Hussein Page 8

  ‘It is all over,’ he said, when he saw Hussein; ‘he is dead and damned now.’

  ‘Allah be praised! Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t ask me if I am sure, clod. I have said it, it is therefore so. I have sent for you to tell you to keep your tongue from killing you. Never mention Kadir Baksh’s name. Go away.’

  Hussein went, with joy in his heart. The boy caught him up.

  ‘It is true,’ he said. ‘Can I have my two annas?’ At the house of the Pathan the hakim was looking at the body.

  ‘This is by no means an ordinary death,’ he said, ‘otherwise my treatment would have prevailed. Had he any enemies?’

  ‘Many,’ replied one of the listening circle.

  ‘How many would desire his death?’

  ‘Allah alone knows — perhaps five, perhaps ten.’

  ‘There was a certain Daoud Shah,’ said the hakim: the men smiled unpleasantly. ‘Had he any relatives?’

  ‘None who would take up a blood feud against him.’

  ‘Now I saw a death very like this,’ said the hakim, after a pause. ‘It was a babu called Surendranath. The tale was that he was cursed.’

  ‘Bismillah! my son muttered concerning a certain fakir, if I remember rightly,’ said the father of Kadir Baksh.

  ‘Yes — a red-bearded fakir, I heard him. Also, he cried out in his sleep against Daoud Shah,’ cried a cousin.

  ‘That is what he would do if he had been cursed in a certain way, known only to a very few. Again, he feared sleep and darkness worse than death; that also points to the same thing.’

  That night Hussein and Sashiya sat on cushions in the roof garden.

  ‘We might have been a little less drastic, Best-beloved,’ said Sashiya, ‘but he did deserve it, and anyhow, it must have been his fate, and he could never have avoided that.’

  At the same time Amir Khan, the cousin of Kadir Baksh, was saying to his assembled relatives, ‘There is only one red-bearded fakir that I know of in Haiderabad, and he sits daily near the Temple of Hanuman.’

  On the roof garden Hussein said, ‘We have better things to talk about. Tell me, this Wali Din, to whom you were betrothed, did you ever care for him?’

  ‘So far as I know he is a pleasant, harmless little creature — hardly a man though. I have only seen him perhaps a score of times, and then only when I was a child, but as for loving him, by Allah no! I only look on him as a future husband.’

  ‘Then if I were to talk to him, and persuade him that he could find a more suitable wife, do you think that your father would look on me with any favour?’

  ‘Are you a Sufi or a Shiah?’

  ‘Whichever you like — a freethinker. Sufi, really, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you must be a Shiah of the most orthodox sect. My father is a most strict Moslem; he hates the Sufi heretics worse than unbelievers.’

  ‘Do you see that very bright star — no, that one? Well, if it were not in Hafiz, whom you know better than I, I would say that it is just like the light in your eyes. Do you know, I once saw an English sahib whose eyes were blue.’

  ‘Blue! Bismillah!’

  ‘It is true, on my soul: blue as that turquoise on your belt. I must tell you how he and I took a city full of dacoits …’

  ‘I love a man who is a man,’ said Sashiya, after some time — Hussein swelled — ‘but do you fear mice? Rustum did, and so do I.’

  ‘Mice! Why, I have subdued an elephant that was mûsth, and that when I was a child — but I love a woman who is a woman. Women should fear mice.’

  ‘An elephant! Oh, Hussein!’

  ‘Well, it is true that I had no idea at all that Jehangir was mûsth, but I never told anyone — no one but you. Do you know, Jehangir is very jealous of you.’

  ‘Silly old pig, but I understand him … Why did you tell none but me?’

  ‘I don’t quite know; but I feel somehow that I don’t ever want to tell you lies, even if you could never find out.’

  For a long while they talked about the exact state of their feelings for one another in the peculiarly unoriginal way that lovers have of expressing themselves. But to Hussein and Sashiya it was new and wonderful: they thought sincerely that they would never change, and they said so quite often.

  For several days Hussein lived in a private paradise in his own mind, inhabited only by himself and Sashiya. He had never known that he could be so happy.

  Jehangir became more resigned, but he cherished a secret hatred of the person who was taking Hussein’s heart from him, although he did not know who it was.

