Baqri Id

Asif Anwar always woke up a half hour before the local loudspeakers began the first namaz. Hameeda and the three children would still be asleep. Asif was accustomed to move around the house in the pre-dawn dark without disturbing them. His house was small enough, and his habits tidy enough, for him to know where to find the water jug or the prayer rug without switching the lights on. This was the quietest hour of the day. Once namaz was over, the sun sneaked in through the blinds and the street noises began. The daily routine made Asif think it was all part of a script written by Allah.

But today was different. He woke up at a sound that he initially thought was made by Abdul, his youngest son. Why was he laughing in the middle of the night? Asif got up and realised it was not Abdul who was making the sound, but the goat outside. The white goat which was tied to the terrace grille. Asif went to the terrace and patted it. His patting palm felt the healthiness of the goat’s torso. Indeed this one weighed a little over sixty kilos. Only one and a half year old and more than sixty kilos. Year after year, they were becoming expensive. This year, Asif had paid thirteen thousand rupees for it, at two hundred rupees a kilo. It was in bad taste to bargain when buying an al-qurbani for Eid al-Adha. But this wholesome white creature was good value for the money spent. As per custom, Asif would distribute twenty kilos to the poor in the neighbourhood, give twenty kilos to his cousins, and keep twenty for his own family.

The white goat had been bought three days earlier. Bilal had painted his horns blue, and put a traditional pink mark on its back. Abdul had made a colourful necklace that shone even now- in the morning dark. The terrace floor was littered with leaves, broken branches and grass. The goat had little else to do but chew leaves whenever it was left alone. The last two days, Asif’s children had played with it. Abdul had tried to ride the goat as if it were a horse. His riding and falling were both delightful, and his friends had laughed. Now with the morning near, the goat apparently longed for the children’s company once again. Did it sleep in the night? Asif wanted the goat to rest well before slaughtering it.  

Asif checked his watch and decided not to go to bed again. Anyway, today his first namaz would happen in the masjid. He once again patted the goat’s back. ‘You sleep, it’s too early’, he said to the goat. The goat, not understanding what was said, bleated again. Asif left the terrace and entered his bedroom. From the cupboard, he took out the new white dress – an embroidered one – and kept it gently on the sofa. Hameeda had pressed everybody’s new clothes.

In an hour’s time, brushed and bathed meticulously, he was ready to leave the house. Wasim and Bilal shared the other bedroom. They must be still asleep. Asif switched on the small light to watch his reflection in the cupboard mirror. The round white cap and the long ironed clothes made him look funny, but they also made him feel the festive mood. Dhu al-Hijjah was a sacred month, and Eid al-Adha was its most special day. He sprayed scent on his clothes and wore his silver ring. Later in the morning, his three sons would wear similar clothes.  Asif’s cousins would arrive at noon, to join in the feast.

Asif noticed Hameeda get up from the bed.

‘No need to switch the light off’, she said, ‘I am awake. I couldn’t sleep well; the goat was making all those sounds in the night’.

‘It’s only tonight’, said Asif. ‘Please see if the goat can sleep a bit, and ask the children not to play with it. It gets too excited. They say it’s better if the goat is well rested. I’m going for the prayers. Get everyone ready so we can have breakfast when I come back.’

The masjid was not far. But as custom required Asif took a different and longer route to go to it. He would use the normal route on his way back. Night had ended, but the street lights were on. The wind blew onto his body, but it couldn’t affect his starched clothes. Asif softly chanted takbir all the way to the masjid. Outside the masjid, groups of men wearing round caps and lengthy white dresses hugged one another and wished Id Mubarak. Roads were empty of vehicles, making the festival spirit even stronger.

By the time he returned from his prayers, his family was ready – at the breakfast table.

‘Let’s finish breakfast, we want to go out and play’, said his sons.

They all looked good in their new clothes. Wasim, the eldest, looked particularly handsome. Only last month, a thin moustache had appeared on his face. How the years pass by; Asif thought. Soon we’ll have to find a dulhan for him.

Asif and Wasim ate seven dates each, and the others five. Breakfast was light, more ritualistic.

