The Brooklyn Rail

This month Archipelago Books publishes a collection of stories, For Now, It is Night, from Kashmiri writer Hari Krishna Kaul. Each story in the collection is punctuated with details of Kashmiri Hindu life. The sensations of reading Kaul are akin to those felt when watching the masters of slow-paced cinema, like Bresson or Bela Tarr. As in a Tarr film, the point is not to extrapolate a larger meaning from a roadside encounter or a simple transaction; the point is to immerse oneself in the details of ordinary life and the texture of a moment.

Does the river Jhelum still roar, or is it now subdued?

The Jamuna appears withered all year round, except during the monsoon. Sitting in a bus on the bridge that spanned the river, Jawe Lal recollected an incident from sixty years ago, when he was a child and had probably not even started school. Japanese goods like pencils, electric lamps, and similar items were easily available in the market then. His uncle, Nath, who was older and ahead of him in school, wouldn’t buy Japanese pencils that cost only one or two paisa. He would buy Made in England or Made in Germany pencils that cost one or two annas. They were expensive, but more durable. In comparison, Japanese pencils would snap, Japanese lamps would burn out overnight, and so, all Japanese goods had a bad reputation. Jawe Lal remembered how, when this uncle’s new bride had sprained her back while fetching a bucket of water from the riverbank, his older sister had said loudly for all to hear, “How disappointing! Despite being so fastidious, Nath has ended up with a bride just like the Japanese goods in the market.”

But things were different today. The bridge on the Jamuna was named the Indo-Japanese Friendship Bridge. The costs for the bridge had been borne entirely by Japan and the construction company had also been Japanese. That was why it was strong and beautiful and had been completed in less than the usual time. It took no more than five minutes to cross the Jamuna since the bridge had opened. Earlier, traffic jams would start as soon as one reached the head of the old bridge, making the ordeal of crossing the Jamuna worse than being ferried across the Vaitarna.

He looked at his watch. Only three minutes had passed, and he was almost on the other side. He was in no particular hurry today, but on previous occasions, when the bus would stop in the middle of the road, he would grow restless. Perhaps God was being kind to him today. Despite the usual rush of buses, cars and scooters on the road, there was no traffic jam and he did not feel the need to tear out his hair in frustration.

Jawe Lal had begun to notice God’s favors since the day before, when his son Billa had finally telephoned him after seven days. Billa had left for Frankfurt the previous Wednesday at two in the morning. From there, he had to take a connecting flight to his destination. But there had been no news from him until yesterday. For four days, Jawe Lal had waited patiently, thinking that Billa might not have been able to call since it was a new place, and a new company with new rules and regulations. But when there was still no news on the fifth day, he had grown worried. He had convinced his wife not to fret. But that Billa would take a week to adjust to the new place and would only then be able to call to give them his address, phone and fax numbers—Jawe Lal was anxious. He would have called Billa, but there was no number to call. He would have asked for news, but from whom? Finally, he had done what every hopeless person does. He had taken refuge in God and pleaded—if Billa called or if he heard any good news about him, he would give five rupees to charity. When there was still no news from Billa, Jawe Lal thought perhaps the amount was too small. Embarrassed, he acknowledged his stinginess and committed to giving ten rupees. But even with that, there was no phone call on the sixth day. Maybe God was still not happy. Jawe Lal squirmed like a small fish in a frying pan and increased his donation to twenty rupees. God answered his prayers that very day—Billa called in the evening. Jawe Lal was overjoyed when he heard his son’s voice, although Billa scolded him and said that he shouldn’t have become so anxious—if there had been an accident or some mishap, the TV or the newspapers would have reported it.

The bus stopped. Jawe Lal was startled. But he sighed with relief when he saw that the traffic light was red. It turned green quickly. The bus was now on the Ring Road, which was quite broad and unlikely to experience traffic jams.

Jawe Lal had left home to visit the Hanuman temple in Connaught Place, but he was not going there to offer sweets or prayers to the deity. He had seen dozens of lame, blind, and pockmarked beggars outside the temple on several occasions. He needed to get small change from the priests or from the sweetshop for the two ten-rupee notes he had in his pocket, distribute the change among those poor, unfortunate beggars, and thus, fulfill the promise he had made to God.

