The Book of Everlasting Things, page 5
“Salaam, Khan sahib.” Zainab smiled, reaching out for his pile of papers. “Let me take that from you.” She’d never quite got around to calling him ustad; it was too formal, too distant. Khan sahib, she called her husband instead, each syllable lavishly infused with affection.
“Salaam, Zainab jaan,” he responded and then lifted his nose to the delicious aroma wafting out of the kitchen. “Wah!”
Laughing, she sauntered back in. “It’ll still be a few minutes.”
He nodded, and then asked, “Is she home yet?”
“By the window in her room.”
* * *
Altaf removed his shoes and walked through the house to its most sunlit room, where no buildings interrupted the view of the golden mosque. He leaned on the door frame, watching his daughter from the back. So absorbed she was in whatever lay on her table that she hadn’t even heard him come in. Smiling, he drew out the leaf from his pocket and flattened it to remove any creases. All of eight years old, she sat on the floor in front of a low wooden worktable by the window, with her kurta sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a thick khaadi dupatta draped over her shoulders to keep warm. Her hair was tied tightly into two braids. The calligrapher watched as her pale arms glided through sunlight and shadow, arranging a bottle of ink, qalams, and brushes, and then carefully rolling out a small piece of handmade paper to reveal the incomplete outlines of a delicate and ornate border.
On days like today, Altaf marveled at her fragility, comparing her to the finest, wispiest, subtlest, feather-like sheets of hand-pressed paper that he’d seen at Rahim’s shop. From a large leather-bound book, she extracted a red leaf, pressed and dehydrated to perfection. He remembered the day she had found it, after a rainstorm during a monsoon, brilliant fiery red among a sea of ordinary greens and yellows. She was the keeper of her own private seasons, his silent child who sought refuge in the solitary leaf, the oddly shaped stone, anything that shrank the vastness of the world into the periphery of her palm. It was never flowers, always leaves, and within the pages of her many books lived these dried souvenirs from around the world, each carried safely across in the pockets of scholars, travelers, and acquaintances of the Khan family, who knew well of the child’s curious collection. Her treasures included the rounded forest green ziziphus leaf from southern Persia, the heart-shaped velvet maple from Baku, the sharp needles of fir and pine from Jalalabad, the brilliant magenta foliage of the Judas tree from Istanbul, long slim twin olive leaves from the coastal town of Ayvalik. The newest addition was carefully cradled in Altaf’s palm.
He watched as she lay the red leaf down on the page and traced its veins with her small fingers. Then she began drawing from observation, copying it into the pattern of a wreath, the soft pressure of her charcoal leaving shadowlike traces. Despite her young age, she had a surprisingly unwavering hand. Tongue slightly out, face inches away from the page, breath shallow and controlled, and eyes alternating between the leaf and the drawing, she completed a section of what would eventually grow into a border. Then, gently, she blew away any excess charcoal from the page. Perhaps the youngest apprentice of naqqashi in all of Lahore, Firdaus Khan studied her creation.
* * *
He must have been towering over her for a few minutes when, seeing that she had at last finished, Altaf gently placed one hand over her eyes. Firdaus reached up, feeling his veins, running her pale fingers over his inky, darkened ones.
“Abba jaan,” she said softly as he let her go, “as-salaam-alaikum.”
“Wa-alaikum-salaam, beti,” he said and held out the burgundy leaf.
Firdaus gasped. “Shukriya, Abba jaan! It’s beautiful.”
She placed the striking leaf onto the page and noticed immediately how pale the red one looked in comparison. Carefully, she inserted it within the thick pages of a book of poetry, certain that its weight and the parched December air would dry the leaf out evenly. As she did so, her father studied her drawing. Ever since Altaf had been commissioned the Alf Layla, she had expressed a desire to work on it with him. While his skill lay in khattati, hers was in the extraordinary naqqashi. He had tasked her with designing the borders, which would be filled in with pigment and gold leaf after Altaf had rendered the text. Looking closer at her drawing now, using the nib of a bamboo reed as a measuring unit, he considered its scale and balance, making corrections. Firdaus was a gifted artist, of that there was no doubt, but she was young and needed rules and direction.
