The Book of Everlasting Things, page 11
He and Altaf spoke till the azaan called worshippers to prayer. Rizwan’s words were ignored. The perfumed ink was presented. The newspaper was not mentioned, but it was not forgotten either. That same evening, on his way back to Anarkali, an anxious Vivek bought a portable radio, much smaller than the one Som Nath had in his room. Later still, at approximately 8:30 p.m., he listened to the voice of the viceroy, Lord Linlithgow, ring through the frequencies of All India Radio, announcing that His Majesty’s Government was, indeed, at war with Nazi Germany, and as a colony of that government, so was India.
* * *
Over the next year, careful to not indulge in even a single conversation about war, Vivek spent most days in isolation at his organ.
From the autumn of 1939 to the spring of 1940, confined to his atelier, the soldier turned perfumer composed a delightfully strong perfume that he named ab-e-zar, literally meaning gold reduced to its liquid state, inspired by the luscious color of the ittar. Vivek transported his mind as far from the current war climate as he could—away from all that he knew, from the news, from the army, away even from his war years in vilayat, to a small island touching the southern tip of India.
A perfumer from Ceylon had once traveled to Lahore and, seeking Vivek out, presented him with a bottle of cinnamon essential oil, a prized commodity on the island. As an ingredient, it was sweet and bitter, hot and sumptuous, and left a long and lingering sillage. Composing it into a perfume with ingredients like peach and cumin, jasmine and vetiver, cedarwood and myrrh, ab-e-zar became Vivek’s refuge through the anxious early months of war.
* * *
On some days, walking to or from their home, the Vij family would come across groups of men discussing the international events. These were usually the older veterans of the First World War, sitting on charpais and chatting or smoking long-piped hookahs and hand-rolled beedis. Some would bring out their medals and badges, and show off old wounds like war souvenirs, others would help to round up new recruits, and most would tell tales of horror and death, tales that Vivek himself had struggled to suppress. Like in the previous war, men who hailed from generations of soldiers readily enlisted for battle, but others approached with caution. Some were dissuaded by the stories they’d heard or read in the letters that arrived from battlefields, others were kept away from recruiting parties by their families, and some were even briefly arrested for singing anti-recruitment songs or printing anti-war statements.
The Ahluwalia brothers, who lived a few doors down from Vij Bhawan, were recruited; their father, Ujagar Singh, a veteran, having served in Gallipoli in the First World War, volunteered yet again. Medical practitioners from Savitri’s mohalla of Wachowali gali were recruited as doctors and attendants, and a host of able-bodied men of all ages signed up to be noncombatants like tailors and cooks.
Every now and then, the name Hitler could be heard on the streets of Lahore. At school, a classmate of Samir’s, whose uncle was fighting in the Mediterranean and brother had become a recruitment officer during wartime, would ominously declare that Hitler’s army wanted to take over the world. Mohan made a delivery outside the Walled City, only to learn that German and Italian nationals working at large companies, or even as missionaries and teachers, were now seen with suspicion. But even as global events came to dominate local headlines and conversation, the threat of war on Indian soil felt distant. Against this backdrop, business continued for the Vij family as per usual, apart from the ban on the importing of foreign ingredients like bergamot oil, extracted only in now-Fascist Italy. Often an old customer who remembered how Vivek had left at the onset of the previous war would ask if he was planning on enlisting again, but he managed to deflect the subject each time.
But whenever this happened, Mohan would find on his brother’s face a growing unease. While Vivek’s time in vilayat remained a subject off-limits, his brother began to observe certain physical traits reappearing. Mundane things that might otherwise have gone unnoticed, had it not been for the all-consuming paranoia with which they were followed. His brother shaved even the slightest stubble off his face, and became abnormally particular about hygiene, sometimes bathing twice a day, even as the weather grew cooler. He dragged a palpable anxiety around the haveli and shop, and began resembling the angular, withdrawn man who had returned home from war. When Savitri noticed, Mohan had no choice but to tell her that the behavior was a repetition from two decades ago, and only with the opening of the perfumery had it relaxed.
Neither Som Nath nor Mohan had ever asked Vivek what had happened on the battlefield. But upon his return to Lahore, he’d shown no interest in spending time with old friends and flatly rejected any mention of matrimony. Back then, the family had simply been grateful that he was alive, unlike so many others who’d perished. And though Mohan often considered whether it was finally time now to ask about his brother’s wartime experiences, Vivek’s renewed fragility unnerved him.
* * *
Meanwhile, as men and women numbering up to two thousand each month began to leave the subcontinent to serve, Vivek thought back to his youth, to the adventures and equality he had once craved, and was struck by how unfamiliar that younger version of himself now seemed. Like a layer of dry, dead skin, he had slowly shed a whole person over the last twenty years, and emerged anew. Sometimes he wondered what else had been scraped off and abandoned in the process.
In the ittar shop, the portable radio played like a background score all day long. But Vivek insisted on listening only to the news bulletin and reports of war. Anxious, agitated, he buried deeper the years that threatened to spill out, vowing not to get caught up in this war. Too much had been lost the first time around. He could afford to lose no more.
