The Land of Love

The Land of Love

Everyone knows that Shahid was my friend, and a very close friend. It is another matter that he was rich and I was poor. But in our friendship he never thought of that, and I never, God forbid, took any advantage of his money. Indeed I would say that I was rather the loser by his friendship. In the evening we two go out from the boarding house for a stroll. Shahid is thirsty. He says, "Come on, let's have something to drink." We stop at some shop. He has two bottles of lemonade opened. He drinks one, I drink one. After drinking I take out the money and give it to the shopkeeper. Shahid keeps saying "No, no," but I don't listen to a word. Believe me, if it had been someone of my own standing I would certainly have made him pay half; but simply because he was rich I paid myself, so that no one should have room to say, "He made friends with Shahid because he was a rich man's son."

Anyway, in our student days he and I were always together. I took my B.A.; he took his B.A. too. I began to prepare for the pleader's examination, and he gave up his studies and went home. After sitting the pleader's examination I went to stay with him for a few days. Good heavens, it was a great establishment: servants, carriages and horses, house, garden; in short, everything God gives was there. He received me with great affection, introduced me to his father, and kept complaining that I had not written. Again and again he said, "Brother, I'm in great trouble. I can't manage the work of the estate, and my revered father forces me into it."

In the evening he took me out in the carriage to show me the sights. The little town is very populous; but the trouble is that it is built like an island right in the middle of the river. From what he said I learnt too that the floods of this river had often damaged the town; but people liked the place so much that they would not hear of leaving it. Well, after spending a few days like this I came home. I began to practise as a pleader; by God's grace the practice went well. Some two years must have passed when a telegram came from Shahid. It said: "Arriving by this evening's train. Send a conveyance to the station." In the evening I went to the station myself in my motor car. Shahid got down from the train laughing and said, "Hullo, Mirza! I'm sick of life. I don't know what to do. The fact is, the estate accounts have killed me. I thought, come on, go and stay with your friend for a few days; perhaps it'll cheer you up. No sooner thought than I was off. My revered father did try to stop me, but when he heard your name he fell silent. Besides, it wasn't the season for collecting the dues, so he didn't think it necessary to stop me for that reason either."

Because of Shahid I had my own bed brought into the men's quarters too. At night the wretch started such topsy-turvy talk that he made sleep impossible. I don't know why, but in those days my stories were very much liked. Every now and then Shahid would ask the same question: "Friend, tell me, how do you write such essays? I try too, but when I don't like my own essay myself, why should anyone else like it? I tell you, I never thought you were like this. You turned out to be a dark horse. By God, if I could write essays like that I'd be made. Write one page and the whole day's worries would be gone."

I said, "Shahid, I tell you truly, I don't know myself how I manage to write these essays, and God alone knows why people like them. If you'll take my advice, I'll give you some: get married. Then, caught up in the quarrels of housekeeping, all these difficulties will become easy, and you'll find plenty of material for essays too." Shahid put his hand over my mouth and said, "Mirza, for God's sake don't let such ill-omened words out of your mouth. Me, get married! Haven't I enough troubles after me already, without tying the tail of a wife on to myself as well? What I want is to stay free and still have my heart amused." I said, "Sir, that's rather a difficult thing. Only two kinds of men have that: madmen or lovers. Well, becoming a madman is beyond you. But you could become a lover. And then you'll have both sweets in your hands: you'll get your freedom, and you'll become a writer besides. And what a writer! The kind of whom people say, 'Glory to the Lord!' If all India doesn't cry out, hold me responsible."

I had said this in jest, but God knows why Shahid fell to thinking. I even tried to change the subject, but once he had fallen silent he answered nothing I said. At last, while I was still talking, I fell asleep too. When I woke in the morning, what do I see but Shahid's bed lying empty. I called a servant and asked. I learnt that the gentleman had left by the four o'clock train. I scolded all the servants for not waking me; but what could the poor fellows do? Shahid had told them, "I'm going with my brother's permission. Why wake him needlessly and bother him?"

In the morning I washed, had breakfast and came to my office. Some clients had arrived; I went over their cases with them. Towards nine the post came. I looked at the letters, picked up the newspaper and turned it this way and that. In one place it said in big letters, "Destruction of a Town." I don't know why I felt like reading the news. I may have read two or four lines when my heart began to sink and the letters began to swim before my eyes. Alas, Shahid's whole family had been destroyed. The entire town had been washed away. Was that even a river worth the name, to bring on such a calamity? And what season of floods was it? You can only say that the death of all those poor people had come. O God, have mercy on poor Shahid. Let the poor fellow not go mad from the shock.

