THE end of 1996 marks the first year of Sangat's publication. In this year, Sangat metamorphosed itself from an idea into a an on-line magazine with its own web page. While it has sustained these changes and increased its readership, it has been relatively less successful in engaging its audience into active participation and debate. That will remain the biggest challenge for the coming year.
The year 1996 saw many changes on the world political scene. In various countries elections were held peacefully and winners of those elections went on to conduct the business of governing. In Russia as well as in the US elections resulted in the continuation of the old guard. But whereas the America's electoral drama was long, tedious and conspicuously uneventful, in Russia a high stakes election campaign was held in the background of Chechnya's bloody civil war, Mr. Yelstin's ailing health, and Communists' surprise surge during the polling. In Israel, the victory of Benjamin Nathyanu effectively resulted in the derailment of the peace process, to the satisfaction of extremists on both sides.
In South Asia, many countries in the region have had new governments in the current year. In Bangladesh, Sheikh Hasina's Awami League was returned to power after 21 years of sitting in the opposition. This seemed to be a fresh start after two years of political unrest and strikes. Now however, the opposition Bangladesh Nationalist Party, led by Begum Khalida Zia, is threatening to start a campaign of street agitation to bring down the government. One only hopes that this cycle of unrest, coups and counter-coups in Bangladesh can somehow be broken and the country can move on with a stable democratic government.
In India the United Front, a coalition of regional and leftist parties dislodged the Congress party. While the peaceful and orderly transfer of power to an another democratically elected government is nothing new to the established and tested democracy in India, the biggest victory there may have been a rise in the power of regional parties as opposed to decades of centralized Congress rule and a change of political atmosphere against corruption in public life. Emboldened by the judiciary's decision to hear a series of public-interest suits against all politicians, the police has now joined the revolt against corruption and are going after their masters.
Pakistan also experienced a change of government through what could only be called a constitutional coup. President Farooq Legahari sacked Benazir Bhutto's government amidst allegation of corruption, worsening law and order situation, high inflation and a bleak economy. Mr.Leghari has dissolved the national and provincial assemblies and has promised to hold fresh election next February. Whatever its merits and justifications, in doing so the country has continued its tradition of overthrowing elected government by constitutional fiat or military coups. With the 50th anniversary of its independence approaching, Pakistan has had not a single peaceful transfer of power from one elected government to other in its history.
While all these countries experienced somewhat peaceful change of their Governments, in the neighboring Afghanistan one group of Mujahideen in Kabul has been replaced by another one -- the Talibans who control two third of the country now. Their rationale in conducting the present civil war in Afghanistan is to impose an even more stricter version of Islam. In that war-weary ghost of a country, one wonders on whom these new laws are going to be applied. As a state Afghanistan ceased to exist perhaps a decade or so ago. All that remains after the carnage inflicted in the name of one ideology or other, is a terrain strewn of land mines, its injured people scurrying around from one refugee camps to another, and its infrastructure reduced to rubbles. More than anything else, these people need peace and humanitarian assistance and a huge land mines cleaning operation. These land mines have killed hundreds and maimed thousands, mostly children. As it is, they may have to wait for a long time before their humble needs are addressed.
The South Asian Diaspora is always interested in pursuing developments in their home countries. There used to be a big vacuum for outlets of news of this kind. It was traditionally filled by the fledgling newspapers and magazines printed in the host countries. Over the years, newspapers from back home have started simultaneous publications overseas as well. More recently, the advent of Internet has meant that now the unfolding events back home can be covered on even more timely basis. Hence the recent upheaval in Pakistan was covered and constantly updated by the on-line version of the daily Dawn.
In the year 1997, Sangat will continue to cover, besides others things, the issues of concern to the South Asian Diaspora. Sangat will try to present analytical and reflective nuances of changes taking place in South Asia. That, plus issues that have nothing to do with the affairs back home but everything to do with the problems of an immigrant community. The main question for these community is not if or when they are going to integrate or melt into the host society. Whether they like it or not, that process is already underway. The question which baffles these communities is how they are going to integrate and on what terms. In answering these question, they hope to control the process of change and integration, rather than being controlled by it. Sangat will try to be a part of that lively and critical debate in the coming year.
(The following article is extracted from the translator and editor's introduction to 'Tenement of Sand', an English translation of selected Siraiki poems of Syed Hassan Raza Gardezi )
Siraiki is an Indo-Hittite, and therefore an Indo-European language, with its original pre- Islamic word-hoard deriving largely from the three stages of Vedic. Sanskrit and Prakrit (the word for 'broken' in Vedic is 'bhajyate' and in Siraiki 'bhajjya) it also retains a puzzling and fascinating. smaller hoard of words and formations that have no analogues in Aryan speech and are in all probability carry over from the older Indus Valley forms of speech. Siraiki in its present geographical setting in the Indus valley had begun to evolve as a language of common discourse, distinct from the Magadhan Prakrit as early as the 5th century BC In all probability it was well established when in 325 B.C. Alexander of Macedon besieged the ancient fort of Multan and received the wound from which he was never to recover'.
References to a local speech, which is neither Prakrit or Sanskrit nor the more recent imports of Farsi and Arabic, but is Hindwi, and is spoken in the Indus Valley speech area begin to appear in the accounts of the Central Asian historians of the 10th and the 11th centuries. By the time we come to the middle sections of the Sikh Scripture, the Adi Granth. we come across a substantial body of verse in Siraiki. In these sections dating back to late 15th early 16th century, a clear evidence of the Siraiki poetical imagination begins to surface. Written references to Multani as a distinct speech community are found in an authoritative Farsi text of Emperor Akbar's period (1542-1606 AD), according to which the province of Lahore is also placed in the 'Multani' speaking belt.
Despite the ancient roots of the Siraiki language and it's oral literary tradition, rather a small body of 'written' literature in the language has survived. At the core of the Siraiki literary imagination lies, the fundamental oral imperative which, paradoxically is also the secret of its vitality and survival. It is this imperative which explains the extraordinary urgency and emotive drive as well as the unusual syncretic capacity that are the characteristic marks of the Siraiki poetics and Siraiki imagination.
For a variety of reasons, Siraiki has never been the language of the literate, political, and religious elite and priesthood who, since they were often foreigners, at various times, chose the so called classical languages such as Sanskrit, Arabic, Farsi, and later on, English and Urdu as their mode of written communication. As emperors, monarchs and sundry adventurers of Hellenic, Central Asian, Iranian, Turkish, Arab and British origin contended for power in the plains of the Indus Valley, turning them into bloody battlefields, the Siraiki speech community resisted domination, fiercely at times, guarding the integrity of the mother tongue by refusing to succumb to the allure of the latest variety of the 'imperial' speech. As a consequence, the Siraiki speech community failed to develop a political, and therefore linguistic power base of its own.
For those who did establish themselves as rulers, it was not advantageous to adopt the language of the ruled as the written medium of formal education, religious ritual and discourse, state administration, business and commerce. To do that would demystify their claims to superiority, wisdom and divine rights to rule. It is interesting to note as a significant aside, that when Sikhs ruled Punjab in the first half of the 19th century, they too retained Persian as the court language, despite the fact that their mother tongue was Punjabi, sister language of Siraiki, with script of its own.