‘Don’t eat too much before lunch’, Asif said to his sons. Hameeda had promised to make mutton biryani today.  ‘Today’s lunch is going to be delicious. And don’t start playing with the goat again. You should all go out now’, he shouted looking at the terrace. Little Abdul was trying to shake hands with the goat. Bilal was watching it and laughing.

‘Listen, it’s not a dog. It’s a goat. You can’t train him’, Asif said.

‘No, see, it’s giving me a handshake’, said Abdul, holding the front leg of the goat.

Asif went to the terrace with a raised hand, and drove away his sons. He pushed the remaining leaves and grass close to the goat’s legs. The goat briefly bent its head, took a few leaves in its mouth, chewed them and bleated loudly.

Two of Asif’s cousins arrived first. They met Asif on the terrace, heartily embraced him and wished Eid Mubarak.

‘What a lovely goat’, they said, staring at it.

As if to acknowledge that, the goat gave a bleat of delight. It was happy in human company.

‘Why don’t we move inside the house’, said Asif. ‘I would like to sharpen the knife.’

All of them moved to the kitchen. Asif sat on the floor and placed the grinding stone in front of him. Taking the foot-long knife in his hand, he began honing the knife’s edge. With his hands engaged in the rhythmic movement, he continued to talk to his cousins. Every few minutes, he tenderly touched the knife’s blade with his finger and then went back to sharpen it. This particular knife was used only once a year, on the day of Eid al-Adha. Although washed after every use, the blade had a reddish tinge on it.

Wasim entered the kitchen.

‘Abba-Jan, when are we planning to have lunch? I’m already hungry’, he said, ‘I’ve met everyone I was supposed to meet.’

‘Why don’t you help me with this’, said Asif to his son. ‘You are now an adult. In a few years you’ll be doing this yourself.’

Wasim took the knife from his father’s hands and sat next to the grinding stone. His young hands moved more energetically.

‘That may be enough’, Asif said finally, coming closer and testing the blade once again with his finger. He could hear the sound of children playing cricket on the road.

‘Since Bilal and Abdul are out, let’s get going now. Wasim is hungry, I’m sure you are as well, he said looking at his cousins. And Hameeda’ll need time to cook the meal.’

The cousins nodded.

‘Let me find… here it is… I wear this every year…’ Asif wore the long apron to cover his white dress. ‘I suggest you stand behind after you hold it down, so that your shirts don’t get spoilt. Wasim, you please take a bowl of water.’

Asif hid the knife inside his apron. He went to the main door and locked it. ‘Don’t come to the terrace and don’t open the door for children’ he warned his wife. ‘We’ll try to do it as fast as possible, so that you can start your cooking.’  Followed by his two cousins and Wasim, Asif entered the terrace. The goat, bored of chewing leaves, looked at them and made another high-pitched sound. It was time someone played with it.

Wasim put the bowl of water in front of it. The goat happily drank it.

‘Good. Now we’re ready. Take that rope in the corner and tie its legs.’ The cousins did as told. The goat thought this was some kind of game and shook its legs playfully. The sun shone in the centre of the sky. The sky above the terrace was blue, cloudless. The only sound one could hear was the playing children’s clatter and occasional firecrackers.

‘Wasim, you hold it down… down on its left side… yes, like this. And the head should be in that direction… facing Qibla… yes that way.’ The goat issued another high-pitched bleat. Its head tried to turn back to watch those holding its legs.

‘I’ll make a single cut… here’ Asif said pointing to the goat’s throat. ‘… and the blood will flow all over that side. All of you stand behind. You need to be careful, sometimes the blood can splash. It’ll bleed for two or three minutes. Then we can take it to the kitchen and start cutting. Make sure all the blood is gone before we remove it from here. We’ll clean the terrace once Hameeda starts cooking.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar, Allah hu Akbar’ all of them began chanting. Asif took the knife from inside his apron. He looked at the goat’s throat. He decided the point where he should apply the cut. He put his hand on the goat’s head and raised his arm holding the knife.

