ALAUDDIN, affectionately known as Ala, was a great favourite of the town. Doting parents bent on making their offspring musical, would sometimes have to coax him into coaching their sons and daughters, of all ages, in the gentle vocal art, ranging from modern songs, through Rabindrasangit, to the classical music of the sub-continent.
Ala lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of the town, cared for by a boy-servant. His wants were few, his routine established. In the morning he would mount his ancient bicycle, and pedal away to a girl's school, there to spend an hour or so giving general music lessons to those pupils whose parents could not afford him as a private tutor. Then he would be given a snack and tea by the Principal, and off he would go to call at various homes, to make inquiries perhaps into the condition of a sick child, or to collect his monthly fee.
In the evenings he would once again venture forth to the houses of his pupils, having tutored the poorer ones at his own place during the afternoon, when the light was good, because he did not have an electric connection.
Ever since the civil war started, Ala had fallen on hard times. Most of the well-to-do families, who were Ala's patrons, had retreated to their village homes, there to vegetate until the military and political issues were resolved, one way or another. So poor Ala was literally at his wit's end, man though he was of infinite wit and jest. Yes, he was not only a musician and teacher, he was a versatile comedian of great talent.
As a young man, during the 30s, he had been a part-time actor in New Theaters, Calcutta, a film studio which had produced some of the classics of the Indian screen. He had always been chosen for comic roles, and had from the beginning shown considerable ability in that direction.
Now, although engagements were comparatively scarce, occasionally some of the army officers would decide to arrange an evening's mess entertainment, to relieve the tedium of their existence. Having heard how financially low poor Ala had become, through no fault of his own, the officers were very generous in the matter of remuneration for his performances. Thus life bore him along in its steady flow, and he allowed himself to be thus borne.
One day, on the 3rd of September to be precise, as Ala was slowly and elegantly pedaling along Station Road, shoulders bent, mouth working silently as he chewed his fourth pan* of the morning, a jeep overtook him and stopped. A sturdy youth at the wheel told him to climb into the empty frontseat, whilst another jumped out and lifted the bicycle into the covered rear of the vehicle, and they drove off. Much later that evening, they dropped Ala not far from his home.
Ala's servant served a frugal meal of curried vegetables, some fried mutton, and chappaties. He ate slowly, deep in thought. Later, when he lay upon his cot, he deliberated upon the events of the day, puffing at a cigarette. He had always looked upon politics with something of disgust. What were these dangerous social parasites really worth? Nothing. But how easily they could dupe the people, experts as they were in the art of lying, full of hollow promises, with betrayal uppermost in their minds! How they lured college-boys, and even school-children, into their nets, to exploit them for personal advantage during election campaigns, stuffing their heads with slogans, only to discard them later. How gullibly these boys fell into the trap of: "You will be the future leaders of the country!"
Ala's thoughts began to wander into the past. For a long time it had been good for him. At twenty-two he was playing the harmonium with a famous group which recorded background music for several film studios. Those were the days of the great stars. He traced the letters of their names with the glowing end of his cigarette against the impalpable darkness of the room: Kanan Devi, Saigol, Pahari Sanyal, Molina, Barua. They were all dead now, but not completely forgotten. Sometimes their hit films were revived in the cities. And maybe, in lonely minds like Ala's, their memories flickered briefly into life, like their early movies, sustaining a few supreme moments of glory, before fading.
Ala had reached that stage when life and death were equally meaningless. He was ticking over like a tired clock. He had never thought much about his approaching end, tired and destitute, to be found dead in his cot one morning by his servant, mourned for a brief while by his friends, missed for a little longer by his affectionate pupils. But that was not to be. The rebels had singled him out for a special role, the culmination of his career as a musician. He was to become an instrument... an instrument of sudden death!
* * * * *
The Brigadier had decided to throw a party on the 7th of September, at his residence, to felicitate the newly elected members of the National Assembly. He had accordingly ordered Captain Maqsood, popularly known as the 'culture boy' of his garrison, to organize some entertainment for the evening: songs, dances, and especially the comic sketches of Alauddin.
On the appointed evening, the Commander's residence looked gay and festive as though set for a marriage celebration! Many-coloured electric bulbs dangled from the boughs of trees. Small searchlights brightly lit up the garden. On the lawn, folding chairs and sofa sets were arranged in a semi-circle, in front of which a low dais was spread with rugs, for the dancers. Musicians were accommodated on a carpet in front, including Ala, sitting sedate and stiff at his harmonium. Trestle-tables had been set up, covered with snow-white table-cloths, offering many delectable varieties of refreshments and soft drinks for over 50 guests: officers, civil servants, and the 'elite' of the town. Captain Maqsood had thought of everything, right down to bouquets for the ladies.
When the performances, the eating and drinking, were all over, and farewells exchanged, the Commander and his officers had a private session of their own, with the musicians discreetly catered for in a private room. Relenting on this occasion, the Brigadier had ordered one whisky to be served to all the officers who wanted it, casting a questioning glance in the direction of Major Murshed, who hesitated to lift a glass from the proffered tray. The Brigadier caught his eye and made a gesture with his hand which said: Go ahead!
