Land of Five Rivers (6 page)

h
unger

Krishen Singh Dhodi

        I
t was the silver jubilee week of ‘The Blood of the Lover’ at the Nishat; the film had drawn a packed house for every showing of the preceding twenty-five weeks. That was not suprising as everyone has at one time or the other been in love; and everyone loved the film because they found their own life-story projected on the screen. The producer decided to celebrate the success by taking out a triumphal procession through the streets of the city. The publicity campaign was entrusted to a contractor, Sundar Singh.

Sundar Singh was a pleasant man of about forty-five. He lived in a house close by the Nishat. He lived alone because he did not have a relative in the world to share his home. He had employed a fifteen year old lad, Bachana Singh, to cook his meals for him. Bachana Singh gave his master the morning and the evening meal and spent the rest of the day parading through the streets sandwiched between cinema placards. For this he was paid Rs. 25 per month — all of which he gave to his widowed mother who lived in a refugee encampment.

The procession of the film ‘The Blood of the Lover’ started from the Nishat cinema at 8 a.m. Sundar Singh wore a bright red turban with starched plumes flaunting in the air. He carried a flag in his hand and ran up and down the procession shouting instructions. Heading the procession was Master Raja Lal’s brass band. Following the band was a truck bearing mammoth-size portraits of the stars of the film; one picture showed a fountain of blood pouring out of the heart of the lover and falling at the feet of his sweetheart. Following the truck were a row of bullock-carts decorated with hoardings; following the bullock-carts were sandwichmen; and last of all were little urchins carrying sticks with placards stuck to them. Amongst the urchins was Bachana Singh.

Bachana Singh wore a clean shirt and pyjama; he had even polished his shoes. But there was no sign of joy on his face. He trudged on silently in the last rank with his eyes downcast and an age-old melancholy in his drooping visage. And there was his employer Sundar Singh, strutting about with the airs of a Field Marshall now commanding the band to play another air; now ordering the bullock cart drivers to keep in line; and again bellowing at the little boys to march in step.

It was a grand spectacle. Although the procession had been organised by the rich, the people who marched in it were poor — the poor who had agreed to tramp through dusty streets to be able to fill their bellies. Anyone pausing to see their pale, emaciated faces would have concluded that the procession was intended to advertise poverty — poverty which had celebrated a hundred thousand silver and golden jubilees.

The procession entered the city. It went along the main thoroughfare, the Mall, past the city’s biggest bakery. The bakery bore a large sign-board picturing a giant-size loaf with the legend ‘Delbis.’ Bachana Singh’s eyes fell on the picture; his mouth filled with saliva; he ran his tongue over his lips. He stopped in front of the bakery and stood entranced gaping at the board. Sundar Singh’s harsh voice pierced through his eardrum. ‘
Oi Bachania! oi,
you son of a witch! keep moving.’

Bachana Singh ran to catch up with his rank. But his thoughts stayed behind with the loaf of bread. He marched on with the procession; his mind stuck to the hoarding; his feet went one way, his heart the other. He pondered over the hard life he led.

Bachana Singh got up at six every morning to give his master breakfast consisting of tea, toast cut out of a small loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter. Sundar Singh used up all the butter and the bread leaving only the crust of the toast for his servant — this Bachana washed down with his own cup of tea. It was Bachana Singh’s dream that one day he would eat a whole loaf of Delbis with a pat of butter. Since he gave his wages to his mother, there was nothing to spare for luxuries such as these. Once when Sundar Singh had felt a little under the weather, he had taken only one toast and given the rest of the loaf to his servant. Bachana still cherished the memory of that day and prayed that his master would again be indisposed and the entire loaf and the pat of butter would fall to the servant’s share. The picture in the bakery made him so ravenously hungry that he imagined himself swallowing the entire loaf in one big gulp.

