One defines oneself with the things they come in contact with. So does Kanishka, our young protagonist, by using the rather extensive vocabulary of his father’s carpet shop called Marco Polo. He plays out his fantasies in tussar silk, coverlets, curtains and cushions. Kanishka describes almost everything around him using the metaphors of a carpet, including his first love Maihan’s calligraphy ;
“he made swirling concentric circles rush in composition and ornamentation, similar to the way a weaver patterns a carpet.”
Could someone else see Maihan’s art and say the same if he were not a carpet weaver? Maybe not. When in the refugee camp full of varied people, he again uses an Azerbaijani metaphor when everyone decides to revolt against the gunda (the rascal), Tor Gul, in the concentration camp like setting of
Haftballa ;
“Wrap yourself together in a carpet and roll together with your kinsmen.”
I, on the other hand, have not come close to any such defining definition. Rather the metaphors of nature sometimes help me define myself; I am the definition of the blooming tree, the withering one, and the bald one too. But even while using adjectives before the trees, I couldn’t use any of the vocabularies used by Kanishka. I have no idea about the world of carpets, I am untouched by it and thus, I am yet incapable of it.
I do, however, somewhat know trees, as does everyone else.
A world of metaphors that only a profession understands is still far from me. Our world, still uninhabited by the logic of professionalism, by the logic of a self-contained world. It is surreal to have a language of one’s own, to wait for different worlds to spill into each other, so that you and I can profess our loves and lives in a world that makes sense to us in a unique way, and that which is not dictated by any prejudices of a language that has been a part of a world you do not understand.
A world of copywriting awaits, and perhaps the definitions that I will concoct of my own life will have to coincide with my belief in buying them or not. After all, when you hear the jingles of products while eating out, while standing in line, or while parking your car, is that not a world that you and I already inhabit without realising that we are already silently living and using these metaphors? These resounding metaphors are scattered everywhere. The carpeted knots are in everything that Kanishka sees.
“Jinhe Istalif nai dekheya, oh jameya hi nahi.”
A similar saying exists for Lahore in Pakistan, “jisne Lahore nah dekhaiya, oh Jamey hi nahi” — loosely translated as, those who have not arrived in Lahore, have not arrived in the world at all.
So, was Afghanistan really not that far from India ? One should already know this ! But one did not anymore. The above phrase which was referred to by Sadat for Istalif in Afghanistan, and was often used for Lahore took me aback and back to the time that we, only sometimes, became nostalgic about. A pre-partition India; but I am afraid to think that one could find roots that existed before the partitions, and that they could be traced back in history to such a great extent (till Afghanistan) ! It was dangerous to find my scattered roots in the words that were Pashto and were still used in our ideas or proverbs; dilber (my sweetheart) is one of them. It is surely a venture with collateral damage in a bitterly secular and increasingly nationalistic world.
Truth or lie become functional once we get a notion of what is good or bad. Lies are fomented to keep the good, good. Bad or good, this is what we come to know when we are told so by our elders, the rooters, especially when it comes to sex. The positive affirmation of Kanishka’s kiss with Maihan creates that space. It is seen as something they did which felt right, but was bad. It creates the space for all those things that are told as and are, most of the time, part of the religious tradition. Kanishka, therefore, looks for historical examples for truth, as if history could help establish his own, if not the right from the wrong, or the good from the bad. Every culture has had their exemplars of lovers; in Afghan literature it has been that of Adam Khan and Durkani , Yusuf Khan and Shere Banu woven into the very social fabric, while there are only “murmurs” about Sultan Muhammad of Ghazni‘s homosexuality. So, what kind of history establishes the truth of someone’s life? The history that they are living or the history that they have known.
Maihan’s suggestion to move to America had mortal danger as its main motivation. So, what is it that makes the youth move feverishly to other countries? And not only that, they did not want one to come back either, and to the others who were left behind, they even suggested moving out. For instance, India seemed to have become not so liveable, despite the great economic development, increasing comforts, and the hinduisation of the nation! This being the case, shouldn’t one want to die in their own land? But now people did not want to die on their own land. While cruising through the paragraphs of the novel, a lot happens in Afghanistan. In its war-torn state, people fear for their lives, Kanishka fears his sexuality, and just like that, it becomes a place where people cannot live and consequently become refugees. It is done, made unliveable, as easily as the words seeping stealthily into the paragraph and the narrative of the book. Had the same happened with India over the years ? It had stealthily become not so liveable anymore.
One was reborn when one left a war torn Afghanistan , but what was one looking for when one moved to a different country despite having the means? What is that last strand of memory or being do they then become nostalgic about?
They might use the metaphors of their earlier life and thus, define.
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