Borne away by the flood
In this excerpt from a forthcoming valedictory essay, Shamsur Rahman Faruqi’s nephew writes about the Urdu author’s last days
He came to Delhi, for the last time, in mid-october, 2020. It was his second trip after the Corona-imposed lockdown. To increase his comfort, his daughter Baran had moved to a larger flat. He had recently had a fall in the bathroom in Allahabad, and was unable to fully lift his arm. Also there were bruises from dog bites, his beloved Bholi often dug into him. I would visit him every other day.
Bareabbu had some difficulty in walking. As he got up to go the bathroom, assisted by his minder Chhotu, he rued his frailty and said he hoped he would never have to become mohtaj ie dependent. He was in many ways a true ghani, that is a person who is self-contained, the very opposite of mohtaj, and therefore his fear of becoming a dependent in old age had sound basis because of the pride and rectitude with which he had led his life.
He had been preparing a dictionary of archaic words in Urdu, and had completed some 15,000 entries. It was backbreaking labour, and unlikely to be rewarding. He had to pick and lug and pore over heavy dictionaries. I would ask him to write another novel instead. But he felt that if he didn’t do this work then who would? The fifth book in his multivolume work on Dastans was due out soon. He was planning a few more volumes of that. There were other stories, and novels, and a ceaseless spate of articles about various aspects of Urdu’s past and present. Only he could produce groundbreaking work with everything he touched, whether it was literary history, philology, lexicography, fiction, poetry, criticism, rehabilitation of Mir as the greatest Urdu poet (over 3,000 pages on that) rediscovering Dastans, poetic exegesis, understanding Iqbal or Akbar Allahabadi anew. Everybody always said, with good reason, that he worked like a djinn, that he had produced more in one lifetime than multiple institutions did. It is difficult to think of another modern scholar or writer who has had a similar impact on the language and literature they worked in. His influence was so all-encompassing.
Over the last few years, the global political turn deeply depressed him. Sometimes I felt he should forget about politics, but he felt that becoming indifferent would mean to concede defeat. Every mean turn in our politics left him more and more enraged, and exhausted. The first week of November was thus an important time for him, as the US and Bihar election results were due. One evening when Baran was in Dehradun I took him some grilled fish and cupcakes that my wife Anusha had made. He was a very fussy eater, only certain kinds of chicken, potatoes and dry fruits were favoured, but desserts and sweets were always welcome. The over reliance on the latter had given him a paunch. Lately, he wobbled a bit when he walked, and sometimes needed support. This limited his social life. I urged him to freely use a wheel chair but he felt chagrined. He had already conceded a radical change to his sartorial style. The stylish kurta pajamas, finely embroidered, were proving difficult to manoeuvre with his infirmities so on his last visit he went to his favourite South Extension store, Pall Mall, and bought himself t-shirts and track suit bottoms. Strangely, he didn’t at all look strange in them! Anyway, that evening he insisted on walking to the dining table, and talked with gusto for hours. We got talking of lockdown and its hardships, and he responded with a Mir couplet, which he said was apt for the lockdown-induced deprivation, especially for the migrant workers.
Sannahte Mein Jaan Ke Hosh o Hawas o Dam Na tha/ Asbab Sara Le Gaya, Aaya Tha Ek Sailab Sa
In the stillness of the heart, there was no life or strength or sense left/the belongings of this abode were all borne away by the flood
He was in fine flow when I next visited him. I asked him about a Mir couplet; I couldn’t remember the second hemistich. [Even as I sometimes asked him these questions, or meanings of particular verses, especially Persian verses, I was aware of my immense privilege, and self-indulgence, in drawing out this colossus for such petty explicatory purposes, but he was generous, and enjoyed speaking to me. I wasn’t learned enough to be a sahrday to him, but I listened with attention, which was easy because he was such a scintillating conversationalist.] This would be an evening of stark verses. Bahut Sa’ee Kariye to Mar Rahte Hain
He corrected and completed the sher — Bahut Sa’ee Kariye to Mar Rahiye Mir/ Bas Apna to Itna Hi Maqdoor Hai
When we make our greatest effort we die/ This is all that was fated for us Mir
Immediately, he remembered another verse by a classical master, by Sanai I think: Ustukhan Haaye Saalikan Nugzasht Rahrawan Ra Ba Raahbar Muhtaj
The bones of the seekers that are strewn on the path/have left the wayfarers free of the dependence on a guide
During his Master’s degree, he said, he and his friends were crazy about TS Eliot’s Wasteland and this line in it: I think we are in the rat’s alley, where the dead men lost their bones
“But later I read this sher. Ye sher zyada badmashi ka hai, zyada zalimana hai…yahi haddiyan hain yahi rasta hai, so many implications, log marenge, ham bhi marenge.’ This sher is so much more chilling, so much more wicked, sadistic even, these are the bones, this is the way, people died, even we will die. So what?”
I recited a verse by Faizi that I had read in one of his essays: Kas Naguyadam Az Manzil-e Aakhir Khabri/sad Bayaban Bugzasht o Deegre Dar Pesh Ast
Nobody brings the news of the last stage (end) of (our journey)/i have crossed a hundred wastelands and am now faced with another.
In response, he quoted Munir Niyazi, a poet whom he deeply loved. Unlike his contemporaries, Niyazi, he said, was a totally unique voice, and it was so because he had not studied poetry in the way his peers had done. Hence, his matter-of-fact tone even for the starkest truths; for instance in this sher: Ik Aur Dariyā Kā Sāmnā Thā ‘Munīr’ Mujh Ko// Maiñ Ek Dariyā Ke Paar Utrā To Maiñ Ne Dekhā
I was faced with another river Munir// I saw after I had managed to cross the river
We had shared so many stark verses about the absurd cruelties of life and of the vagaries of fate. We had no idea how soon they would all become a lived reality for him, and then for those around him.