A Suitable Boy(546)

‘Anis, thou canst not write of Zainab’s lamentations more!

The body of Hussain lay there, unburied, in the sun;

Alas, the Prophet found no peace in his last resting place!

His holy progeny imprisoned and his house burnt down!

How many homes Hussain’s death left all ruined, desolate!

The Prophet’s progeny, thus never prospered after him.’



Here Saeeda Bai stopped, and looked around the room, her eyes resting for a moment on Firoz, then on Tasneem. After a while she said, casually, to Tasneem: ‘Go and feed the parakeet, and tell Bibbo to comehere. She likes to be present at the soz-khwani.’ Tasneem left the room. Others in the audience began to recover, and talk among themselves.

Firoz’s heart fell. His eyes followed Tasneem to the door. He was in a state of volatile distraction. He had never seen her look so beautiful as now, unadorned, her cheeks stained with tears. Lost in contemplation, he hardly noticed when Bilgrami Sahib greeted him.

But Bilgrami Sahib was now telling him about the time he had visited Baitar during the Moharram celebrations – and Firoz’s mind was drawn back against his will to the Fort and the Imambara with its red-and-white chandelier and the paintings of Karbala on the wall and the marsiyas chanted under the hundreds of flickering lights.

The Nawab Sahib’s great hero was Al-Hur, the officer who had been sent at first to seize Hussain; but who at the end had detached himself with thirty horsemen from the main force of the enemy and had joined the weaker side to face inevitable death. Firoz had tried to argue the point once or twice with his father; but had given it up. His father, whom Firoz suspected of being half in love with noble failure, felt too strongly about the matter.

Saeeda Bai now began singing a short marsiya particularly suited for soz. This contained no introduction, no elaboration of the physical beauty of the hero, no vaunting on the battlefield by the hero of his lineage and prowess and exploits, no long battle-scenes, no description of horse or sword, almost nothing but the most moving parts of the story: the scenes of leave-taking from his loved ones, his death, the lamentations of the women and children. At the lamentations Saeeda Bai’s voice rose into the air in a strange sobbing wail, intensely musical, intensely beautiful.

Firoz had heard soz before, but it was nothing compared to this. He turned to the spot where Tasneem had been sitting, and noticed the frivolous Bibbo there instead. Her hair was undone, and she was crying her eyes out, beating her breast and leaning forward as if she were about to faint with sorrow. So were many of the women around her. Bilgrami Sahib was sobbing into his handkerchief, which his hands clutched in the gesture of prayer. Saeeda Bai’s eyes were closed; even for this supremely controlled artist, her art had passed beyond her own restraint. Her body, like her voice, was shaking with grief and pain. And Firoz, though he did not realize it, was himself weeping uncontrollably.





15.8


‘WHY DID you miss last night?’ demanded Bhaskar, who had been promoted tonight to be Angad, a monkey-prince, because the boy playing that part had fallen ill, probably from growling himself hoarse on previous evenings. Bhaskar knew Angad’s lines, but unfortunately there was nothing to say today – it was all just running around and fighting.

‘I was asleep,’ said Maan.

‘Asleep! You are like Kumbhkaran,’ said Bhaskar. ‘You missed the best part of the battle. You missed the building of the bridge to Lanka – it stretched across from the temple to the houses there – and you missed Hanuman going to get the magic herb – and you missed the burning of Lanka.’

‘But I’m here now,’ said Maan. ‘Give your uncle some credit.’

‘And this morning, when Daadi was worshipping the weapons and pens and books, where were you?’

‘Well, I don’t believe in all that,’ said Maan, attempting a different tack. ‘I don’t believe in weapons and shooting and hunting and violence. Did she worship your kites as well?’

‘Aré, Maan, shake hands with me,’ said a familiar voice out of the crowd. Maan turned around. It was the Rajkumar of Marh, accompanied by the Vakil Sahib’s younger brother. Maan was a bit surprised to see the Rajkumar here, at this neighbourhood Ramlila. He would have thought he would be at some great, soulless, official one, trailing his father around. Maan shook hands with him very cordially.

‘Have some paan.’

‘Thanks,’ said Maan, took two, and almost choked. There was a powerful dose of tobacco in the paan. For a minute or two he was literally speechless. He had planned to ask the Rajkumar what he was doing these days without even his studies to occupy him; but by the time he had recovered, young Goyal, who appeared to be very proud to be sporting minor royalty around, had quickly dragged the Rajkumar away to introduce him to someone else.