Between Clay and Dust Read online

  Some more time passed. The throbbing in Ustad Ramzi’s temple had now become unbearable. The impatient shouts of the spectators worsened the pain and each pulse felt like a hammer stroke in his skull. Only now he felt conscious of a spasm in his left knee, as if someone had stuck a jagged knife into it. That was the least of his worries because he felt Imama’s body cooling down under him. Imama had not made another move, knowing he was exhausting Ustad Ramzi’s strength just by lying there. Ustad Ramzi realized Imama was marshaling his energies to apply another reversal; he had refused to disengage for good reason.

  A few moments later Ustad Ramzi saw one of the elders of Imama’s clan regarding Imama intently. Ustad Ramzi noticed an exchange between him and Imama’s son. Ustad Ramzi was distracted when he noticed that Tamami had moved closer to the akhara. His brother’s anxious gaze settled on Ustad Ramzi who averted his eyes.

  Ustad Ramzi again noticed an exchange between Imama and his clan elder who had come closer to see how Imama was holding up. Imama gesticulated furiously a few moments later.

  There seemed to be some confusion as the elder walked up to the judges and Imama’s son tried to hold him back. Ustad Ramzi felt a sudden movement under him and realized Imama was exerting himself to break loose. Ustad Ramzi felt a cramp developing in his arm. He knew that, once free, Imama could easily press his back to the clay since his energies were already spent. Ustad Ramzi marshaled all his remaining strength and tightened his hold, knowing well that his strength was failing him.

  At that moment Ustad Ramzi clearly saw the end of his reign and the loss of his title. He felt too mentally exhausted to think further and resigned himself to his circumstances.

  Imama broke free the moment the drumming of the dhol signaled the end of the bout. It had been declared a tie. The two were to fight again within three months. In the meanwhile, the title remained with Ustad Ramzi.

  The flow of blood in Ustad Ramzi’s arm was obstructed from the tightness of his hold. It had gone numb. As Ustad Ramzi stood silently in a corner of the akhara rubbing his arm, he finally understood what might have been happening towards the end of the bout. Imama could not have seen the first gesture of his clan elder as perspiration streamed into his eyes. He only noticed the gesture when asked if he wished to continue a second time. Imama was unable to articulate the words properly as the pressure of Ustad Ramzi’s hold had constricted his neck. The elder had misjudged the situation, thinking that the pressure was causing Imama’s vision to black out. He asked the judges to stop the fight, thinking that Imama would ultimately benefit, as it would be declared a tie. He disregarded the request by Imama’s son to wait a little longer.

  Although Imama never spoke a word then or afterwards about what had happened, Ustad Ramzi understood why Imama had been furious. A simple misunderstanding had snatched victory from him.

  Ustad Ramzi’s gaze now travelled down his leg. He noticed the torn skin around his left kneecap. Smeared in clay, clots of blood and fat hung from the wound. He disregarded it. His thoughts returned to the last moments of the bout when he had seen defeat and accepted it. It was the weakest moment of his life.

  Just then he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, and turned to find Tamami standing by his side. Tamami had tears in his eyes as he quietly embraced Ustad Ramzi. His presence there annoyed Ustad Ramzi. “Get rid of your tears!” he snapped, breaking away from him.

  Tamami withdrew without a word.

  Rival

  Imama and his clan seemed to have been marked for adversity. A week after drawing the fight with Ustad Ramzi, his son lost one of his legs in a road accident that ended his career. Imama held himself together as best he could, but was seen less and less often at the akhara until he stopped coming altogether.

  Friends and foes alike said Ustad Ramzi could now rest assured his title was secure. Ustad Ramzi made no comment, but he did not believe it was the end of the matter. He put himself in Imama’s place and wondered if he would rest for long, even taking into account the personal tragedy, upon discovering that his adversary was weak.

  He realized that for the first time his clan had come close to losing its title. He was the first and only line of defense; at his age he was no longer infallible. Were it not for Tamami’s weakness, he could have chosen the strategy Imama planned to use against him, and move Tamami into the first line of defense.

