Mahadevan Ramesh writes from Chennai, India. Mostly fiction, but occasionally some true 'blogs'.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A New Treat
Apparently, a right wing Hindu organization is in the final stages of making a major splash in the beverage market – by introducing packaged ‘cow’s urine’. According to sources, the product will be marketed in various customer-pleasing flavors, including something as exotic as aloe vera. Me and a friend of mine (who is from an Ayurvedic pharma company) managed to catch up with Mr. Kumar, the Managing Director of this new enterprise. As he took us around his facility, I tried to break the ice by remarking ‘Being pissed off is no longer a theoretical expression for your cows’. He made a painful grimace, but started talking about his new venture.
“It doesn’t get any more organic than this.” He explained to us “We go through a multi-step filtration process and follow an ancient method of refining it. We have even obtained ISO 9001 certification for it. However, we don’t subject it to Pausterization because it removes not only the germs, but also the holy properties of our product.”
“That is bullshit” screamed my companion.
“No no. Bullshit is another product that we are currently working on. Don’t confuse with that” Mr. Kumar explained. “At present, we are experimenting with seven or eight flavors. We also have the premium product, which has been aged for over two decades. We will also bring out the janata variety that is affordable for most people. Remember, our products don’t have any expiry dates”
“Ah, I see.” We marveled.
:”We are also coming up with a line of household cleaning and ‘propitiating’ products using the same raw material - especially suitable for people buying new homes.” Then Mr. Kumar proceeded to substantiate his statement with a short sloka about how a cow gives and gives.
“We tried various taglines – like ‘there is a wow, In every cow’ or ‘You charge and we discharge’. But we finally settled on ‘Holier than cow’” Mr. Kumar added. He then explained his marketing strategy a bit, although he said that he is not at liberty to give us the details.
“In blind laboratory testing, we found no difference between our product and Coors Light beer – even the pH matched. So, we are optimistic about capturing the obese, North American market, and also penetrating the Euro Zone.”
“Sir, who will be your brand ambassadors?” we popped the question.
“Again, I cannot reveal it just as yet. But several celebrities have already signed up, including politicians, actors and businesspeople.”
We fired a final professional question. “Tell us, Mr, Kumar. Which would you recommend for your customers, bottled or canned version?”
Mr. Kumar had that cynical laugh. “This question has been around right since the Vedic days. Actually, the best form of delivery is ‘on tap’. But that may be a bit difficult for several of our customers, because you will have to get between the legs of the cow and push the tail away and start tickling the cow to get output. Not recommended for some of our overweight politicians.”
Moo over Pepsi, Coke.
(The above conversation is fictional. But I am dead serious about the news of such a drink)
Taking a cue from the resounding success of Slumdog Millinaire, in the USA and in India, Bollywood is wasting no time in re-releasing yesteryear’s Indian hits in the USA. Yesterday’s Beverly Hills mega opening of Jai Santoshi Maa (re-named Maa dot com for the American audience) is truly symbolic of how far Bollywood has come in winning over the West.
The event was organized by Mr. Raj Gupta, who has the distributions rights to the film in the USA and was attended by a veritable who’s who of Hollywood glitterati. “This is not about making a fast buck on the current India wave, but to introduce the Americans to quintessentially Indian sensibilities, like mother sentiment, Ajit phattas and the Seeta-Geeta twin conundrum.“ He told reporters that extra footage, shot in dharavi, was added to the film’s re-release, in response to the overwhelming curiosity the West has shown about the Mumbai slum, considered the largest in Asia.
Already Dharavi is proving to be a major ‘Terror-tourism’ destination, where for prices upwards of $ 2500, strong-stomached tourists can experience first-hand pickpocketing, all-female gaali competition, mugging, gang-fights etc. A three day premium package includes a live political assassination and a thrilling election booth capture, midnight smuggling cruises kind of adventures. There are also economy packages which include self-guided tour of Dharavi, but the operators do not guarantee your return passage though.
The scene outside the fashionable Mann theatre, Beverly Hills, Los Angeles resembled Rio’s carnival, with celebs dashing in and out of stretch limos. This reporter managed to catch up with a few of them.
