The intoxicated mouse remarked, “Even a cat, should it desire, can ascend to kingship.”
It is as if someone has tapped on the threshold of my nerves. As if a specter arose from within my thoughts. And when I attempted to seek out Zahoor Ul-Akhlaq in symbolism, he manifested behind the psychological veils, appearing in the everyday motions of my ordinary life.
In a café nestled in New York’s West Village, Zahoor Ul-Akhlaq occupied a seat on the sidewalk. Adjacent to him was a table bearing a half-filled glass of vodka, his gesture directed towards it as he spoke. I stood there, a mix of confusion and astonishment swirling within me, lost in a realm of peculiar thoughts. After all, Zahoor Ul-Akhlaq had been murdered a decade ago. An illiterate bread baker had murdered Zahoor and his daughter. At that time, Zahoor Ul-Akhlaq held the position of Head in the Fine Art Department at the National College of Arts. His paintings were gaining global recognition through exhibitions across the world. What was once a teacher-student dynamic between us had now evolved into a genuine friendship?
I might have been dreaming. In the dream, a person enters a state of semi-consciousness, implying that I am partly aware in the air. Conversations that take place in such a state of unconsciousness or consciousness carry a distinct significance. Do they truly carry significance? I had a sensation of awakening. My car had been parked in a double park. Invited Zahoor to join me in the car, and together, we embarked on the quest for an available parking spot. Eventually, after encountering some challenges, we managed to secure parking on Horatio Street. We initiated a quest to find a bar for seating.
“Will you, Shah Ji, partake in wine?” I inquired. “Yes, Shah Ji, wine too.” The emphasis was on “also”; signifying both vodka and wine. I would refer to Zahoor as “Shah Ji” and he would reciprocate by addressing me as “Shah Ji” as well.
For instance, you address me as “King” and I will reciprocate by calling “King” as well. I begin to perceive an image of Zahoor within me. I begin to perceive a fresh wave, a new light in my demeanor. A resurgence of hope’s wave begins to illuminate the path ahead, akin to a high
School student taking on the role of Emperor Jalal-ud-Din Akbar on stage, guiding the way forward. I transitioned from being a child to a fully grown man, a friend who emerges against the backdrop of a sharp bend in the road. I seem anchored in Zahoor’s black attire, while clad in a gray robe, and a chosen celestial essence, shapeless yet refined, that hones the consciousness of thought. We unite in harmony, and my bond reinforces the resolute affirmation of this notion, aiming to fortify it even more. The symbolic embracing of the gray attire is embraced.
The black attire symbolically encompasses spirituality. Even though we remain apart from each other, my concentration persists. My standard. My very embodiment. It signifies a pursuit of understanding. I said, “I am on a quest for wisdom”. Zahoor responded, “Yes, if you formally participate.”
“In a world of ignorance and mysteries, something eludes my comprehension. Gaining control over dangers is imperative. “You will need to eliminate the fearful woman within. The apprehensive woman.” I inquired, “Yes, your mother.” Zahoor responded. “Yet, you must attain liberation from her, consuming the semblance of your mother.”
“Success won’t be attained until the time that the woman within emerges. The woman in whose vessel you still breathe. You’ll have to seek out the woman who can shield you with an umbrella in the rain. You must let go of the woman who had been clothing your bare body.
It is as if I am journeying through dreams within a dream. A woman, a friend of Zahoor’s from my dream, roused me from that state of reverie. Her voice echoed, “Oh, my child.”
It appears to me that she practices dialogues with each of Zahoor’s disciples. I’m uncertain about when she intends to bring it onto the stage. In a single dream, I closed my eyes and bid Zahoor farewell, saying goodbye until the next day.
I stepped into another dream, a door of possibilities swinging open. Our journey on foot commenced, an unending stride matched by a multitude of companions. Soon, the entire city seemed to join our expedition, walking in unison. We embarked on the ascent of a mountain, and as we descended, weariness had settled upon us “You’ve apparently forgotten about your car, “I commented, “Where did you park it? Ask someone. “Zahoor replied, “Whom should I ask? The ocean disregards human inquiries.”
Amidst this expansive ocean, we were solitary,” he indicated. “Position yourself at the bus stop and await your bus. Allow the first bus to pass. Buses are akin to women, if one is missed, another awaits in the next line. Don’t fret. “But that bus of my life never arrived… whose eyes were brimming with tearful blood from an arrow’s wound, and it was inscribed”….”May God protect you from the evil eye…adorned with the intricacy of braids and blooming flowers… where braids are intertwined with threads near the bus headlights… where it’s written, “keep head and arms inside”. I lingered at the bus stop. Two days elapsed… then three more followed. The bus failed to show up. Zahoor was up ahead. “You’re still here.” he remarked. I nodded in response, “Yes.”
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Zahoor extended his hand… His painting depicted three horses, each carrying a Mughal Emperor.
Curiously, I asked, “Who is the first emperor?”
Zahoor uttered, “Shah Ji.”
I questioned, “Who is the second emperor?”
… Zahoor responded, “Shah Ji.”
I further inquired about the third emperor … Zahoor’s reply echoed, “Shah Ji.”
In a swift and eager manner, they spoke…”The first rider is Shakir Ali as they tightened their horse’s reins… Continuing, they said, “The second rider is me, Zahoor, while restraining their horse’s reins… Concluding with a pause, they added, I entrust you with my horse, before finally stating, you are the third rider” “but keep in mind, I am unwavering and resolute, and ahead of you.”
