One acknowledges that,
conventionally, a prologue precedes and an epilogue follows a piece of
writing. The writer, in this case, humbly apologizes for having the epilogue
precede. Actually, it was written in proper order. Epilogues, one must
confess, are out of mode, but this one had to be written, for the writer,
having finished his essay with a flourish, discovered, to his consternation,
that the character of Ghulam the Singer, presented therein, might be a poet
of the Persian past, as yet unpublished, or might be a hoax perpetrated by
Subhana the merchant, or might even be the figment of the writer's
imagination. The choice being so dreadful and the writer being too
incompetent to give any clear clue, it was felt that the epilogue might then
precede, rather than follow, in the hope that the reader might be made aware
of the writer's uncertainty and might be able to help solve, should he be
able to stay awake, the question of the origin of Ghulam the Singer.
THE WORST
Ghulam the Singer gathered
his long purple robe around his thighs and sat down on the stone bench in the
Garden of Shalimar. Behind him the great
grass-carpeted terraces climbed graciously up the gentle slope. On each
terrace was a clear pool livened by fountains and the icy water, diverted
from mountain streams by the royal engineers, dropped from one level of the
garden to another by sweet-singing waterfalls. Much of the water flowed
slowly through the pools to the next controlled waterfall or watercourse, but
some rushed riotously through narrow stone channels bordered by thousands of
wild tulips.
Ghulam the Singer mused on the enterprise of the Emperor Jahangir, who had
sent expeditions protected by foot soldiers and by horse into the lush
mountain valleys of Afghanistan,
to gather the bulbs for cultivation by the skilled Kashmiri gardeners of Srinagar. The Emperor
had pronounced, with the threat of imperial displeasure and possible
banishment to the flowerless highlands beyond Ladakh, that his men must
return with no fewer than a score of varieties of this rare and brilliantly
colored wildflower; and they had returned successfully with thirty-two
distinct varieties. The Emperor had not threatened idly, for he had counseled
with his wife Nur Jahan and with some wise old sheikhs of the Afridi tribes
recently arrived from the regions of the Kabul River
and its dry-bed tributaries and he knew whereof he spoke.
It was a hot Spring day. The sun blazed down from a deep blue cloudless sky.
In the black mass of craggy mountains behind the garden, the snow was melting
rapidly on the sunny sides of clefts and crevasses. In the impetuous rush of
Spring, the glory of the blooming tulips would last only a day or two longer
and Ghulam, watching the slow movement of the boatmen on Dal Lake, gathering
grasses for their floating gardens, thought with pain for a moment, of the
briefness of life or bloom, for most living things, whether it might be the
magnificence of a conqueror like Akbar or the evanescent fragrance of a flower.
His own couplet came to mind:
"The perfume of the
jasmine is caught in the shadow of the chinar tree;
How little time is granted to the perfume or the shadow or to me."
For Ghulam the Singer was a
poet, one of the distinguished company of versatile and brilliant men who
surrounded the Moghul prince, carrying out his orders in the areas of law and
order and justice, planning the strategy of the campaigns by the generals
into the arid reaches of the Punjab or over the passes of the Pir Panjal, negotiating
with the rajahs and the sultans and the wazirs and the tribal chieftains and
all of their emissaries bearing gifts, buying the services of architects and
artisans and craftsmen from Samarkand and Teheran and Constantinople to build
and embellish palaces and forts and tombs and monuments, and recording in
letters and in painting the splendor of the king and of his reign.
Ghulam's "Ode to the Leader" had been much praised in court
circles. In it he had developed the theme of the great achievements of the
Moghul Jahangir, inheritor of a vast empire and great administrator, of his
love for the Valley of Kashmir, its lush margs, its lakes and canals, the
meandering Jhelum River so famous in history, and its parapet wall of the
tremendous towering snow-covered Himalayan peaks, impenetrable rampart
against all forces without, cold and hostile and imperturbably cruel, and yet
seen from the Garden of Shalimar on a spring day as white dreams floating in
an azure sky.
The "Ode" began:
"Over the roof of the
world
The mighty Genghis raced the Mongol horse,
And all fled before him.
Then Timur rose in the Turki hills,
Leading his dauntless tribesmen
By victory after victory
To the pleasure gardens of the South.
Finally, the ancestor of our great leader Jahangir,
Invincible Babur, strongest of men,
Favorite of Allah, merged the strength of the North
With the wealth of the South,
And so began the Golden Age,
And so began the Moghul line."
But today Ghulam the
Singer, resting on the stone bench at Shalimar, felt bored. Actually, he was
not bored but rather restless, and underneath the restlessness was a worry
which he did not understand and only vaguely sensed.
It must be stated, however, that Ghulam the Singer, who had a tendency to be
dainty in words and sentiment, at this point usually recoiled slightly over
the pungency of the next couplet, which reads:
"Thou hast placed in
my navel the musk-pod of musk,
Let my musk spread its fragrance from Kaf to Kaf!"
Five years back the Emperor
Jahangir in Delhi, hearing of the promising
young scholar in Isfahan,
had invited him to the imperial court to join that community of culture. All
had gone well with Ghulam, he had continued his studies in the holy books, he
had continued to write fine ghazals in the Persian tradition and he was often
called to counsel. Nur Jahan, Light of the World, enjoyed listening to the
poet's recital of tales of battle and love and piety, remembered from his
reading of old Kashmiri and Persian authors. The friendship of Empress and
poet was idyllic; each of them anticipated with pleasure the annual journey,
in the spring or summer, from the hot dry plains of the south to the lovely
mountain valley
of Kashmir, a place of
earthly paradise for each and also home for the poet.
