If your backroom partner asks you to polish his shoes, do it ….
Shoe polish? Me? Naah. I do not polish even my own shoes. I protested.
You may still never polish your shoes, came the unexpected reply. I am talking about your senior partner. If he asks you to do it, you’ve to do it. Period!
The period was over. I was crushed by the whole Himalayan range for the second time in four years. I wished the train somehow took a westward u-turn and go back to Bombay, rather than Calcutta via Aligarh. But silly dreams do not make great lives. It was too late. I became an aimless arrow shot in the dark. I would never return. My destiny was to keep moving on even though I thought perhaps doing B.Sc. with algebra was much easier than polishing shoes in Aligarh. Seething inside with red hot rage, I resolved that only crazy people lived in Aligarh and I was the craziest of them all for deciding to go to that shoe-biz city of the people who still believed in begaar in the twentieth century.
Could I run away from Aligarh too? Nah. The train took me to Aligarh, anyway. I hated to get down, but did not have a choice. I knew no one in any city along the route of that stupid train. There was no shoulder to fall back on. Who could help me in that condition when my own elder brother proved to be so ruthless. I was cursing myself to be the younger brother of an Aligarian who was already destroyed by that shameless city that no longer made sense to me.
Rickshaw-walla knew Aftab Hostel like it was his own home. Poor guy. He lived in Aligarh and was still pedaling a trike-rickshaw. Aligarh Muslim University was not established for him, or for his father, or for his grandfather. It was for people who could afford to purchase knowledge at a fairly good price. The rickshaw-walla put my trunk and holdall on his head and followed me to Irfanullah Khan’s room on the upper western wing.
Irfanullah Saheb greeted me with a broad smile. Welcome to Aligarh. He also said something about his good friend now in Delhi, which I did not care to listen, but I was a little relaxed by his behavior, at least by the thought that he was not going to be my senior partner to get his shoes polished. He called the room bearer to open Bhaimiyan’s room and told me to see the warden Saab who would be in his office on the ground level in about an hour.
On First Looking …
I took a bath. Dressed myself up in a white kurta-pajama and felt a little relaxed in the July heat. I thought about going window-shopping to the world famous Shamshad Market, but then dropped the idea. Muazzin was calling for the Maghrib prayer. I asked someone about the way to the Masjid. As I returned from the namaz, the bearer said the warden Saab was in his office. I went downstairs to see him.
Behind the glasses, his eyes were sharply focused like that of a cheetah’s. Dressed in a neatly pressed sherwani-topi, he gave me a serious look as I handed him Bhaimiyan’s letter.
You can stay in that room, but expedite your admission as your brother’s room has to be allotted to someone else. And ask your brother to remove his belongings from that room. You can go now.
So business-like!
For me it was unusual. In Bombay most of my friends were Alig and non-Alig seniors-in-life: Zoe Ansari, Allama Najib Ashraf Nadwi, Maulana Mehr Muhammad Khan Shihab Malrekotlawi, vice president of the Bombay Anjuman Taraqqi-e Urdu Madan Mohan Kalya, Rajindar Singh Bedi, Shakeel Badauni, Sardar Jafri, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Adil Rasheed. They would always entertain me with a cup of tea, and a few biscuits or a piece or two of sweets, in addition to long discussions about literature, politics, about pathetic condition of Indian Muslims, about the thankless situation prevailing in the country and the wild world out there.
That’s how they’d conduct ‘business’ in Bombay.
Again, I had no choice in Aligarh. The warden saab also had no choice. Other students, seniors included, were soon going to visit him. He couldn’t take chances. But that I realized much later. Benefit of doubt is usually offered long after one realizes the loss of certitude.
Queen’s Jewel
I returned to the room, changed to a pair of trousers and a manila shirt and went to see Shamshad Market.
It was another dream shattered in less than 24 hours. Except for a narrow paved strip, it was more than half dirt road, with the western flank sinking deep into an oblong ditch to give sudden rise to a row of shacks housing a couple of chai-khanas like Tea House and Cosy Corner, a dusty grocery shop with exposed jiggery inviting swarms of awaara houseflies, a kattha-choona-stained paan-cigarette hut, a thalla of sabzi-tarkari. A little distance from this hub of the market was Banwari’s photo studio and Singhal’s bookshop. At the other end of the row of shacks was a clutter-shop where you could buy claptrap from electrical gadgets like bulbs, plugs and sockets, gas and coil-stoves, wire-lengths, nails, rattraps, rat poison and yes, shoe-polish.
Shoe-polish!
Unease returned instantaneously. I turned away to the other side of the road. So it’s that building. Whitewashed several years ago. That was the queen’s jewel of a culture! That side of the road was lined with bookshops and stationary stores – Educational, Friends, etc. It was certainly not the agora where pacing up and down Plato would lecture his disciples. You could still find some Aristotles strolling there, but Plato was conspicuous by his absence.
A little distance south from Friends’ was yet another chai-khana – Café Madras. I went into a draped-in open area, which North Americans might still accept as patio of a restaurant, albeit with a pinch of salt. The dirt part of the road was cozily ‘privatized’ by planting bamboo poles in the ground on which were drawn white cloth-lengths to give a false sense of seclusion to the tea-sipping scholars. The long-cloth drapes appeared to have been thoroughly soiled over many years of mindless use. I gulped down my evening Green Label tea from a Khurja cup that seemed to have been borrowed out of Maulvi Samiullah’s belongings. I purchased a packet of Panama cigarettes, a box of matches, and returned to Aftab Hostel. The evening meal was already served at the room. Irfanullah Saheb had got a guest ticket issued for me. While I was contemplating to enjoy my first academic dinner in Aligarh in complete solitude, Irfanullah Saheb appeared at the door.
So you’ve met the warden Saab. He said, again smiling broadly. Smile was permanently stuck on the face of that Rampuri Pathan who, I came to know later, was secretary of the Students Federation, SF in short, a Communist Party outfit working among university students.
Yes. I said timidly.
And you went there in kurta-pajama? Didn’t you?
I gave him a quizzical look.
In Aligarh you don’t move about publicly in kurta-pajama.
Why not? In Bombay all intellectuals would often dress up in kurta-pajama and move about as freely as birds and beasts, even reciting long poems at all-India Mushairas. It never occurred to them it was uncultured, uncivilized, ungentlemanly. Oh yes. It was ungentlemanly – certainly as much in Aligarh as it was in Oxford. To me it was rabid colonialism, a war against our kurta-pajama tehzeeb. I wanted to shout Inqilab Zindabad from the depths of my lungs, but diplomacy demanded restraint.
