Shafi Manzil

An unseen hand kept pulling me along that Sunday morning. Walking along the endless spread of old books and weaving through traffic and blaring horns I did not realize when I reached the foot over-bridge at the end of Daryaganj. I turned left to take me towards Gate no.1 of Delhi's Jama Masjid. It was as if I had stepped in to sepia.

On my left were stalls of bacchanalian smells and tastes. Meat clinged to spikes hanging from the ceiling while hungry tongues of flames darted out to lick at them from ovens below. It was the first time I had been invited to the terrace of Shafi Haveli. A narrow street went left from under a large neem tree taking me away from the Mosque’s steps and the throbbing din of Mina Bazar. I patted Sakina's epistle in my pocket and walked a bit faster murmuring a prayer.

It was nowhere near it’s past glory but was well lit with candles and oil lamps hanging outside. A small boy sat there and pointed to the stairs going up. The entire terrace had been carpeted and comfortable cushions were placed all around. Lamps lit up the place well. Perfumed sticks were lit to give it an ambience of luxury. I just took a Murrah, imbibed the atmosphere and sat in a corner rehearsing my poems, hoping to get a glimpse of Sakina.

As the evening hit its last quarter the mehfil had warmed up. People spoke of the glorious days when the terrace of Shafi Haveli had become the most sought after place in literary circle of Delhi. Even Mirza Ghalib used to come here every other week. The old man Sheikh Shafi, whose house it was, read out a letter from him. He had written from Calcutta that he missed the summer nights atop Shafi Haveli. He had said the terrace should now be called a Manzil, since being there was his last wish. Zauk, I heard never stooped to recite on Delhi’s terraces. He was after all the court poet. Now there was no court and no King. Hali came.

As was the routine the rookies went first, most recited homages to Meer, Sauda, Nazeer Akbarabadi and then would read out own compositions. Some spoke of the poet-King who had been exiled to Burma, but most seemed scared and avoided politics. On my turn I spoke of the brave warriors of independence; I raised the cruelty of the white army, compared it with Nadir Shah and sang of the treachery of Indians. I spoke of the cold-blooded murders of the two princes at Khooni Darwaza.

The blood was all wasted in the street,
Now there’s just water in my veins.
Poets are all busy wiping the walls,
Who will wait for the rains?

All this raised frantic eyebrows and got mild applause of relief when I ended.

Sakina, with her head covered with a dupatta, kept coming and going. She was ensuring that the poets didn’t go hungry. Her anklets provided the light-tinkling accompaniment to ghazals and nazms. Her shimmering pastel blue-green Sharara set her like a firefly darting over the subdued lights of a city reflected on a still lake. I took out my love note and placed it near my foot. As she passed me by, she gave me a shy smile and dropped an empty glass to pick up the letter. The warmth of her presence blended with the atar of roses was like being carried on gossamer through a garden of heavenly sensations.

My reward came some bit after mid-night, when Shafi saheb introduced Sakina, her daughter as a novice poet to the group. She walked up diffidently with a small piece of paper in her hand, thanked everyone present and started her recitation. It was brilliant! I was privy to some of her writings but this one was superb. She sang in a melodious voice about two lovers caught in the massacres and killing in Delhi streets. She had crafted a superb sonnet and indicted the gutless Delhiites who could not protect the couple from the ravages of the British.

That was that for the night. All hell broke loose. The scared poets desperate to protect their court stipends would not criticise the British. Four or five of them began shouting at Shafi saheb. All he could do was to look helplessly towards Sakina. As I stepped forward to defend them, someone took to me and said,

'It must be this uncouth fellow's influence'.

'Did you listen to his blasphemous verses?'

'I think we should give them up to the police and take the reward'.

There was a public reward of Rs.21 on turning in revolutionaries. One fellow craned over the railing on to the street and asked his valet to run to the nearest police post.

I and Sakina were backed up gainst the wall while the entire set of Delhi's litterati were ranged against us. Within a few more minutes some policemen reached there. They had come on horses and had guns. Shafi saheb broke down and begged them to let his daughter be. I too stepped forward to protect her. The guests would have nothing of it and accusations began flying again. The Inspector shoved me around and asked Safina to accompany him to the police station. As we were crowded down the stairs, I heard some vague slogans, 'Long live the Queen'.

I was cuffed and both of us were marched through the dark streets. The dominant emotion in my mind was anger and fear. I feared for Sakina's future, I feared for her old parents since Delhi was a highly conservative community and she was their only child, I feared for the poets gathered on the terrace for their writings could only be conceited henceforth, I feared for the citizens of Delhi for their conscience was dying everyday, and I feared for my country for the nation which was now a disparate British colony. I was angry at the whole fear psychosis, at how it had made eunuchs out of men, I was angry at all the people who had killed thousands and were still being more loyal than the Queen.

As we came up to the last bend in the street before reaching Jama masjid, I could sense a tension in Sakina walking next to me. She whispered, 'We will meet again' and within a second she broke free and ran. I was in a shock, before I could stop her she was off. All I managed was, 'No Saki..No..they have guns' but she had bolted. The inspector was rushing towards her and ordering his men to bring her back dead or alive. I put my arms up to stop them from chasing her. I never saw the rifle butt till it crashed into my face. Then there were boots all over me. Someone took a lathi and smashed it on my head and I passed out. My last sensation was some salty liquid in my mouth and Shafi saheb's long painful wail.

I was barely able to move my swollen eyes but could sense that it was still dark. My throat was parched and clothes were caked with blood. I had a searing pain in my ribs and arms. I could not even move my hands to wave away the thick swarm of flies around my head. I moved my eyes around to see where I was. I was lying on the floor at a police station. Crisp unformed shorts and curt footfalls were busily walking about. My first thoughts were about Saki. There was an optimism in my mind as I replayed the previous night. It was quite dark and the serpentine streets of Delhi could hide and entire army and Saki knew them well. I was sure she could out-smart the policemen.

And she did say, 'We will meet again'.

The delirium was broken when I heard that dreadful wail again. There was a shuffle of boots as policemen marched into the station. They were carrying something and dumped it next to me. Atar of roses! It was not possible, she had promised! I felt all my pain go away. I was so light-headed that I did not even hear Shafi saheb's wail, 'Why? Why did you have to fire? I would have brought her back'.

There was a darkness around me and suddenly I broke through the sepia. The narrow congested streets during the day looked similar, except that now there was a row of shops displaying stolen car parts and many many beggars. I took some aimless turns and saw a white-washed two story structure coming up. Some kids were playing in the street outside. A few old men were sitting and smoking.

I asked, ‘Whose house is this?’,
‘Don't know but these people emigrated from Meerut during the riots’
‘Big family?’
‘No not any more. Just the old man and his grand-daughter’
‘What are their names?’
‘I think the old man is Sheikh Shafi and calls the child Sakina!’