Now they had arrived at Srinagar
and the routine of the summer court would soon begin. But Ghulam the Singer
was restless today; he felt that he was perhaps over- stimulated; and he was
tired of the endless conversations with Pundits and Pirs, Sultans and Wazirs,
Sheikhs and Mullas, the generals, the poets, the painters, the holy men, the
wise men. He felt that he would like nothing better than to go down to the
large caravanserai on the bank of the Mir
Canal and talk to the traders about
the price of yak butter in Tibet.
Some three hundred years later, I sat in the shop of a descendant of one of
those traders, on the bank of the Mir Canal, listening to his endless talk of
kings and rajahs, Kashmir shawls, the pilgrimage to Mecca, Kermanshah rugs,
star sapphires, beaded bags, Persian Poetry and Ghulam the Singer. Each one
of his ancestors, going back three hundred years, had surely been a trader or
merchant, for only such a lineage could have produced Subhana, merchant par
excellence.
The rulers and governors of Kashmir, the Mongols, the Turki, the Persians,
theAfghans, the Chaks, the Dogras, the Sikhs and all of their poets and
writers, had described during the tumultuous centuries, the charms of
Kashmir, the paradise on earth and so had attracted an ever-increasing number
of travelers and their bastard progeny, the tourists. Since the Kashmiri
craftsmen were highly skilled in weaving, in silverwork, in embroideries and
in rug-making, beautiful fabrics and jewelry and rugs were offered for sale
and were purchased by the travelers. The merchants of Kashmir became known
for their wares and their cleverness in many parts of the world.
In such a situation competition becomes keen. In the period of British rule,
when the bureaucrat from Bombay and the colonel and the colonel's lady came
to Srinagar in the hot months to loll in houseboats on Dal Lake or to relax
in the cottages and inns of Gulmarg, the enterprising Srinagar merchants, in
order to attract attention, added descriptive English adjectives to their
names. Signs appeared over shop doors announcing that Cheap John and Cheerful
Charley were ready and eager to do business within. A shikhara filled with
flowers for sale glided over the water; the occupants of the houseboat,
stirred by the tinkle of a bell, were soon made aware that Marvelous the
Florist was making his morning call.
Subhana astutely named himself Subhana the Worst.
"This rug," murmured Subhana, with a veiled but sharp glance at the
visitor's face, "this masterpiece was woven by the ablest of native Kashmiri
rug-makers over two hundred years ago. It is not a rug; it is a work of art.
It is a museum piece. A silk rug, a tapestry. One must hang it on a wall. It
pictures the Garden of Nishat, beyond Shalimar. The graceful figure in
orchid-colored robes is Nur Jahan, the Light of the World, the queen of
Jahangir. Sahib, were you in Lahore on your travels?"
"Yes," replied the visitor. "A beautiful city."
"Nur Jahan," continued Subhana, "lies at rest at Shahdara,
just outside of Lahore."
"We saw the magnificent tomb of Jahangir at Shahdara," said the
visitor, "but nothing was said of Nur Jahan."
"Nur Jahan's tomb," murmured Subhana, "is small and hardly to
be seen. It is in her own flower garden. She lived many years, in retirement,
after the King died. She wrote her own epitaph, in Persian, for she was born
a Persian. Listen to it, please, sahib."
"Upon my grave, when I
shall die,
No lamp shall burn, nor jasmine lie;
No candle, with unsteady flame,
Serve as reminder of my fame;
No bulbul, chanting overhead,
Shall tell the world that I am dead."
Subhana was sitting
cross-legged on the floor, on that corner of the silk rug where Nur Jahan's
handmaidens were standing, if one could have seen them, in a slinky group,
telling one another, if one could have heard them, lively stories from the
harem. His head moved slightly and in a moment one of his servants brought
him his hookah and another produced a small basket of hot coals, using one to
light the contents of the bowl of the pipe. Subhana puffed earnestly three
times, closed his eyes in a kind of tired ecstasy, and then got down to
business.
"I could sell you this rug for twenty-four thousand rupees. Actually a
collector would give twice that for it. But when will a collector pass by
this way? It is not my own. It belongs to a once wealthy family, now willing
to sacrifice this priceless heritage. Turn over that corner, please, sahib.
The design is as clear on the back as on the napped side. Fifteen hundred
knots to the square inch! Only once in a man's lifetime does he have an
opportunity to acquire such a treasure, at so little cost. What do you think
of the price, sahib? What would you offer for it?"
The sale did not jell, but Subhana showed no disappointment. He never showed
disappointment over failure to sell, nor did he show the slightest sign of
pleasure or triumph or even of appreciation, when a sale was made. He simply
called one of his clerks, who appeared in tightly buttoned knee-length coat,
trousers sheathed at calf and ankle and bare-footed, carrying a dog-eared pad
and stub of pencil, to record the facts of the transaction, date, name and
address, description and price of article purchased and shipping or delivery
instructions.
Actually, his appetite was whetted by a sale consummated. An agreement by the
customer to buy an article meant to Subhana a willingness to buy, which he
was ready to test to the ultimate. He never ceased. When the struggle was
over and he took his visitors to the door of his strange establishment to say
goodnight, he added, "The night air is cool in Kashmir, memsahib. Put
this Kashmir shawl over your shoulders. Return it to us tomorrow or another
day or send word and Nazim will come to pick it up. Or you may decide that
you would like to own it. The price is so little! Or perhaps the sahib would
like you to have it. May Allah go with you both!"
Subhana tested every visitor personally. If the visitor showed no interest in
the magnificently carved walnut coffee tables, or the Persian rugs, or the
sheer wool stoles, or the brass samovar from old Azerbaijan, but looked
eagerly at printed lawn sari lengths with "Made in Bombay" showing
on the selvage, Subhana quickly and tactfully shunted that visitor off on
Masool. There were a number of retainers in the large three-story unpainted
frame building, with its unexpected alcoves and verandahs and steep stairs
suddenly going up or down. Some of the retainers were obviously family
relatives, and some were drudges unfolding and folding endlessly the heavy
rugs and being scolded for it, and there were also the ubiquitous clerk Nazim
with his pad and pencil, and the hookah crew. All were barefooted except the
master and his wazir Masool, and they both walked about the place in stocking
feet.