14
The Lahore Resolution
It was rare for Som Nath to receive visitors, but on a spring day in 1940, someone knocked on the entrance off Shahalmi Road, and was seated by Savitri in the front baithak. She had sprinkled the aangan with rosewater just an hour earlier, and escorted her father-in-law through the sweet-smelling courtyard into the formal guest room.
“Oye, yara!” Som Nath lifted his arms in delight upon recognizing the visitor, and tall, wiry Basheer Rabbani stood up and embraced his friend. Both men had aged considerably over the years, thick-rimmed spectacles sitting on their noses, walking sticks in hand, hair graying or completely white.
“Basheerey! To what do I owe this pleasure?” Som Nath turned to Savitri. “Yeh sada bachpan da yaar eh. His family used to stay just around the corner when we were growing up. But I must be seeing him today after nearly … fifteen years!” The excitement had turned the seventy-two-year-old’s laughter into a mild coughing fit, and Savitri, pulling her sari over her head in formal company, excused herself to fetch water and tea.
Basheer leaned forward and, placing one arm on Som Nath’s shoulder, asked, “Are you keeping well? Sab khairiyat hai? I have just come from Anarkali after meeting Vivek and Mohan and your grandson. The business is doing well, I see.” From the pocket of his khaadi waistcoat, he took out a vial of khuss he had just purchased from the shop. “This bottle reminds me of our childhood, and the fragrant khuss curtains in this haveli.”
Som Nath held both palms up to the heavens. “Bass sab rabb di deyn hai. It is with God’s kindness that we are surviving.”
“Thriving, my friend, you are thriving! Now tell me, have you been getting my letters?”
Som Nath pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “I received your letters, yes, but I didn’t quite understand the last one. What did you mean by ‘a separate land for Muslims’? Where will it exist?”
Basheer’s family had moved away just after he finished college. The ambitious young man had traveled to England to study law and had set up a flourishing practice in Rawalpindi since his return in the early 1900s. After decades of working as a lawyer, Basheer had joined the All India Muslim League. All the while, he had kept in touch with Som Nath through letters every few months, for nothing could destroy old friendships, not even distance.
“My friend, as long as the British are in Hindustan, differences between Hindus and Muslims will continue to exist. The idea of separation is growing popular within the League, and without the settlement of issues that have come to exist between our communities, there can be no swaraj, no self-rule.”
“Basheerey, what are you saying? Meinu samajh nahi aa raha hai. Whatever issues there are, jo vi masle hain, can be worked out between the leaders, can’t they?” Never one to indulge in politics or affairs of state, he studied his old friend’s face. “And in any case, Sikandar Hayat Khan is leading the Unionist Party in Punjab. With them in power, surely any separation on the basis of religions cannot be the answer. We have grown up together … you and I, both Punjabis … how can we just…?” He laughed nervously.
Just then, Savitri came back with a tray of tea and homemade pinnis. Her glass bangles clinked as she served the gentlemen, and briefly, Som Nath thought back to the festival of basant that he and Basheer had always celebrated together as children. How excitedly they’d run to the rooftop at the crack of dawn with large kites and flown them till they soared high in the sky, higher than all the rooftops in the mohalla, high enough until the sounds of bo-kataa, bo-kataa, the kite is cut! resounded.
Historically, was basant Hindu or Muslim? Had the kites been Hindu or Muslim? Had the air been Hindu or Muslim? Could one even divide air, separate it?
Basheer cleared his throat as Savitri left the room. He picked up the cup and saucer and took a sip. “Look, Som Nath, I don’t know what will happen in the future, but whatever I know, I want to tell you so you can prepare.”
Prepare? thought Som Nath. But no words escaped his lips.
“Last month, Jinnah sahib presided over a session of the Muslim League, right here at Minto Park in Lahore. A text was prepared at this session demanding a separate homeland for the Muslims of British India, called Pakistan. We don’t know yet what this land will look like, or what it will mean for Hindus or other communities, but I can say with certainty that the day the resolution was drafted and passed will be remembered as a significant day in our history.”
Thinking about this later, Som Nath kept coming back to that our, for though his old friend hadn’t explicitly said as much, he could tell that the word excluded him. In the future that Basheer now envisioned, the lived history of Hindus and Muslims of Hindustan would somehow diverge.
* * *
After his old friend left, Som Nath sat for long hours in his room, holding Leela’s charred bone within his palms. How he wished she were here. He remembered her scent, how she’d rub the sandalwood stick on the grinding stone each day until a fresh, thick paste would form, velvety, luscious, and deeply earthy; how she’d spread it over her arms, her legs, her face. How she scrubbed it clean never with water but only milk so that her skin glowed golden. How had he existed for so many years without her? How had he endured this solitary life? He looked out of his window, up at the clear spring sky, and imagined it being sliced in half, the unwrinkled air being divided. Oh, Leela would have known what to do, how to feel, what to prepare for. Most of all, she would have understood how to calm his racing heart. With his fist still enclosing the bone within it, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep until his sons returned home that evening.