“The subterfuges of the subliminal in a polychromatic emotional canvass caught me completely off-guards” said Kate Winslett, the winner of two recent Golden Globes, dressed in an elegant light blue churidar dress, specially designed for the occasion.
“It is interesting – in a sort of, kind of way.” said Martin Scorcese as he emerged from the premier of the movie “The character arc of the Mother figure, going from the mother the protector to the mother, the destroyer is thematically very powerful.”
“The movie defied any classification” admitted Clint Eastwood, who was recently snubbed by the Goldern Globe awards. “It smoothly crossed over from the ‘action-comedy’ to the ‘family drama’ genre, with touches of ‘Horror’ and sci-fi. I have never seen anything like this.”
With the Hollywoodization of Bollywood and the Bollywoodization of Hollywood, can Tollywood and Kollywood be far behind, ask industry experts.
When contacted at her residence in East Godavari district in Eastern India, Pichaayee Homeopathi, 76, the star of the movie, said that she was still in shock. “Just imagine, getting a call from Steven Spieldberg. He wants me to do two movies for him – both without any make-up.”
Gupta also told this reporter that he is currently working on several projects – including re-releasing classics like Dara Singh’s ‘Lootera’ (Loot it, dude, for Hollywood) and the timeless ‘Daku aur Mahatma’ (dubbed ‘The Good, the Bad, the Ugly and the Mahatma) But for now, he is busy working on the re-re-release of Maa dot com in India with the new title Amma
As someone who lived in the USA for dog years, I still have a voyeuristic interest in the goings on out there. I am a confirmed CNN junkie and come evening, me and my mom will have these major TV remote wars over which channel to watch. But with events like the Golden Globe presentation or the Inauguration, she is now a convert. Occasionally when she gets fidgety watching yet another hour of CNN, all I have to say is “Mom, they are going to show India” and she will be alright. Like several other desis, she too feels that there is an India Wave sweeping the world and she too likes this inside-out view of the new globalized Indian.
It certainly warmed a lot of desi cockles – mine especially – to see A. R. Rahman receive his Golden Globe award with quiet dignity and humility. But I was focused more on Anil Kapoor and gang clowning around boisterously without a hint of embarrassment. But then, I always look at the negatives. When people were busy trying to analyze the sub-text of Obama’s Inaugural speech, I was looking for gaffes and glitches. While the diaspora felt a collective lump in their throats after Obama’s “Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus…” bit, I was wondering what if somebody quietly slipped a huge pot of Green Dal Slime Slime from my old hostel mess, into the Inaugural luncheon spread.
By the way, have you everr noticed – that whenever you see a picture of Queen Elizabeth taking part in yet another meanigless ceremony, there is always a guy standing next to her who is three feet taller than her?
------ X ------- X ------
The PAN IIT meeting took place here in Chennai recently. Reluctantly I parted with two thousand odd rupees and registered for it. I saw a lot of my old friends. The grass outside the Students Activity Center, IIT Madras, was dotted with Srinis and Balas. And more Balas and Srinis and Palvayanteeswarans. Some of the NRI crowd, of course, behaved like they had never been in India before - incongruously wearing tie and jacket for ‘casual lunches’ and asking all sorts of penetrating chemical engineering questions about the local mineral water. One of them refused to walk a half a kilometer up to where I parked my car, because he did not have his walking shoes on. But the award goes to a critter that asked loudly if he should put a tea bag inside a steaming cup of coffee to convert it to tea!! Serious, folks!!
As usual, I did not attend any of those serious ‘Plenary’ sessions. The first day, I really made an honest attempt – pushing and shoving my way through the crowded auditorium when somebody said :Hema Malini aa rahi hai.” At which point, there was a stampede for the exit and we all rushed to the hall where she was going to be featured. She gushed that she was thrilled to mingle with ‘intellectuals’ – her euphemism for IIT nerds.
“Look, Hema Malini naach rahi hai” somebody else shouted, raising the temperature of the hall.
“No no. She is just walking. At her age it might look like she is dancing.” Someone else explained.
