My Grandfather's Manuscript

I loved going to my grandparents’ house for a number of reasons. One reason being the reduced scrutiny of my actions by my grandparents that I was always subject to at home. The other reason was the affectionate attention I got from my grandparents who went overboard to please me and pamper me. Yet another reason was the treasure trove of old things and books that I found in their house, which kept me engaged for hours at end. Most of the stuff was pre-partition – they had migrated from India to their new homeland, Pakistan – and not commonly found nowadays. Of these, the most luring were the books that were housed in various almirahs all around the house.

My interest in books from an early age was particularly appreciated by my grandfather who was a poet and author himself. He was, in fact, well known among the family and friends for his literary prowess, and had writer friends on both sides of the border. I recall meeting a number of prominent writers at his home during my visits. He made it a point to introduce me to them and kept me in their company for as much as I wanted. It made a lasting impression on me and made a significant part of my personality. I developed a deeper understanding of life way ahead of my time and abhorred the trivialities that I found my family and friends engaged in. However, it reduced my circle of friends because there were few with whom I could engage in discussions that I had heard in my grandfather’s drawing room.

His creativity in storytelling and in making up anecdotes to amuse us, was the best I had known. He was a prolific writer as well and was a very well read man, in fact more than anyone I had come across in my life. So it always remained a lingering thought in my mind that why hadn’t he written more frequently himself. There were a few poems that I came across amongst his old stuff, and few that he narrated himself; both in his native language as well as in English, which was widely spoken in India. But there was no book or novel, either prose or poetry, especially with all his author friends around him.

A few years before my last meeting with him, on one of my trips to their house, I discovered something fabulous. It was the poem ‘IF’ by Rudyard Kipling, adorned in a beautiful chestnut frame. But the fabulous thing about it was that it was signed by Kipling himself. I took it to him and he confirmed that indeed it was a signed copy of the poem that Kipling had himself given to him. That poem is one of my all-time favourites, and even at the age of 15 when I first read it, it had made a lasting impression on me. I asked him so many questions at that time about his acquaintance with Kipling, and I remember him avoiding the questions for reasons best known to him; until the last visit.

Here’s what he told me about his relationship with Kipling.

He was a young man in his twenties when he met Kipling at a seminar in Delhi. He had especially gone there from his native town, taking a four hour journey by train. He met Kipling afterwards and presented him with a poem that he had recently written and had dedicated it to him. Kipling, being quite older, genuinely appreciated him and that increased my grandfather’s likeness for the author he admired so much. The two went on quite well and Kipling became a mentor of sort to my grandfather. They met a dozen or so times and routinely exchanged letters. At one point Kipling even mentioned to him that his son would have been my grandfather’s age, then 27, had he been alive. But at some point my grandfather cut off from him and that was it.

After knowing all this I would ask more about Kipling and their exchanges but he avoided the discussion and at times seemed put off by the mention of the author again and again by me. I could not wrap my head around it that why he didn’t like Kipling being mentioned, but I also stopped talking about him, albeit occasionally. He didn’t even care for the framed poem that I had found earlier.

There was so much to do around in that house and I entertained myself with all the stuff I found, that I would not find anywhere else. It included a hardcopy of Cheerio’s book on palmistry, which I read end to end over a weekend, a set of magic mantras passed on to him by his Hindu friends – my grandfather was a Muslim – and coins, black & white pictures with some prominent people, and handcrafted candle stands etc. etc. But the books in hard cover and paled pages remained my favourite objects of yearning.

As for the mystery around Kipling, it had to happen on my last visit to my grandparents. Of course, I did not know then that it would me my last meeting with them. But as God had planned, my grandfather returned to his maker shortly afterwards and my grandmother followed him a year later. What happened was that I was in his study and he was entertaining some friends in the drawing room. I was 17 then and my voracity for books was touching new heights. One cupboard had a lot of haphazard stuff in the bottom shelf, collecting dust, that I had never before explored. I picked up a thick roll of paper carefully bound but with a dense layer of dust upon it. I took it out and as I opened the roll the words ‘MANUSCRIPT’ revealed.

I got excited. “A book by my grandfather”, were the first thoughts that crossed my mind. As I removed the top page, the title page appeared, and what I read shocked me beyond belief. I looked at the title with the name Abdul Hammed Jassar (My grandfather’s name) below it and it must have been minutes before the gravity of it all hit me. I got to my feet with the manuscript in my hand and rushed to my grandfather. But as I reached the drawing room I realised I could not disturb him now. I returned to the study and explored the manuscript. My excitement kept building up, the more I looked, as did my disbelief at what I was holding in my hand. An hour or more must have passed before all his friends left and he was finally alone. I went to him straight away in his bedroom and showed him the manuscript.

“Did you write this”? I asked.

“Where did you find it?”

“In one of the cupboard in the study. You wrote this?”

“Yes I did. Isn’t that my name?” he smiled.

“But…..”

It was the manuscript of the book ‘A man who would be king’, one of the best works of Kipling that was made into a movie starring Sean Connery.

“What happened?” I pleaded.

“I was an aspiring author. I came up with this story after my highly eventful journey to Kalash (a place in the Hindukush mountain in present day Pakistan). On my return, I wrote the book and sent the manuscript to Kipling. He replied with some negative comments, so I dumped it. One year later he published it under his own name. Of course, he made some changes, but it was my story by and large that he reproduced.”

“You did not protest about it or asked an explanation?”

“My son”, he replied “when you are a subjugated nation your rights are severely constricted. It was my word against his word, and my word carried no weightage, so I could do nothing.”

“I can’t believe he took your work and published it under his name.”

“Now you know why I don’t like the mention of Kipling. I carried on writing tit bits but never good enough because the heart was not in it. What was once my dream career, got reduced to a hobby, as I pursued other fields to make a career in. What would have happened had the book been published under my name, with the endorsement from Kipling, is debatable, but I definitely would have given it all. You may think I was too fragile, perhaps, but that’s how it went about at that time, and that’s how things stand today.”

My grandfather passed away some 30 years ago. I still have the signed ‘IF’ hanging in my office, and the manuscript is probably lying in the same shelf where I first found it.