After all, none other than the warden Saab had declared the proxy war. In that era of bipolar world, proxy wars were fashionable all over the world. Now you’ve to fight your own wars.
Meeting the Chengiz
It was the 15th of July. The university reopened officially. For a few hours it had become a microcosm, bonsai-ed in the tiny Stratchy Hall, which rose majestically – conically is more appropriate term – in the middle of Sir Syed Hall. The scene inside was much like a UP Roadways bus station, sans peanut sellers. There were only five halls of residence then: SS, VM, Aftab, Sulaiman aka Engineering and Abdullah. The first four had their provost offices moved to Stratchy Hall. Also bursar’s office, registrar’s office, offices of all the deans of less than half a dozen faculties, were all cramped in the tiny hall that was used in better times for Sir Syed Day function, final examinations and as polling station for the Students Union elections. Girls were never so fortunate as to have Abdullah Hall’s provost office moved to the Stratchy. After all, civilized societies often need second-class citizens as well.
Irfanullah Saheb guided me to admission formalities. He also introduced me to a few seniors who, I suspected, would ask me to polish their shoes once my admission was finalized. They were very patient people, indeed. They were biding their time.
Irfanullah Saheb had disappeared as I was in the process of becoming a member of a large shoe-biz fraternity of international character. One day, I thought, I’d also be able to ask my juniors to polish my shoes. That’s how life moves forward, civilizations mature, legacies pass on to upcoming generations. That thought raised my spirits for the first time since I had arrived in Aligarh. That idea gave me a bit of bestial pleasure. One day soon! And I twirled my shaved moustache.
Irfanullah Saheb reappeared as I was done with the Stratchy Hall odd-jobs of the day.
Let’s go. Nasim Saheb and Sadiq must be back now, he announced. We came out of Stratchy Hall, and through the side passage from where the ghantay-walla would beat the brass gong a couple of times to announce the end of a period, we entered the SM Quadrangle behind the Stratchy row of buildings that had divided SS Hall into two halves. Passing by the Urdu and Persian Departments on our right, we came toward the last rooms of SM East, and several steps later Irfanullah Saheb stopped and said salam-alaikum to a man wearing cream-color summer sherwani: with his head bowed he was intently gazing at his brightly shining black shoes. As that guy responded with another salam-alaikum, Irfanullah Saheb handed him the third envelope from Bhaimiyan. He was to be my backroom partner.
He gave a devil-may-care glance to the letter, and then looked at me with total unconcern. No smile. Under the searing sun, he narrowed his eyes a couple of times to create a few imaginary folds on his otherwise young forehead. He was not a Mongoloid, yet he appeared to be a disciple of Chengiz Khan. Looking at him, I realized why Bhaimiyan had told me to prepare for shoe-biz in Aligarh. This man will surely get his shoes polished by me. I discovered that with every other sentence he would look down at his shoes. Hmm. Why did he develop this habit if ….
For the first time since Bhaimiyan’s shoe-shell blast, the rebel in me rose his head. We’ll see! I had to accept the challenge. Don’t blame me later.
Then we moved to see Nasim Qureshi Saheb. Putting a fresh Malihabadi paan in his mouth, he pensively okayed the grand design.
On 16 July I moved to the Chengizi Yurt at 138 SM East. I was first in that four-seated front room. The Chengiz did not talk much as he moved hurriedly out to visit the Department of Islamic Studies where he was working for his doctoral research on Ataturk. He returned at around noon. And I saw a warm smile on his face.
Have you taken your lunch yet?
No.
Good. Let’s go.
Mongol Massacre
Quietly I changed into a civiligarian dress. At the long marble-top table in the dining hall that was situated at the southwestern corner of SS East, the Chengiz smashed his sword on the stone: Every day, you’ll come to the dining hall with me – for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Saath khana khanay se barkat hoti hai, hai na? Aur achchha bhi lagta hai. It’s a blessing, and one feels good too.
I couldn’t believe my ears. What type of Chengiz was he? Nonetheless, I was still wary of his motives. One day, two days, three days, a week, a month: no shoe-talk. I was being tortured by his delaying tactic. I could take it no longer and one day I broached the hated subject directly.
He let his lungs release a mighty roar. Abidullah played a trick on you, Tariq Saheb.
The Mongol massacred me.
And mind it. He never called me just Tariq – seven-years his junior in PUC. Always Tariq Saheb, Rizwan Saheb, Zakir Saheb – all three first-timers in Aligarh who happened to be the Ph.D. scholar’s front room partners. Zakir Saheb and Rizwan Saheb would always call him Sadiq Bhai, but for me he was Sadiq Saheb! It was a sort of parity – intellectual equality. My intellectuality had lately become an obsession, very much unlike in Bombay. But that was my only asset, my oxygen tank. I could not afford to lose it on an inhospitable planet.
Sadiq Saheb was very strict about our studies. Himself a voracious reader, a bookworm, he would read at least until 10:30 pm. We were supposed to be on our desks at around 8 pm on return from the dining hall. He might sometime read until late at night, but we had to retire to beds latest by 11. Early morning first period must never be missed. The night-study curfew would be relaxed on Wednesdays. In Aligarh you didn’t have many diversions except going for a movie, or a run to the ‘city’ which they’d call shahr, or loitering at the narrow strip called Aligarh railway junction, and every Wednesday listening to ‘the-most-sold’ 16 film songs of the week replayed 8-to-9 pm on Radio Ceylon’s Binaca Geetmala anchored by inimitable Amin Sayani. All chai-khanas on Shamshad and Tasvir Mahal would be packed to capacity on that day from 7 pm. Late-comers had to remain standing.
On other days of the week – Sunday no exception – we must read or rewrite class notes. At around 10:30 we’d hear Sadiq Saheb’s chair scratching the floor. That was the signal to close the books. Quite often he would emerge out of the backroom, to share a joke, discuss a morning newspaper report, or just inquire about our studies, our problems, difficulties in lessons, issues of adjustment to the new environment, even fees arrears. Sometimes we would gather in the backroom for more serious or more hilarious business.
