Despite this timely warning, you will have found English words here and there. The reasons for this are that either I didn’t know their Urdu synonyms or that they appear in actual dialogue. Moreover not only have some English words become so common and ingrained in our experience, but also they are mispronounced in such a way that they should be considered nothing other than Urdu. An English speaker wouldn’t recognize the words nor would they want them back in their new shape if they did.
My dear old friend Muhammad Abdul Jameel did me a huge favour by offering his useful advice during the revision of ‘A Schoolteacher’s Dream’ and ‘The First Memorable Poetry Festival of Dhiraj Ganj.’ His suggestions were just as delicate and modest as he himself, and his marginal notes were so light that simply rubbing your finger across them erased them. He also suggested some corrections that I was not willing to make. For example, a Gujarati businessman was in a heated argument and happened to say, ‘So I take the crippled fucking horse, and then what?’ Jameel Sahib is from Lucknow, and his sense of decorum couldn’t handle this. His gentle reproof didn’t go so far as excising the entire sentence, but rather he just put a line through ‘fucking’ and wrote over it ‘gosh darn.’ At another point, he said, ‘It might be just me, but what is this expression “hak dak”? Please write “hakka bakka.” Here in Lucknow we don’t say “hak dak.” ’ I begged his indulgence, ‘With “hakka bakka,” all that comes to mind is wide-open eyes and a jaw dropped in astonishment, and yet with “hak dak,” I aslo get how the heart just skipped a beat.’ He answered, ‘Then why don’t you just go ahead and write “dhak dhak”? And, here, I was surprised to see you used the word “gay.” It must have been a slip of the pen. You’ll have to pardon my saying so, but, well, that word, isn’t it too crude for you?’
‘What should I write instead?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong with being gay?’
‘Nothing.’
When I burst out laughing, he did a double take. He thought about the word’s potential meanings, and then ended up laughing for quite a while as well. He wiped the tears from his eyes with his handkerchief and said, ‘If you have to keep it, then write “queer.” It’s more decent.’
Hakka bakka! That’s what happened to me while I thought back to how I’d used ‘queer’ in several instances to describe people when all I had meant was ‘strange.’ With this new euphemism in place, they would be able to sue me for slander and defamation!
After a little while, he turned up the starched sleeves of his muslin kurta, and as he riffled through the manuscript’s pages, he said, ‘You’ve used some words that aren’t proper in Lucknow.’ I replied that that was exactly why I had used them. This hit a nerve, and he exclaimed, ‘At last you’ve said something worth listening to!’ Then, as he lit one cigarette from the butt of another, he said, ‘But, Mushtaq Sahib, what is this “bok”? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s a young, horny goat that’s used for breeding. Think horns, scraggly beard, and a bad smell. Its meat stinks too, and it’s all stringy.’
‘God! I’ve never heard of this word. Are there really goats like that? The word — its meaning — the idea of such meat — is just disgusting! It makes me want to retch. Can’t you use some better-smelling animal in its place? Who’s going to understand “bok” in Karachi?’
‘Those who know what “retch” means,’ I said. ‘You’ve memorized all of Ghalib, right, first to last word? You must have noticed that he manages to slip in its polar opposite. In his letter to Alai, he wrote: “As I write this, you must be feasting on bok stew. With God as my witness, I don’t envy you your stew and pulao. Yes, by God, I hope you never get your hands on a piece of rock candy from Bikaner. When I think how Mir Jan Sahib must be sucking away on a piece of that candy, that’s when envy burns through me, and I start gnawing on my hand.” But what did Ghalib mean by this rock candy? Just rock candy? If he really wanted some, he could get tons of its finest gems right where he was in Delhi. It’s amazing that literary scholars haven’t trained their beady little eyes on this delectable aporia, especially considering how in another letter Ghalib clearly mentions rock candy in connection with affairs of the heart.’
‘Anyway, forget Ghalib,’ Jameel Sahib said. ‘But this word, “ruhar.” Where’s that from? It doesn’t sit right on the tongue. It sounds quite uncouth. Is it Rajasthani?’
‘I was wondering that myself,’ I said. ‘That’s why I asked Majid Bhai…’
‘Majid Bhai?’
‘Mr Majid Ali, the former chief superintendent of Police, who moved to London. Everyone calls him Majid Bhai — his kids, his aunts and uncles, his colleagues. Majid Bhai. Except his wife, Zehra Nigah. She calls him Majid Uncle. Anyway, I went to check the word with him, and he confirmed that it means cotton taken out of an old quilt, carded by hand, and then stuffed into new quilts. That’s what ruhar is. I consider Majid Bhai my guru, and I accept whatever he says as the unimpeachable truth. But just to doublecheck, I asked him, “Do people in Badaun use the same word?” “Look here,” he said, throwing a fake look of anger onto his face and injecting an edgy stammer into his voice — a combination that during arguments has the same efficacy as Moses’s staff. “We’re friends and all, and a little intellectual banter is fine too. But only those from Badayun have the right to call “Badayun” “Badaun.” I mean, imagine if one day you started calling me Majid Uncle instead of Majid Bhai. The police here in London would arrest me for polygamy! It wouldn’t affect you. In any event, “ruhar” is the right word. In Badaun, the roving street-vendors used to go from house to house calling out for it. They bought it off people in exchange for sweet sesame crackers.’ I thought this the opportune moment to put in check my great passion for intellectual enquiry, seeing as how he was soon to turn my mortar board into a washboard and beat me over the head with it. Even the best examples of humanity aren’t able to put up with Majid Bhai’s endless witticisms. Go ask the Oracle of Delphi. One time in front of Majid Bhai’s boss’s office, some people were standing a ways off and shouting slogans against his boss: ‘Ayub Khan’s ass-kisser! Ayub Khan’s ass-kisser!’ The minister asked Majid Bhai why the people outside were making such a racket, and Majid Bhai replied, ‘Sir, I think they’re talking about the childhood game Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’
Jameel Sahib relaxed a bit, hearing this drawn-out explanation cum authenticating narrative. He exhaled smoke through his nose and said, ‘I guess if you’re allergic to regular cotton, ruhar’s good for you. But, you know, I see you’re very taken with archaic words. I like them too, probably for the same reason that I like collecting antiques. But it’s possible that readers won’t. You should gloss them by putting their meanings in brackets.’
‘Mirza often taunts me about this,’ I replied. ‘He says that I’m one of the very few who hasn’t filed a claim for property abandoned back in India, and the reason for this is that before coming to Pakistan, I dug up all the local Rosetta Stones, stuffed them into my travel-all, and headed over here. He was just kidding, but, in fact, if I’m able to resurrect one word — yes, just one word — then I’ll consider my life’s work done.’