Bengaluru Review Sub - June
Bengaluru Review Sub - June
Bengaluru Review Sub - June
When I was transferred to Jaisalmer and observed in the atmosphere of the place so much
serenity, melancholy, such leisure and such inattentiveness that I thought it had a strange
ambience and decided I should do something different here, something that couldn’t be done
anywhere else. I thought, for example, what if I were to go to my office dressed in a lungi, or put
on a number of beaded neckpieces and scrutinize people’s palms, or stand and bathe in the nude
on the terrace in the middle of the day! Since I had come from a comparatively large place to a
smaller one, I felt the jollity more ardently. People got up from the dreamless in apparent ease,
sat indolently for half an hour at least before partaking the morning tea, spend a couple of hours
over their newspapers and not less than an hour in getting ready for office. If they met somebody
they knew in the streets, they would evidently stop, shake hands and after a pause of a few
minutes start the conversation— so how are things with you? In case you had asked them first
about their whereabouts, they would pause for nearly one and half minutes, as if to formulate
their replies correctly in their minds, and then retort that things are quite all right with them!
People were never in a hurry to go somewhere, there were days devoid of incidents, and nights
devoid of any grandiloquent dreams; people had only a handful of relations, there were the oft-
repeated narratives of the war in sixty-five and tales of famine which took place once upon a
time. There were kids in the place who seemed to be eventually growing up on their own and
finally, there was a solitary, unexciting, unimportant, and languid life that was gradually
myself, India have been relentlessly moving forward and times have been changing so fast that
one wouldn’t recognize a place if one visited it after a hiatus of even a couple of years. The
fluxion of change was such that even in one’s own town one had to carefully search for roads
one had know well and even one’s own home, one’s childhood seemed like some story read from
a book, the holy tickle of one’s own boyhood, one’s juvenile love interests seems stained in
unreasonableness, the memory of one’s own younger brother seemed wooden and the friends of
one’s father seemed like actors in some old documentary film. The principles and values one
cherished in one’s youth seemed like a bunch of lies, those poems one used to sing time and
again as one roamed about seemed laughable…and here? Here it seemed that the mutiny that
occurred in the year 1857 must have taken place the year before!
I wished I could create huge ebb in the peaceful looking pond that had been sleeping for
centuries. I wanted to startle the boring and unrelieved life out of its slumber. I wished to jump
from some tall building, spread some sensational rumor in the society, or perhaps elope with a
girl belonging to a noble and respected family … I wanted to cast a few slaps on the boring
I wondered in which century exactly the people of Jaisalmer thought they had been dwelling in.
They considered Dinkar’s ‘Urvashi’ as book of contemporary poems. If they ever spot an
airplane in the sky, they would desert their respective works and stare at the sky; if you tell them
that Rahul Sankrityayan had long been dead they wouldn’t believe you, and if they ever talk
about politics with you they would ask you whether you thought Indira Gandhi were a Hindu or
a Muslim. If unfortunately you managed to lose your handkerchief in the morning then by
evenfall you would get not less than fifty people would say to you— I heard you lost your
handkerchief this morning, how did that happen? Even such a minor incident as the loss of a
handkerchief could create a sensation in the community. Did you hear the news that Falan sahib
All the same, while I was planning to take over the inertia of the place, the inertia itself started
closing in on me and judging me. Like aquatic plants floating on lakes…like mistletoe in the
hedges…like parthenium in the fields…like locusts in the sky… like bubbles…they were all
over me. I pulled myself together, did five-ten push-ups and squats and fifteen minutes of
kadamtal, and then I left the house in search of chaps who were fond of boisterousness. In the
meantime, I had allowed my beard to grow and dedicated the growth to the depressing inertia
that dwelled in the place. My regard for the sanctity of the human civilization and the fear of
how it might take my hirsuteness, I hadn’t let my beard grow in my younger days—my society
was prejudiced against it. Now I let it grow. It was a seemingly frivolous incident that in the long
run turned out to be of great importance. It provided ample fodder for the brain. Now, this story
The beard I cultivated turned out to be fulsome and beautifully golden. A little of my
unfamiliarity of the place, a little of my Urdu accent, and a little of my ruined face, which was
now pleasantly covered with beard— together led to an highly amusing outcome. People started
taking me for a Muslim. Initially, I had no knowledge of this; when, however, I learned about it,
I felt pleasantly amused. I made no attempts to refute the people. Why on earth would I? I smiled
in jest. Their supposition became strong overtime. Subsequently, a few sweet and sour incidents
took place which I would like to narrate if you have time at hand.