Altaf had made sure that his daughter was raised no different from how a boy would have been, taught to read and write, sent to school, and inducted into the familial art. For this, he was considered far too liberal by many in the mohalla and perhaps all at the mosque.
Sometimes Altaf wondered whether he’d deprived Firdaus of the boundlessness of childhood. Whether his insistence on her partaking in his ancient, scholarly art had forced her to mature beyond her years. While most girls her age would accompany their mothers to the bazaar or learn the art of embroidery or cooking, or play with dolls and earthenware toys, she chose the company of ink and paper. She spent most afternoons with her father at Wazir Khan, where she’d settle into a corner of the hujra to practice her art. Altaf was proud of his principled child, and proud of the way he was raising her, similar to how his father had raised him. But too many times had he longed to hear juvenile laughter ring through the house, for his daughter to enjoy the company of others her age rather than the words of deceased poets. He would never admit this to Zainab, who had watched with disappointment as her daughter was absorbed into his world. With a sigh, he looked at the drawing one last time, took her face in his hands, and kissed her forehead, his precious child.
* * *
Zainab called out from the kitchen, and the two made their way outside for lunch. A simple spread had been laid out on the dastarkhwan, and the family ate for a while in silence. Midway through, Altaf began telling them about his idea for rose-perfumed paper, and much to everyone’s surprise, his begum’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, Khan sahib, there is a famous ittar-kadā in Anarkali Bazaar that everyone is talking about. Salima’s brother bought her the most exquisite vial of jasmine ittar, and the ittardaan in Rukhsana’s trousseau was also bought from there. It was a velvet box filled with six beautiful cut-glass vials of perfumes that were inspired by the different seasons … jasmine and marigold and sandal and deep, deep ambers. She said they were so lush, like wearing the flowers themselves. Vij something-or-the-other, they are called, two Hindu ittar-saaz brothers. It is rumored that they even procure some of their perfumes and oils from as far as vilayat, where one of the brothers fought in the War.”
Firdaus quietly chewed her rice and watched her mother.
But Altaf raised his eyebrow. A soldier. Now this caught his attention, for his cousin Iqbal had also fought in vilayat during the War. He never returned from the front, but a large bronze medallion, roughly the size of an outstretched palm, did eventually make its way back to the family. Altaf remembered it bearing his cousin’s name in proud relief, along with the images of an imposing woman and two lions, symbolic of the Empire. A memorial plaque, it was called, and the family had wondered what to do with it. No body had accompanied it, no record, no letters, no personal objects that could be held as the last remaining physical traces of Iqbal. Just a cold metal plaque, immortal yet devoid of all the warmth of mortality.
Perhaps, Altaf thought, distractedly looking into the distance, perhaps this ittar-saaz soldier would have known him.
“Actually…” Zainab cleared her throat, interrupting his thoughts, readjusting her dupatta so it covered her head properly. “The rose oil I use in Firdaus’s ubtan is finishing, and the poor child just pales without it. Sometimes I think this Barkhat Ali fellow in Dabbi Bazaar sells water and not ittar, because it never smells as rich or full or wonderful as Salima’s or Rukhsana’s did. Could we not go to this shop and smell their perfumes?” Having never ventured out into the vibrantly modern world of the famed Anarkali Bazaar, she saw this as a perfect opportunity to make a family outing of it.
“To Anarkali?” Altaf asked, surprised by this sudden wave of enthusiasm, not to mention the amount of information his wife had collected about the shop, having never been there before.
Zainab was quiet for a moment and then, with coquettish eyes, looked up at her husband. “Well, Khan sahib, you said yourself that you wanted the best ittar for your manuscript. The soul of the rose.”
Oh, how she knew the ways to will him into submission.
7
Paradise Found
As the new year began, Firdaus turned nine years old. A few days after that, in the crisp January air, the Khan family hired a tanga and drove through the old city until they reached Anarkali Bazaar. Zainab watched through the latticework eye patch of her burqa as images from the chaotic, colorful world of her dreams unfolded before her.