Thus Siraiki never got the chance to grow within the formal precincts of the academy, the temple, the mosque, the court or the monastery. To this day, each generation of Siraiki speakers has learned the language by hearing the lullabies of mothers at home, speaking to playmates in yards and alleys and by listening to the elders, story tellers and folk singers. It has preeminently been the tongue of the truly creative living the language of essential human affections (in the Wordsworthian sense). This free and open environment of growth makes Siraiki a natural language endowed with its characteristic qualities which have fascinated many an outside observer. It has been called a 'sweet' language which objectively means that it has a mix of acoustic phonemes that strike the ear of the listener with soothing and rhythmic sounds with no sharp breaks. The 'd' and 't' sounds are uttered softly as in French. Its syntax is simple and flexible which makes it an excellent medium for composing metered and rhymed poetry. Its vocabulary is rich and self-sufficient in giving expression to the range of wants and experiences of ordinary workers, craftsmen, traders, farmers pastoralists, caravan travelers boatmen and women. Siraiki vocabulary and imagery is also a profuse reflection of' the surrounding natural environment.
The heartland of this natural environment constitutes the arid plains of southern Punjab overlapping with northern Sindh. Large tracts of these plains are now irrigated mainly by the Indus and Chenab river and yield rich crops of wheat, cotton and rice. A considerable part of Siraiki heartland is dominated by the Thar desert with its silvery sands and scorching day-time sun, unique flora and fauna, camel caravans, mysteries and optical illusions. Together these stretches of desert, cultivated fields, mighty rivers with their seasonal floods. long summers and scanty rainfalls form the natural surroundings which cradle the numerous Siraiki legends and folk tales celebrating love, beauty and self-sacrifice. These legends and folk tales continue to enrich the imaginations of contemporary Siraiki poets and artists as they have done in the past.
Finally, the Siraiki language has a profoundly distinctive symbolism which gives its speech community a unified world view and perception of the cosmic order. This symbolism has its roots in the beliefs and teachings of the Hindu Bhakti saints and Muslim saints who freely intermingled with the common people since medieval times conveying their message through song and poetry composed in the folk languages. The content of this message is well articulated in the Siraiki poetry to which we now turn.
Siraiki Poetry
As is the case with the language itself, much of Siraiki poetry also belongs to an oral tradition and has never been put into writing. it is therefore not quite feasible to reconstruct a history of Siraiki Poetry and its thematic content from its very origins, although the imprints of the obscure past can readily be discerned in more recent and written literature. In what has been preserved orally, one comes, across diverse cultural ideas and beliefs, portrayals of nature and seasons, accounts of battles and conquests, odes and elegies, legends of love and passion, each written in different verse forms. By the 15th century AD however, most of these diverse strands seem to have undergone a striking thematic synthesis into a rich tradition of Sufi poetry. Since this synthesis has left its indelible mark on subsequent Siraiki poetry, it would be in order to recapitulate its salient features, with some introduction to its Poetic exponents.
The Sufi Influence
Although many of the Sufi poets came from a background of formal learning in orthodox Islamic theology and were well-versed in- Arabic and Persian, they chose the languages and symbolism of the masses of peasants and workers for their poetic expression. In Siraiki verse, as in Sindhi and Punjabi, they conveyed their message of' human fraternity, universal love and respect for all creation. The centerpiece of this message is the concept of 'wahdat-ul-wajud', or oneness of all being. God is the primordial manifestation of this oneness, the eternal truth, visualized in Sufi poetry is the Divine Beloved. or simply the Beloved. He is the cosmic reality from which emanates all creation, from lowliest beings to the most elevated saints., prophets ,and gods of all religions, just as light radiates from the sun. By cultivating the love of God or the Divine Beloved one can see His reflection in all forms of existence. including one's own self. Obversely, it is the destiny of all creation to reunite and be one with the Divine Beloved. The Sufi God is, thus, not the personalized God of institutional religions, feared more by humans for their sins than loved.
Sufi poetry, in particular, dwells extensively on this theme of romance and passionate love with the Beloved as the most exalting spiritual experience. The Beloved is, however, not envisioned as a metaphorical abstraction but as a sensuous, this worldly being full of life and beauty. The vicissitudes of love are also expressed in the common human emotions of joy and delight at the prospect of union with the Beloved, and distress and sorrow on being separated from the Beloved. However, to be close to the Beloved one must renounce arrogance, egotistic conceit, desire to dominate others and feeling of superiority on the basis of rank, creed, caste or color. Sufi poets also stress that without the spark of love no true knowledge of oneself or of external reality can be achieved. Knowledge devoid of love remains only partial leading to the baser motivation of control and destruction of' other human beings as well as nature in general.
The objective of the Sufi poets is to articulate this entire philosophy and world view not in scholastic jargon but in the idiom of common understanding. Siraiki, with all its popularly developed linguistic resource, natural imagery, Symbolism, folk tales, and legends has provided an excellent medium through which to reach the hearts and minds of a wide audience. The rich symbolic content of the age-old heroic folk tales lends itself eminently to imparting color ,and credibility to the Sufi poets' beliefs and cosmology. 'Their poems celebrate the lives of legendary lovers such as Sassi Punnu (Punnal) Sohni, Marvi and many others. Although the tradition of Sufi poetry in Siraiki begins to take definite shape in the 14th century AD in the verse of Baba Farid Shakargang, the first great Siraiki poet widely known for his Sufi poems is Sultan Bahu (c. 1631 - 1691) who lived in Shorkat, north of Multan. He was an eminent Arabic and Persian scholar. but is best known for his Siraiki verse which was compiled for publication long after his death in the early 20th century. All his poems are composed in the same verse form known as 'siharfi' which is an acrostic on the alphabet. Words beginning with each letter of the alphabet are selected in sequence to start the first metrical line of the poem. Normally each 'siharfi' consists of four lines, each divided into two 'tukks' or rhythms. The style of Bahu's 'siherfis' is simple and unpretentious, and he relies almost entirely on the popular imagery, similes and metaphors of Siraiki to convey his message. Spiritual Gnosticism and praise of the Beloved is a pervasive theme of his poetry as illustrated in the following siharfi.
Neither Hindu nor true Muslim; they do no obeisance in the mosque In every creature they see the Lord; they who have not gone amiss
Came wise and turned mad; they who put themselves together My life be gifted to those Bahu; they who chose love's vocation
Bahu in his poems shows a special disaffection for the functionaries of institutionalized religion. He lived during the period of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb, known in history as the enemy of the Sufis. Aurangzeb patronized the orthodox Muslim ulema, the learned clerics. and posted them to influential positions in the state bureaucracy as qazi. judges and prosecutors, muftis, the arbiters of Islamic law, and so on. Bahu dissociate himself from these men of learning and influence, rejecting the rewards and punishments they hold out for ritual conformity in place of real spiritual experience.
I am not a learned scholar, neither the mufti, nor the qazi Hell I do not desire, Heaven has no appeal to me
The thirty fasts I do not keep, neither do I say my prayers Communion with God is all I seek, the rest is but a false game.
