The Author's Preface

Preface: The Secret of the Subtle Makers of Phrases

This is the preface to the secret of the makers of conceits,
this is the index of thoughts that melt the soul [TN: Persian]

This is the amulet of the heart for the adorners of speech,
this is the scroll of the madness of those who play at love [TN: Persian]

At the hour of false dawn, an untimely cock caught the soft tread of the poor cat, and in a fright let out his cock-a-doodle-doo; and our dear Habib Labib, subtle of wit and fresh of breath, who had been stretching out in sweet sleep since early evening, no sooner heard this pleasant sound than he sat up with a start. The moment his eyes opened, his lips broke into a smile.

And what should he see but that the spring clouds and the musk-scented breeze had made the whole city a copy of the garden of Iram. A poet, a lover of beauty, wayward of temper, colourful of mind, free of spirit: where would he find the strength to stay caged in a house? Like the scent of a rose he set out. By the grace of a bright mind, at every step a line of Rekhta verse composed itself in his head. And who was there to praise it? He nodded his head to himself and uttered "Bravo!" and "Well done!" and so on, and bowed and saluted himself.

So our determined Habib, with his mouth pursed like a bud, was walking along when two oddly assorted gentlemen came into view. One was dressed in a fashion unlike anything in the world: khaki trousers, black jacket, yellow coat, loose waistcoat, thick beard like a rabbit's bush, half-boots on his feet, striding along at double time with a clip-clop. The other worthy was shapely of limb, delicate of gait, rosy of hue: a green-dyed kurta of Cambridge lawn, and over it a fitted angarkha of fine stripe, three-cornered at the waist, with rupa-gazwali trim; he wore churidar breeches of rose-coloured silk, his hair plastered down in flat curls like a courtesan's, scented with attar-e-arus, a dainty little cap no bigger than a masha, with spangles, pinned on with an Alpine pin. His hands were red with henna, rings on every finger joint, a line of kohl in his eyes, and on his feet small-toed yellow velvet slippers with turned-up tips; he swayed his waist with a peculiar sway and put down each step as if blowing on the ground. These eyes stared hard at them, and they stared hard at these. And our dear Habib Labib cast one careless glance at each. From their looks he guessed that both were men of fixed passions. Just then the delicate gentleman called out with a smile. Now see the fun, and what a delightful exchange of banter takes place.

Delicate-Limbed One: Mian Passer-by! Oh, Mian Passer-by! Do look this way for a moment! Heavens, he is riding the horse of the wind. My heart leaps like a cat. In the thick of the monsoon, oh dear, if he slips and falls there will be roars of laughter, the fellows will have their fun. Let it land on the poor man's skull; mind your head, Jafar!

Passer-by: (stopping) At your service! Say what you want. Never mind my slipping.

Delicate-Limbed One: If you go to the bad, be sure to ask me.

Passer-by: Very good, I certainly shall, in fact I would even take you with me when I fall: you below, your humble servant on top. God willing.

Delicate-Limbed One: What sort of half-baked get-up is this you have made? Isn't it you that people mock as "Goddamn-Mir"?

Passer-by: How did you come to like this women's fashion? Are you perhaps the famous Chhammi Jan?

Chhammi Jan: (the same delicate-limbed one) By God, from your black clothes I thought Mian Azad had stepped out of an indigo field, the one we used to hear of. Aren't you he?

Passer-by: By Hazrat Abbas, seeing you I thought some woman was swaying along, or a courtesan of the highest class was coming in a man's disguise.

Chhammi Jan: By God, your get-up is the strangest of all. This double coat and these wood-splitting boots, God bless you, and again God bless you.

Azad: Good heavens, what henna-reddened hands! Oh, what charm! This coquetry, this adornment, this sway, this slender waist, this polish of the eye, this boldness of glance. May God keep those kohl-dark eyes from the evil eye of perfection. May God make you a man.

Chhammi Jan: You are so flustered now; where were you running off to at such a pace? Tell the truth, by our life. May he drink our blood who tells a lie or a half-truth.

