Delhi (28 page)

I do not know which I was more, a lover or a poet. Both love and poetry consumed me. An affair of the heart brought me into disrepute; my poetry earned me a name which resounded all over Hindustan. Love brought me anguish; poetry a feeling of ecstasy. What neither love nor poetry brought me was money. Whatever I earned was by stringing garlands of words. Living amongst people who could not tell the difference between a finely cut diamond and a bead of glass, it was more the whims of my patrons than the excellence of my craftsmanship that determined what I had to eat. My father, the saintly Meer Mohammed Ali, once said to me; ‘Son, I worry over your future. A fire has been lit in your heart. I fear for what it will do to you.’ I was only nine years old and laughed at his words. He had the wisdom of age; he wept because he knew that the fire of love would both make me and destroy me.

One evening after he had said his afternoon prayer, he said to me; ‘
Beta
, the world changes very fast and there is very little time to catch up with it. The road of life is also very uneven; you must watch your steps. Whatever time you have, devote it to knowing your self. ‘ I was only ten years old and had plenty of time to do whatever I liked. Also I did not think there was very much about myself that I did not know.

We lived in a hermitage on the outskirts of Akbarabad (Agra). Besides my father’s children from his two wives, there was
Chacha
Amanullah who lived with us and like my father spent most of his waking hours in prayer and meditation. When they were not praying or meditating they argued about love. My father said if you love God you love everything created by God.
Chacha
put it the other way round: If you love God’s creatures you love God. I could not understand how two old men could go on talking for hours on end about the same thing day after day. It was only later that I understood the kind of love which was on
Chacha
Amanullah’s mind I used to wonder sometimes why when he talked so much about loving God’s creatures, he never raised his eyes from the ground when women were around. Then one evening he was taking the air in an Agra bazaar when he happened to exchange glances with a beautiful boy and fell madly in love with him. After this incident he lost his appetite for food and his peace of mind. A few days later he died pining away for the love of that lad.

Love meant something quite different to my father. Once he told me: ‘Son, make love your only companion. It is love that maintains the universe. All that you see in the world is a different manifestation of love. Fire is the heat of love, earth its foundation, air its restlessness, night its dream-state, day its wakefulness.’ At the time his words made no sense to me. However, all unknowing, the quest of love was enjoined upon me from my infancy and became the guiding star of my life. Unfortunately it was neither the kind of love that consumed
Chacha
Amanullah nor the sort my father spoke of that became my abiding passion but the type that envelopes a man when he loses his head and his heart to one woman.

My father married twice. From his first wife, the sister of the well-known poet, Aarzoo of Delhi, he had a son, Hafiz Mohammed. My mother, who was his second wife, bore him three children of whom I was the eldest. My step-brother had no love for his father, his step-mother or her children. Most of all he hated me. My father was well aware of this and thought it best to divide whatever he owned between us in his lifetime. One summer afternoon, when the sun was at its zenith and hot winds blew, he went to Agra to see some ailing disciple. When he returned, he had a heat stroke. He smelled the breeze of paradise in his nostrils and sent for Hafiz Mohammed and me. He spoke to us, ‘Sons, I am a
fakeer
. I have no money, land or property. All I have are some three hundred books. I also owe about three hundred rupees to creditors. Before I shut my eyes to the world I would like to divide my books and debts equally between you.’ At this my step-brother replied, ‘
Abba Jan
, you know perfectly well that I am the scholar of the family and the only one who can profit from the study of books. What will Taqi do with them except make kites of their pages and fly them?’ My father was very upset with him but being close to death only admonished him weakly, ‘Hafiz Mohammed, mark my words! The flame of learning will never illumine your home but that of Taqi.’ He turned to me and said; ‘
Beta
, do not bury my body till you have paid off my creditors. Do not worry. Money will come to you.’

