9.
Khan Sahib Shed Crocodile Tears about His Plight
Two or three times a day Khan Sahib was sure to threaten Basharat that he wouldn’t accept a penny less than what he was owed, even if that meant that he had to stay at Basharat’s house for a full year. He also mentioned from time to time that the tribal rules of hospitality were different than others. He said, ‘If you ask your guest when they’re leaving, and if, in response, the guest doesn’t kill you, then his nobility, sense of honour, and parentage fall into question.’
From morning till night, the two stags rammed against each other. In addition to invocations for fair dealing, references to the customs of trading, appeals for mercy, warnings that the other should steer clear of unnecessarily tormenting the other, and warnings against cheating, there wasn’t a single petty weapon that they didn’t ruthlessly use. For instance, Khan Sahib cited his illiteracy. In response, Basharat cited himself as a cautionary tale, ‘I’m a poet. I have a BA. I studied Persian. And now I’m selling wood!’ Khan Sahib would note how his business wasn’t doing well, and Basharat would say, ‘Well, sir, there’s no business here to begin with! Each day I cut into my savings.’ Basharat had already rehearsed his narration about his fake indigence, his overgrown family, and his disaster with the white widow; but, when needed, Khan Sahib too could shed crocodile tears about his plight. One day his acting reached such a pinnacle that a very real tear, which was the shape and size of Sri Lanka, hung from his right eye. Another time, Khan Sahib threw the trump card of his fake victimization: his uncle had taken over land that was rightfully his and had kept it for himself for half a century. Basharat thrust back. He put his hand on his stomach and swore to God that he had been suffering from an ulcer for the same amount of time; he couldn’t digest anything; even medicine and wind passed right through. Khan Sahib said, ‘Oh, ho, ho! So you’re fifty? You’ve been suffering that long?’ In these quibbles, Basharat generally had the upper hand. But one day, when Khan Sahib said in a half-tearful voice13 that his father had died, then Basharat got very angry at his own father for still being alive.
In arguments, whoever may win, only the truth is martyred.
Khan Sahib refused to leave without all of his money. He was driving Basharat mad. He said, ‘Please stop talking about who was right and who was wrong. Look, we’re going to be doing business in the future. Please ask for your money then. God forbid this is our last transaction.’ Khan Sahib replied, ‘Khan Sang Marjan Khan advised me to treat every meeting with a friend as the last, and every deal as the last. “The pimp won’t show his face again!” Shaikh Sadi said even the craziest dog doesn’t think that the man he’s bitten will come back to be bitten again.’
Once Basharat let some bitterness slip in, and he started taunting him by calling him ‘Khan Sahib.’ Khan Sahib said, ‘Look here, if you’re going to start cursing me out, don’t use “Khan Sahib.” Call me “Haji Sahib,” so we can both feel a little ashamed.’
Basharat hugged him and kissed his forehead.
Billionaires and Karachi’s Five Gifts
Khan Sahib’s frequent visits to Karachi to recover his arrears made him fluent in seven languages. I mean, he could curse in Urdu, Persian, Gujarati, and four local languages. As far as possible, he cursed out the objects of his displeasure in their mother tongue. But if he happened to run short of swearwords, or felt like they weren’t having any impact, or if the person was really shameless, then he hammered the last nails into his coffin with some choice Pashto phrases, which cursed out several generations of his ancestors. There’s no doubt that the Koka Shastra—curse words that are in vogue here make English curses (and those of all other languages) seem like feather pillows for a pillow fight, or the gurgling of babies burping up breast milk. For English and American readers, R. K. Narayan’s novels are especially interesting because of their Indian curses, which he translates literally into English and spreads like mines throughout his dialogue. When I was in Dubai in 1975, I realized that our curses are filled with refinement, force, geographical pertinence, and sexiness. The Galadari brothers were counted among the billionaires of the UAE and the Middle East — but, in fact, I should have said that they were among the richest billionaires because everyone there is a billionaire. So that’s why I suggest that we call them not ‘billionaires’ but ‘Arabaires.’ Abdul Wahab Galadari and Abdul Lateef Galadari — who are Arab, and who speak Arabic — lived in Karachi for a while for schooling and to live it up. I was beyond surprised when I saw that when they got mad, or if they got into a fight with an Arab (and there wasn’t a single Arab they didn’t get into a fight with), they would slip in Urdu curse words throughout their Arabic, and these, in the context of Arabic’s sacredness, felt even fouler. They were the first Arabs who could both speak Arabic and pronounce retroflexes. Abdul Lateef Galadari said that Karachi has at least five things that you couldn’t find anywhere else in the world: studded jewellery, qawwali, biryani, curses, and aloewood perfume. In 1983, when his businesses went belly up, his jewellery, qawwali, biryani, and aloewood perfume fell into the possession of his enemies. Now he survives on the fifth gift alone. His wealth of curses suffers no decline. He gives one and gets seven in return.
