Sheesha Ghat (Part I)
By Naiyer Masud
My foster-father kept me in with him with much affection for eight years, after which he was pressed to find me another home. Neither he nor I was to blame. He was sure that my stammer would stop after a spell of happy days with him. He didn't expect, and neither did I, that people would make a spectacle of me as they did of madman. I was heard with great interest at bazaars, and funny or not, people always laughed at whatever I said. My situation worsened as the days went by and even if I wanted to say something at home, not to speak to doing so at the bazaars, the words knocked my lips, teeth and tongue and bounced back just as waves do after touching the shore. In the end I got so tongue tied that the veins in my neck would swell, my throat and chest would throb with pent-up pressure, making it difficult for me to breathe. I felt as though I was going to choke. Helpless, I left the sentence halfway and started panting. After I regained my breath I'd start all over again. This infuriated my foster-father who chided: “I've heard you. No go ahead..”
If he ever scolded me, it was only on this account. However, one of my problems was that I couldn't start from the middle of an account. Sometimes he heard me out patiently, at other times he'd raise his hand and say “All right. You can stop now…”
The other was that I couldn't stop midway when I was recounting something. I felt restless. Finally he would leave me stuttering and talking to myself. If anyone saw me that moment he would've certainly thought me mad.
I liked to wander through the bazaar and mingled with groups of people. Though I could not manage to say much comprehensively I made up for it by listening to others closely and repeating in my mind what they said. At times I did feel bored, yet on the whole I was happy there as people didn't dislike me, and above all, my old father was attached to me and took care of my every need.
He had been looking rather upset for some time. One new development was that he engaged me in conversation for long periods. He would deliberately ask me questions that required lengthy answers, and then, listen to me closely without interrupting me. Exhausted, I'd be panting but he would wait patiently for me to finish what I was saying, and then when I resumed my account, he would hear me out with the same concentration. I'd think that he was going to lose his temper, and my tongue would begin to tie itself in knots, but he'd simply sit there looking at me silently.
In just three days my tongue seemed to ease a little. The stiffness in the chest also seemed to lighten and I began to dream of the day when I'd be able to speak comfortably and fluently like others. I began to gather in my mind a lot of things that I wanted to talk about with others. On the fourth day, Father called me to his side. He talked about this and that for a long time and then fell silent. I was thinking that he'd now ask me questions, but he said abruptly: 'Your new mother's going to arrive day after tomorrow.' He saw my face light up in joy, felt a little uneasy, and said quietly: 'If she sees you talking she'll go mad. She'll die.
The following morning I found my luggage all packed. Before I could ask anything, Father grabbed my hand and said, 'Let's go.'
He didn't say a word during the journey. However, in reply to a man's question on the way he said, 'Jahaz has asked for him.'
Then they started talking about Jahaz. I too remembered him. When I had first come to live with Father, Jahaz used to earn his livelihood as a clown and a mimic in fairs and bazaars. He would tie a little pink sail to his back-probably that was why he was called jahaz, i.e., ship, or probably he tied the sail because his name was Jahaz. If the wind was strong, the pink sail would billow and Jahaz seemed to be propelled by it. He imitated the act of a sinking ship very well. Looking at his act it really seemed as though the angry winds, the tumultuous waves and the speeding whirlwind had combined their strength to sink the ship. One could distinctly hear the sound of grumbling wind, thudding waves, rustling whirlpools and fluttering sails emerging from the mimic's mouth, and finally the 'ship' would sink. This act was very popular with children and older boys but it could be done only when the wind was blowing hard. However, if the wind stopped, these small spectators would be even more delighted, and they would clamour: “Tobacco Tobacco!”
I haven't seen another tobacco-smoker like jahaz. He probably knew all kinds of tobacco and smoked them in all the possible ways. In the still air he would throw up clouds of smoke from hismouth and showed such amazing tricks that the spectators wouldn't believe their eyes. Sometimes he would blow several rings in the air, step back, then twist and turn his hands and wrists in such a way as though sculpting a figure with soft, well-kneaded clay. And sure enough, the rings would form a figure and remain suspended in the air for sometime. He also performed some imitations that were strictly forbidden for children. On such occasions, he would hide himself amidst rapidly narrowing circles of the bazaar crowds, and those standing at some distance would know by a glimpse of the fluttering sail and the laughter of the spectators that Jahaz was doing his act.
A year after I had come to stay with my foster-father, Jahaz's voice had gone bad and he had begun to suffer from coughing bouts.
While doing his mimicry, he would adopt multiple voices, but now when he started talking his cough choked again and again. Often he would take as much time to complete a sentence as I took. He gave up mimicry and stopped coming to our part of the town. After the first year I didn't see him again.
