I was eating, sleeping and breathing pehelwani, completely immersed in dand push-ups and uthak-baithaks. So, swapping it for a new sport was nothing short of life-altering. Strangely, I am not quite sure who had a hand in this life-changing decision. But I guess it does not really matter. Like the threads become indistinguishable in a beautiful piece of cloth, so did individual voices sometimes melt within the fabric of village life. In the village, it’s often one for all and all for one; the sense of oneness of the community can be very strong.
Perhaps patta was easier than pehelwani. Or perhaps the rigour of pehelwani had prepped me up better than the gallons of buffalo milk I had guzzled. Either way, I became a brilliant patta player, a bit of a prodigy given how young I was. I began defeating several experienced players. Patta matches used to be quite something. For our local villagers back then, it was as glamorous a spectacle as a cricket world cup is today. People used to cancel whatever it was that they had to do, and climb up to their terraces and rooftops, sometimes hopping over to the neighbour’s rooftop, craning their necks, pushing through crowds, all to get a glimpse of the patta matches during the Muharram procession. This juloos went through the village’s serpentine gullies, every single one of them, even the ones that were as narrow as poles.
And what a spectacle it was! The patta parties led the juloos, followed immediately by the Ta’zieh, which are these lovely miniature imitations of mausoleums and minars made out of coloured paper, bamboo, cardboard, etc. Boys and girls flocked all around. Every now and then, an interval was declared: the procession would halt and an impromptu patta match would take place. They were proper matches, with winners and losers and trophies. After the match, the procession would resume as before until the next interval and the next match.
You had to be of a certain professional calibre to be able to play patta like that, with such spontaneity. The patta rehearsals would begin way before Muharram, sometimes two months before, sometimes even earlier. The rehearsals would take place at a ground meant for sports, fairs, and so on. A few tubelights and some light bulbs were installed on the ground. We would ritualistically sprinkle drops of water on the mud, to create a certain mahaul, a certain ambience, a certain mood. The rehearsals themselves were a spectacle for the locals. Enthusiastically, they brought chairs to sit on and watch while smoking from their precious hookah pipes and drinking up cups after cups of chai.
I had begun to excel at patta. My skills had sharpened beyond my belief. Players began to lose against me. And soon enough, I began to defeat even seasoned, highly experienced patta champions.
Once, during the Muharram procession, I got selected to play against the local champion. I cannot describe what a huge opportunity it was for me back then. Every player, even the very senior ones who had a lot of experience, craved to play against this chap. Every year, there was a patta pagri adorned the head of the winner. It was like winning an Oscar for our performance.
It so happened that I went on to defeat the local champion that year. The crowd said, ‘Pagri rakh di jaye. Bhai, iske sar pe pagri rakh di jaye.’ (Let’s put the turban—a token of victory—on this boy’s head.) But I was too young, only about twelve years old. This could have been a humongous victory for me, one that gave me so much pride. But eventually, they put the pagri on another person’s head. This guy had defeated somebody else in the second round while I was in the first round. There were five rounds. I had two points, having won two rounds and lost three. In one of those rounds, I had defeated the famous champion. But the champion himself had won four rounds and had lost only to me. So, someone else got the patta pagri, but this was a huge deal for me, a moment of enormous pride.
Eventually, my younger brother Faizi too became an expert at this sport. Patta could have been an alternative career for me but sadly, this ancient game, which is such an integral part of our country’s history, is now extinct.
3Abbu
Being zamindars, our family had owned acres and acres of land for several generations. My grandfather was a Numberdar, or Lambardar. Everyone called him Yaqoob Numberdar. He was among the handful of wealthy Indians who had won the favour of the British—for example, Lord Mountbatten was his friend. But he was also buddies with Indian leaders like Lal Bahadur Shastri. Dada was known for his flamboyance; he would fly to London, which back in the day was a privilege limited to a few. He used to spend what was a princely sum those days—one or two thousand rupees—in only buying birdfeed.
One of his favourite activities was to ride his dearest horse at the speed of wind on grounds that belonged to him. Indeed, he owned land as far as the eye could see. He was also known for his generosity. If anybody came to him with a lament about, say, lodging, then he would immediately say something like, ‘Go to Firangabad.’ This was a place where we owned a lot of property. The person was granted a plot just like that to live on. In fact, even today in Budhana, there are entire generations who have lived in houses he had granted in largesse. They still remember him with gratitude, and so bestow a lot of respect on our family. He also donated heavily to orphanages, temples and mosques alike—all these are still talked about all