All of a sudden, he felt that hand twisting. His eyes closed. Asif felt his body turn upside down and rotate. He wished he could stop that involuntary movement but couldn’t. It was as if his whole being was getting sucked inside a whirlpool. He was losing himself and was worryingly aware of it. And then he felt it. He felt the presence of Allah.

Allah can’t be seen. Allah can only be experienced.

‘Don’t worry; I want to communicate with you.’ Allah said. ‘You were chanting my name. I thought it was the right time.’

‘Bismilla Allah hu Akbar,’ said Asif, getting out of his stunned state, ‘O Allah, I’m at Your service. Please command.’

‘I don’t have to tell you,’ proceeded Allah ‘why you celebrate the Eid al-Adha.’

‘O Allah, yes, I know the story.’ Asif narrated what every Muslim knows since childhood. ‘You had commanded Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, to sacrifice his son, prophet Ishmael, peace be upon him. When they were moving towards Mina to perform this solemn duty, Satan tried to dissuade them, but did not succeed. As Prophet Abraham, peace be upon him, was about to pass the sharp knife over his son an angel intervened, turning the knife upside down. The Prophet had shown his sincerity, and he was allowed to sacrifice a well-fed Ram in lieu of his son.’

‘Yes. That’s the story. And as I had expected you know it well. It happened more than four thousand years ago. The times were different. People were more sincere and angels more charitable. These days, angels are fewer. And I’ve decided to test the sincerity of my followers again.’

‘O Allah, You need to give the command. I’m at Your feet.’ Said Asif.

‘I want you to sacrifice your son, the one standing next to you,’ Allah said, ‘instead of the goat whose throat your knife is pointing at.’

‘Bismilla, Allah hu Akbar’ said Asif, his tone that of a question.

‘Yes, you heard me right.’ Said Allah. ‘I want you to sacrifice your son, and not the goat.’

The next thing Asif heard was Wasim, his son, calling him by name.

‘Abba- Jan, are you all right? Please drink this water.’

Asif drank the glass of water. Drops of sweat had covered his entire face. He was sat on the terrace floor. The knife lay on his side. The goat, his legs tied, was kicking and screaming. Asif’s cousins looked at him, worried.

‘What happened, Asif? Your face became completely white. We thought you had an attack of some type.’ One cousin said.

Asif looked at Wasim who was standing two feet away. Asif’s eyes reluctantly focused themselves on Wasim’s neck. The skin was smooth and tender. Asif was surprised his young, well-built son had such a delicate neck. He took the knife from the floor, and gathering his strength stood up. He held the handle of the knife firmly, and looked at the sky. He said a prayer, but silently.

Bending down, he cut the ropes that had tied the legs of the goat. The goat bleated repeatedly, stood up, and ran inside the house. Wasim ran after him.

‘If you’re not feeling well, I can perform the duty.’ Said Asif’s cousin. ‘Allah will not forgive us if we don’t offer the qurbani that He commands.’  

‘I don’t have the courage nor the strength to offer the sacrifice Allah has asked for. I hope Allah can forgive me for that. I don’t want to deceive Him by offering something else instead. We will not sacrifice the goat. I’ll speak to Hameeda. We’ll see what to do about lunch.’

Saying this, Asif hurriedly rushed to the house. His cousins didn’t understand what was wrong with him. However, since he was the eldest member of their generation, they decided to abide by Asif’s wishes.

Ravi

Memoirs of a Russian Interpreter: Part I

Without my realising it, my career as a Russian interpreter began in 1984 with a phone call from someone who didn’t know what interpreter meant.

“The USSR consulate gave us your name. A delegation from Russia is coming to Bombay. We would like you to work as a translator.” The clerk from ICCR (Indian Council for Cultural Relations) said over the phone.

“Do you mean interpreter?” I asked, my heart thumping. Until then, I had read about that species only in fiction. My mind recalled the story of a Greek interpreter who was coerced to help a kidnapper talk to his victims.

“They said you are a translator.”

“Would I need to translate written material, or do you want me to accompany your delegation so that they can talk at their meetings?”

