Natak (Common translations include: Show, Play or Drama)

Under the gathered shade of his jujube grove, abba often talked to his frail figure. He patted his worn thighs with a gentle whisper of,

Is dard ka kia banega?

What will become of this pain?

His bones never answered.

Mirpurkhas, owed to the Talpur Mirs, allowed us a life of grit. Abba had inherited a grove of 25 Jujube trees and the earth under that homed their roots. Our limbs had hardened through a childhood among these trees. Most of my early mornings were spent picking leaves for Dada’s morning and evening tea; a homeopath’s prescription for his budding insomnia. He claimed that his calves itched during the night. Dada had been a stern Mali with a temper that could bare the seeds of an argan. Dadi, a Dalit Nat from Bihar, offered my father her quiet half of civility. They resembled a diorama of parents; a distant view.

Nomadic in nature, the Nats were a community of theatrical performers. They travelled across the northwest, serving to entertain the Rajput dynasty as rope dancers, acrobats and dholis. Baray dada, a damaru player and a tumbler, began performing at seven-years-old balancing his younger sister’s clay kitchen set on his head. Reaching an age of hollowed cheeks and an atrophied right leg, he witnessed a decline in royal fanfare. The lucky bamboo reed he used to balance himself on a tightrope had become a walking stick.

The women in the family were gradually forced into a life of prostitution with the trade being passed onto their daughters. After baray dada’s younger sister had received a young Naga sadhu— a militant ascetic — who brutally strangled her with a rope as a mockery against her heritage, he denied this fate for dadi. At the age of 16, my dada, the son of a baghban for a Rajput zamindar in Mirpurkhas, found himself in a red two-pole tent, mesmerized. Tasked with providing food and water to the performers, he stood in another world altogether. In the midst of limp puppets, piled manjiras, and iron hoops sounded the bells of dadi’s ghungroo. She danced near the middle of the tent, twirling in a layered navy blue ghaghra and a white embroidered choli. Her half-open braid spread a whiff of patchouli. Needless to say, dada was taken with her.

The zamindar, a graduate from the University of Punjab, had been a patron of local theatre and considered the Nats a cornerstone of the carnivalesque. His favorite genre. Requesting a one-of-a-kind performance for his eldest son’s wedding was his attempt at a revival. His oldest munshi had heard of baray dada’s troupe performing near Digri and went after them with a leather satchel containing a summon of betel nuts and a silver rupee coin which baray dada accepted touching to his forehead. For a week, he practiced the damaru with eager hands and referred to the performance as his last. For dadi it was a beginning.

After their rendition of Puran Bhagat, a punjabi folktale of desire and deceit centering the mythical prince of Sialkot, baray dada was approached by a young baghban for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Taken aback by dada’s staunch figure and unflinching tone, he burst into tears and considered it a sign from the Trimurti. A week after their vivaha, baray dada, true to his word, passed. His lucky bamboo was cremated with him.

The 1946 Noakhali Riots, Gandhi’s assassination, and the upcoming birth of his first child had convinced dada to dwell where he was. The zamindar, a devout Vaishnavite, fled with his family to his younger brother’s residence in Jodhpur. A vacated chaunra and at a distance of a few miles a young Jujube grove remained in the name of the stout old Rajput. Under dada’s care, the grove became our sole source of income. In late January, he would shift his bed to a thatch-roofed shed near the grove and sleep among the goats. He began the year circling the trunks with mulch and hand spraying the leaves with neem oil for pest control. Dadi would then cake the walls of the shed with a mixture of mud and cow dung which held warmth during the winters. They lived a life together in turns.

After the birth of their first and only son, dada sought to expand the new ‘family legacy’. Partnering with a nearby neighbor, a local homeopath, they worked on a line of multiherbal tinctures and powders. Unani hakims rendered them effective and convinced their customers through free samples. Dadi made sure to embroider a few pouches of tonic and offered it as both a sohag for weddings and a gift at the birth of a child—a postpartum aid. The demand surged with each year but once dada felt himself wither with age, abba survived the trade. Now residing in a two-storey brick home near the city, grove visits were rare.

At 13, I witnessed a mimicry of dadi’s past. One evening, a sudden clamour rose from a corner of our street market. Near Jamshed’s Utility Store, a troupe of skinny adolescents with white painted faces cartwheeled over the beat of an older dholi. They were each clad in a white vest and a pale green tehmat. An emaciated streetdog stood behind them wagging her tail. They performed a sequence of walking handstands, bridge lifts, and finished on a human pyramid. It was stunning.

That night, dadi made me list every trick they performed with details lasting us till sun up.

Even the dogs enjoy us, she chuckled.

The next day, I found myself staring at a termite nest near the kitchen ceiling. It resembled an outstretched hand with only four fingers. Amma had asked me to fetch a small bottle of white vinegar for the pests. Heading to Jamshed’s, I saw a boy my age swirling a twig near the entrance. I recognized him as one of the younger troupe members without his ‘costume’. He glanced at me with a smile before returning his focus to the twig. After purchasing the vinegar, I stood outside looking for the boy whose twig remained where he had sat. The corner of my eye caught him dashing towards the end of main street and I found myself trailing the plume of dirt he left behind. Turning a corner, he entered one of the nearer squatter settlements; an old rundown bungalow in Na’ai Parra.

Clutching the bag of vinegar at my side, I followed after him as he ascended a spiral staircase with no railing and chipped steps. Much of upstairs was barren with the exception of a multicolored pole, a large tin basin with a green jug, and a single strap canvas bag toppled with clothes. Amid a crowd, a woman lay in the corner with her dupatta over her face, asleep and the same dholi I had seen the other day sat next to her chewing a betel nut. His teeth reddened with each chew. He seemed to ignore me on account of the many squatters that were sprawled both downstairs and up. The room smelled of sweat.

The boy was nowhere to be seen. I scrambled over and among a sea of hunched figures, making my way to the dholi. Nudging him on the shoulder, I asked if a boy had been through here. He shooed me pointing at a screen door which had an old man blowing smoke through it. Approaching the door, the old man gave me a look over before asking if I had any money. I rummaged through my pockets for the change I had left over from the vinegar purchase and handed him a one paisa coin. Satisfied, he stepped away from the door and let me through. The door led to a small balcony where I noticed the boy standing over the grilled railing with a plant pot on his head. I gasped as his left leg dangled in the air. He turned towards me and shot me another smile. The vinegar had dropped from my hand and flooded the plastic bag. I warned him to stop fooling around and get back.

He laughed.

Natak hi toh nahi rukta.

The show never stops.

I remember running after him as he teetered over the edge. As I reached for him, my hand flailed through a memory. Gazing down, all that I saw were a few shards of clay and a bamboo stick covered in devil’s ivy.