The first incident went like this: one day I went to the drinking fountain to quench my thirst. The
old woman who had been serving water asked me who I was. It was a rather philosophical
enquiry, I thought. I wondered what I should say in reply. It was certainly evident that I was a
human being after all. I thought if I should say that I was in love or that I was employed
somewhere. But then she might start asking me about my workplace, my official position, my
basic pay, and so forth. No, probably she won’t ask me all that. She was to give me water and not
the hand of her daughter in marriage. Frustrated, she asked me once again who I was. I
stammered – What do you mean? She then stretched out the palm of her left hand and tried to
explain— Are you a Hindu or a Muslim? Oh, so that was it! I hurriedly replied—I am a Hindu. I
said that even though I had been a Hindu when I was born, I wasn’t a Hindu any longer. She,
however, seemed satisfied and reassured with my replies and offered me water to drink. The
water was nice. It was refreshingly cold and sweet. Once my thirst was thoroughly quenched I
looked at her wrinkled and shriveled face and smiled, and then when I had moved a few steps
away from her grasp, I said—I hope Allah showers his mercy upon you! Surprised and shocked,
she gazed at me for a long time abusing and cursing me all the while. The profanities she voiced
in my direction were rarities that were fit to be collected. They could well have been saved in a
tape recorder and compiled for posterity. These days you seldom hear such anathemas voiced by
The second incident occurred at home. There I used to wear lungi and kurta and spend my time
listening to ghazals by Ghalib bhai and Mir bhai. My house was in the street where the
goldsmiths had their houses; behind those houses, the Muslim workers and craftsmen who
worked on stone-crafting had their lodgings. One of my neighbor’s was a young lecturer who
used to address me as badein miyaan, barkhurdar, etc. Later, we made our meals together. Our
cooking preparations were done at the back of our streets that edged the locality of the stone-
craftsmen. They had a meat-shop there from where we used to procure meat every Sunday and
cook it. There were a number of young, uneducated, and poor women in the locality who tried to
One day I was sitting at home when a man arrived. His name was Ramjan Miyaan. He was a
housing contractor. He asked me if I had any program fixed for the evening. I replied in the
negative. He said that there was a lecture in the evening and asked me if I would like to come. I
replied—Why not! It seemed to be a great opportunity to imbibe a bit of wisdom and judge the
nature of the lecturer as well, about whom the poets had made a great deal of disparaging
remarks. But even before we had reached the venue of the lecture in the evening, Ramjan sahib
asked me my opinion about his daughter and the name and address of my father. My opinion
about his daughter was pretty sound; he, on the other hand, seemed pretty shocked to hear my
father’s name. To tell you the truth, I never thought somebody could be so traumatized to hear
my father’s name. After that, I had no idea what agonies daughter or the rest of the people
The third incident occurred while I was travelling on a bus. I was on my way to Jallore. The bus
was overcrowded. When I descended at a stop for a bit, some gentleman grabbed my seat and
positioned himself comfortably in it. This caused a bit of unpleasantness between him and me.
Another gentleman playing the role of the mediator said — Please come and sit here, Khan
Sahib. It’s only a matter of two hours…it really doesn’t matter that much. Anyway, we are all
travelers here…
Ultimately, I gave my rightful seat and seated myself next to this empathic stranger. The one
who usurped my seat started dispensing a bit of wisdom among his neighbors. He said the
miyaan, meaning me, was undoubtedly a traitor and that most of the men like him were Pakistani
spies and so forth! What surprised me most was the sight of a man next to him who looked at
him with considerable respect and nodded his head now and then in approval of his comments.
