Grass, Here, Here, Here, Here And Here: Ramesh Chandra Dwivedi
Grass, Here, Here, Here, Here And Here: Ramesh Chandra Dwivedi
So every evening ends and turns to morning. How many have come and gone. In the blink of an eye, the most important, the most pleasurable, the most exciting ones have turned into ash. Mornings in Banaras or evenings in Awadh, time has ravaged them all. A poet stares at the ashes of moths for a long time and wonders – What revelries there must have been! What evenings, what nights! The sarangi’s notes smoldering in the air, wine sparkling golden in glasses. The ashes conjure such emotions in the poet’s heart that, suddenly, everything comes alive again. The flames burn once more, once more the moths are drawn to them. And then a gust of wind scatters the ashes and leaves the poet staring with tear-filled eyes. Ash has turned into air. The poet stands there and sighs. A sigh which turns into a couplet:
Morning breeze, by morning you had left behind nothing
Not even the moth-ash, that relic of the night’s revels…
*
But some stubborn evenings, even time cannot erase. And I am going to tell you about one that Firaq Gorakhpuri himself told me about. It was, of course, evening. The atmosphere was serious. Firaq was serious. He was speaking in measured tones.
“Premchand, Majnoon and I had been chatting away since morning at Lakshmi Bhavan (in Firaq’s city, Gorakhpur). Premchand was telling us some anecdotes, memories painful and pleasurable. The conversation would sometimes turn to politics, sometimes to laborers and farmers. Premchand wasn’t really interested in poetry. Majnoon would talk of Firdausi and of Hafiz. There was much he didn’t like in Sir Mohammed Iqbal’s poetry. Now and again, the conversation would turn to socialism and the sad state of India. There would be talk of bleeding wrists bound with chains of slavery, of bloodstains, and of the picture of an independent India emerging from this blood. Stories of neighbors and townsfolk would sometimes be divulged. Discussions on English writers and poets would also take place intermittently.
“When the subject of the village came up, there was talk of deserted villages too. A deserted village is like lost faith. Majnoon said, Premchand ji, even deserted villages come alive in poetry. Autumn starts seeming like spring. Premchand ji said, this, precisely, is the danger of poetry. Majnoon said, really? Even stories, or the kind of stories you write, seem to draw a similar picture. I said, bhai Majnoon, Premchand ji’s biggest achievement is that he makes the village live in our hearts. He has made the village come alive in the hearts of people living in big cities. In my estimation, Premchand ji is among the few great storytellers of the world. Certainly better than Sharatchandra. Premchand said that Sharatchandra’s stories seemed to get bogged down in family life. Whole worlds moved inside Premchand. The conversation turned to English novelists again.
“Premchand was a great admirer of Dickens. He said, you know what Dickens’ greatest quality was? There was no labyrinthine complexity about his characters and their descriptions. Only simple and clear statements. Even so, the effect Dickens sahib can produce is profoundly moving. There are no rules for geniuses. A withered tree will turn green at their touch. A tree will turn into a forest and become the nesting place for all the world’s birds.
“The tree came alive with the various songs of various birds. Now the conversation had reached ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’. Majnoon said, yaar Raghupat, ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ is also an incredible novel. My memory’s not quite working right now – what’s the author’s name? Harriet Beecher Stowe, I said. No publisher was even ready to publish the novel. When one publisher agreed, it was with great reluctance. Soon, eight printing presses working twenty-four hours a day kept running for a whole year – such was the demand! An American traveler brought it to England and showed it to lots of publishers. Finally one agreed to publish it. In ten years, it sold fifteen lakh copies. ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ was the first bestseller. Its sales were second only to the Bible. It was translated into twenty-three languages. When Abraham Lincoln met Harriet, he said – So you are the little lady who started the great war.
“This novel was immensely influential in ending slavery. It wasn’t just the first bestseller. It was also the first protest novel, and affected politics deeply.
“Running his fingers upon his head, Majnoon Gorakhpuri said, the meaning of a ‘cock and bull’ story is clear – it is baseless, exaggerated and implausible. But what is the origin of the phrase? I consulted some dictionaries about this but found nothing. Premchand said, I’ve heard the phrase ‘cock and bull’ many times but its origin has never revealed itself. I said, I can’t be sure but, as far as I know, it is supposed to have originated in Buckinghamshire. Stony Stratford High Street had two old inns called ‘The Cock’ and ‘The Bull’. Travelers would tell stories in these inns, and one-upmanship would lead to a lot of exaggeration. These stories would be fabrications or nonsense. Gradually they began to be called ‘cock and bull’ stories. Premchand and Majnoon said, we’ve learnt something new from janaab Raghupat.
“Majnoon said, now tell me Raghupat, what is the purpose of thinking, or pondering? What’s there in thinking? Premchand ji said, Majnoon sahib what’s happened to you today? The questions you’re asking! I started thinking about thinking. What I understood was that thinking meant the technique or the art of making connections between things, and that establishing the relationship between things and respecting them is the purpose of thinking. The most beautiful word for this is in Sanskrit. ‘Vichaar’. ‘Vichaar’ is a very important word. It is the key that can open the door to a world of magic. And hasn’t the word ‘think’ originated from ‘thing’? Every thing gives rise to a thought. I was going to say more when Majnoon spoke up, Raghupat yaar, I feel like eating something. Yes bhai, even I’m feeling hungry, Premchand said. Some snacks and sweets were called for.
“Haalsiganj market is famous for birds. Quail and duck were on the afternoon’s menu. Fish too. Bhindi, crisp and cut into small pieces. Seasoned daal, phulkas and pulaao. Dry gin and bitters. Shahi tukda as well.”