The most celebrated Siraiki poet of the past, who carried the tradition of the Sufi poetry into the dawn of 20th century, is Khawaja Farid (1845 - 1901). His poems are composed in the verse form known as Kafi, most widely used by the Sufi poets of the region. Sufi poetry in Siraiki as well as Sindhi and Punjabi is always composed to be sung. Had it not been for generations of folk singers, minstrels and kawals (inspirational singers) who memorized and passed it on, much less of this poetry would have survived. The Kafi is specially designed for singing to the tunes of the prevalent musical system. Each Kafi is essentially a lyric comprising of unity of sound, imagery, feeling and subject matter. However, any one of these elements may be highlighted in a given Kafi. Thus a prominent English translator of Khawja Farid's selected poems has compiled them into sections entitled 'faith and instructions 'love and distress," "desert and rains." Farid with his mastery over the language recreates in his Kafis superb images of nature, feelings of love and lovers' distress while reflecting at the same time on the metaphysics of existence and reality. The following lines of Kafi for example stress the oneness of all existence.
The world is but an idle dream
It's shapes a film upon a stream
If you would know reality
Then listen carefully, mark and see
That oneness is a mighty sea
Where pluralism's bubbles team
The following lines of a Kafi show how Farid can skillfully combine onomatopoeic effects with a sensuous description of the beloved's charms that torment the one who is in love.
The beloved's intense glances call for blood
The dark hair wildly flows The Kohl of the eyes is fiercely black
And slays the lovers with no excuse
My appearance in ruins, I sit and wait
While the beloved (Maru) has settled in Malheer I feel the sting of the cruel dart
My heart the, abode of pain and grief A life of tears, I have led Farid
This had to be the script of my fate
Folk tales and Legends
One can truly appreciate such lyrics of love and distress, if one knows the folk tales that have circulated in the region for centuries, and from which the Sufi poets draw their imagery and symbols. These tales have to do with young lovers prevented from uniting by false family and kinship values invariably ending in tragedies for one or both lovers who defy the cruel customs by exceptional acts of daring. In the lines of the Kafi quoted above there is a reference to Marv's love for her beloved who is forced to move to the distant city of Malheer. One of the most celebrated folktales in Siraiki and Sindhi has to do with Sassi love for Punnu which figures in as many as 66 Kafis composed by Farid. This story also has an intimate association with the Thar desert, because it is here that the final act of this high drama of love and passion unfolds. It may be in order to briefly sketch this folktale for the unfamiliar readers.
According to legend, Punnu, the chieftain of a Baluch tribe from the city of Kech, arrives in the city of Bhambhore with his caravan, after crossing the Thar desert. Here lives Sassi, a maiden of renowned beauty and daughter of the king of Bhamhhore. On seeing Punnu, she passionately falls in love with him and arranges a big feast in his honor. Punnu kinsmen who do not like this affair serve strong wine to the lovers to make them drowsy. As Sassi and Punnu retire to their bed of flowers, they fall fast asleep. Waiting for this moment, Punnu kinsmen quietly sneak in, carry the slumbering Punnu away to his camel and race back to Kech. When Sassi wakes up in the morning, she finds her beloved gone. Leaving all caution aside she runs to the desert on foot in pursuit of the caravan. By mid-day, when the desert sands heat up under the blazing sun, Sassi falls to the ground exhausted and is scorched to death while still calling for Punnu. A shepherd who had been watching the scene picks up her body and buries her in a desert grave. He lives at her graveside as a fakir for the rest of his life to tell the story of how Sassi perished in the pursuit of her beloved.
The basic legend is told and retold in rich detail in the oral tradition of local story tellers, folk singers and Sufi poets like Farid who read into it profound meanings regarding love, life, death and reality. The Sufi poet puts himself in the persona of the lover, invariably a woman like Sassi to represent her feelings and experiences in natural life setting. Farid as the master of his art speaks through the Sassi persona to portray vividly the desert, in which she died, with its great diversity of appearances, changing seasons and life forms. Note the following verse of a Kafi, for example: .
Where the desert grasses twist my love Ever-shifting shapes exist my love
The crickets creak, the pigeons coo
The foxes howl, the hyenas mew
The geckoes puff, the lizards whoo
The snakes and serpents hiss my love
In these surrounding rises the voice of Sassi.
Oh, in this desert's blessed sight I'll die indeed but not take fright
As for Punnu, he becomes for the Sufi a living and pervasive symbol of divine beauty.
See Punnal's presence everywhere
All mystics mark and hear know only he is here
All else shall disappear
Siraiki Marsia
Another traditional Siraiki verse form is 'Dohra'. It normally has four metric lines, all of which rhyme in the same manner. Dohra is always written to be sung and is employed uniquely in the composition of 'marsia', elegies, commemorating the martyrdom of Hussain, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammed during Muharam, the first month of the Islamic calendar. Siraiki 'marsia', recited in a combination of verse and poetic prose, is so popular that its professional and semi-professional reciters are in great demand in all parts of Pakistan during the month of Muharam. As a literary genre, Siraiki 'marsia' is one of the oldest, dating back to the 13th century when Muslim migrants from Arabia and Central Asia had started settling in large numbers in the vicinity of Multan and upper Sindh. These settlers, particularly the syeds among them, started the practice of holding assemblies commemorating the martyrdom of Hussain. The 'marsia' in these assemblies was recited in the sad notes of a Siraiki composition known as maaru. Since than a number of Siraiki poets have made their mark as masters of this literary form, as the form itself changed over time. By early 19th century, the 'marsia' took its present form in which verse is combined with prose to construct a continuous narrative, depicting specific episodes and dialogues surrounding the martyrdom of Hussain and his companions. The skill of the 'marsia' composer and reciter lies in the ability to arouse an intense emotional response in the audience of mourners. That the Siraiki 'marsia' and it's recitation should achieve this objective most effectively is no doubt attributable to the versatility of the language itself as a medium of emotive expression. The following 'dohra' 'taken from a 'marsia' composed by Ghulam Haider Fida (1880-1943) is quoted as an example. It captures the tragedy of infant Asghar's killing by the soldiers of Yazid who had surrounded the camp of Hussain:
Child in arms - the son of Ali (Hussain) begs for water . With down-cast looks, says the Master of the Two Worlds
Oceans will not dry up if you give (this infant) a drink of water
Hurmil (Yazid's soldier) is ready to answer with a lethal arrow.
Note the irony built into the first two verses.
