How could I at that moment know that a special angel in the garb of Vinod Dua had descended upon me from skies of city of Djinns?
I accepted his invitation of a drink, soft if I wished, and we entered the ever-favourite bar cum restaurant of India International Centre. Vinod had recently visited Pakistan with a team of journalists and had garlanded the President of Pakistan with a tri-coloured muffler, much to the discomfort of the president I presume. During his stay in Lahore he paid a visit to the Food Street and was all praise for the niharis and sri payas etc; however, it was his pilgrimage to Hira Mandi, which he cherished the most as according to him he witnessed the finest mujra in subcontinent.
Vinod was, as far as aesthetics were concerned, more of a Muslim than a Hindu. In fact I latter found out that he was not much of a Hindu either. His taste for Urdu poetry is superb and he quoted Ghalib or Mir or Bulleh Shah whenever the occasion arose; and a ferocious meat eater on top of that! Besides all these idiosyncrasies he is a music maniac, can sing in a husky voice the ghazals of Mehdi Hasan and Pakistani milli naghmas including Sathio Mujahido Jag Uttha Hai Sara Witan without going out of sur.
Upon his return from Pakistan he was carrying a bag full of music cassettes of Pakistani singers weighing exactly sixteen kilos and it was not due to the inclusion of Abida Parveen or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan!
As if the surprises were not enough, in walked Saddam Hussein, dressed in a Multani-Kurta and pyjama! Vinod, noticing my amazement, introduced me, “Meet Malik Sahib, a very dear friend of mine, we did plan to hand him over to the Americans and earn a cool twenty-five million because as you can see he is ditto copy of Saddam Hussein. But unfortunately the real Saddam did not co-operate and made himself available to the Americans while we were in our planning stages.”
Throughout the evening I suspected that the Americans had the wrong Saddam in their custody while the real Saddam was sitting next to me gulping numerous olives and cups that cheer.
In the meantime an elderly gentleman, lost in thought, brooding, oblivious to the surroundings entered the bar and seated himself in the corner; a waiter hurriedly came over with his already prepared drink, placed it in front of him and withdrew respectfully. The gentleman, oblivious to his surroundings, took a sip from his drink and was submerged in his thoughts. “Tarar Sahib do you know this gentleman?” Vinod whispered.
“He looks familiar; maybe a disgruntled retired bureaucrat.”
“He is Ramu Gandhi, grandson of Mahatma Gandhi, an intellectual of great repute, lives in a small servant quarter nearby.” I was amazed, a grandson of Bapu of modern India living in a servant quarter? What an unfortunate man. If he would have been the grandson of some minor politician in Pakistan, he would have been living in a palace with a Texas ranch for the rainy days. “He does not like company, sits in his particular corner and after having a couple of drinks, leaves.”
“My younger son Sumair has entrusted me with his autograph book with the instructions that if I find anybody worthwhile in India I should obtain his autographs. I think Mr Gandhi is worthwhile.”
We approached him, Vinod knew him during some travels in India. He introduced me as a Pakistani writer and he immediately showed interest but that interest turned into coldness when I made a request for the autographs: “I don’t give autographs.”
“As you please sir but it was indeed an honour to meet you,” I extended my hand smilingly. “The autograph request came from my son, I will just tell him that junior Ghandhiji simply refused.” He smiled in turn and took the autograph book from me: “What is his name?”
“Sumair.”
“Sumair? What does it mean?”
“One who narrates stories, a Dastaango.”
“And what is your profession?”
“I write stories.”
Half rising from his seat he shook my hand warmly: “Well, that is a good combination; father writes and the son narrates the stories.” I could see I had won him over with my comment. He signed “To Sumair with love, Ramu Gandhi” and handed over the autograph book. Then he immediately got disinterested and we came back to our table. The local Saddam Hussain was in an advanced stage of exuberance.
“Tarar Sahib where do you plan to have your dinner tonight?” Vinod asked.
“The whole lot of Saarc writers are going to ‘Chor Bazaar’ for dinner and I plan to accompany them.”
