Midnight Garden’. Painting by Imran Qureshi. courtesy: Nature Morte
Intizar Husain
(Translated by Alok Bhalla with Vishwamitter Adil)
Allah alone knows why this evil spirit is after me! I am shocked and upset. I had actually gone there to inquire after the wellbeing of the peacocks. How was I to know that this evil spirit would grab hold of me?
It was by chance that I came across that small news item; otherwise, in the midst of all that turmoil, I would never have found out what had really happened. Tucked away in the middle of the terrifying news about India’s atomic bomb was a small note about how the explosion had so frightened the peacocks of Rajasthan that they had flown up screaming into the sky and scattered in all directions.
Immediately, I wrote a column expressing my sympathy for the peacocks, and thought that, having done my duty, I was free from all further obligations. But had I really done my duty? Was I actually free? That insignificant piece of information disturbed me in the same way as that small fish had disturbed Manuji. Manuji had once caught a fish no longer than his little finger and had placed it in a pot. He, too, had thought he had done his duty and was free. But the fish started to grow and grow. It became so big that he had to take it out of the pot and release it into a lake, and then take it out of the lake and release it into a river. The fish, however, became too large for the river, and Manuji had to carry it to the sea. In the same way a news item, which journalists thought deserved no more than two lines, overwhelmed my imagination.
The news reminded me of the peacocks I had seen in Jaipur. Subhan Allah, what a beautifully-planned pink city it was! I reached Jaipur late in the afternoon. At first, I did not sense their presence. But, in the evening, when I opened the window of the guest-house, which was as lovely as a new bride, the view outside was breathtaking. Everywhere I looked – in the courtyard, on the parapet around the fountain, over the balconies – there were peacocks; peacocks and more peacocks; peacock with bright blue tails! They had a quiet dignity and a royal grace and a calm elegance. I felt as if I were in the very cradle of beauty, love and peace.
The next evening, as I was about to leave the city, I saw peacocks on every tree, rock and hill. Their movements had the same peace, the same grace and the same beauty. As the evening shadows deepened, the air was filled with the song of peacocks. I thought they were there to both welcome and bid me farewell.
Whenever I recall that trip, my mind is filled with the images of those peacocks. I am surprised. Did I really see so many of them? Did the peacocks of Rajasthan actually come out to greet me? I wonder how they are now.
I try to imagine that city now, but all I can see is a picture of desolation. Shocked and disturbed, I am neither able to see the peacocks nor hear their song. Where have they all disappeared? In which corner of the world are they hiding? Suddenly, I have a vision of a lonely peacock on a distant hill. He seems battered and bruised. I walk quickly toward him but, before I can reach the hill, he rises into the sky screaming with terror and disappears.
Where has he gone? Where are his companions, those countless peacocks? Why is he sitting alone on that hill, the very picture of desolation? Why is he so despondent, so terrified? The sight of that dejected, bewildered peacock suddenly brings to mind another image of desolation that I had forgotten. On the far edge of a dark, oil-soaked sea, I see a forlorn duck covered with foul effluents, watching the waves in disbelief. Till yesterday the sea was ambrosia, today it is poison. The wings of the duck are so heavy with slime that he can no longer fly. Poison flows though the veins in his body. The weary bird is a symbol of the horrors of the war between the United States and Iraq. It is sad to see a bird in so much pain. The poor duck seemed to have taken upon himself all the crimes human beings commit against each other –Saddam Hussain against his countrymen, the Iraqis against the Kuwaitis and the Americans against the Iraqis. It is strange that whenever apocalypse is at hand, the rich and the powerful rarely ever pay for their sins: instead, the poor and weak take upon themselves the burden of suffering so as to redeem their times. The duck is symbolic of those prophets who, according to all religious texts, think of suffering as a sacred duty.