Azad: Today Professor Locke is to deliver a lecture on the superiority of the sacred language Sanskrit. This gentleman is a very holy man and a unique scholar, the one of his age, famed in lands and cities. It is a blessing to visit him.

Chhammi Jan: God forbid! By God, how coarse you are. What bad taste. You call this professor famous? I have lived this long and if I ever heard the name, take my oath. Is he more famous than Danny Khan? The moment his name comes to my tongue the pleasure of that company flits before my eyes, and I know nothing else. Brother, say what you will, your curly hair; hear him sing just once and you will not forget it all your life. By God, what a voice with a lilt in it! It is just as if someone were playing the snake-charmer's pipe. But what have blockheads like you to do with a sweet throat and delicate voice? You are caught in the professor's snare. Stuck-up, and off to hear a lecture. Three curses on such taste.

Azad: My lord, say whatever curses you wish to me. Make a fool of me. But for God's sake do not let wicked words fall from your tongue against such a pure-souled man, the pride of mankind, an eloquent subtle mind and a venerable gentleman. Today he is reckoned throughout Europe the most perfect scholar, the most distinguished learned man, and thousands benefit from the exquisite researches of this deep scholar.

Your pure pearl needs not our praise,
what can the hand of the adorner add to God-given beauty? (Hafiz) [TN: Persian]

Chhammi Jan: Well, sir, in what tune is this verse set? By God, it deserves to be sung.

Azad: God bless you, and may the devil's curse fall on your tune. Heaven help me! Never mind praising the verse, he asks in what tune it is set. Ask a drummer's child about tunes, I know nothing of tunes and such. Ask me about metre, scansion, the sea of prosody, and I will satisfy you. I see you are drowned in it. My lord! This dancing and revelling has brought you to such a pass that you have trimmed your moustache and beard, applied henna, and taken a liking to women's ways. For God's sake be a man now. Give up these ways.

Chhammi Jan: Oh, so I should go off to your Professor Locke? Swear allegiance to your master of the tavern? Turn from a man into a eunuch? Make myself a "Goddamn-Mir" like you? If you walked out into any lane, by God, the dogs would nip at your legs for that get-up. Look at your own get-up! A lion on the outside only. Preach to others, shame yourself.

Azad: Now tell me, where were you setting out for just now?

Chhammi Jan: Last night until three o'clock I was at a gay friend's, taking part in a party of dance and song. By God, such lovely faces came into view, wow, wow! Who would want to get up? When the gathering broke up, clutching my heart with both hands, I got up too, a cold wind, but my heart remained caught in the tresses of those moon-faced beauties. All night the sound of chhama-chham rang in my ears. The sweet faces of those fairies kept turning before my eyes. Every pair there was unlike anything in the world, the calamity of the age, deliverers of disaster; wherever you looked a world of light, some like the sun, some like the moon; but that moon-like face I shall not forget, I shall not forget. Alas, I shall not forget it till my dying breath; even a hundred-year-old ascetic who saw it would worship that idol without a master. Now I am going straight back, just to warm my eyes. Bhairavi will be in full swing. "The honey-eyed girls have cast their noose!"

Azad: If you have time tomorrow, do meet me.

Chhammi Jan: Tomorrow, no chance of meeting. Until tomorrow I shall have the hangover of sleep.

Azad: Well, never mind, let it be the day after.

Chhammi Jan: The day after! Why, the day after, even if the Lord of Forgiveness himself summoned me, your servant would not go. The day after there is a quail fight at the nawab's. For months the quails have been readied. Two of them have been put through their paces; look this way or that, see how my Tori kicks and drives forward, so that the best of them run away at the first peck of its tail.

Azad: Well, sir! If not the day after, then meet on Monday.

Chhammi Jan: On Monday at dawn there will be a kite-fight at Hane. I have just had the string brought from Banaras. By God, it is Mahi-Jal kite-string, and the kites are so well trained that they are always under control. Turn, dive, pull, do what you like, like a thoroughbred horse. Brother, in the matter of pulling, the foreigner is the Galen of his art.

Azad: Good heavens! Then Tuesday is gone too. Wednesday I am free.