  One day Abd’Arahman came to him in the elephant lines. The old man was very agitated; Hussein took him to his hut.

  ‘The worst has happened,’ said the letter-writer.

  ‘What? In the name of Allah, tell me at once.’

  But the old man only moaned for some time.

  ‘They have bribed the fakir’s boy,’ he said at last, ‘and they have sworn a blood feud against you. Old red-beard wants to see you at my house to-morrow.’

  That night, when Hussein came back from seeing Sashiya — he told her nothing — he found his hut burnt to the ground.

  The news had spread among the mahouts with extraordinary rapidity. Nearly all his friends avoided him, as they had no wish to be mixed up in so deadly a matter. He slept in a small unused hut at the end of the lines. A little before dawn he heard a movement in the darkness: he reached silently for his knife.

  ‘Sh! It is Mahmud,’ said the man — one of his oldest friends. ‘I have come to tell you that they say in the bazaar that the family of Kadir Baksh have discovered that you cursed him to death, and they have sworn a blood feud against you,’ he whispered.

  ‘I knew this afternoon,’ replied Hussein.

  ‘You have no hope against so many, and half of them have killed men before. You should be gone before day-light. For the love of Allah tell nobody that I warned you.’

  Hussein promised, and his friend faded away into the dark. He thought for a long while, and decided to wait until he had seen the fakir.

  There was no work for the elephants the next day, so Hussein went into the town, where he thought that he would be safe.

  As he was going down the Krishnavi bazaar to find Abd’Arahman, a stone fell at his feet from a housetop. It was big enough to have killed him if it had hit him.

  After that he kept in the middle of the lane. Suddenly he thought that he might endanger the letter-writer if he were seen with him, so he turned aside into a mosque to wait until noon, when he would see the fakir. He kept thinking of the way the stone had splintered when it hit the ground, and he knew that his knees were trembling. He felt desperately alone.

  In the mosque he looked keenly at the other men there, for he knew that the Pathans would not mind where they killed him so long as they could do so without danger, and there were many dark alleys about the mosque, but he did not see anyone who looked suspicious. Nevertheless he kept in the open, under the sounding-board, where there were aged hadjis arguing.

  After a while one of the old men turned to Hussein as an unbiased hearer and said:

  ‘These two foolish old men maintain that it is unlawful to eat a crab on one’s pilgrimage, saying that it is not a fish … incredible obstinacy!’

  ‘What am I, to argue with white hairs?’ replied Hussein. ‘But it seems to me that in the Sura called The Table it is written, “It is lawful for you to fish in the sea and to eat what you shall catch” …’

  ‘Just so,’ cried another of the hadjis, ‘but the crab comes on to the land, and to take it then is the same as hunting, which is unlawful during the Haj.’

  ‘And again,’ said the third, ‘if one were to catch a drowned pig in one’s nets, would it therefore be lawful to eat of its flesh? By no means! Undoubtedly the verse only refers to true fish, and a crab is not a true fish, by reason of its coming on to the land.’

  ‘But Malek ibn Ans says …’

  They argued hotly for some time, and H
ussein was really enjoying himself when he saw three men come in. They looked about the mosque, and one of them pointed towards the group under the sounding-board: Hussein saw this from the corner of his eye.

  Two of them sat down by the door, and the third strolled towards the arguers: he was a tall hawk-nosed man — obviously a Pathan. Hussein had not seen him before, and he felt sure that the Pathan did not know him for certain. He thought quickly for some time while the talk flowed past his head. Suddenly an idea came to him, and when there was a pause he said:

  ‘Now I am no scholar at all, but my friend Hussein the Mahout, who is a very Imâm in learning, told me that Jallal’udin distinguishes clearly between true fish and crabs. But then some say the Jallal’udin himself was a schismatic, and therefore of no account; indeed my friend Hussein holds that he is little better than a Kafir, an unbeliever.’

  He said this in a loud voice, and he saw the Pathan turn his head quickly, and go back to his friends. He saw them talking together: two of them were shaking their heads, while the third seemed to be disagreeing with them. After a while another came walking slowly by the old men; he gave Hussein a long, searching stare as he passed.

