The Songbirds

The Songbirds

Alif.

Copyright © 2020 Alif.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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"To the few oases in the vast desert,

To a drink of hope,

To freedom,

To love.

To the free bird in you…"

Contents

Falling for the mirage

Part 1: The beginning

Chotey Mamu, the youngest uncle

Cheni, the fruit vendor

Bulbul Baba, the poet

Nana, the Barrister

Khurram Khan, my father

Sandy Bhat, the Brahmin

Leela, the other woman

Nani, the coffee lover

Mumtaz, my mother

Part 2: The leap

London, what are you?

Salma’s touch

Salma’s grip

Salma’s pinch

Salma’s push

Felicity, the communist

Pinar, the philosopher

Part 3: The upheaval

The Return

The Fix

The dawn

The nest of the Bulbul

Falling for the mirage

Sitting at my desk, on the 20th floor of the Investment Bank in London where I am Vice-President, I feel lost.

This feeling of feeling lost has become a constant companion. Much as I try, even on this occasion, I am unable to shake it off. In my restlessness, I get up and walk to the window. Instinctively, I look down because that’s where I seem to be headed, but I don’t like the view, more so because not very long ago I had witnessed a jump suicide. As the memory assails me, I step back from the window, but it only makes me feel worse because now the void is faceless and so more terrifying.

Ironically, years ago, I had taken a big leap to reach where I now precariously stood. I hadn’t known then that the hand I had leapt for would turn out to be a mirage. Not only that but in making that leap, I had let go of the only hand which had truly ever anchored me; I had let go of her hand.

Now, as my hands flail in desperation, she is the only one who can save me. However, the distance that separates us is the distance which separates the Moon from the Earth. Still, impossible as it may seem, I have to reach for her hand. The only way I can possibly do so is by making a ladder of hands, from me to her. A ladder of the hands of people, some of who helped us along, while some even came between us, but now I need all those hands to find her again.

Though, there is also a fear that she is no longer there, waiting for me. For all I know, it could be another mirage beckoning me, but I have to find out. I have to leap back to her; only this time it is a leap of faith. My faith in love.

So, I swallow my fear, take a deep breath and jump, to grab the first hand in my journey back to her.

Part 1: The beginning

Chotey Mamu, the youngest uncle

I, Kasim, was born in the south of India in 1982 in the district of Shimoga, the name of which in the native language of Kannada means the face of the Hindu God, Shiva. Had it been named after Shiva’s Lingam, my birthplace might have become more famous.

Famous or not, the town gave me life. However, my mother, Mumtaz, believed that I was given life by the delivering hands of the oldest gynaecologist in town, Dr Gomes, who saved me from a strangulating umbilical cord, though I don’t remember those hands.

The hands that I did remember from my earliest memories of life were that of Chotey Mamu, who dropped me to and picked me up from primary school. His hands were unique. They were long and had prominent veins, which went around like creepers, so much that he reminded me of the tree-man in my colouring book at school, except Chotey Mamu had no hair on his head.

After school, he took me on his old Luna moped, usually, to the house of my maternal grandparents, who looked after me when my mother was either recovering from childbirth or was busy caring for my three younger siblings; two sisters and a brother. My bond was particularly strong with my maternal grandmother, Nani, whose face always lit up with a big smile, whenever she saw me.

You made me a grandmother for the first time in my life, she used to say, combing her long hair, which was jet black, despite her not using any hair-colour; however, she had been only forty-two at the time of my birth.

It was she who named me Kasim.

The one who gives. That’s the meaning of your name, she explained to me once, when I was around 7, walking me out of the house towards Chotey Mamu, who was waiting on his moped to take me to school, smiling his partially toothless grin.

I am sixty and my moped is thirty, but there is no such thing as retirement waiting for both of us, he said when the moped wouldn’t start easily. It did after a few tries and we set-off.

Chotey Mamu was Nani’s maternal uncle, so my great-granduncle, though he was only about twelve years older than Nani because he was the youngest child to Nani’s late grandfather.

