Earlier I would write stories. But now that every day, every moment, everywhere, something more horrendous than the most horrendous story I can imagine is occurring, why should I waste time in concocting stories? But writing is a habit – and unless I write, I cannot be. I thought instead of writing stories, let me recite what we call ‘wakyaa’ in Urdu. It may be translated as ‘an incident’ but that really does not fully capture its meaning.
Waakya may be taken as an interesting, entertaining and dramatic way of relating a true incident. If I were to relate the bare incidents, you might not enjoy them and quite possibly stop reading further, taking me for a fool. It is also possible that you will do the same after reading the wakyaa as well. But I do hope that you will hear out this waakya. This is a true waakya. However, the truth is something that has a way of coming out.
My saying so will not make the truth a lie, or a lie, the truth.
§
But there’s something…
Something that’s refusing to budge.
Never has anyone witnessed before so extensive an expansion of the capital city. Founders of the past seven capital cities watch on in utter amazement. All erstwhile boundaries of the city have been breached by the current capital. So humongous is the area over which the capital now extends, that 14 past cities could fit in easily.
Quite possibly, one day, the capital might spread so much as to subsume the entire country. Nothing except the capital will be left then. That, and the King. At that point, progress will touch zenith, and exemplary peace and prosperity will reign among the citizens.
Meanwhile, the capital is expanding.
The capital has taken into its fold villages. Or it could be that the villages have lured the capital. We might also say that the capital now exists in the villages; or that the villages have arrived in the capital. Or that a man is but a man. Or that a man is but an animal. Whatever it might be, the capital continues to extend.
The boundary-breaching capital is gobbling up areas where earlier food was grown. Flats grow there now. Iron, the sole symbol of development as well as destruction, can be seen all over. All things iron, from girders to handcuffs, are freely available. Heavens of flats bounded by a lattice of roads. So many, that their purpose is beyond comprehension. It seems, they’ve been built not for smoothing movement but to lubricate something else. Parks have been built, that look as if they’ve been imported from some other heaven. Trees that have all turned into date-palms. Lots of fountains have been put. Children’s schools have been opened. There are hospitals, offices.
But there’s something that is refusing to budge.
In the area where this magnificent extension of the capital is occurring, stands a wall. A strange, misshapen, fearsome, ugly, solid wall. Upright, it stands, the way a government order stands erect among good citizens. Not just me, but everyone who lives here goes past this discoloured, absurd wall every day. But the citizens of the capital are either habituated to or have been made to fall in the habit of minding their own business; and no one ever thinks or says a thing about this wall. I find it weird that nothing should be thought or spoken about a thing so inappropriate. Hence the wall always troubles me. But what can I do? I cannot break the wall or lessen its fearful aspect. Nor can I be a part of it.
I asked a couple of neighbours about the wall. They said, ‘What’s it to you? Whatever it might be, let it be. Is it taking away any of your profit or causing you any loss?’
So amazed was I by this response that I started thinking. If what one could lose or obtain was to limit one’s thought process, Sir Issac Newton would have never thought about the apple that fell on his head. Because, it would not have given him any profit or caused him any loss. Doubtlessly the apple didn’t injure him. Nor did it remain stuck to his head. It is also not possible that he could have got millions by selling that apple. My friend, the apple is an apple, and the head is a head. What transactional relationship can exist between the two?
One day I went to the office of the Metropolitan Development (Destruction) Authority. Thousands were engaged in destruction (development) works and thousands were there to get themselves developed (destroyed). Seeing things on such a scale, it occurred to me that one could hardly say where the capital might reach next.
I had gone there to ask about the wall, but it was not clear where this information would be available. There were windows for getting allotments, filling up of various forms, depositing various fees, list of officers, and so on. But I had to stand at the ‘May I help you’ counter where no one else was queued up to inquire about the wall. People started smiling when they saw me standing there. I could not understand what was so terrible about standing at the ‘help’ counter.
‘What’s it? What work do you have?’ a slick, oily looking man came and asked me.
When I told him why I had come, he shied away as if I had some contagious disease.
The story up straight is that I finally reached up to the room of some high placed officer of the development authority and tried to find out something about the wall. At once he told me, ‘Don’t try going near that wall… in fact, stop looking in that direction.’
‘Why?’
‘For your own good.’
‘But what is it about?’
‘The file for that wall has moved.’
‘Has moved? Do files actually move?’ I asked.
He glared at me. His eyes held anger, not pity. In a raised voice he said, ‘What do you think? Files don’t just move, they run. Their speed can be dialled up or down. They take rest. Even die. Some files become immortal when they die. The file of that wall is somewhat like that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘But I do. That you will never understand,’ he said contemptuously.
‘Why do you say so? After all, I am an educated man,’ I said.
‘I am also educated. I know how education happens here,’ he laughed.
Seeing him laugh gave me some courage and I asked, ‘Please tell sir…what is this wall?’
‘Look…when the capital was expanding, the wall, let us put a Shri before it…the way East India Company was called Company Bahadur or the Honourable Company. So, we wrote to the ministry to break Shri Wall.’
‘To the ministry?’
‘Yes. The ministry sent the file to the home ministry. From there it went to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.’
‘Oh My Father!’ I exclaimed.
‘Keep listening. You will have many more occasions to remember your father. After examination by the foreign ministry, the file went to the defence ministry, where some or the other action was taken on it, and that took years. Some information had to be called from National Archives. A team of historians was constituted, sociologists too were a part of these meetings. After the file came with the defence ministry’s comments, the file was finally sent to the PMO, where the final decision was taken.’
‘And what was it?’
‘That the wall cannot be destroyed.’
‘Why?’
‘It was proved that this wall had been built before the 19th century. There is definite proof that Lord Lake’s soldiers had used it in 1803. Quite probably Nadir Shah’s troops too used it for target practice. This wall was of great importance for the British. Their troops loved it. Even after independence this wall had been put to use time and again. This wall is no less than a National Monument.’
‘But what for is this wall?’ I asked.
‘You still don’t get it?’
‘No.’
‘Yaar, you’re indeed a highly educated man,’ he laughed.
‘Please tell.’ I was feeling restless now.
‘This is wall of a shooting range.’
‘Shooting range? What do you mean?’
‘The place where soldiers, armies, officers do target practice.’
‘Oh ho!’
‘Now you can say Oh My Father,’ he laughs.
‘Even Oh my grandfather will be insufficient.’
‘After all what troubles you?’
‘It stands amidst dense population; everyone who passes by, must see the ugly, fearsome wall. School kids get scared. Women and girls cover their heads. The old and the incapacitated even avoid going past it. I recall, seeing some bullet marks too on it. Why can’t it be destroyed or taken down? Is it more sacred than even the temples and the mosques?’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said.
‘Why? Why must the wall continue to stand there?’
‘So that people keep seeing it.’
I looked at him in amazement. He began looking at a file.
I felt as if I was looking at a wall.
Something was refusing to budge.
Translated from the Hindi original by Varsha Tiwary, with permission from the author.
Asghar Wajahat is a Hindi scholar and writer.
Varsha Tiwary is a writer and translator based in Delhi.