  Hussein recognised him at once: it was Jafar, the brother of Kadir Baksh. He knew that his ruse had failed, for the Pathan had often seen him when he was friendly with Kadir Baksh.

  He remained talking with the old men for some time and the Pathans settled down by the doorway. Towards noon several men came in for the mid-day prayer; then from the minar there came the great cry of the muezzin: everyone knelt, forehead against the earth, towards Mecca.

  Hussein crawled backwards towards a corridor that led to another door: no one noticed him, and he was gone when the Imâm’s final ‘Allahu Akbar’ died away in the echoing mosque.

  He ran to the house of Abd’Arahman: the fakir was waiting for him.

  ‘Well, you are still alive,’ said the fakir. ‘I thought they would have got you by now … in my young days you would have been a corpse … inefficient lepers! I have got an amulet for you against their curses. You are lucky to be still alive: you must leave Haiderabad to-day. They are very powerful amongst the bad-mashes here; you will never have a chance.’

  ‘To-day?’ said Hussein. ‘Well, I must say goodbye to Jehangir, and sell what I cannot carry, and then I will go. I will try to rejoin the service when the elephants go to some other place.’

  ‘You do it at your own risk,’ replied the fakir, ‘and you need not sell anything: you owe me thirty rupees, but I will take what you leave in payment. Come back as soon as you can, and I will have a plan ready.’

  Hussein wondered how the fakir knew that the few things he possessed would be worth the debt, but he said nothing. He went back to the elephant lines, keeping to the crowded streets; but for all his caution he was nearly run down as he crossed a street by an old Ford that had been creeping along by him for some way. He knew that the old wreck belonged to his enemy’s cousin: if it had had a better turn of speed he would have been run over.

  He drew all the pay that was due to him, and collected one or two debts among the other mahouts: then he told Jehangir that he was going away for some time, but that he would come back. Jehangir grasped that, so Hussein left him fairly contented.

  He went back into the town with one of his friends who was taking an elephant in, and he came safely to the fakir again.

  There was a gaunt old man there with him, whom Abd’Arahman introduced as Feroze Khan, the story-teller.

  ‘How much money have you got?’ asked the fakir, without any preamble.

  ‘Only a very little,’ replied Hussein cautiously. ‘I am but a poor man.’

  ‘It is of no use trying to deceive me. What is the sum?’

  ‘Forty-three rupees and three annas.’

  ‘Well, give me ten for myself, and Feroze Khan twenty; he will take you with him.’

  Hussein saw that he could not object, so he said nothing and handed over the money.

  ‘We had better change his appearance,’ said Feroze Khan.

  Hussein stripped, and the fakir gave him some old clothes of the sort worn by poor men in the north: the story-teller put a peculiarly folded pugari on his head and stuck a black, curling beard on his face. The fakir said that he could keep the clothes, as they would probably come in useful for someone else, and he gave Hussein some bhang to alter his eyes.

  When they had arranged him to their satisfaction Abd’Arahman gave him a mirror: a new face looked up at him from it.

  Feroze Khan gave him some heavy covered baskets to carry, and they left the house: at the door Abd’Arahman caught Hussein by the sleeve.

  ‘Here is something from Sashiya,’ he said, ‘and this is my poor gift to you. Go in peace, and Allah go with you. Write to me and I will send you letters from her.’

  Hussein knelt and patted the old man’s feet: he felt strangely moved. Abd’Arahman leant on his shoulder a moment, and stumbled back into the house.

  ‘I fear he will come to an evil death,’ he said to the fakir.

  The holy man belched cynically. ‘What matter?’ he said, ‘he has no more money.’

  ‘But he was a good youth, and very like my dead son.’

  ‘No fool like an old one,’ muttered the fakir. Outside the house Hussein asked Feroze Khan what was in the baskets. ‘Snakes,’ he replied.

  ‘But why snakes?’

  ‘I will tell you everything in the train. We are going to Jubbulpore. There is no time to lose in idle talk.’

  On the way to the station they passed the house where Sashiya lived: there were three evil-looking Pathans lounging about outside. Hussein lowered his head, and walked past them as nonchalantly as he could. They did not even glance at him twice, but until they were far behind he felt his heart thumping almost painfully.

