Reminiscences of long ago by Dhan Raj Dutt
I was dipping down into a heap of musty books for some bit of curious information or other at my residence in Garden Town, Lahore, when my servant Kirpal announced that an outlandish sort of customer, though immaculately dressed and posing as a ‘Bara Sahib’, had come to see me and that he was so impatient and insistent on being shown in at once that he had had some difficulty in repressing his ardour to force an entry. I went out apace to find for myself as to who this impetuous guest of mine could be. Lo ! It was a most agreeable sight to hit upon my old friend Khurshid, a true salt of the rural Punjab, a pal and chum of my good old London days. We had lived at Chelsea together in a flat, not far from where Carlyle had lived once and Chesterton lived then. We had not met for years on end and were soon locked in a close embrace to the utter bewilderment of the devoted Kirpal who had become frankly critical of my unconventional and democratic ways.
We soon settled down to a hearty talk recalling some of the random incidents of our earlier years, which though now become but commonplace in the light of our advancing years, were yet so indelibly fixed in our memory that they recurred to us of their own accord. We had many a hearty good laugh and rivalled each other so in ransacking the corners of our memories for some purple images of the past or other.
We were so studiously engaged in this pleasant pastime that time and space seemed to vanish for the while. We were so happy that we virtually seemed to tread on the air. But we were soon brought to earth by the intrusion of the inveterate Kirpal who, somehow quite unwittingly, bumped in upon me precisely when I did not want him. He announced with a polite bow that he had laid dinner for us two and that it was nearly on the point of cooling.
``We are coming presently'', said I.
I myself opened the door of my modest dining room and held it ajar for my friend to go in. But he excused himself saying, ``I have had my meal already''. I know he had not, since, by then we had been together for the best part of two hours and he could not conceivably have managed his dinner so unearthly early. It did nettle me, of course, and he read signs of annoyance on my face.
``Whatever on earth is the matter with you'', said I.
When thus squarely faced, he came out with somewhat halting expostulations and explanations and finally made a clean breast of it that since we Hindus still clung on so fondly to our social taboos and ostracisms, he had taken a pledge not to partake anything at the house of any of his Hindu friends. He meant no harm, said he, but he was only trying to play the good Muslim by way of retaliation towards the rigid Hindu attitude. He was sorry and all but there it was. I was taken aback by this somewhat rude rebuff, since he had known me better than that, and was well nigh ruing the extension of my customary hospitality to such a queer customer; but I soon recovered myself and addressing my friend said,
``It is very nice of you Khurshid to have been so considerate. Considering the bother we townspeople have with the rationing regulations, etc., we feel secretly grateful if a guest refuses to avail himself of our hospitality.''
After this I excused myself and went in to my dinner but not before I had poked mild fun at him. I was just in the middle of my meal when Khurshid, having opened the door unceremoniously, burst in upon me.
``I have been just thinking; I will have my food with you, though I had half a mind to pay you Hindus back in your own coin. You are annoyed I know.''
``Not a bit'', said I, ``but so far as food is concerned I am afraid you will have to ask my servant if he can spare you some.''
He shouted for Kirpal and with quite an imperious nod ordered him to fetch a plate and serve him food. And the puzzled Kirpal could not but scratch his head for a bit at this queer comedy of errors. Once set to the task, Khurshid did full justice to what was there, and poor Kirpal was roused out of his bewilderment to find that his share too was gone and all.
This little episode served to illustrate that we were coming to a really bad pass. It was symptomatic, it was dangerous. While in England Khurshid and I both had partaken of the plain English food, irrespective of our religious prejudices and taboos. While taboos had luckily begun to vanish on one-side, they were beginning to be resurrected on the other. The dinner over, we returned again to the happy pastime of exchanging reminiscences of the days that were. When it came to the time of his quitting, it was a cordial leave-taking. The little bit of ruffling which might easily have led to a rift was quite forgotten. It was, in fact, flung into those abysmal regions where dark things should really be hid.
That night had opened to me a chain of thoughts too powerful to be smothered or repressed. I lay restlessly tossing to and fro on my bed. I rehearsed afresh many a scene of my early childhood in my birth place in the far off Murree hills where the aroma of the pines is wafted by gentle breezes; rhododendrons bloom where crystal waters flow, lilacs and daisies grow, where legions of fruit trees shoot out with blossoms anew, where the birds and the bees sing and where a heat-smitten traveller finds at last a chance at quiet repose. Among the images fixed vividly in my memory which returned to me was my association with Bostan Khan and beloved Said Zaman. My father and I were guests at the house of the late Captain Mana Khan. As the difference of religion and custom ordained, he had sent dry rations to be cooked by a greasy looking Hindu shopkeeper named Bhagu (it might have been a corruption of Bhagwan Dass for aught I know), who was immersed in a heap of tobacco roots and sundry other odourous merchandise such as constitute a village grocery store. This impromptu cook commissioned for our cooking, as of all other Hindu friends who happened to be the guests of the venerable old Captain, was one of those un-bathed, unwashed fellows who emit odour quite as strong as the beasts tied at their door. He was bent so constantly upon his hubble-bubble (‘hooka’) and exhaled such big clouds of smoke and nicotine that I, a lad of but nine then, began to be genuinely afraid of him. I learnt later that he was addicted to opium as well, a circumstance which gave him even a stronger smell to which numerous others were joined by the nature of his merchandise, tobacco, snuff, fermented ‘gur’, garlic, onions and what not. But he was quite a decent sort otherwise and may God forgive him as He may me for thinking a little uncharitably of him on the score of his personal hygiene. This opium bemused fellow was drowsiness itself and was perhaps little disturbed except by his reveries or his fleas as he kept scratching himself all over. I did not somehow relish the idea of having to eat of his hand. I confided. The shop and my pretence of bilious indisposition prevailed with my beloved dad and he was none the wiser for it. That was the first occasion for me to have broken my bread with my Muslim brother and I have not gone back upon it since, though in my devotion to the faith of my fathers I yield to none.
Dear old uncle Mana Khan is gone and so is beloved Bostan. God bless them! And so far as Said Zaman is concerned, he has nearly forgotten me. I can but hope that he is still alive and kicking. But this little incident remains inscribed on my memory's page as a purple patch. I admire the Muslim cooking since it imports a definite piece of art into the culinary craft.
My childish argument about a drop of water making all the difference between us still holds good and despite my education and experience I feel unequal to improving upon it and the God in Heaven abides equally with us all, call Him as we may, for what is in a name after all.
The calm philosophy of another friend of mine, Mohammad Sarwar, who though himself as devout a Muslim as any, ever clung on to the view that Ram and Rahim were two brothers who latterly took to their various religious ways. No argument was ever able to dislodge from his mind that fixed conviction and he has carried it with him to those eternal regions of bliss where truth is more clearly discerned. I never argued with him on that point for it was given to him to furnish us a lesson of amity and concord, in the present sordid atmosphere of separatism.
I know for a fact that the Hindus and Muslims were much more closely knit by the bonds of affection, fellow feeling and neighbourliness than they are today. Today they have become distant from one another. Men's minds are full of dark brooding thoughts; their hearts are crammed with grievances, real or imaginary, and resentment. But what can people possibly say about their neighbours when they themselves had become as estranged as they are today? What can however be done to bridge up the chasm and prevent the children of the same soil from getting isolated? Lot others look after themselves as best as they can, I for one choose to shut my eyes and repeat the refrain, ``Ram and Rahim were brothers''. Unfortunately, a lot of water has run under the bridges since then.
Chandigarh, The Tribune, 1960