I sent a telegram to Shahid at once, but only two hours later the reply came: "Town completely destroyed; no one there to deliver telegram to." Saying "To God we belong and to Him we return," I fell silent; but such a blow struck my heart that for several days I could not eat or drink. Night or day, the same worry: what must have befallen the people of that town, and what would befall poor Shahid? [TN: *Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji'un*, the Quranic words said on hearing of a death.]

It is now a little over a year since that event. Today at about two o'clock I received a letter. The letter is certainly Shahid's. The style of writing is his, the manner of address is his, the spelling is his, the composition is his; but the contents do not seem like his. God knows whether Shahid has gone mad or whether there is some other secret. I cannot make it out. I copy the letter here. Will some good person tell me what on earth this business is? From the "first of April" one would think that this friend of mine has been joking; but the sequence of events and the ordering of the words say no... there is truth in it, certainly truth, whether we can understand it or not. Anyway, here it is.

From Mas'hura,
1 April of the current year [TN: *Mas'hura*, "the bewitched (place)"; it is a made-up name.]

Dear friend! May God deal with you! Out of the blue you have trapped me in the calamity of love. If I had not come to you that day I would not have fallen into these difficulties. My family were swept away; I would have been swept away with them. I would not have lived, and I would not have fallen into this tangle of love. Well then, listen. That day you dropped off to sleep in the middle of talking, and I began to think that Mirza's scheme was "a fine one." Come, why not go somewhere and become a lover? If you become a true lover, what more could you want? If it is only a passing attachment, you'll become a writer. This too is a way of trying your luck; try it and see. In short, thinking this over, it struck three. The train left at four. I got up and quietly began to tie up my bedding. I don't know why your servant Burhan woke up. He took me for a thief, and it would not have been surprising if he had come and struck me with a stick, for his creeping up on tiptoe was not without a purpose. But when he recognised me he was rather flustered.

I assured him that I was going with your permission: I had only come to consult you about a case; the hearing was tomorrow, and if I did not go by the four o'clock train there would be a loss. Hearing this, he too helped me collect my things. I had the luggage put on his head and reached the station. In a little while the train came. I bought a ticket and got in. For God's sake don't say anything to Burhan; the poor fellow is not to blame in this. At the junction I bought a newspaper. What was written in it you must have read too. Now you tell me: when neither house nor home remained, nor father and mother, brothers and sisters, nor house, savings or land, what would I do by going home? I was sitting there in bewilderment and distress at this thought when an old gentleman got in at Marghubabad. He was so talkative, God save us! As soon as he sat down he took possession of my box of cigarettes and began smoking them one after another so fast that in a little while he had murdered nine cigarettes. His talk was so entertaining that I did not think it right to take the box away from in front of him.

In the course of conversation he said, "A little way from our Marghubabad, in the middle of the hills, there is a village. There is such a wicked spell in the air and water there that no sooner does anyone set foot in it than he falls in love. And the fun of it is that whoever goes there never thinks of coming back. At first there was a great rush of people going: today this one went, tomorrow that one. But for some time now the government has forbidden anyone to go there, and people themselves are afraid to go; so the caravans of lovers go that way rather less now. Brother, in my opinion fairies live there. They put some spell on human beings and so ensnare them that no servant of God ever thinks of coming back. That is why everyone calls it Mas'hura."

This subject was so interesting that I forgot all my grief. At first I thought the old man was just spinning yarns; but when the good fellow swore oaths and gave details of the place, I too began to half believe it. I thought, "Shahid, since this is the only way left to pass your life, if the old man's story turns out true you'll get on nicely." So with this thought I got down at the next station. A little later I caught the down train too, travelled in it and reached Marghubabad. I got down from the train and gave my luggage into the station master's charge. It was already morning.

Tonga-drivers were standing at the station. I said to one, "Tonga-driver, will you take me to Mas'hura?" Hearing this he stared at my face. I said, "Why, is it a crime to go to Mas'hura?" He said, "Go on, sir, get away! You want to get me arrested by the police. What you've said, you've said; don't let that word out of your mouth again, or you'll be caught." Well, from this talk I learnt at least that there was some truth in the old man's story. I spent the whole day wandering here and there, quietly asking the *ekka*-drivers, tonga-drivers, carters and wagoners to go to Mas'hura, but not one of them would agree to go.

At last, in the evening, an old carter said, "Sir, I'll take you, but on one condition: I'll leave you five miles this side of Mas'hura; after that it's your business. The night is dark. Meet me outside the village at nine. I'll hide the cart in the bushes. When everyone in the village is asleep, we'll set off for the hills. But, sir, I'll take fifty rupees. You know that if anyone gets the least wind that I've taken a traveller towards Mas'hura, it'll be the end of me."