They turned left into the bazaar at Circular Road and Lahori Gate, and bright heaps of fruit and decorative baskets greeted her from the many open-air stalls. They crossed stores selling carpets and trunks, mithais and fruit juices. Women walked around wearing the newest fashion. Chiffon saris and georgette suits were draped on the outside facades of shops. Names like Dhunichand & Sons, Durga Das & Co., and Bombay Cloth House, which she’d only overheard of in the local markets of Delhi Gate, displayed gorgeously embroidered shawls and sweaters. English sahibs sipped on dainty cups of tea and coffee; groups of men smoked beedis and huddled around small bonfires to warm themselves. There were all kinds of sounds and languages, music and song, fruits and vegetables, smells of oily pakoras and sweet jalebis. Anarkali was nothing short of an explosion of life, a marketplace unlike anything she’d ever seen. Underneath the dark veil of her burqa, her smile belonged to her alone.
Their destination approached and the tanga came to a gradual halt. Carefully alighting first, Zainab adjusted her clothes as Altaf helped Firdaus down and paid the tanga-wallah. Zainab’s gray eyes scanned the board, ITTAR KADĀ, VIJ & SONS, ESTD 1921, LAHORE, and then looked at the rows of dried flowers, leaves, and spices methodically arranged on the shelves of the front window. Excited and intrigued, she followed Altaf in. Firdaus trailed quietly behind her mother, holding her hand. Her long black hair was tied into a tight braid, her small body bundled in a warm kurta and sleeveless cardigan, a dupatta swathing her head and shoulders.
* * *
All it took was a single moment, the very first step in, for Altaf to know that this was the place. It was as if an invisible curtain separated the infinite delights of the ittar shop from the outside world, and his nose had no choice but to succumb.
“Salaam,” came a voice from the front of the shop. Sitting by the cash was a man in his late thirties, dressed in light blue kurta and thick khaadi jacket, the silhouette of a small round belly beginning to appear through the folds of his clothes.
“Salaam,” replied Altaf, and Zainab, from under her veil, gave a gentle nod. “We are looking for…” The calligrapher’s voice trailed off as he began to look around the shop. The entire interior was an arrangement of different colored glass vials, like sacred offerings from a liquid world. There were also gilded bottles and painted flasks, displays of pendants and lockets of solid perfume, ittardaans, bronze burners and rows of incense sticks. On the ground were placed large green glass demijohn bottles and metal funnels to decant or refill them. Smells from every corner begged Altaf to come closer, to explore, to wander. Unable to employ the exactitude he demanded in his own work, he looked at the shopkeeper, overwhelmed by choice.
Mohan smiled. “Is this your first time in our shop? Aap fikar na karein, my brother will help you find exactly what you need.” He craned his neck and called out, “Veer ji…”
A slim man just a few years older craned his neck out from the back of the shop. He was dressed like an English sahib: suited and booted, suspenders, cardigan, and all. Altaf took in his rigidly straight frame, chiseled clean-shaven features, and trim body, and deduced that this was the soldier.
“As-salaam-alaikum,” Vivek greeted his new customers warmly and introduced himself. For a split second, he looked closely at Altaf and wondered if they had met before. The eyes, the pistachio green of the eyes, like an oasis in the snow. He had seen those eyes before. But no, it couldn’t be. The eyes he was thinking of had been closed forever years ago, on a battlefield far away. Shaking off the memory, he resumed conversation.
“Ji, bataiye, what can I show you? Perhaps some lovely jasmine, or musk, or oudh? We distill almost everything ourselves, just upstairs.”
“Jannat-e-ward,” Altaf said, “the rose.”
From under the veil, a whisper floated out, “Taif, rose taif.”
Vivek’s eyes widened, impressed at the mention of such a rare rose extract. He reached across the shelves behind him and picked up a small, ornate flask. Unbottling it, he held the glass stopper out to Altaf. “From the time of the Ottomans, this has been known as the Arabian rose, growing in the cool suburbs of Taif. Its extract is brought to us directly from there. Harvested in the early-morning hours of March and April, this rose must be picked before the sun rises and the heat of the day penetrates the bud and destroys the fragrance of the legendary flower. It takes about fifteen thousand roses to create a tiny vial of pure taifi essence.”