With the name of Allah on his lips my father took leave of the world. As news of his death reached Agra, people began to collect at our hospice to pay their last homage to him. Among them were some Hindu shopkeepers who offered me money. I declined to take it from them but when one of my father’s Muslim disciples put a bag with five hundred rupees in my lap, I accepted it. I paid off my father’s creditors and buried his body next to the grave of
Chacha
Amanullah. At the age of eleven I was left alone in the world to look after my widowed mother, younger brother and sister. Besides the hundred rupees that remained with me after I had paid for the burial expenses and creditors my only wealth consisted of the words of wisdom bequeathed to me by my father.

Chacha
Amanullah had taught me Farsee and Urdu as well as the technique of composing poetry. I used this little knowledge to coach the children of rich families. Some evenings I would go to
mushairas
and hear the famous poets of Delhi and Agra recite their compositions. I found most of them were commonplace rhymesters without a single new thought in their poems. Such poets, particularly a songster named Masood who was a great favourite at
mushairas
, roused my contempt. Masood was a handsome, roguish looking fellow who could make up for the execrable quality of his verses by singing them in a dulcet voice. No sooner would a
mushaira
start than the audience would clamour for ‘Parwana’ (moth) the pseudonym which he used. (I always referred to him as
patanga
which is the pejorative for a moth). Women loved him. At every gathering I saw maidservants bring slips of paper from their mistresses seated behind the
purdah
(screen) with requests for songs composed by him. These songs were usually about the moth’s love for the flame in which it burnt itself. It amazed me how a theme as old as Moses and Abraham could rouse people’s emotions. What irritated me about Parwana was that even on this hackneyed theme he could not produce a single new variation. I confess that it was envy of this worthless moth that first impelled me to try my hand at composing poetry.

While the others in my household slept I would sit beside an oil-lamp and compose verses. They poured out of me like the waters of the Tasneem. Although I was too shy to recite them in public I showed them to some poets whose work I thought was above mediocre. They expressed surprise that one so young could have such facility with words; some suspected I had stolen someone else’s writing. ‘If these verses are really yours, the days of Parwana will soon come to an end,’ said one. ‘He will have to leap into a flame,’ said another. ‘You call that
patanga
a poet?’ I asked somewhat rashly. ‘He is a mere
tuk-
baaz
(rhymester) with the voice of a castrated male.’ The story went round that a twelve-year-old
chokra
had the audacity to use insulting words about the reigning monarch of Agra’s
mehfils
. In due course Parwana got to hear of what I had said. ‘Who is this son of Meer Taqi?’ he roared. ‘I will teach him a lesson he will never forget.’ Some families known to him dispensed with my services. Not satisfied with this, he decided to humiliate me in public.

At a
mushaira
in the
haveli
of Agra’s richest Nawab, Rais Mian, whose begum was said to be enamoured of Parwana, somebody whispered in his ears that I was present in the crowd. I could see his eyes scanning the audience while his informant directed his gaze towards me. He nodded his head and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear: ‘Now watch the
tamasha
.’ After a poet had finished his recitation, his cronies began to shout, ‘Parwana Sahib, Parwana Sahib!’ He raised both his hands asking for people to be quiet. ‘Gentlemen, I am grateful to you for your appreciation of my poor talents. I am your slave ever ready to comply with your commands. But this evening, before your humble servant opens his mouth, I pray silence for the rising star of Hindustan. Parwana is a mere
patanga
before him. It is no fault of yours that you have not heard of his name because the world has yet to hear his
kalaam
. He is still wet behind his ears but regards himself as the
ustad
of
ustads.
’ His voice was loaded with sarcasm. His cronies sniggered with pleasure. He turned to one of them and asked loudly, ‘What did you say is this
launda’s
(urchin’s) name? Ah yes, Meer. Full name, Meer Taqi Meer. Let the candle be placed before his august visage.’