The stocking feet bothered me, seeming so incongruous with the formal black
caracul caps and the formal grey serge coats, buttoned to the chin, which
both wore. Moreover, the stockings were not elegantly knitted of rare ibex
wool, or of yarns spun from the breast feathers of wild ducks, but were cheap
ugly colored cotton socks as sold in the bazaars of Srinagar.
I liked Subhana the Worst and I actually enjoyed being worsted in a
bargaining tussle with him. I did not like his stocking feet, and I did not
like his hookah habit, and I did not like the glimpses of soiled striped
madras shirt occasionally revealed between the lower buttons of his frock
coat, but I admired the superb finesse of his salesmanship.
Our meeting was no accident, certainly not on his part.
We had decided to motor from Delhi to Srinagar. The first day was hot and
uneventful and we arrived in the evening at Amritsar, the Holy city of the
Sikhs. The second day was otherwise. It started well with an early morning
visit to the Golden Temple of the Sikhs, mirrored in beauty in the Pool of
Immortality and not a Sikh made at us or drew his scimitar. Fascinated, we
delayed and so were forced to hurry over the long and dusty road to Jammu,
but even this was good, because through the dust we could see the bright
white snow-covered Himalayas climbing higher and higher into the sky. Once in
Jammu, however, being in the foothills, we could no longer see the high
peaks. Moreover, we went without lunch because we could not find the
Government Guest House and the army gave us a vicious scolding for trying to
find the Government Guest House in the army camp. The day was wasting.
Tempers were fraying. We decided to push on hard for Banihal.
It must be explained at this point that there is an historic and passable
road to Kashmir. Akbar used it in 1589 when he went to visit the Kashmir
which his generals had won for him three years earlier. Jahangir and his
consort Nur Jahan used it each time they journeyed to the lush mountain
valley for a summer holiday. The sumptuous processions of the great Shah
Jahan traversed it. It leads from Amritsar to Lahore to Rawalpindi to
Baramula, via a gradual pass over the Pir Panjal and so into the Valley.
But it was denied to us, because old India is torn apart into a Hindu country
and a Moslem country. The India-Pakistan quarrel has closed that ancient
highway. Since there is no railroad to Kashmir, and since air traffic is
limited by uncertain Himalayan weather, and since India must maintain a
lifeline to the Kashmir which it hopes to hold to its covetous bosom, India
has been building a tunnel at Banihal Pass and has been developing the road
there. It is no boulevard.
For thirty miles north of Jammu the road had once been good. It follows the
valley of the Chenab River. From the foothills and mountains to the east,
time and weather have worn a great number of dry washes, or wadi, which the
road crosses. At each crossing, enterprising engineers had built
indestructible concrete culverts, but in the last rains the floods storming
tumultuously down the washes had washed away, in each case, the approaches to
the culvert, leaving the culvert intact but isolated from the road.
Therefore, the motorist must bypass each culvert by detours over the rough
rocky bed of the dry wash. We lost some time at this fancy game.
Finally, we began to climb the mountain grades. The road became narrower and
settled into a pattern of multiple curves. The caravans of Indian army
lorries seemed to become more and more frequent. There were no signs warning
us to beware of falling rocks, because they were unnecessary, since the side
of the mountain was clearly in a restless state. We constantly came upon
landslides across the road or across part of it; or the outside shoulder of
the road and sometimes part of the road had slid away in the direction of the
roaring Chenab River three hundred to five hundred feet below. Road repair
gangs were at work everywhere, but as twilight began to move down the
mountain canyons, the workmen began to shoulder their picks and shovels,
calling it a day. The thought dawned on us that we might, in the dusk or
dark, come upon an untreated slide. What to do then? There was no other road
through these mountains. There were no towns. We knew that Banihal, with a
Dak Bungalow, or Grade Three Government Rest House, was somewhere on this
road ahead of us, but no one knew how far ahead of us it was, neither the
mountain shepherd in his heavy coarse woolen poncho driving his goats, nor
the uniformed tense driver of the army lorry loaded for all we knew with
dynamite, nor the cigarette-smoking bus driver carrying tin cans of water
from a roadside spring to his boiling radiator.
And then it began to rain.
We reached Banihal somewhat before midnight. We found shelter there, from the
dark and the worry and the downpour. The solicitous aged attendant gave us
boiled eggs, bread and hot tea, and we sacrificed to the cause our last Swiss
chocolate bar. Banihal, at nine thousand feet, is cold on a March night, and
since there was no heat in the cabin, we put on everything we owned before
going to bed, woolen socks, woolen underwear, pajamas, flannel shirts,
slacks, sweaters, coats, raincoats and still we shivered under the rough
woolen Indian blankets. I might add that facilities were quite simple and
that all of the bathroom fixtures were removable.
We had agreed to arise well before dawn, so that we could be on our way at
daybreak, in order to complete our hazardous mountain drive as soon as
possible, before the rain and storm might block us completely. But as we were
eating our boiled eggs and bread by the light of a kerosene lantern, in the
morning and drinking our hot tea, the attendant's ragged son burst in to
announce that the military had closed the road to all west-bound traffic
until two in the afternoon.
We led the motor caravan through the tunnel in late afternoon and emerged
upon a wet mud road with snow banks twelve feet high on either side. But the
descent was better than the ascent had been. Although the rain had ceased,
the wind continued high and when we reached the valley floor we found
ourselves enjoying a very gusty spring day. Lilac and honey locust were in
bloom. The roads of the valley were lined with Lombardy type poplars. The
high wind would occasionally send an unhealthy one crashing across the road,
but there always appeared some cheerful Kashmiri peasants in ponchos to clear
away the debris so that we might continue on our way to Srinagar.
