Just then Abba Jan arrived, coming in from somewhere. Seeing mother and son lost to the world, he was somewhat surprised.
“Zakir! What is it, what’s happened?”
“Nothing, Abba Jan,” he said slowly, and fell silent.
Then he looked at his wife. “What is it?”
“It’s nothing at all, we were only somehow remembering old things.” With a long sigh she came back from her journey to Rupnagar. On her return, how strange and unfamiliar the walls of this small rented house looked. For a little while she was again lost. Then she suddenly spoke. “Well, listen now, where is the key to the storeroom?”
“Storeroom? What storeroom?”
“Ai hai, you’ve already forgotten! Was there not a storeroom in our mansion?”
“Oh, the storeroom in the mansion.” Abba Jan was silent, then said, “Zakir’s mother, twenty-five years have passed.”
“Well, I’m asking about the key to the storeroom, not the number of years.”
“When you asked about the key to the storeroom, I thought I ought to tell you how much time has passed.”
“Oh, what does time have to do with it — time always goes on passing, but if the key to the storeroom’s been lost, it’s a disaster! All our old family heirlooms are shut up in there. All the things from my dowry are in there. And when Zakir, may God preserve him, was born, your father, to celebrate the birth of a grandson, sent sweets around to all the relatives on silver plates. Twelve of those plates are stored there too. And, yes, that shroud you sent for from Holy Karbala is in the same trunk with your father’s prayer carpet from Madina the Radiant, and the tablet of healing earth from Karbala, and your mother’s chest and Quran-stand.”
“Shroud?” Zakir looked at her with surprise.
“Yes, son, the shroud. When your grandfather came back from his pilgrimage to Karbala, he brought with him two shrouds that had been specially prepared there and had touched the Imam’s tomb. He himself was buried in one. Are, that’s why for forty days a sweet smell like musk came from his grave.”
“Forty days? You speak of forty days, but I know that whenever I went there to read the Fatihah, I felt that a sweet smell was coming from his grave. It was a remarkable kind of sweet smell.” Abba Jan was silent, then sighed and said, “God alone knows what condition all those graves are in.”
“I did whatever I could. When we left for Vyaspur, I gathered all our family heirlooms carefully in the storeroom and locked it up. And before we left for Pakistan I told you again and again that I wanted to have just a final look around Rupnagar, and pick up anything that we should take with us, but you never listened to a word I said. Oh, if only I could have unlocked the storeroom just once, and at least aired things out in the sun! So much time has passed, I’m afraid the wretched termites will have been at them; there were so many termites in that house.”
I ought to go before the termites nibble everything away, he thought to himself. Then the question arose in his mind, as time passes why do termites get at things? What relationship is there between time and termites? Is time a termite, or is a termite time?
“Zakir’s mother! You don’t remember what was going on with the trains at the time. I myself wanted to have a last look around Rupnagar before leaving. I would have read the Fatihah one last time over my ancestors’ graves.” Abba Jan paused, then said, “And at least I would have brought my shroud.” After a pause he addressed Zakir: “Son, there I had made all the arrangements for my burial. The shroud was ready, and I’d chosen a place for my grave too. My family would only have had to take the trouble of cutting a few filbert branches and washing me,* then lifting me to their shoulders and lowering me into the grave. But here, there’s no arrangement. You’ll have to arrange everything.”
What great power the grave has in Muslims’ culture. A phrase from Surendar’s letter came to his mind.
“Oh, this is just the anxiety that eats at my heart, how will our deaths be!” Ammi said worriedly. “Our lives have passed somehow or other, but for death a hundred arrangements have to be made.”
So death requires more arrangements than life, he thought to himself. Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Irfan.”
“Coming.” He rose and went to the door.
Ammi at once left the room, but Abba Jan waited for Irfan to come in. As he entered, Abba Jan threw out the question, “Well, young man, is there any news?”
“No sir, there’s no special news.”
“Young man, what kind of a journalist are you?” After a pause he said, “But it’s not your fault, that’s the state the newspapers are in nowadays. Once they used to publicize the news, now they conceal the news; in any case, may God have mercy, things don’t look good.” As he spoke, he rose and went inside.
“Yar, I was waiting for you, it was very boring, the Shiraz was absolutely empty today.”
“Really? Nobody was there?”
“Only that white-haired man. Today he found me alone and pounced on me. He was very boring.” He paused, then said, “Yar, that man seems a very suspicious character to me.”
“You’ve said something like this before.”
“But today I’m convinced of it.”
“Why?”
“Yar, anybody who makes a show of national feeling, I’ve begun to have doubts about.”
“Oh, let’s drop the subject, yar. I’ll tell you some news.”
“Really? All right.”
“Yar, today a letter came,” he said confidentially.
“From where?”
“From India.”
“From India?” Irfan looked him over doubtfully from head to foot. “A letter from India? In these times? — It was from some relative.”
“No, it was from my old friend Surendar.”
“A letter from Surendar, in these times?” Irfan said ironically, “Zakir, sometimes I have doubts even about you.”
“I’ve often had doubts about myself too. But anyway, for the present, read this letter.” He put the letter into Irfan’s hands.
Irfan read it carefully from start to finish. He was reading the letter, and Zakir was trying to understand his reaction from the expressions that passed over his face. After finishing the letter, Irfan laughed. “Yar, I thought that Sabirah was a figment of your nostalgic imagination. But she really exists.” He paused, then said, “Be that as it may, your love shows a wonderful sense of timing! What a season the fruit of love has chosen to ripen in!”
He ignored Irfan’s words, and said, “Yar, I want to go there.”
“What did you say? You want to go?”
“Yes, yar! I want to go and see her one time, before—” In the midst of speaking, he stopped.
“Before—” Irfan sarcastically repeated the word. Then he said, “My dear friend, a long time has passed.”
“Yes, a long time has passed, but still—” As he spoke, he fell into thought.
Ammi peered into the room. “Are, son, what’s making that noise outside?”
“Noise? What noise?”
“They’re saying that war has broken out.”*
“What? War has broken out?” They both jumped up at once, and hastily went out.
Now it was evening, and in the lane there was darkness from one end to the other. Light filtered out from the windows and air vents of many distant houses. But near them in the lane a clamor was rising, “Put out the lights!” “Turn off the light!”—and the lights in the houses were gradually going off. Now, into the far distance, the darkness was complete. A group of young volunteers, blowing whistles, swiftly entered the lane. Zakir advanced. “What is it, brother?”