Cracking India (21 page)

“Why is thirteen an unlucky number?” I ask Mother.

“Who told you it's unlucky? There are no unlucky numbers, dear—only lucky numbers.”

I ask Godmother.

“People say it's lucky—I don't know. Ask Mini: she should know.”

“It's unlucky,” says Mini Aunty, promptly and definitely and nodding her head. “I know. I was born on the thirteenth of March.”

I ask Cousin.

“Something to do with Jesus Christ... He had a farewell party, you know. Something to do with that.”

I ask Mrs. Pen. She tells me that the farewell party was called the Last Supper. She tells me about Christ, the twelve apostles and about Judas's betrayal and Christ's crucifixion.

 

From the distance, drawing stridently nearer, clamors the “tee-too, tee-too” of the dread siren. The sound shrivels time—the way Hari's genitals shriveled. I am back in the factory filled with children lying on their backs on beds. Godmother sits by me, looking composed, as competent soldiers move about hammering nails into our hands and feet. The room fills with the hopeless moans of crucified children—and with their collective sighs as they breathe in and out, in and out, with an eerie horrifying insistence.

I awaken to a distant, pulsating sound. The chant of slogans carried to me on gusts of wind.

We leave early. Master Tara Singh is expected to make an appearance outside the Assembly Chambers, behind the Queen's Garden. Except for Muccho and her children, who remain behind in the servants' quarters, our house is deserted. Mother and Father left before us with the Singhs and the Phailbuses.

There is no room for us in the Queen's Garden. Seen from the roof of the Faletti's Hotel—the Faletti's Hotel cook has secured a place for us—it appears that the park has sprouted a dense crop of humans. They overflow its boundaries on to the roads and sit on trees and on top of walls. The crowd is thickest on the concrete between the back of the garden and the Assembly Chambers. Policemen are holding the throng from surging up the wide, imperious flight of pink steps.

There is a stir of excitement, an increase in the volume of noise, and Master Tara Singh, in a white
kurta,
his silken beard flowing creamily down his face, appears on the top steps of the Assembly Chambers. I see him clearly. His chest is diagonally swathed in a blue band from which dangles a decoratively sheathed
kirpan.
The folds of his loose white pajamas fall about his ankles: a leather band round his waist holds a long religious dagger.

He gets down to business right away. Holding a long sword in each hand, the curved steel reflecting the sun's glare as he clashes the swords above his head, the Sikh soldier-saint shouts: “We will see how the Muslim swine get Pakistan! We will fight to the last man! We will show them who will leave Lahore!
Raj karega Khalsa, aki rahi na koi!”

The Sikhs milling about in a huge blob in front wildly wave and clash their swords,
kirpans
and hockey sticks, and punctuate his shrieks with roars:
“Pakistan Murdabad
! Death to Pakistan!
Sat Siri Akaal! Bolay se nihaal!”

And the Muslims shouting: “So? We'll play Holi-with-their-blood! Ho-o-o-li with their blo-o-o-d!”

And the Holi festival of the Hindus and Sikhs coming up in a few days, when everybody splatters everybody with colored water and colored powders and laughs and romps...

 

And instead the skyline of the old walled city ablaze, and people splattering each other with blood! And Ice-candy-man hustling Ayah and me up the steps of his tenement in Bhatti Gate, saying: “Wait till you see Shalmi burn!” And pointing out landmarks from the crowded tenement roof:

“That's Delhi Gate... There's Lahori Gate... There's Mochi Darwaza...”

“Isn't that where Masseur lives?” Ayah asks.

“Yes, that's where your masseur stays,” says Ice-candy-man, unable to mask his ire. “It's a Muslim
mohalla,”
he continues in an effort to dispel his rancor. “We've got wind that the Hindus of Shalmi plan to attack it—push the Muslims across the river. The Hindus and Sikhs think they'll take Lahore. But we'll surprise them yet!”

