Amidst a roar of slogans and a rain of bricks, he crossed the street and knocked at the closed, curtained door of the Shiraz. He knocked once, a second time, a third time. Abdul pulled the curtain slightly aside and looked out, then opened one panel of the door a little. “Zakir-ji, come in quick.”
Inside in the half-darkness, looking around at the empty tables and chairs, he made out the corner where Irfan was sitting alone, drinking tea.
“Yar, that time has come again.”
“Even a worse one, for when a time comes back it’s always grown worse. But how did you get here? I didn’t think you’d be able to make it today.”
“Well, I did. In Delhi, among all the venerable elders of steadfast habits there was one who came to his friend’s house every evening at the same time, knocked on the door, and visited for a while. When the Rebellion of ’57 came, all the roads were closed. This man of steadfast habits left his house, crawled with great difficulty through trenches and gutters, and somehow managed to arrive at his friend’s house at the regular time.”
“Yes, we too are among those who keep the steadfast habits of ’57.”
“Although that time has not yet come.”
“Yes, it hasn’t yet come.”
There was another knock on the door, and again Abdul dashed over to pull the curtain slightly aside and look out through the glass. Then, as before, he opened one panel of the door a little. “Afzal-ji, hurry.” After letting Afzal in, he again closed the door.
In the half-darkness, after glancing around at the empty tables and chairs, Afzal focused his attention on the table where the two were sitting. “Ai people! Do you see that the signs of mischief are again showing themselves?”
“Yes, we’ve heard and we’ve seen and we’ve confirmed it,” Irfan said with a light sarcasm in his tone.
Afzal, pleased, patted him on the back. “You’re a good man. It’s only when you deny me that you’re disgusting.”
“Yar, is something going to happen again?” Zakir asked, with a certain thought in his mind.
“Yes, Salamat has come back,” Irfan announced, ignoring his question.
“What did you say? That mouse has come back again?” Afzal was startled. “And the other mouse?”
“Both have come back, and they’ve turned into Muslims.”
“Not really?”
“Absolutely. Both revolutionaries stick pious caps on their heads and go to the mosque to offer prayers.”
“Really?” He was still astonished. “This is indeed a cause for anxiety!”
Abdul brought the tea and set it down, then stood there. “What’s all this, sir, that’s happening?”
“What you see,” Irfan replied.
“Well, sir, it started very suddenly. No one had the slightest suspicion that it might start again.”
“Abdul!” Afzal glared at him. “You too have become a mouse.”
Abdul asked Afzal an abrupt question. “Afzal Sahib-ji! You tell me, what will come of it? What’s going to happen?”
Afzal placed his finger on his lips. “Abdul, be silent. I have been commanded not to speak.”
From the distance came the Fire Brigade’s siren.
“There’s a fire somewhere.”
Silence — everyone was listening intently to the Fire Brigade’s siren.
“Friends! I want to ask your permission for one thing,” Afzal said with such gravity that he, Irfan, and Abdul all three listened closely.
“Do you know what Baba Farid said to the Khvajah of Kalyar? If you don’t know, then listen. The Khvajah sent to the Baba an account of the disgusting people of the city. The Baba sent him a reply, ‘Oh steadfast one, Kalyar is your goat. I give you full authority. If you wish, drink its milk; if you wish, eat its meat.’ Then the Khvajah stood before the mosque and said, ‘Ai mosque, bow down!’ The mosque obeyed his order and bowed down so low that hundreds were crushed to death in its ruins. Then the plague spread. From all the houses, numerous funeral processions set out at the same time.”
Afzal, after telling this story, fell silent. He stared intently at all the three faces. Then he asked solemnly, “Friends, what do you say? What shall I do with this goat? Shall I drink its milk, or eat its meat?”
Irfan ignored Afzal’s whole speech and addressed Zakir: “Zakir, how is your father now?”
“He’s somewhat better, but he talks strangely, as if he had entirely given up on life.”
“It doesn’t matter, that’s simply the way people talk in old age.”
•
Genealogies, crumbling manuscripts, termite-eaten books with yellowed pages, old notes and papers, all kinds of ancient prescriptions, prayers, amulets — Abba Jan, with his spectacles on, read over every single sheet carefully, and confided them to him.
“Ai hai, what a packet of papers you’ve opened! You might at least have waited until you were a little better! Remember that in old age, when a man once falls down, he has trouble standing up again.”
“Zakir’s mother, I’m putting my affairs in order. When a man rises to depart, he should first straighten his garments.” He paused, then said, “Thanks be to God, my garments are not too dusty. No property, no money. If there was any, it was left behind back there. There are only these few ancient pages.”
“Oh, your mind is full of foolish notions. It’s not good to be constantly talking about death.”
“Zakir’s mother! What is there left now that’s good to talk about? Don’t you see what’s happening in Pakistan?” As he spoke, he picked up a book stained with mold. He opened it and looked inside, then handed it to him and said, “It’s a collection of Hazrat Sajjad’s prayers. Keep it carefully.” He stopped and thought for a moment, then said, “A questioner asked, ‘Oh best of those who offer prayer! In what state did the morning find you?’ He replied, ‘I swear by the Provider, the morning found me tormented by the Umayyids.’” As he spoke, Abba Jan grew sad, and said, “Son, from then to now, that morning has continued.” He fell silent, then said, “And it will continue until the Appearance.” Then he again fell silent, and after a long moment added, “In fact, Hazrat Rabiah of Basra gave the same kind of answer. Someone asked, ‘What have you done since you came into the world?’ She replied, ‘Lamented!’ Yes, that pure lady duly honored the claim of lamentation, for she constantly wept. What claim have I honored? I only sighed a few times, and then fell silent. Perhaps I wasn’t destined for any more lamentation than that. Anyone who remains alive now will honor the claim.” He sighed, and again began to fumble through the papers. “Take this, this is a cure for colic pain, written by Hakim Nabina. One small dose works better than a hundred injections. Keep it carefully.” And he gave him the fragile scrap of paper and again began going through his things.
From an inner compartment of a cloth bag came a small tablet of earth, and a rosary. “Zakir’s mother, you keep these. The tablet is made of the healing earth of Najaf, and the prayer-beads are made of clay from Karbala.” He touched both things to his eyes, kissed them, and handed them over to Ammi Jan.
From somewhere deep within the bag, under some papers, he brought out a bunch of keys. He looked at them closely, and said, “That day you were thinking about the keys to the mansion, and here they are.”
Her lined face brightened. “Truly?” She looked longingly at the bunch of keys. “Well, you wouldn’t believe, that day when you said you didn’t know where they were, my heart almost stopped beating. I thought my soul had left my body.” She paused, then said, “And the rust hasn’t gotten to them?”
Abba Jan examined the keys once more. “No, I didn’t let them get rusty. From now on, it’s up to Zakir.” Then he addressed him: “Son, these are the keys of a house to which we no longer have any right. And when did we ever have any right? The world, as Hazrat Ali has said, is a guesthouse. We and our desires are guests in it. Guests have no rights. Whatever the earth deigns to bestow on us guests, it’s a favor, and the earth has shown us great kindness indeed. These keys are a trust. Guard this trust, and remember the kindness shown by the earth we left, and this will be your greatest act of dutiful behavior.” As he spoke, suddenly his breath choked. He closed his eyes with the pain, and pressed his hand to his chest. Ammi at once jumped up anxiously, “Why, what’s happened?” She helped him to lie down. “Son, call the doctor!” Abba Jan opened his eyes. He made a sign to say no. Slowly, with the greatest difficulty, he said, “Hazrat Ali has come.”