In the silence of this noisy world, a man ponders the fine line between patriotism and violence
HIS arms resting on the pentagonal marble top of the table, Khamosh was attentively listening to the heated debate between a few friends who had occupied adjacent table in Vegetarians’ Restaurant near Cantonment Railway Station, Karachi. They seemingly, were friends, but had nurtured diverse notions on man’s belief and faith. Occasionally, a few of them spoke simultaneously making their arguments incongruous. One of them argued at the top of his voice, banged the tabletop with his fists, and asked, “What is the most honourable way of dying?”
Rest of the friends consulted each other, and said, “Dying for your country is the most honourable way of dying.”
“Now tell me,” the angry friend asked, “Would, or wouldn’t Bhagat Singh go to heaven?”
“He won’t.”
“Didn’t he die for his country?”
They almost came to bellows. Khamosh suddenly rose to his feet, and occupied a vacant chair between the young men. They ceased talking, and looked at Khamosh in surprise.
Atta Ali Khamosh is my friend. We were together in Karachi University, more than four decades ago. Though he did not directly participate in the students’ multi-pronged agitations against the imposition of General Ayub Khan’s Martial Law in the eleventh year of Pakistan’s coming into existence, Khamosh, however, watched the street battles from close quarters. During the shelling and exchange of brickbats between the students and police, he was seen bleeding from his head. Since the skirmishes were frequent he sustained injuries recurrently and most of the time he attended the class with his head heavily bandaged. His approach to the historical events was enigmatic not only for us, his friends, the teachers too felt surprised at his mannerism. His behaviour was beyond anyone’s comprehension. When he did not directly participate in the street battles against the Police then what was the purpose of his coming in between the shelling, brick bating, baton charging and the ensuing firing? What was he trying to prove?
It was during his last year in the University that everyone realized Atta Ali had refrained from talking. Most of the time he was seen in solitude. He thus was labelled, ‘Khamosh’. He earned his Master’s degree in History, appeared in the competitive exams conducted by the Federal Public Service Commission, and qualified for CSS in the famous 1962 batch. He served for about two years as Assistant Commissioner, but he then resigned, and gave up the Government service. We were surprised on his uncalled-for decision. Before we, his friends could reach him, he left Karachi unannounced, and proverbially vanished. No one knew anything about his disappearance! Our teachers believed Khamosh had sustained severe baton bellows to his head. He, according to our teachers was liable to suffer from behavioural disorders.
After many years Khamosh came back to Karachi, barefoot. One of the surprised friends asked, “What happened to your shoes?” “I have discarded the barrier between me and the earth.” Khamosh said, “One must remain as close to the earth as possible.”
Friends gave him a vacant look. He said, “While prostrating in religious rituals and prayers people come in contact with the earth with their forehead, palms, and the knees.”
Khamosh vanished again after staying for a few days in Karachi. It then became customary for Khamosh to appear in Karachi after a couple of years, stay for a few days, and then suddenly disappear. He has acquired an acre piece of land on the slopes of a mountain in Mansehra. He grows seasonal vegetable on the half acre that he sells for his subsistence, and on the other half of the acre he has grown fruit trees. Between the clusters of fruit trees he has a cottage that consists of his books, a computer, a television set, a stereo, and his personal collection of classic movies and music. He reads and writes consistently. When he does nothing he sits for hours in front of the huge image of Mahatma Gotam Buddh engraved on the slopes of a nearby mountain. He visits the Ilyasi Masjid in the proximity of Abbotabad, and watches the awe-inspiring gushing of water from invisible openings at the foot of the mountain. It is an unending flow of mineral water that emanates with tremendous velocity.
It was in the same Vegetarians’ Restaurant near Cantonment Railway station that Khamosh had once said, “It is in the perpetual silence that nature converses with you. It tells you stories that have never been told to you before.”
I had suspiciously looked at his head that was repeatedly targeted ruthlessly, and remained silent. He thus spoke, and said, “Who manures the forests? No one. The dead fallen leaves turn into manure for conducive integration in the phenomenon of growth, and are reborn on the branches of the trees. Death is not cessation of life.”
The Vegetarians’ Restaurant is Khamosh’s favourite place for spending some time with me. It was during his last visit that he sat among the group of angry young men, and said, “One of you, who said Bhagat Singh won’t go heaven, is right.”
“Why not?” the violent young man asked, “Didn’t he die an honourable death?”
“Each religion has a set of its own hell and heaven for their followers.” Khamosh said, “Had Bhagat Singh been a Christian he would have gone to Heaven. Had he been a Muslim he would have entered the Janat. But, Bhagat Singh was a Hindu. He must have entered Swarg for dying an honourable death.”