I guess the true purpose of meetings like the PAN IIT is to re-live the teenage fantasies – like finally being able to see their ‘dream girl’ in person, now that they have the money and other wherewithals to pull it off.
The next day, I actually managed to find a seat in the Plenary session. A phoren CEO of a consumer products company – which is more than six degrees separated from anything IIT-ish – showed an ear-splitting, graphics-heavy video clipping before he started to pitch for his corporation. When he said something like how his household products make bathroom-cleaning ‘fun’, I walked out.
The last day’s keynote speaker was Prof. Amartya Sen. Of coursse, I bunked that too and headed straight to the dining hall, where I had the entire buffet line to myself and proceeded to eat my tenth ‘fish fried’.
This is the story of Jaggu the Fool, as he was known around the rundown slum he lived in. Some people said that it was his ferocious wife who drove him to this sorry state. Nonetheless he remained a fool and it was a miracle that he had not yet choked on a balloon while he blew on it. It’d happen sooner or later, some others would wager.
Jaggu was the balloonwalla of the area. He toiled all evening at a busy intersection, decking up his little push cart with a lot of colorful balloons, inflating them with helium gas (and sometimes with his lung power). He would twist and knot them into all kinds of funny shapes. This would fascinate and amuse little children (and even some grown ups) and they would crowd around him in a circle to watch him work. A little puppy was everyone’s favorite, with little ears and a short tail. He would sell it for almost four rupees a pop. He would scratch and rub his balloons, making that cantankerous screeching sound and the crowd around him would go wild. The noise beckoned even more customers from across the street and some days, he sold out his balloons and went home even before the street lights came on. Occasionally, when business got dull, he would linger on and on and would even come up with some silly jingles to pump up business – and he would look ridiculous when he sang.
You might think that Jaggu was some kind of a fun balloonwalla. But no sir, he was not. In fact, he was grouchy to the core, and this coming on top of his already bad reputation as everyone’s fool. He always shouted at his customers. He was particularly irritated by little kids who simply stood around him and never bought a damned thing. He would also get into arguments if they didn’t have the right change.
“You wanted the red balloon and I gave it to you. And now you want the yellow one, instead?” he would say yet other times, to admonish a fickle-minded kid. “If you can’t make up your mind, then don’t buy my balloons.”
Most of the days Jaggu made enough money to put food on the table for himself and his wife – they don’t have any children, mind you. He would even diligently put away some money each day towards his next bottle of helium and other supplies. Even after all this, some days there would be an extra few rupees left - to buy himself a shot of the stiff local brew. On those days, when he staggered into his little thatched hut, his wife would be hopping mad.
“You are no good. A complete waste.” she would scream “And now you are drunk too. You are a twice over fool.”
Jaggu has heard this before. Yes, I don’t bring as much money as our neighbor. I am not as strong and handsome like some of your relatives that you could have married instead of me. I haven’t even produced you a child. Yes, I fight with everyone and lose all those fights. Yes, I am a burden to you. Yes, I am…..But I haven’t kissed your beautiful lips in two years. I am really in a good mood now…… . So, why don’t we…But you never let me come near you….
At which point, his wife would toss something heavy at him and yell even louder. “How dare you!! First make a hundred rupees and then talk to me. You don’t know how much suffering you bring to a wonderful woman like me. Go away.”
Utterly defeated, Jaggu would curl up in a corner, sleep away his night; but deep down inside him, he was always hopeful that one day his wife would change her attitude and become that husband-worshipping, sweet talking, shy-as-all-hell woman, who put up with all kinds of tribulations. Maybe I should go away abroad and earn tons of money and woo her back….His mind would swell up with erotic fantasies…
------------------------------ X ------- X --------- And one day.
Jaggu was standing at his usual street corner, inflating his baloons. His little push cart looked overcrowded with a lot of balloons tied all around it. Little kids have already gathered around him and Jaggu was at their epicenter.
“This is the festival season. I am expecting a lot of business.” He snapped at the children and chased them away “And you little devils, don’t block my customers.”
