The days in the 1960s and 70s when one stayed in a Jama Masjid hotel linger in the memory long after one settled down to a domestic life in a drab DDA flat, where the ambience of the past was missing and only the call of the koel from the neighbouring eucalyptus trees contrasted with the ominous hoot of the barn owl and the night-jar hidden in the leafy laburnum, with its yellow flowers that matched the red blooms of the towering gulmohar.
But to go back to the hotel, it’s worth recalling that a motley lot came and stayed there. Among them Josh Malihabadi, Maikash Akbarabadi, Latafat Hussain Khan of the Agra gharana of Ustad Faiyaz Khan, Naseem Bano, who entertained President Najibullah of Afghanistan in Kabul and would take long baths in the only washroom, while others, including Pathan traders, peeped through the broken door in a bid to hurry her up. Also resident was Shanta Rani, with her husband Latif Mian, Sultana Jehan and her live-in companion, Anwar Bhopali, besides poetasters like Betah Sahib composing their verses sitting in a marble-tiled room with “Ghar, ghar Urdu” written on them.
Chawri Bazar was not far from there and next to it was G.B. Road, where one went with friends to hear the mujra and after that the late-night qawwalis at Kalimullah Sahib’s dargah, which made another Azad Hind Hotel guest, Shameer remark that it was nice to divide the evening between the devil’s sin street and a godly shrine. Now for the mujra:
“Aiye, aiye” said Sitara jan on seeing Shameer entering the hall where she was preparing for a mujra. Shameer returned her low salaam. There were quite a few assembled for the performance by the noted dancing girl, all smelling of the scents with which they had dabbed themselves for the evening. Sitara flitted about, making her ‘aadab” to old familiar faces. She then danced the Kathak to the beat of the tabla and the sweet strains of the harmonium. People swayed and beckoned her to approach closer by placing hundred-rupee notes on the carpet. She came and sang a few lines of a ghazal to each of them. A greying seth wanted her to sit on his lap but she kept out of his reach. Another reeking of liquor motioned her every now and then towards the side-room with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
Sitara was too experienced to take note of such gestures. She kept smiling and salaaming and collecting the money that was so freely offered by lovers of mujra and discarded Romeos badly in need of a common sweetheart. At Shameer’s request Sitara sang Begum Akhtar’s favourite ghazal, “Jis tarehe nikalta hai gul aiyastha aiyastha.” The reference was to the rose slowly coming into bloom. She followed it up with a pensive composition: “Dil ki yeh aarzoo hai koi rehnoma miley/Jo bhi miley woh befawa miley.” The indication was to faithless lovers. It suited Shameer’s mood and he listened with great attention.
Serenading with folk song
When the assembly dispersed, Shameer was persuaded to stay on. Sitara took him to her room where she produced two glasses and whisky to go with kababs. He drank with some relish while Sitara sipped from her glass. “Sing to me that folk song, ‘Chalat Musafir moh liyo re pinjrewali muniya’,” he said patting her cheek. “Why?’ she asked. Has some caged muniya (tiny bird) stolen your heart?” “Quite right,” he replied. “That’s why I am here because my muniya has decided to fly away with someone far, far luckier then me.” She obliged, shaking her shoulders, bosom and hips in response to the baritone, rustic Purabi (east U.P.) tune, while he lapped it all up with misty eyes. Later they strolled on the terrace, watching Delhi under the cloud of night. It looked strangely calm, this capital of many empires where emperor, and clown and poet held sway for a while and then went into oblivion never to come again like Mir, Zauq, Ghalib, Momin and Daagh. Some labourers, relaxing after their daily grind, were singing the Aala. It recounted the folk tale of Aala and Udal of Mahoba and the tragedy that befell the two princes. He listened with a pang in his heart, for all such love tales are heart-breaking, aren’t they?
“Sitara you look so composed despite the hectic evening,” said Shameer catching her hand during a pause in the Aala. It was pleasantly soft to the touch and smelt of attar. “I don’t allow my feelings to show on my face otherwise people would be hard to please,” she said, giving Shameer a sweet look. “But as far as you are concerned I regard you as a friend and not a customer. Perhaps your place is not in the whorehouse but in the madrasa or university.” “I feel like going to sleep,” replied Shameer, “now that they have stopped singing the Aala”.
They moved to the bedroom where Sitara whistled as she undressed, after a visit to the toilet. “I wonder why you didn’t whistle while you were in there?” he could not help asking. “When one goes to the toilet the guardian angels sitting on the right and left shoulders enter the mouth. So one shouldn’t open it,” she replied with great conviction. Putting on a gown she joined Shameer, the smell of jasmine in her hair intoxicating him as they got intimate. “Last time you insisted on staying away from me. Has anything happened to make you change your mind,” she asked. “The experience of unrequited love,” he said and then fell asleep. “Aadab,” said someone as he opened his eyes. It was Sitara with a cup of tea on a long past morning. Don’t know where both are now but this amusing after-mujra account by friend Shameer and the comely face of Baby, the hotelier’s daughter, often come to mind when the going gets tough in drab Mayapuri.
