Gul Gulshan Gulfam Read online

  GUL GULSHAN GULFAM

  PRAN KISHORE

  Translated from the Kashmiri by

  SHAFI SHAUQ with PRAN KISHORE

  This book is Dedicated to that Valley of the Rishis

  that gave me birth,

  that Valley of the Rishis

  whose soul has been blessed

  with immortality by The Almighty,

  that Valley of the Rishis

  which has re-emerged from the most trying times

  with never-withering blossoms of celestial light.

  Contents

  PART 1

  PART 2

  P.S.

  The Dal formed an indelible imprint on my mind…

  Translator’s Note

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Praise for the Book

  Copyright

  GUL GULSHAN GULFAM

  PART 1

  ‘Don’t be clumsy! This is not the way you use the brush to rub dirt off the wood panels of a houseboat. See, you are simply concealing the natural grains of the wood.’ Snatching away the brush from Razaq’s hands, Malla Khaliq himself started removing dust and fungus from the outer sides of his houseboat.

  ‘Come closer and watch how the brush is moved over the surface of wood. When you rub the surface vertically, there won’t be any scratches on the wood, nor will it diminish its beauty. But if you apply the brush horizontally, it may erase all the grains of the wood … Now take the brush and dip it afresh in soap water. Shabaash!’

  Razaq immersed the brush in the tub containing soap water and began wiping the panels of the houseboat.

  Malla Khaliq sat on the prow of the boat, took out a pack from the deep pocket of his phiran and lit a cigarette. After taking a long puff, he stood up and sat on the uppermost step of the wooden Jacob’s ladder used for entering a houseboat from the ferry boat below. He looked all around. The little ripples on the wide expanse of the lake shimmered like flecks of gold in the afternoon sun. A smile bloomed on his lips. His eyes lit up at the feeling that the chilly winter was now in its last throes. He was convinced that life was again going to win over death and spring was approaching to shower its love over this valley of the rishis. He thought how only a couple of weeks ago, this Dal Lake had frozen into one solid sheet of ice and how their lives, too, had frozen with it. Moving even the smallest boat around had become almost impossible then.

  Malla Khaliq, while ferrying people to and fro, mixing his sweat with the waters of the lake had watched this grand panorama. For seventy long years, he had borne witness to the changing nature of the Dal Lake. Sitting at the Boulevard that skirted the lake in the south, one could have a full view of the peaks of the Harmukh mountain far up in the north. He remembered how crystal clear and clean the water of the lake was in his childhood. The reflection of the surrounding mountains created a breathtaking wonderland in it. Alas! Now algae had ensnared the entire Dal and weeds had overtaken its argentine water.

  Malla Khaliq was lost in such thoughts when he was startled by a distant call. ‘Haji Sahib! As-salaam-alaikum.’ Malla Khaliq saw Rahim Shoga approaching in a small boat, bearing all manner of merchandise to sell to the owners of the houseboats and the barges connected with them. A floating departmental store.

  ‘Is it a party of Europeans or local tourists arriving?’ Rahim Shoga asked Malla Khaliq halting near the stairs.

  ‘Who knows who is destined to be my guest. It is rather early for the tourists. But why do you ask me?’ Malla Khaliq asked, throwing the stub of his smouldering cigarette into the water.

  ‘Seeing you tidying the boats I thought you must be expecting someone. Other houseboat owners haven’t even begun thinking of putting out their carpets in the sun to dry.’

  ‘I have no interest in what other houseboat owners do.’

  ‘The turmoil in Punjab is abating now, they say. It may mean a good tourist season this year.’

  ‘Yes, if God wishes so. God alone decides what is good or bad for us,’ Malla Khaliq said, wanting to end the conversation there.

  He abhorred Rahim Shoga for being so nosy, but he was helpless as his wife Aziz Dyad trusted this talkative vendor; she was convinced that whatever he sold was of the best quality. Besides, Rahim Shoga was the only one who carried news from the city to them. News such as who was doing what and who was saying what, who was born to whom, who fought with whom, or what sort of a daughter-in-law or mother-in-law one was. Only Rahim Shoga could collect such gossip and ferry them between housewives.