Our hotel, until recently the palace of the latest ruler of Kashmir,
Maharajah Sir Hari Singh, was at the far end of Dal Lake. We registered, gave
up our passports, traversed the long corridors and climbed the long stairs
and were admiring the handsome Amritsar carpets on the floor of our room,
when there was a sharp knock at the door. It was our Kashmir guide, with whom
we had made previous airmail arrangements. He felt strongly that although we
might be weary from our travels, we should without fail see Srinagar and
Kashmir and the Himalayas in the sunset. We must start at once. We did.
And in fifteen minutes, we found ourselves in the establishment of Subhana
the Worst!
We did not like our guide. We called him Mr. Ashcan because his name sounded
something like that. He was a pious and righteous and very dishonest man.
Every time we started out for a drive to view the beauties of Kashmir and to
admire its antiquities, every time we went to Hari Parbat, the fortress on
the hill, or to the tiny gem-like Cashma Shahi Garden, or to the
Shah-i-Hamadan Mosque, we would wind up in the salesrooms of Subhana. We came
to the conclusion, finally, that Mr. Ashcan was getting a cut.
Our first meeting with Subhana was obviously, then, as I indicated earlier,
not accidental, on his part.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the tourist.
We came to in the textiles room, drinking tea and eating raisined Kashmir
cakes.
"Only in Kashmir can one find the finest Kashmir shawls," said our
host quietly, accepting an armful of folded fabrics from one of his silent
but watchful menials.
He spread on the floor before us a sheer wool shawl in a soft shade of
yellow.
"It's beautiful, but who wears a shawl today?" I remarked cruelly.
"A shawl yesterday is a stole today," replied Subhana. "And
every handsome woman enjoys the luxury and grace of a stole, thrown over her
shoulders. Your lady, now, might like this stole in soft pink and if she
liked it, you would want her to have it. I can see by your devotion to her,
sahib, that you would not deny her slightest wish. Do you know that poem by
Sa'di, one of our early Persian poets?"
"Whose wife is tender,
wise and true,
In fact, Beloved, just like you,
Although he merits no such thing
Will live, as I do, like a King"
"This is woven of the
sheerest Kashmir wool. Please note the exquisite embroidery work. The pattern
and design of the embroidery is finished exactly the same on both sides of
the fabric. Nowhere in India can this work be equaled. And in our modern
troubled world this work will soon become extinct."
Subhana sighed, as though the cares of Asia were bearing down on his
inadequate sloping shoulders. Then he started spreading before us, on a
growing heap, shawl after shawl, stole after stole, scarf after scarf,
commenting on the merits of each and watching our faces intently, for that
nibble of interest which would be the signal for him to reel in swiftly.
Finally, he pushed the heap away with one stockinged foot, indicating that a
slave might come and begin refolding the articles, and, as if he were a
magician, there appeared in his hands a short wool evening jacket, light
gray, gleaming with pastel- colored embroidery.
"Memsahib's taste might be for a garment rather than a wrap,"
suggested Subhana. "This is woven of rare ibex wool. The ibex goat is
found only in the mountains of Ladakh, Tibet and Nepal. Oh, there are a few
in the Hindu Kush. Each season there are many ibex hunters who do not return
home, done to their deaths on the icy heights of the Himalayas. One of the
rarest animals on the whole earth. Did you know that the world market for
ibex wool is right here in Srinagar? Only the skilled weavers of Kashmir know
how to comb and card and spin this sheerest of wool. The yarn is then dyed
with our own secret vegetable dyes. Before the yarn is woven into this
delicate fabric, it must be washed in the Jhelum River, whose waters, fed by
the Himalayan snows, give to the yarn its unique soft and silky finish."
He paused and shook himself very slightly, as if to free himself completely
from shop and customer and commission, for transmigration into his realm of
superlatives.
"Ghulam the Singer," said Subhana, "one of the lyrical Persian
poets, in the court of the Emperor Jahangir, though himself a Kashmiri, knew
of this rare wool and mentions it in his love poem entitled Love,' which I
consider one of his finest pieces:"
"O Bulbul, sing of my
Beloved, my love,
So pure a being, so far above
The thoughts of men and poets; so fair
Her equal is not anywhere!
Her voice a golden temple bell,
Her walk like that of a gazelle,
Her eyes a shadowed mountain pool,
Her cheeks as soft as ibex wool."
"The poem," added
Subhana, "narrates the story of the princess, for she was a princess,
being sent by her father, the ruler of Badackshan, because of jealousy in the
court, to be raised by a hermit in the eastern hills. But a spirit of evil,
in form a vulture, or griffin, steals her and carries her off to his infamous
nest or castle on the highest peak. The griffin's domain is guarded by the
nagas, or snake people. The hero of the poem, a shepherd of goats, who turns
out to be the son of the Shah of Ghazni, is determined to rescue the
imprisoned princess. He obtains the help of the Hindu god Hanumon, lord of
the monkey people. In this way the poem skillfully merges the myths of the
Persians and the Hindus in one of the most touching love stories of all times
and all countries."
"Now," continued the merchant, "the world has known for
centuries of the soft, light quality of Kashmir wool, and I understand that
today the tailors on Bond Street will make you a coat of Kashmir wool for as
little as thirty English pounds. But ibex wool is as far superior to Kashmir
wool as Kashmir wool is superior to Scotch wool. The tailors of Bond Street
have never touched ibex wool. They do not dream that it exists, in is almost
divine quality. And did I explain, sahib, that when the hunter finally bags
an ibex, he brings to us only the softest wool that grows on the forehead
between the spiraled horns? The rest of the wool of the animal is used by the
women of the tribe for homespun blankets and ponchos."
