Monar Jomban (part 4 of 4)

We are leaving Esfahan today by the night train. Three days in this wonderfully mysterious city, or is it mysteriously wonderful? We seem to have packed memories for a life time – but would reflect on them later. I have been valiantly trying to get over this morning’s encounter by the riverside. A light meal and a short siesta had revived my spirits to an extent. Right now it is two o’clock in the afternoon and we are sitting in the expansive yet cosy lobby of our hotel. The lady in-charge had already bade us farewell. The plump, fair, smiling old lady of sixty five seemed really the person in charge of the whole ensemble; she allots rooms, rolls bed and she cooks, she is the one to turn to if your double occupancy room has only one soap or a damp towel, she changes sheets and she clears the dustbin and she also does the accounting, and lastly she is the one who turns off the AC when you are not there in the room. Yesterday while waiting for my companions to get ready to go out, she summoned me up to the roof to show me a different view of the mountains. The view was breathtaking in spite of being criss-crossed by a maze of wires –telephone, electricity and illegal cable connection. Our lady was humming away while ironing a vast pile of spotlessly white laundry from the hotel. The roof looked like a venue for the World peace forum – white bed sheets and white curtains and white towels and white pillow covers fluttering in the morning breeze like a crowd of white flags of different sizes. The lady in-charge was the cheeriest vision amidst all this activity - covered in long black flowing dress – the labada, with two neat white braids and a broad toothless smile. You could not pass her by anytime of the day without being enveloped in a huge bear hug, all the while showering innumerable swift kisses on both the cheeks. Coming from a culture, or may be a class, where physical contact was limited to shaking hands, not counting the involuntary contact with the doctor or in a public transport, this was a huge departure. Our companions, an elderly couple, did try to evade this physical encounter a few times, but this lady in all her niceness went out of her way to hug them. We have watched this cat and mouse game with a lot of amusement, to the extreme discomfiture of our companions. The loving good humour of the lady was infectious and soon one resigned oneself to this display of affection. But sixty five summers do not pass by with life doling out only laughter in one’s share – not if you were an Iranian. On one of our many encounters the lady had told me in the passing that she had lost her youngest and oldest sons to the long Iran-Iraq war. At the time she was the only bread earner for her grand children and daughters.

“War no good”, she informed me gravely, and then the very next moment she brightened up. Eyes twinkling, her usual self again, she quipped, “Your son looks like my youngest, he will be very beautiful, lot of girls circle him – he break lot of hearts, you see, I tell you.” I joined in her laughter.

We had paid up for three days of our stay and did not want to shell out an extra 50 dollars for a few hours of wait, till the train left. So here we are sprawled all over the hotel lobby trying to figure out how to spend the next few hours. The lady-in-charge had thoughtfully taken me aside and showed me the spotless communal toilets at the end of the lobby, urged us to treat the place as our own and after a final round of hearty hugs and kisses left us to attend to her innumerable chores. We are finally alone – and whether because it is during the sleepy afternoon or because there are genuinely no guests, the hotel seems completely deserted except for us. And soon we break into, what we realise only later, a loud chatter in Hindi, discussing Iran, Iranians and our experiences in our month long stay. We must have created quite a ruckus oblivious of the thin walls that separated us the rooms in the hotel. We had also completely missed the Shirazi who had occupied the adjacent room, after our elderly friends had vacated it only half an hour earlier. Only when he entered the lobby did we register his presence.

“My God! You Indians have some capacity to talk, I thought I was back in India – New Delhi Station. I was trying to catch up with some sleep, but had to give it up as impossible.”

Tall, fair – actually very tall and very fair, white-haired, he managed to look extremely distinguished even in a crumpled white shirt and grey trousers. Not for the first time I realise how handsome this race was – youth have a vitality that is palpable in all races, but the dignity that comes with age, the unhurried gait, the ability to laugh at the unlaughable is probably best manifested among the elderly people here, or so it seemed to me at present. We are embarrassed, to put it mildly – slightly taken aback with this uncustomary rudeness, and faintly irritated too with this condescending attitude towards India and Indians. All through the last three days we have fended good-natured queries, observations and suggestions about India. “May we congratulate you for showing remarkable restraint, given your culture, by having only one child”, “Why is your country so poor? Is every one starving there?” “Why are all children naked and with distended bellies?” “Why are women half-clad? Why do you BREED so much?” “Why do you travel in trains when you know it would always meet with an accident – you are too young to die?” We laughed at some, and we argued at others, but realised the futility of combating half-truths, especially half-truths filtered in with the powerful audio-visual media. And unfortunately half truths never add up to the full truth – it has a peculiar quality of reducing the net truth content as one adds it up. The only way to deal with it probably is by being philosophical.