  At the station they sat down on the ground with a great number of other people. Feroze Khan left Hussein by the baskets and vague bundles while he got the tickets.

  Every time a train came in there was a rush of peasants, who clamoured to know whether it was their train: many of them waited for hours with their baggage, eating their meals where they sat, for fear of missing their train. Some of them, also, hung their tickets about their necks as charms, but these were only the simple country folk: most of the people were quite accustomed to the railway. Feroze Khan was one of these: he told Hussein that he never waited more than two or three hours for his train — they had two hours to spare now — and then, in spite of the ceaseless tumult, he went to sleep.

  Meanwhile Hussein investigated the little bundles that Abd’Arahman had given him: the first was tied up very intricately in a piece of spotted silk. When he had got it undone, Hussein found a letter, seventy-three rupees, a gold bangle and a broken mohur on a cord for a keepsake. Sashiya had written in a great hurry, rather incoherently, but she conveyed her meaning so well that Hussein wept. No one took much notice of him: they thought that he had lost his ticket.

  A tall Sikh, who was eating in the midst of his bundles just behind Hussein, reached over the sleeping Feroze Khan and gave him a chupatti, saying, in bad Urdu, ‘You will doubtless find it: look in the baskets.’

  ‘Many thanks, Guru-ji,’ replied Hussein in Punjabi, ‘but my grief was for another cause.’

  ‘Wallah! You speak like one from my own Amritsar. It is a comfort to hear a civilised tongue again. Women are not worth troubling about — eat another chupatti.’

  ‘Why do you think I weep for a woman?’

  ‘What else does a young man weep for? Money and women — that is all. Even an unworldly man is troubled by them.’

  They talked for some time, and then the Sikh rushed away in a cloud of rich Punjabi oaths to catch his train. Hussein undid the second bundle: it was the manuscript of Abd’Arahman’s book. He knew how the old man treasured it, and he almost wept again.

  At last their train came in, and as they sat in it with their bundles, Feroze Khan explained to Hussein what he did.<
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  ‘Often I follow the regiments as they march to and fro in the land,’ he said; ‘with the snakes I entertain the sahibs and the common soldiers, and I tell my tales to the followers in the evenings. Sometimes, when there are fairs, I leave the regiments, and tell stories throughout the day wherever the people come together in numbers. You will take round the bowl when I stop at the more exciting parts, and I will teach you how to manage the snakes.’

  ‘May not I also tell tales to the people?’

  ‘By no means: it is an art known only to a few. The mystery lies not so much in the telling, as in the choosing of the tales. Now I can tell at a glance what kind of tale is suitable. For instance, the peasants of the Punjab — many of them are of the Faith — love to hear of Sohrab and Rustum; and again, the unbelievers of the South desire to hear of the great emperors and warriors before the English came, or of the deeds of their strange gods. But it entirely depends on so many things that only one such as myself can be sure what story will extract most money from those who listen.’

  They came to Jubbulpore, and Feroze Khan went to the house of a friend, where several men came to see him. Hussein was sent out while they were talking, and he spent his time in writing a long letter to Sashiya, which he enclosed with one to Abd’Arahman.

  When Feroze Khan came from his friend’s house he hurried Hussein away again to the station, and soon they were swinging away towards Agra. Hussein wondered vaguely why the old man did this, but he was too much concerned with his own affairs to worry over those of Feroze Khan.

  In Agra there was a festival, and the story-teller made his way with Hussein to a market-place, where he found an empty corner, and sat down, beating on the tom-tom, and crying in a loud voice:

  ‘A tale! A marvellous tale! Listen to a story-teller who has delighted Rajahs,’ shouted Feroze Khan. Several people stopped; some of them squatted down. Hussein beat on the tom-tom, and the old man began.

  Eight

  ‘Now in the days of the great Shah Jehan there was a certain man who dwelt in this city: he was (here the story-teller’s eyes swept his audience — all Moslems) a true believer. He was a merchant — an upright man who had, nevertheless, accumulated a great store of precious things. Among all these things, such as the teeth of elephants, rubies and tears of the sea, he valued none so much as his only wife, in spite of the fact that she had borne him no children. She was of a singular beauty, comparable to the light of the moon on desert sands.