Syed Mujtaba Ali
HOME AND ABROAD, DESHEY BIDHESHEY
Translated and Edited by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman
Chapter – Four
The more I say,The more I say, ‘Brother Ahmad Ali, God will always be kind to you, He will place you in Heaven in the long run, please make arrangements for my journey.’Ahmad Ali goes on replying, Boradore Azize Mon[1], there’s a saying in Persian Der Ayad Durust Ayad[2]; there’s an Arabic sayings, Al-Azlu Minas Shaitan[3]; in English, it says . . . ‘ I said, ‘I understand everything, but I beg you, I can not go in Pathan way of life. I have heard, it takes fifteen days to go to Landikotal from here- thirty two miles distance.’
Ahmad Ali said sullenly, ‘Who said it?’
I said, ‘Why, last night at the dinner, Ramzan Khan, that man with tresses, pleasant appearance.’
hmad Ali said, ‘What Ramzan Khan know about the Pathans? His grand-mother is of Panjabi origin, he himself lived three months in Lahore. True Pathan never cross Atok[4]. He have to reach Landikotal from Peshawar in at least three months. If not one should understand he did not visit houses of his friends in the way. It is a custom to stay three nights in the house of each relative, and, Pathans are relatives of all Pathans.’
I did not have paper and pencil with me. I said, ‘Save me! But I have already signed a contract. I have to go.’
Ahmad Ali, ‘How could I save you, if I could not get any bus.’
‘Did you try?’
Ahmad Ali warned me that he is a police inspector, he examines many advocates regularly, I cannot get benefits examining him.
Then he said, ‘Look around Peshawar sufficiently. There is many things to see, to know and learn. traders are bringing pustin dress from Bokhara and Samarkhand; samovars from Tashkent . . .’
I asked. ‘What is samovar?’
‘Haven’t you read Russian stories? Samovar is a metal utensil- it is kept on the table to boil water for tea. As you all are excited about the vase of Ming Dynasty, Peshawar, Kandahar and Tashkent are excited about Tula Samovars, who can bid for the most to buy. I will tell about that later on. Now, listen, carpets were brought from Mazar-e-Sharif, ‘red’ rubies from Badakhshan, rosary from Meshed, from Azarbizan comes …’
I interrupted, ‘It’s okay.’
‘And there’s many more. They have taken shelter at the serais In the evening, after a good business, they will be enjoying a sumptuous dinner and music and singing. hullaballoo, fighting, duets and murder, different kinds of offenses and crimes. Haven’t you heard, Peshawar is a city of thousand crimes. Just visit the serais[5] for a months, and you will effortlessly learn a dozens of languages. If you start from Pushtu, you will easily shift to Persian, then Jagtai-turki, Mongol, Usmanli, Russian, Kurdi- and you will learn others by far. Don’t you have fondness in music—how is that? You are a Bangali, I have already read Gitanjali, the Gardener of Tagore. O what beautiful verses! I have read its Persian version. You should have likings in this. Its no harm in it, but how dare you leave Peshawar, without listening to Idonjan’s songs! A fairy of Peshawar, can sing in twelve languages. She has her patrons from Delhi to Baghdad. If you go, the girl will be very pleased— her kingdom will be spread from Baghdad to Bangal.’
What can I do! I only said, ‘Well, it can be done- everything will be done. But which of Tagore’s poems do you like most?’
Ahmad Ali contemplated a little then said, ‘Aye Mother, Shahjada imrose .’
I understood, this is, ‘Ogo ma, rajar dulal jabe aji more …[6]
I said, ‘What is it, Khan Shahib? This poem should not be of your likings. You are Pathan, when you are hurt in love, you will struggle like a tiger. You will ride on a horse in high speed, take up your fiancé in one snatch and go to a far away place. There in a remote cave you will be sharing your emotions with your fiancé, you will place your head under her soft velvet sandal. …’
I have to stop, because Ahmad Ali is very sober kind of person, he does not contradict in between. When I stopped, he asked, ‘Why did you stop, speak out.’
I said, ‘Why should you weep and lament, crying for your mother?’
Ahmad Ali said, Hm, A German philosopher also said, before going to a woman take a whip with you.’
I said, ‘Tch, tch, I am not telling about that extreme point.’
Ahmad Ali said, ‘Friend, there’s ,no third way in love, either this or that. Love is a big thorough fare, full of crowd. There’s nothing called golden mean. Either keep ‘to the right’, that is become soft and surrender to the lover, or ‘to the left’, that is face with a fist- as Nitse said. But, let not speak about this.’
I understood, Pathan’s are silent worker in the matter of love. We, the Bangalees can’t speak of love with our wives at dead of night, without letting neighbours know it. When Ahmad Ali understood my feelings about it Ahmad Ali said, as if to encourage me, ‘No women singers and dancers can stay in Peshawar for more than six months. Any one Pathan youth will fall in love and then take her to his village after marrying her.’
‘Does not the society object? The girls didn’t complain and cry to come back?’
‘Why should the society object? There’s no bar in Islam. And I can not tell you whether the girl cries or not. The sound of woman’s weeping is not so high and loud that can reach the towns from remote village, even Idanjan’s voice is not so high-pitched. If was then I should not have been tired to searching Janaki Bai. I am not sure enough, but I believe, most of the girls love to stay in the peaceful village than in bustled town. Moreover, if she gets affection and love.’
I said, ‘One of our famous novelist also commented same, after investigating among the women folk.’
