Evenings have a charm of their own, especially after a long, hot summer’s day has petered out and a cool breeze, like the West wind from Hijaz mentioned by Allama Iqbal, begins to blow. Hijaz is no longer known as such but as Mecca-Medina though the roses of Omar’s Iran continue to be nurtured by dewy Naseem as in Delhi too, which may have lost most of its past aura. But 60 years ago, it was an ideal place to pass the time after sunset when the apples of Samarkand and grapes of Chaman, on the Baluchistan border, vied with dates from Iraq during Ramzan. A friend, Tahir Husain recounted this experience of an acquaintance, Shehzad Masih while sitting in the courtyard of the Jama Masjid after ending the roza last week and still hugging his old pair of Iraqi chappals.
Shehzad was interested in Sufism. He liked to visit the shrines of Muslim saints, and there are many, for isn’t Delhi known as “the threshold of the 22 Khwajas?” He walked to the shrine of Sheikh Sahib (Hazrat Kalimullah), where once three brothers used to sing. Chunnu was the youngest, who carried on the tradition after the death of the other two. That day he was not there. Another party of qawwals was singing praises of the saint. There weren’t many people around. Under a tree stood a eunuch who could have passed off for a girl to the undiscerning. He salaam-ed gracefully and Shehzad returned the salutation awkwardly. He was in great demand because of his good looks, and some of the bisexuals paid double to enjoy his company. Their wives knew but dismissed it with a shrug.
Shehzad’s roving eye spotted a tall woman who had passed her prime but was still attractive. He knew her and she seemed to like him. Living near the dargah, she sometimes invited him to taste a special dish prepared by her. He called her Basso Bi out of courtesy and gave money to her children, who never went to school and ran about with noses dripping. That day she was bent on teasing him. “What Bhai Sahib, how long will you keep coming alone? Won’t you ever give me the pleasure of entertaining a bhabhi? I know of a girl, Razia who is the right type for you. She has studied up to the Entrance. What eyes she’s got! Just say ‘yes’ and the marriage can be arranged. It’s time you settled down now or how long will you go on wasting your manhood like this?”
“Basso Bi,” said Shehzad, “You are aware that I am a Christian. How can I marry this beautiful girl you think would make life sweet for me? You don’t want me to be the cause of a riot, do you?” “I tell you don’t waste time or you’ll get old and nobody would be interested in marrying you,” said Basso Bi. Shehzad smiled and shook his head. “Just you wait and see,” he replied as he diverted his attention to an old man who was walking slowly towards him. They called him Miyan. He had married at the age of 70, a woman 20 years younger. It was a marriage of convenience. She was a widow without support and he an old bachelor. Now he had someone to cook and care for him.
Thronging devotees
Just then a new party of qawwals took over. The dholak began to be played and the hymn to Sheikh Sahib caught everybody’s attention. In front was the grave lit up with candles, a green cloth spread over it and a heap of flowers on top. Garlands hung from the corners and from the head of the tombstone. The aroma of joss-sticks, rose petals and attar pervaded the place. Women, many of them young and beautiful in black burqas, sat on one side. The men wearing kurta-pyjama or tehmets – some even trousers and shirts – sat on the other.
A woman in a sari pressed the four corners of the tomb in a symbolic gesture of massaging the shoulders and legs of the saint. “She comes every Thursday and never misses a deedar (glimpse) of Sheikh Sahib. What love, what devotion!” said one young thing to another. A toothless woman grinned. “And to think that it’s a Brahmin lady who is such a mureed (devotee) makes it all the more wondrous,” she added in a gruff voice. “Eman, eman” (faith) said a middle-aged Bubu who appeared to be from a rich family – rings with precious stones adorning her shapely fingers. She was chewing a paan. The girls sitting near her were pretty. Probably the unmarried daughters who had all the grace that affluence bestows. Shehzad wondered if one of them was Razia. He was brought back to reality when someone touched his shoulder. It was Junaid Khan, an old acquaintance.
They exchanged a few pleasantries and gradually the qawwali hit the right pitch and people started swaying. Some Sufis, their long hair topped with white caps, stood up and began to dance. A woman threw off her burqa and started shaking her head in violent motion. By the time the qawwali was over it was past midnight. Shehzad saw a girl walking away and followed her because to cast an admiring look at a pretty face was a habit he was never able to get over. She turned out to be some beauty of the lanes who ventured out only on such occasions. As he passed her by and came under an imli tree he saw the eunuch Chandni licking “gulqand” from a lover’s fingers. He had eaten it himself in paan before he took to tobacco. It was sweet and made from rose petals. “Poor wretch,” muttered Shehzad as he made his way home on the motorbike, humming the catchline of the qawwali – “Tere dar pe nisbat kise nahin.” That was how Tahir ended his account and then coaxed this scribe to Karim’s joint in Gali Kababian. And finally to the query: “What happened to Shehzad Masih,” the answer was that he married Alice, his widowed sister-in-law, and fathered two children as she did not have any earlier. But Basso Bi was no longer around.
