… “Ai my son! How did you find the towns?”
“My father, I found the towns uneasy. East, west, north, south, I went in all directions searching for joy and peace. In every direction I found the children of Adam unhappy and troubled.”
“My son, you were searching for something not to be found under the blue sky.”
“Then, ai my father, what do you say to me?”
“I will say to you what the son of David said to his son: my son, scattered clouds never come together again. Clouds that have rained themselves out never rain again. So before the birds fall silent and the sound of the grindstone ceases, and before those who gaze out of the windows are darkened and the gates of the street are shut, and before the silver cord is loosed and the golden bowl is broken and the pitcher is smashed at the well and—”*
•
“Fellow, what are you doing here?”
He looked up with a start at Afzal, who was somehow there, standing by his head.
“Yar, I came to my father’s grave. Then I was trapped here. Today the whole mess took place right around the cemetery. But how do you happen to be here?”
“I have the same matter of graves to deal with that you do. My grandmother is buried here too.” Gesturing: “That one over there, that’s her grave.” He paused; then, brokenly—“Zakir, my grandmother’s death has taken away my strength.” He fell silent. For a long time he sat in silence, lost in his thoughts. Then he said slowly, “Zakir, doesn’t it seem strange to you?”
“What?”
“That we’ve met, in the turmoil of the day, among graves.”
He’d forgotten about that. He sat up with a start, and looked around him. Graves and more graves. And now evening was falling. “Yar, evening is coming, let’s go.”
“Where shall we go from here?” Afzal asked innocently.
“Anywhere. Let’s leave.” He got to his feet.
The road was empty for a long distance, and also full. From one side to the other, how many bricks lay scattered. Broken bricks, shattered bits of car windows, half-burned tires. How many traffic signals stood blindly, deprived of their lights, and how many had been bent out of shape. The silence betrayed the earlier tumult. It’s strange that in such cases the deep silence that falls afterwards is in exact proportion to the tumult that raged before. It was becoming hard to walk. So many scattered bricks and fragments of car windows and rubble from ruined mansions.
•
… Saadat Khan’s estate, the General’s wife’s mansion, Sahib Ram’s garden and mansion, all destroyed, filled with dust. From the Jama Masjid to Rajghat is a wilderness. If the heaps of bricks lying around could be removed, there would be total emptiness. At Hare-bhare Shah’s tomb, the same mad faqir was sitting there again. I was frightened, I was afraid he might roar at me again. But today there was no roar. Then I myself approached him. I asked respectfully, “Shah Sahib, what do you foresee?”
“What has already happened will happen again.”
“That is already occurring.”
He looked at me with furious eyes. He roared, “Go away! I have no orders to reveal anything further.”
I came away.
•
“Zakir, my friend!” Afzal paused, then said, “It seems there’s been a lot of tumult.” In fact he had seen spots of blood on the road, and was frightened.
“Yes, it does seem so.”
“People have grown cruel,” Afzal muttered.
Cruel — hearing that word on Afzal’s lips he was somewhat startled, but remained silent.
They had both fallen silent. They were only walking, together but not connected to each other.
“The Shiraz too!” they both exclaimed at the same time. They had unconsciously headed in that direction, and when they arrived they were taken aback.
The Shiraz was closed, but not merely in the ordinary way: all the glass panes in its doors had been smashed. Its door and walls were covered with soot. The signboard that had hung in front of it had been burned, and lay on the ground right before the door. There were so many bricks scattered around that they could be seen inside as well as outside. So here too there had been a furious attack, and here too a fire had been set. They both stared fixedly at the Shiraz. Then, avoiding the scattered bricks and broken glass, they sat down right there on the sidewalk.
They sat in silence, and the shadows of evening spread. The road before them lay in deep silence. No sound of feet, no noise of vehicles. Then in the dusk a shadow appeared, coming toward them. They looked closely to see who it was. “Irfan,” he said to himself, and in his mind’s eye he saw the Imperial’s tawny cat — the way he had seen her as he passed, during that silent evening when he had wandered in the debris of the Imperial.
Irfan, without surprise, saw him and Afzal sitting there. Then, without saying a word, he sat down beside them. All three sat like statues. In the deepening dusk of the evening, three motionless shadows.
Suddenly Afzal stood up, as though he was sick of sitting silent and motionless. He stood before them both, hands submissively folded. “Yar, you two are good men. Forgive me. I wasn’t able to protect the city.”
They both looked at him, went on looking at him, in silence. Today this manner of Afzal’s didn’t cause Irfan any irritation.
Afzal stood for a while. Then he sat down, then he said slowly, “Yar, we weren’t virtuous either.” He fell silent, and looked at them both. “We’re cruel. We too.”
Zakir looked quietly at Afzal. “I’m cruel?” He wanted to correct Afzal’s words, or perhaps he was only murmuring to himself.
Afzal pulled a notebook out of his pocket, glanced over the list of names, inked all the names out with a pen. “There are no virtuous men.”
Neither he nor Irfan showed any reaction. For a long time the three sat silently. Then he grew somewhat restless.
“Yar,” he said to Irfan, “I want to write her a letter.”
“Now?” Irfan stared into his face.
“Yes, now.”
“Now when—” There was no telling what Irfan had wanted to say; in the midst of his sentence he fell silent.
“Yes, now when—” He paused in the midst of his sentence, then took a different tack. “Before—” Confused, he fell silent.
Before — he tried to get it clear in his mind — before — before the parting of her hair fills with silver, and the birds fall silent, and before the keys rust, and the doors of the streets are shut — and before the silver cord is loosed, and the golden bowl is shattered, and the pitcher is broken at the well, and the sandalwood tree, and the snake in the ocean, and—
“Why are you silent?” Irfan was gazing steadily at him.
“Silence.” Afzal, placing a finger on his lips, signaled Irfan to be silent. “I think we will see a sign.”
“A sign? What sign can there be now?” Irfan said with bitterness and despair.
“Fellow, signs always come at just these times, when all around—” he paused in the middle of his speech. Then he said in a whisper, “This is the time for a sign—”
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
Intizar Husain chose to call his now-famous novel Basti, a word that can refer to any place where groups of people live, from a neighborhood to a city. The novel itself is full of towns, including not only present ones in Pakistan and India, but also at least one from the past (the Delhi of 1857), some mythic ones from Muslim and Hindu story tradition, and two invented ones, Rupnagar and Vyaspur. Although all the outward events clearly take place during Zakir’s adult life in Lahore, Lahore is never identified by name — it remains “this city” from first to last. And the inward events take place in Zakir’s memory and imagination alone, as he moves among the times and places of his personal and cultural history. The author has in some cases blurred the transitions. I’ve tried to clarify them a bit by using breaks in the text to show movements in time and place, and using “…” where fantasy passages begin. Parts of chapters seven, eight, ten, and eleven include fantasy and tangled thoughts. While I’ve provided footnotes identifying quotations and references, the tangle itself is part of the writer’s artistry.