At that time, I didn’t recognise the duck as a symbol of our times. I lacked the visionary insight to see that he had the grace of a prophet. It never occurred to me to write a story about him. I forgot about him completely. He was only a poor, small duck, and not a gorgeous peacock about whom I am so anxious to write a story now. What if he had been a royal swan instead of a mere duck? But there are no royal swans in the world now. Once upon a time, it was difficult to decide whether the royal swan or the peacock was the king of the universe. In those days, royal swans used to swim in lakes that were as translucent as white pearls. And princesses used to scatter pearls across palace courtyards to tempt their swan-lovers. In our times, there are no swan-lovers who can be seduced by pearls. Nor are there any royal swans that swim in the shimmering waters of Mansarovar. Now, no one even knows where Mansorovar is. The lakes are dry, the rivers polluted and the air thick with the dust and smoke of bombs. The royal swans have flown away in search of clear air and pure water. They exist only in the world of fables and myths. Only the poor ducks and geese have been left behind to bear the burden of our times.
Till recently, the peacock, in all his grandeur, was a link between the past and the present. When the monsoon breeze cooled the evening, the song of the peacock used to fill the air. I remember that once a peacock came and sat on the parapet of our terrace. I quickly ran up to the terrace, tip-toed along the wall, and was about to grab its tail, when a shudder ran through his body and he flapped his wings nervously and flew away.
You should never trouble a peacock, son. He is the bird of paradise,” Dadima reprimanded me.
“The bird of paradise?” I asked in wonder. “What is he doing here?”
“He is paying for his mistake.”
“What did he do to be so punished?”
“O my son, he is innocent, but he got trapped in the wiles of that wretch, Satan.”
“How did he get trapped in the wiles of Satan?”
“That wretch disguised himself as an old man and went to the gates of paradise. He pleaded with the gatekeepers to let him in. But the gatekeepers saw though his disguise and recognised that the old man was Satan himself. So they refused to open the gates. A peacock, who was sitting on the wall surrounding the garden of paradise, felt sorry for the old man. He flew down to him and said, ‘Bade Mian, I’ll help you across the wall.’ Well, what does a blind man need but the guidance of someone who can see? Satan jumped onto the peacock’s back at once. The peacock flew over the wall of paradise and helped Satan enter the Garden of Eden. When Allah Mian found out, He was very angry. When He exiled Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden, He also asked the peacock to get out.”
I was upset when I heard the story and felt sorry for the peacock. Once upon a time, he used to sit on the wall of paradise, and now he sits on the wall of our terrace. When I told Dadima this, she replied, “Yes, son, that is what happens when we are exiled from our own courtyards. Now, all he can do is find something to sit on — any wall around any courtyard — or any tree or hill where he can find a foothold.”
When I walked through Sravasthi, I saw a peacock sitting on a green hill lost in thought. It seemed as if he was waiting for someone. I had reached Sravasthi late in the afternoon. Mahatma Buddha had lived there a long time ago. The vihara where he used to stay with his monks during the monsoons is now in ruins. Only a few scattered bricks mark its place. The peacock on the hill was, perhaps, the last of the survivors from the days of the Buddha and still carried images of those days in his eyes. Because of the presence of that one peacock, Sravasthi seemed a place of great tranquillity.
I didn’t stay long in Sravasthi. I had to get back to Delhi. But, that evening, Delhi was a sad and desolate city. At least, the basti around Nizamuddin was. Only a few days earlier, a caravan of migrants, whose homes had been looted, had left the area. On that rainy day, it seemed as if the silence and the gloom would never lift. Even Nizamuddin’s tomb, in the middle of an unpaved courtyard, looked dismal. The tomb was surrounded by tall grass. As I walked through it, I heard a peacock call from somewhere behind the tomb. When I turned around to look, I couldn’t see him, but I heard him call once more. It was a strange call, resonant of millenniums past.
As my imagination moved further down the ages, I was once again startled by the call of peacocks. “Ya Moulla, where are those peacocks, in which garden?” Surprised, I walked a little further, and found myself in a city whose outer walls touched the clouds. Beyond the walls were orchards filled with a variety of fruits. The garden echoed with the music of birds of different hues. Two notes were more distinct than the others — the whistle of the koel and the call of the peacock…Arrey, this is Indraprastha, the city of the Pandavas! Have I really travelled so far from home? I must get back.
I have travelled far and long. I have seen peacocks — peacocks from different ages and lands. I have heard their song. Now, it is time for me to write my Morenama — my Chronicle of the Peacocks. But, before I go back home, I must make another trip to Rajasthan and find out if the peacocks that had flown away in fear have returned.
