Beyond the Prison of Mirrors

In April 1997, I went to Hyderabad, again to contribute towards the research study on urban poverty, which was now being initiated there. I took an afternoon flight to Hyderabad. The flight route was over the Bay of Bengal coast, which was one’s companion below for half the journey, the white line of the waves spilling out on the sand cutting across the window glass. Then the plane swings inland, westwards, and the eastern ghats come into sight. The coastline is still visible, though going further and further away from sight and becoming fainter, but nonetheless still discernable. Finally it reaches the edge of the horizon. Looking directly below one sees the high hills of the western edge of the ghats, well inland. I could see the highest point of the eastern ghats, and also the coastline, a sight one could not get even if one stood at the top of the highest peak below, for the sea was too far away. Wow! Was I thrilled! (Last year, on a morning flight from Calcutta to Delhi, in peak summer, in the distance, at the the northern horizon, the majestic Himalayas were one’s companion for a good part of the flight.)

Arriving at Hyderabad, I looked at the city below and very soon I could see the large Hussainsagar lake and my eyes searched to spot the Buddha statue in the middle of the lake, installed 5 years earlier (after having sunk to the bottom of the lake accidentally when it was taken for installation in 1988; while doing a short course on remote-sensing at the National Remote Sensing Agency in Hyderabad two years earlier, I had seen a satellite image of the formerly-sunken statue). I saw it, a white needle over the dark water! My eyes stayed with the statue as the plane descended, until a fraction of a second before touchdown, when its top flashed briefly over the city before going out of view.

I was really taken by that sight, of the gigantic Buddha statue over the lake bearing the name of the grandson of Prophet Mohammed, and spoke of this to friends during the trip. Returning to Calcutta after the visit to Hyderabad, I had with me a copy of the Dhammapada which I had found at the airport bookshop and begun reading avidly in the lounge. It was late evening when the plane reached Calcutta. I remembered my sight from the plane over Delhi six months earlier, and the reflection on stars and Mahatma Gandhi. I remembered the Great Calcutta Killing, of 16 August 1946, and wondered how my city below looked, on that night of arson.

On the taxi ride back home, I hurriedly scribbled some notes on the reverse of my boarding pass, to put down the rush of thoughts and reflections that came to mind.

But between the ascent over Delhi and the descent in Calcutta – much had happened, and all entirely unanticipated, turning me upside down, transforming my life. A veil had been pierced … the prison of mirrors had been shattered. India, freedom, independence, partition, Hindu-Muslim riots etc etc – I had become one with all this, this was now the stuff of my own life.

I rewrote what I had earlier written, adding a final line, and a title:

The Prison of Mirrors

Starlight, like remembrance, weaving constellations of tales
Floating in immensity.
The human experience, a great Milky Way.
Life and the universe, mind and material,
One mirroring the other,
In infinite rounds of resonance,
Awaiting the shattering of mere echo and image.

And I began another word-log, bringing together Delhi, Calcutta and Hyderabad. But that was only completed some months later, after I had visited Hyderabad a few more times in connection with the poverty study. And this was now a city that was dearly beloved to me. In August 1997, I attended and participated in the “Festival of the Subcontinent” in Hyderabad, organised by COVA, to commemorate the 50th anniversary of independence of Pakistan, India and Bangladesh. Of course, I saw the Hussainsagar lake and the Buddha statue several times every day, as well as the waterfront adorned with statues of Andhra Pradesh’s luminaries from various fields.

As I write this, my colleague Prodyut tells me that his cellphone was pick-pocketed a couple of days ago. I remembered being pick-pocketed during the Hyderabad Festival, Prodyut had also been there. But that did not mar my spirits, for I was truly flying high during that week in Hyderabad, I was not in this world, but in some other heaven. What a rich experience it was! I bought and heard some fantastic music albums. I even came across an important book on the Buddha in a pavement book-sale while walking along casually; reading that in turn triggered another rich wash of realisation. (My friend Achinto, the documentary photographer, was also there, and during a visit to the magnificent Golcunda fort, he photographed me as I stood over one of the high ramparts of the fort and told a tale to some school boys who were there, gesticulating with my hands and throwing my arms out over the outstretched landscape. He later said he wanted to capture me in this inspired-possessed state!)

I wrote:

Beyond the Mirror

Night.
Ascent.
Lights of the city.
Memories :
of funereal processions,
of once beloved saints,
and conflagrations, of riotous arson,
spreading hatred’s poison fire.
The stars, far away,
faint dots in the black sky.

Day.
Descent.
The needle of eternal knowledge,
poised on the still waters of the ocean of sacrifice
ringed by the pearls of devotion and service.
The light of the city dispells the noon of despair,
streets paved with jewels of wisdom,
beckoning the children,
to come,
and build tomorrow’s citadel of peace.

On 16 August 1997, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan passed away. Since I first heard his songs a couple of years earlier, I had been set on fire as it were by his voice, which sent me into a fevered inner quest. At Hyderabad, on the evening of 17 August 1997, the Pakistani singer Reshma performed at the Festival. Before the programme began, the organisers were playing some awesome songs of Nusrat, from private studio recordings. The large gathering of people stood in silence for two minutes in homage to the great master as the programme began. As Reshma sang, and I remembered Nusrat, I looked up at the star-lit sky. There was a big full moon smiling down. For me, that was the great water-melon of voice of the music of mystical Islam.

Returning to Calcutta, I completed my account of the Delhi-Calcutta-Hyderabad experience.

Beyond the Prison of Mirrors

Night.
Ascent.
Lights of the city.
Memories:
of funereal processions
of once beloved saints,
and conflagrations, of riotous arson,
spreading hatred's poison fire.
The stars, far away,
faint dots in the black sky.

Day.
Descent.
The needle of eternal knowledge
poised on the still waters of the ocean of sacrifice,
ringed by the pearls of devotion and service.
The light of the city dispells the noon of despair.
Streets, paved with jewels of wisdom,
beckoning the children,
to come,
and build tomorrow's citadel of peace.

From great killings partitioning the soul
to joint celebrations for union of hearts:
now is the city truly lit.
The light of the city
glows
with an infinitude of starlight...
a symphony of illumination.

(Calligraphy: The name of the Prophet Muhammad, in mirror images, by Subail Anwar, Istanbul.)