As he was yelling, a strange thing happened. Jaggu thought the earth was collapsing from under his feet. Tsunami or an earthquake or something. But, no, it wasn’t the earth. It was his cart! The darned thing was slowly taking off and beginning to fly – with Jaggu clinging to it!! He knew helium balloons can lift off. But he had not imagined anything like this. The gas has so much power it is actually lifting his entire cart, the balloons and himself!!!!
Half fascinated and half scared, he yelled at the crowd below, which had by now swollen up to almost fifty strong. Some of them even thought it was yet another one of Jaggu’s sales gimmick and began clapping and cheering..
“Make it stop and bring me back to ground.” Jaggu pleaded from above
But he was rising higher and higher. Very soon the applauding children on the ground became littler children and then little dots and finally disappeared all together. Jaggu realized that he was floating way up in the air. The tallest buildings in his city could be seen below his cart. He clutched his cart with both hands, hoping for a smooth landing somewhere soon. It may take him till late in the night to go home. And his wife would be even more mad and call him all sorts of names. The city soon disappeared and he found himself gliding over small villages. Many, many years ago he too had migrated to the city from one such village. Whenever he passed a village, people on the ground would disbelievingly look up the sky and wave to him. It was such an unusual spectacle to see a man fly in the air with a cart.
“You must be the eagle-man. Come on down and meet us.” Someone on the ground shouted. Jaggu was barely able to hear him.
“No, I am Jaggu. Where am I? And which town is this?”
“You are over Lalpur.”
“Where is Lalpur?”
“You don’t know even this? It is next to Rampur.”
“And where in the world is Rampur?”
“You must be a total fool. Everyone knows that Rampur is next to Sitapur” the man on the ground explained, shouting himself hoarse. “And by the way, use a better underwear next time you want to fly over our town. You look positively obscene.”
Jaggu was beside himself. He was tired, scared and hungry. Maybe he will go to the nowhere land. Maybe he will crash into a huge mountain. Maybe he will collapse to ground and die - and that ought to make his wife happy.
------- X ------- X ------ X ------ When Jaggu woke up, he found himself in a totally strange land. It was almost like a jungle, but there were neat huts – some of them very large and ornamental. His little pushcart – and his helium cylinder, all the balloons, his cash box with some change, were all there, in tact. Suddenly, a group of tribal people appeared in front of him and for a brief moment, Jaggu feared for his life. The Chief among the tribals said something to Jaggu in a strange language. Jaggu had no idea what he was saying, but knew that the Chief wasn’t particularly hostile or threatening - if anything, he was more polite than his own wife - bless her, wherever she was.
The Chief picked up a balloon and was fascinated by it. He had not seen anything like that in his life before. How can nothingness become energy that can be stuffed into colorful, little devices? These angelic icons are such magical, mystical things that they defy gravity and float up!! When the Chief accidentally let go one of a balloon, it flew all the way to the top of a tall tree and got stuck in the branches. And he had one of his bravest subjects retrieve it. Otherwise it would have flown up, up and away – and would have reached the gods. This man who descended from heaven must also be god’s agent, who has personally come down to bless him and his tribe..
That moment forth, Jaggu became an honored citizen of the tribal land. The Chief made him stay in the finest hut in the kingdom. Jaggu slept on a silk bed. Young pigs slowly roasted over fire would be served to him, with jugs of delicately brewed liquor. Five men and women were assigned to look after his every need. Although Jaggu did not understand a word of what they said, sign language was enough for him to take care of every one of his material comforts.
The Chief had his entire palace decorated with Jaggu’s balloons, with a red heart-shaped balloon tied to his throne, to give it a royal touch. Exemplary citizens of the land were awarded balloons, as also the Chief’s favorite wives who were dutiful to him. If occasionally someone caused a balloon to burst, the Chief would have them flogged with a sharp whip. For all his benevolence and good nature, the Chief also had a terrible temper – even more horrible than Jaggu’s wife. And when that happened, the tribals knew better than to hang around in front of him and be his punching bag. All in all, the balloons changed the face of the tribal country completely. Thanks, Almighty!!!! The Master of Inflation and Floatation!!!!