*
Firaq’s narration continued:
“We sat on the bed, leaning back on bolsters. Premchand ji said, Raghupat ji enjoys talking in paradoxes. Majnoon said, paradoxes make things more interesting. The conversation was starting to cover more ground now. Bhai, paradox is also a part of life. The thing is that Raghupat is a philosopher by nature and his thoughts always have an originality. Then the jokes started. Every now and then, Premchand would burst into laughter. Loud – like an explosion.
“We had started chatting at seven in the morning, had breakfast and continued till two o’ clock. Sometimes we argued, sometimes we teased. We had lunch at about two-thirty. Everyone loved the food. Majnoon couldn’t stop singing praises of the kebab. Premchand also ate with great relish. When we’d eaten, Majnoon said, now let’s nap.
“We got up about 45 minutes later. The manservant was asked to refresh the hookah. Gorakhpur’s zafrani and kavami tobacco was famous through the world for its exquisite scent.
“The hookah started bubbling again. The question arose of where and how to spend the evening. It was decided to get a horse-carriage which we’d ride to the station. Then we’d do whatever struck our fancy. We could sit in Bombay Hotel or anything else. A man was sent to get Ilahi, the carriage-driver. Ilahi came, salaamed very politely and asked what our orders were. I said, Ilahi mian, get the horse ready and waiting outside our door between four and four-fifteen. As you wish, sir, Ilahi said and turned around when I stopped him. Ilahi mian, make sure to spread a clean sheet in the carriage. And that the horse has eaten well and is happy. Even though you will carry a whip, do not let it touch the horse. Ilahi joined his palms and said again, as you wish, sir. But the third condition might be hard to fulfill. Nevertheless, I will attempt to make the horse follow my words and gestures and not my whip. Excellent, Ilahi mian. And remember. Every time you whip the horse, think that you are whipping me. Ilahi went. Majnoon said, bhai, you shouldn’t set such troublesome conditions. Premchand became very grave. He said, on one hand, a heart that is filled with so much love for animals, on the other, hundreds of hearts that feel satisfaction, pride and glory in whipping human beings. Our tea arrived. A little while later, the manservant came and said, Ilahi has come with the carriage. We finished our tea, put some money in our pockets and got into the carriage. Ilahi mian and the horse both seemed happy and in high spirits.
“The carriage set off. Ilahi was a jolly sort. He regaled us with stories during the ride and would pass comments on people along the way. He’d remind Sir Horse about the times he’d spent with his lady friend, Madam Mare, and say that if you don’t embarrass me, that is, if you don’t make me whip you, I’ll set you up with another one tomorrow and give you tasty green grass and chickpeas for breakfast. And a nice massage with a currycomb. And we went swaying ahead, enjoying his jest.
“The carriage was passing through a village. Suddenly our attention went to the side of the road, where a young village woman stood in front of her house, holding on to the bent branch of a mango tree. Ilahi, Majnoon, Premchand and I – everyone became serious. How things change in a moment! The jovial atmosphere suddenly turned somber. The dying light, the mango tree increasing the evening’s melancholy manifold, the road that lay before us growing more and more deserted, the birds returning to their nests. And that beautiful woman’s sadness which was breaking her back in her youth. Our hearts were pierced at once by many spears.
“The rest of the journey to the station passed in silence. No one speaking to, or even aware of, anyone else. Wondering… Maybe some tragedy had taken place in her home, maybe the kitchen’s fire had died out, maybe her husband was ill and they didn’t have money for the doctor, maybe someone had come from her parent’s home with bad news. Maybe someone had insulted her, maybe her husband was impotent, maybe there had been some unpleasantness in the village. Maybe she had a poet’s heart and starlight had seared it, maybe she had killed a heron like Valmiki, maybe the weight of the world was too much to bear. We went to the station and quietly gestured to Ilahi to return. We came back grave, silent and sad and went our separate ways without wishing each other.
“For years, this incident kept festering in our hearts. Many evenings came and many evenings went but this evening still had a hold over us. Then one evening this couplet –
Smoke-filled evenings, beauty and sadness,
So many stories that the heart almost remembers…
“Majnoon wrote a novel. ‘Sogvor Shabab’ or ‘Kunwar Kot’. Premchand wrote a novel. That evening gave everyone something.
“Ilahi came a few days later and said, sir, neither the horse nor I could eat that evening.”
*
His account ends here.
*
This was in 1953-54. I had been admitted to the B.A. at Allahabad University. In those days, Amritrai ji (Premchand’s son) used to visit Firaq’s house almost everyday. He used to live in a rented house near Rajapur. When we found out that Shivrani ji (Premchand’s wife) had come to visit Amritrai, Firaq and I got in a rickshaw and went to Amritrai’s place. Shivrani ji was sitting in the porch. On seeing Firaq sahib, her eyes immediately filled with tears and she sat holding his hand for a very long time. Amritrai ji was also standing there. Silence reigned for a long time. Shivrani ji wiped her tears and asked Firaq how he was. Then she started reminiscing about the old days. Firaq sat there for about half an hour and then went and sat in the drawing room. Amritrai ji had set up a cactus garden in the verandah. We drank exquisite tea from beautiful cups. Inside, the atmosphere was grave. The conversation would keep coming round to Premchand ji. Firaq said, I once asked Premchand ji if he ever had a love affair. Premchand told him that he didn’t have any incidents to relate. But, yes, there was this woman who used to come to cut the grass in our lawn, and whom I liked very much. I never had the courage to tell her what I felt. I could only tell her to trim the grass, here, here, here, here and here.