As I surveyed the scene, I glimpsed in the distance the minarets of a mosque rising over the top of a cluster of trees.

I had just applied a lighted match to my cigarette when a gnarled, powerful rustic hand took away the half-burnt matchstick from my hand. His uncouth behaviour incensed me but the fellow ignored me and started lighting his biri. Then he sat down by my side.

'What's that village?' I pointed in the direction of the minarets.

'Oh that! That's Bhasool.'

The word 'Bhasool' suddenly reminded me of my wedding day. I was going in to pay salaams when an old man barred my way. He was wearing an achkan of the classical cut and wide broad pyjamas. A fur cap rested on his head. What struck me most as I turned to look at him was the gleam of authority in his eyes. He took garlands from a servant standing by his side and proceeded to put them round my neck. I tried to duck. 'Is that not enough?' I said pointing towards my brocade sherwani.

Ignoring my question, he put the garlands round my neck and smiled, 'You may go in now.' Later I asked a person who the old man was, and was told that he was the Qazi of Bhasool.

Inam Husain, the Qazi of Bhasool--a legendary figure known for his wealth and high status. I was also vaguely aware of the ties that his family had with ours, specially with elders. I felt ashamed of my impertinence. At the time of departure, he placed his hand on my shoulder and invited me to visit Bhasool. 'We had cordial relations with your people before you married in our family,' he said. 'And now you're as good as a son-in-law to me.' Such utterances smack of nothing more than formality but his words were so full of warmth that they were etched on my heart.

I sat there for some time balefully eyeing the 'ill-fated' bus. Then I picked up my bag and took the path through the fields towards the mosque. I was told Qazi Inam Husain had this magnificent mosque built in his younger days. The maidan in front of the mosque was flanked by a row of small structures now almost in ruins but which once must have been stables. Right in front of the vestibule stood two tall mango trees, their trunks caked with mud. One did not see any building on either side of the vestibule--only their crumbling debris.

It was getting on to be three in the afternoon when I arrived and there was not a soul to be seen. Then I saw Qazi Sahib emerging from the vestibule. Tall and stately, slightly bent, he was wearing a striped cotton shirt and none-too-clean pyjamas. His feet were shod in old pumps. Shading his eyes with a closed palm, he stood there watching me come forward. I gave him my salams. Ignoring my salam, he stepped forward. Then he beamed at me, took away my bag and led me in. Passing under a circular vestibule whose dark ceiling had caved in like a bow he shouted: 'Are you listening? Look, who has come? I say, if your treasury is open, lock it up at once.' Then he laughed good-humoredly at his own joke.

A woman old enough to be my grandmother was standing near the pitcher stand. Qazi Sahib felt flabbergasted on seeing her and she looked back at him embarrassed. Then she quickly pulled down a sheet from the clothesline and wrapped it round her body like a chaddar, stretching it low enough so as to hid the mismatched patch of cloth on it from view.

She advanced towards me, hugged me with trembling hands and in a tremulous voice, blessed me. She listened to what I was saying, while her hands were engaged in divesting the solitary cot lying in the courtyard of its soiled clothes. Seating me on the cot, she brought out a hand fan whose edges were laced with strips of black cloth. She wouldn't stop fanning me and I was forced to snatch away the fan from her hand. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

The kitchen was actually a small courtyard with three gaping doors and an earthen hearth improvised in the middle of it. Its contents consisted of a few soiled and dented aluminum pots and some odds and ends. I saw Qazi Sahib, whom I called Grandfather, removing a discolored chilum from his hookah and entering the kitchen. I took off my sherwani and hung it on the frame of the door. Termites had eaten into it. There was a circle of ivory inlaid in it surrounded by patches of oil.

Grandfather kept talking with Grandmother in whispers for some time and after that he made many trips to the kitchen.

I took out my chappals from my bag. Grandfather lifted the pitcher from pitcher-stand and before I could stop him, he deposited the pitcher in a big, gloomy hall. He handed me an aluminum mug and stepped aside meekly as I went in to wash. 'Son, have your bath in peace,' he said. 'Nobody will disturb you. I could have fixed up a curtain but it's no use. Bats will invade the room as soon as it gets dark.'