After breakfast Sundar Singh used to stroke his paunch and repeat: ‘Great Guru, Emperor True! I thank Thee a hundred thousand times. Guru Gobind, Lord of the Plumes, all that Thy humble servant gets is but Thy gift; Thou givest and Thy humble servant’s hunger is appeased’. And then Sundar Singh would emit a long, satisfied belch.

Bachana heard these words of thanksgiving every morning. How strange, he wondered, that the True Emperor should give to some and not to others! That He should give Sundar Singh a whole loaf with butter every day and him only the leftover crust! Silk shirts to Sundar Singh and tattered rags to Bachana! And then poor Bachana Singh would resume his breakfast of dry crust dipped in tea.

Sometimes Bachana asked himself why he had never thanked the Guru, the True Emperor. So one day he blurted out: ‘Great Guru, True Emperor! For what I have received I thank Thee a hundred thousand times!’ And immediately after he had uttered the words he felt a little silly; what had he to thank the Guru for? Just for the dry crust of bread? The thanks were due from Sundar Singh because he did get a whole loaf and butter every day. If he (Bachana) gave thanks for the crust, that’s all the Guru would ever give him!

Once Sundar Singh went off toast for a few days; he began to take milk instead for his breakfast. Poor Bachana was deprived even of his scrap of toast. No wonder the mere picture of a loaf of bread made him drool at the mouth. He resolved to buy the bread and the butter; but where was the money to come from?

When he returned home after parading the streets, he was very tired. His limbs ached, and the longing for bread and butter gnawed at his inside. His master, Sundar Singh came back, changed into a suit and left to go to a reception given by the producer of the ‘The Blood of the Lover.’

Bachana Singh had no means of raising a loan; he had asked his companion on the parade to give him eight
annas
but no one would lend the money; perhaps they were as hard up as he. Or did they suspect he would never be able to return the loan? Bachana tried to get a loaf and butter from the cinema restaurant; that also failed. Sundar Singh had given instructions that nothing was to be given on credit to his servant. Bachana Singh lay down on his charpoy. He was hungry.

Before he fell asleep, Bachana said a short prayer — his heart was too full for more. He hadn’t asked for a million rupees or motor cars or bungalows — only a small loaf of bread and half a pat of butter. Even that was denied him! He prayed fervently. ‘Great Guru, True Emperor, I have forsaken others and come to Your door. People say You are the Great Giver. I too have seen Your generosity towards the proprietor of the Nishat cinema and to contractor Sundar Singh. But why give You not to me and a hundred thousand others like me? Who else can we turn to? If You really are the Great Giver, then give Your servant a loaf of bread. Otherwise I will conclude that You are the Guru of the chosen few and I shall find a new Guru of my own.’ Bachana Singh’s eyes closed in sleep.

Late in the night he awoke with an eerie feeling. His room was lit with strange effulgence. A bright glittering figure dismounted from a horse and entered his room. A white hawk fluttered on his hand. Of course, it was Guru Govind Singh Himself! Bachana rushed and bowed his head to the Guru’s feet and then offered the Guru his humble three-legged stool. The guru embraced Bachana.

‘My son, you thought of me in your prayers!’

‘Yes, Father!’ replied Bachana folding the palms of his hands and dropping his eyes.

‘Why did you think of me, son?’ asked the Guru with great kindness.

‘Emperor True! You know the innermost secrets of our hearts; You know of my suffering!’

‘Son, ask what you wish and it will be granted.’ Bachana remained silent.

‘Son, be not shy! Ask for what your heart wills most.’

‘Emperor True! Will You really give me what I ask?’

‘Yes son; you thought of me in the truthfulness of your heart. For this whatever your heart wills will be granted.’

‘Give me a small loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter,’ blurted Bachana smacking his lips.

‘A loaf of Delbis and half a pat of butter! Four and three — that is only seven
annas
worth per day! Son, know the status of the one who gives and then ask. Ask for happiness in this life and the life to come; ask for dominion over the globe and I shall grant it to you; I can make you King of the three worlds.’

