It was the lull before the storm. She ate what they fed her; she wore what they held out to her. She toiled from early dawn to midnight in the fields, with the cattle and in the house. She did not say a word. She was in fact in search of the word. This silence was now becoming unbearable. She knew it was going to tear her apart, burst her chest and destroy her whole being. Then, suddenly, it all happened. Sidh Baba appeared from nowhere. It was a full moon night and she was looking for a lost lamb on the plateau of Pampore. Saffron fields lit up as thousands of saffron flowers brightly shone under the magical spell of a full moon. She saw her guru levitating in mid-air, holding the full moon in his right hand and plucking stars from the sky with his left. She fell to her knees. “Tell me what do you want? And it shall be granted. All the wealth in this world, all the power of the kings and much more shall be yours.”
“My Lord! Power to the kings, wealth to the wealthy but yoga to the yogini will suffice. Knowing the unknown and the bounty of the word may not to me be denied.”
“Brighter than this moon, enduring than the stars— thy wish be met. To the within from the without you shall go and unravel and know that which is unknown. Word be thy wisdom, deed be thy seed, and eternal bliss harvest thine.”
After this, Lal did not go home. She did not need to. In fact, she had acquired her own kingdom, where she could do as she wished. The necessities of mortal existence had become meaningless. From self, she was on her way to non-self. She roamed about freely, from one place to another, one hamlet to yet another, dancing in the lush green meadows, spread in the vastness of her being, flying like a sharika and singing hymns to her soul, discarding in the process her worn-out pheran; naked she was free of all encumbrances.
Serenely shrouded in her nakedness, she roamed. They saw her roaming amidst the thickest forest. They saw her towering head above the tallest Deodar tree. They saw her unkempt hair mingled with the clouds above the mountain peaks. They saw her marble whiteness, whiter than the purest milk. They saw her and her lovely nakedness shone. Her lovely nakedness shone in the darkest and narrowest of minds. Her nakedness inspired awe and reverence. People flocked to her. They clung to her naked being; they put their hungry lips to her full breasts. They were all her own children, and like a big hen, she spread her wings to accommodate her chicks on a cold and dark night. Lal, the mother, continued to roam, imparting the word to their lives.
Gani sat through the night, lost in the deep valleys of his thoughts. He was known for his eccentric ways of life. He did not bolt the doors and windows of his house when away, but religiously secured every door and every window the moment he was in. When asked, he would reply that people lock their houses to protect the wealth within, when they are away. Since the wealth in my house is Gani alone, why bother when Gani is away?
Though dawn was breaking and a faint orange streaked the horizon, Gani remained seated on the mat. He was thinking of Saib, the great Persian poet, who had recently visited him. Saib had come all the way from Iran to understand the meaning of a metaphor used by Gani in one of his verses.
“Each strand of hair in her plait is like the potter’s thread, tearing human heads like pots from a potter’s wheel.” Saib stayed for some time with Gani and all the time listened to him with great reverence and rapt attention. This was a great honour for Gani, but he remained what he was, a totally detached, uninterested soul, with no longing and no passion for this world. A hermit contented with his life and at absolute peace with himself.
The sun had risen by now and a new day had dawned. Gani finally decided to end his night. Suddenly, tearing apart the serene silence, a raucous voice filled the space. It pierced the bolted windows and doors of Gani’s house. “All members of the public are ordered to come out of their houses immediately and assemble at the nearby chowk. Anyone staying behind will be shot as soon as spotted. Hello…hello… members of the public….”
It went on and on and with it came the shouts of men, shrieks of women, wailing of children. All hell was let loose. There was a pounding at Gani’s doors. Somebody seemed to be determined to pull it down. Gani got up, walked through the corridor steadily and without any hurry, unlocked his door, and found himself facing soldiers in full battle fatigues. “Sala, tum kyon nahi nikalta… uloo ka patha.” The soldiers hit him in his face. Some pulled him by the collar and shoved him out into the street. Outside, he saw others being paraded and shoved out from their houses likewise. The soldiers were hitting all and sundry with rifle butts and raining abuse on them. What was the cause of this sudden agitation, he wondered. He too joined the herd of men and women on way to the chowk. From a distance, he could see his philosopher and guide, Fani, being marshalled out from a street, his gown torn, his turban missing. He was bleeding profusely from wounds on his face. Seeing him, Gani yelled, “My master! What is this? Didn’t you contact Dara? Has this state gone out of the domain? Who are these people? And what do they want?”
With an acid smile, Fani stopped him. “How many questions do you have? Dara? Telephone lines have been disconnected. And who are these bastards and what do they want? You do not understand! It is Aurangzeb removing Dara from the scene.”
An excerpt from Ayaz Rasool Nazki’s book SATISAR, THE VALLEY OF DEMONS published by Vitasta Publishing and the book is available on www.vitastapublishing.com
