The yesteryear mehfils at the Deori in a downtown Delhi mohalla were replete with witty conversations that still tickle the mind. Four old men, Salaman Sahib, Tommy Sahib, Webb Sahib and Harry Sahib had a sundowner between 7.30 p.m. and 9 p.m. while recollecting recent and past events, like Col Nasser’s stance on the Suez blockade or Pandit Nehru’s soft corner for Edwina Mountbatten. Salaman, with curled-up hair like Kaiser Wilhem II, was always dressed in a half-sleeve shirt, khaki knickers and stockings reaching up to his knees, worn with brown shoes. He spent the forenoon and early evening sitting in a balcony in the red light area and watching the world go by or giving advice to dancing girls who came seeking it and handing out amulets (tawiz) for curing Paari-ka-Bukhar (malaria). “Is this your handwriting, like a child’s!”, he admonished me when I went to get rid of my fever and was asked to address a letter to piano-maker Henry Sahib in Ahmedabad as his own hand shook.
Salaman Nana returned home for lunch, rested and then went back to the Shehar as he used to refer to it. If his family members asked him to attend a court hearing or take a grandchild out, he would reply, “Beta, you know I have to go to Shehar”. That was excuse enough. So nobody bothered him. At the mehfil he spoke little but whatever he said was expressed in golden words of wisdom. As a bachelor he had spent his early life as an Urdu teacher (once as tutor to poet Josh Malihabadi) while supporting his elder brother’s widow and children. He often came out with pithy comments, like the one on his only sister: “Bua is a person fond of resting in the shade of every tree on her path” (Bua tau har ped ki chayya letin hain). This was said with regard to her habit of frequently changing church membership –– Catholic to Protestant, to Seventh Day Adventist, to Pentecostal or Free Church. His Jacob family had a history dating back to 1857, when his father Joseph Sahib, Karinda (overseer) of a Nawab, used to look after the zamindari. Once Munshiji, as he was known, had to face a dacoit gang which had to go back empty-handed as Jacob Sahib had got wind of the impending dacoity and vacated the house, leaving his wife and children at the house of the khansama while he, along with other servants, sat atop a tree to keep track of the happenings, armed with swords that sometimes flashed dangerously as it was a rainy night with lightning and thunder.
Tommy Sahib was a descendant of the Montrose family, one of whose branches produced the Urdu poet Benjamin Montrose “Muztar”, pupil of Ustad Daagh Dehlvi. When Daagh died in Hyderabad in 1905, Muztar commented : “Ek Daagh tha so woh bhi tau Muztar guzar gaya/Ab baqi bacha hai kaun Hindostan mein” (who survives in India after the death of Daagh/as far as poets go). Tommy Sahib had combed-back curly hair and flaring nostrils like Salaman and his eyes were just as red as his, but he wore a shirt and pyjamas while staying with his socialist niece, Vicky and her vivacious daughter as the only surviving male of the family. He too was a fount of knowledge.
Webb Sahib, also dressed like Salaman Sahib, but with a sola topi on his head, hair parted like Edward VIII (Duke of Windsor after abdication). A sufi at heart, though a hereditary member of the Church of England, he spent Thursday nights at some dargah and the next day would relate his experiences at the mehfil. “Kya sama tha — kya chiragh roshan they, aur beech raat ko paak sheyeh ghoomti nazar ati theen” (what an atmosphere created by qawwalis, and as the earthen lamps burnt past midnight one could almost see the souls of the blessed hovering around). The other wisemen present nodded in agreement with remarks like “Raat hi ko tau shabab ata hai, jab chiraghon ki lau jati hoti hai aur raina jawan hoti jati hai” (the nocturnal ambience is set when lamps burn low and, paradoxically enough, the night gets younger).
Harry Sahib, who had been Superintendent of Railways in Rewari, had his own tales to tell. His father had been a general of the Maharaja of Jaipur and had taken part in wars among Rajput chieftains and then in Afghanistan. Harry Sahib’s eldest son, Ronnie was a veteran of World War II, having fought against Rommel’s Desert Legion, and younger son, Harvey an RAF bomber pilot and later personal pilot of the Maharaja of Cooch-Behar, father of Maharani Gayatri Devi.
The family ancestors had served as Sirdars of Jaipur State since the early 18th Century. Harry was also fluent in Urdu with a great sense of humour. One of his sons was having a quiet smoke one day when he suddenly walked into the room. The boy hurriedly put the cigarette into the cane chair cushion. “Mind, mind don’t burn your bottom,” he said with a sarcastic laugh. The son didn’t know which way to look.
Listening to these old-timers was an experience of a lifetime. They are all dead, of course (Salaman Sahib in May 1954 when Roger Bannister broke the four-minute mile race barrier). The Deori in which the mehfil was held has now become a godown, where one sometimes wonders if their spirits are still around, discussing “Aap biti ya jag biti” (what befell them or the world), especially on Thursday, when people light joss-sticks in memory of the dear departed.