“I have a proposal, my Madrasi wife, Nikki is waiting for me to collect her and then we are proceeding to a 20th wedding anniversary party of a doctor couple who are Nikki’s colleagues and great friends of mine; they will be overjoyed to have a guest from Lahore. Please!”
Vinod did not have to plead because I had already made up my mind to meet normal Indians in their normal homes as I have had enough of writers and intellectuals for the evening.
On our way to his flat Vinod reduced the speed of his car and pointed towards an old rundown structure of perhaps Mughal period and said: “Here lives the golden owl of Delhi.”
“A golden owl? You must be joking. Owls are, as a rule grey, black or white but never golden.”
“This one is golden I assure you and I have seen it. Nobody knows for how long he has been residing in the middle of Delhi in this ancient ruin. I can show you if you wish.”
“Right now?” Suddenly I felt that my life was worthless if I did not set eyes upon a golden owl.
“It is night time Tarar sahib and owls have their nights out, perhaps he is out with a she-owl to paint the town red; we will revisit the place during the day sometime.”
I wondered if the owl’s date was a blonde i.e. a golden she-owl or was he having fun with a brunette?
Vinod’s wife was an attractive brunette with salty charms of Madras and we proceeded towards the flat of celebrating doctor couple who were easily the most handsome pair I had seen in Delhi so far. It was my first time in a typical Hindu household and to me the statues of different deities, pictures of major and minor gods and the decor was like a museum. Most of the guests were doctors and Vinod was right, they were overjoyed to see me amongst them. Like everywhere else in Delhi “Lahore” was the magic word which opened all doors. Almost everyone sang, danced or played some musical instrument; I was the only exception.
When the celebrating couple insisted that I should join the crowd I regretfully declined fearing for my old bones and my aching back, although there was no dearth of medical assistance if the need arose. Nikki surprised me by singing some Punjabi tappas in her melodious voice; Vinod had turned this Madrasan into a typical Punjaban. In the end Vinod rendered some verses of Bulleh Shah with deep emotions.
It was almost three in the morning while cruising towards my abode when Vinod asked, “Have you visited the tomb of our great saint Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia?”
“No, I am afraid not as yet.”
“You are in Delhi and you have not offered Fatiha at the shrine of Sultanji?” Vinod was slightly upset, being a devout disciple of the saint. “We can drop in right now if you want?”
“At this time of the night?”
“This is the time.”
The area in which we entered hardly looked like a part of New Delhi; filthy narrow lanes littered with the bodies of poverty stricken sleeping humanity, open gutters, rundown houses and an air loaded with stink. The shrine rested right in the middle of this mess. There was a small gate on the side of a glittering door, inside going through a labyrinth carpeted with sleeping beggars, men, women and children in all, avoiding stepping upon them, we finally reached the burial place of the saint.
Vinod with a covered head immediately bowed and went into a sajda. There was hardly anybody around at this time of the night except a young bearded dervish resting his head on a door, praying. Next to the shrine of Sultanji rested Hazrat Amir Khusro, the faithful disciple who was away from Delhi when his Murshad died and upon his return he lay beside the grave of his beloved Chal Khusro Ghar Apne and died there and then.
“Vinod my murshid and an uncle of mine is also buried somewhere around here, is it possible to visit his grave?”
A few dingy and dark streets away in a small compound was the final resting place of the man who more than anyone else shared my sorrows, failures, heartaches, happiness and quest for the spiritual elation, a man who despite being a drunkard was a Wali; Mirza Ghalib.
Upon our return in the slow moving car in the dead of the night, Vinod’s sentimental voice rose, “Dile Nadan Tujhe Hua Kia Hai” and Nikki sitting beside me sang the next verse, “Aakhir Es Dard Ki Dawa Kia Hai”. My heart was filled with strange emotions; Ghalib still ruled the soul of Delhi.
If the golden owl had returned to his ruins, maybe he was also humming Ghalib — Hum Biaban main hain aur Ghar main bahar aai hai.
How could I at that moment know that a special angel in the garb of Vinod Dua had descended upon me from skies of city of Djinns?