* * *
During dinner, Som Nath brought up Basheer’s visit. The rest of the family also didn’t understand what a separate state would mean. But the air became tense, as if stretched over a surface too small for it. Vivek found it best not to mention what the old calligrapher had said to him all those months ago at Wazir Khan. Our areas, and yours. The meal ended quietly, for everyone’s mind was crowded with questions.
In the master bedroom of the house, camphor burned in the corner to keep mosquitoes away through the night. Savitri changed into her night sari behind a wooden screen, and Mohan lay on the bed, hands interlaced behind his head. She emerged and sat beside him.
“Did you manage to hear anything Basheer mian said to Baba today?” he asked his wife.
She shook her head. “I didn’t think it was right to linger. But he stayed for quite a while…”
Her husband was silent.
“Where do you think they will create this separate state? Do you think we will have to…” Her voice was now a whisper. “Will we have to leave?”
“Savitri, of course not! Lahore is our home. Why would we go anywhere? And most of Shahalmi is Hindu or Sikh, so will we all just be evacuated from here to another city? No. We may not be the religious majority, but we are certainly the economic one. So even if a separate state is created, Lahore will remain a part of Hindustan. And how do we know this is not just another ploy by the British to divide us?
“So, listen to me now.” He sat up straight and held both his wife’s hands within his own. “Nothing is going to happen. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Parsis, Christians, we have all lived together in this city ever since I can remember. Why would it be any different now? Think of the people who come to our shop, do we differentiate between them based on their religion? That would be absurd. Rose oil for the Hindu, marigold for the Muslim, jasmine for the Sikh … have we ever thought this way, socha hai kabhi mazhab ke baare mein? Whatever this is, it will settle, it will pass. Trust me. Lahore is our home.”
He spoke with a conviction that compelled her to nod in agreement.
“Yes, you’re right. Of course.” She exhaled deeply and grasped her husband’s hands tighter. “It’s just that, I don’t know why, when Baba was telling us what his friend warned him of today, the only thing I could think of was Samir going to Delhi Gate every week, to the mosque all by himself. To that area. And now, I feel so … so ashamed. But you are right, Lahore is our home. This is where we belong.”
“Savitri, ustad sahib is a good and open-minded person. Nothing will happen to Samir under his care. You know he’s always treated him like his own son. But Veer ji and I will speak to him, if it will make you feel better. He may know more about all this…”
“Yes, that is a good idea,” she agreed and reached over to dim the oil lamp placed on the bedside table.
Kissing her forehead, Mohan turned to his side and curled into sleep.
Savitri waited for at least an hour to make sure her husband was in deep slumber before she stepped out of bed and tiptoed toward the wooden chest near the window. In a thick dupatta, she collected all the valuable jewelry she had amassed over the years and tied it together so that it was in one place. She hoped with all her heart that her husband was right, but it didn’t hurt to be prepared, just in case.
* * *
Meanwhile, on the upper floor of the house, Vivek leaned on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette—a habit he thought he’d left behind on the battlefield. In the background, the radio played on the lowest volume. He had come to find solace in All India Radio’s east-west signature tune, and throughout the day, shifted between AIR and the British Broadcasting Corporation, which had recently begun the news in Hindustani. But occasionally, if he adjusted the antenna just slightly, the frequency could catch a German network. Vivek, who had learned a smattering of French while in Europe, would try to make out any words that sounded even vaguely familiar, but with little luck. He didn’t know what news he expected to hear of the troops fighting across the black waters, but he hoped that their lives, caught yet again in a war that did not belong to them, would turn out differently from his own.
From underneath his pillow, he extracted the sepia photograph of the couple and gazed at the woman’s face. She was imprinted in his memory this way—doe eyes, a youthful smile, a simple white dress. “May no one endure the losses I had to,” he spoke to the lifeless image. “May they be spared the suffering.”
He slipped the photograph back under his pillow. Then, with the radio still humming, Vivek fell asleep.
* * *
In the room next door, Samir lay awake. For the first time that evening, he realized what it meant for Firdaus and him to be from different religions. But none of his affection for her seemed to have waned, and so he deemed the detail rather insignificant. Two years had passed since their first meeting, and in that time, his curiosity had grown into a tenderness hard to overlook. All those months ago, writing labels together in the ittar shop had shown him a different side to Firdaus. A carefreeness that dulled into reticence at the studio. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could remember the curve of her smile and the way her green eyes had shone in the monsoon light.
Since then, they’d begun to exchange greetings in the presence of the ustad and other students. But it was at prayer times, under the irregular supervision of the old calligrapher, that Firdaus began to draw Samir. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but every so often she would gesture for him to stay still or hold out his hand in a pose. She never said why she did it; perhaps she didn’t need to, for it seemed that she was committing his features to memory as he had her smell. But despite the intimacy of these actions, Samir hadn’t summoned the courage to actually tell her how he felt.
The following week, he quietly brought this up with his friend Prithvi. A tall, well-dressed boy with dark brown eyes, Prithvi was popular with the girls from the school down the street, and Samir was certain he would offer some practical advice. He had wiggled his eyebrows up and down and teased Samir, before easing into a tone of seriousness.