Chotey Mamu did odd jobs, mostly for the more well-off relatives of the family, to eke out his livelihood. He was also the chief purchaser for my grandmother’s household. His role included haggling with Lamani Bai, a middle-aged gypsy woman, who sold forest birds to be eaten. Nani preferred quails and partridges, which were either cooked into a curry or, on special occasions, into biryani.

Once Chotey Mamu had bought the required number of quails and partridges from Lamani Bai, he would take them to the backyard and make them halal. The cleaning of the birds went to Noor-Jahan Qaala, the housemaid, who was then in her late-thirties.

My name, Noor-Jahan, is royal but not my fate, she would say, as she cleaned and gutted the birds.

Why did your parents also name you Qaala? I asked once.

It wasn’t my parents. The world named me Qaala because I am everyone’s aunt.

Even mine?

Yes, I swear upon my beauty, she replied, with a smile, pausing her hand mid-way because she couldn’t ruffle my hair with a bloodied and feathered hand.

She was famous for taking oaths upon her beauty, like: I swear upon my beauty, I did not steal the milk.

If you keep highlighting your beauty like that, your old husband will break his back trying to please you, Chotey Mamu would joke, every now and then.

On one Sunday, in the winter of 1990, when I was about eight, Chotey Mamu invited me to his home.

The rich food, which your grandmother feeds you, will make you lazy. If you want to remain fit for as long as I have, you need to eat the food that I usually eat.

He lived a couple of kilometres away from the house of my maternal grandparents in a house named Bada Ghar, the big house, built in 1915 by Bulbul Baba, Chotey Mamu’s father and Nani’s grandfather. Bulbul Baba, my great-great-grandfather, had been a teacher and a poet. Like his name, the name of Bada Ghar also was always spoken with romantic awe in Nani’s household. I myself loved going to Bada Ghar because it had someone very precious to me, so when Chotey Mamu invited me for lunch, I readily accepted his invitation.

That afternoon, on the way to Bada Ghar on his moped, we approached the Royal Theatre.

Once upon a time, it shone with glory, Chotey Mamu said, stopping his moped outside the run-down theatre, whose walls were covered with political slogans like Workers unite!

Years ago, Chotey Mamu himself had been into drama. Sometimes, on his moped, he rattled off dialogues from decades old plays, saying that it helped pass the time.

Oh! How many plays I have performed here at the Royal, he said, lapsing into a daydream, that day. For once in my life, I had been popular by my real name, Kahlil Khan. I had even played Alexander, forty years ago, he added, while I tried to imagine Chotey Mamu as Alexander, though I could only do so if I also saw him wear iron boots for balance while holding up a sword made of foam because Chotey Mamu was very thin.

Why did you stop acting at the Royal? I asked.

Because the cinema killed the theatre; everybody went to see the cinema instead!

You could have become a film-star!

There’s no art in cinema. They just focus the camera on the heroine’s…

What?

Never mind.

As he spoke, a small troupe of Yakshagana artistes, carrying costumes and decorated headgear, made their way into the theatre for the Sunday afternoon performance, to act out their dance and dialogue play; probably an episode from the epic Mahabharat.

"Thanks to them, the Royal has at least survived. But for how long? Not many people see Yakshagana anymore. It will also fade away sooner or later."

What will the artists do then?

They will probably do what I did.

What did you do?

This, he replied, pointing to his moped. But…

But what?

He took a deep breath, raised his right hand as if he were holding up a flower and said: We have seen better days.

With a smile, he started his moped. That was Shakespeare, he added, before we set-off again.

Soon, we arrived at Bada Ghar. I too looked at the house with awe, particularly when I saw the imposing residence from outside its gates. Even the people of the locality held Bada Ghar in awe, many having seen it all their lives. It was the landmark for the area and everyone lived to its right, left, front or back. For decades, whenever the monsoons were severe and the huts of the poorer people in the locality were flooded, Bada Ghar would open its doors to them until their homes were sorted out. The practice though had dwindled over the years, as the drainage system had improved a little; however, people in the area still looked at the house with the same fondness.

