“Zakir’s mother,” Abba Jan said reprovingly, “God the Most High does not love the arrogant.”
“Yes, but you were never arrogant. And how much the Lord has loved you! Today you don’t even have a place to lay your head!” Ammi said bitterly, and fell silent.
I got up quietly and stole out. The thought of leaving that house didn’t much trouble me. The truth was that I’d never been able to become very attached to the house, and for the room in which I spread out my bedding I felt no affection at all. I found myself constantly remembering the room I’d left behind. Such small, trivial things had suddenly become so significant! While I was sitting, or as I walked along, some unimportant detail, some small thing would come into my mind. Some scene would well up in my memory, then some other scene related to it, then some third scene with no connection to the other two. Memories surged along like waves, and I swam among them. And the wave that was included in every other wave, and illumined the whole series of waves — Sabirah — I had come so close to Sabirah in those last days. And when I went to bring her to Rupnagar. My first and last journey with her. We left Vyaspur before dawn, but when the lorry reached Bulandshahr it was already afternoon. And when our horse-cart passed by the bazaar, on the way to the other bus-stand where the lorries left for Rupnagar, Sugar-sellers’ Lane was so full of smoke and wasps that I felt suffocated. The neighborhoods of this city are known by their atmospheres. The atmosphere here was so different from that of Vyaspur. Smoke, wasps, wrens, dust — wherever the weekly markets were held, how many wrens there were! And the lanes in which huge cauldrons of sugar bubbled on big cooking stoves were so full of smoke and wasps that it was hard to walk through them. If you go on beyond the bazaar, there are gravel roads, covered with dust, level in some places and full of ruts in others. The lorry for Rupnagar left sometime in the late afternoon. As we crossed over the Ganges on the bridge, darkness fell. Somehow, at some point, her hand came into mine. From then on I was unconcerned about the dust and ruts in the road, and about when the lorry would arrive in Rupnagar, and even about whether it would arrive at all.
•
Walking along, I started. “Afzal, you? What are you doing here?”
“Sympathizing with friends.”
I turned around, and looked in all directions. There was no one there at all. There were only trees, with their dry yellow leaves falling.
“What friends?”
“All these trees are my friends. Today they’re in difficulties, it looks as though they’ll be stripped quite naked.” I sat down there on the grass with Afzal, then inspected the surroundings.
“Yar, the season has completely changed. When we came, the rains were just ending. The winter was about to begin, and what a cold winter, my God!”
“Yes, Pakistan has seen one season pass. Now another season is passing over her. And this season is crueler, the trees are being stripped.”
“Afzal,” I asked casually, “aren’t there any neem trees here?”
“Why not? Come on, I’ll show you.”
He took me around the park. Then he brought me beneath a tree and stopped me: “Here’s your neem.”
I looked at it closely. “Yar, this is a Persian lilac.”
He was a little embarrassed. “Well, it doesn’t matter, there’s nothing wrong with the Persian lilac. He too is a friend of mine. There’s a neem here, I’ll have to search for it.”
“But we never had to search for neem trees! In the afternoons when the desert wind blew, and in the rainy July days, their greenness always proclaimed their presence.”
Afzal stayed silent. He went over to a leafy banyan tree, and announced his intention of camping there. “Sit down and rest a little. This is the coolest spot in Pakistan.”
“Is it?” I laughed.
“Yes,” Afzal said seriously, “In fact the banyan is my closest friend. The neem is an effeminate tree, its branches are only good for hanging swings on. Or for old ladies who sit in its shade and spin. But the bliss of Nirvana can be found only in the shade of the banyan.”
To say anything against the banyan just then would have been the height of ingratitude. Its shade was thick and cool. The grass spread out beneath it, all green and soft. I took off my shoes and put them to one side, unbuttoned my collar, stretched out on my back, and closed my eyes. I was remembering my lost trees. Lost trees, lost birds, lost faces. The swing suspended from the thick branch of the neem, Sabirah, the long swings back and forth, “Ripe neem seed, when will spring come?”—damp hair fallen forward on cheeks wet with raindrops. “Long live my brother, he’ll send a palanquin for me!” From a distant tree, the voice of the koyal bird.
I finally discovered the neem tree; and I had already heard the voice of the koyal. Oh, when I heard the koyal for the very first time in this land! I thought, “Where is my friend’s voice coming from?”* It happened when we had left Shamnagar and settled into a rented house. No houses in that area had been abandoned, so there were no new Emigrants among the neighbors. It was an open area. Nearby there were a good number of trees to be seen, and from hearing the koyal’s voice I suspected that there must be mango and jamun trees among them.
When Ammi heard the koyal’s voice, she was extraordinarily moved: “Ai hai! The koyal is calling.” Then she fell absolutely silent, with her ears alert for the koyal’s voice. And then I saw that her eyes were wet.
For me the koyal’s voice became a kind of license from the Rehabilitation Department, for after hearing it I gradually came to feel comfortable in this city. But the voice had a different effect on Ammi. It awakened sleeping memories. And to top it all off, Auntie Sharifan suddenly descended upon us.
“Ai Auntie Sharifan! When did you arrive?” And Ammi rose and impulsively embraced her.
“Dulhan Bi, I came a month ago. I wanted so much to see you! I asked your whereabouts until I reached the house in Shamnagar. Munshi Musayyab Husain told me you’d left there.” As she spoke, she took in the house in a single glance: “Dulhan Bi, I’ve just come from Munshi Musayyab Husain’s house. It’s a real mansion! While they’ve allotted you this house no bigger than the palm of your hand!”
“Do you think we had it allotted? We’re having to live in a rented house!”
“In a rented house? Dulhan Bi! Come to your senses! Worthless wretches who had no homes have had mansions allotted to them, those who had mansions have to live in rented houses!” Then in a changed voice she said, “Dulhan Bi, don’t take it amiss, but your Pakistan is topsy-turvy. Everybody’s lost all fellow feeling, it’s hard to believe it.” Then in a moment she directed her attention to me: “Dulhan Bi, this is Zakir? Ai hai, I didn’t even recognize him!” She rose and made the gesture of taking my misfortunes onto herself. “Son, don’t you recognize me? I used to wash your diapers! And when you had typhoid, Bi Amma and I sat up night after night by your bedside. Dulhan Bi, do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. It was a miracle that he lived through it.”
“Bi Amma never stopped praying. She was on her prayer-carpet night and day. So, son, what are you doing?”
“Auntie Sharifan, your Zakir is a Professor in the College.”
“Thanks to God’s grace! May the Lord bless you.” Then she said hesitantly, “Dulhan Bi, when I saw Musayyab Husain’s son, I couldn’t believe it. There, he used to loaf around in the street. Here, the worthless wretch has been earning money hand over fist!”
“Here, everyone who can earn, earns money hand over fist.”
“Son!” Auntie Sharifan again addressed me. “In Pakistan people have all kinds of big jobs. Why are you wasting your time teaching those useless boys?”