(This is the first part of a two part essay on Siraiki Poetry. In the second part Sangat will presents a review of Siraiki poet Syed Hasan Raza Gardezi's poetry)
Time to close books for the year 1996 is here. For Americans and Europeans it is time to celebrate Christmas and New Year festivities with fanfare. For many of the immigrants living there it is time to start pilgrimage back to their home countries. Like many of my fellow sojourners I am also heading 'back home' to Pakistan. I don't have actually my own home there though. I live out here in the 'West'. That is where I get up every morning and go to work. That is also where my nuclear family is. This family, job and the paraphernalia around them are what define my life here for all practical purposes. Still, when I talk about Pakistan I refer to it as 'back home'. I will be staying at my parents home, the place where I grew up. This place 'back home' is actually a reconstruction of a nostalgic mind and it is romantic as well as deceptive undertaking. In reality, it ceased to exist some 15 years ago when I left the country. Even my room, which I used to share with my brother, has been designated for guests. Only some moth eaten books belonging to me remind me of my youth and indicate that the room might have once belonged to me. An inscription in the beginning of a book, some silly youthful thought scribbled inside, is though enough to drag one down the memory lane. There are also echoes of my friends who were conspirators in such youthful fantasies. I shall look desperately for other sources provoking such echoes. There are not too many. Besides the desire to see the loved ones, the journey is a pilgrimage to such echoes and nostalgia. Treated with luxury and lot of care and love, I will be overwhelmed by the genuine affection on my arrival. There will be mist in the eyes of my parents, brothers, sister, uncles, aunts and so many others whom I will see. It is a mixture expression of joy at seeing me after a long separation, and sadness of the time not spent together. There will be perhaps some new faces, some nephew or niece born since I last visited, or some new addition to the family by the act of marriage. These pretty new faces hardly compensate for many other missing ones. These are the faces of the people who were there last time to indulge me with their affection, but who have since rolled up their own traveling mats and disembarked from this world. This time around, before setting on to greet a new born or congratulate the newly married, I must go to the final resting places of these dear ones. I must sit next to their graves, think about them, imagine they are there feeling my presence and reading my thoughts. I must say my final good bye to them. Tell them how much I miss them. And how guilty I feel for not having spent enough time with them when they were alive. That even though I was far away, the thought of their being there back home lent me an aura of belongingness. I will be told by the survivors that they died in peace and happily, but somehow I will have problem associating the death with peace and happiness. My reflections on sojourning back and forth home shrivels and fades away in the face of Rwandan refugee crisis currently unfolding there. The end of 1995 finally witnessed some respite and semblance of peace being doled out to the Bosnians by the international community after three years of a living hell. The end of 1996 is marked by the mind boggling pictures of masses of huddled refugees creeping back towards their former homes in Rwanda. About half a million or so are returning to Rwanda after two years of being in the Zairian refugee camps, literally kept hostages by the rebels of their own ethnic group. Arguably another half a million or so such refugees are moving in the opposite direction, towards inside Zaire. In the meanwhile, the international community having abandoned plans for military intervention is endlessly debating over the exact number of refugees trapped inside Zaire. By the time this publication goes on-line, it is plausible that shamed by the heart breaking pictures of these masses on the evening news day after day, the international community would have doled out another cosmetic albeit belated and insufficient assistance. Even if that happens, the shame would be that after the first Rwandan crisis in 1994 where a few hundred thousand people were massacred in the course of a few days, and where the international community refused to do anything, this latest crises has been allowed to simmer on for two years. Lest we shrug them off as 'habshi' barbarians, as someone did the other day, it is pertinent to point out that the Indian Subcontinent suffered a similar fate only 50 years ago, and our forefathers acquiesced, if not actually participated in such 'ethnic cleansing' around 1947. And we, who inherited such 'cleansed' states, have to yet come to terms with such ghastly past. As in Bosnia, the international community in general and the West in particular has no strategic interest in Rwanda or Burundi. The West was quick to intervene in Iraq because of oil in the Gulf. Bosnia, having no such strategic resource, had to wait for years. Chechneans were left entirely on their own. Just like Bosnia suffered of tragic neglect by the misfortune of not having an strategic asset like oil, Rwanda and Berundi are doomed to similar fate. The Somalia adventure still haunts the Western policy makers. Judging from somewhat mute reaction by the Muslim world to the crisis in question, people from these countries seem to suffer from another misfortune - that is they are not even Muslims. During the Bosnian crisis a common though largely misguided perception among the Muslims was that the West let Bosnian Muslims suffer because of its inherent bias against Islam. There was always a suggestion of some kind of conspiracy. The Bosnian cause received a lot of attention all over the Muslim world, and after a lot of West bashing, some military and material assistance was sent by the Muslim countries to the Bosnian Muslims. On the issue of Rwandan refugees, one does not hear such outrage from the Muslim world. Would it have made any difference if these unfortunate people were Muslims. There is a little boy who gets hurt in a scramble to snatch some food being distributed. Later we see him in the hospital crying for water. A day or so later, he dies. There are old and sick people we see in the old refugee camps in Goma and Bukava. They are too weak to follow the mass horde 'back home'. They will perhaps eventually die there while waiting for help. For those who do make 'back home', life is different. Some are welcomed with open arms by their neighbors. Others find that their homes have been occupied by other refugees. They must move on, looking for a place to stay, a new home. This is the second time in less than 3 years that they have been forced to move out of wherever they were living. They are eternal sojourners and Diaspora in their own country. Like us, 'Home, back home' is perhaps just a dream for them. I feel grateful for the luxury of sojourning 'back home' in much happier circumstances. I may be irked by inefficiencies at the airport or irritated at the chaotic traffic on the roads, but I will be indulged with warmth and affection by my family and friends.
Embrace a Millennium
Deep violet spaces
Black fathom-less night,
Vivid forms, of familiar faces,
Hopes and passions (the colour of cigarette ashes)
Rise from nowhere in the empty hours.
"it is never too late to be
What you might have been"
Easier advertised, seldom realized
Man in an immoral world
Is condemned to pursue what cannot be
And doomed to inevitable failure.
But can the mortal span of man's existence
Be regarded a true measure of things?
If it were so, then why would he
Map the world and chart the seas
And think beyond the sordid flesh
Destined to wither, rot and rust.
Dreams and dreams alone are the stuff
Which distinguish man
From man and his follow creatures;
Dreams emboldens him to think beyond
And visualizes a world more just and human.
Plant a word, a thought, a deed
Or whatever you can
And embrace a millennium.
Far Away and Long Ago
Far in memory, an acacia avenue
Few hundred yards down the railway track
Veering away gracefully from the main line
Rows of dusty trees without shadows
Gravel and dust plodded into a path without form or definition,
Receding to a distant gardenia hedge
Inset with a friendly gate
Painted green.
A superannuated mango with contesseration
of new-born leaves, glistening red
Tan and hues of emollient green
Maturing into a dark plunkier shade,
And clusters of bilious blossoms
Exuding an aphrodisiac odour.
Two bayris laden with crunchy fruit
Easy to reach with a stone or stick
Stood in the neighboring field
A lone jaman tree in a patch of corn
And fragrant roses in the lawn.
A tacoma vine with orange tassels
dangling from delicate branches
Irresistible to resolute ants, wasps and bees
Sniffing cuprous mouths, and
Licking sweet saffron tongues.
An ancient mulberry tree,
Rent by bolt of an evil tongue;
A noble torso without limbs
Nursing a gaping hole, hideout or home
To some nocturnal bird, creature or worm.
Each year one thought would be his last
But every spring he would muster strength
And from his withering loins, weave a crown
Of succulent shoots and broadest leaves,
A treat, to a fistful of the sweetest fruit.