That day, Chotey Mamu let me open the gate, as he rode his moped in. The moment I walked into the compound, my eyes set about trying to find the main reason why I had come to Bada Ghar, but it wouldn’t be so easy to find her. For one, Bada Ghar was home to fifteen households, comprising of close to fifty people, living either in the two-storied main building or in the four annexes adjacent, two on each side. Also, though she lived with her family on the ground floor of the main building, she could be anywhere during the day because she was a free soul. The suspense of her whereabouts added to the thrill, as I looked about expectantly. Chotey Mamu parked his moped at the back of the main building.

Would you like to go around the house with me before lunch, so you can meet everyone?

Sure! I replied.

My heart-beat quickened when we entered the cream-coloured main building. But, as I had thought, she was nowhere to be found in her parents’ living portion. I masked my disappointment the best I could, as I said my hellos to them and the other residents living at Bada Ghar, going from the main building to the annexes. There were so many people living at Bada Ghar that it was not unusual to find more than one person with the same name like there were two men with the name of Jabbar, distinguished from one another by their professions; while one was Pakati Jabbar, of whom it was said that no wedding in the local area would be complete without him stirring the cooking pots, the other was tarkari Jabbar, a vegetable vendor.

After a tour of the big house, Chotey Mamu took me to his share of the living area, within the annexe to the right which faced the backyard. While my eyes still searched for her, lunch couldn’t be delayed any longer, so I entered Chotey Mamu’s small abode.

Upon entering his home, his wife, Famida Mami, gave me a hug, as Chotey Mamu went about setting the table.

Famida and I acted as Romeo and Juliet together in 1955, at the Royal Theatre, he said, getting the plates.

We still do, Famida Mami said, taking Chotey Mamu’s hand and kissing his cheek.

Soon, we sat down for lunch; rice, daal, a side of beans and a few pieces of salted fish, fried, which one ate sparingly because of its intense flavour.

"We don’t buy the salted fish merely because it’s cheaper. Rather, I am a connoisseur of salted fish. The one we are eating now is Bombil fish; well-aged. You will love it."

I actually did, once I got used to its texture and flavour. After lunch, I hurried to the big-sized backyard, bordered by mature trees, hoping on hope that she would be there. She wasn’t. Instead, children of my age-group, mostly residents of Bada Ghar, were playing cricket. Not losing hope yet, I joined the others in a game of cricket. Soon, it was my turn to bat. As the bowler ran in, from the corner of my eye, I spotted Immu arrive and sit on the bench under the pomegranate tree. My distraction meant that the ball hit the stumps, getting me out for zero. I handed the bat to the next batsman, walked across to Immu and sat next to him on the bench; he shared his pomegranate with me

While Bulbul Baba had been my great-great-grandfather from my mother’s side, he had been Immu’s from Immu’s father’s side, making us distant cousins; third cousins to be precise. I knew Immu well because for a long time we had studied in the same school, the Lamp School, at which even Bulbul Baba had taught decades ago. However, I had been moved to a much stricter school a year before by my father, so my grades could improve. Because of the change in school, I hadn’t seen Immu for a while.

He didn’t play cricket, as he tired very quickly. It was believed that he did so because he was born pre-maturely; about six weeks too early. Let alone playing, even saying the film dialogues, which he loved to, tired him and made him take deep breaths mid-sentence, such that he had started using the smaller dialogues to good effect. One such dialogue was "Khamosh!" It was a popular dialogue, taken from a Bollywood film, which meant silence; Immu said that whenever the other children had started speaking out of turn during his pause to take a deep breath.

How long will it be until you become strong enough like the rest of us? I asked Immu.

I might never.

Why?

Last month, they found out that there is a hole in my heart.

Oh! Is it dangerous?

No, it’s only as big as one aril of this pomegranate; the doctor said that I’ll live.

How are you feeling, Immu? The sweetest voice in the whole world called out. I turned to see Sumera, Immu’s sister. She was about a couple of years older than me. It had been my biggest regret upon leaving Lamp School that I wouldn’t be able to see her every day. She had just had a bath and smelled wonderful.

I am alright. Kasim has been sitting with me, Immu replied.

Thanks, Sumera said, giving me a hug. I inhaled the fruity scent of her freshly washed hair, trying not to make it obvious. Immu can feel lonely sometimes, she whispered.