Chhammi Jan: Wow, wow, on Wednesday there is going to be a great spectacle: a fight between the innkeepers' women. Just see what fairy-faced innkeepers' women they are, with what a charming air they flash their hands and wag their fingers as they fight, and what unpunctuated abuse they pour out, bless us all.

Azad: Thursday we must certainly meet. I beg you in God's name.

Chhammi Jan: Sir, you are very crotchety. I would meet you, certainly, if I had the time. Here I have no time even to die. This Thursday is the Nauchandi Thursday. God knows whose promises will be fulfilled. I have made vows for years. You know nothing of the world and what is in it. You have only one concern, the professor, and the other, the lecture. The rest is God, God and all good.

Azad: Enough, sir! Meeting and the like is now a lost matter. Leisure is a phoenix, a meeting a non-existent thing. Today you will have cocks fight, tomorrow you will fly kites. The day after you will go to the quail fight. Somewhere a party of dance and song will be arranged, somewhere a feast of joy decorated. Unless you grace it with your presence, how will it shine? The success of the dancing girls is by your breath, the delight of the gathering by the favour of your step. As for fairs and festivals, I suppose none ever slips past you. So what chance of meeting is left:

I have no leisure from the lecture and you none from your jigging,
come, enough, the meeting is done, no leisure here, none there.

Farewell! The friend lives, and companionship remains. If we live we shall meet.

Chhammi Jan: Oh Lord, why are you going off in a huff? Without cause, without fault, such tyranny and cruelty!

You taught cruelty and learned nothing of faith,
I have a quarrel with your teacher over this faulty lesson [TN: Persian]

Azad: Enough, sir! For God's sake let me go free now. You do the talking and I come over faint. Three letters on these occupations of yours: L, A, N. You and I are like the Ganges and the Madar, bound together. Your servant loves reading books, you have a taste for beat and tune. I scan verses, you shake your head over tunes. Go, go, with your cool, cool airs, get some fresh air. See, the pleasure of Bhairavi is slipping away. Time gone does not come back to the hand.

Chhammi Jan: Brother, I swear by the Commander of the Faithful, peace be upon him, that now my eyes thirst to see a dance. Where is that glitter now? That uproar and that equipment are gone, that zeal and that desire are gone; the heart itself has gone out. But I have seen the old gatherings. Wherever I heard the thump of the tabla and the boom of the bass drum, there I turned up. And friend, the pleasures we saw, the king of the seven climes, some crooked-capped Khaqan or world-sheltering Khusrau, would not have been granted them even in a dream. This Qaisar Bagh was the envy of the Garden of Naim, a copy of the highest paradise. Wherever you looked, green-clad rose-coloured youths; wherever you went, cup-drinkers with golden teeth. Here a crowd of fairies, there the uproar of moon-faced ones; some the envy of the beauties of Chigil, some Gulbazar, daughters of the stars. That keen glance, that heart-stealing, that boldness, that colourful grace; the sorely wounded lovers, weeping and wailing, breathing their last in separation. Let the lovers' lives go. If they lifted their eyes to look, then the beloved would say "What, you here?" Oh, the pride and coquetry and airs:

Beauty's pride gave leave, but O rose, it did not allow
that you should ask after the distracted nightingale. [TN: Persian]

Great ascetics of a hundred years forgot their rosaries and prayers. Fine pious men began to recite the creed of their book-like faces. One graceful glance mixed years of devotion with the dust:

Her hand clawed, and the garment of piety was torn,
my hundred years of worship was plundered by a single glance [TN: Persian]

So what is left here now? Dogs roll in the lanes. And ever since dogs began fetching two gandas, even they are not to be seen. Praise be, God, God! There was a time when the cupbearers' tempers could not be matched. Dashing, sidelong-glancing sons of the rich threw away two gold mohurs for a single moment, clink-clank and chhan-chhan; and now it is a time when if you search the whole city from one end to the other with a candle you will find no candle-faced, amber-haired, moon-eyed beauty with a mirror-like lap; the field is empty. No mill, no temple, no one with a trick.