Anyway, everything was settled with the old man. I went to the station, took a few things and wrapped them in a small bedroll. The trunk and the rest of the luggage I handed over to the station master, paying the charge. I ate something at the hotel, took something with me, and at nine reached the outskirts of the village. Here the carter was waiting for me. First of all he made me count out the full fifty rupees; then, loading my things on his back, he set off in one direction. I went with him. At about a mile's distance the bushes began. In these bushes, to one side, his bullocks were tied and the cart stood. Till about ten or half past I lay in the cart on my bedding, and the carter lay to one side wrapped in his blanket, holding his breath. It must have been about eleven when he said to me, "Come, sir, it's time." I said, "Come on, I've been ready all along." He yoked the bullocks to the cart, gathered up the fodder and so on into the net, put the cart on the footpath, and in the silent night this caravan of two men set off, God knows in what direction.

The cool, cool breeze of the night, the scent of the green, green grass and the soft jolting of the cart sent me to sleep. I was sleeping soundly when the carter shook me awake and said, "Here we are, sir. Get down. We go no further than this. Look, there's still a chance. Come back with me; and then don't say that this old man ruined you." I begged him hard: "Old man, take me a little further. I don't know the way. It's a dark night. God knows where I'll end up. Take a bit more money."

But that old man was not one to give in. He said, "Now, sir, will you get down or not? I've got to get home before morning. Do you mean to ruin me along with yourself? If you don't get down, I'll turn the cart round." The hermit's wrath falls on the hermit's own head. I got down from the cart, put the bundle of things on my shoulder, asked the old man the way, and set off in this style to become a lover. The carter turned his cart and fled with such a rush, as fast as his legs would carry him, that in a little while he was out of sight. For a while the rattle of the cart could still be heard; after that there was utter silence.

Where the carter had left me, the climb up the hill ended and the descent began. All around it was so pitch dark that you could not see your hand before you. Long grass, tall trees and black rocks made a strange and fearful scene. I am not a coward, but I tell you truly that several times the thought came: Shahid, go back. Really, what trouble have you got yourself into for nothing? Then I thought: friend, here it's a case of "no strength to go on, no foothold to stay." If you go back, what do you know of the way even to Marghubabad? Now that it's fallen on you, bear it. You bought all this trouble with your own hands.

In short, I went on thinking and putting one foot before the other. God knows how far I went in this tug of war of thoughts. About two or two and a half hours later the dawn began. A soft, cool breeze blew. Slowly the trees began to sway, and the birds to sing in sweet, sweet notes. Distant things little by little took shape. In the east the edges of the black clouds turned pink. The mist gathered up its white cloak. The dew made ready to depart. The golden platter of the sun leapt up on to the horizon. There, it was morning.

Right in front was a small village, but someone of fine taste had laid it out in such a way that the sight of it went straight to the heart. In the lovely hour of morning, its white, white houses, little gardens in front of every house, clean, neat footpaths, green fields, narrow channels brimming with water along the edges of the fields, and in the distance the bright sand and in it the blue water of the river made such a delightful scene as I cannot describe. I stopped where I was and gazed for a long time at this charming and enchanting sight. At last, saying *Bismillah*, I set off, and in a little while reached the village. I had only got as far as the second house when the door opened and out came such a heart-ravishing being that the purpose for which I had set out was achieved. After that, don't ask what happened or how it happened. Anyway, thank God, my labours were rewarded.

God bless that toothless old traveller and the old carter, for between them they brought me to Paradise. Now no one here lets me go, and I don't want to go myself. I have not the power to describe things here, nor have you the capacity to hear and understand. All I know is this:

If there is a Paradise on the face of the earth,
It is this, it is this, it is this. [TN: Persian couplet, famously said of Kashmir.]

Go on, friend, you're the loser. You rack your brains all day, and at night too you can't sleep in peace.

With greetings,
Your old friend,
Shahid!

P.S. After a year's effort a way has been found to get this letter into the post. God grant it gets into the mail and reaches you. Shahid

There you are: this is Shahid's letter. Now you tell me, what is this business? I went through all the railway guides; I could find no trace of any station called Marghubabad. I inquired at the post offices, asked the telegraph people, tried to have the smudged postmark on the letter read; but all my efforts were wasted. At last, worn out, I gave up. Then the thought came: why not have the whole affair printed in some magazine? Perhaps some servant of God can solve this riddle. Now let us see whether you people can solve it. My purpose is not that I want to go to Mas'hura myself, but to find out where on earth this clever fellow has gone, and how he is. You think it over, and I'll think it over too. Perhaps someone's wits will hit on it and Shahid will be found. It is also possible that another letter will come from Shahid and something more will be learnt of Mas'hura's whereabouts. Anyway, if a letter of his comes, I will have that printed too, so that you and I may both be rid of this perplexity. [TN: *Marghubabad*, "the desirable town", is also a made-up name.]