Seven Years Later:
She leaned her head against the headboard, exausted by the pain and fever and let out a sigh. Gathering her faculties together, picking up Baburnama with her one hand and putting on her reading glasses with the other, she settled down to heal herself as best she knew; by reading. She would have read only ten pages in the next hour and a half. She was a slow reader. And she marked the lines in finely sharpened pencil and wrote notes in the margins; sometimes references to other works and authors. It was an old habit from her student days to her teaching days in the University. She carefully placed the Chinese reed-bookmark between the pages and looked across, at the occupant of the armchair with a smile.
“You know L, since the day before yesterday, when you came to my room to see me in my sickbed and sat in that chair yonder, it has made it easier for me to seat you before me while I talk.
Look at what I found in this book, Baburnama. In Central Asia, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the eldest son of a Khan – the ruler – was not the heir to the throne. Rather, the
Father assigned areas to be governed by each son, depending on his ability and gave him a mentor, an Ataka, who was usually a man loyal to household and learned in both statecraft and religion.And most people were Hanafi Sunnis. There is no mention of Shi’ism, although Persian language and Persionate culture were predominant amongst the ruling elite. Reminds me of what Justice Katju once said; that the elite anywhere in the world always spoke a foreign language. I think it is a way of distnguishing itself from the ‘masses’.
Strange too, that Babur wrote his journal or biography in immense detail, showing himself to be very well informed about his environs and reading a great deal of the personalities of his seniors in rank and relation and his staff as well as meticulous record keeping; yet he chose to write in the coloquial Chaghtay Turkic dialect, which was hardly ever used for literary work, and not in Persian, the language of the court and literature.
He actually lived only 47 years, dying a mystical death, having made a pact with God to spare his son Humayun from death bed and take his life instead. And it worked! ”
She swung her legs over the counterpane gingerly and sat breathing hard for a few moments before she spoke further.
“He, that is Babur, describes the fruits and crops, the geography and lineage and popular beliefs, all in a very engaging fashion, particularly if you remember that he was writing at the tender age of twelve; a very tumultous twelfth year, when his father died. He was fighting his uncles off his territory. He didn’t like Hindustan because it had no laid out gardens with water channels like in Central Asia.”
She stood up and pulled out the dupatta from the bed clothes, arranged it casually across her bosom and said,
“Come L, it is nearing sundown. Let us sit on the West-facing terrace and feel the mountain breeze and watch the spectacle of sunset and the birds go to roost.” She sat with him absorbing the stillness of dusk, letting her fingers lightly brush his wrist, looking up into his eyes. She felt his look send a certain glow into her being, her illness completely forgotten.
“I was waiting to share something exciting with you: I found my ancestor’s name in Baburnama! He was Babur’s companion in Herat and commander of his forces later. It was such a surprise to open the book randomly and have your ancestor pop out at you after five hundred years!” Was it her destiny to finally reseach her lineage after having put it off for three decades? Central Asia of fifteenth century in her imagination was tantalising enough.
She plucked absently at the sleeve of his black T-shirt, listening to him tell her about his evening walk the day before, the fragrance of the Torch Tree flowers that he encountered many times before he could locate the source. He told her of his dinner with a childhood friend from the Centre for International Relations.
He wanted to talk of the Afghan experience: the Soviet takeover, the rise of US backed Taliban and the devastation of the land, of the dignity of a proud people, of a unique culture, of debauchery by the Islamists……from the book he was reading, ‘The Kite Runner’ by Khalid Hossaini.
“Yes, I read it too. It should not be seen as a work of literature, though it is presented as such, but more as a chronicle of the turbulent times in the history of a restless land. Its mineral wealth and its route from the Caspian Sea to the Arabian Sea, which could make oil accessible to the West at very low transportation cost, was what brought about the ‘War Against Terror’ doctrine into play. But how it destroyed the Human Face of US!”
“The US has been a long time in the process of empire building and going to war with impunity outside the United Nations mandate, destabilising countries through ‘regime change’ with no alternative in sight, inciting civil strife in communities, riding high on ‘the only superpower’ status to make all other countries pawns in its game of loot.” He lit a cigarette. “But it is in decline I think.”
She stretched her legs in front of her, still looking into the twightlight approaching over the far horizon, turning the snow covered peaks of the Nanda Devi range into a surreal gold-pink. “I don’t know that it is declining at any discernable rate, but the massive hate US evokes in large parts of the world will lead to some disasterous consequences, I think. What’s more, it will hurt the whole world and not just America. The oldest democracy has steadily moved towards destroying its own democratic institutions. Its elections have become a money game, the loss of civil liberties for its own people so easily given up by themselves in the name of ‘internal security’, whatever that means, when no country is secure from its war designs. Its friends now have more to fear. Even Europe is dependent on NATO to defend its borders! From who?”
“Look at what they did to Taliban and Saddam Hussain. First they put them up to fight US battles for it, then disposed of as rogues when they refused further arm-twisting.” He stubbed out the half finished cigarette in the tiny terracotta bowl she kept for him.
“Those nations were ill-served by their leaders, who did more for the US and their own kin than for their people. When men are willing to sell their country and their honour, they can always find buyers. Men who deserved to be bruttally cut down. But what about their innocent countrymen – women and children included – who suffered under their own and under their conquerers? Forced to inhabit permanent killing fields all around and drone attacks from above. Worst, those who rose to defend their land like David against the Goliath, are called terrorists. What is the idea of justice in the minds of the people of this world?” She rested her head against the chair, exhausted. “I always wanted to know what is the idea of justice, in any case.”
“Ok then, my little Soldier of Justice, I must leave now. It is getting cold now with the breeze coming down the snowy Himalayas. Rest later.”
She rose to see him walk down the terraced garden, abloom with Plum and Peach blossoms, and walk out of the gates, already talking on his mobile phone. He turned to wave to her just before moving out of sight, as usual. She stood there for a moment, her hand suspended in mid-air, smiling in farewell. Then she came back to her bedroom and looked at the brilliant colours of Carnations he had brought to bighten her sick room.
“I need to rest now,” she said to the room in general.
All these hours she had spoken to him in her imagination. Just as they had done seven years ago in reality. Somehow, although he moved and talked and sat by her, in the varied scenes she had set up for them all these years, he always seemed to appear in the same black t-shirt. Her imagination proved incapable of changing the colour of his t-shirt. That had frozen in her memory, when they had last met.
“L, one can only talk so many hours to a man in a black t-shirt. Go change it now and appear again in another set of clothes, or I am stuck with black, day in and day out!” She started to giggle and then laughed out loud.
“By the way L, you look best in black!”