‘No my Lord! I do not want dominion or power. It was different in your age; today King’s heads roll in the dust and are kicked about by common people. All I need is a loaf of bread. And many who are as poor as I also need bread. I do not wish to own a kingdom; but I also do not want to spend a lifetime in hunger and want. Appease my hunger in this life; I will not bother about life hereafter.’

‘You will get all you want and quite soon in the life to come you will have everything in full measure. I will have to come back to this world again; not to save India from the perils of a foreign invasion but to give every Indian bread and butter. Wait for my return.’

‘True Emperor! I have waited long. Don’t take more time, come as soon as you can.’

‘I will not be long.’

The effulgent figure remounted the horse and vanished.

‘Oi Bachania!
Get up you lazy lout! Its almost afternoon and you are still in bed. Get up and get my Delbis and butter.’

Bachana had gone to bed very late; then there was that strange dream! When he heard the word Delbis, he rose with a start — but still in his dream world.

‘True Emperor! You have really come — and sooner than you promised! Where is my Delbis and my pat of butter?’

Sundar Singh gave the boy a quizzical glance.
‘Oi,
whose father are you talking to? You didn’t drug yourself with hashish, did you? Do I get the breakfast for you, or you for me? Hurry up you slug-a-bed and get my Delbis and butter.’

‘Someone there is who is going to get Delbis and butter for me; soon, very soon.’

Bachana opened his eyes. Sundar Sigh stood glowering over him. Bachana quickly shut his eyes and stretched himself on the charpoy again.

Sundar Singh picked up the charpoy from one end and tilted it over. Bachana rolled off and fell on the floor.

g
ods on trial

Gulzar Singh Sandhu

        N
oora sat quietly under a mango tree by the tombs of the
Pirs
. He was absorbed in doing the home task given by his teacher. Rahmte, his sister, was cutting fodder from the Sikh Martyrs’ field, near the
Pirs’
graveyard.

The Martyrs entombed near our field are supposed to possess great miraculous powers transcending death, fire and time. We, of the Sikh religion have profound faith in them. So much so that I was not allowed even to take the school examination unless I pledged an offering to them. My grandfather believed that it was only because of the Martyr’s kind intercession that I never once failed in any examination.

That summer day, I was also sitting with Noora under the mango tree. While Noora was engrossed in homework I watched Rahmte, cutting fodder from our field. I liked her so much that I felt like talking about her to Noora.

‘Of your two sisters whom do you like more? Rahmte or Jaina?’ I asked.

‘Jaina,’ he said, naming the elder one that had been married for four years then.

‘Why don’t you like Rahmte?’ said I and was suddenly aware that I could be misunderstood.

‘She beat me once, which Jaina never did,’ he said casually, to my satisfaction and returned to his book. Assured that I was not misunderstood, I started watching the rhythmic movement of Rahmte’s limbs operating the sickle.

Just then something startled a peacock on the Martyrs’
peepul
tree, and it shot off into the air flapping its large wings with a heavy, muffled thud-thud. One of the feathers came off and sailed down to the ground. I was then a keen collector of peacock feathers. As I saw one sailing down in its rich dazzling colours, I threw down my book and ran for it. But it never touched the ground. Rahmte had grabbed it from the air before I could.

‘Hand it to me,’ I said a little tensely.

‘I got it first,’ she replied coldly.

‘None of that!’ I threatened, ‘You have to give it to me.’

‘Oh, I have to, have I?’ she scoffed. ‘In that case I shan’t!’

‘Come on, hand it over and I’ll never ask anything more from you.’ I tried to sound suggestive and grown up. She flushed.

‘Take it, there,’ she said curtly throwing the feather away. She collected the fodder into a sheaf, picked it up and started home. I could not take my eyes from her slender figure, straining under the weight of the sheaf. I was left wondering whether I had really offended her.

Back in the graveyard I found Noora’s father the saintly Badru, saying his
namaaz.
Noora stood by humbly. Both the father and the son had incongruous yellow scarves, the symbol of the Sikh religion, around their necks, for they, along with others, had recently agreed to ‘conversion.’ These were the days of communal riots and the yellow scarf guaranteed security to the Muslim minority in East Punjab.