  ❖

  Not long afterwards Ustad Ramzi yielded to Tamami the charge of instructing the trainees as well. Tamami readily took it on but he did not have the necessary patience and perseverance needed in a trainer. After explaining a procedure once or twice he left the trainees by themselves. He lost his temper if he saw them repeat their mistakes.

  When Ustad Ramzi heard the news that one of the trainees had stopped coming after an altercation with Tamami, he ordered Tamami go to the trainee’s house and bring him back. Tamami acquiesced with bad grace.

  ❖

  Autumn gave way to winter and a faint mist began draping the neighborhood in the mornings. Ustad Ramzi slept lightly. He was up a few hours before dawn broke. From the akhara he retired to the cemetery where he tended the roses before going to his quarters to rest. He came out after Tamami had finished his first set of exercises. Ustad Ramzi would sit on the seat by the akhara to get the daily report from Kabira. By that time Tamami would begin his second set of exercises.

  Tamami often witnessed Ustad Ramzi giving instructions or demonstrating maneuvers as he exercised. Once Tamami had been grappling with two trainees for half an hour. He was covered with clay, which coursed down his body along with streams of sweat. As he wheeled around and shook off one of the trainees from his back, he lost his balance and his hips touched the floor. Tamami recovered quickly, but at that moment Ustad Ramzi entered the akhara to demonstrate the move.

  Tamami had felt himself in control when sparring with the trainees. That feeling disappeared when Ustad Ramzi stepped into the akhara. Tamami relinquished his hold on the trainee and they rose.

  Ustad Ramzi balanced himself on his arms and knees and the trainees took their places to recreate the hold, which Tamami could not resolve perfectly. Ustad Ramzi identified the correct technique and, without losing his balance, threw down both trainees using the same maneuvers Tamami had applied. Tamami watched Ustad Ramzi’s maneuver carefully and nodded. The trainees praised Ustad Ramzi’s skill. Tamami’s friends and a few of the other pahalwans also made comments.

  “How simple Ustad Ramzi made it look.”

  “It is not without reason that he is the Ustad-e-Zaman.”

  “Just wait until Tamami becomes Ustad-e-Zaman,” one of Tamami’s friends casually remarked.

  Everyone in the akhara became silent when the words were uttered. Tamami’s friend realized his indiscretion and became quiet.

  Ustad Ramzi looked at Tamami, who was trying to catch his breath after the long sparring session and had only vaguely heard what was said. He looked back blankly when he met Ustad Ramzi’s searching glance.

  A smile appeared on Ustad Ramzi’s lips. He patted his brother’s shoulder and vigorously embraced him.

  “Ustad Ramzi and Tamami are going to grapple.” A voice spoke from the crowd.

  “The brothers are going to have a match!” someone else said.

  Tamami realized they had mistaken Ustad Ramzi’s embrace for a grappling lock. Ustad Ramzi also regarded the trainees with a surprised look.

  “Come see Ustad Ramzi and Tamami fight!” The excited babble continued.

  Ustad Ramzi looked at Tamami and said, “Be prepared.”

  Tamami nodded a little awkwardly. He felt too great an anxiety at that moment to think with clarity. The brothers had not fought recently. Tamami feared Ustad Ramzi would overpower him and everyone would be a witness to his weakness. He felt his energy draining away.

  Ustad Ramzi slapped his shoulder with his hands and took up a fighting stanc
e. Tamami’s hands also flew to Ustad Ramzi’s shoulders.

  The two of them leaned forward, their temples pressed together. The backs of their heads were level with each other and their eyes riveted to the floor. The trainees closed in around the akhara to watch.

  As Tamami pushed with his body to secure the hold for an overhead drag he felt Ustad Ramzi resist. Then Tamami felt he was losing balance as his powerful thrust suddenly broke Ustad Ramzi’s stance. Tamami recovered quickly.

  The crowd silently witnessed the struggle without fully comprehending the situation. In that silence Tamami heard his heartbeat and Ustad Ramzi’s breathing, which maintained a broken rhythm.

  His continuous deference to his brother’s authority and belief in his infallible strength had instilled a sense of inferiority and inadequacy in Tamami. As the myth of Ustad Ramzi’s strength was now shattered, the shadow under which Tamami had walked was also lifted. He realized he was his brother’s superior in strength. He savored the sense of power.