The peacocks had actually returned in great numbers. Strangely, the moment they saw me, they were so terrified that screaming in terror, they rose from the hills and trees and scattered in the sky. At that moment, I sensed that I wasn’t alone. Someone else was walking beside me. When I looked to my left, I was so shocked by what I saw that I couldn’t turn my gaze away…What! Is that Ashwatthama, the great criminal of Kurukshetra? Why is he here? Why is he walking beside me?…I don’t know when he attached himself to me. Perhaps, he began to follow me when, on my way back from Indraprastha, I stopped at Kurukshetra. Yes, I am sure this evil creature attached himself to me there. But Kurukshetra was desolate. I had seen no living being there. Where had he been hiding? Had he been wandering there ever since the war?
War transforms man utterly. Take Ashwatthama, the son of Dronacharya. Dronacharya was a man of such profound learning that all the great warriors of the Pandavas and the Kauravas used to bow down to him and touch his feet. Ashwatthama, his son, had inherited many of his father’s qualities, but he didn’t have his wisdom. He was the most damned and accursed man of that war.
It is said that Dronacharya, guru of all the great warriors, possessed the most dreaded of weapons, the Brahmastra. In appearance, it was no different from a blade of grass, but its power was so great that it could reduce everything to ash; destroy all living things far and wide in an instant. Dronacharya had passed on the secret of that weapon only to his favourite disciple, Arjuna. War is so awful that in Kurukshetra, the teacher and his disciple found themselves in opposing camps fighting each other. Both, however, had taken a vow never to use the Brahmastra because it would destroy the whole world.
Before his death, Dronacharya revealed the secret of the Brahmastra to his son, Ashwatthama, but warned him sternly never to use it. After Dronacharya was killed there was no one left to restrain Ashwatthama. So, during the last days of the war, he decided to stake everything and release the Brahmastra.
The last days of war are always the most fearful. They are dangerous and unpredictable. During those days, men are tempted to use weapons that are only meant to threaten. It doesn’t matter then if a city like Hiroshima burns; at least the fighting comes to an end. The victors are satisfied; the defeated are lost in their sorrow. At Kurukshetra, it was Ashwatthama who acted foolishly and used the Brahmastra.
When Shri Krishna heard what Ashwatthama had done, he said to Arjuna, “O Janardhan, Dronacharya’s foolish son has released the Brahmastra. Now, all living things will be destroyed. Only you can counter that weapon. Act quickly before everything is reduced to ash.”
Arjuna took out his Brahmastra and released it to neutralise Ashwatthama’s weapon. It is said, that when Arjuna released the Brahmastra, the fire was so intense that its flames singed all the three worlds. Its heat even scorched the distant forest where Vyasa Rishi sat in meditation. He was terrified. He abandoned his meditations at once, went to Kurukshetra, stood between Ashwatthama and Arjuna, and raising both hands, shouted, “O evil ones, what great injustice is this! The entire world will be destroyed. Recall your weapons.”
Arjuna touched the feet of the great soul, and at once recalled his weapon.
But Ashwatthama was unrepentant, “Maharaj, I have released the weapon, but I don’t have the power to take it back. All I can do is change its direction. So, instead of falling on the Pandava army, it will fall on their women, strike their wombs and destroy their foetuses. The Pandavas shall have no heirs and their clan shall come to an end.”
Then Shri Krishna said angrily, “O son of Dronacharya, you are a great sinner. By killing children you have committed a great crime. I curse you to wander alone in the forests for three thousand years. May your wounds never heal, may pus and blood flow from them always, may they stink so much that people everywhere run away from you in disgust.”
Even I wanted to run away from him as far as possible, but he clung to me like a shadow…Ya Allah, where can I hide; how can I get rid of him?…I suddenly remembered that Meerabai’s samadhi was also nearby. I wondered if I should seek shelter there. Then, it occurred to me that the dargah of Khwaja Moin-ud-din Chishti was also in the same vicinity. If I could find it, I would easily get rid of this evil spirit. Who would let him enter the dargah? Other thoughts raced through my mind. But I didn’t know how to cast him off. No matter what path I took, he followed me like a shadow.
