There’s nothing that Indians don’t make. Not just Kanpur, but every city is bursting with factories. Textile mills, steel factories, car and airplane factories, even tanks are made there. They exploded an atom bomb a long time ago. They’ve sent satellites into space. It wouldn’t be surprising if they go to the moon. There’s that perspective. Then there’s another perspective, which is the following. One day I was on my way to Inamullah the Loudmouth’s.3 I took a cycle rickshaw. My rickshaw guy looked like he had TB. I could see his ribs through his tank top. His breath reeked of syrupy Banaras paan. He scooped the sweat off his forehead with his index finger and flicked it out in an arc. His sweat made his face and hands gleam, and in the hot sun it looked like he’d applied Vaseline. He was barefoot. He wore a watch on his bony wrist whose face was bigger than his wrist. He had a sexy photo of Parveen Babi on his bike’s handlebars. Pedalling made him double over, and so he kept prostrating himself before Babi. We went one mile, but guess how much he asked for? Sir, all of seventy-five paise! My God, seventy-five paise! When I gave him that and a tip of four rupees, twenty-five paise, he couldn’t believe it. He started to smile. Gradually his smile spread so wide I could see all his paan-stained teeth, which looked like pumpkin seeds. He looked greedily at my coin purse and said, ‘Sir, are you from Pakistan?’ I answered, ‘Yes. But for thirty-five years I lived over here in Hiraman.’ He gave me back my money, ‘Sir, how can I take money from you? You’re my neighbour, after all. I’m from there too.’
Now the Poor Grumble
And the population? God help us! It’s like a big fair. The earth spurts up people from everywhere. You can’t take two steps into a shopping area without wielding your hands and elbows. You could call it doggie paddling on land! And where you don’t have enough space even to wield your elbows, you get to where you’re going simply on the force of the crowd’s pushing. It seems like everyone sleeps on the sidewalks. They grow up there, and they die there. But these people can’t be bullied or bossed around. No one even checks to see who’s nearby before they start complaining about the government. In our day, the poor were humble. Now they grumble. They’ll let a cycle rickshaw through, but they won’t budge an inch when a car comes by. Azizuddin the lawyer was saying that our country is very politically aware, but God knows. What I’ve seen is that pig-headedness increases in direct proportion to poverty. There are many conmen there too, but no one dares flaunt their wealth. I’ve seen women of rich families at weddings wear cotton saris and flip-flops. If they didn’t have vermilion in the parts of their hair, I swear to God, you would take them to be widows. They don’t wear any make-up at all, but we won’t touch a chicken leg until it’s had rouge applied to it! Sir, you must have seen the violent red chicken tikka of Tariq Road? In Kanpur, I saw cane beds and sofa sets in rich people’s houses, and some of those were the very ones we had used to lounge around on thirty-five years ago! Sir, you’ll find that Hindus have a leg up on us when it comes to Islamic simplicity!
What Was Going to Happen Has Happened, My Bearers!
You’d have to say that Urdu speakers still speak Urdu, but I noticed a strange change. It’s not just the common people, but it goes all the way up to professors and writers: they don’t speak like we used to. The crisp tone is gone. It’s slipped further and further, so now it sounds like Hindi. Singsong. You know what I mean? If you don’t believe me, listen to the Urdu news on All India Radio and compare it to Radio Karachi, or to me. When I pointed this out to Inamullah the Loudmouth, he got really offended. Seriously, sir, he made it personal, ‘Look, bub, what about your Punjabi accent? You don’t notice, but I do. Don’t forget that on August 3, 1947, I went with you to the train station to see you off. You were wearing a black Rampuri hat, white churidar pyjamas, and Jodhpuri slippers. You cupped your hand delicately to say, “Greetings!” Right or not? You had paan bulging from your cheek, kohl lined your eyes, and the scent of itr-e-gil4 came from the folds of your muslin kurta! Right or not? Back then you said “cha” for “chai,” “ghans” for “ghas,” and “chanval” for “chaval.” Right or not? And when the stationmaster blew the whistle, you had a jasmine garland around your throat, you were pouring hot “cha” from your cup into your saucer, which you then blew on before slurping it down. You used to call Karachi, Karanchi. Right, right? Now after three decades of decadence, you come from your Karachi concrete jungle with a head full of white hair, wearing a billowing, haji-style kurta that goes down to your ankles. You come on your little pilgrimage, and now we all look like Pandits and Pandeys? Have you forgotten?’ Sir, I was a guest. I let him have his moment. Then I got up silently, found a rickshaw, and went home.
Pick up the palanquin
And take me home!
At Times I Kept Quiet, at Times I Laughed
Lucknow and Kanpur were Urdu centers. They had countless Urdu newspapers and magazines. Sir, I know you don’t agree with me, but I’m telling you our language was pure. During my visit, I didn’t see one Urdu sign in all of Kanpur, and not in Lucknow either! Whenever I mentioned this to someone, they sighed or turned away. It was my bad luck to mention this at a party. It really got under this one man’s collar. I think his name was Zaheer. He was on the city commission — a lawyer. Who knows how long he had been storing up these feelings, ‘For God’s sake! Please have mercy on us Indian Muslims! Let us be. Whenever someone comes from Pakistan, as soon as they get off the plane and exchange their money, they start in with this refrain. Everyone’s eyes fill with tears, and they start reciting elegies to the city’s death. Sir, please! How can we show you the Kanpur of a half-century ago? Nonetheless, everyone weighs the present against the India of that time. When they’re done with that, they compare it against contemporary Pakistan. They scare off the other person’s horse and end up winning both races!’ He kept on talking. I was a guest. What could I say? It was just like the old Sindhi saying, ‘She went to get her horns cut and ended up cutting her ears as well.’
But one thing must be said: however miserable their lives, Indian Muslims are sincere, as well as full of grace, self-respect, and confidence.
I had long chats with Nushoor Wahidi. He’s the embodiment of love, sincerity, and feebleness. Poets and writers hang out at his house all the time. Intellectuals go too. (The word implies intelligence only, not wisdom.) Everyone agrees that Urdu is very stubborn, and intellectuals profess that its future is not bleak at all. They organize enormous poetry festivals. I heard that at one festival more than thirty thousand people came. Sir, I can’t agree with you when you say that poetry can’t be understood by five thousand people at once — if it is, it’s not poetry but something else. They have numberless annual conferences and symposia. I heard that there are some Urdu writers who have won the Padma Shri and Padma Bhushan awards. I asked what the meanings of ‘padma’ and ‘bhushan’ were, and they answered by stating how much each prize was worth! Even today Indians use Urdu in film songs, double-entendres, qawwali, and when fighting. There’s an emphasis on Sanskrit words. But you can’t curse out the average Joe in Sanskrit. You can only do that if you’re talking to a Sanskrit scholar. Sir, I heard someone say that cursing, counting, whispering, and dirty jokes are fun only in your mother tongue. Anyway, I was saying that the Urdu intelligentsia is hopeful. When Indira Gandhi has to use official Hindi, she often slips up, and this gives heart to Urdu lovers.