Altaf brought his nose to the glass stopper covered in densely clear liquid, and took a whiff. Wazir Khan, that’s what it reminded him of, the sprinkling of rosewater every morning at the mosque. Fresh, sweet, reverent. It was a familiar smell, but not the rose he had fantasized about for the Alf Layla. The taif was more powdery that he’d have liked, and hidden within each inhale were tealike hints he hadn’t expected. Taking the stopper from Vivek, he held it out to Zainab, who delicately brought it underneath her veil and smelled.
“According to legend,” Vivek continued, “over two centuries ago, the rose petals from Taif were carefully collected, tightly sealed, and brought to Mecca on camels’ backs, where their infusion was distilled with sandalwood oil, resulting in a floral, woody, soothing fragrance. The very same kind you are smelling right now.”
Placing the glass stopper back into the bottle, Vivek gave it a swirl so it was coated with ittar. He then removed it once again and, painting it across Altaf’s palms, instructed him how to rub both hands together and deposit the fragrance across his body, over clothes, skin and all. Every scent smelled differently on different skins. And so, the calligrapher complied. But even after being doused in the holy scent, he seemed unconvinced. Finally, he described his need to Vivek, whose fingers began moving across bottles on the shelves, just as quickly as the words escaped Altaf’s lips. History, tradition, travel, family, all things that Vivek treasured.
“Roses, roses, let me bring out our roses. Some are pure essences, and others are blends that we have created.” He began picking out bottle after bottle, and soon there were clear, yellow, ochre, and light pink hues lined neatly before the Khans. “Although we could also compose something special for the manuscript…” the perfumer offered after a moment, thinking out loud, “perhaps adding some geranium essence, locally called lal jari, to the taif. It grows in balmy regions and has similar properties to the rose, so much so that it is often mistaken for the same. But it is less powdery and almost fruity or minty.”
Altaf Khan’s lips curved up into a half-moon as he held a bottle of pure geranium essence up to his nose. Indeed, it was similar to a rose, but it was also green, lemony, rich, dense, even nostalgic. It compelled him to agree with Vivek on a blend of the two ingredients, and momentarily forget his inquiries about Iqbal or the War.
* * *
As the heavenly rose-colored realm began to emerge at the front of the shop, Firdaus let go of her mother’s hand and looked around, feeling most out of place. Intrigued by a squeaky sound, she followed it to a low glass cabinet in the back of the ittar shop. Hundreds of small, precious glass bottles inside created a natural fortification between Firdaus and the boy who sat behind it. He was hunched over some empty bottles in the same way that she was often hunched over a book. She found herself smiling as his tongue crept slightly out of his mouth in concentration, in the same way that hers did when she drew. Interest piqued, she placed her small palms on the glass cabinet and peered through.
* * *
Half a year into his apprenticeship, Samir was crouched on the ground at the back of the shop, obscured behind a glass cabinet. He drowned each bottle in a bowl of hot water and then, using his fingernails, peeled off the gummy, worn-out labels. Each perfume or ingredient bottle in the shop bore a simple black-and-white label, which was not exactly beautiful, but a functional element for business. Samir had barely got through half the lot when he stopped. Bottle still in hand, he inhaled deeply with closed eyes as a new smell snaked around him. Everything about it was ordinary, yet something stood out so clearly that he was unable to ignore it. He smelled her before he saw her.
Lifting his nose above the curtain of his already perfumed environment, he detected rose and orange peels doused in milk, mixed with multani mud and gram flour. These were the ingredients for ubtan, the ordinary face mask applied by many women. Someone had walked into the shop carrying the remnants of ubtan, but there was something else, something extraordinary adhered to this ordinary smell. It was musky, warm, soft, calming, sweet—yes, it was also sweet. Immediately, he recalled a bottle of the same substance from a faraway island called Haiti, a highly prized ingredient called vanilla, which his uncle pronounced as vaneel and his father as vaneellaa. Could it be? Samir dropped the bottle in the water and smelled further, eyes still closed. Hints of something vaguely smoky floated into his nostrils. Was it leather, or pepper? No, neither. It was more rudimentary, denser, warmer, ashy like kohl. Allowing this composition to expand his smile and also, it seemed, his heart, he took another deep inhale. Most redolent within this bouquet was the rose. Effortlessly overpowering all else, for a rose could never hide. And just as he brought his nose down from the air, he found a pair of pistachio-colored eyes staring at him through the rows of glass bottles.