We purchased the jacket, although in white (he had one in white) and with
white embroidery (he had a white one with white embroidery) for three hundred
rupees and then Subhana the Worst carried us up to an even higher level of
woolen superlatives. He had brought out, for our admiration, a piece of sheer
soft fabric which he said had been in the weaving for over a year. He said
that the exquisitely fine yarn used was spun of feathers, the breast feathers
of certain wild ducks found only in Wular Lake in Kashmir. There were twelve
yards of it and it was about forty inches wide. He took off his Mongolian
finger ring and without the slightest effort pulled the entire piece of
fabric through the ring.
"This is to be shipped soon to an important personage in Spain,"
said Subhana humbly.
In the same mood he murmured, "Sahib, memsahib, please honor me with
your gracious presence at dinner here with me Tuesday night. I have already
engaged some entertainers, who will play antique Kashmiri instruments and
will sing our folksongs. Pray do come."
We had dinner in the Persian carpets room. The carpets covered the floor six
deep, Bokharas, Kermanshahs, Sarouks, Baluchistans, Isfahans and many others.
But the host, sensitive to the fact that we could not sit cross-legged
comfortably, even cushioned by six Persian carpets, had footstools for us to
sit on, and the servants placed the plates of food on large etched brass
Indian trays in front of us, the trays also balanced on footstools.
The dinner was simple and excellent, adjusted to the taste of the foreign
guests. The roast young kid was done to a turn, the curried rice was mild and
the squash was nicely seasoned. The host mischievously gave us the choice of
eating with the fingers of the right hand or of using knife and fork. Dessert
was a pudding in the Indian manner, baked of finely ground wheat flour mixed
with goat's milk, the whole made interesting and tasty with many raisins both
light and dark, and over the whole pudding, brought in hot from the oven, in a
large casserole, a shimmering fluttering cover of delicate silver foil.
Assured by our host that all Indians, both Hindus and Moslems, know the
silver foil to be most healthy, we ate the metal-covered raisin pudding
without a qualm. We drank with our meal the juice of the tamarind.
When the dishes had been cleared away and the brass Indian trays had been
removed to the brass room, we arranged ourselves comfortably at one end of
the room, the guests sitting on low chairs and footstools, the host and his
admiring male relatives sitting cross-legged on the floor. Five musicians
filed in, bare-footed and sat, cross- legged on the floor, at the other end
of the room. They were an ill-assorted group. Their garments were motley. The
drummer wore the loose Indian dhoti, covered by a long shirt of striped
madras, over which was a ruby red velvet waistcoat trimmed with gold braid.
The others wore wool Kashmir trousers fitted tight at calf and ankle, and the
long shirts, and some species of coat or waistcoat. Four wore interesting
embroidered skull caps, but the drummers' unkempt shock of coarse black hair
looked like that wild streaming cloud that blows incessantly off the summits
of the highest mountain peaks.
The drummer had no drum, but an earthen pot which he turned upside down,
holding it between his knees and from which he produced a background of
monotonous dull rhythm by hitting the bottom of the pot with, alternately,
the palms of his hands and his fingers. His drum was called a Note.
Two of the musicians carried the tune with their stringed and bowed
instruments called Sarengi, remotely related to the violin. Variety and
liveliness were furnished by the Baga, or harmonium, a handsome little box of
polished walnut with mother-of- pearl inlay, the keys of which the musician
attacked furiously with excellent results. In the background of the chords
was a flat rumble of the Rabbab, a heavy, absurd, home-made string instrument
resembling a caravel in shape. The lively little bright notes of the Sarengi
and the Baga kept bouncing off the background of impending thunder of the
Rabbab.
All this could have been quite good, and really it was good, except for the
repetition. The musicians sang. They sang the folksongs with expression and
sympathy and love. The only troubles were that there were too many stanzas to
each folksong, that the music of each stanza was exactly like that of the
preceding stanza and that the selfsame chorus was added to each stanza. It
got so that my head rang with the words:
"And Allah said, let
there be another stanza,
And there was another stanza."
The words of the songs, it
was obvious, were dear to the Kashmiri in the room, as were the tunes also
and occasionally one or another would begin clapping his hands to mark the
time, as Spaniards do at the fandango, in which case they would all clap in
rhythm. At other times they would sing the chorus with the musicians.
Would it never end? The song was clearly a saga of love, but since we were
not told the story and could not understand the words, and since the
excitement of the singers ebbed and flowed like the tides of the sea, we had
no way of knowing or even guessing, when the song might end. We kept hoping
for that last stanza in which the heroine would finally be saved, or won, or
buried, or even raped.
At the end of a number, the guests and Subhana and the relatives would
applaud, the owners of the stringed instruments would test for pitch,
servants would bring in cups of pear juice for the musicians and each one
would take several puffs at the hookah pipe, being careful to wipe off the
mouthpiece with his sweaty bare hands, as the pipe was passed around.
Subhana thoroughly enjoyed the songs, the music and the singing, and made no
attempt to sell his wares during the entertainment. However, as we were about
to leave, he presented the lady with a gift, a semi-precious stone, an unset,
faceted amethyst. This was no ordinary amethyst, said he, but a Kashmir
amethyst, brought from the east, from Leh in Ladakh. He called attention to
the richness of its color, like the bloom on the purple grape.
Mistaking the guests' polite acknowledgement as admiration and enthusiasm for
the gem, he immediately sent for a strong-box full of jewelry cases. He
snapped open a rather large case covered with faded green velvet and showed
us with pride the glittering contents, diamonds and sapphires in a matched
necklace, bracelet and brooch.
"Magnificent," sighed Subhana. "Magnificent, no less. From a
Rajah's collection. From the renowned collection of the old Maharajah of
Jaipur. It came into the hands of my friends, the family of Abdul-ud-Din, who
fled at the time of partition to Peshawar, leaving this priceless treasure in
my unworthy hands. What a pleasure it has been for me to look at it from time
to time, for instance in the evening of a wearying day, or to show it to
connoisseurs like yourselves!"
