Sunday, April 19, 2009

Parthenogenesis of a Hero


The Greek were a logical people in that they extrapolated from available data, convenient explanations, for observed behaviour. Although this data was in turn dependent upon some assumptions, but that was unavoidable, for without these very basic assumptions, it would have been impossible for them to move ahead with their theories. So then, for instance, after observing man, they decided that there must be a god and since man is flawed in so many ways, god would be perfect in all. This led to debates on godliness and manliness and the attributes thereof, but as the debate progressed, more and more questions arose.
Thus, if a god is usually characterized by being Brave, Good, Powerful, and therefore unencumbered by fear of death or adversity; and a man is weak, mortal, and prone to evil and selfish acts and so on; then what about men who are brave in the face of hardships; good even when tempted by evil and powerful in spite of their mortality? What of men who resemble the gods in their words and deeds but are doomed to die like all earthly creatures, yet live forever in songs that poets sing to eulogize them and be eternalized in myths that reflect their extraordinary lives? The Greek explanation was simple: these exceptional men were neither of man nor of god but of both. They were heroes.
The hero, according to the ancient Greeks, was a consequence of the union between a god and a mortal, therefore, a hero was a demigod; the progeny of a capricious god and a breathtakingly beautiful woman –a woman for whom a god would descend from the heavens and willingly debase himself. Of course, in cases of heroes like Theseus and Perseus -where both a god as well as a man were sharing the bed of the same lady, more or less at the same time, i.e. of conception- it was hard to judge who the real father was without the aid of modern forensics. One could hardly file a paternity suit and hope to win if the child resembled the mother alone and there was no way to scan the unalterable tags of genetic identity. The best rule of thumb devised by the ancients to settle any possible disputes and to distinguish between a hero and an average Joe, if faced with such a conundrum, was a series of simple tests, which -if performed successfully by the subject whose parentage was under scrutiny- could confirm the possible divinity of his father.

A display of superhuman strength and overdeveloped musculature; being on first-name basis with at least half of the known gods or owning a flying horse; a sense of defiance and irreverence -uncommon to most men who fear death- along with the nifty ability to stroll at will between the worlds of the living and the dead without significant ill effects to health, physical or mental, would imply Heroism and by extension, politely point the curious party toward the real father.
Greek myths, if one tries to understand their metaphoric allusions, are capable of expectorating the truth at the eyes of the ignorant in copious volumes. Again, one must be able to relax the mind and allow for certain slight variables to be considered and their effects noted.
So now we let the hands of our clock go round and round till we approach modern times. The old civilizations have been replaced by new ones. The old gods have been dethroned by new, equally potent and fear-inducing -yet undeniably worthy of our devotion- gods. Where once, the Greeks were offering choice portions of animal flesh and amphorae of good wine to appease the gods; now we are sacrificing choice parts of men and rivers of blood at the alter of modern infallible gods, the Nation States.
Of course, the patriots of one Nation, whilst adhering firmly to the belief that theirs is the one true god, are supremely confident that other nations (without the uppercase N) are a blasphemy, false gods, idols that must be destroyed for the sake of their own soul’s redemption. In the new context, the Nations are gods in the eyes of their inhabitants and mortals in the eyes of foreigners; that much we have established, but what of the woman of breathtaking beauty? Assuredly, the reader has guessed that a parallel is being drawn between gods having special relations with human females who were then to spawn a wide variety of heroes, and these new gods, these Nations and…but then where is the woman who must bear our new heroes, these antiheroes, the topsy-turvy confusions that walk in a world gone mad?

Kashmir is a breathtakingly beautiful part of this world; a garden for the emperors of yore and a metaphor for Paradise (and in this narrative, a metaphor for something quite breathtaking). Snow capped mountains and lush green valleys; blue crystal lakes and seasonal glaciers that become rivers in summer; fruit orchards and forests of timber and precious stones have adorned this land for millennia uncounted. And thus Kashmir has lived alone, perched on high, eyed by her neighbours, envied by all. Two gods, two titans, with snake-jaws bared, are in readiness to strike.
Two Nation States, each a god or an impudent mortal -depending upon the relative position of the observer- claim the fatherhood of the children of Kashmir. The problem is that though she has lived alone and has well maintained her celibate lifestyle for thousands of years, she has children, many of them -and where there is progeny, there must be a progenitor; or so India and Pakistan both claim. The paternity suit has been filed; contradictory forensic evidence has been accumulated; the Greek rule of thumb has been scrapped because it cannot help us here because both Nations are self declared gods as well as accused mortals. If thay can be and are two mutually exclusive things at the same time then how can one judge which is which and who is right? The children of Kashmir are heroes whether they like it or not, that is to say that if either of the two contestants is really, and truly a god whilst the other mortal, then the children of Kashmir are, by default, demigods, heroes. That is, of course, if you buy into the classical Greek theory of the genesis of heroes. Genesis: the act of producing, or giving birth or origin to anything; usually involving two people in case of humans.