Sadiq Saheb was certainly not the type of man who would ever ask his juniors to shine his shoes. On the contrary, I felt, he might do the job for any of his juniors, if need be. He told us about Dr. Zakir Husain’s surprise visits to rooms in SS Hall hostels, and on finding an untidy bed or scattered books on the desk; he would himself set them right.
A tirchha palang betrays a crooked character, scattered books point to a disorganized life, he would tell the sharminda-sharminda scholars, who in turn would obediently nod their heads as if reaffirming the vice-chancellor’s philosophy.
What Sadiq Saheb and other senior partners would do was actually polishing personalities of juniors into fine young men: civilized, cultured, compassionate, cooperative, and compliant.
Polish and Sheen
During almost two years that we lived with Sadiq Saheb, I found him angry only once.
One afternoon, he and I were as usual waiting at the room for Zakir Saheb and the late Rizwan Saheb. Just 15 minutes before the closing of the dining hall, he asked me to come along for a much-delayed lunch. On the way he was silent. We were passing through the SS East corridor when we ran into Zakir and Rizwan.
Where were you? Let’s go for the lunch, quick. A worried Sadiq Saheb invited the pair, thinking they were going to the room to accompany him back for the lunch. But the Tibbiya duo had already taken their lunch while returning from the college. I saw color of his face change. But he didn’t say anything and moved on, myself trailing him at a fast pace.
That night, after 10:30 he called both Zakir and Rizwan – and me – to the backroom. Then a firm voice pronounced an unwritten law from Hammurabi’s code, or the Chengizi yasa, to be precise: none of us was supposed to violate the sanctity of that law. Everyone must accompany the Chengiz to the battlefield. The expeditions were not confined to the dining hall.
Brother Bigheart
After toiling for 14 years K. Asif had finally succeeded in completing his magnum opus Mughal-e-Azam. The whole country was mad about the movie, and Aligarh was extra-excited about the dream team. Peshawar’s thespian Khan Saheb was playing Shehzada Saleem, with a Peshawar Khanum re-living Anarkali. In Aligarh the movie was booked for Nishat. At a 10:30 pm backroom session, Sadiq Saheb declared that he would show Mughal-e-Azam to all of us: first day, first show, matinée at 3 pm. That meant no student concession. Our bearer Abdul Jabbar was given the money for two-rupees-plus each ticket to do the advanced booking. That week Sadiq Saheb had received his UGC scholarship. He was rich enough for a memorable celebration.
Sadiq Saheb had a good palate, too. One Sunday he declared to feast us on a murghi, which we would cook ourselves. Abdul Jabbar brought the chicken and all of us led by Sadiq Saheb himself began cooking it. When we encountered some technical issues like the quantity of salt and red pepper, Abdul Jabbar advised us to call Siddiq, another bearer, for consultancy. Although we had cooked the murghi, we graciously gave its full credit to Siddiq. However, I solely claimed the tea-making credit, since I excelled in both tea-making and tea-drinking. That afternoon Nasim Qureshi Saheb, our warden, was chief guest at 138 SM East luncheon. And he offered me special compliment for the quality of tea.
Veering Winds
Clouds of change were already on the horizon, but we the lesser mortals had little awareness of it.
A few months later the Hall administration changed. Professor Hafizur Rahman of Law Faculty replaced Professor Muhammad Umaruddin of Philosophy as provost. And he brought Dr. Noor Nabi of Philosophy as the new resident warden to SM East. Nasim Qureshi Saheb was moving as warden in Sulaiman Hall. SM East seniors resolved to host a farewell dinner for Nasim Saheb. Sadiq Saheb returned from their meeting at Room 139 and told the late night backroom session that the seniors had resolved for me to write the Sipas-Nama – farewell address – which Sadiq Saheb, being the senior-most member of the SM East community, would read out at the dinner. I did the job. Nasim Saheb asked Sadiq Saheb about who wrote that piece. And on being informed, he said, who else!
We were yet to recover from the loss of Nasim Qureshi Saheb when Sadiq Saheb got confirmation of a scholarship from the Ankara University to complete his research in Turkey. Perhaps we had believed that everything would forever remain frozen that way – myself in PUC and Sadiq Saheb always living in 138 backroom ever-writing his thesis. However, epicenter of the second tremor of change was Sadiq Saheb’s personality.
He had never put on anything else but a sherwani over an Aligarh pajama and kurta. We told him to give up his sherwani tehzeeb and move into the western world in order not to draw the wrath of Ataturk and the ire of Turks. He was shy about total metamorphosis. Nonetheless we took him to the ‘shahr’ to buy suit-lengths and shirt-lengths and rest of the task was transferred to Shafaat tailor. He also got a new pair of custom-made shoes with hushy-cushy creep-sole. He left for his hometown, Manglaur in Saharanpur, to say goodbye to his mother and other relatives, and returned with some bright-colored ties purchased at Delhi’s Connaught Place. And then he was off to Turkey, leaving us with the taste of tears in the farewell tea that we were sipping from earthen kullharhs at Aligarh railway station.
Life was no longer what it was. Our new backroom partner had come from a different solar system. He didn’t seem to have the privilege of living with someone like Sadiq Saheb. He chided us – Zakir, Rizwan, the new addition, Feroz and myself – for waiting for him to go to the dining hall.
But Sadiq Saheb …
Forget Sadiq. I’m Ansar …
He’d never share with us a cup of tea at Café de Phoos. He would never talk to us about our problems. He would never share a joke with us. He was not bothered if the front room really existed in 134 SM East. Juniors. Second class citizens of a roomful of civilization in decline.
Sadiq Saheb had spoiled us. Our room was no longer bubbling with life. It was a dead place. A culture that had collapsed on itself. There were no visitors like Yazdani Saheb or Shaukat Ali Warsi Saheb. The room was no longer on top of warden Saab’s honor list. The warden Saab himself was not another Nasim Qureshi – no evening majlises where you would discuss the universe along an endless stream of tea.
Dilli ek bar phir ujad gayee thi.
Those couple of months before the 1962 final examinations were tormenting. When I returned as a final year student after vacations, I moved over to 134, myself a backroom partner now.
The change was painful, though. With juniors and not-so-juniors in the front room, the change had linked me back to my early days. And I went to re-live the first weeks in Aligarh.
Unreal Night
Shoe-biz was still on my mind when on the first night at SME I encountered Brown Saab. He passed by me when I was setting up my bed in the verandah corridor. Of brown complexion, that tall and lean guy betrayed a hint of a smile, but did not say a word. Must be a senior, I thought. Next morning I saw him again in the dining hall. Alone. In the first period I went to the History Department to check the timetable, which informed me that one Dr Irfan Habib would take PUC classes on world civilizations. I found Brown Saab joining me at the notice board checking PUC timetable entries.