Presently the evening ended altogether. The musicians had long since departed, but Ala was later driven to his house in an army jeep.
* * * * *
Ala sighed wearily, and told his servant to prepare a strong cup of tea. Then he opened a small bottle of local liquor, which he drank sometimes to gain imaginary relief from his pain. He had refused the doctor's suggestion of opium. After some quick swallows, he sipped his hot tea patiently, until they came, an hour later.
A thin, sallow youth, by the name of Tippu, had taken over leadership of the rebels operating in the district, after the capture and imprisonment of Seraj. He was in no way inferior to the terror. His fame was quickly established, as he extorted money from the villages he plundered, killing with easy abandon. On the other hand, he planted mines, ambushed army patrols, and occasionally kidnapped women for his pleasure. Only a few of them ever returned to their homes. On one occasion he had abducted, raped, and later strangled, a daughter of AlaÕs cousin. Now the time had come to settle that score!
Tippu towered over the quiet Ala. "So you betrayed us! You stupid, useless vagabond comedian. And are you going to laugh! Why did you do it?Ó
Ala took a last sip of his tea and said: "They suspected something, almost as soon as I got there. You had been observed picking me up that morning in your jeep. Then they watched my house and the surrounding area and saw you drop me at night. They kept quiet about it all, because they wanted to know what I was up to, what plan I had in mind, what plan you had in mind! They took away the harmonium, and detained me the whole evening. Finally they had me dropped here. I am to report to the Brigadier tomorrow morning. They took pity on my old age. I was weak. I told them everything. I showed them the time-bomb. They know I cannot escape anywhere. Tomorrow I shall take whatever punishment they think I deserve."
"Yes. You are going to kill me. But grant me a favour. Let me send my servant to fetch some pans. From Manik's shop. It won't take too long. And until he returns, I would like to sing. For the last time."
Tippu was a little moved. Even killers can be fond of music, and Tippu was. Moreover, his eldest sister had been Ala's pupil - a long time ago. His comrades wanted to get the matter over with and depart. But Tippu knew that there were enough of his boys stationed at several strategic points to give ample warning of any army movements in his direction."
"Go on them, sing. Sing, sing, sing!"
Ala opened a cupboard and brought out an old, battered harmonium. He squatted on a straw mat, and cleared his throat. Carefully his fingers moved over the worn keys.
He sang of spring, and butterflies hovering over freshly opened buds. Of rice fields and the graceful white slow-flapping paddy birds. He sang of the beautiful maidens filling their pitchers at the river bank. Of youths chasing them, and smearing their sarees and faces with vivid colours during the festival of Holi**. Gradually, his voice trailed off into silence.
He fixed hid eyes on Tippu. "Tippu, my son, I have seen many revolutionaries in my time, in the old British days. Swaraj! They too fought their kind of war of liberation. Many of those I knew, some of them very promising artists and musicians, died. Afterwards, they were acclaimed heroes. By the politicians who had used them as stooges. Where are your 'leadersÕ? Is even one of them fighting by your side, or anywhere else for that matter? No. They are safe and sound in Calcutta. Do you know what some of them are doing? Drinking and sleeping with prostitutes. Is the money they looted from the banks before their escape to India being used for the purchase of arms? No. The money is banked in some of their names. They have bought houses and other property. If you succeed in winning your war of liberation, they will be the acclaimed heroes. Those of you who will still be alive will be forgotten by them. They may build a memorial somewhere, but that will be all. They will have other things to think of - themselves! But they will perish in the end. The people will not forgive them."
Then Ala began to run his fingers silently across the keyboard.
"And however decrepit I may be as a comedian, I have throughout my life been a musician. And sometimes the mighty power of music can be unleashed - if you know how!"
Ala pulled at the bellows, and his fingers moved slowly up the C natural scale, note by note, until he pressed the fatal key.
* * * * *
The sensation in the town had somewhat abated, and at bridge the following evening, Colonel Ayub remarked to the Brigadier:
"How could you have allowed him to commit suicide like that?" Hedonist to the end, the Colonel deeply regretted the demise of Ala, who had often been a dinner guest, after quiet sessions of classical music in the Colonel's quarters, with the doomed Saleem sitting enraptured at his master's feet. "And how was it done?"
"It was really his idea. He suggested that we prepare another old harmonium of his, this time without a time-bomb! He also chose the detonating key, and said something about it being the principal note of an appropriate melody. Something to do with a raga. I don't pretend to understand all this classical music business. And he said he was old, and weary, and wanted to do something for his country. By that I presume he meant Pakistan." Here, the Brigadier erred.
"He might have looked old," the Colonel persisted, "but he was a vital part of the town's cultural life. He probably had many years left."
"There you are very wrong Yaqoob. He was dying of cancer, and very near the end."
"Oh I see," exclaimed the Colonel, for once not wishing to stare into a microscope. "I should have guessed. Grand old man! Well, here goes: One Heart."
* Leaf chewed with area-nut and other condiments.
** A Hindu festival, which colourfully welcomes and celebrates the advent of Spring.
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