Kebab Parathas and His (Extensive) Circle of Enemies
Khan Sahib was an affectionate, social, and loving man. Whatever fights he might get into, he never bore a grudge. He really liked to get under the skin of his friends, but only as a joke. For breakfast, he ate three parathas dripping with butter and two shami kebabs, and he also drank two glasses of lassi. He made it through the day half-asleep, looking out at the world and its denizens with half-open eyes. Yes, perhaps he looked out at the world from a remove, just as he yawned and burped to put people in their place. After such a stupefying breakfast, you can meditate, make abstract paintings, write stream-of-consciousness novels, and form government five-year plans. But you can’t do any brainwork. And you can’t argue properly. Khan Sahib couldn’t remember what he’d said the previous day, and so, each time, he started up again as though he had never discussed the matter before. In Tasir’s charming line, if you replace the word ‘love’ with the word ‘argue,’ then you get Khan Sahib’s style of argumentation:
Every time I saw her, I argued with her anew.
He couldn’t remain angry or mad at anyone for long. He hated poetry, and yet he often recited the couplet below, although he contorted the phrasing so much that it became prose:
For humans to bear malice for others is not good.
The man who bears malice for another is not good.
He added to this that to bear malice toward a Muslim was beyond reproach. It would be better to kill the man. He proudly said, ‘I’m a free-range tribal man. While fighting with Karachi businessmen to get back my money, I’ve learned Urdu.’ So his vocabulary became entirely worthless during peacetime. Like Rana Sanga’s body, his feisty Urdu also had seventy-two wounds. From parsing his Urdu, you could figure out exactly where the men were from who had not paid him back.
Whose stamps are those on the affidavit?
Listening to the way he talked — listening to his Gujarati, his Hyderabadi Urdu, and his Delhi factory-dialect Urdu — you could fix the exact diameter of his every disputation.
Folk Accent
Khan Sahib’s Urdu — his lingua franca and language for quarrelling — had been marked by all his debtors, and yet he spoke it in his pure, musical Pashto accent, which was pleasing to the ear. In comparison, Basharat felt like his own accent was bland and tasteless. Pashto Urdu has a winning brevity to it, and a fierce and fresh fragrance, that cannot put up with abstruse, double-dealing talk. Its thundering, daring accent can’t support devious whispering. Similarly, Punjabi Urdu is full of grandeur, energy, and mellowness. It has the composure of the rivers, which cut zigzags across the plains, and the widening echo of a generous heart. In Balochi Urdu, in addition to a deep sigh, a leaping mountain echo, and an attractive anger, there is also an alertness that gives the mountains and the deserts over to its mendicants. Sindhi Urdu has a quavering, lively, lyrical accent. It’s like a gush of feeling, an affectionate wave, kissing itself as it rolls forward. In regional Urdu, you get a folk scent, a sweetness, a flavour, and a zest that is entirely absent in our chaste and worn-out city Urdu. The new language that has formed through the amalgamation of these folk dialects is very powerful, fresh, sweet, and expansive.