The dark mango, the acacia
And the old mulberry, each had tales to tell
Which would have left me in a wondering spell;
Life then was so full of things,
The sight of flowers, the taste of common things,
The eight of peeling paint and aging bark,
The lure of lonely places, joy of bathing in rain,
Sound of 'peepal' leaves clapping in the wind,
Relentless chatter of sparrows at dusk and dawn
The mysterious cooing of doves,
Annoying cawing of crows,
And the kites aloft
Gliding graciously in loopes
Against a bland blue sky,
A parrot, a pigeon, a lark,
The eternal music of invisible things,
The fear of snakes,
And the joy of accomplishing small feats,
Jumping a ditch, chasing a dog
Or making a dash for nothing;
But this was far away and long ago.
(Mian Ijaz-ul-Hasan is a nationally recognized artist in Pakistan. He was the Dean of The National College Of Arts, The University Of Punjab, Lahore Pakistan. The above poems are from his 'Collection of Poems' that will be published next summer in Pakistan)
Andre had two days to come up with the extra three thousand dollars for the concert. The fax he received last night or was it early morning said that Ustad Wajahat Hussain Khan Sahab will not perform for the price Andre had earlier quoted. The fax was signed by 'yours sincerely Manager Karim Khan'. Andre could not remember meeting any Karim Khan when he and Bimla went to Bombay last year to see her family and Ustad Wajahat Hussain Khan sahab, the sitar maestro, commonly known as just Khan sahab. Khan sahab belonged to one of the few musical families of India that could trace their professional heritage to the Mogul period and even farther back to the mid fourteenth century to Amir Khusro, the great poet, musician, and inventor of ragas and musical instrument. Khan sahab was widely known both in India and Pakistan. In the past two decades Khan sahab had also performed in the west, largely in Britain, Canada and US where he had a loyal following.
Today was Wednesday. The concert was scheduled for Saturday night at the Berkeley University concert hall. After receiving the accursed fax Andre had phoned Khan sahab's residence in Bombay, thinking that talking with Khan sahab would clear up any misunderstanding regarding the payment. After all, this was not the first time Andre had invited Khan sahab to perform. It is true that Khan sahab's fee had gone up during the time since they had known each other but money was not Khan sahab's priority as it was not also Andre's. He was told by Khan sahab's wife on phone that Khan sahab had already left for New York. Khan sahab was scheduled to arrive in San Francisco on Friday evening from New York where he was also performing on Thursday night for a private gathering arranged by some of his rich Indian admirers . What is it that makes the old man keep a rigorous schedule like this, Andre wondered as he watched Bimla go about her early morning dance practice. Is it fame, money, or just the pure pleasure of creating great music? Perhaps it is just music, money was the last thing Khan Sahab ever cared for and fame is not a need anymore for him, Andre decided. The two keenest pleasure of Andre's life was watching Khan sahab perform on his sitar and see Bimla dance. It did not matter whether it was on stage or right here in their one bed room apartment in Berkeley. It never failed to make Andre happy. Bimla was five years younger than Andre. At forty five, she was a skilled performer of Indian classic dance forms, Katha Kali, Bharat Natayam, and regional folk dances were her specialty. Bimla became Kahn sahab's disciple and admirer when she was still a young girl of sixteen in Bombay. Khan sahab treated her like his own daughter.
Andre first met Bimla twenty years ago in Goa where she had gone to perform for a concert. She was already an accomplished artist at that time and Andre was still trying to find 'peace and nirvana' on the sandy beaches of Goa where he practically lived like a hobo during his one year sojourn in India. After his ugly divorce and his father's death after a long terminal illness, Andre quit for good his job as a stock broker and went over to India as this was still the right thing to do for people looking for answers to all the painful questions they seem to accumulate by making, what they later come to think of, as the wrong decisions of their lives. Whether he found nirvana or not was not clear to him but Andre found Bimla who made him bring her to US. The first ten years or so they both lived off and on with each other. In between, Andre tried different things to get back on the track. He sold alternate medicine, yoga techniques and meditation philosophies to tired souls like him. The techniques he had learned selling annuities, bonds and stocks came handy but he did not feel committed to anything anymore. Bimla, in the meantime established herself in the Bay area as an artist. She performed in concerts, taught young daughters of Indian-Pakistani immigrants classic Indian dance. Had a few love affairs that were the cause of much friction between them in the past and saved enough money to go back to India one day to start her own performing arts Academy. About five years ago Andre finally come to the conclusion that he must settle down now. Bimla also seemed to have given up her dream of going back to India one day. Now Bimla ran a dancing school from their one room apartment with Andre's help as administrator and book-keeper of her music academy. Three four times a year Andre would organise a concert of Indian classic music which has become his life long passion now. Occasionally he would make some money but usually it was just the satisfaction of sharing with others something he really cared for. The music emanating from Bimla's old cassette player was mixing up with the sound of the 'ghongro' the little bells tied around Bimla ankle, she had her leggings rolled up on her legs and there were glistening beads of sweat forming on her shapely calves as she went whirling on the frayed carpet in their living room. The smoke rising from the incense was going around the big picture of lord Krishna hanging above the fireplace. Andre could feel the energy changing in the room as Bimla accelerated her movements towards the end of her dance practice. She still had a supple and slender body as it was when she had first met Andre. Only now it had filled up deliciously over all this time. Her long eyebrows were going up and down with the beat and the pupils of her beautiful eyes were dilating to express and enhance the theme she was weaving with the help of her whole sensuous body, The fingers of her hands dipping and cutting the air, each contour of her body developing a sub-theme like the different voices in an opera.
Their living room was bereft of any furniture except a day bed converted into a traditional Indian style divan on which Andre was now sitting. This was his favorite place, reclining on the big cushions placed around the divan, Andre used to watch Bimla perform every morning from this vantage point--- like lord Krishna watching his gopies, the dancing girls. Bimla's early morning dance schedule was also the time for Andre to do his meditation and breathing exercises. But this morning he was feeling restless and hungry and therefore was not able to concentrate on his breathing exercise. He wanted to ask Bimla about this new demand from Karim, the manager. Maybe Bimla has some idea of who this man was, Andre was thinking, and she might be able to avert this almost sure catastrophe of canceling the show now. Andre was unable to come up with any new source to raise another three thousand dollars at such a short notice. All the proceeds from the advanced ticket sales plus the money he collected from the sponserer of the event had already gone into paying for the concert hall, security arrangements, insurance, the printing of the concert tickets and the brochure and advance payments to some of the local singers and dancers who were to perform before Khan sahab at the concert. This was Paul's idea to have other local artist perform as well. Paul thought that this will help to sell the show to a larger audience; people who were not necessarily into classic Indian music but would gladly come to see their favorite artist perform and still have the pleasure of telling their friends and acquaintances that they went to a classic music concert. Andre saw the merit of Paul's argument and agreed to design the concert brochure accordingly. In fact, it was Paul who designed it. He was a professional graphic artist and a part-time tabla player. Paul was also one of the local performers at the concert.