Meanwhile I decide to break the silence that has descended in the room, as our companions look even more tongue-tied than me with this sudden intrusion.

“We are sorry Sir! We’ll try to tone down – we did not realise the room was occupied.”

“No young lady, I can’t sleep now, so if you do not mind can I join you?”

Given the circumstances, the least we could do was to heartily agree to this request, not knowing that this chance encounter leading to a two-hour interaction would turn out to be the most cherished memory of our Esfahan visit. Not the Jameh Masjid or the Sio-Seh-Pol, nor the Chehel Sotun palace nor the Imam Square or the beautiful mosques flanking it was as interesting, as thought provoking or half as entertaining as this Shirazi.

We start of innocuously with pleasantries. He asks the usual questions – ‘where are you from?’ ‘how long have you been in Iran?’ and such like, all answered mundanely by one or the other of us. And then I ask why was he in Esfahan.

“Because my flight to Tehran got cancelled – I took a bus to Esfahan – tonight I will spend at the Imam Square and tomorrow I’ll take a bus to Shiraz. That is, this is what I propose to do – they have bombed in Tehran, today they might bomb here too – maybe I’ll take a camel ride via the Yazd (the neighbouring district of Esfahan falling in the desert region of central Iran).

“Who has bombed in Tehran?” I ask haltingly – lack of access to any news in English both in the print media as well as TV have made us clueless about the exact location of bombings and their official suspects. Our familiarity with the global context over several years now, convinced us that bombings would be going on the world over in these two months of our stay in Iran too. Our present ‘unconnected’ state kept us from knowing only the exact location. But we are curious, apprehensive even.

“Who knows – the evening edition would definitely disclose the official suspects, but who really knows. You may bomb a whole country – suicide bombers, remote-controlled bombs, pick your choose and the authorities will always make out that they were only outcome of personal vendetta – somebody did not like the face of somebody else – poof he bombed him. Each of these incidents would be treated seriously but in isolation, no connections with anything else or even with each other; and if it is of any significant scale then it must be Bush from the White House.” He laughs loudly and we join in too, slowly warming up to his infectious, slightly satirical demeanour.

“And you think this is funny?” I can not resist myself.

“No, actually, it is quite sad, interminably sad – loosing the youth to insanity is always very sad – these pompous men in robes and flowing beard, they promised the world to my people, the people of Iran, they promised a beautiful future and look what have they done. They used to say ‘Allah will save us’ and a quarter of a century later I agree ‘only Allah can save us’ - the mess has gone beyond human intervention. I am old and my laughter is my tears too. (He suddenly looked around and said in a conspiratorial whisper) “I better be careful though, they do not like my face anyway – if they could, they would have veiled me, but they have had to settle for just strangling my voice”. Laughter again.

This sure is getting serious and though I register that our elderly companions are yawning with boredom, I have to ask, “Is there a lot of discontent in Iran?”

“No my dear we are happy to drink our oil and feed ourselves with anti-American slogans. The constant bombing of our neighbours on either side generates enough warmth for us to ensure a good night’s sleep. We take care of our aspirations by fighting decade long wars. ‘Let all our sons die’ we say with pride, ‘we will pray for their souls in Nazaf’. We are content with our guns and barrel of oil. I am just a cribbing old man, a relic of the past caught between two worlds.”

My elderly companions had dozed off and Kabeer was putting up a constant din with a paper ball and a stick. Should I or should I not risk the next question – there may be somebody listening across the wall. But what the heck – this is not my country and I am leaving this city in a few hours anyway. It is up to this dignified gentleman to decide where to draw the line to this fascinating discussion.

“Was it different earlier? Was it better before the Islamic Revolution?”

“Was it different from now – yes it was different, there was a different elite – an elite whose ambition was visible – the diamonds and palaces, the private planes, the French cuisines and the huge structures of royal elegance. But the elite was clean shaven and Allah was left in peace. But now everything is hidden under the robe or in the beard – the elite still owns the oil and the land, they still make gigantic structures in the cities, and cut enormous deals with the West, but poor Allah is dragged into everything, everywhere.