“
Hai Ram!
That's Gowalmandi isn't it?” says Ayah. “
Hai Ram
... How it burns!”

And our eyes wide and somber.

Suddenly a posse of sweating English tommies, wearing only khaki shorts, socks and boots, runs up in the lane directly below us. And on their heels a mob of Sikhs, their wild long hair and beards rampant, large fevered eyes glowing in fanatic faces, pours into the narrow lane roaring slogans, holding curved swords, shoving up a manic wave of violence that sets Ayah to trembling as she holds me tight. A naked child, twitching on a spear struck between her shoulders, is waved like a flag: her screamless mouth agape, she is staring straight up at me. A crimson fury blinds me. I want to dive into the bestial creature clawing entrails, plucking eyes, tearing limbs, gouging hearts, smashing brains: but the creature has too many stony hearts, too many sightless eyes, deaf ears, mindless brains and tons of entwined entrails...

And then a slowly advancing mob of Muslim
goondas
: packed so tight that we can see only the tops of their heads. Roaring:
“Allah-o-Akbar! Yaaaa Ali!”
and
“Pakistan Zindabad!”

The terror the mob generates is palpable—like an evil, paralyzing spell. The terrible procession, like a sluggish river, flows beneath us. Every short while a group of men, like a whirling eddy, stalls—and like the widening circles of a treacherous eddy dissolving in the mainstream, leaves in its center the pulpy red flotsam of a mangled body.

The processionists are milling about two jeeps pushed back to back. They come to a halt: the men in front of the procession pulling ahead and the mob behind banked close up. There is a quickening in the activity about the jeeps. My eyes focus on an emaciated Banya wearing a white Gandhi cap. The man is knocked down. His lips are drawn away from rotting,
paan
-stained teeth in a scream. The men move back and in the small clearing I see his legs sticking out of his dhoti right up to the groin—each thin, brown leg tied to a jeep. Ayah, holding her hands over my eyes, collapses on the floor, pulling me down with her. There is the roar of a hundred throats:
“Allah-o-Akbar!”
and beneath it the growl of revving motors. Ice-candy-man stoops over us, looking concerned: the muscles in his face tight with a strange exhilaration I never again want to see.

Ramzana the butcher and Masseur join us. Ayah sits sheathing her head and form with her sari, cowering and lumpish against the wall.

“You shouldn't have brought them here,
yaar,”
says Masseur. “They shouldn't see such things... Besides, it's dangerous.”

“We are with her. She's safe,” says Ice-candy-man laconically. He adds: “I only wanted her to see the fires.”

“I want to go home,” I whimper.

“As soon as things quiet down I'll take you home,” says Masseur reassuringly. He picks me up and swings me until I smile.

Ice-candy-man offers me another popsicle. I've eaten so many already that I feel sick. He gathers the empty tin plates strewn about us. The uneaten chapatti on Ayah's plate is stiff: the
vegetable curry cold. Ice-candy-man removes the plate.

“Look!” shouts the butcher. “Shalmi's started to burn!”

 

We rush to the parapet. Tongues of pink flame lick two or three brick buildings in the bazaar. The flames are hard to spot: no match for the massive growth of brick and cement spreading on either side of the street.

“Just watch. You'll see a
tamasha!”
says Ice-candy-man. “Wait till the fire gets to their stock of arsenal.”

As if on cue, a deafening series of explosions shakes the floor beneath our feet. Ayah stands up hastily and joins us at the parapet. The walls and balconies of a two-story building in the center of the bazaar bulge and bulge. Then the bricks start slowly tumbling, and the dark slab of roof caves into the exploding furnace...

People are pouring into the Shalmi lanes from their houses and shops. We hear the incredibly prompt clamor of a fire brigade. The clanking fire engine, crowded with ladders, hose and helmeted men, maneuvers itself through the street, the truck with the water tank following.

The men exchange surprised looks. Ice-candy-man says: “Where did those motherfuckers spring from?”