Et tu, Partner? I almost yelled gleefully. He was my classmate. My first friend in Aligarh. Basharat Husain. From the city of Maulana Muhammad Ali Monghyri, even though a far cry from that doyen of Islamics. He was born with both silver and gold spoons in mouth. The previous night and next morning in the dining hall he was scared of me as much as I was terrified. That air would hang heavily about every stranger until the final introduction cleared the skies of junioric skepticism.
The final introduction was a non-issue for me. I was last but one bore to be ‘introducted’. Sadiq Saheb did not stay after the dinner. Qazi Jhanjhat, urf Qazi Muhiuddin of 136, was Mr. Hostel that night. With his scissors-clipped growth on the chin and upper lip, elephantine amble and a tongue honed at Jamia Millia Islamia school, he was the right choice for the top cast. None of us juniors was allowed to listen to questions that were being hurled and laughed at in the outer hall of the dining complex. And later no junior would divulge the secret about his own introduction. Shameful, wasn’t it, partner?
When it was my turn at around 4 am, a tired ‘introducting’ panel had already spent all their questions and energies. They asked me where did I come from.
Bombay.
Madhubala ko dekha hai? asked one lunie-moonie.
Nargis se milay ho? queried another dream baby.
Meena Kumari gori hai ya sanwli? inquired a starry-eyed third.
No. I didn’t meet anyone of them.
Film shooting tau dekhi hogi?
Na. Again.
You bore! You live in Bombay and never …
A certified junior of the year could not tell them that Bombay was much more than the make-believe dream-world of the tinsel town. It was the city of harsh realities rather than a film set painted in bold hues. But who’d care about harsh realities: about a young, sturdy cart-puller who’d haul one-ton load from one Bombay street to another and then buy two small half-rotten bananas for six paise and two morsels of bread also for six paise for his nutritious, multi-Vs lunch. In the next few years the muscular young man would fade into a coughing geriatric to live rest of his life with a thousand and one muscular ailments. That was Bombay too: The cart-puller wouldn’t draw Orwellian sympathy since the fast-aging creature didn’t come from Animal Farm, and he was not a farm animal to warrant adoration. He could die before his 40th birthday, together with Aligarh’s ricksha-walla. How small is this big world for small people!
I could talk about that Bombay. I could talk about Hilda Correa’s Bombay. I could talk about Suresh Patil’s Bombay. I could talk about Qari Iftikhar Ahmad’s Bombay. Partner, talk to me about Bombay’s Muslim-run Urdu schools, about the melancholy of Bhishti Mohalla and Khadday ki Baadi, and hubbub of Kalbadevi and Worli. And see how I paint the pains.
Source of Sarcasm
On the introduction night, I was soon dismissed from the makeshift dais and was commanded to sit in front of Zia Saheb. He was a thorough senior. I wish I could make friends with him. I never saw him again. When everyone was laughing deliriously, often on silly statements, he was not making fun of anyone, nor laughing, not even smiling. He was to educate you in Aligarh culture. Just like Professor Umaruddin and Colonel Zaidi did, advising us freshmen, respectively at the hall dinner for the newcomers and the union reception for the fresh members.
Zia Saheb was speaking in chaste Urdu.
Seniors ka ehtaram kijiye. Woh aap ke baday bhai… Aap Bambai se aaye hain. Yeh Aligarh hai. Ab aap Muslim University ke talib-e ilm hain. Yahan salam kiya jata hai, good morning, good evening nahin kaha jata…
Ahem, ahem, Sir Syed wanted us to be gora-fied, didn’t he? Now three hoots for that Oxfordized ambience hung over the grassless dusty uptown, and for the Oxon-ish snobbery given a native tinge by black sherwanis. Salam-alaikum, partner. No good morning! Ha ha ha.
I couldn’t tell Zia Saheb that our parents were still teaching their children that the first thing they must do in the morning was to say salam-alaikum to every senior at home. Zia Saheb’s lessons were perhaps more suited to the progeny of the kala-saabs that our universities had been churning out since Thomas Babington Macauley had attained political puberty. I met one of them outside Pakistan’s National Assembly building in Islamabad in 1987. He began talking to me in Arabic. Kaif-a haal-uka? He must be a very learned man. My journalist escort later told me that he would banish you from his dinner table if you were careless enough to clink the cutlery on crockery: Aligarh mayn parhay hain na! I didn’t invite the erstwhile nabob to the Aligarh dining hall of my days or even worse, the dhabas of today. I didn’t want to disillusion him.
So, I was out of the introduction night, missed the first NCC drill and also the NCC itself that morning. But that is another small story.
Puzzling Professors
The first class that I had to attend, according to the timetable, was in a lecture room behind the Iron Gate, toward the northeastern corner of Cricket Ground, on the back of Osmania Hostel. One Masudul Hasan Saheb was to teach us General English. Well, GE was substandard English, in name and style, pretentiously separated from the highbrow English Literature, that Brahmina of epistemological caste system. I could sense that I had seen the lecturer Saab somewhere. Where? I could not remember. He began taking attendance, announced my name and looked up momentarily as I responded with a ‘present, saar’ shout. There appeared a faint glow of recognition, but he called out the next name and soon began his lecture on Pickwick Papers.
It was early morning, thandi thandi breeze was blowing quietly. Chidyan were singing and flying around sar-sabz trees that dotted the grassland …
And suddenly I realized. Oh. He’s the warden Saab!
Yes. I had visited him in Aftab Hostel when I was still a cynic morphomenos from Bombay, now turned into a disciplined, half-snobbish quasi-laat saab, at least in matters of dress. Adieu, ye Bombay brat!