Yesterday I bought two seers of the last ebony from Muhammad Ali's shop and, coming out of Farangi Mahal toward the New Road, I saw an elephant tied at the corner, tossing grass up with its trunk. I asked, "Friend, whose elephant is this?" A fine, well-dressed, well-made young man spoke up: "Sir, this is Bi Haidar Jan's elephant." By God, lying and eating pork are the same. By God, I was so delighted that my eyes filled with tears. My head bowed, my heart overflowed. Oh, what a rise in the world!

God keep Lucknow flourishing, for it is still a mercy
that now and then some pretty face still comes in view.

Thank God that in Lucknow there are still lords of such company. And if there were not, how would the world stand? By God, if one even wished to visit anyone, are those people there? Those affections are not there, that bustle is not there. By God, the spring of Qaisar Bagh and the glow of the fairy-bodied beauties came back before my eyes just now. Wherever you turned, red and only red, tulips in bloom. And in the spring of those tulips, bud-mouthed, rose-bodied, rose-coloured, rose-skinned ones with a great show flashed and hid and showed their charm. A world of light: every day an Eid, every night the Night of Barat, her arena all around, the fairyland checkmated. If some cypress-tall beauty hid in the shade of a green tree, she made the tree flourish. The buds saw some bud-mouthed one and opened. The flirting glances of the dark-eyed narcissus, the sharp tongue of the lily, the sweet voice of the nightingale: in short, the garden full of delight, and the moon-browed beauties, with their Faridun glory and Jamshid majesty, made the garden of Iram, the houris of paradise and angels of light seem to be there. Even now it is a mercy that once or twice a month, through the favour of some colour-loving friend, we warm our eyes at some fiery-faced beauty:

For the nightingale's consolation the hunter
has filled a tank of rosewater in a corner of the cage.

Azad: By God, how happy they were. Wine in the morning, a sweetheart in the evening. The thump of the tabla, the boom of the bass drum, the chhum-chhum of anklets, the flame of voices bright as lightning and longing. The tapping of feet, the fragrance of attar, the gleam of radiant cheeks; but, they lost all their lives for nothing, and stayed fools.

Mian Azad delivered this tangled line so spontaneously and at just the right moment that our dear Habib Labib burst out laughing, and let out such a peal of laughter, as if on demand, that the colour drained from Chhammi Jan's face. Now a third party to the affair, an onlooker, was also quietly listening to the whole tale.

Habib Labib: (to Chhammi Jan) Sir! My salute to you. I am sacrificed to this eloquence and richness of speech! God bless you, with what grace and what style you have drawn a portrait of the old gatherings. We have seen many fluent-tongued men, but you are the most unusual of all. By God, you are the Salman Savaji of your age:

Sweet-voiced birds are there in the garden of speech, but
the wail of this frenzied nightingale is something else [TN: Persian]

Your magic of speech has done its work this instant, but sir, tell the truth: what did you gain from those gatherings, did you come out with a bright face or a blackened one? Were you at ease or ruined? Here the eye is on the result.

Chhammi Jan: Sir, this is a very harsh question. One is the loss of capital, the second the taunts of the neighbours. The truth is that all my life I was caught in the snare of this dance and colour. Day and night tabla, sarangi, bass drum, dhol, sitar, snake-pipe; the remembrance of God put up on the shelf. Education, and what is more refinement, down the drain. Out of the garment of humanity. Not touched by manhood. Quite the old dissolute libertines of the sort that even the Pir Bachara has turned away would sit down. But now I am in the state of "from my past, what a spear's length, what a hand's breadth." If you are counting on teaching us refinement, well, that is all very good. As if old parrots ever read the Quran.

Azad: Come, sir, what is this bad diet? A moment ago you were hurling taunts at me, you uttered hundreds of jeers. Or are you now saying curses on yourself? Thank God you at least admit your bad manners and bad habits. If you will not be bitter I will say: send curses on this sugary get-up, and be sour and sharp and become a man of proper manners. This swaying, this lunge, becomes only women. And these henna-reddened hands, this slender waist, this strip of missi on the lips, this writing of betel, are fitting only for a bride. Do keep in mind that club-end moustache. In the name of God, become a man now.