The firemen scamper busily, attaching hoses, shoving people back. Riding on the trucks they expertly direct their powerful hoses at the rest of the buildings on either side of the road.

As the fire brigade drives away, the entire row of buildings on both sides of the street ignite in an incredible conflagration. Although we are several furlongs away, a scorching blast from a hot wind makes our clothes flap as if in a storm. I look at Ice-candy-man. The astonishment on his features is replaced by a huge grin. His face, reflecting the fire, is lit up. “The fucking bastards!” he says, laughing aloud, spit flying from his mouth. “The fucking bastards! They sprayed the buildings with petrol! They must be Muslim.”

The Hindus of Shalmi must have piled a lot of dynamite in their houses and shops to drive the Muslims from Mochi Gate. The
entire Shalmi, an area covering about four square miles, flashes in explosions. The men and women on our roof are slapping each other's hands, laughing, hugging one another.

I stare at the
tarriasha,
mesmerized by the spectacle. It is like a gigantic fireworks display in which stiff figures looking like spreadeagled stick-dolls leap into the air, black against the magenta furnace. Trapped by the spreading flames the panicked Hindus rush in droves from one end of the street to the other. Many disappear down the smoking lanes. Some collapse in the street. Charred limbs and burnt logs are falling from the sky.

The whole world is burning. The air on my face is so hot I think my flesh and clothes will catch fire. I start screaming, hysterically sobbing. Ayah moves away, her feet suddenly heavy and dragging, and sits on the roof slumped against the wall. She buries her face in her knees.

“What small hearts you have,” says Ice-candy-man, beaming affectionately at us. “You must make your hearts stout!” He strikes his out-thrust chest with his fist. Turning to the men, he says: “The fucking bastards! They thought they'd drive us out of Bhatti! We've shown them!”

It is not safe to leave until late that evening. As the butcher drives us home in his cart, the moonlight settles like a layer of ashes over Lahore.

In a rush I collect the dolls long abandoned in bottom drawers and toy chest and climb stools to retrieve them from the dusty tops of old cupboards. I line them up against the wall, on my bed, and Adi, intrigued by my sudden interest in dolls, stands by quietly watching.

I can't remember a time when I ever played with dolls: though relatives and acquaintances have persisted in giving them to me. China, cloth and celluloid dolls variously stuffed, sized and colored. Black golliwogs, British baby dolls with pink complexions, Indian adult dolls covered in white cloth, their faces painted on.

I pick out a big, bloated celluloid doll. I turn it upside down and pull its legs apart. The elastic that holds them together stretches easily. I let one leg go and it snaps back, attaching itself to the brittle torso.

Adi moves closer. “What're you trying to do?” he enquires.

I examine the sari- and dhoti-clad Indian dolls. They are unreal, their exaggerated faces too obviously painted, their bodies too fragile. I select a large lifelike doll with a china face and blinking blue eyes and coarse black curls. It has a sturdy, well-stuffed cloth body and a substantial feel.

I hold it upside down and pull its pink legs apart. The knees and thighs bend unnaturally, but the stitching in the center stays intact.

I hold one leg out to Adi. “Here,” I say, “pull it.”

“Why?” asks Adi looking confused.

“Pull, damn it!” I scream, so close to hysteria that Adi blanches and hastily grabs the proffered leg. (He is one of the few people I know who is fair enough to blanch—or blush noticeably.) Adi and I pull the doll's legs, stretching it in a fierce tug-of-war, until making a wrenching sound it suddenly splits. We stagger off balance. The cloth skin is ripped right up to its armpits spilling chunks of grayish cotton and coiled brown coir and the innards that make its eyes blink and make it squawk “Ma-ma.” I examine the doll's spilled insides and, holding them in my hands, collapse on the bed sobbing.

Adi crouches close to me. I can't bear the disillusioned and contemptuous look in his eyes.

“Why were you so cruel if you couldn't stand it?” he asks at last, infuriated by the pointless brutality.