What puzzled me about Masud Saheb was that he knew as much Urdu as he knew English. Practically, he should have no business with Urdu for which Aligarh already had a full-fledged department headed by Aaley Ahmad Suroor Saheb for such people who wanted to know a little about Ghalib and a little more about Suroor Saheb. But unlike some other teachers at Aligarh – at least in those pre-modern days – Masud Saheb would try to teach as many languages and subjects at one and the same time as were mastered in olden days by the likes of Al-Jahiz, Al-Kindi, Ibn Qutayba, Al-Majriti and Ibn Rushd. Now, Masud Saheb belonged to that club. Sitting across the cricket pavilion, he wanted every one of us to be all rounders on the academic pitch. He first taught me the Aligarh culture-code to be followed when in the open. Then he taught us how Urdu chidyan sing in the Queen’s General English. If he were a professor in Oxford, I could imagine the Oxford alumni wearing black sherwanis, strolling on green lawns outside the Trinity College, chewing paans, talking To “A Skylark”, sometimes wondering about Ghalib ki tamanna ka second footprint, often softly humming Hasrat Mohani’s bare-foot summer serenade, while First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer.
Another puzzle of a teacher of Aligarh was Dr. Irfan Habib. I was not sure of his problem except the rumors that he was devoted to Marxism, as Pericles was to Athens. A worthy son of Professor Muhammad Habib, his real problem, however, was that he had read more than what was enough to know for a lecturer in a celebrated school silently suffering from the summer slumber in a slothful South Asian city.
Irfan Saheb was assigned to teach world civilizations to us total juniors in PUC. He began digging out civilizational mummies in the pharaonic Egypt and moved on to Greece across the Mediterranean at about the Numaish time – weeks away from the annual examination. We were nervous about the Roman civilization that was to make the proverbial triumvirate; but perhaps Irfan Saheb was of the view that those who had already studied Greece need not worry about its smudged carbon copy stolen by the Romans from mythological caves of the Olympus. So he skipped Rome.
Aligarithm of History
And how did he teach Greece? One day the historian entered the classroom bitten by mathematician’s bug. Prima facie it was a serious medical case. He should have talked to Dr. Mashooq Ali in what we prized then as the University Hospital. Instead, he had a dialogue with the celebrated Greek mathematician Pythagoras the previous night. On my part, advised by some seniors, I had gained adequate knowledge about the AMU exams system and had learned the art of preparing accurate guess papers. A serious study of previous years’ question papers carefully preserved in Lytton Library had suggested that in April 1960 we expected no more than a brief note on Pythagoras worth five-marks, if at all he could make an appearance in the question paper. But Irfan Saheb had a definite plan to spread the contagion. On the blackboard he drew up Pythagoras’ famous theorem and began solving it in real earnest, proving that ‘in a triangle with one angle 90 degrees the sum of the squares of the length of that two sides that form that 90 degrees will be equal to the square of the length of the hypotenuse side opposite of that 90 degrees angle’.
It was Greek to me. Earlier in 1957 Khatib Sir also had similarly drawn out and solved that theorem. I wouldn’t swallow it for the second time. I raised my hand.
Yes? Irfan Saheb asked me, perhaps thinking that this worthy disciple of his was now going to add more euclidic insight into pythagoria.
Nay. I protested.
If I were in favor of this side of Greek civilization, I might still be in Bombay sitting in a classroom for engineers. I never knew that Pythagoras would cast such a long dark shadow over history in Aligarh.
Irfan Saheb was visibly amused by my discomfiture. It was another cheetah taking pleasure at the prey’s pleas and prayers. I could see certain determination in his eagle-like eyes: we’ll turn you into a Pythagoras.
There was no one to save me from those knowledgeably alert but puzzling professors of the sleepy town. I could escape from algorithm, but Irfan Saheb was waiting for me with a diet of Aligarithm!
A Lesson in Dard
I don’t know why eagles like hot climes and snooze-inducing environment. But I knew that Masudul Hasan Saheb’s diamond-eyed Arabian eagles were not interested in dozing off and they could see every color concealed in innocent prisms. That eye which had probed my soul on the very first day in Aligarh, could manage during lectures a wide-angle of perception with such ease that the impish crowd could never cloud anything from him. His strategy was never to knock out an erring disciple without first issuing a few warning signals. A matchless orator, he would not discontinue his discourse while aiming at the imp. It was an elaborate process. He would first take off his cap, caress it softly as if it were a Persian cat, and place it neatly next to the attendance register; then he’d remove his eyeglasses, fold them thoughtfully and put them next to the topi. And then, as if an integral part of the day’s lecture on a Chesterton poem or a Hazelitt essay, he would fire a salvo at the student: hey, you! not exactly in that atrocious American English, though.
On a winter morning, Masud Saheb was teaching us about how chidyan would sing in the England of Charles Dickens, or how green pattiyan on elms would flutter about in Matthew Arnold’s backyard, when a classmate discovered that the grass was really greener outside the classroom. Some post-grad girls of English or Geography Department were basking in the soft sunlight of a chilly day. The partner sitting next to me placed his left ear-and-cheek on his folded arms spread across the desk, turned his face toward the door just a few meters from where stood the girls, busy chirping about something wormy-warmy. Suddenly I saw Masud Saheb beginning the topi-eyeglasses exercise. And then came the fateful moment: You, mister, stand up! His finger was pointing toward me. I stood up. Startled. Still continuing his lecture, he pointed at me and nodded towards my neighbor on the right. I tapped his head. He was startled, too. I won’t tell you his name – may Allah keep colors in his eyes and life.
What happened to you, mister? Masud Saheb asked my embarrassed neighbor.
Sir, sar mayn dard ho raha hai.
He could offer nothing better than that sir-sari answer. The girls’ nazara also did not inspire an apt response to their secret admirer. Poor junior.
The celebrated knight had seen more world than all the serfs in the fiefdom put together. He did not buy the page’s alibi. His remark suddenly tossed us into the heart of Aligarh – with a big bang.
Miyan sahebzaday, sar mayn dard tau uss waqt hoga jab shadi hogi, biwi do chapat subh aur do chapat sham ko sar par lagae gi. Yeh umr tau dil mayn dard honay ki hai!
Masud Saheb knew that dant-dapat too is effective if conveyed in apni zaban – in fact then it’s suitably translated into the terms of endearment.
Misled into Leadership
I am addicted to solving crossword puzzles. Perhaps that is a legacy of Aligarh where every professor had the ability to surprise you with something totally unexpected. Another puzzle was the professor who could have asked me to get out of his sight – forever – yet he embraced me. It happened in the Students Union’s lounge in February 1962. The problem man was a ‘ferocious proctor’ – Dr. Akhlaq-ur Rahman Kidwai.
The more I tried to run away from science, the greater was the gravitational pull of science-daans and not-so-science-daans to put me back in the cast of tradition of the ancients.