"Just last week I had word," Subhana whispered, "by private
messenger, that I am to sell it, for whatever it will bring. The old merchant
is dead and the sons say that the jewels must be sold. How difficult! How
sad! How difficult to sell in the first place and then to transfer the funds!
We are in India, but Peshawar is in Pakistan. No rupees may leave India.
Export Licenses, export restrictions, export taxes what folly, what cruelty!
Many Moslems who fled Kashmir had to leave everything behind them. Many
families are divided parents exiled from children. What folly! How sad!"
Subhana warmed to the task at hand.
"If you should buy these magnificent jewels," he said, "at a
price but a fraction of their real value, I will still have the problem of
getting the funds to the owners."
"Frankly," he whispered, "we Moslem merchants have learned how
to cheat the cheating governments. Sometimes gold pieces are sewn into the
linings of shoes of trusted travelers. There are other means."
"You may rest assured," he said, "that the rightful owner will
receive payment."
When we explained that we had no desire to buy the brilliant gems and added
that the baroque design of the gold setting might look out of place except on
the neck, wrist and bosom of a Maharanee, he closed the stained green velvet
lid with a snap and a sigh, and reminded us of our gracious acceptance of his
invitation to spend the Sabbath with him on his barge. He sent his assistants
to put us into the motorcar. He stood at the top of the stairs, in his
stocking feet, stroking his short black silky beard and from the movement of
his lips we knew that he was giving us into the care of Allah.
It may not be fair to add, at this point, that when we returned home several
months later and sent the gift amethyst to the jeweler to be set in a ring,
the stone came back with the terse message, "Glass. Very good glass. But
glass."
Subhana played his game. He sparred. He parried. He studied his adversary.
Sometimes he won. Sometimes he lost. But his foot never slipped. He advanced.
He retreated. He adroitly turned aside the thrust, appraised the situation
swiftly, saw his advantage and pressed home a sale.
His prices were what the traffic would bear, nor could he forget Mr. Ashcan's
commission. He had many wonderful things in his rooms, on his shelves. Many
were genuine works of art; many were imitation. If the customer was gullible,
the imitations were represented as genuine. If the customer was the
knowledgeable collector, very rare and lovely pieces were brought out form
behind locked doors and from padlocked sandalwood chests.
The wind was tempered to the shorn lamb.
If he romanticized, if he exaggerated, if he misrepresented, if he lied, he
was only plying the merchant's trade, typical of the Far East and of the
Middle East, for thousands of years. Let the buyer beware!
Was he Subhana the Worst Cheat? Or was he Subhana the Worst Liar?
The facts are that the merchandise he sold gave pleasure to the purchasers,
whether or not they groaned over the prices, and that he transformed the
craft of selling into an art.
We went to his workshops. We were taken to the old quarter of the city, down
a street too narrow for a motorcar, and climbed rickety stairs to a loft on
the second floor of a building about to fall into the Jhelum River, where we
found weavers squeezed against the wall working furiously on rug looms made
of great timbers hundreds of years old.
Subhana's rug business infuriated us, for when he failed to sell one of the
hundreds of rugs in his shop, he would then offer to make a rug to the
customer's taste. Did sahib prefer a Royal Sarouk with a flowered Kermanshah
center? Why not? Did the lady who turned down the soft ruby-colored Bokhara
want the Bokhara geometrics done in yellow, to match the golden damask of her
furnishings? Why not? Anything goes and Subhana will tell you how many knots
to the square inch.
We visited the embroidery factory, to watch men sitting on the floor, plying
their swift needles on wool and silk, producing some of the most exquisite
embroidery work in the world, without artificial light and with dingy
daylight sifting in through tiny windows below the high rafters.
We saw the woodcarvers. The foreman sat cross-legged on the floor among the
heaps of shavings, making simple original drawings with pencil and paper. The
workmen, ranging in age from twelve to seventy, were executing the drawings,
with knives and simple wood chisels, on solid walnut, producing trays,
tables, chests of drawers. The elaborate carvings of fruits, flowers, trees,
animals, were often two inches deep and intricate beyond description.
The carved walnut furniture intrigued and delighted us. We were ready to buy.
Subhana and the barefooted order-taker accompanied us as we ranged through
the furniture rooms. We purchased several interesting and, to us, beautiful
pieces. We ordered a chest of drawers made to specifications for a particular
purpose. We finally said, "That's it!"
At this point Subhana should have said, "Thank you, sahib, memsahib, for
this very fine order." Instead, he said, "Sehib, you have purchased
some of our pleasantest pieces. Your lady has exquisite taste. Now you must
purchase this small table, a beauty, a gem and when you have examined it, I
will explain why you must purchase it."
It was a fine example of Kashmir wood-carving art. The edge of the solid
circular walnut top was deeply and intricately carved, but three inches from
the edge the artisans had cut down through the heavy slab of walnut leaving a
circle of fretwork, like Italian cutwork embroidery on a rich linen cloth.
"Very good!" the lady remarked.
"You are discerning," murmured Subhana. "But I want you to
have this table because that carving was done by me when I completed my
apprenticeship just twenty-six years ago. I would feel deeply disappointed if
sahib did not purchase it for you. And the price is so little! My personal
handiwork!"
"I'll buy it," I said, "even if the carving isn't yours."
"Even if the carving is not mine," repeated Subhana, with a
chastened look in his brown eyes.
He instructed Nizam to record the purchase.
