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By Root 11888 0

somehow mechanical, the hum of an engine or dynamo, she swallows it easily enough, saying judiciously, “Well, if he was such an energetic man, it’s no surprise to me.” She’s all ears again; so I warm to my theme and report that Mian Abdullah’s hum rose and fell in direct relationship to his work rate. It was a hum that could fall low enough to give you toothache, and when it rose to its highest, most feverish pitch, it had the ability of inducing erections in anyone within its vicinity. (“Arré baap,” Padma laughs, “no wonder he was so popular with the men!”) Nadir Khan, as his secretary, was attacked constantly by his master’s vibratory quirk, and his ears jaw penis were forever behaving according to the dictates of the Hummingbird. Why, then, did Nadir stay, despite erections which embarrassed him in the company of strangers, despite aching molars and a work schedule which often occupied twenty-two hours in every twenty-four? Not—I believe—because he saw it as his poetic duty to get close to the center of events and transmute them into literature. Nor because he wanted fame for himself. No: but Nadir had one thing in common with my grandfather, and it was enough. He, too, suffered from the optimism disease.

Like Aadam Aziz, like the Rani of Cooch Naheen, Nadir Khan loathed the Muslim League. (“That bunch of toadies!” the Rani cried in her silvery voice, swooping around the octaves like a skier. “Landowners with vested interests to protect! What do they have to do with Muslims? They go like toads to the British and form governments for them, now that the Congress refuses to do it!” It was the year of the “Quit India” resolution. “And what’s more,” the Rani said with finality, “they are mad. Otherwise why would they want to partition India?”)

Mian Abdullah, the Hummingbird, had created the Free Islam Convocation almost single-handedly. He invited the leaders of the dozens of Muslim splinter groups to form a loosely federated alternative to the dogmatism and vested interests of the Leaguers. It had been a great conjuring trick, because they had all come. That was the first Convocation, in Lahore; Agra would see the second. The marquees would be filled with members of agrarian movements, urban laborers’ syndicates, religious divines and regional groupings. It would see confirmed what the first assembly had intimated: that the League, with its demand for a partitioned India, spoke on nobody’s behalf but its own. “They have turned their backs on us,” said the Convocation’s posters, “and now they claim we’re standing behind them!” Mian Abdullah opposed the partition.

In the throes of the optimism epidemic, the Hummingbird’s patron, the Rani of Cooch Naheen, never mentioned the clouds on the horizon. She never pointed out that Agra was a Muslim League stronghold, saying only, “Aadam my boy, if the Hummingbird wants to hold Convocation here, I’m not about to suggest he goes to Allahabad.” She was bearing the entire expense of the event without complaint or interference; not, let it be said, without making enemies in the town. The Rani did not live like other Indian princes. Instead of teetar-hunts, she endowed scholarships. Instead of hotel scandals, she had politics. And so the rumors began. “These scholars of hers, man, everyone knows they have to perform extra-curricular duties. They go to her bedroom in the dark, and she never lets them see her blotchy face, but bewitches them into bed with her voice of a singing witch!” Aadam Aziz had never believed in witches. He enjoyed her brilliant circle of friends who were as much at home in Persian as they were in German. But Naseem Aziz, who half-believed the stories about the Rani, never accompanied him to the princess’s house. “If God meant people to speak many tongues,” she argued, “why did he put only one in our heads?”

And so it was that none of the Hummingbird’s optimists were prepared for what happened. They played hit-the-spittoon, and ignored the cracks in the earth.

Sometimes legends make reality, and become more useful than the facts. According to legend, then—according