As I carried the pitcher into a corner to wash, my eyes landed on a brass gong. Large dents had formed on it with constant striking in its middle. At the top, two inches from the circumference there was a big hole through which a black cord had been passed. Alongside the hole there was a blue moon etched into the surface and just above the moon a seven-pointed star. I realized it constituted the monogram of the Bhasool Estate. Under it was inscribed in Arabic: Qazi Inam Husain of Bhasool Estate, Oudh.

This must be the gong they had been using for over a century to make state proclamations. I tried to lift the gong to see it more clearly in better light. But I could not lift it with one hand. It was too heavy for that.

When I came out after finishing my bath, Qazi Sahib was arranging my bed in the courtyard--the very Qazi Sahib who had ceremoniously been proclaimed the ruler of his estate, who was not required to obtain a license to possess firearms, who had been absolved from being summoned before a court of law as a matter of privilege.

Then he came in carrying a tray with both hands like an attendant. On the tray rested two cups of dissimilar shapes and colours containing a concoction which passed for tea. In one plate there were two boiled eggs carefully sliced to fill the plate.

We were sipping the salted tea in the bracing season of early October when an old husky voice called from the door, 'Malik!'

'Who's there?'

'It's your sweeper, Sahibji! Wants to have a word with you.' Looking flustered, Grandfather hurried out. In the days of his glory he would not have taken as much notice even of the British Commissioner.

I went out on a long stroll and when I returned I saw a small kerosene lamp burning in the vestibule. As midnight approached Grandmother spread a mat on the ground and laid the food. In an odd assortment of plates she heaped various kinds of cooked delicacies. I had never eaten such delicious food before.

I woke up late in the morning and found a huge array of food lying alongside my cot. I realized instantly that Grandmother had spent the better part of the night preparing the morning meal for me. Prior to departure, Grandmother stopped me in a tearful voice while Grandfather stood silently by her side. I apologized for having put them to so much inconvenience. Grandmother heard me out wordlessly.

The I heard an ekka stopping outside the door. With trembling hand Grandmother tied a talisman round my arm. 'And take this,' she said, forcing money into my hand. 'It's nothing,' she added. 'Fifty-one rupees for the sweets and ten rupees for the fare.'

'Arre, arre, what are you dong?' I protested. But there was no stopping her. 'I'm doing the right thing,' she insisted.

A hidden sore suddenly burst open. Grandmother had suddenly started wailing while Grandfather stood with his back towards us, frantically pulling at the hookah, puff by puff.

Grandmother came up to the vestibule to see me off. She did not utter a word of farewell, just caressed my back and turned away.

Grandfather, Qazi Inam Husain, the Talukdar of Bhasool, walked some distance alongside the ekka, wordlessly. At last he just raised his head and gave an imperceptible nod in reply to my salam.

Sahauli, where I had to catch a bus for Sitapur, was quite some distance away. I was lost in my thoughts when someone standing by the roadside stopped the ekka. 'Do you mind if I give him a lift?' the ekka driver turned to me. 'He's Mian Ali Shah, the rich money-lender of this place. The axle of his ekka has broken.'

I nodded, and the ekka driver helped the man climb onto the ekka. Shahji, who was wearing a silk shirt and a fine dhoti, perched himself by my side while the ekka driver lifted a brass gong with both hands and deposited it on the ekka. It had a deep mark in the middle and a black cord passing through a hole on top under which the Bhasool monogram had been etched. I looked at the gong while Shahji looked at me and the ekka driver at both of us.

Then the ekka driver turned to the newcomer. 'Shahji, have you brought this gong also?' he asked.

'Yes. I don't know what calamity befell Mianji last evening that he called and asked me to buy the gong.'

'Yes, it's all in one's stars,' the ekka driver philosophized. 'Otherwise, Shahji, this gong…' He whipped his horse. 'This damned horse. It doesn't even know its way.'

I, the perpetrator of that calamity, sat in the ekka like a thief. I felt the whip was not lashing the horse, it was lashing me.

Qazi Abdul Sattar taught Urdu at Aligarh University and has written plays and critical essays besides short stories. Jai Ratan is a prolific translator from Hindi and Urdu literature into English.