Peacocks screamed with fear on one side; women of the Pandavas wept on the other. There was mourning in every home. In every family, a child had died. There was calamity even in Arjuna’s house. Subhadra was crying bitterly. The Kauravas at Kurukshetra had killed Abhimanyu, the son born from her womb. She had mourned for him. She had hoped that Abhimanyu’s wife, Uttara, would give birth to a son and ensure the survival of the Pandava lineage. But Ashwatthama’s prophecy had been fulfilled. Uttara collapsed after giving birth to a stillborn child. There were no celebrations in any other Pandava household either. The Brahmastra had rendered the wombs of all their women barren. Subhadra remembered the promise her brother had made to her. Shri Krishna had promised, “Sister, I shall not let your daughter-in-law’s womb remain barren.” And, so, because he was an incarnation of Vishnu, he instilled life in the body of the dead child once more. He also predicted that Uttara’s son would sit on the throne of Hastinapur and bring honour to the Pandavas.
But when Uttara’s son, Parikshit, was on the throne, he asked Vyasaji, who had come to the palace to give him his blessings, a very strange question. Parikshit washed Vyasaji’s feet in a bowl of rose water, stood before him with folded hands, bowed his head and said, “O wise one, with your permission, can I ask you a question?”
“Ask, son.”
“Maharaj, all the elders of our family were present at Kurukshetra. There were wise and knowledgeable men amongst the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Why didn’t they understand that in war everyone has to pay a heavy price? That war destroys everything? Annihilates everything?”
Vyasaji sighed and replied, “Son, during times of war, even the best of men lose their heads. Besides, that which is fated must come to pass.”
Then, Vyasaji went back to the forest.
In those blessed days, rishis used to live for thousands of years. Arjuna’s grandson wasn’t a rishi. He died when a snake bit him. But the question he asked Vyasaji, continued to live long after his death. I suddenly remembered that question when I was wandering through Rajasthan. Indeed, I encountered it at the same time Ashwatthama began to follow me. I felt as if I were walking between two shadows.
At first, I was surprised to see Ashwatthama. “Oh, this cursed man hasn’t yet completed his three thousand years.” When I remembered the question Parikshit had asked, I was even more surprised. “Was that question still alive?” In fact, it seemed to be even more urgent in the present. It hung over India and Pakistan like a sword. But that which is fated must come to pass. Vyasaji evaded the question and refused to answer it. That is why it still hovers over us, demanding an answer. Ashwatthama’s shadow was bad enough, why must I be tormented by Parikshit’s question too?
I had to get rid of Ashwatthama. I tried to deceive and evade him. I changed my path suddenly and was sure I had lost him. But, after some time, I realised he was walking beside me once again.
He couldn’t follow me forever. I had to get back to my country. He was the evil spirit of this land. He could follow me only up to the border. Who would let him cross it and go any further? I had to deceive him, escape from his clutches and get back home. I would be safe there.
I did finally evade his vigilant eye. I fooled him, and before he realised it, I crossed the border and heaved a sigh relief when I reached my country. I thanked God that I had finally escaped from that evil spirit. I recalled a story from the Baital Pachchisee. But that was only a story. It is only in stories that evil spirits continue to cling to living beings. Anyway, I was free at last and very relieved.
I thought of peacocks from different epochs and different lands. I recalled their song. Now, I could sit in the tranquillity of my home and write my chronicle of the peacocks. I was ecstatic. All the peacocks I had met began to crowd my imagination. Their lovely songs echoed through my brain. Then I had a vision of one divine peacock. It spread its tail like a fan over the entire universe and danced. I walked in its shadow.
As I approached my house, I heard soft footsteps behind me. I quickly turned around. I was paralysed with fear. Ashwatthama had followed me home. “Oh, the evil spirit has found me here too! How can I ever be rid of him?”
In despair, I cried out, “O my Creator! O my Protector! When will this evil spirit complete his curse of three thousand years? When will I be able to write my Morenama, my chronicle of the peacocks?”
******
Notes --Original title: Morenama. Date of publication: 1999
Alok Bhalla is a literary critic, poet, translator and editor based in New Delhi
Alok Bhalla in The Beacon
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