I was taken aback. I had never opened my mouth in a
mehfil
nor had I brought any of my compositions with me. The candle was placed in front of me and hundreds of eyes were fixed on me. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my hands began to tremble. I shut my eyes and thought of my father. I prayed, ‘
Ya
Allah
! Thou art my help and my refuge.’ I could not think of what to say except a couplet I had composed on the
shamaparwana
(flame-moth) theme only to prove that it could be handled in ways other than by this hack trying to humiliate me. ‘Parwana Sahib,’ I said with all the humility I could command, ‘before I recite my composition, I crave permission to present you a humble gift which I beg of you to accept.’ Then in a clear voice I recited:

The flame it saw,

But thereafter nothing besides the curving,

leaping tongues of fire.

By the time its eyes were on the flame,

The moth was in the fire.

None of them had seen this aspect of love—love that thinks of nothing except to be consumed by its beloved. As the words sank in the minds of the audience it exploded ‘
Marhaba! Subhan
Allah
! How beautifully put!’ Emboldened by the appreciation, I sought permission to recite a poem on love that I had composed the night before and which was still fresh in my mind:

It is love and only love whichever way you look;

Love is stacked from the earth below to the sky above;

Love is the beloved, love is the lover too,

In short, love itself is in love with love.

Without love none can their goal attain,

Love is desire, love its ultimate aim.

Love is anguish, love the antidote of love’s pain.

O wise man, what know you what love is?

Without love the order of the Universe would be broken

God is love, truly have the poets spoken.

The audience was moved by my recitation. Every line was applauded with
Wah! Wah! Wah! Mukarrar
! I had to repeat them over and over again. Many people came and showered silver coins on me. A maidservant handed me a gold
ashrafi
with a note asking me to make a copy of the poem in my own hand and deliver it personally at the
haveli
the next morning. The note was from the mistress of the house. This was the beginning of my career as a poet and a lover.

I got no sleep that night. The applause I had received rang in my ears. I had humbled that charlatan Parwana and he would never again be able to show his face in a
mehfil
where I was present. But who was this lady who had asked for my poem? My head was in a whirl. Despite the sleepless night, in the morning I felt fresh and triumphant. I told my mother what had happened and handed over the gold
ashrafi
and silver coins showered on me. ‘All this is due to your
Abba,
’ she said. ‘He is watching over you. He will see that you become the most famous poet of Hindustan.’

I made a fair copy of my poem, hurried back to the Nawab Rais Mian’s
haveli
and had myself announced. Nawab Rais was out exercising his horses. After a while a maidservant came to escort me into the women’s apartments. ‘You are only a little boy; you don’t even have hair on your upper lip,’ she said to me saucily. ‘No one will object to your presence in the
zenana.
’ I found myself in a heavily curtained, dark room with a few bolsters laid on a Persian carpet along the wall. Some moments later Begum Sahiba entered the room. I bowed and made my salutation and with both hands presented the parchment on which I had written my poem. ‘I am greatly honoured by your appreciation of my humble talent,’ I said. She protested. ‘It is I who should feel honoured by your presence. When you become the most famous poet of Hindustan you may remember this creature who was the first to appraise your greatness.’

Her words were celestial music in my ears. I dared to raise my eyes to see her. She was seated on the carpet reclining on a bolster. Since her eyes were fixed on me, I could not look at her for too long. She was a short, stocky woman about thirty years of age. She was fair, round-faced with raven-black hair long enough for her to sit on. The only other things I noticed about her were her taut bosom and big rounded buttocks which almost burst out of her tight fitting pyjamas. Her steady gaze unnerved me; it felt as if she was eating me up with her eyes. It was quite sometime before she asked me to be seated and ordered her maidservants to serve me refreshments. Even while I was partaking of the repast placed before me, I felt her eyes hovering over me. She invited me to the
bismillah
ceremony of her younger son. She asked me if I would condescend to see some of her verses and advise her how to improve them. She offered me the post of tutor to her children. I felt like a bird on whom a silken net was about to fall. I was happy but also somewhat apprehensive. My days of penury were over but my days of freedom seemed to be coming to an end.