But this story had actually begun in the first year itself when I was mislead into delusions of leadership. I would often meet Askari Saheb near the door of the dining hall. An SS Easter, he was a senior student, and somehow became my ‘fan’, often inviting me to his room and asking me to recite my taza ghazal. Soft-spoken, an epitome of cultural refinement, he would always be the first to say salam-alaikum. One day he asked me why not run for the Union. It was early September and the Union elections were round the corner. Student leaders were filing nomination papers and one could feel the heat of sloganeering slowly rising among the students.
Your brother was there, why not you? Askari Saheb reminded me.
I didn’t think about it ...
Of course, not now. It’s too early for you. Maybe next year. But you should start taking part in the Union debates. They will make you known to the electorate.
Dormant political germs were activated.
Next year’s Union election was fateful. For the first time the university witnessed clear polarization on religious lines in the fall of 1961. That resulted in an equally agitated emphasis on Muslim-ness and Qazi Jamaluddin Ahmad who called himself “Kaji” from Assam came from behind to defeat favorite Wahid Ashraf and a Something (Iqbal) Singh to be president. Basir Ahmad Khan had no problem in roping-in the secretary’s chair. Tasawwur Ali Khan, with an aura of adibana matanat and faqihana sharafat, was elected vice president. And Muhammad Aslam, who had vowed never ever to utter a word in the cabinet meetings, was the erudite electorate’s choice for senior cabinet. Rest of the Union executive was unique to have three Tariqs – Tariq-ul Hasan, Tariq Saeed Khan Chattari and myself; and two Ghazis, Khurshidul Hasan Ghazi and myself again. The sum total of this analysis was that the four Tariqs and Ghazis were effectively playing senior cabinet in the executive room and the Union lounge.
Election results were announced past midnight. The next morning I caught Janata Express for Delhi to meet my father who was there on a visit from Bombay. I did not know that soon after the election results were announced the previous night some ‘outside miscreants’ armed with hockey sticks raided a free-standing hostel at the outskirts of the campus and attacked one of the senior election managers. That day passed off without further lawlessness, but the volcano erupted next day, sending ash and lava of ‘riots’ to many towns around western Uttar Pradesh. The university was shut down for 22 days. That had delayed installation of the new executive until mid-December.
Classroom at VC Lodge
The Union for me is a different, full-length story, but in short, the first major task for the Qazi Jamal executive after the installation was a students’ demand for restitution of the ten-day winter vacation canceled due to the extended closure in the wake of the September pogroms. Finally the union leadership gave a call for strike after several rounds of serious, sometime heated, but always civilized, mutually respectful, negotiations held at the VC Lodge with the ‘authorities’, that included VC Bashir Husain Zaidi Saheb, PVC Yusuf Husain Khan Saheb and Proctor Akhlaq-ur Rahman Kidwai Saheb, among others. In daytime, all of us would go to our routine classes like any normal student – for that’s what we were in Aligarh for – and switching over into student leaders in the evenings. Meetings with the ‘authorities’ were always held at night, following intense discussions with senior students in the union lounge, or stormy general body sessions, or grim-faced executive meetings. In the last meeting with the ‘authorities’ at the sprawling drawing room of the VC Lodge, among other things, ‘both camps’ had unanimously agreed that students opposed to strike would not be forced to abandon classes, and those who supported the boycott would not be penalized by departments, deans’ and proctor’s offices.
On the strike-day strike-monitoring group for the Science Faculty, that included Basir and Tariq-ul Hasan, now marhoom, and myself, would invariably find Proctor Saab rushing in his sea-green Landcruiser, donated – if I remember correctly – by the Ford Foundation. His intelligence-gathering was very strong as compared to the scouting of three ‘intelligent’ boys of a year in transition. Finally we planned a raid into Kidwai Saheb’s own territory: Chemistry Department. We succeeded in getting all students out of the department in the august presence of Kidwai Saheb himself. And we celebrated that as a great victory of the day – a major defeat for the ‘authorities’, and Kidwai Saheb personally.
Thus Spake Farabi
Two months later at the Union’s annual prize distribution, the cabinet assigned me to welcome and entertain the VIPs. I was sitting in the lounge when the Union tea-boy Mukhtar rushed in to announce arrival of the first VIP. Kidwai Saheb. He did not sit down, turned to review group photos of past student leaders that adorned the walls of the lounge, and began commenting about the persons in the pictures: this was my classmate, he was my room partner, and this, here, was a great mischief-maker
I was silent. Anxious. Restless. He felt my unease. You’re not talking?
Sir, I’m feeling guilty today.
Why?
I’m a student of arts, yet you’re my teacher too for being a professor in this university. On the strike day our behavior was questionable. In our zeal, several times we slighted you. Insulting a teacher is unpardonable. I admit my guilt, Sir.
He turned towards me.
Don’t be sorry. We had created that situation that ultimately led you students to declare the strike. Do you think it was such a big deal to grant students a week’s holidays? No.
But why did you want a strike? I was perplexed.
In this university we do not just teach, but also train new generations for different real life tasks. We wanted you students to organize a strike so that you were trained in that field, too. Who knows, tomorrow someone among you may become a labor leader, who is assigned the task to lead a shutdown. Now all of you know how to negotiate, argue your case, wrest concessions, and organize a peaceful and successful strike. We also wanted to test student leaders’ sense of responsibility in a highly tense situation in the wake of the recent riots…
Was our strike successful? The authorities had claimed that the strike had failed.
Your strike was extremely successful, for you came out of the test with flying colors.
Hurrah.
Kidwai Saheb caught me by shoulders.
When children rise to shoulders of their fathers and are able to talk to them respectfully but without blinking, that day fathers become proud of them. I’m proud of you!
He embraced me. And there I could feel the wafting cool breeze of paternal compassion.
Vision-ium Ore
Of what material those men of vision were made? Those erstwhile backroom partners who could ask you to shine their shoes, if they wished. They were not just teachers. They were father-figures for us the refugees, the fugitives, the loners, the misfits, the whiners, the runaway, the rebels, the homeless, the naughty, the needy – those displaced young men and women who had drifted to Aligarh in search of their moorings. And before they could throw anchors at ports of their choice, scores of Sindbads sitting at the helms in their ships would take these dreamers to wonderful voyages of seven seas of knowledge and visiting seven lands of real life.