And one day, the Chief told Jaggu (in sign language, of course) that as a special envoy from heaven, he should marry the most beautiful woman of the tribe - a coy, long legged beauty who doted on her man. A ceremonious wedding took place and the tribals all wore special wedding barks and ornamental beads. Several balloons were given away as the bride’s price – and Jaggu was in a dream world.
According to tribal tradition, the groom had to close his eyes while the bride garlanded him. When Jaggu opened his eyes, to his horror he found a snake around his neck. He was petrified. But everyone around laughed. The bride showed her own garland and it too looked like a snake. He then realized that they were not real snakes, but some tribal ornaments in the shape of a snake. In fact, she was even wearing ‘snake’ bracelets and amulets. The exchange of garlands was soon followed by an elaborate feast, where pigs, deer, lambs, wild fowls – just about anything that lived and breathed - were cooked and served. Exotic liquor flowed like a river and the event was capped by a sensuous ritual dance that lasted through the night.
Under the gaze of the stars, Jaggu embraced his new bride. And scooped her off the graound and carried her into his beautifully appointed hut. This is what he deserved!!! For a fleeting moment he thought about his old short, fat, nagging wife he had left behind at his far away homeland. Nobody deserved someone like her. Really. Nobody. His new wife was ten times more beautiful; she smiled at him all the time; adored him and played little games with him..She even taught him how to weave leaves and blades of grass into those snake-shaped jewels. Jaggu was in seventh heaven.
And then it happened. Jaggu simply ran out of gas – helium gas, that is. He had carefully stretched his cylinder of gas all those months, filling just one or two balloons a day. And now this had to happen, just when some of the palace balloons were shriveling up and needed to be replaced. The Chief could not believe it. Maybe Jaggu was playing a dirty trick – perhaps trying to initiate a rebellion and eventually take over his kingdom. Or maybe the gods are angry at him for some sin he had inadvertently committed. Oh, God, why have you turned nothingness back into nothingness? He was angry, frightened and restless. Jaggu was no longer God’s man, but an evil person with a sinister plot. The Chief began to physically torture Jaggu since that day forward. “Re-start your magic, and bring joy to my land” he would order him, while his men gave Jaggu ten lashes. – and his new wife would watch helplessly from afar with tearful eyes. This must be my end, Jaggu thought.
And one day, the tribals gagged him, tied him with a rope and rolled him down a hill – out of the tribal territory. For good measure, they even pushed his cart down over him. His wife, unable to bear the sight, came screaming after him. But a couple of tribal men strong-armed her into submission and dragged her back into their land. -------- X -------- X -------- X ------- A few suspenseful hours later, an army jeep patrolling that area spotted a human bundle of Jaggu, found him to be still alive and nursed him back to life in a military hospital. A few days later he was taken back to his city. A policeman escorted Jaggu to his old home and knocked on the door. When his old wife opened the door, her jaw dropped and she freaked out.
“Tell me I am dreaming!!” she shrieked “Where in the world had you been, you lousy, no-good piece of human trash?”
(An aside: At this point, the escorting policeman scratched his head and produced that sheepish grin. Jaggu’s wife at once understood what was happening and took out a hundred rupee currency from her bosom and handed it over to him as ‘mamool’. And the policeman quickly disappeared)
”And whatever happened to your cart and all your money?” she screamed “Did you drink way the money? Why have you come back to haunt me? You don’t know how much I have suffered all these days, by myself. . Wish you were dead and gone. At least then, I would have married again.”
For a second, Jaggu wanted to tell her about his adventure, the tribal land and his new, wonderful wife. But decided to keep quiet. His old, shrew of a wife wouldn’t believe him anyway. What a wonderful life he had in the tribe when his helium tank had gas. How they worshipped him. The roast of a young pig…..
“Don’t just stand around, you idiot. Get another cart and start making some money. I have already piled up a huge debt.” His wife was relentlessly yelling at him. “Bring me money.”