The following Saturday, in the afternoon, Masool sent his car and driver to pick
us up at the Palace Hotel. The barge was docked near the old bridge, which is
interesting in itself, being engineered of deodar pine logs strapped and
bolted together in a fascinating pattern, strong enough to carry the constant
heavy stream of traffic to and from the old city. The barge also was
constructed of deodar. The paddlers and pole men guided us down the river
rather swiftly, but when we reached the lake, everyone relaxed and we
drifted. The shikhara peddlers of toothpaste, pencils, Coca Cola, bouquets of
spring flowers, either had been instructed to stay away or were shooed away
by the watchful crew. We lolled on soft cushions under the white canopy. We
thoroughly enjoyed the quiet of our barely perceptible movement around the
lake, the feeling of complete relaxation and the beauty of Kashmir
surrounding us.
We had suggested that Masool bring aboard some of Subhana's extensive
collection of Persian and Kashmir graphic art, the calligraphy, the
illuminated manuscripts, the so- called Persian miniatures. These were not
often offered in the shop because all display areas were given over to
eye-catching articles like Kashmir shawls, Persian carpets, hammered silver
tea sets, Turkish copper water vessels, octagonal carved walnut coffee tables
and towering enameled brass garden vases from Afghanistan. But if you knew in
which chest of drawers to search and of course the chest was for sale, too,
when empty you would find the heterogeneous collection. This was the stuff
that Masool had brought with him, in two huge straw portmanteaus.
We finally tired of feasting our eyes on the quiet pastoral beauty of Dal
Lake, the gliding gay shikharas with "the fringe on the top," the
graceful poplar trees, the apricot orchards in full bloom on the shore, the
fields of brilliant yellow mustard seed, the picturesque dilapidated Kashmir
houses with the attic area left open to the breezes for the storage of grains
and cattle feeds, the dark masses of chinar trees and beyond
Takht-i-Suleiman, beyond the hills and the foothills and the nearby black
mountains, the towering ethereal Himalayas, their snows shimmering in the
clear sunlight, so far away that they seemed to be floating in the sky.
We opened up the portmanteaus and began scanning the contents. Everything was
there. Many pages had been cut out of old copies of the Koran and what a pity
to think of mounting or framing them, for the back of the page was equally as
beautiful as the face. There were large and small sheets of calligraphy,
Persian and Kashmir and Hindu proverbs and prayers and poems, in the most
graceful script and lettering that mankind ever developed. There were
hundreds of the Persian miniatures, many obviously torn out of books, some
glued crudely on cardboard, many creased, many soiled, many stained, many
torn. Here were portrayed the famous falconer, the mounted hunters furiously
pursuing, with drawn bows, the fleeing gazelle, the horse troops in battle
with tilted spears, the smug saint sitting cross-legged under the Turkish
arch of the mosque, the jeweled sultan sitting on his jeweled throne, the
maidens in the guarded garden and the illustrations of all the myths of the
eastern world. The choice of colors was always impeccable. The delineation,
the drawing, with pen and the finest of brushes, was perfection itself. The
use of gold leaf often added a gratifying richness of finish.
Subhana, examining them with us, threw them on a heap on the carpeted deck at
our feet. He told us the stories of some of the pictures, little anecdotes
about the artists and poets and wise men, translated the calligraphy for us,
discarded some of the pieces scornfully as being of inferior quality or
imitations, praised others, sighed in rapture over others.
"This portrait you must purchase," he pressed with vigor. "It
is of Abu Talib Kalim, who became poet laureate to the Emperor Shah Jahan.
You are no doubt familiar with his poems, through the Englishman Bowen's
work."
"Whoever shall attain
the goal of Wisdom
Will close his lips for good on "Where" and "Why;"
The camel-bell relapses into silence
When once we reach the Caravanserai."
"And also,"
continued our host,
"The World is a very
ancient battered Tome,
In which its tale is writ;
Alas, the first and the concluding pages
Have fallen out of it."
"Abu Talib," said
Subhana, "although born a Persian, came to love Kashmir and he died in
Kashmir. His work is very well known, has been translated into many languages
and many of his phrases have become familiar proverbs of the people."
Subhana sighed.
"There was a brilliant young poet," he said, "who preceded him
by a quarter of a century, who was prominent in the court of Jahangir, the
father of Shah Jahan, and who resembled Abu Talib Kalim in many respects.
Both received their secular and religious training in Persia, both wrote in
Persian and both were deeply influenced by my beloved country of
Kashmir."
"Unfortunately," continued Subhana, giving me a sharp glance,
"the earlier poet, whom I would call Ghulam the Singer, became involved
in a court scandal. The record is not clear, but it is believed that the
Emperor banished Ghulam and in anger, seized and destroyed all of the young
poet's books and original manuscript. Thus, Ghulam the Singer is unknown,
except as tales have been handed down through family and friends, of his
character and his piety and his prowess, and as a few historians and scholars
have tried to piece together references to him in old books."
"I will tell you more of Ghulam the Singer after our evening
repast," said Subhana.
"Ghulam," he added, "was known among his intimates as
Bulbul."
We enjoyed our picnic supper. Following it, we were no little surprised when
two shikharas pulled alongside simultaneously and four men and a woman
scrambled aboard, the men carrying musical instruments. We groaned inwardly,
fearing more Kashmir ballads.
"Because," explained our host, "you enjoyed our songs the
other night, so very much, I have engaged these musicians and this dancing
girl to entertain you tonight, in the Persian style, not Kashmiri."
He introduced us to the musicians and to their Persian instruments and
ignored the dancing girl, who was a homely creature of peasant stock dressed
in pink satin flowered pajamas, wearing on both forearms innumerable
imitation gold bracelets and on her ankles elastic garters with brass bells
attached. During the program she danced two or three times, for a few minutes
each time and her dancing consisted of wiggling her hips energetically,
tossing her straight black hair back out of her eyes, raising both arms and
shaking them to make the bracelets jangle and stomping vigorously on the
carpeted floor to make the ankle bells jingle. She kept time.
The leader of the troupe was Abdul Mohammed, who played the Saz, or violin.
Mohammed Sultan played the Sentar, or banjo. Mahmud Khan played the Santoor,
or zither-type instrument. And the Tabla, or drum, was played by Nizam.