Meanwhile, my neighbor, perhaps to estrange my attention from the ‘poignant ’and acerbic
comments of the usurper of my seat asked me—Where are you going? I replied—Jallore. He
then asked—Where are you coming from? I replied—Jaisalmer. He then said that Jallore did
have a number of Muslims. I replied in the affirmative even though I had no idea about it. I was
going to Jallore for the first time. After a brief pause the man asked—Do you have a business
there? I said, yes. The man then said—What kind of business? Bangles, I said in reply. Upon
The usurper had now started narrating to his audience a story about a miyaan from Jodhpur who
during the war in 1965 came out of his home one night (upon discerning a Pakistani airplane in
the sky) and used his torchlight to communicate with the people in the flight and invited them
with his gestures to throw bombs at his home (a set-up which was complete with wife and
children)! In the mean time, my compassionate neighbor brought out of his pocket a box of Paan
bahar and after a couple of spoonfuls of its contents himself, he offered me the box. I took a
spoonful of the stuff. I was happy to think that mister generous next to me would probably sit
On the other side, the usurper seemed full of high-spirits. People had been responding favorably
to his ideas. He said—Sir, these ‘circumcised’ chaps are destroying our country. These bastards
keep three-four wives and beget innumerable children, because they hope that someday their
people would outnumber us Hindus and then they will dominate us. And yet, despite this
implied threat, our government never does anything to them. These people deserve to be thrown
I now wished to get up and slap that blighter. Nevertheless, such a move wasn’t possible. By this
time the man was surrounded by at least ten people who agreed with him such that an
atmosphere a sort of religious fundamentalism now prevailed in that corner. Some of the people
were heaving with anger. I knew they took me for a Muslim because of my damned beard and
my accent. If I raised any opposition then together they might beat me to a jelly. I wondered if I
should mention it to them that I was a Hindu after all, and not a Muslim as they took me for…
But no, I couldn’t say that either. My conscience would prevent me from saying it. I decided that
even if I were to die I wouldn’t confess that I was a Hindu. In any case, these people wouldn’t
believe me even if I un-zip my trousers for them. I sat in silence drinking imbibing the poisonous
remarks thrown in my direction. I wondered when idiots like the usurper who grabbed my seat
and the people who surrounded him would develop some sense. (And when would people whom
they intimidate and oppress would be brave enough to provide them with befitting rebuttals?)
As I sat at the Minerva hotel in Jodhpur and drank a cup of tea, I narrated these three incidents to
my friends. By this time I had already shaved off my beard. Nandu, Paras, Rambaksh, and Habib
were my four friends who laughed heartily upon hearing my three personal narratives. Habib
suddenly stopped laughing and sat in silence for a while, then he lit a cigarette and exhaling a
number of smoke rings, he paced up and down the terrace of the Minerva hotel. Seeing Habib,
who was always jovial and smiling, now sunk in silence Paras asked—What’s the matter with
you? Mr.Swayamprakashurahman? And then we all started to laugh out loud once again. After a
while he said—Dear Nandu, let it be known among your people that nothing whatever happened
to me. Let it be known that I was thinking about a movie. Let it also be known that Hindustan
doesn’t belong to your father only, it belongs to our fathers as well…!! Dhamadam,
Habib’s little joke amused all of us. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was indeed
1. Lungi: A cloth, often of brightly colored silk or cotton that is used as a piece of clothing,
especially the traditional skirt like garment of India, Pakistan, and Myanmar.
2. Badein miyaan, barkhurdar: Forms of addressing people common among Muslim men;
5. Mir: Mir Taqi Mir, a leading Urdu poet of the 18th century, and one of the pioneers who
nut and/or cured tobacco.