We passed several ghats and settlements by the big lake on our way. At all these places, people knew my father and to them he said that Jahaz had sent for me. I didn't know what he meant and I didn't ask him either. In my heart I was angry with my foster-father, as I was deeply unhappy with the thought of living away from him. He, too, didn't look happy; at least he didn't look like someone who was bringing in a new wife the following day.
In the end, we reached a dirty-settlement. The people here worked glass. There were only a few houses and each one had a furnace to melt glass. Ugly chimneys belching columns of smoke, protruded from the thatched roof of each house. Layers of soot had gathered on walls, lanes, even on trees. People's dresses and the coats of stray dogs and cats were black from the smoke. Here, too, people knew my father. One of them asked us to sit down and have something to eat and drink. Everything about the place produced a sense of uneasiness in me. My father stared at my face for a while and said his first words to me during the journey: “People don't grow old here.”
I couldn't figure out what he meant. I looked at the people walking by and couldn't find a single elderly fellow. I heard Father say: “The smoke eats them away.”
“Then why do they live here?” I was going to ask him but the question seemed futile. I kept looking at him.
“Jahaz also knows glasswork,” he said after a pause. “He has his home here.”
I got up with a start. My tongue tied itself in so many knots all art once, but I had to speak out. Would I be compelled to live with a smoke-belching bazaar clown like Jahaz in that settlement where black despair seemed to pour over everything? I couldn't but ask this question, no matter how long it took to get the words out. But Father gestured me to sit down and said reassuringly: “But he left his place long ago.”
I felt somewhat relieved. As long as Jahaz doesn't live in this settlement, I told myself, I can live with him anywhere.
“He lives on the ghat now.” He pointed in a particular direction. On Sheesha Ghat.”
As I heard this name my unease returned. My father had no idea that I had heard people talk about Sheesha Ghat at his home. I knew that it was the highest and the best-known ghat of the lake, owned solely by a frightening woman, Bibi. A notorious dacoit, or probably a rebel, had loved and later married her. Once, when he had come to meet her, someone informed the government authorities and he died at their hands. But after that everything went topsy-turvy and the whole ghat was handed over to Bibi. She had a huge boat anchored in the lake that she made into her home. She also ran a business, and in that connection, some people were permitted to go there. In fact, no one had the courage. All were scared of Bibi.
How was it that Jahaz came to live in Sheesha Ghat? Would I have to meet Bibi? Would she go mad with anger hearing me speak? I was so lost in these questions and their imagined answers that I didn't know when I had got up and left the settlement of the glassworkers. I woke from my reverie when Father's voice rang in my ears: “We've reached.”
This was probably the most deserted part of the lake. At the end of the barren field there began a muddy expanse of water, its other shore out of sight on our left, a little way into the water, stood a huge boat hiding a part of the lake. At one time it may have been used to transport logs. These logs were used to build several big and small rooms on the dock. The planks of the boat had all come loose, emitting a light creaking sound, as though a giant object was slowly falling apart. On the shore of the lake, a low mud wall stretched far, lying face down on the ground. Close to it, there were four to five raised platforms with big cracks in them. Nearby, there was a length of crumbling bamboo that was all but buried in the earth. Though there were very few objects lying around, I could not help feeling that it must have been a bustling place before things started to disintegrate. Now all that was left in the name of the ghat was long shed that extended to the lake and overhung a small length of water that had accumulated in a slight depression on the ground. Behind the shelter, on a slight elevation, stood a shapeless building made of log and clay which gave the impression that its builder was unsure whether to sue wood or clay, and it was in this state of indecisiveness that the building was completed. The roof, of course, was made entirely of wood. Right in its centre was a projection from which a small pink sail fluttered in the wind.
My foster-father must have been there before. Gripping my hand, he speedily walked down the slope, went up the five steps under the shed and stood before the door of the building.
There was Jahaz sitting on the floor and smoking his tobacco. We went in and sat on the floor.
“So you're here?” he said to Father and began coughing.
He had grown quite old in the last eight years. His eyes had become so pale and his lips so black that it seemed as if they had been dyed for some special purpose. Occasionally, his shoulders stooped as though he was confessing. During one of these motions he looked at me through his pale eyes and said, “He's grown up!”
“You 're seeing him after eight years,” my father told him.
For a long time we sat silent. I had a suspicion that the two were making conversation through some sign language. But they weren't looking at each other. My father stood up abruptly. I also got up with him. Jahaz raised his head, looked up at him and asked, “Aren't you going to stay a little?”
“I've got a lot to do,” my father replied. “Nothing's ready yet.”
Jahaz nodded and my father went out. While going down the earthen steps he stopped, came back and clutched me in an embrace. We stood silently for a long while, then he said: “If you don't like it here, tell Jahaz. I'll come and take you back.”