Subhana pointed out that all of the instruments were made by hand and that
the handsome Saz and Santoor were carved of wood of the mulberry tree.
Subhana announced that the first piece would be a Persian ballad about
friendship. He recited:
"You are my friend
In peace or in strife.
You are my friend;
I will give you my life.
Does man have a greater treasure?
I will give my friend my life with pleasure."
It sounded like such a very
simple theme. How easy to say it, in a few words, as only a Persian poet
could, and then go on to something else! But no. Stanza followed stanza, with
chorus repeated, and although the music and the singing were soft and
melodious and poignant, the repetition became deadly. The musicians were in
earnest; they performed so energetically that the perspiration rolled down
their faces; what could one do but applaud when they finished?
At the close of the program, we examined the instruments, chatted with the
leader Abdul Mohammed, who knew some English and knew music and played for
the Srinagar Radio Station, and then everybody was served Kashir Chai, or
Kashmir tea and raisin-filled cookies. The tea was undrinkable; it probably
started out as tea, but there had been added to it goat's milk, salt and
soda. Subhana and his compatriots smacked their lips. We indicated politely
that it was getting to be time to return to the hotel, since the morrow's
program was heavy, including the trip by horseback to Gulmarg. But Subhana
had been stirred by the Persian songs and began telling us anecdotes and
tales of Ghulam the Singer, quoting from the lost manuscripts.
"The poet sits beneath
the Chinar tree.
He reads the message of the floating cloud.
He feels the fragrance of the rose in bloom,
And breathes the bulbul's song, so clear, so loud,
His world a world of peace and reverie.
But just across the green-clad garden wall
The warrior mounts his horse and takes his spear;
His skies are filled with sweeping storms,
And in his fevered mind again appear
The ghosts of all his slain forbears, and all.
How soon, in this strange world of mystery
Must poet warrior be?"
"Ghulam the
Singer," said Subhana, "had the understanding of the Universal
Poet. Although he seemed to be, in the ghazal I have just repeated to you,
merely picturing the uncertainty of the tumultuous period in which he lived,
in reality he is presenting the essential conflict of human life, at all
times and in all places."
Subhana added, "And the ecstasy, the delicacy of his love poems. This
one is titled Not Even Eardrops':"
"O my beloved, stand
afar!
Thy beauty is so frail, so delicate;
Thy presence like a sapphire star.
My heart, with love and praise of thee,
Does like sweet waterfalls resound.
And I would bring thee gifts and jewels,
But thy beauty is so delicate, so frail,
The lightest eardrops made of pearls
Would drag thee to the ground."
"Sahib,"
murmured Subhana, moving his cushions to come closer to me, "may I tell
you in confidence that the lost manuscripts of Ghulam the Singer are in my
safe? Let me tell you how it happened. A miracle, nothing less than a
miracle! Allah be praised. Three years ago a great windstorm, like the one
that blew the day you traveled the bad road around the soft mountain below
Banihal, a great windstorm, with the heaviest rain we have seen in our lives,
set loose a tremendous landslide which destroyed the village of Bawan, near
old Islamabad. Two of my rug-weavers have small farms in that area; went to
visit the catastrophe, and, rummaging through the ruins, came upon a
strong-box which had perhaps lain unknown in a storeroom or buried in a stone
wall, for three hundred years."
"Naturally, they brought it to me. In it were the authentic manuscripts
of Ghulam the Singer, which the Emperor had ordered to be destroyed. What a
find! What a treasure!"
"Sahib, I have burned my lamps at midnight night after night, studying
the manuscripts, assembling them, looking in vain for flaws in their
genuineness, their authenticity. Sahib, there are no flaws. These are the
lost manuscripts of Ghulam the Singer, court poet to the Emperor
Jahangir."
"Sahib, what shall I do? The manuscript is invaluable. It is priceless.
What shall I do? At times I have thought of boldly carrying it down to India,
to Delhi, and arranging for its publication there. But you know how the
Indians feel about the Kashmiri. They would entrap me in legal troubles. I
have had a good record. I would not wish to endanger my business. What shall
I do?"
"I was even inspired to think up a title for the volume, The Golden
Pomegranate, by Ghulam the Singer."
It was my turn to look sharply at Subhana.
"The Englishman Bowen," I remarked rather dryly, "published a
volume of his translations of some Persian poets, in Bombay a dozen years
ago. It was beautifully illustrated and bound, and it bore the unusual title
The Golden Pomegranate."
"Do you have a copy?" asked Subhana eagerly. "I would like so
to see one."
"Sahib," whispered Subhana, nestling closer, "will you take
the manuscript off my hands? The price does not matter. What am I to do with
it? I cannot market it in India. If I go to Lahore or Teheran, I am exiled, I
am lost. The price is of no consequence. Let us agree on fifty thousand
rupees, which is nothing. The booksellers of Paris and London will give you
ten times that, and will make you famous as well. Sahib, make me an
offer."
"Subhana," I replied, "you have misjudged me. My enjoyment is
in reading the Persian poets. I have no yen to own one."
"You are jesting, Sahib," said Subhana. "But I am not jesting.
And my offer is sincere. It is a great opportunity for you."
"Subhana," I said, "you and I almost understand one another,
and in a moment I think we really will. I will not buy the manuscript, but
when I get home, I will confer with my friends in the Classics Department of
the University of Chicago, and if they advise me to do so, I will return here
(memsahib would like nothing better) and will then negotiate with you for the
lost manuscript of Ghulam the Singer, court poet to the Emperor
Jahangir."
Subhana sat upright.
In a chilled voice he asked, "You propose to ask the professors of the
Classics Department of the University of Chicago about Ghulam the Singer? Are
they your friends?"
"Yes," I replied, "they are my friends."
"Skip it," said Subhana the Worst, and he called for his hookah.
|