Suddenly, he fell forward in his seat. The bus had stopped again. He peered out of the window, and as far as he could see, all the buses, cars, and scooters in front of his bus had also stopped. He looked around at the people sitting near him in the bus, but they were all calm and quiet, as if nothing had happened. Perhaps nothing had happened. He had read in his childhood: ‘In Rome, do as the Romans do.’ Now, in his old age, he had learned that in Delhi, do as people in Delhi do—ignore whatever is happening around you, stay quiet and mind your own business. He sat silently now and turned his thoughts to what kept him preoccupied night and day ever since he had left Kashmir. He replayed past events in his mind and ruminated on new problems.

Without warning, a young woman got up from her seat and took a good look at the congested traffic on the road. She seemed to make up her mind, and she moved towards the door of the bus. The conductor understood: he opened the door for her, and she stepped out. Jawe Lal noticed her tight jeans, the flimsy short blouse, her broad hips and full bosom, and between the two, her slender waist, as narrow as the Indo-Japanese Friendship Bridge. Watching her get up from her seat and alight quickly from the bus reminded him, most of all, of the young girls who had studied with him in college. Despite their high-heeled sandals and the jaunty scarves swinging from their shoulders, they had not overcome the fear of social censure. The young people these days, on the other hand, had no inhibitions. They made their own decisions. They believed that whatever path they chose would lead them to their goal. He started thinking—Billa had had a good job here, the salary had been decent and there had been the possibility of a promotion as well. But he had quit that job and contracted himself to an American company for three years to work in some unfamiliar country. He remembered when he had been his son’s age—after completing his BA and BEd, he had worked as a teacher in a government middle school. He had been offered a headmaster’s job for three times the salary at a school in Delhi. But what would he have done with more money? Would he have left his Kashmir for that? His home? But he did have to leave Kashmir as well as his home. He, who would have sacrificed the world for Kashmir, was exiled from his homeland forever in an instant.

Jawe Lal felt like laughing rather than crying as he thought about his misfortunes. He laughed out loud without realizing it. But this made no impression on the other passengers. They had either dozed off or sat with eyes wide open, as if they were frozen. He thought of the girl in jeans and wondered if she had reached her destination. Had Billa been allotted a separate house by his company or was he sharing a shack on-site with the workers? Again, his thoughts turned to Kashmir. Three years ago, he had sworn that he wouldn’t think about Kashmir anymore. Just then, the bus started to move. The sudden movement of the bus frightened Jawe Lal, as though it were reminding him that he was breaking a solemn oath and that thinking of Kashmir would cause him harm. Or maybe it was suggesting that being stubborn and deliberately erasing all memory of Kashmir was wrong. Just like the stalled traffic which had begun to move, his stagnant life would be revitalized if he allowed himself to think about Kashmir again.

His bus and all the other stalled vehicles were now moving. He looked out of the window and caught sight of the young girl in the jeans and blouse walking briskly along the road. He saw her in a quick flash. Then, the bus sped away and left her behind. Jawe Lal was convinced that perseverance pays. He had tried very hard to convince Billa of this, but to no avail. It was humiliating to try and persuade a person who was not willing to listen. An impatient man will settle for anything.

After speeding along for a few minutes, the bus suddenly stopped. Again, the traffic came to a standstill. A few more people got off the bus. Jawe Lal looked out of the window. A number of passengers had disembarked from other buses and were walking slowly along the road. He watched them. He spotted the young woman in the jeans and blouse once more. She walked on and left the bus behind. Jawe Lal reconsidered the matter: was patience truly rewarding or did impatience lead a person to success?

As he got off the bus at Regal and walked towards the Hanuman temple, Jawe Lal wondered if the young woman in the jeans and blouse had reached her destination or whether she was still walking along the road. But this was not the right way to think about the problem. The question was not whether the young woman had arrived at her destination. A person may walk or take a flight, but can a destination ever be reached? This was the real question for Jawe Lal, and he certainly did not have an answer.