Sardar Bahadur Junaed Khan’s life has been inextricably intertwined with all of the above, and let it be known that everything said so far is simply the prologue of the prologue to the story of Sardar Bahadur but this story is not unique to him. He represents not an individual, but a type. Of course, by that I do not wish to impinge upon his individuality but simply to underscore the commonalities that exist within him and the people he represents and how his words and deeds reflect not the attributes of the new gods (though they belligerently claim fatherhood) but of his own people and his humanity. Even his name does not belong to one region or religion or nation or body of beliefs. It speaks of Leadership (Sardar) and Courage (Bahadur), yes, but also of asceticism, of Junaed’s Wisdom and Piety and of Zafar, of Success in both worlds. It speaks of the Punjab and of the Frontier, both here and there and in its apparent ambiguity lies the fullness of its truth. While two Nations accuse him of being their personal hero, of being their very own demigod…he is not so sure if the idea strikes his fancy or evenfits his persona.

So when one day, he asked his Motherland to tell him who his father was, it was not he alone whose voice formulated the words of his query; but an entire generation, an entire People were present alongside him in spirit and helped him move his tongue. And Kashmir, his Motherland smiled a sad, nostalgic smile, and answered thus: “You know, my son, some people say that Jesus, the prophet was not born of a father. Not only that he was not born like others but that also he did not die as ordinary humans beings do; at any rate, he was not martyred upon the cross, they say, he escaped and travelled far and then was raised by God to Heaven, only to return one day to save the world before finally he too could taste the cup of death.
Some tell a story – though I myself am unsure of its veracity-, in which he reached my borders before he was called upwards by God and that a part of him lies in this soil even now, that some of his exhaled breath still lingers in the fresh air above these lakes. Some say, that that is the reason for the sweetness of my fruits and the beauty of my land.
My son, just as Jesus had no father, so do you have none. You are neither Indian nor Pakistani. You are mine; you are Kashmiri; you are an immaculate conception. Let them fight over you and spill your blood if they can, but don’t let them make you forget who you really are; you are more than the hero of some one People and a day will come when you shall rise to speak and preserve my shattered honour. But you do not have to take my word for it; travel the World and you shall see. The best way to discover yourself and your own truth is to walk the wide Earth and see what you like and dislike. Somehow in the process, you will come upon yourself and recognize your truth. Let these modern gods debase themselves, but don’t let them splash impurities upon you.” After listening to this answer, he travelled south in search of himself. To find out whether he was a hero –as accused- or just as his Motherland said, an archaic similitude of a prophet who once preserved his virgin mother’s honour.

By the time I met Sardar Bahadur, the monsoons had already lost their ability to flood the streets of our city, or had decided not to do so. When I was young, the rains would hide the ground beneath three feet of water. Flat roofed shanties of the poor would submit beneath the weight of accumulated rainwater, electricity poles would be blown away by the powerful winds and small animals would float around in pots and pans, leaking out of damaged kitchens. Children would rescue drowning sparrows, in spite of the painful pecks administered on their soft fingers by the panic stricken birds. But this was long ago. The children had grown up and lost their hearts to corruption and self service until there was nobody left to fish out drowning sparrows. Under such circumstances, the Leader of the clouds ordered his monsoon troops to bear their burdens indefinitely –till the saviours of birds were reborn to return.

It was a dry summer, and a hopeless one, for the parched crops were to surely fail, when I met Sardar. I was travelling with a companion -an Indian. We were both financially broke at the time and really very thirsty, so it was fortunate for us that we got to talking with Sardar, and in the process of doing so, we both began to harbor hopes that he would eventually offer to take us for a cool drink; as we talked, we walked towards a garden. Perhaps because his origin was from a land of great natural beauty, Sardar’s feet would automatically lead him and all those who were in his company, toward gardens; he could seek one out wherever he was, as if he could smell the air exhaled by trees. But here, the garden was barely alive; all the birds were hiding in the drying leaves of desiccated trees and the grass was steadily turning from green to brown and a sharp sun seared the life out of everything.

