The
Allama Liveth
By Sir Cam
Cambridge, UK
I had been waiting for him at Trinity College
for some time. The Porter’s Lodge is not
a very welcoming place to be hanging around, especially
if you have one of these stuck-up English butler
types, the Porter, breathing down your neck. Looking
out of the window I could see a figure emerging
from the Dining Hall and making his way across
the Great Court.
Trinity’s Great Court, the largest enclosed
courtyard in Europe, is jeweled by an elegant
central fountain with a stone-carved crown supported
by arches. As the figure got nearer I could make
out his familiar features: stocky frame, fair
complexion, wide jawbone, and black hair combed
back to reveal the philosopher’s forehead.
How was I going to address him: Sir Iqbal, Dr
Iqbal, Your Allama Highness? I had thought about
it, but wasn’t really prepared for this
encounter. Besides, the butterflies of excitement
in my belly were beginning to have the upper hand.
As he approached, the drums were rolling like
at a circus when a trapeze artist is about to
make that super jump. ‘Ladies and gentlemen....’
He passed by me and went through the Great Gate,
the style of which is “of a kind reserved
for castles or important manor houses - bearing
witness to the esteem in which the Cambridge colleges
were held in the later Middle Ages”. The
man I held in esteem in the Modern Age went by
as I feasted on him from the Porter’s Lodge,
which is right next to the gate. He walked over
the cobbled area outside the college and turned
left in Trinity Street, going northwards towards
St John’s College.
I followed him into Trinity Street, a narrow pedestrianised
street. There was a gentle breeze blowing up the
street, into our faces. I saw Allama raise his
right hand and brush his hair back. I was right
behind, follow-that-man kind of tracking, preparing
to pounce on him and introduce myself or at least
get an autograph on the small notebook I always
kept next to my breast.
I could hear poetical rhythms in the air. It was
as though the wind was going through Allama and
carrying his sweet couplets up towards me: “Your
perch is not the dome of the royal palace/You
are an eagle and should put up in the rocks of
the mountains”.
I grew wings and flew up, up above Allama. The
flute of his poems was taking me higher and higher:
“Your nature emanates from Light and hence
you are pure/You are the sight of the eyes of
the high heavens/Hoories and angels are an easy
prey for you/As you are the eagle of the King
(Prophet)/for whom the whole universe was brought
into being”.
The next moment he brought me down: “I fear
for the age in which you are born/Is steeped in
body and knows little of the spirit”.
And still further down: “You do not bear
any relation whatsoever with your forefathers/As
you only speak while they acted/and you are static
while they constantly moved”. As I gloomily
crash-landed on the pavement he gave me hope to
rise up once more: “Neither turn your back
on the East nor fear the West/Bring forth dawn
from every dark night,’ says Nature”.
We thus reached Bridge Street, which we crossed
and followed leftwards from the ancient Round
Church up to the disused-looking Anglican Parish
of St Clement. Here, on the right, there is a
narrow, two-meter passage which widens to about
four meters with terraced houses almost on top
of each other. Allama turned right into this passage
called Portugal Place, perhaps named after the
equally narrow strip of a country squeezed next
to Spain.
His steps were echoing in the darkness of the
passage, the sharp sound bouncing off the house
walls and hitting me on the head. “Be not
complacent about the education you receive/Through
it the soul of a nation they can kill.”
Ouch!
“The Muslim youth, radiant of mind/His soul
in darkness, without a lamp.../Stranger to himself,
intoxicated with the West/Seeker of barley-bread
from the hand of the West/He bought a loaf in
return for his soul.” Ouch! That hurt.
The footsteps ceased. Allama put his left hand
in his trouser pocket and pulled out a key. He
transferred it to his right hand as he faced the
door, lifted his hand, inserted the key, turned
it, pushed the door and stepped inside.
The surge inside me finally pushed me towards
him, but as I opened my mouth to say something,
the door shut in my face with a bang. I was left
gaping at the front of house number 17 Portugal
Place. I shook my head in dismay and looked up
at the house. There was a simple plaque on the
wall:
“ALLAMA MUHAMMAD IQBAL
Born 1877 Died 1938
Poet-Philosopher of Pakistan
Lived here 1905-6 while at Trinity College”
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