Najmi Malik, a long-time admirer of Khan sahab's music and a dear old friend had graciously volunteered to put up Khan's sahab and his troupe in his beautiful house overlooking the pacific ocean across the Golden gate bridge in Marine county. He also gave one thousand dollars for his company's ad in the concert's brochure. Najmi was himself an amateur sitar player, apart from being the cofounder and CEO of his biotech company in Menlo Park. Andre now knew many professional people in the silicon valley through Najmi who always gave generous donations towards cultural events like this concert. But the trouble was that Andre had already exhausted their generosity and he hated the idea of going back to them for more money.
Bimla was done with her dance practice and was heading towards their tiny kitchen. Andre followed her to start the fire for the breakfast. He put the little special pan for making bread on one burner and the water for the tea on the other. Andre liked the tea he had learned to make during his stay in Bombay. You boil the water, add the fragrant Assam tea leaves, and than pour a lot of milk and let it simmer for a long time. Towards the end, you sprinkle some crushed cardamoms for flavor.
After finishing her drink of cold water, Bimla took out the dough that she had prepared last night before going to bed from the refrigerator and started making round shaped bread in the little pan that she had bought in an Indian grocery store in Berkeley. -Bimla, Who is Karim Khan?-, Andre asked. -What Karim Khan! I don't know anybody by that name. Who is him?- Bimla was concentrating on turning over the bread in the pan with a dexterity and skill that Andre was never able to achieve despite his many attempts to make hand-made bread . In Bimla's hand was a clean piece of white cloth that she had made into a ball shape and was using it to press the edges of the bread in the pan. The pressure of the ball on the golden edges of the bread would make it swell like a balloon. As Bimla put the last bread in the bread basket, took out the warmed vegetable curry from last night into two plates to go with the bread, Andre handed her the fax he had received early this morning from Karim Khan.
-Oh! You mean Karim bahi-, Bimla said after reading the fax.
-He is Khan sahab's brother in-law. You know him Andre. Remember we went with Khan sahab to his place in Bhindi Bazar last time we were in Bombay. Andre! You are getting old. How can you forget it-, Bimla teased him as she sipped her tea. Andre could not remember meeting any brother in-law but he remembered visiting Bhindi Bazar, a ghetto like place where majority of the poor Muslims of Bombay lived. It somehow always reminded him of some parts of East Oakland--- another ghetto in his part of the world where the black underclass lived. -Andre! I think you will have to come up with this extra money-, Bimla became serious, -the reason I am saying this is that after the recent burning of Khan sahab's music schools in Bombay by those army of fanatics Khan sahab has vowed to build it again. He wants to raise his own money to do that. Karim bahi has agreed to become Khan sahab's manager on the condition that on all matters relating to money Karim bahi will have the last say. Don't you remember Sapna telling us this when she returned from Bombay last month or have you forgotten that as well?-. Andre detected a hint of displeasure in Bimla's voice. He now remembered what Sapna, Bimla's closest friend and co-artist from Bombay who now lived in the Bay area, told them about the incident with lot of embellishments.
-Bimla dear! I had never seen Khan sahab in such a condition before, God! he was alternating between anger and grief.
-, Sapna had said. Andre did not pay much attention to Sapna's story at that time. He ascribed it to the usual riots and mayhems that were part of the daily life in India.
-Okay! I can understand that but why start with me-, Andre said in exasperation. -What about the shows I had arranged in other cities? I don't know whether this damned brother in-law would still acknowledge that part of the deal-. Andre was hoping to make some money from his previously agreed upon cut by selling the show to other cultural organisations in big cities like L.A, Chicago, Dallas, Vancouver and Toronto in Canada where there were large pockets of Indian-Pakistani communities. In fact, arrangements had already been made to split the cost of travel between these organisations in various cities across the continent. -There was never a 'deal' Andre,- Bimla said.
- You have always given Khan sahab whatever was left after paying all the expenses.
He has never haggled you for money to my best recollection. This is the first time in decades that he is going about it in a professional manner and mind you--- not for himself but for a good cause. I am all for it. Why don't you ask your rich Jewish friends to give you that three thousand dollars? It's just peanut for them.
-I wish I had those 'rich Jewish friends' now but I don't. Bimla! You would have to help me raise this money in the next two days or we can forget the whole thing-.
-Okay! Here is the plan-. Bimla said with a smile. - Lets call Mohammed, he is our man. He will get us the needed money-.
Andre pondered over the idea for a brief moment -Forget the phone call. Lets go to him-. Andre said. - He doesn't go to work until late in the morning. We can catch him at home. It's only an hour's drive to San Rafael-.
Mohammed was having his morning coffee when Andre and Bimla arrived at his place. -Andre! Bimla ! What a surprise. Is everything okay-?, Mohammed asked.
-Both yes and no Mohammed-, Andre answered with good humour. -I need your help to raise three thousand dollars for the concert I am organising--- and I need it yesterday. You know what I mean brother-. It did not take long to explain everything to Mohammed. He was not interested in the details anyway but the idea of getting into high gears to help friends appealed to Mohammed. Mohammed was an Algerian Arab who had spent his youth in south France. According to him, he had apprenticed himself early on in his youth with a famous wine maker in the south of France. Mohammed came to United States a few years ago to team up with an 'American guy' he had met in Paris to start a winery in Sonoma county. The reasons why the business of making wine did not materialise were several and a little complicated for the uninitiated. Most of Mohammed's friends-- and he had many left it to him to select the appropriate explanation depending upon his mood and the company he happened to find himself in at that moment. Now Mohammed managed one of the oriental carpet showrooms owned by a rich Iranian in San Rafael. There were a large community of these rich Iranians living across the water in Marine County who had fled Iran after the Khomeni's revolution. In the past, Mohammed had helped Andre and Bimla to organise a lot of private concerts in the homes of his patrons. Bimla was very popular among their womenfolk.
-Is this musician a Muslim, Andre-, Mohammed inquired .
-What do mean? He is an Ustad of classical Indian music. What does his religion got to do with it-? Andre asked in return.
-Well brother! I am just trying to think of some quick way to raise this money you need. You know, I am member of the board that runs the local Mosque-. Mohammed said with pride . -We are having our monthly meeting this morning. I can ask the other members there to help. As sister Bimla said, your Maestro needs this money for a good cause. If I can convince the other members on this point I can possibly have the money by this evening for you. You know, three thousand dollars is nothing for them, especially if they can deduct that amount from their annual income tax returns as charity-. Mohammed was beaming at his own eloquence. It seemed that Mohammed had hit upon the right theme and the right strategy to raise the money. It was decided that Mohammed would call them right after the meeting later in the day and let Andre know the results of his efforts. Crossing the San Rafael bridge on their drive back home on this bright Tuesday morning, Andre promised Bimla to buy her a plane ticket for her annual family visit to India.
Back at home, Bimla went in to take a nap. Her dance classes did nor began until late in the afternoon, continuing into the late evening. Andre sat down in the porch in the sun with his Walkman and cellular phone--- his two sources of pride. Particularly the cellular phone: Bimla was against it as she regarded it as an unnecessary expense but it provided Andre with a sense of importance and 'cool'. Their apartment was a two story stand alone structure at the back of a house not far from Telegraph and the Berkeley campus.. The whole neighbourhood was full of young men and women, mostly students at the Berkeley campus. This mixture of youth and the potential adventure youth implies made Andre feel protected from the creeping old age.