There were different generations living in the same world at the same time without anyone feeling the generation gap. The generation gap was not yet imported from the United States. The elders taught us to talk to them without inhibition. They would listen to us with full attention, not mind our mischief, would quietly correct us, hone our character, and polish our rough persona, often making us aware that we were being molded into a proficient shape. It was not just morphing personalities, but giving direction to thinking and behavior as well.
Linguistic Absurdity
One teacher who did not appear to be a puzzle to me, was nonetheless a problem for the rest of the community – even until today when he’s no more. He was Maulana Hafeezullah.
In PUC our Diniyat class was the largest group to be addressed by a single lecturer at one time: often in the lecture theater of the Economics Department in the narrow passage leading up to Bab ul-Ilm that connected SS Hall with Morrison Court and out to the Union. Diniyat class would house students from three faculties: arts, science and the newly created commerce. In Aligarh they call it theology – literally meaning the knowledge of devs, or deos – that’s devtas. Idols in simple English. Deo or Dev is an Aryan word and it is found in every language of the Indo-European family. In Old Persian it’s daiva, Middle Persian Dew, and New Persian Diw, often pronounced in Urdu as Deo, written in Hindi as Dev. In Persian it means a supernatural entity with disagreeable characteristics. In Zoroaster’s cannon, daevas are ‘wrong gods’ or devil that has to be rejected. In all Indo-European languages the word signifies a tangible object of worship, as in Sanskrit where it is deva or deo. Indo-European deiuó initially held the same meaning as in Avestan language. English word dei-ty is an offshoot of this word. In Germanic it’s theo, from where we derive the word theo-logy, the study of pan-theo-n as well as poly-theo-n, which in simple Urdu means ‘dev-mala’.
In my view the word theology applies to study of such religions that seek a tangible physical form of the deity – deo, deva or theo – as an object of devotion, but it is an inappropriate term for the study of Islam, which does not accept plurality and tangibility of the focus of worship. Nonetheless, in Aligarh this word is considered to be a synonym for the Shariah. None of the Aligarh linguists ever gave a thought to this absurdity, perhaps because Diniyat has always been taken as a burden, which merits little serious attention – the sole ‘also-ran’ among the frontrunner sciences – natural and social. The compulsory Diniyat class for undergrads was, therefore, held only after the lunch time when no one was in the mood for any important study. That is why its class had the largest number of proxies during attendance-taking.
Epistemological Insight
The first Diniyat class that I attended was addressed by Maulana Hafeezullah, who had told everyone to attend the class only if they were serious about the subject, otherwise they could loll out the afternoons in their rooms: Don’t waste your time and my time, was his advice. He was Nazim-e Diniyat, a successor in that office to my own great-grandfather, Maulana Abdullah Ansari, the first Nazim-e Diniyat.
Maulana Hafeezullah’s first lecture was not about the Diniyat as a subject; nevertheless it had shaped my own outlook about every branch of knowledge, including Diniyat.
The Maulana began with a question: are your views, opinions acceptable in areas where your expertise is not established? Then he answered his question with a negative, offering several examples. Imagine, he said, I’m sitting in the company of some prominent professors. Someone raises an issue about animal digestive system. I offer my opinion and Dr Abdul Basir Khan cuts me short: Maulana, please keep quiet, this is my area of expertise and you’ve to listen to me on this issue. I agree and I’m silenced. Then someone begins talking about the Swiss constitution and I want to offer my view. But Professor Chaudhry Sultan interjects and tells me to listen to him as that’s his domain of knowledge. I agree and I’m silenced again. Then someone starts a discussion about plant diseases. I venture into giving my observations when Professor Abrar Mustafa Khan stops me.… Then someone raises the issue of looking for the crescent for Ramadan or Eid and everyone begins giving his opinion. Nobody gives me the same privilege they rightfully claimed earlier for themselves.
The moral: Every professor present at that hypothetical meeting was right, Maulana Hafeezullah said. Talk only on subjects where you’ve developed indubitable expertise, otherwise keep quiet. Islam is not the monopoly of a Hafeezullah, you can learn it, just like you study economics, or chemistry, and then give your expert opinion so that you don’t mislead anyone.
The Maulana could convince almost nobody about expertise in matters concerning Islam being the criterion for its spokesmen.
A Word for Academia
During my first year in Aligarh, Yazdani Saheb would often visit Sadiq Saheb. He was doing B Lib and was a polyglot, who gave me the first insight into some exotic languages. Visiting our room he would first come to me, not just because my desk and bed was near the entrance. I was nearer to him mentally. One day he asked me about my view of Aligarh. I was full of complaint.
Sab ke sath aisa hi hota hai. He said with a smile. You’ll like it one day.
No. It won’t happen with me.
He just smiled. The smile of a charmer. Inwardly he might be looking at a now-reconciled person who had come to Aligarh seven, eight years before me.
One evening he appeared and abruptly asked me to explain the difference between ‘search’ and ‘research’. I told him what I knew from the dictionary. No. He rejected my definitions.
When you write a book based on your reading of one book, its search. When you write a book based on your reading of two books, its research.
Three books?
Then you don’t write any book.
Was this a joke? Apparently yes, but not in reality. Yazdani Saheb was making a calculated comment on the existing state of the academia. In Lytton, then Maulana Azad Library, he had direct access to all types of searches and researches mass produced in the global academia. I could truly appreciate his comment decades later on a visit to Chapters bookstore in the Canadian capital. I was so embarrassed at not finding any book worth serious reading that I asked my son Mansour to at least buy a thesaurus to justify two hours that we had spent there in search of a good read. In my time in Aligarh, “Singhal” would have more valuable books stacked for students and professors. Today his bookstore, too, is full of guess-papers and “key” type rubbish. Ghazi Saab, today’s students no longer look for serious books, Singhal Saheb told me when I visited his store after a gap of 30 years in search of some books on history of philosophy. He was pleased that I was visiting him again.
Oh, you’ve recognized me?
Haan saab, kyun nahin. I remember you very well. You’d always come here in search of books, a beaming Singhal said.
O yes. I recalled. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. Anatole France’s Thaïs. Huxley’s Brave New World. Arnold’s Sohrab and Rustam. Hardy’s Far From The Madding Crowd. Lewis’s The Arabs in History. Rousseau’s Social Contract. Plato’s Republic . . .