  Ustad Ramzi did not wait for Tamami’s move. He applied the overhead drag Tamami had intended. Before Ustad Ramzi could finish, however, Tamami countered by uncoiling his body and aggressively grasping Ustad Ramzi’s arm in a lock.

  Ustad Ramzi laughed nervously as he struggled to rise.

  Tamami quickly let go.

  “Yes! Yes! When did the young lion ever turn away before the old?” Ustad Ramzi said. “But the old lion is not done yet. Come!”

  Tamami could not overcome his feelings. Even as Ustad Ramzi spoke, their arms again locked together, Tamami rolled Ustad Ramzi’s arm to break its grip on his elbow, then applied the drag, simultaneously stepping in to throw him down. Ustad Ramzi managed to use the counter-drag in time, and both of them hit the clay with Ustad Ramzi on top.

  “I shall take some rest,” Ustad Ramzi spoke in a strained voice as he got up and patted Tamami’s back. Before stepping out of the akhara he turned towards the trainees and said, “You should continue exercising until Tamami gives you leave.”

  Tamami contended with his conflicting emotions.

  He was glad that Ustad Ramzi’s redrag had foiled his move and saved him the shame. He had proved himself stronger than his brother but in the midst of applying the maneuver, he realized that he was about to floor his elder brother and the champion of the clan. It would have been an unforgivable act of disrespect.

  And yet, Tamami felt an inner satisfaction. Now he has proof of my strength, he told himself. Those who have witnessed it also know now who is stronger. They won’t be able to say that the clan’s title would be in unworthy hands.

  As Ustad Ramzi walked away Tamami saw how consumed and decayed he looked. The signs of ageing were visible on his body. His brother’s physical weakness filled Tamami’s heart with revulsion.

  Strategy

  After his encounter with Tamami that day, Ustad Ramzi went straight to the cemetery.

  The incident in the akhara kept replaying itself in his mind’s eye. He hadn’t grappled with Tamami for a few months and it was a shock to realize that his brother was now physically stronger. As they stood locked in the tie-up position, Ustad Ramzi had felt the iron grip of Tamami’s hands around his neck. Tamami’s powerful thrust and the immense surge of strength flowing from his body had broken his stance. He had strained to answer Tamami’s push and failed.

  In the brief moment when Tamami paused, two thoughts raced through Ustad Ramzi’s mind: that Tamami’s strength must be carefully adorned with skill to make him the protector of his clan’s honor, and that he could now put his mind at rest about his clan’s future. Later, as Tamami applied the aggressive countermove, the joy that had filled Ustad Ramzi’s heart left it without a trace.

  Tamami’s intention to floor him had been too obvious.

  Ustad Ramzi asked himself why it had happened. He saw his strength and Tamami’s as an entity, meant to strive in unison, not as counterweights. He had never considered that he was pitting his strength against his brother as a rival. After delegating his akhara duties to Tamami and trusting his brother with instructing the trainees, he had kept him under his own instruction to improve his skill. Tamami had not appreciated that. It troubled Ustad Ramzi.

  It was not an incident that he could attribute to Tamami’s immaturity. Ustad Ramzi was sure it flowed from some base instinct.

  It convinced him that Tamami judged himself and others by the criterion of strength alone. Tamami, whom he wished to become worthy of representing his clan’s tradition, had again proven incapable of aspiring to the higher rewards of the art. That was the reason for his ignominious defeat at Imama’s hands and for the incident in the akhara that day. Ustad Ramzi knew that for such men power remained the only ideal. The more they felt it stir inside their bodies, the more confident they felt in themselves.

  Ustad Ramzi realized he could not relinquish his place to someone who neither showed deference to his tradition and elders nor understood the subtle points of skill. But he could turn Tamami’s failings to the clan’s advantage by changing the focus of his training to the cultivation of strength alone. Tamami would not become a consummate pahalwan once set on that course, but he would have the disproportionate strength necessary to block any challengers to the clan’s title. Ustad Ramzi would never let it be said that the title was lost to his clan while he lived.

