
The climax of my trip to Lahore with Ajeet Cour8217;s delegation of SAARC writers was a dinner at Cooco8217;s Den. The haveli-front faces the spectacular domes and minarets of the Badshahi Mosque. Behind lie the shoulder-jammed kothas of Heera Mandi, Lahore8217;s red-light district. Cooco8217;s four floors are now dining spaces. The roof has the best view and catches the faint spring breeze. Each twist of the century-old stairwell reveals an eclectic taste at work. Carvings in wood and stone, a four-foot high Hanuman rampant in pure marble, devi-devtas, Buddha heads: all the broken dreams and imaginings of the subcontinent decorate the walls and niches.
Fabulous food in terracotta handis wafts out, concluding with the delicate Lahori pudding called 8220;thoothi8221;. Each portion consists of two shallow earthern saucers in which the thoothi is set, served with one saucer inverted over the other. Cooco8217;s owner, the 50-ish Iqbal Hussain, is the son of a Heera Mandi prostitute. For the last 30 years, he8217;s painted the women of the quarter, a sort of Pakistani Toulouse-Lautrec. His large classically styled portraits of sad-eyed women show faces as depleted as empty thoothi saucers, knees sprawling in the tired manner of those who no longer see life as a gift.
Doesn8217;t this brave man, who refused to lie about his birth, remind you of an ancient dweller of this very land, Satyakama Jabali? The Chandogya Upanishad tells us of a young boy who wished to learn and showed up at the ashram of Rishi Haridrumata Gautama. 8220;What is your parentage, dear boy?8221; asked the rishi. 8220;My mother Jabala does not know, since she worked as a maid in many houses and cannot precisely say who my father is. She said to tell you that I am Jabali, the son of Jabala,8221; replied the boy unflinchingly. 8220;Your courage in stating the truth makes you a worthy pupil,8221; said the rishi and 8220;the teacher taught him 8212; nothing was omitted, yea, nothing was omitted8221; Chandogya Upanishad IV-ix-3.