What a turn of events, Jaggu sulked, He dragged his feet outside. His slum looked the same. Maybe a few new faces here and there, A few kids had grown older. Somebody even asked him where he had been all these days. But Jaggu never gave him a straight answer. He walked up to his usual corner from where he sold balloons. ..And a brand new cart was standing there, with a brand new baloonwalla!!! He was surrounded by the usual joyous children. Unlike him, this new guy was a cheerful man who played with the children and kept talking to the parents. He even made silly jokes to amuse everyone. And he was busy collecting money and filling up his kitty. From the sound of it, Jaggu figured that the guy was making much more than he ever did. It could have been him, Jaggu bemoaned. And now he has even lost his place in the bazaar. Jaggu looked across the road. There was another baloonwalla there with another cart and another bunch of kids around him. I am doomed, thought Jaggu. The only profession I knew, I cannot carry out any more!! He pondered for hours and hours and finally came up with a solution.
-------- X ------- X ------- X -----
Jaggu has now set up his new shop in the same corner, right next to the new balloonwalla. This one, not a balloon stand, but hawked snake-shaped trinkets – garlands, necklaces, amulets, bracelets, anklets – just about anything. There is always a crowd of teenagers around Jaggu. They love what Jaggu has to offer and would lap up everything on his cart.
A girl in jeans and T shirts was trying on some new snake bangles.
“These are so cool yaar.” She was telling her friend over the cell phone “They are also supposed to be good luck charms and guess what, they are Vaastu compliant too. You ought to get some yourself.”
A college guy in a motorbike swooped by and paid good money to Jaggu for two garlands, one for him and another one for his girlfriend. His neck was already loaded with a couple of these leis. Exchanging snake shaped garlands has now beome a craze in the city, because it is supposed to get the blessings of snake god.
Jaggu could not control his glee, as he counted his cash – there was enough dough – enough to cover for food, his next week’s supplies, some new clothes, a bottle of foreign booze - and even some spare change for his witch of a wife.
Mahadevan_ramesh@hotmail.com I am Sadiq Ali. And I built the Taj Mahal – in a manner of speaking. All those highly-nuanced inlaid ornamental work, meticulous inscription of the Holy Koran verses on the marble tiles from Jaipur, all the jasper and onyx and carbuncle artistry, the gold and silver embroidery that so awe you when you visit the Taj Mahal – all were done by me or under my supervision, by my faithful workers.
Even as a young man, I had met Khurram – that’s what emperor Shah Jahan was known as before he became the great emperor he was. My father, who had emigrated from Persia, introduced me as the most promising stone and jade artist he had ever trained, with such a gift of calligraphy and stone sense.
“He has God’s hands.” He described me. ”Diamonds and rubies actually speak to him.”
Little did I know then that I was going to be involved in the construction of the Taj. A few days later I went along with my father to a royal wedding of king’s relatives near the palace and that was where I first met Rehena. She was the dancing girl – only for royal functions, as she emphasized later – not any nautch girl. She floated in the air, glided through the upraised stage in a nifty movement, sang the highest notes and intoxicated us with her eyes. She was at once flamboyant and lily-in-the-pond quiet. I began to see her more and more.
“I may not be the most handsome man on the land, Rehena” I told her.” But I have the largest heart and …the filthiest mind.”
She would laugh and pour some more old wine into my tazza. Oh, how many days I have spent like that! Oh, how many years can I spend like that!! I was in Love – so hopelessly in love that my entire life was defined by it. My every waking moment was shaped by it. And should I die, my history would be written by it.
And when like her, oh, Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass! ------- x ------- x ------- x -----
Then it all happened so suddenly. The Taj Mahal was commissioned by Shah Jahan – to be the greatest edifice to celebrate Love. I could endorse it. After all, I had my Rehena. But then, cruel are the ways of fate. I still remember her pulling me to a corner and telling me.
“Dear, I have something bad to tell you.” She started “That big soldier-commander, Rayan Khan wants me to marry him. And I said yes.”
“What?!!!?”
“I thought about it all night and all day. I think this is my final answer and a correct decision.”
“Is it because he is better than me? Is it because he is a mansabdar also and therefore can collect taxes and pocket a part of it and afford you gifts? I am noble too!! My ancestors had palaces in Persia.”
“It is not that. You are a nice man, too. And you will find a nice woman for yourself. It is just that I have to choose a good life for myself. Who knows, with all his bravery, Rayan might even become a governor of a province…”
“Rehena, you are mad.”