Suddenly one of Ahmad Ali’s friend Muhammad Jan came near us dragging a bi-cycle with him. Ahmad Ali asked, .’How does your bi-cycle go lame?’
Muhammad Jan is a Panjabee. He looked at me and said, ‘I can’t understand why you have come in this wretched country? If you only knew these Pathans are so public naissance, if you could go around the city with a bi-cycle. Within only one mile you will have three punctures. All of which are of small nails.’
He gasped. I showed my sympathy, ‘Where from does these nails come from?’
Muhammad Jan became very irritated and said, ‘Why ask me? Ask your dear friend Sheikh Ahmad Ali Khan?’
Ahmad Ali said, ‘You know Pathans are very friendly. He can not move around a mile without speaking for a few moments with somebody else. If he cannot find anybody, he will go at the roadside to a cobbler and tell him, ‘Hey pound some nails under my shoes. The cobbler would pound on the loose nails and add a few more in his shoes. Therefore Pathan shoes are mosaic of nails. The leather cannot touch the soil, the nails are rubbed with. Pathans fear of sending money in adding soles in the shoes. These nails are of many sizes. Pathan shoes are therefore mosaic of nails. But the main point is adding nails is immaterial, he wanted to speak with the cobbler.’
Muhammad Jan said, ‘And the loosened nails are strewn all over the city streets’.
I said, ‘I believed, that discussion keeps people away from all evils. Now I see its wrong.’
Ahmad Ali said gloomily, ‘Don’t criticize discussions. Hadn’t I told you Al Azlu mina Shaitan, that is, to move fast is to follow the Satan? Therefore, the other name of bi-cycle is cart of Satan.’
In the evening, daytime temperature of 114o falls down and soft breeze relieves tiredness of the day. The roads wakes up and clapping sounds of horse-drawn carts are heard from everywhere. Pathan gentlemen dress up and goes out for a stroll. He has in his feet sewn sandals, poplin silwars on his lower part- whose folds with knife-sharo crease falls down in folds, joints have hue of pinkish threads. He has coloured silk long shirt and a head-dress- pagri- which cannot be compared with any other head-dresses of the world. Bangalees do not have any head-dress; be it a cap or a hat, everything is immaterial before it, all of these seem superficial, if you look at the pagris of the middle-class or rich Pathans, you will feel that human heads are only meant for winding pagris on the head.
After trimming and shaving, adding scents on the mustaches and winding up world-loving pagris when the Khan Shahibs comes out at the streets of Peshawar, then, who will tell he is a cousin of the Pathans of Zakaria Street; even the he-men adorned with evening dress of Hollywood could not be judged with them.
In the evening of burning day of summer, the light breeze starts to blow between the trees, moving the tails of the pagri of the Khan Shahibs, touching the garlands of flowers of the flower-shop and later touching the ear-shot mustaches of Ahmad Ali, it landed on my burning cheek-. It is, as if, a sudden shower of Bengal after the scorching month of Jaishtha[7]- instead of cool rain, it is as if soft caressing of mother’s hands. During the daytime all the people, animals, birds and insects took refuge in the underground from the atrocity of a vicious Pharaoh and were waiting, when his rule ended in the Western sky, the north wind brought the message of freedom- and suddenly there are sounds of new life – the captivation of the slaves ended.
But soon after the nature wakes up from sleep, are the food the first thing they need most? What a rush in front of the shops of breads and kebab-makers! from veiled women to toddlers, dying old stretching one hand to grave stretches another hand to the baker, everybody scramble up at the bakers’ shops. The baker on the other hand trying to console these hungry people and keeps on uttering, ‘O dear’, ‘O my brother! O my sister! Jane Mon! ‘Aga Jan’ in Pushtu, Panjabi, Persian, Urdu, in all four languages he speaks on continuously. On the other side assistants were taking out the breads with two hands out of the over. They have turned red with the hue of the burning glow of the oven. Their long hair were disarrayed and are covering their face and eyes. But they had little time to move those away. The beard of the old shopkeeper move, his turban has also shifted. He some times barks at his assistants, ‘Jud kun, Jud kun—[8]’, at the same time he tries to soothe the customers, ‘O dear brother, O my love, O my friend, Wait a bit, please. the trouble is, I offer you fresh and crispy bread, so you have to bother so much. If I had supplied stale items you shouldn’t have to wait so much.’
Somebody spoke behind her veil- her age couldn’t be learnt, ‘Yes, three generation of this community died on eating your bread. Do you eat stale breads? Why don’t you give me some stale bread from your personal stock?’
The woman is wearing a veil, that’s the difference, even Pathan women are liberated.
After food comes the flower, or perfume. I remember a sayings of Prophet Mohammad— a translation of Satyen Datta[9]—
Jote jodi mote ekti poisha
Khadyo kinio khudaha lagi
Jute jae jodi duiti poisha
Ful kine nio, Hey Anuragi.'[10]
[1] O my dear brother
[2] which comes late, comes perfectly
[3] To run fast is to follow the Satan’s path
[4] Sind river
[5] a resting place, ancient form of hotel
[6] O mother, the prince shall go to my …
[7] second month of Bengali era. A scorching hot summer
[8] Quick, make haste
[9] Satyendranath Sen, a litterateur of Bengal
[10] If you have earned a farthing,/ Buy a loaf to satisfy your hunger./
If you could earn two poisha,/ Buy flowers, O impassionate.