I replied, “But I don’t possess the qualities of Rustam. I am the one who pounds the earth with my heels. I am the one who walks by kicking my legs. Life has relentlessly kicked me and pulled me out of the world.”
Zahoor remarked, “Learn, then.”
I inquired, “What?”
“Acquire the language of youth… It’s the true treasure of your inheritance, after all your innocence carries a realm of innovation… So it can evolve into a dialogue, a reflection of your unique style, your voice, your words… You are an individual… Capturing the very essence of a sculpture, not merely in status, but in dynamic expression as well…The awakened depths of your conscience… The expansiveness of your unawareness… The profoundness of your obliviousness…
Oh my God! These painting, have left a significant impact on my life. The elegance and meticulousness with which these paintings portray horses symbolize grace, power, and beauty.
This imagery has taught me valuable lessons about balance, strength, and poise. Similar to the disciplined artisans who crafted these paintings, I’ve learned the importance of patience and dedication in every endeavor. The intricate brushstrokes that bring life to the horses have taught me the value of attention to detail and the impact it can have on the final outcome of any project.
Furthermore, the vibrant colors and harmonious compositions in these paintings have inspired me to infuse creativity and aesthetics into every aspect of my life. Just as the Mughal artists skillfully blended colors to create visual harmony, I strive to find balance and harmony in the different facets of my life. The portrayal of horses, often associated with nobility and strength, reminds me of the importance of perseverance and determination. It serves as a constant reminder that challenges can be overcome through resilience and unwavering commitment. In summary, Mughal miniature paintings, particularly those depicting horses, have not only enriched my aesthetic sensibilities but also taught me valuable life lessons about patience, attention to detail, creativity, and perseverance. These paintings serve as a source of inspiration, guiding my journey with their timeless wisdom and beauty.
+++
Zahoor indicated his painting with a gesture.
“Immerse yourself in the style. “He advised. “Sketch a grid. Play like an innocent monkey in the jungle of art. Set the tracks of a railway. Weave within the electric wires or leap with grace. Craft your art elephant with precision. Then, watch…anticipate the outcome… the result of this effort will be a uniquely shaped marvel, akin to the unmatched precision of a scissor’s cut. You’ve shown me how to structure my life like a grid in a painting—accurately transferring and scaling my journey from one phase to another. Just as in art, I’ll divide my life into manageable sections, using this technique when facing complex challenges. The grid’s assistance parallels my life’s accuracy, aiding in both precision and creative interpretation. This lets my uniqueness shine, whether I’m a smaller person navigating life or aspiring to a larger perspective like yours.”
Next, Zahoor pointed towards his calligraphy painting. “Guide yourself as if commanding, “He advised. “Remember, the essence of tradition lies in the arrangement of words or the composition of an image. “What can neither be diminished nor altered, this decree is like the opium’s essence from which the pain of creative creation will find tranquility. I remarked, “The act of scribbling in calligraphy holds a mesmerizing effect, a bridge between the individual and the eternal. As the ink flows onto the canvas, it’s not just words but a spiritual connection taking shape. This seemingly spontaneous dance of lines and curves becomes a conduit, transcending the boundaries of time and space.
In this unique form of expression, I find myself immersed in a dialogue with the divine, where each stroke becomes a whispered conversation between the earthly and the ethereal. The unpredictable yet rhythmic nature of these scribbles mirrors the ebb and flow of life’s journey, mirroring the twists and turns that shape our existence.
Much like meditation, the act of calligraphic scribbling draws me into a state of focused tranquility. With each brushstroke, I delve deeper into myself and simultaneously touch upon something far greater than the self – a connection that extends beyond the physical realm.
The abstract nature of these scribbles allows for an open interpretation, inviting the viewer to participate in this spiritual journey. It’s as if the calligraphic lines become the threads that weave a tapestry of connection, intertwining the individual with a sense of something timeless and boundless.
In these moments, the mundane dissipates, and a profound sense of unity prevails. The scribbles evoke emotions, thoughts, and energies that spark a relationship not just with the self, but with something larger – a cosmic dance that stretches from the individual to eternity. And in this dance, I find a sanctuary where my spirit can commune with the eternal in a language beyond words.” I looked at him and I lowered my eyes and said.
“I want to become a painter like you.”
Zahoor responded, “Hanging the fearful and ignorant bread maker who resides within, Shah Ji, on the gallows.”
I said, “I want to become a writer.”
Zahoor responded, “Hanging the fearful and ignorant bread maker who resides within, Shah Ji, on the gallows.”
I said, “I want to become a filmmaker”
Zahoor responded, “Hanging Shah Ji, the fearful and ignorant bread maker who resides within, on the gallows.”
Then Zahoor proposed, “Hang the rope from this ceiling fan and fashion a noose with the other end.”
Assume the addressee’s role. Slide the chair beneath the fan and position yourself on it. I positioned myself on the chair. The order came to place the noose around the neck. I secured the noose around the neck.
Zahoor exclaimed, “Shah Ji, you ignorant man, you have killed me and my daughter. Decide your own punishment. “Zahoor approached the chair I was standing on and instructed, “Kick this chair away with your leg somehow. “With a kick, I sent the chair tumbling down—the very chair I had been standing on…”but Zahoor had already died before me, and I was hanging from the rope, my neck elongated, and my neck being measured with a handspun.”
This is a short story, depicting a fictional dialogue by Mumtaz Hussain.