At two o'clock in the afternoon Andre's cellular phone chirruped. It was Mohammed with the good news that he has been able to raise eighteen hundred dollars.
-By tomorrow you will have the full amount and perhaps more-, there was an excitement in Mohammed's voice.
- Great work brother-, Andre was also excited now, - but I don't need more. When do you want me to meet you-? -Listen Andre- Mohammed ignored Andre's question,
- I have Sultana working on the balance. She will call me tonight or tomorrow morning. You know that she is involved in lots of political and social organisations and knows so many people all over the country. Sultana said she will raise more than you need. She is convinced that this a good cause and Muslims all over the country will give generously-.
-What cause Mohammed? What's going on? I don't need more than three thousand to get this thing going-.
-Don't worry brother. I'll call you later-. Mohammed hung up the phone. Andre was clearly alarmed now. He knew that Sultana, a divorcee and a successful business women, who had taken a fancy to Mohammed could easily get whatever she has set her mind on. Twelve hundred dollars the balance as Mohammed called it, was no big deal for her but what Andre could not understand was why raise more money and for what cause.
In the evening Andre got busy with the student that started streaming in for their daily or weekly lessons. He did not tell Bimla about his telephone conversation with Mohammed although it kept bothering him the whole evening. Late at night the phone rang, Bimla was in the kitchen getting the dinner ready and Andre was watching the news on the TV. It was Sultana.
-Hi Andre! How are you? She said. Andre could hear a lot of people talking in the background. It sounded like a party was going on in her house.
-Listen Andre!- Sultana said without waiting for Andre's reply, - everything is fine now. We have raised the money you need. I'd like you to come in the morning to my house to pick it up.
-Great Sultana. Million thanks. How about now. Sounds like you are having a party. I can be at your place in half an hour-. Andre felt immensely relieved. -I think morning is better Andre-, Sultana replied.
-I hate to tell you this but there is a little problem that I am trying to resolve with the help of some friends. Look! there are some nasty people who are trying to raise some hell on account of this concert of yours. Nothing to worry about but if you receive some crank calls or anything like that just ignore it-.
-Sultana! Please! Tell me what is going on? I don't want nobody's money and I am going to cancel this concert-. Bimla heard Andre's agitated voice and picked up the kitchen phone. Andre put down the receiver and stepped out in the porch to get some fresh air.
When he went back in Bimla had already laid out the dinner on the table.
-What did she tell you'that stupid woman?. I wish we had not gone over to Mohammed this morning-.
-So it is all my fault now? Bimla asked.
-No. But I want to know what she told you-. Andre repeated his question.
He did not want to start a fight with Bimla. It turned out that during the course of the day Sultana had called several people to donate for the concert. Apparently some of these people Sultana talked to were friends of Sultana's political rivals in the community. Andre concluded from what Sultana told Bimla in fragments that Sultan's political foes do not want a Jewish person, Andre in the present case, to be the organiser of the 'cause'.
-I hate this word cause now. I have got nothing to do with it, I don't even know what is going on. Bimla! Why did you have to use this damn word with Mohammed?-. Andre was totally shaken now.
-Andre! Don't get all worked up now-, Bimla warned. -Lets go tomorrow and get the money first. Whatever is done can not be undone now. I am tired and am going to bed and I don't want you to talk about this thing any more-.
Next morning on their way to Sultana's house Bimla wanted to buy Indian tea for Sultana at the Indian grocery store. -She has asked me many times to buy it for her but I always forgot- Bimla explained. At the store Andre dropped Bimla in front of the building that housed several Indian shops and businesses. Walking out of the parking lot at the back of the building Andre ran into Sehna who was standing outside on the sidewalk with a bunch of other people around him. Sehna was the local organiser of this militant political organisation in Bombay by inclination and a cardiologist by profession.
-Hey! Andre!-, Sehna yelled at Andre as he tried to sneak past them into the store.
- I heard you have become a Muslim now-. Be careful or you will end up in a bad place-.
Andre felt a wave of anger pass through him as he heard the derisive laughter from the crowd around Sehna. He wanted to go and challenge Sehna but he saw Bimla through the window glass at the counter. She was shaking her head at him. As Andre turned around to go back to the parking lot he heard someone from the crowd say -we are watching you Andre. We will be at your concert too, make sure you have extra tickets for us-.
-What was he talking about? Shit, Bimla! Has everybody gone crazy?-
Negotiating the bend on the ramp at sixty miles Andre yelled.
-Drive carefully Andre-, Bimla admonished him. - You know Sehna. He is the leader of that same party here that burned down Khan sahab's music school in Bombay. He must have heard about the fund raising for the concert from someone-.
-In matters of hours he heard everything-? Andre said sarcastically.
-There is something going on Bimla that we do not know. Lets get out of it now before it is too late-.
-It is late already Andre, Khan sahab is in New York and tomorrow he will be here. Lets keep our heads clear and try to make the best of this situation, whatever it is-.
There were a number of cars parked in Sultana's driveway.
-Stay in the car-, Bimla said, -I will go and get Sultana out-.
Andre assented quietly. When Sultana came out to the car Andre saw that she looked tired and disheveled.
-You both should have called me before heading here-, she said
-But last night you told us to come in the morning-, Andre felt his adrenaline rising again.
-Yes. I guess I did-, Sultana said wearily.
-Andre! I am sorry but we did not expect this mess. I have invited those people who do not want this concert to take place here at my home this morning. Me and some other friends are trying to convince them that you have nothing to do with it and it is not a 'Jewish conspiracy' as they insist upon calling this concert. Here is the money.- Sultana pushed a bundle of dollar bills through the window at Andre. Behind her Andre saw the entrance door opening and he heard Mohammed loud voice. -Go Bimla, Andre, I don't want any trouble at my house-. Sultana said as she turned around to face those who were stumbling out of her house.
As Andre fumbled with the car ignition he recognised their leader. Until a few months ago he was Sultana's favourite. As he came closer to the car another man broke away and blocked Andre's car exit.
-We know where you come from and who you work for Andre-, the man said pointing his fat fingers at him.
-Let me tell you this. We won't allow this concert to take place here or anywhere else in this country. We have our people everywhere and they are organised. You and your masters won't get away with this. I guarantee you-. Having made the statement the man turned around , piled in his car and left with his friends. Bimla and Sultana went inside the house. Andre and Mohammed stayed outside. Mohammed took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Andre.
-I gave it up long time ago but I guess I need one now-. Andre said. He felt stunned and out of his depths this morning.
-Don't worry brother. Everything will be all right-. Mohammed tried to calm him.
-Don't worry!! You saw those people-, Andre exploded.
-They are professionals. Did you notice how they surrounded us. They meant business man-.
-Andre! You have been watching too much TV my friend. I know these people, they are nothing. Lets go in and have some coffee-.
-No. I want to go home now. Go tell Bimla to come out please-, Andre replied.