Was it better? No …. it was not better, poor then too survived on subsidised bread as they do now, the best schools, the best jobs, the best land, the best shops always was for the privileged then as much as it is now – only the criteria has changed a bit. Only thing fundamentally different is that now we are told that Allah wishes it to be so ‘Inshah Allah’ – poor Allah I wouldn’t want to be in his place. My life has changed too, but I am contented – I would not get into any controversy over this mess. To change it is not my calling, I am happy to be a bystander. I want to laugh at it – and who knows me a laughing stock myself, may yet have the last laugh.” He was laughing again. I could feel the deep pain in his beautiful throaty laughter, I could see it in his eyes. What is his story – would I ever get to know it, would he deign to share it with me – some part of it.

“And you Sir, what did you do before the revolution?” I ask very quietly.

“Have you heard of the National Bank of Iran – which handled all the major international financial deals of Iran before the revolution, or was it before your time? Well I was the Vice President of the bank.”

He is a very big man – something of his demeanour still reflects his past grandeur, but a big man in the Shah’s time translated to royal persecution in the post-revolution period. No doubt about that.

“No wonder your English is so beautiful, your accent is flawless, I have been wondering for sometime now.” I say as I have to say something.

“Yes, young lady and I can speak French better and German as well as English, and so I should, I have been in Europe for many years. But don’t you get overly impressed – I know my worth very well, the revolution taught me. The revolution for me was an experience in personal catharsis. You know it cannot be described without making it mundane, loosing the essence, it has to be felt. The revolution was like being washed away in a tidal wave, while it was in its peak one was only conscious of surviving the next wave, the next hour, the next day, the next street. Only when one was washed back to the shore and things settled down to an extent did one realise that one had lost ones limbs. Over night I became invisible and inaudible, a persona non grata in all public spaces and most private too. Friends, old and dear friends, friends I have had champagne and whisky together with for years refused to recognise me, nobody returned my phone calls, I have even had friends informing me themselves that they were not home. Suddenly I was out of their phone books, social circles everything, I was blotted out of their collective memory.

He falls silent; we dare not look up at him or talk for a while. And then I ventur again, “What do you do now? Where do you stay these days?”

“My days of globe trotting are over – when the revolution took place friends and family suggested I stay back in Europe – go over to America even, but not come to Iran. It was sensible but I could not do that, in my heart I have always been a Shirazi, I came back to Shiraz. We have a house there and I have lived there since. And what do I do now? Well for many a month I brooded, I brooded over dark thoughts, it is difficult to fall from a height, and it hurts. Now I have got used to it – I spend my days translating American fiction of the turn of the 20th century to Farsi – they are mostly historical novels.

“Do you like what you do?” I persist.

“Do I like it? Of course I do – I have been always fascinated by literature, but translation is a funny job in my country at present it is unintentionally funny, listen to this an extract from a travelogue of the Polar region.

I trudged through knee deep snow, not a tree in sight, my dogs are tired, the rifle feels heavy as heavy as a canon gun on my shoulder, I have been at it since the morning – but now with the raging blizzard it had become very difficult, impossible even. When lo! What is there yonder – a flickering light. Is it …. Could it be an inn, can I be in so much luck to chance upon an inn – warmth and human company at last. The dogs must have sensed the possibility of impending shelter and rest and galloped with renewed vigour. Oh! My God! It sure is an inn – covers drawn but welcoming still – shelter at last …..And then when the innkeeper asked me in a booming yet gentle voice, “What can I get for you Sir?”

I closed my eyes for a second to savour the moment, licked my lips in anticipation ‘A tall glass of cold water please’. I sipped slowly but deeply and felt the warmth seeping in.

The Shirazi starts laughing loudly, “Every fool knows that after travelling through snow he could not have asked for a glass of cold water, and this ridiculous substitution had been done by the translator by an official decree, but this farce continues.”

We laugh too (my companions had woken up I observed) – he really makes it sound so ridiculous. But I am curious – I know I will probably never get a chance like this again so I pursue

“But sir, since when have the Persians been so puritanical – we have grown up with Khayyam’s lovely couplets – almost all dealing with liquor and women?”

“Young lady - I am glad you brought this up, and I am impressed, haven’t talked to anybody worthwhile for a long while – I am liking it, and I fear I am almost garrulous – but who cares. But if you have to read the best of Farsi you have to probe deeper. Khyyam, my friend, gets his fame because Europe knows only of him through the wretched translations of Fitzgerald. But Farsi is rich, rich beyond compare. You will have to explore Sadi and Rumi and Attar and scores of others, but above all you will have to know the Shirazi, Hafiz. You can spend a lifetime on Hafiz and you wouldn’t have started or you could just read one poem and be sold for ever. I have read your poets too – they are special, Tagore in particular, Oh! What meaning he invests in words, but nothing compared to Hafiz, or is it my language that renders such depth, such sweetness. Look at the description of tears – Tagore says ‘the tears are the silent but eloquent language of the eyes’ and Hafiz writes ‘I sent a message from my heart which came to you through my eyes, my tears my friend were just the messengers. (He recites a couplet in Farsi – we let the lilting words sink in and clamour for a translation – he obliges.)