“Yes, we want you to go everywhere with them. It’s a small delegation; only three people, all musicians. I’ve got their names here. Two girls and a man – Nurilla, Nuri and Jan.” He paused and in a that-was-the-good-news-now-here-is-the-bad-one tone added: “We can only pay sixty rupees a day (about four dollars then). We are a govt organisation, you see.”

I was working with a chartered accountants’ firm, an occupation that I detested wholeheartedly. I applied for short leave and two days later was at the airport waiting for the two girls and a man to emerge.

***

I could not see two white girls and a man – with or without musical instruments. The only foreigners I saw were three elderly men who looked lost. One of them had Mongolian features. Where was my delegation? As I walked around, I heard the elderly men speak in Russian. Even the man with narrow eyes spoke in Russian. Quite a coincidence this. I thought they might know something about my group. I went and greeted them.

“Where is Ravindra?” One of the men asked me in Russian.

“That’s me. My name is Ravi. Ravindra is the official name.”

“Oh, hello! We’ve been waiting for some time.”

The three introduced themselves.

“I’m Nurilla Zakirov.” Said the youngest of the three men. As I learnt later, he was in his early forties, but I thought of him as an elderly person since I was only twenty-two. (Now-a-days, I don’t consider people in their forties to be all that old). Plump, short and half-bald, Nurilla had a very round face. Though he wore glasses, you could clearly see how piercing his eyes were. He was a composer from Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Nuri Mukhatov, the oldest, looked like Onassis (Anthony Quinn) in The Greek Tycoon – but without his wealth. He came from Turkmenistan. The third person who hardly spoke was an Estonian composer – Jan Raats. In 1984, blue jeans – an American symbol – were disapproved by the USSR authorities. The three gentlemen wore formal trousers and full-sleeve shirts. Age and enthusiasm had dictated Nurilla to be the natural leader of the group.

“Please tell ICCR not to call us a Russian delegation.” Nurilla said. “None of us is Russian.” Calling Soviets from the other republics Russians was as great an offence as calling a man from Scotland an Englishman. 

***

One of the planned visits was to the Sangeet Mahabharati conservatory. It was founded by Nikhil Ghosh, a Bengali musician with a long beard. His family welcomed us. His sons Nayan and Dhruv Ghosh, already well-known instrumentalists, were ready with their tabla and sitar tuned.

“Please tell our guests I don’t see them carrying any instruments.” Said the patriarch Ghosh.

“We are composers, not players.” Clarified Nurilla.

“Please tell them… in our country composers normally play on some instruments, at least the harmonium.”

“Yes, we play a bit… but we can’t carry grand pianos with us on our travel.” I translated what Nurilla said and everyone laughed.

Nikhil Ghosh then began a discourse on Indian music and instruments.

In India, we’re not accustomed to working with interpreters. He started each sentence with “please tell them…” which quite annoyed me. I was going to tell them everything that was said. Professional interpreters use first person when translating. For example, when Nikhil Ghosh said “these are my two sons.” I said in Russian “these are my two sons” rather than “these are his two sons.” The job of an interpreter is to replicate what’s being said in the right tone and emotions. One school considers that if the speaker is crying while speaking, the interpreter should cry as well. I’ll discuss this in detail in one of the future diaries.

To return to the Sangeet Mahabharati, Nikhil Ghosh continued to talk about Indian classical music and instruments. After I translated, he would once again explain the same thing. As a faithful interpreter, I continued to translate whatever he said, but eventually I grew tired of the repetition.

“Excuse me, but I’ve already translated what raga is.” I said.

“I know. But these are difficult concepts to understand for you. Unless you understand well what I’m saying, you won’t be able to translate for them. I want…”

“Sorry, but…” I interrupted. “… I was born in a musician’s family. My father, Shankar Abhyankar is a sitarist, vocalist and composer.”

“Oh,” his eyes glistened, “you are Shankar’s son! You should have said that in the beginning. Then of course you know all this very well.”

The talk moved smoothly after that.

***

The three composers stayed at hotel Ritz, Church Gate. One afternoon, after lunch, I said to Nurilla we could visit a bank as he had wished. Nurilla immediately changed the subject. Later, he took me aside and said,

“I don’t want those two to know about it. I’m carrying some money – of my own. I would like to change it into Rupees so I could do a bit of shopping.”