I’ll come more often, I promised.

Thanks.

Have you found some new place to hide? I asked her.

No, you know all of them. Why do you ask?

I didn’t see you earlier.

I was at a friend’s house, doing dance practice for the school day, which is next Friday.

Oh, how did it go?

It was fun! I returned some time ago and bathed, to wash the sweat away. Anyway, how’s your new school?

It’s a bit boring, but when the teacher is late to the class, we arm-wrestle, I replied. I am the class champion, I added.

Show me, she said, readying her right arm, by pulling her sleeve back.

Your elbow…the rough surface here might graze it.

Then, let’s go to the study, she said.

The three of us got up and walked to the study, which was on the first floor of the main building, just above Sumera’s home. The study had been used by Bulbul Baba to write poetry decades ago. Like the rest of the house, the inner walls of the study were painted white and its concrete floor maroon. We sat on the floor, facing each other across the small coffee table. We placed our elbows on the table and locked our right palms in a tight grip. On instinct, I closed my eyes to focus my attention on the feel of her touch.

What are you doing? She asked.

I…I am preparing myself mentally. I am done now, I said, opening my eyes.

I’ll be the referee, Immu said. Ready, steady… go! He declared.

I didn’t try too hard, but her strength surprised me. As my hand began its descent, I resisted. She pushed harder, straining her face, gritting her teeth and looking more beautiful. I too used more force. My hand began to push hers until we were level again.

Left hands off the table; both of you! Immu said.

We tried our best for a long time, but we stayed more or less level.

My hand’s hurting, she said. I let go of her hand immediately.

Let’s call it a tie.

Sumera’s mother called to let us know that it was tea time.

Let’s have tea on the balcony; it is pleasant at this time of the day, Sumera said. The balcony was at the end of the study, facing the street. We opened the doors to the balcony and walked out, with our cups of milk and a few biscuits to dunk. From the balcony, we could see quite a distance, because most of the other houses in the area were single-storied. Apart from the houses, one could see small businesses, like groceries, tea stalls and workshops. At a further distance away were a mosque, a pond and a temple.

That’s where I was earlier, doing dance practice at my friend’s, Sumera said, pointing towards the right, coming closer towards me. Can you see it?

No.

She put her arm around me, her cheek touching mine. Now? It’s the blue house, she asked, still pointing.

Yes, I can now. What dance were you doing, anyway?

"The one from the film, Sholay, where Basanti dances for Gabbar singh, the leader of the dacoits, to save Veeru, the man she loves."

Have you learnt it already?

Yes, though I am intending to practice more on my own later, in this study itself.

You can do it now, Immu said. Or better. We can act it out, he added.

How? Sumera asked.

I’ll direct it, Immu replied. Kasim, you can be Gabbar Singh, the dacoit. I will be Veeru.

But, Immu, you can’t be Veeru because Basanti loves him and you are my brother.

Oh…then, I’ll be Gabbar Singh and Kasim can be Veeru.

Okay! I said.

But, Immu, you can’t be Gabbar Singh either because you can’t make me dance for you, Sumera said.

Oh…then, I’ll just direct the two of you and tell where your dance needs to improve.

To make it look as if my hands were tied apart, as Veeru’s had been in the song, Immu made me stand at the open doors of the balcony, raise my hands and spread them out until they touched the door settings on either side.

Soon, Sumera started to dance, while singing the song.

You need to get closer to Veeru, Immu said in a low voice.

"Jab tak hai jaan, mein nachoongi," I will dance till my last breath for you, Sumera sang, coming closer to me. As the dance progressed, she even placed her hands on my shoulders, just like in the film; I would save her from all the dacoits in the world.

Not being content with just sitting, Immu got up and danced along with Sumera, though his was a more freestyle kind of dance, which made us laugh. Encouraged, he danced faster and faster, until he had to stop because his breath started to come in gasps. We made him rest for a while.

Kasim, it’s time for you to return to Nani, Chotey Mamu called out.

But…

Immu needs to rest now, Chotey Mamu added.