  Ustad Ramzi’s mind was finally decided. He thought no more about the akhara incident and spent the afternoon tending the rose bushes.

  Solitude

  The acrid smell of the wilted jasmine flowers in the copper bowl, and the sight of the perfume- soaked cotton plugs in the glass bowl reminded Gohar Jan of Malka who used to arrange them for the mehfils. Something told her she would not return.

  Gohar Jan had foreseen Malka going away from her life and was reconciled to it when it occurred. With her decision never to attach herself to any one man, Gohar Jan had also prepared herself for a life of solitude. She had assumed that it was not given to her to find satisfaction in a relationship. She found it instead in a discipline that needed a similar degree of tending and self-sacrifice. Now, that satisfaction was being replaced with anxiety.

  Gohar Jan had been unprepared for the possibility of the kotha closing down because it had come about through a series of unforeseeable events. She felt helpless in quelling the feeling of loss that grew inside her. The passions and the energy of the kotha life and its glamour had given her life a sense of purpose and contentment, and its charms had sustained her in her womanhood’s prime and beyond; it had become her only reference to life.

  Now that the unforeseen had come about, Gohar Jan’s impending solitude made her feel vulnerable and uncertain. She thought about the furrowed faces of old tawaifs sitting idly in their dark kothas waiting for their lives to end. She realized that she was now one of them.

  Like waking from a dream broken in disquiet, she was unable to ward off her feeling of despair at the snapping of the thread that connected her past, present, and future. She felt restive and disoriented. Sometimes the walls, the furniture, even the Music Room where she had performed for decades, appeared unfamiliar. It seemed that the kotha had a secret life of its own that was extinguished when she closed its doors.

  She wondered if she might have felt a greater sense of her life’s completeness if there had been someone to share it with her. She had never tried to answer this question before. Even the act of posing it might have been a tacit admission that she felt her life had been lacking. But with the boundaries of her world shrunk to the walls of her abode, and left with only a memory of the hustle and bustle of the kotha in days past, Gohar Jan was faced with the futility of her life’s endeavor and her life’s meaning. She could no longer escape it.

  Shortly after the closure of Gohar Jan’s kotha, two remaining kothas also closed down. Evenings in the tawaifs’ enclave were finally silenced.

  Their world no longer exis
ted; but the tawaifs carried it within them in their memories, like exiles, and continued to adhere to a ritual of their lives. As before, they devoted the first act of the day to the vocal meditations of riyazat. The sound of their voices and their change of tone, timbre, and pitch still resonated in the tawaifs’ enclave at dawn. Gohar Jan, too, would get up at an early hour and sit down for her vocal meditations, but they brought her no satisfaction, no sense of peace.

  Visit

  The servant girl surprised Gohar Jan by announcing the arrival of Ustad Ramzi one evening. Gohar Jan could not imagine the reason for his visit.

  The servant girl had answered the door as Banday Ali was away on an errand. Without knowing or asking the reason for Ustad Ramzi’s visit, she had conducted him into the Music Room where Gohar Jan received guests. She found Ustad Ramzi standing in confusion at the entrance of the Music Room.

  “I believe I’m early today…” Ustad Ramzi addressed Gohar Jan as soon as he saw her. “Unless, there’s some change,” he added uneasily.

  Gohar Jan realized that Ustad Ramzi was unaware of the news of the kotha’s closure. “I regret the inconvenience,” she said hesitantly. “The mehfils ended some weeks ago. I am sorry you were not informed.”

  Ustad Ramzi stared at her.

  Something reminded Gohar Jan of a time many years ago when Ustad Ramzi had first started visiting her kotha. He rarely spoke, though he might commit to a word or two if someone sought his opinion. After her recital ended he would stay only as long as propriety demanded, and leave after putting his contribution in the moneybox. It was on one of those days that, amused by his demeanor, and acting on a sudden impulse, Gohar Jan had attempted to break through his reserve. He did not react. She desisted when she found out that Ustad Ramzi’s strict formality was guided by his dedication to his art and vows of celibacy. From that day she received him in the same courteous manner as her other patrons, but never sought to further cultivate his acquaintance.