Chhammi Jan: Enough, go on, get out. Give these blusters to someone else. Here we have seen the eyes of great ones. If some fool falls for your trick, let him; it will not work on us.

Habib Labib: Well, Qibla and Kaaba, did your servants take a liking only to the company of minstrels and clowns in our faithless city of Lucknow, or have they also liked the ways of someone else? In Lucknow every art has its master. What craft is there that is lacking here:

There is no city like it in the world,
Lucknow is the shame of old Delhi's temples.

How good it is in the arrangement of verse,
in the eyes of the world Lucknow is Eden.

Chhammi Jan: We have always been in just such a crowd. Day and night these same talks, these same chirpings, these same laughs. We burned our house to watch the show. We played Holi in a loincloth. We had a fine time. If we even went toward Farangi Mahal it was only to gaze at the rooms. Not a gathering went empty. Mian Shori's phrases, Qadriya's thumris. Ghasit Khan's voice with its lilt. Bahadur Ali's trills. Sadiq Ali Khan's flute. Where can we go, leaving Pyar Khan's khayal? Now this is our faith and religion. If we hear the sound of the sarangi and the salaam, we dive right in. When the muezzin calls the azan, who listens? A great deal has passed; little is left.

Azad: The name of this Farangi Mahal is bright throughout the whole world like the world-illumining sun, and the writings of the scholars of Farangi Mahal are as famous as the sun at noon, accepted truths. Even the connoisseurs and men of subtlety of Karbala-e-Mualla, Madina Munawwara, the holy mosque, the House of God, applaud the powerful words of those sun-minded, white-writing sages. Travelling months of road, lovers of knowledge and skill come here to acquire perfection and learn the sciences, and the learned of all four quarters of India derive benefit. Such is that Farangi Mahal, but:

The worth of the royal pearl, the jeweller knows or may not know [TN: Persian]

The late lamented Mufti Saadullah (may God illumine his grave), Mufti Mir Abbas (may his shadow long endure), Hazrat Mulla Hasan (may his hand be long), Maulvi Muhammad Fazlullah, and Syed Muhammad Sahib, the mujtahid of the age (may God cool his resting place), are the pride of Lucknow, indeed the glory of India. To say so is perfectly right. Now look at poetry. That poet of miraculous speech and fiery tongue, Khwaja Haidar Ali Atish. The refuge of poets near and far, the late Sheikh Nasikh, was unique in his art in his age. Marsiya composition is the portion of the people of Lucknow. God forgive Mir Anis, the god of speech; by God, since the beginning of creation none can have been so master of eloquence and idiom. And so on. The Imam of the Kaaba of rhetoric, the Mercury-pen secretary Mirza Dabir, may his earth be sweet, was the inventor of his charming style; from each stanza of his the splendour of qasidas appeared. The zephyr and the breeze fanned Atish into flame:

This speech should be written in water of gold [TN: Persian]

Sarguya was a nightingale, as it were, of the garden of meaning-making. His libertine, carefree verse deserves approval. To call Khwaja Wazir the emperor of style and eloquence is perfectly right. May God perfume with amber the tomb of Mirza Rajab Ali Beg Surur, the blessed! By God, he wrote such incomparable, heart-pleasing prose that pens were broken. Every line a treasure of meanings, every phrase a mine of subtlety. Hakim Nawab Mirza Sahib was the inventor of a new style. Munshi Zahir Sahib, may God have mercy on him, knew the subtleties of Dari and Pahlavi. In short, even now every schoolboy is an Almagest-reader, indeed the envy of Luqman. The nimble-handed craftsmen here too plant their flags. There can be no such potters on the face of the earth. They make clay figures so that painters are put to shame. One feels the figure is about to speak. Whatever museum you enter, you will certainly find the skill of the potters of Lucknow. The calligraphers have wiped out the writing of the scribe of destiny. Their dots like shining stars, their circles brighter than the sun. They took five gold mohurs for each letter. They gave light to the eyes of the born blind. From Qaf to Qaf, they beat the drum of "Whose is the kingdom?" They would break the paw of a bold lion. If they rebuked an elephant it would trumpet and flee for stages. Alas, if Rustam of Sistan was there today, Sidi Landhur was there; the stages of wrestlers' stamina. They could set Isfandiyar the brazen-bodied to fight with their fingertips. Ustad Muhammad Ali Khan the fencer, slim of body, but the moment the staff was in his hand he cleared whole ranks in a breath. With a crack, when he landed the flat of the paw, the opponent's face was turned. When he stood in the arena with a staff, lightning seemed to flash. Once he gave a challenge: "Block the cut hand, look, take care, beware, here it comes, there it comes!" (Smack!) it landed, and the cry of "Bless you!" reached the seventh heaven. Wondrous neatness, terrible neatness, cruel neatness. It was the neatness of doomsday. Whoever came at him ate dust; whoever faced him met his doom:

His age was small, but he grew gallant;
only he who came at him ate dust.

He invented such embroidery that orders began to come even from Orissa and Cochin.

Habib: (to Azad) Bravo, sir, of course, may the evil eye keep away, with what delicacy you have described the perfection of the most eminent scholars of Lucknow, the most accomplished learned men, the master craftsmen, and the brazen-bodied wrestlers. The truth is that the learning and scholarship of Lucknow, its idioms, colourful phrases, heart-pleasing eloquence and style of reciting ghazals are famous in East and West. But Chhammi Jan has no concern with the sciences and no care for the arts; he is caught in the beat and the cadence. What a pity!

Chhammi Jan: Gentlemen, I was going just now to hear Bhairavi, and my lucky star, dear friend, had shown a heart without a care. The desire to listen had stolen over me. But you, preaching like missionaries, have transformed me:

The effect of charm is in your speech, my dear,
there is magic in someone's eye, in your tongue.

Now if you are bringing us to the right path, grant this much: step forward a little with us, hand in hand, as far as Pata Nala. Let me see how you run away from fairyland. If you do not bow to these idols I will pay a forfeit, and to be frank, without a test:

The servant is no believer in any sheikh or youth.

If you come out of that arena of Indra clean, I will go the way of a leg, and take allegiance to you myself.

Azad: (taking a watch from his pocket) It is twenty-one minutes past eight. This idle chatter has played havoc today. The lecture was not heard. Free yammering and nagging. God forbid. By God, the lecture was worth hearing. Curse on the devil's business.

Chhammi Jan: God knows. Snakes are rolling on my heart now. Who knows whose ill-omened face I saw at dawn, that the pleasure of Bhairavi has slipped out of my hands.

Habib Labib: What superstition, what can anyone's face do? You too have remained a perfect fool. For so long I explained, I racked my brain, but there it is, a dog's tail, crooked even after twelve years. If you straightened our shoes for six months you would turn from a camel into a man.

Chhammi Jan: Wow! Enough, go on, go on. I have heard a lot of this talk. If you are such great sufis and saints, then come along with me. Why do you look sideways? When we go, come out clean.

Azad: (to Habib Labib) Sir, come, steel your heart, and let us go. The bird of the heart will not be caught in the snare of the tress. Do clever birds ever fall into the hunter's net? Impossible. God willing, there too my skirt will remain unstained. Here my nature simply loathes such company.

Habib Labib: In God's name, let us go! Let us see if there is any idol. How can the master, by the force of a glance like a sword, compel us to take allegiance? To become refined, and from learning and religion into world-burning libertines. How can one graceful look erase the thoughts of years? That we should be sacrificed for someone's flirting, God forbid! This notion is as impossible as colour, or that we fix our hearts on some sweetheart. God forgive me! First show us such a beloved whom we would love. Our beloved is the wise, or the graceful idol delicate in skill. Others shake their heads over plait and ribbon. If I have a wish it is that I be alone in a corner of solitude, a book before me and the robe of piety under my arm. Here is no desire for Shiraz wine, nor love of coquettish idols.

In short, Habib Labib and Mian Azad both, walking along beside Chhammi Jan, arrived with a bang at the house of delight of some Hafiz ji at Pata Nala. From some forty or fifty paces away, the sound of singing came wafting. Chhammi Jan swayed along and stepped with a wondrous air and grace. At last they entered the grand house of Hafiz ji.