While the Turkmen and the Estonian enjoyed a siesta, Nurilla and I went hunting for a place that would change Soviet roubles into rupees. Everywhere, at the banks and Thomas Cook, they looked with wonder at the notes Nurilla was carrying and said they couldn’t convert those. In those days, black-market moneychangers operated across Khadi Bhavan. For each US Dollar, they normally offered two rupees more than the official rate. The man would take you to the staircase of a nearby building. The operation would be effected on the stairs. If the amount involved was big, he first made you wait until his accomplice brought the required sum from an unknown ‘head office’.

Looking left and right for any signs of police, I talked to one such street moneychanger. He was from Kerala. Nurilla, he and I went to the staircase and he inspected the notes. On his pocket calculator, he rapidly pressed some keys.

“Nobody deals with Russian money.” He said. “I’ll offer two rupees for each rouble. You have… two thousand? Ok, you get four thousand rupees.”

“Listen Nurilla, this is daylight robbery. Officially, you should get something like 25 rupees for each rouble, he is offering just two.”

“But I’ve many roubles in Tashkent. I need Rupees here. I would like to buy something for my children, my wife. The exchange rate doesn’t matter.” The moneychanger looked at us blankly, unable to understand a word.

I took Nurilla away from the black market. The following morning, I went to his hotel room and opened my wallet.

“I’m not rich. But from my savings, I can offer you this.” I took out 2000 rupees. “You can buy things for your family.”

“No, why are you giving your own money? I can’t take it. Or you can take the roubles I am carrying.”

“What am I going to do with Roubles here?”

We talked in circles. Finally, it was agreed Nurilla would take the rupees. I wouldn’t take any roubles from him – they were useless anyway. (Also it was illegal to take roubles out of the USSR or bring them in). When I went to the USSR, he could pay me back in roubles. At that time, I thought it was unlikely I would ever go to the USSR.

In this manner, my first assignment as an interpreter resulted in a net monetary loss for me.

***

Despite the financials, I enjoyed working with the Soviet composers. At the airport, we exchanged postal addresses.

“It was good fun, thank you.” I said. “I’ll be honest with you. Nurilla and Nuri are female names in this part of the world. That was the reason, you know, why I was looking for a… different composition… when you arrived.”

The three composers exchanged glances. Nurilla burst out laughing.

“Now that you say this… we were told our interpreter was some ‘Ravindra’. As you know, in Russia, every name ending in –a is a female name. We expected a beautiful Indian girl to work with us, and not someone in a goatee beard.”

***

Nurilla remained in my debt only for two years.

In 1986, I landed in Moscow as a student. House of Friendship, my sponsor, was willing to organise subsidised trips for us. Even with subsidies, travelling to Uzbekistan was expensive. A three-hour flight from Moscow to Tashkent, another couple of flights to Samarkand and Bukhara and staying at hotels everywhere. It was beyond what I could afford.

In those days, people still wrote letters. I had exchanged a few with Nurilla. I now queued at the post office to call him. After exchanging pleasantries, I came to the point.

“I can come to Tashkent, but I’ve no money.”

“Ravi, I’ll pay for your trip. I owe you money.”

“I’ve calculated. I need more than what you owe me. I propose barter. I’ve certain things you don’t get in the USSR. I’ll give them to you.”

“That’s not necessary. You just take as much money as you need.”

“No Nurilla, I would prefer it this way.”

I then temporarily borrowed from my Austrian roommate for the Uzbekistan trip. On my first evening in Tashkent, (after seeking permission from the accompanying KGB escorts) I took my university-mates for dinner at Nurilla’s house. When we left, Seth, my American friend remarked: “It’s some kind of magic. Ravi, I thought you were carrying a blue suitcase when we reached the house. Now I see your hands are empty.” I simply blinked my eyes and smiled mysteriously.

I had thrust into Nurilla’s hands the suitcase, an alarm clock, an umbrella – all from Singapore, and an Indian shawl. I took Roubles from him. The account opened in 1984 was now settled.

In later years, both Nurilla and I would look back at this whole business with amusement.