When he arrived at the Hanuman temple, he grew anxious again. It was not a Tuesday, and though there was a crowd of worshippers, he could not see any beggars. A bystander who looked rather unhinged understood Jawe Lal’s anxiety. Jawe Lal found out from him that the beggars had a leader who instructed them to beg outside the Hanuman temple on Tuesday, the Sai Baba temple on Thursday, the Jama Masjid on Friday, the Bhairav temple on Saturday, and the gurdwara on Sunday. They had the day off on Wednesday and Monday. Today was Wednesday. The headman was generous and kind. Like the government, for years now, he too had been following the five-day workweek.

When he heard this, Jawe Lal was able to make sense of something that had happened twelve years ago. He had traveled to Delhi for a five-day trip with a group of ten boys. When he was showing the boys around Raj Ghat, Shantivan and Shakti Sthal, they had encountered a large procession. A president or a minister from some unknown country in Africa or South America had been ousted. Hundreds of poor people in India, barefoot and dressed in rags, holding enormous posters of this politician, were protesting his expulsion as an attack on democracy. Jawe Lal had been surprised. When the boys had asked him who this leader was, where was he from and why were Indians concerned about him, Jawe Lal had no answer. He felt ashamed of his ignorance. Today, he realized that those impoverished people must have been paid to protest for a man who was unknown to them. They had simply come to make some money on a Wednesday or a Monday, their days off.

Jawe Lal left the temple without making an offering of flowers or anything else to the deity. As he headed home with the two ten-rupee notes still in his pocket, he felt he was leaving without having accomplished anything. He walked to the bus stop with his head down and slipped into the bus. He closed his eyes tightly when the bus started. He knew that one could see with one’s eyes wide open, but if that didn’t help a person to understand his own situation, it was better to keep them shut. However, he was compelled to open his eyes when he got off the bus and had to hire a rickshaw to get home. The rickshaw puller demanded six rupees as the fare. Jawe Lal grew angry, assuming that rickshaw puller saw him as an outsider and was trying to cheat him. He declared that the fare was five rupees and he was not going to pay a paisa more. Faced with Jawe Lal’s dogged insistence, the rickshaw puller backed down and agreed to the five-rupee fare. But he compelled Jawe Lal to listen to the account of his miserable life. The man was from Bihar and had come to Delhi to make a living. Jawe Lal felt that, like himself, the rickshaw puller too was a displaced person. But when the rickshaw puller revealed that he had chosen to leave his village and come to the big city to earn better money, Jawe Lal was reminded more of his son Billa. The rickshaw puller ranted on about unemployment, forced labour and gut-wrenching hunger. Jawe Lal’s mind went blank. His heart beat wildly, and he felt as if he were being tossed up one mountain and thrown down another, ferried across the gushing Jhelum and flung into the dried-up Jamuna. Like a drowning man, he raised both his hands and was about to cry out to Billa for help. But Billa was far away, across many oceans.

Jawe Lal stopped the rickshaw when he reached home and gave the man five rupees. The man pleaded for one more rupee. Firmly, Jawe Lal said that he was not going to pay more than what they had agreed upon and stepped out of the rickshaw. The rickshaw driver gave up on this obstinate passenger and was about to leave when Jawe Lal called him back. He stopped. Jawe Lal took the two ten-rupee notes from his pocket, put the money in the rickshaw puller’s hand without a word, and walked towards his house.

The rickshaw puller examined the notes carefully. Both were genuine and in good shape, neither torn nor wrinkled. He was taken aback by the inexplicable behavior of the passenger who had seemed so miserly but now had given him two crisp ten-rupee notes.

The translations in this first English-language edition of Kaul's work are the collaborative effort of four translators. Kalpana Raina was born in Kashmir and lives in New York. She is a senior executive, board director, and adviser with over thirty years of experience in both corporate and not-for-profit sectors. Raina is currently the Vice Chair at Words Without Borders. Tanveer Ajsi is an independent art historian and cultural theorist. He has written extensively on theatre, performing arts, visual arts, and literature. Gowhar Fazili teaches political science and sociology. Gowhar Yaqoob is an independent research scholar based in Srinagar.