“Since I am going to be another man’s wife, I should not even be entertaining you like this. Please leave!!”
I walked out, hopping mad. I vowed never to see her again or think about her. But she was right there in front of me – when I closed my eyes and also when I opened my eyes. This concept called love is a double-edged sword. It can elate you and thrill you and it can also send you on a flight down the misery lane. I turned up at her house many, many times and even talked to her mother. But to no avail. I became another bitter, lonely man afflicted by rejection. Rehena and Rayan married in a spectacular ceremony. And this was one royal wedding in which she did not dance.
I hated this Taj Mahal thing, as we were getting more and more into the project. How can anybody glorify such an awful thing called Love? Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my credit in this World much wrong: Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup And sold my Reputation for a Song -------- X -------- X --------- X -------
Slowly and slowly, the Taj Mahal took shape – slab by marble slab. Nearly twenty years in the making and with nearly twenty thousand artisans and other workers. From Persia, Baghdad and Csonstantinople even. Mosques were built on either side of the mausoleum. The four spires in the corners were mangnificent. You could read the Koran verses from thirty feet away. The neatly laid out gardens lent a counterpoint to the structure. The emperor’s sense of symmetry and aesthetics of reflection in water were marvelous. Taj Mahal - a joy to behold and a symbol of the most romantic human emotion, namely Love.
How wrong!! Love is an emotion you can neither abstract nor approximate nor articulate. It vitiates your entire body, mind and soul like a fine poison. It is filth, it is evil. It is the low point of human existence. It is… It is….
Oh, the great Emperor Shah Jahan, the world is not going to remember you for building this huge edifice for this raw and naiive emotion called Love!! The world will only remember the hundreds of hapless workers who died trying to give shape to your delusion of grandeur. You think the onion dome in the center just dropped from heaven one day? No. It consumed several people’s sweat, blood and lives. Future generations will only talk about how you bankrupted your entire coffer because you were so obsessed building this marble behemoth. What a waste of over four crore silver rupees!! How you taxed the poor peasants to death and how your unscrupulous tax collectors swindled everyone including yourself. If you are so sincere about Love, why didn’t you build even a small monument for your first wife, Quandari Begum? Why only build it for Arjumand Bano – your Mumtaz Mahal - after she dies during the birth of her fourteenth child at the age of over forty? Is it a way to flaunt your rich arrogance? Is it a way to reveal the shallowness of your thought?
“Emperor, Sir. A question has been nagging me for a long time.”
“Ask, Sadiq.”
“In my humble opinion, don’t you think that love is more of an infatuation than a mature sentiment? “ I submitted. “You have built Madrasas and hospitals and the Moti Masjid. Did you really have to build this colossus called Taj Mahal?”
“What???? Such temerity in front of Our Royal Self?” he shouted in anger “Thou shalt learn to keep your flea-infested mouth shut. I decree that nobody shall question this wonderful human feeling called Love. My beloved Mumtaz Mahal – even the moon would hide in shame in front of her beauty.” Whether at Naishapur or Babylon, Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run, The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop, The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one ----- X ------ X ------ X ----
It has been several years since we finished constructing the Taj Mahal. Times have changed – the emperor’s son Aurangzeb has deposed his father, got rid of his own brothers and crowned himself the new emperor. The old emperor is now imprisoned behind the great walls of the Fort, a shadow of himself. I hear that he barely talks or walks, attended to only by his faithful daughter Jahanara.
A little shantytown has cropped up around the Taj Mahal, filled with drunks and derelicts and people talking in the new language, Hindi. They even call the place Mumtazabad. I too started going there in search of small pleasures in life.
And then one day, who did I see, but Rehana!!!
“Rhena, stop. This is Sadiq Ali.” I yelled “How has god’s grace been on you?”
She recognized me at once. “What are you doing in these parts?”
I told her about myself.
“Rehena, my jewel. After all these years, I still cannot forget you.”
“You should not be talking like this.”
“But my feelings are true. True as god’s words.” I continued. “In the last so many years, there has never been a day when I did not think about you. You are my love, my life and my paradise.”