Ironically, also in those days everyone in Aligarh faculties had read three books, for there were not many searchers and researchers, though it had some great men who could still write original thoughts without referring to a book. At least that was the experience of Iqtidar Husain Saheb, another senior friend of mine from Bombay who was picked from Asian Dehydrates by Colonel Zaidi to be the chief PRO. He quit in a year. That is another story.
Nonetheless, I got an opportunity to do ‘research’ in my last year in Aligarh; even though I never knew then that I wouldn’t return next year. After losing the election for Union secretary, I was trying to concentrate on studies. That year we had to write two long essays in every optional, elective for Americans. In Islamic history the second long essay was on Ataturk’s modernization aka westernization movement. Iqtidar Alam Khan Saheb was both lecturer and tutor for European history paper for our class of four – two Malaysians, Abdur Rahim and Wan Ismail, and Irshad Husain who hated English and Sir in Syed Ahmad’s name. I asked Iqtidar Saheb to give me a few books on Ataturk and Turkey and he lent me three tomes which I returned only after writing my last paper of history.
Critic and Critique
It was well past midnight. All my front-room partners were already snoring. I was busy writing my essay. In those pre-computer 1960s, we did not have access even to a typewriter. All essays were handwritten and we had learned not to make many corrections in the final copy. Every sentence had to be written after careful thought given to each phrase – an art not enjoyed by today’s computer-savvy youth. Discussing Ataturk’s vision of a new Turkey I came to the conclusion that although he had cast his post-Ottoman nation-state into a different mold, he had not achieved his objective: The change was superficial, only a false veneer given by a soldier to centuries-old social norms. I was about to write my conclusion when Sir Syed Ahmad Khan emerged from nowhere. Half a century before Ataturk, he too was pushing Muslims of South Asia on to a very similar path. What about him if Ataturk was a failure? Was he unsuccessful too? Could and should I write anything critical of him for being a student of the school he had established? Was it appropriate or improper, permissible or sinful? Or should I alter my conclusion about Ataturk merely to save Sir Syed’s grace?
That night I did not have any book on Sir Syed to consult, and the essay had to be submitted in the morning. For about an hour I just kept thinking, rethinking, analyzing, re-evaluating, weighing options, writing sentences and crossing them out mercilessly, and drawing doodles on blank pages of a register-sized notebook.
Finally I made up my mind: Sir Syed was a failure too – like Ataturk! I fortified my conclusions with logic, and prepared for expulsion from the university.
Two weeks later, marks for essays in every other subject were already posted on departmental notice boards, but there was no report from the History Department. Rumors were making rounds that there was a debate raging about who should top the honor list. Solomon, from Mozambique or Zambia, and Ehsanul Haq Fahmi – now a member of the Sir Syed Academy – were the other candidates from the general history paper. Both of them were outstanding students. In the third week we heard that a meeting of all the history tutors had failed to resolve the conflict: tutors of three contenders were adamant that their respective pupil should get the highest marks. Ultimately the dispute was referred to head of the department, Dr. Nurul Hasan. He personally read all the three essays, himself chaired a meeting of all the history tutors and finally accepted Iqtidar Saheb’s argument with the award of a quarter-mark edge.
Vindicated Views
After the marks for the Ataturk essay were put up on the notice board, a beaming Iqtidar Saheb found me outside the department.
Mujhay khushi hai ke aap likhtay hain; aur likhtay hi nahin, parhtay bhi hain; aur parhtay hi nahin, sochtay bhi hain!
I’m glad that you write; and not just write, but read too; and not just read, think as well!
Soch. Thinking. That recognition of an idiosyncratic pensif was the greatest honor for me – much more valuable than the piece of thick paper on which they print graduation degrees. The intellectual could finally stage a triumphal comeback. He wasn’t dead. I had concealed him in a different garb.
Iqtidar Saheb’s judgment vindicated my view about Sir Syed as much as about Ataturk. The issue was not and is not success or failure per se. Historian isn’t a tailor, measuring achievements with an inch-tape. Sir Syed did what he could in a given situation, in a given era. His response could be different if the situation was different characteristically. He might be right, or if one wishes to be charitable with him, unlike his contemporaries he had limitations and was aware of them. He could not go beyond what he had perceived. His was a failure of the accomplishments of an institution he founded, more than a failure of a personal vision. His college or movement could not prove to be the launch-pad of the Asian wave of an Industrial Revolution, just as Ataturk’s Ankara could not produce a home-grown science museum rivaling the one at Kensington in London. Forget Ataturk for a moment, but if Sir Syed had failed somewhere, wasn’t it for the later generations to play the ground control, correct the trajectory and guide the spaceship to the intended planet?
That was the lesson I drew from Iqtidar Saheb’s praise. Yes, praise always pleases. But effectively it is no more than a dew-drop on the thirsty sands of the Nefud; the praise serves no purpose if it doesn’t lead to draw a lesson or two.
Decades later in Jeddah, Saudi Kingdom of Arabia, a professor of economics was giving a talk on Muslim education to a South Asian audience. He could not escape a reference to the Aligarh Movement. From the audience I raised the question if our qibla was straight? Then a Daktar Saab, together with another Alig Saab, walked out in protest – yahan tau Sir Syed par tanqeed ho rahi hai!
A few days later I met him at a dinner where he said Sir Syed par tanqeed karna aasan hai, par koi unn ki tarah kaam kar ke bhi tau dikhaye – it’s easy to criticize Sir Syed, but is there anybody toiling like him?
True, Daktar Saab. But I also assured him that we had learned this art of self-criticism in Aligarh itself. He was not convinced.
No tanqeed. Period.
No surgery? Let the wound fester?
Somberly I told him that we honor Sir Syed, but we don’t worship him.
Then I felt as if the tall silhouette of Iqtidar Alam Khan Saheb emerged in the thin air, sporting an appreciative broad smile. And with him appeared all the lecturers and seniors with whom I had come in contact during my short stay of less than four years at that sleepy town, where north of Kathpula, the tiny flame of a small lamp is still flickering in an endless wait for the revival of the academia that had once produced galaxies of geniuses what appears to be many, many centuries ago, or at least for the likes of Davys and Faradays of a few decades ago.
Were they Sir Syed’s objective? Are they our role-models?
The lamp’s job is to light the path. It’s for the spoiled brats to mature into a Masud, an Irfan, an Iqtidar, a Kidwai, a Qureshi, a Sadiq, a Yazdani, an Askari, and a Zia – or quietly consign the naysayer intellectual to the vastness of an uncharted universe as an unknown, lost star … like me.