  ‘I wish we get a good party of European tourists this year so that we are rid of all our wretchedness,’ Rahim Shoga continued.

  Malla Khaliq thought it wise to keep mum and stood up. Seeing this, Rahim Shoga perceived Malla Khaliq’s disinterest and changed the topic.

  ‘Is Aziz Dyad in?’

  ‘She is waiting for you,’ Malla Khaliq replied curtly.

  ‘That is fine. Salaam-alaikum!’ Having said this, Rahim Shoga paddled his boat towards the doonga, the barge anchored to the small isle between two houseboats, where Malla Khaliq had his kitchen and pantry. While rowing to the doonga, Rahim Shoga noticed Razaq cleaning the houseboat with utmost care and called out to him, ‘Hooray, my boy! If you keep on like this, I am sure you will be rewarded well by Malla Khaliq. I advise you to persist.’

  Hearing this Malla Khaliq was livid. He shouted, ‘Will you mind your own job? The lady of the house is waiting there in the kitchen.’

  But Rahim Shoga still could not contain himself and said while moving on, ‘This lad of yours seems to be quite skilful. That is why I’m egging him on. Rahim Shoga, is generally least interested in others’ affairs. Salaam-alaikum!’ Saying so he began to paddle fast.

  Malla Khaliq had three houseboats: Gul, Gulshan and Gulfam.

  The smallest one was Gul, which his father had got made after much hard labour. It was originally a doonga. Khaliq’s father had got it renovated. Malla Khaliq was born in this very boat, and naturally he was very fond of it. He, along with his wife Aziz Dyad, lodged in it. Considering it a precious heirloom, he always maintained it with his own hands.

  The second one was Gulshan, which he had made from his own earnings during the years of the German war when European tourists thronged the city.

  After the Second World War, when the British left India, tourism suffered tremendously because of the aggression of the tribesmen sent by Pakistan immediately after Independence, to let loose a reign of terror in Kashmir. Though their designs were defeated by the unity of the people and the defence forces, the lives of Kashmiris had been shattered. People who were directly connected with tourism, like the boatmen, suffered the most. Their entire livelihood depended on tourists. Many houseboat owners abandoned the occupation. Some of them decided to live on dry land and many sold their boats for paltry sums. But Malla Khaliq was a prudent man; he purchased a big houseboat that had been reduced to its keel from neglect.

  And when the political conditions improved, he engaged carpenters and erected his third houseboat. He named it Gulfam. Not knowing the meaning of the word, his wife Aziz Dyad asked him, ‘What does “Gulfam” mean?’

  ‘Gul means a flower, you know that,’ Malla Khaliq explained, casting a loving glance at her. ‘Gulshan stands for a garden, isn’t it so?’

  ‘That much I know, but what is this Gulfam?’ she asked.

  ‘Gulfam connotes a lover of flowers, or someone very handsome wearing an attire made of flowers. Thus Gul, Gulshan and Gulfam together mean our entire world.’

  Malla Khaliq took out one more cigarette from his pocket and looked at his three houseboats. He heaved a deep sigh and put the cigarette back into his pocket. He walked over to Razaq and rubbed the cedar planks of the boat with his
hand to check the smoothness achieved by Razaq’s toil. ‘Well done. Give the brush to me, I will show you how to clean the carvings of the wooden pillars.’

  He had hardly touched the brush when his daughter Parveen came in running. She snatched the brush away from his hands, threw it into the tub, and holding his arm, tried to pull him towards the isle complaining, ‘Must Amma come and implore you to have lunch? For half an hour she has been waiting with food laid out in plates. If we are to work ourselves, what is the point of getting this clumsy boy from the village?’

  Malla Khaliq guffawed. ‘Don’t you see that I am walking with you? Oh God! Don’t drag me like that. Release your hold on my arm, please. If you take a wrong step you’ll stumble and fall. You, a grandma of a daughter, do you hear?’

  ‘Moej sent you four messages that the food is ready, then why didn’t you come? I can’t let you go now.’

  ‘Okay, see, here I am going to the pantry straight away, I promise. You just release my arm.’

  ‘That’s like a good father. I shall meanwhile go call my brother. He too behaves like a prince; he wants ten people to invite him to meals.’

