I LAUGHED and laughed like a madman, full throated, mouth wide open till my face turned red and every muscle in my body ached as the five hundred-year-old massive Lodhi tombs, wet with the morning dew, looked down upon me and wondered, who is this stranger who looks familiar, laughing in the company of those who are not aware of our history.
The tombs were absolutely right, I was a stranger in Delhi, laughing in the company of a dozen zealous Indians belonging to a “Laughing Club” who believe that laughter is the best medicine, a complete exercise for the human body. I had joined them to experience this strange phenomenon and was enjoying myself.
It was my last day in Delhi, city of Djinns according to William Delrymple. The last time I visited Delhi was way back in February 1965 when I lodged myself in a shanty hotel and almost froze to death during the night because the quilts were in short supply. The first thing I did the next morning was to buy a quilt of dubious nature from the footpath of Jamia Masjid, which upon my return I presented to the first beggar who came in sight.
So when I was invited to participate in the 11th Conference of Saarc writers, I had my reservations. But this time it was a different cup of tea.
My very first impression of Delhi was that it was astonishingly green; from air it looked like a huge sprawling jungle. We were accommodated in the prestigious India International Centre, an exclusive club of Delhi’s elite including the intellectuals and famed artists. In its cozy bar, picturesque dinning room, humming cafeteria and well stocked library, you can come across India’s ‘Who’s Who’ of actors, artists and writers. My first door neighbour was Mr Intizar Hussain and immediately after settling down I asked him, “Intizar sahib unfortunately I am addicted to the morning walk, is there any place around here where I can jog around a bit?”
Intizar sahib was shocked: “Tarar sahib this centre is part of the Lodhi Garden.”
“I don’t want to meet any Lodhis right now,” I said jokingly.
“They have been dead for last five hundred years, you will only meet their grand mausoleums in the park, one of the most beautiful and historical gardens in India. I will give you a tinkle in the morning, be ready with your joggers.” True to his words Intizar sahib woke me up next morning, or was it still night? Dressed in his typical attire the two of us stepped out. He was absolutely right, we just stepped into one of the most amazing gardens in the world, amazing because no other garden to my knowledge is fashioned around five or six huge ancient structures; in the morning mist their domes appeared and then the very next moment became part of the mist. I forgot my walk and looked at these earliest form of Muslim architecture, very much Central Asian in their grandeur, not touched as yet with the delicate and soft aesthetics of India; very imposing.
I noticed a group of young and old beside the grand wall of a Lodhi tomb busy in exercising yoga, following the moves of a yoga master standing in front of them... sorry a yoga mistress rather because she was a petite and nimble dame.
I immediately decided and informed Intizar sahib that I am going to procure a mat from somewhere and join this group next morning for a yoga experience. He smiled and with Intizar sahib’s smile you never know if he approves or he is softly sarcastic. I am sure that he suspected that my immediate enthusiasm for yoga was merely due to the prettiness of the yoga mistress, his suspicion was partly true.
Next morning much to the amazement of Intizar sahib I did join the yoga group, although I could not procure a mat to sit upon, I informed the lady that I am from Pakistan, a writer of some sort and would like to join her class if she did not mind and she did not. In fact she offered me her personal mat for the exercise!
Now this was also an embarrassing position because I was facing the whole lot of yoga enthusiasts who were intrigued by my shalwar qameez and ungainly figure. After a few moves I started cursing myself for taking this punga of yoga. My old bones creaked and my back refused to bend, the body developed all sorts of unbearable aches but I was in no position to escape as I was a sort of prayer leader standing in front of the faithful. At a safe distance Intizar sahib waited for me and enjoyed the sight of my plight, smiling of course. But the real test came in the end; after half an hour of agony, everybody stood erect put their palms in namaste gesture and started reciting some mantra “Om, Hari Om” in ecstatic loud voices. I just stood there with sealed lips, if it were some other venue I might have mumbled something but the towering Lodhi tombs were forbidding and I am sure would have disapproved. In the meantime the yoga mistress came near me and asked me to recite the ‘Om’ thing loudly. Now how could I refuse? So, when she left I proclaimed the Kalima, asked for Allah’s forgiveness and uttered a feeble ‘Om’.
Our host at the Saarc writers conference was Ajeet Kaur, the guiding spirit was in fact a spirit moving like a whirlwind to organize the show. And frankly, she did a commendable job.
During a TV interview the host asked, “Mr Tarar how do you like Delhi?”
“Which Delhi?” I asked. “Since my arrival I have not stepped out of this centre except for my morning walks in Lodhi Gardens. So where is this Delhi? I am sure Hanooz Delhi Door Ast.”
So I skipped an afternoon session, much to the rage of Ajeet Kaur and along with Zubair Rizvi, a poet of repute and an outstanding broadcaster headed to procure some saris for my daughter and daughter-in-law and their purchase ended my temporary affluence of dollars. However, I did manage to taste the famous sweets of Haldiram; the Barfi was heavenly, but not Lahori.
In the meantime Ahmad Fraz had arrived and the atmosphere became lively with his witty jokes and sarcastic comments mostly directed at me. Fraz is immensely popular in India, adored to the extent that I fear that in due time he will be included in the pantheon of Indian minor Devtas although he has no dearth of devdasis at the present moment either.
On the very last day of the conference Kishwar Nahid stormed in and some of the Pakistani writers breathed a sigh of relief because in her absence they were roaming around like lost sheep. The bar cum restaurant of India International Centre was the hub of activity. Everybody who was somebody in Delhi made it a point to show his face once in a while. Whenever I asked for my bill the waiter will inform me humbly that it was paid by “that” gentleman. “That” gentleman sat in the corner of the restaurant permanently; his name was Ram Singh, never joined me but always paid my bills. I still cannot understand his generosity and why he developed a liking for me only.
One of the evenings in walked Muzaffar Ali the famed director-writer of Umrao Jan Ada. Along with his equally graceful wife, they were paying a courtesy visit to Faraz. I had always admired Muzaffar Ali’s exceptional talent especially the tunes he had composed for Abida Parveen recently, including Hsarat Mohani’s Roshan Jamale Yar Se Hai Anjuman Tamam. I expressed my admiration for his works and we chatted for a while.
It was last day of the conference when during tea-break a chubby spectacled man dressed in khakis approached me while I was amidst a TV interview. “Tarar sahib could you spare me just five minutes of your time?” I requested him to wait for a while and he sat down on a cane chair patiently. I finished the interview and approached him, “You have my five minutes starting from now.”
“It will take only a minute to tell you that I have been watching you on PTV for many years and I admire you tremendously,” he said without any emotions like a mathematician stating an equation. “My name is Vinod Dua and I am also in the media business. Could you possibly have a drink with me, soft if you wish, please?”
How could I at that moment know that a special angel in the garb of Vinod Dua had descended upon me from the skies of city of Djinns?
I LAUGHED and laughed like a madman, full throated, mouth wide open till my face turned red and every muscle in my body ached as the five hundred-year-old massive Lodhi tombs, wet with the morning dew, looked down upon me and wondered, who is this stranger who looks familiar, laughing in the company of those who are not aware of our history.