And Love
Says
I will, I will take care of you.
To everything that is
Near


“Can anything be more beautiful or more simple? Poetry had always had to be circumspect – no, it would not be poetry otherwise, but that does not mean poets have always circumscribed the real issue. Listen to Hafiz on being a prisoner – to an ideology or context or simply to any day to day situation.


Some parrots
Have become so skilled with
The human voice

They could give a brilliant discourse
About freedom and God

And an unsighted man nearby might
Even begin applauding with
The thought

I just heard jewels from a
Great saint’s mouth

Though my Master used to say,

The diamond takes shape slowly
With integrity’s great force.

And from
The profound courage to never relinquish love
Some parrots have become so skilled
With Words

The blind turn over their gold
And lives to the caged
Feathers.



“You tell me you are a historian, could you tell me which century this is from – this is Hafiz, he is timeless.”

We are enchanted by this wonderful play of words – if translations captured so much what about the original?

“I wonder what young people today find in Hafiz and why do the Mullah’s tolerate it – after all there is not much mincing of words here. And yet I have seen a small boy and a small girl selling Hafiz’s poetry in cheap paperbacks outside the most plush mall in Teheran – why is that?” I ask

“Oh! That is different story altogether – that is because for centuries Iranians have believed that Hafiz could foretell future and give sound and timely advise – and the people in authority are foolish enough to believe that Hafiz wrote only about ALLAH. Thus in the 21st century frustrated men and women who have no clue as to how to change their fate seek redemption and a beautiful future in a fourteenth century poet. I am a linguist and have studied Farsi at some depth and you know we have not even a handful of new Farsi words since the time of Hafiz. The world has revolutionised in the last 500 years and this language has remained practically untouched by it – except for a smattering of French. Does it not speak volumes about this civilisation we speak proudly of, we want to preserve it – we have actually mummified it. Civilisation is all about change else it stagnates and then it rots. This civilisation is rotting I am afraid.”

We are captivated by Hafiz, but this analysis gave it a startling new dimension – we have nothing to say. But the philosopher continues, smiling again at last.

“I would like to go on but I have to go to the Imam Square – I always pay homage to Esfahan by spending the evening there. So I bid you goodbye for now – but do not brood, enjoy. Iran is a wonderful place for a short visit, drink the beauty of Iran, soak yourselves in it. But remember no visit of Iran is complete without a visit to Shiraz – take it from a Shirazi. And before I leave let me recite Hafiz for one last time – this time of love, love full of abandon:


The GOD Who Only Knows
Four Words

Every
Child
Has known God
Not the God of names
Not the God of Don’ts
Not the God who ever does
Anything weird

But the God who only knows four words
And keeps repeating them, saying
Come dance with ME
Come
Dance.


The philosopher has left us we know not when – was it a few minutes ago or was it a few centuries back, and we cared not. But he has woven such a wonderful web of poetry and philosophy that we remain transfixed for a long time – refusing to get back to the mundane – postponing it by our collective inactivity. But time ticks away and the hour to leave has come. There is a long night ahead to reflect upon all this. Esfahan for me was like the carpet woven by the woman of the nomadic tribe – exquisite in its patterns in every inch of it, but the whole remains a mystery till the very last thread –even the weaver knoweth not what happens next. And yet even before one is half done admiring the finished carpet the itch to start a new one overwhelms you, not because there was a need, physical I mean, but this irrepressible urge to create. And one starts again all over – the sleepless night and the exquisite pain and the pleasure. Esfahan I will come back to you.

The train has settled into its jerky motion – Rahul and Kabeer are asleep – they snore in harmony. I lie awake staring into the beautiful desert bisected by a long stream of trucks speeding on the Expressway between Esfahan and Teheran. The night is beautiful too. Esfahan I will have to come back to you, I will have to renew my acquaintance with you to know you more. But there is one thing I feel I know already, I know your Monar Jomban may be under repair, but your real minarets are shaking. The tranquillity and the timelessness which the archaeologists and the ‘world heritage lovers’ are keen to preserve in the ancient monuments and the flowing river is a façade – it cannot hide forever the inner turmoil of the people, your people.

Your minarets are definitely shaking Esfahan.