I looked upwards in order to curse the merciless sun and saw a bird, a bulbul -tangled in kite-string wrapped around its claws- hanging from a tree. It would try to fly off, again and again in all directions but was inevitably jerked back once it reached the end of its tether; a limited liberty that the cruel string would not allow it to transgress. Sometimes it would grow so tired from all its efforts that it would hang limp upon its inverted noose with its beak permanently open wide out of fear and thirst. I looked at the bird, understand the its dire situation and somewhere deep inside of me, a boy who had once rescued a similar bird from drowning in muddy water, urged me to repeat performance, but the adult overruled the child. With a slight pang of suppressed guilt, I averted my gaze and made no mention of the troubled bird to my companions so that they would be saved the embarrassment of making excuses for not wanting to waste time in the gruelling heat, trying to help a bird that was stuck too far above our heads. I relaxed when I saw that my Indian friend had also seen the distressed bird and had like me, decided to ignore the pitiable sight. Guilt shared, was guilt halved.
Eventually, however, Sardar Bahadur saw the bird out of the corner of his eyes and pointed it out to us. We both feigned ignorance and pretended as if this were the first time we had seen it.
“Come let’s try and get the poor creature out of this trap.” declared Sardar and ordered us to look for long sticks. His idea was to somehow use a stick to wrap a length of kite-string around it and then pull the branch downward till the bird was in reach. It was a fairly good idea in theory but in practice didn’t quite yield the expected result. The bird was too frightened and whenever the stick was brought close, it struggled against its bonds and unravelled the efforts of my Kashmiri companion. Upon realizing that this was only causing the bird to allow the kite-string to dig sharp cuts in the bird's legs, Sardar sat down upon the ground.

“Forget it Sardar sahib,” I said, and my Indian friend echoed a similar sentiment, “it is impossible; the bird is doomed and as good as dead. And what would you have us fry in the sun about a solitary bulbul for anyway? There are many others in this garden who will die of thirst even if we were to 'save' this one poor fellow.”

“Not at all,” replied Sardar quietly, as he gazed at the bird with one hand upon his head, thinking what next to do. “Someone must climb this tree and weigh the branch down…there is no other way.”
His observation was correct, for if we were to simply throw a blade at the string and cut it, the bird would take off with bound feet and a trailing length of string that would end its life one way or another. But we two were never going to climb the tree and Sardar was just too tall; the branch would have snapped beneath his weight, and killed the bird. We tried for quite a while to convince him to relent but he refused to leave the bird in this condition, muttering nonsense about preserving honour and so on. Finally he jumped to his feet from his spot on the ground and hailed a passing peasant. He explained the matter to the peasant and promised him some money for his troubles, if he were to climb up the tree and push the branch down.

“Well done, Sardar sahib, truly masterful, good show!” said I as the bird was finally retrieved from the tree. I expected us to be off now and perhaps Sardar Bahadur would take us to a restaurant and celebrate his victory by digging into his pockets. But now he began the most difficult of all endeavours. A considerable length of string had coiled itself around the claws of the bulbul, weaving in and out between individual talons. It was a hopeless cause as far as I was concerned and the Indian looked exasperated as well when Sardar Bahadur began the intricate operation of removing the string. The bird did not struggle for long in his hands, but took to staring silently with beak wide open at its unlikely benefactor. Forty five minutes later, much of the string had been unravelled and the sight of specked blood on bits of string that had dug into the bird’s flesh made us both sick to our stomachs but Sardar continued his work in silence. After twenty minutes more, the bird was free of its convoluted shackles and Sardar Bahadur opened his hands. The bulbul took to the air and was gone.

Both of us were most impressed. His patience and attention to detail as well as his willingness to do the moral thing was startlingly unfamiliar in such strange times but it was a pleasant experience nevertheless. We still coveted Sardar Bahadur’s money, because we were both quite selfishly thirsty, but more than that, we now wanted to keep him around us and have him accompany us till the end of our journey. We could not conceive of letting such a treasure go so easily. Suddenly Pakistan and India began scheming, plotting and planning to get a hold of this wonderful man but each wanted to be his confidant more than the other. Each wanted a greater piece of the cake…each wanted to control the rivers of nice cool drink that he was the source of. Sardar sahib had given the gift of life to bird that had been, for all intents and purposes, dead. This avian parthenogenesis impressed the clouds very much and they were sure to weep for joy but then they saw through our minds the cunning plans we were hatching. That was not as unexpected and disappointing to them as the fact that Sardar sahib's mind was set now; he was headed back home to Kashmir.
"Hold it boys." said the Leader of the clouds, "he's not here to stay...his land lies elsewhere." The clouds all hung their heads in shame and the drought continued.

“What did you learn, my son?” his Motherland asked him when Sardar Bahadur Junaed Khan Zafar finally returned to her, prostrating low and kissing his native soil. He answered her with a soft laugh and said, “That you were right.”