The first thing Andre did after reaching home was to call Najmi Malik. Najmi had volunteered to house Khan sahab at his place. Andre wanted to inform him about these new developments and also give him an opportunity to get out of his commitment before it was too late. But Najmi had already heard about the 'controversy' as he put it. He advised Andre to beef up the private security at the concert hall and inform the city authorities about the possibility of any untoward event happening on the concert night. -Maybe you should go away for a few days-, Bimla said as Andre put down the phone.
-Things might cool down when these people will learn that you are not around-.
-Yeah! Its a possibility but I don't think its just me. You heard what Sehna said this morning at the Indian store-.
After lunch Bimla went in for her noon nap and Andre went out to Paul to take care of the extra security business for the concert hall.
Andre got back home in the late afternoon. The daily dance class was already in full swing. Some of the student queried him about the concert but Andre was in no mood to talk about it. Before going to bed, Bimla once again broached the idea of leaving town but sensing Andre mood she did not press him. They both turned in early. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. Khan sahab was due in the afternoon. Evening was reserved for the dress rehearsal with the local artists at the concert hall.
Next morning as Andre was leaving for his appointment regarding security for the concert at the city hall the phone rang. Bimla picked up the phone.
-Its Ben for you-, she said.
-Ben!! after all these years, - Andre said as he took the phone. Ben was his father's friend from their school days. He had been a political activist all his life. Ben had build or helped to build several Jewish community institution in the state. Andre remembered how lavishly his father used to donate for all the causes that Ben used to get himself involved with from time to time. Now Ben wanted to see him on an urgent and pressing matter that he could not discuss on the phone. All he could tell him was that it related to Andre's current activities.
-Meet me at Franklin's 'Jewish Dally' in Palo Alto at one o'clock-, he said and hung up the phone.
When Andre arrived at the restaurant at the appointed hour Ben was already there waiting for him with Franklin.
-Would you like to eat something-, Franklin's wife who was a Hasidic Jew asked him.
-Everything we serve here is kosher-, she added.
-Listen Andre!-, Ben started as they settled down in Franklin's cramped office. -We have come to know that you are involved with elements that are against us, against our homeland. Perhaps you do not know these people as well as we do. They are using you to achieve their objectives. We want you to renounce their friendship before it is too late. If you need any help, money, anything-- just let us know. I am your father's friend, he was like a brother to me and you are his only son. I feel an obligation towards you-.
Andre did not feel any surprise at Ben's outburst. He had gone beyond that state now.
-Uncle Ben-, Andre said, -I do not know what you are talking about. I am just trying to organise a concert for someone who is a very dear old friend and a renowned artist. But I appreciate your concern and will keep in mind your generous offer. Now I have to rush back home-.
-Why can't you organise concert for our artists and musicians-. Frank said in a loud voice. Frank used to be an active member of a militant Jewish organisation in his younger days in south California. Andre was sure that Ben had heard about his 'current activities' through Frank's network.
Rushing back home to pick-up Bimla for the air port Andre felt that he had become the centre of something he did not understand. Nor did he care to understand it anymore. He just wanted to finish what he had started.
Bimla was excited like a child at the prospect of meeting Khan sahab again. The flight from New York was on time. The first thing Khan sahab did as he came out of the arrival lounge was to apologise to Andre for any inconvenience he might have caused as a result of his manager and brother in law Karim demand for more money for the concert. Andre recognised Karim from his last trip. -I am sure you would have understood the reason for this sudden craving for money-, he said.
There was a twinkle in the old musicians eyes. He looked full of life and vigour despite his old age. On their way to Najmi's house Andre asked Khan sahab if he felt scared at any time after the burning of his music school. -Andre bahi! I was angry, very angry. Perhaps I was scared too but anger is what I felt against those bigots who did that act of cowardice. And this anger helped me also in my resolve to build the school again. Now there are more people who have joined me in this effort. I hear that they are threatening to burn it again but something has gone out of their threat now. It does not sound as intimidating anymore- -I understand Khan sahab-, Andre said quietly.
There were a lot of people at Najmi's house when they got there. They had all come to see Khan sahab. Andre was touched by a young man's generous gesture. He presented Khan sahab with a five hundred dollar check for his music school. -My father was one of your admirer Khan sahab. I grew up listening to your music. This is a small gift from myself and some of my friends-, he said. Later Najmi told Andre that the young man was the Imam of a mosque in the Bay area. Other people, both Indian and Pakistani Americans, also gave their donations for the school. Andre and Bimla took their leave early as they had to go to the rehearsal in Berkeley.
Next morning was Saturday. Sultana called early to tell that a lot more people are expected at the concert from other towns and cities. Andre went out with Paul to buy some more tickets from the stationary store.
-I am going to charge premium price for all the tickets sold at the gate-, Paul said.
Bimla had instructed some of her students to provide them with any development at the concert hall. They kept streaming in all afternoon with the latest update. When Andre and Bimla reached the hall at six in the evening they saw a number of people distributing flyers to the early guests. The show was to start at seven. As the evening progressed, the hall started filling up with people. People were still coming in at seven thirty when the curtain went up. Andre was behind the stage in the green room with Khan sahab and other artists when Mohammed and Sultana came over to meet with Khan sahab.
-This place is packed with people Andre-, Mohammed informed.
There was excitement in his voice. Andre had been so busy with the last minute arrangements that he had almost forgotten the crowd outside. Peeking through the sides now Andre could only see the heads of people in the dimmed lights of the concert hall. He could feel the energy out there.
It was electrifying. -Andre bahi!-, Khan sahab was saying, -It is unusual for a senior artist to go first according to our tradition but I want to ask your permission to go now. I have heard what you and Bimla had to go through on my account. Seeing all these people here I feel a strong urge to go out and thank them for coming here. Please don't refuse me-. Andre was a little taken aback by this unusual request. He was not sure if it was the right thing to do. There was a possibility that some out there in the hall were waiting for just an opportunity like this to disrupt the event.
-Let me go and find the master of ceremonies-. Andre wanted time to think about this proposal.
-Let Khan sahab go if he wants to-, Bimla said, - he can handle it-.
-See how my daughter trusts me-. Khan sahab said with a smile as he stepped onto the stage. Andre felt a tremor pass through his body as he watched Khan sahab on centre stage from behind the curtain. He looked like a frail old man in the blazing lights. Andre had never seen him standing on the stage. He had always seen him performing in a sitting position. Khan sahab was talking in Urdu or Hindi. Andre did not know the difference. All Andre heard was the din of clapping. He saw people in the hall standing up, it was as though a sea of people was surging towards the stage.
-Andre bahi! Bimla! Please come to the stage-, Andre heard Khan sahab calling his and Bimla's name as Bimla pulled him towards the stage.
-Come!- she said. She looked radiant. -Come with me-. The stage light started moving with them as they both approached the centre where Khan sahab was standing.
-Ladies and gentlemen!-, Khan sahab was saying in his Indian accent, - I am an old man but I feel young today. Like my ancestors my life is in my music which I create for you. Together we go a long way. Today by coming here you have strengthened the bond that we all have with music, with art, and with life. I want you to help me thank my daughter Bimla and her husband Andre here who have brought us all together this evening-.
As the thundering applause broke out again Andre felt waves of happiness passing through him. He felt like a musician who had just finished performing a symphony full of great music.