“Go away.”
“Please come with me. I have enormous wealth and I can pull you out of this squalor you are in now.”
“I am doing very well thank you.”
“It has been over a year since your husband Rayan Khan got killed in the Battle of Khajwa against Shuja, Aurangzeb’s own brother – Rayan was hopelessly cut by a charging elephant and a cannonball. “ I persisted. “It is time to forget him and your old life. Come to me and be mine. I hear he did not leave you with much money…”
“Go away, you monster.”
“I will do anything for you. I will send away my wife Faiza and my children to my ancestral village in Persia. We will live out the rest of our lives in peace and solitude.”
“Go away, you dog.” She screamed at me. “Or stay here and lick my feet.”
Here I was – the greatest artisan of the Mughal empire – who has personally embedded emeralds and garnets into the Peacock throne – going on his knees to woo a lowly, aging dancing girl for her hand – all because of the potency of this emotion called Love! Love is sicker than the satan. And those who husbanded the Golden grain, And those who flung it to the winds like Rain, Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd As, buried once, Men want dug up again. ------ X ------- x ------- x ----
And one day, when I was strolling through Mumtazabad, I heard the news – that Rehena was dead! From a disease that attacked first her stomach. Just like that! She is gone! Such a graceful form of femine beauty can never die.
In spite of her fame as a danseuse and as Rayan Khan’s wife, very few people had come for the funeral. These days, of course, the emperor has banned dancing in the weddings and the present generation may never know what it is like to have dances in weddings. Apparently she had few relatives and it was a pity tht she saw a lot of penury and strife in her last days. If she were not that silly and stubborn, she could have lived in the laps of luxury with me. ..
It was raining. At the funeral somebody asked me if I was related to her. I said yes, without explaining. Prayers were said and she was thrust into the ground. Farewell, my love.
Too bad that Emperor Shah Jahan was not able to build his Black Taj Mahal across the river from the present Taj – supposedly with granites from the Rajput kingdoms. Or I would have been the first one to work on it. That would be such a great monument for all the negative aspects of Love.
It rained some more. Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! One thing at least is certain--This Life flies; One thing is certain and the rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies ----- X ------- X ------- X ------
I was walking aimlessly in the town. This is the end of my love story. Unrequitted and unfulfilled. Forever to remain a grim reminder that love is painful and gory. Let this be a lesson for others. I kept wandering some more. Because of Alamgir’s (Aurangzeb’s) new laws against drinking and gambling, Mumtazabad even looked pleasing.
Suddenly, there was a rush inside me. I had to do it!!
I grabbed a couple of people smoking ganja and lured them with promise of one gold Mohar coin each.
“Bring me the best mule cart there is.” I ordered. “And four able-bodied men”
I gathered them and went straight to the place where we had just laid Rehena to the ground.
“Dig up that coffin and carry it in the cart to where I am going to lead you.”
“Sir, the laws against desecrating graves are very severe” one of them protested. “Besides, it is proscribed in God’s book too.”
“Do what I tell you. I am a friend of the emperor.”
In a few hard strokes to the ground, the coffin was dug out. We hurriedly placed it in the cart and rushed out of the cemetery – toward the Taj Mahal complex! We stopped right at the entrance by the gardens.
“Bury her here.” I ordered “Hurry up and be done with it quickly.”
As she was lowered into the ground, against the backdrop of Taj Mahal, it filled my heart with a straange sensation of having conquered something. Now if anybody stood at this spot and gazed at the Taj Mahal, they would only sense that Love is such a folly. Bury her deep!! Bury Love deep!!! Oh, I feel so liberated.
The last of the urchins was paid. I stood there by myself. I simply had to drop a fistful of dirt on the grave and I would have done my duty. Then I can take her off my mind forever. I dug into the ground to scoop out dirt – and came up only with a few grains of dirt – because, where there once used to be hands and fingers, are now simply blunt stubs, thanks to Shah Jahan chopping away my hands so I will not build another Taj Mahal.
But, Shahbuddin Mohammad Shah Jahan, I have just finished building my Taj Mahal. Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