Reluctantly, I gave a goodbye hug to Sumera and Immu, before walking out with Chotey Mamu.

Like me, Immu was barely eight, but fate obviously decided that he wasn’t young enough to know suffering. Even before the hole in the heart had been diagnosed, he had been no stranger to pain. A year or so before that day, Nani had taken me to Bada Ghar on a routine visit. Eager to see Sumera, I had run ahead. Upon entering their home, I had screamed because, for the first time in my life, I had seen a lot of blood!

Immu had been lying on a mat spread upon the floor, crying out loud in pain. I had continued to scream until Nani had hurried to me and hugged me; I had hidden in her embrace.

Don’t worry. It’s just that Immu has been circumcised today.

"Yes, the hakim was very gentle. It was only a nick, Immu’s mother had said. Immu, your wails make it sound as if you have been made halal. You are a Pathan, bear the pain and stop wailing like a girl."

"That bastard hakim! May he die a dog’s death!" Immu had shouted, as his mother had put a pillow between his legs and asked him to press on it.

"Nani, will the hakim do this to me too?" I had whispered to my grandmother, clenching my legs tightly.

No, Nani had whispered. Your circumcision will be done in the best hospital in town, by a proper doctor.

Will it pain?

No. They will put you to sleep, so you won’t even know it. Anyway, it’s still a long way away.

Ok, I had replied, relieved that it hadn’t been anytime soon and had looked around for Sumera. Not finding her, I had asked her mother: Where’s Sumera?

I sent her to my mother’s house. You know how much she cares about Immu, so I thought it best that she didn’t see this.

That episode had been my only painful memory of Bada Ghar. Of good memories, there had been an abundance.

Near Bada Ghar was a cinema hall, Lido, where Uncle Idris, Chotey Mamu’s son, worked as an usher. During some shows, if the hall was not full, he would let us children in for free, though we could only sit in the cheapest section, the Gandhi Class. Lido Cinema showed many films of the South-Indian superstar, Rajnikanth, most of whose films were in Tamil because the area had a lot of migrants from Tamil Nadu, the neighbouring state. Rajnikanth’s movies were always fun; they were loud, had great music and he could beat all the baddies in the world single-handedly. When he first appeared on the cinema screen during a film, the men whistled and threw coins towards the screen, which we kids picked up for ourselves in a hurry because Rajnikanth already had enough money. After the film, we would repeat Rajni’s popular dialogues.

Dai! My way is my own.

Dai! I’ll do what I say and also do what I don’t say.

Sometimes, I would play marbles with the Tamil speaking children, with whom I saw Rajni’s films. I was actually the unofficial marble champ of the area.

I am the winner! I exclaimed once, having beaten the others at a game of marbles.

No, you are not! Your ancestors converted to Islam, leaving Hinduism, fearing the Muslim invaders. We did not. You are the loser, Murali, a Tamil boy said.

No, we did not convert. We were always Muslims.

"No, your ancestors were low-caste bhangis, who converted. You bhangi, come clean my backside," he taunted, turning his bottom towards me.

Lousy sambar-licker! I shouted at him.

Dai, bloody beef-eater! He shouted back.

I would have gone after him, but that part of the neighbourhood was the stronghold of his people, so instead, I taunted him by displaying the dozen or so marbles I had won from him. After I went home to my grandparents’ house, I spoke with Nana, my maternal grandfather.

Were we low-caste Hindus, who converted to Islam? A boy from the Tamil area said so.

What a lie! They are jealous of our history. We have descended from brave warriors. Our ancestors made the journey to the south of India from Afghanistan, in search of glory. My great-great-great-grandfather was a general in the army of the Muslim king of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, and died along with him fighting the British.

But the people in Afghanistan are fair-skinned; why are we darker?

We were also fair skinned once, but the long journey south in the hot sun gave us a permanent tan, he replied, with a laugh.

Nana was dark-skinned, which sort of explained why I had inherited the colour. However, Nani was fair skinned and so were many from her side of the family, including those who lived at Bada Ghar, with Sumera being the fairest among all.

Why would Sumera like me at all? I asked myself, more so after we had enacted the Bollywood