?”
“You are a stranger in my city. I am your host.”
“Is it just duty?”
“Also my pleasure.” Said without the smallest smile.
“That’s a bit more friendly,” says she and her next words are lost, but she’s laughing. The mela intervenes, next thing I hear is, “After we were married I came here with my wife, she chose a rug for the house.”
Elli asks, “You miss her?”
I didn’t hear his reply, if he made one. Probably he didn’t speak because after a bit she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Now he turns and gives her a smile. One of those rare smiles of his. “No, no, not at all. I was listening to the music.”
“You sure? I haven’t upset you?”
“No, no,” says he. “Definitely you have not upset me. Listen, how so many musics are running together.”
From all sides are blaring chants and laments for Imam Hussein. Every doorway seems to pour out a different song, it’s like walking through dense clouds of music. Marsiyas, these laments called, there are dozens of them. Some are in Hindi, others in Arabic and Persian, but whichever language they are in you catch the same meaning, at least I do. It’s like every good thing in the world is dying and the people of the world, they see but do not care. The mourners are defiant, never will they give in to evil powers. For me, who am neither Muslim, nor Hindu, nor Isayi, this is a music that could also comfort Isa miyañ dying on the cross or go with Sri Rama into exile from Ayodhya. It’s all one to me, what I like is the defiance, I like it a lot. Somraj does too, but for different reasons, his head is turning this way and that, as if the sounds are butterflies and his ears are nets.
We are near the big masjid and the marsiya from inside is coming out full blast through big speakers.
Standing alone on the field of battle,
O Hussein, never shall I forget Hussein! showing
no fear, the zibh-e-Azeem of Abu Abdillah
Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein! Ya Hussein!
“You’re listening always,” says Elli. “How do you distinguish the sounds?”
“I don’t distinguish,” replies Somraj. “I try to hear it all together, all at once. When songs clash, as you called it, sometimes out of that comes a new music, something completely fresh.”
“Like with lives,” she says.
The fire is burning in a big courtyard outside the masjid. Tele screens all around show those like me who cannot see directly. The coals are laid in a large square pit raised a few feet, surrounded by a platform on which are the guys with big leather bellows making it hotter still. Every time the men heave the bellows, sparks fly sideways, the coals glow with anger. Already fierce red they’re, and must get hotter still. The bellows groan, jets of air turn the coals white with fury. Long ago I’ve lost track of Somraj and Elli. Now I have to be devious, I am going to do this fire walk and no one shall forbid me. It is to my advantage that I am low to the ground, people are not used to talking at knee level. The crowd is thick with young men wearing black headbands, they are forming into lines which move slowly forward converging, joining, like streams becoming a river, heading for the platform where the steps lead up to the fire.
On the ground I find a black scarf where someone has dropped it and with some difficulty tie it one-handed around my head. I have no black shirt to wear, nothing else in fact except my kakadus. I’ve joined a line of guys who have begun moving towards the inferno. Their legs are like trees before and behind me, their feet are wet where they have dipped them in water, they leave damp footprints on the paving, I did not know to do this so I place my hands and feet in patches of moisture, hoping to pick up some. The others are singing loudly the words of the lament.