***

From the beginning of 1990, I lived in Moscow and could afford to make phone calls to Tashkent. As a consultant to the Menon group of companies, I was responsible for their USSR (and later ex-USSR) operations and was “obliged” to visit every republic to explore business opportunities. The first republic I flew to was Uzbekistan. Nurilla was at the Tashkent airport to welcome me.

I can now live in a hotel, I said.

No, in Tashkent you can’t live in a hotel, said Nurilla.

Nurilla owned a four-bedroom apartment on Navoi Street. Independent sources confirmed it was the biggest house in Tashkent.

“My great-grandfather, Abdullah, owned the whole of Tashkent. In the 19^th century, Russian troops attacked us and captured the city. Now I am left with this – a four bedroom apartment.”

I don’t know whether this was the reason why Nurilla was never particularly fond of Russians.

“In private, I can hate them. But in public I must take a party line. Had I not joined the communist party, they wouldn’t have allowed me to compose for ballets or operas. My symphonies would never have got published. Why, I couldn’t have travelled to India. All three of us who came to India were party members. Party members first, composers later. You know in this country, we have to create literature in the socialist spirit, write music in the socialist spirit.”

Nurilla also held strong views (expressed mildly) about his own culture disappearing. He and his wife talked in Uzbek, but his children in Russian. Zakirov was not the family name of his ancestor who lost Tashkent to Russians. The imperialists had managed to Russify all Muslim names by adding ‘-ov’ to them.

“You see this?” Nurilla once took me to see a Tashkent mosque. “Only the oldest. Those near their death. No young people ever come here. The Soviets have made us into an atheist nation. It’s my dream to visit Haj. Every Muslim is supposed to go there once in life. I don’t think with my party ticket I’ll be able to do it – ever.”

Our meetings became more frequent as I joined British American Tobacco. I was part of BAT’s acquisition team for Tashkent and Samarkand. I went to Tashkent every couple of months. On some evenings, I went to Nurilla’s house – ate Uzbeki plov made by his wife, played chess with his son Iskander, ate juicy Uzbeki cherries endlessly while listening to Nurilla’s latest compositions. With Nurilla on the side, entrance to Tashkent theatres and ballets was free for me.

Life began to change faster than he had expected. In 1991, Uzbekistan had become a free country – no longer ruled from Moscow. Nurilla’s joy was short-lived. Islam Karimov’s rule made him feel that the Soviets were better. The bomb blasts and other activities by Uzbekistan’s Islamic movement made him feel that atheism was better. He became disillusioned and sought to move away in search of a better life for his children. If earlier, he was forced to compose in socialist spirit; now he became spiritless and his music output stopped.

In 1999, I was transferred to Poland. I decided to call Nurilla only in 2001, when one of my colleagues was posted to Tashkent. I tried the phone several times. It didn’t work. Country and city codes change so often in the modern world; it didn’t surprise me at all. I gave my colleague Nurilla’s address, told him about the biggest apartment in Tashkent. Since he would be based in Tashkent for the next four years, he must meet this friend of mine. I sent a small polish souvenir for Nurilla. 

Only a month later, my colleague e-mailed to say the Zakirov family had migrated to the USA. No, he didn’t leave behind any address or phone.

Finally, Nurilla had succeeded in fleeing – not from the Russians, but from the Uzbeks. I didn’t know how or where to look for him. For me, Nurilla was associated with Tashkent. I wouldn’t like to visit Tashkent again, I thought.

***

In 2005, in one of my diaries I wrote an Uzbeki story (Open diary 42, 2005). I remembered Nurilla and thought I would Google him. Try to find his whereabouts in the USA and call him. I was surprised to find an entry on him in Wikipedia. The entry was fairly accurate and said ‘in 2000, he moved to the USA for political and professional reasons.’

Only after reading the entry, I saw its heading.

“Nurilla Zakirov (1942, Tashkent, Uzbekistan – 2003, Atlanta, USA)”.

I had to read it a couple of times before I understood its meaning. I wish I hadn’t searched the web for his name. For once, I was annoyed with Wikipedia for supplying me with information I hadn’t asked for.                                                                                   

Ravi