  Parveen let go of her father’s arm and hurried towards the next houseboat. Razaq watched her with a bewildered expression and that annoyed Parveen.

  ‘Why are you staring at me like a deer? Pick up the brush and finish the job!’

  Razaq started. He quickly took the brush from the tub. Parveen leapt like a gazelle to the next houseboat and Malla Khaliq fondly watched her go. He walked back to Razaq. ‘You too come with us to have lunch. You must be hungry. Come on, my son.’

  Razaq looked immensely grateful. Malla Khaliq laid his hand warmly upon his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t be frightened – this crazy daughter of mine is wont to govern all of us like that. Being the youngest, she is the most beloved of all.’ In the meantime, Parveen was heard saying at her highest pitch: ‘No more envoys will come to call you! You hear me, my brother?’ Hearing her angry voice, Malla Khaliq also started. ‘Now I shall have no excuses. She cannot pardon me further,’ Khaliq said to himself as he quickened his pace to the pantry. His second son, Ghulam Ahmed, also came out of the houseboat and walked towards the pantry. Razaq, who was following Malla Khaliq, stood close to the wall to make space for Ghulam Ahmed, and raised his hand to him in salute. Seeing Ghulam Ahmed’s eyes flash in anger at the gesture, he put his hand down, and followed him meekly.

  No sooner had Malla Khaliq entered the kitchen than his wife unleashed her anger on him. ‘So finally you have found the time to be kind enough to come for lunch!’ Sitting down beside Malla Khaliq, she began putting rice into bowls for her daughters-in-law, and continued saying, ‘If they want the rice to go cold in their vessels, I won’t be cooking for them henceforth. I shall ask them to arrange for a chef to serve them according to their whims.’

  ‘But how can a chef know how to make minced kale and onion paste like you?’ Hearing Malla Khaliq’s words, the daughters-in-law, already assembled there, could hardly stop tittering. Malla Khaliq nestled closer to his wife and tried to calm her down with his praises. ‘No, I am not flattering you. If you go on strike, this Malla Khaliq of yours shall die of hunger.’

  ‘Now stop it. Do not enrage me further. You are a completely shameless fellow!’

  ‘Yes, I always was.’ Saying so, he laughed boisterously. He stopped short and morosely pulled both his ears to beg for pardon. The daughters-in-law struggled to suppress their laughter.

  Snapping at them, Aziz Dyad said, ‘Stop giggling and pass on these bowls of rice!’

  This was the routine lunch hour when Malla Khaliq’s whole family came together.

  Malla Khaliq had three sons and one daughter. All the sons were married. His eldest son was Noor Mohammad and his wife was Mukhta. The second son was Ghulam Ahmed and his wife was Zoon. The youngest one was Ghulam Qadir and his wife was called Zeb. Parveen was the only daughter. The siblings were very different from each other, especially in their temperaments. The eldest son, Noor Mohammad, was a replica of his father – the same seriousness, the same honest dealings, the same demeanour and the same humility. He was fortunate to have found a wife who was compatible with his nature. Noor Mohammad, like his father, had great pride in belonging to the Mir Bahris caste – sons of the waters. But his second son, Ghulam Ahmed, was not interested in the business of houseboats. He was impatient to be affluent and occasionally bid for and purchased fruits from the orchards to sell later on and make some money. And when he wasn’t satisfied with the harvest, he dreamed of shifting trades and becoming a wholesale merchant. But it was his misfortune that any business he ventured into did not do him any good. Whenever he would get into trouble, he coerced his wife to go and beg for money from her father, Naba Kantroo.

  Naba Kantroo was also a boatman by profession, but when he abjured this vocation and decided to dwell on land, he prospered within a few months. There were many rumours about his success. Some believed that he prospered from illegal trafficking of hashish, but many others believed that he had won a big lottery from some agency outside the valley. The real story of his success was shrouded in mystery. In order to display his virtue and put a stop to the rumours, he opened a shop with a large and gaudy signboard bearing the name ‘Kantroo and Sons: Developers and Builders’ in bold letters. All this notwithstanding, Malla Khaliq never liked having any association with his second son’s father-in-law. His son would have never married his daughter if she wasn’t related to Malla Khaliq’s wife, Aziz Dyad. Nevertheless, the girl was fairly modest.

  Malla Khaliq’s youngest son, Ghulam Qadir, was a novice in the trade; romantic and mischievous, he was a graduate by education and had a close association with boys from affluent families. He nursed an intense desire to be rich, that too quickly. It was during his days in college that he seduced a pretty girl from a respected family. Malla Khaliq then had no option but to inquire into the girl’s family background, character and moral demeanour. Satisfied with what he found out, he sought his wife’s consent and proceeded to have Ghulam Qadir married to her. Within one year of their union, a lovely baby boy was born to the couple and Malla Khaliq fondly christened him Bilal. Malla Khaliq was already a grandfather to Nisar, Noor Mohammad’s son, who was studying medicine. Ahmed, too, had a son, but he had been coaxed into living with his maternal grandfather, Naba Kantroo, much to Malla Khaliq’s chagrin.

  When Malla Khaliq squatted to have his meals, he happened to glance at Razaq who was standing near the water tap. He called out to Razaq, ‘Why are you still standing there? Why don’t you come in and have your food?’

  Aziz Dyad got irked and said, ‘Why should he come in? Parveen, take this bowl of rice and hand it over to him.’

  Parveen took the aluminium bowl filled with food, daintily ambled out and gave it to Razaq. She came back into the kitchen, took her own bowl of food from her mother and nestled close to her father.

  Malla Khaliq fondly cast a glance at his family. He noticed with a furrowed brow that his youngest son, Qadir, was not there. ‘Where is Qadir? Was he not supposed to be here for lunch?’

  ‘Yes, of course he was. God knows where he has gone,’ Aziz Dyad replied.

  Malla Khaliq asked Qadir’s wife, Zeb, ‘Did he not tell you where he was going?’

  ‘He said that he was to go to the airport.’ Saying this, Zeb immediately hung her head and feigned mixing some curry with the rice on her plate.

  Upon her response, an incredulous Ahmed exclaimed to his father, ‘As if visitors are waiting in queues for us at the airport. Not even a mongrel is visible there, or at the Tourist Reception Centre.’

  Hearing this Aziz Dyad retorted, ‘No one appreciates his efforts here.’

  ‘What feat has he accomplished so far, that we do not appreciate his efforts?’ Ahmed said sarcastically.

  Hearing this, Malla Khaliq sharply responded, ‘Yes, you alone have many achievements to your credit. We all know how you repaid every penny of the bank loan!’
/>   ‘Had the hailstorm not hit the orchard in the spring bloom, I would certainly have repaid the whole loan in just one instalment.’

  ‘Are you talking of debts of the bank or what you owe your father-in-law?’ Saying this pejoratively to Ahmed, he looked at Zoon who bent her head. A strained silence prevailed for a few minutes.

  Aziz Dyad caught sight of Razaq, who was following the conversation. She broke the silence by loudly asking her husband, ‘Have you finished or you want some more rice?’ Razaq started, red-faced and hurriedly swallowed his last morsel and went outside.

  Aziz Dyad chided her husband, ‘You have no limits! You never think about the people around you before you speak. Are you not ashamed of revealing our family’s problems in the presence of a servant who has come only recently?’

  ‘The poor urchin is caught up in his own problems! Why should he pay attention to ours?’

  ‘Come, come! He is not a poor waif. The brute looks downwards, but his ears are always perked up this way.’

  Malla Khaliq ordered Razaq who was waiting outside, ‘Go now, my dear son.’

  Razaq left his bowl near the threshold and walked away towards the houseboat. Aziz Dyad was still enraged by her husband’s words and burst out, ‘You never care about your own sons, but you are keen to bring street waifs into our home and treat them like your sons! Do what you like, but I must tell you that they are not to stay here for long. They shall collect their month’s dues and the bundle of clothes that you give them, and leave the house like night burglars, without letting anyone know.’

  ‘But this boy is a different sort. I assure you, he is certain to continue here.’

  ‘How is he different?’ retorted Aziz Dyad.

  Noor Mohammad, who was silently listening, turned to his father and said, ‘I too feel that this chap is quite gentle and thorough.’

  ‘Oh, not you too! You are sure to defend what your father says,’ said Aziz Dyad.