The Partition of the country had torn India into two parts and conversion had been made a condition by the Sikhs, for those Muslims staying on in India, in retaliation to a similar declaration by Muslims in Pakistan for any Hindus or Sikhs there. The majority, no doubt, in our area were Muslims, and that too of the orthodox sect of Sunnis. But what could they do? They were in India and whoever did not convert to Sikhism was killed.

After the invitation for conversion a huge number of steel bangles, wooden crescent combs and yellow scarves were procured for an elaborate conversion ceremony. Just when the
parsad,
the sanctified sweet, was being prepared for initiating the Muslims to the Sikh religion, a phlegmatic voice said:

‘What good is this initiation, bound by outward symbols? These cannot deter them from continuing to be Muslims at heart!’ It was Baba Phuman Singh, pausing to fling a pellet of opium into the hollow cavern of his mouth.

‘What else do you advise us to do?’

‘Feed them with pork,’ he said.

‘Our own people have been made to eat beef on that side of the border,’ said another.

Everyone agreed to feed pork to the Muslims gathered for initiation. Four or five pigs were killed and cooked immediately. This ceremony had been carried out in a similar manner in neighbouring villages also.

The Muslims listened and watched with the resigned passivity and indifference of those who no longer cared whether they live or die.

‘Our Gurus baptised with
parsad
only,’ my father whispered to
Babaji,
in mild protest.

‘Keep your mouth shut, man. Nothing like silence,’ he said and drifted towards the pots of meat to examine the quality.

In a little while all the Muslims were initiated into the Sikh religion. Wearing the five symbols of Sikhism they started swallowing the pieces of pork served to them.

‘We have always been Hindus. Only that blasted Aurangzeb made us change,’ one of them said in a futile effort to seek justification for his acts.
Babaji
and a jew other village elders, sat a little separately from the rest, in their own superior elite group of Sandhus.

‘The Maharaja of Patiala is a Sidhu,’ I heard him say. ‘Sidhu and Sandhu are equal. The only difference is that our
jagir
provides us only with opium while the maharaja’s gives him all the luxury he could dream of.’ The talk did not interest me.

‘Noora and his people are not being baptised?’ I asked my father. ‘Hush!’ my father silenced me, ‘I have delivered all the five symbols to them and they are wearing them. Noora’s father is a saintly person and respects us. I wouldn’t want him to feel disgraced in public. May be he does not want to take part.’

When my grandfather asked about the baptism of Badru and his family, my father managed to convince him that Badru had taken pork in his very presence. To allay any remaining doubts, father swore it solemnly and thus the whole of Badru’s family was also counted among the baptised.

And where was the lie in it? That day when I had demanded the peacock feather from Rahmte she was wearing a yellow
duppatta
on her head and a steel bangle on her wrist. Her father Badru and her brother Noora too were wearing yellow scarves around their necks and steel bangles on their wrists. Both were performing the
namaaz.
They would not have dared to pray the Muslim way had there been a witness. But then the only person present was myself and I was his pupil. They knew well that I would not tell anyone in the village that they were praying the Muslim way. How could I, who till the third standard had done my sums with the help of Rahmte?

It is still all so clear before my eyes, that day — Rahmte carrying the sheaf of fodder, Badru and Noora praying. The long
henna
-dyed beard of the holy man touched the ground as he bowed in prayer. His loose
lucknawi
shirt was a little dirty. I stood at some distance watching them all, when I heard sudden shouts of
‘Bole so nihal, sat sri akal.’
It was the Sikh cry and it sent us running for our lives in great terror. In the general panic Noora stumbled and fell on the ground. The running hoofs came to a stop and many a spear was jabbed viciously into his body. He lay there with his entrails hanging out. It was the last I saw of him.

I looked at the riders in yellow and blue and stood there dazed. They had already closed in on Badru. The saint pleaded with folded hands flourishing his yellow scarf and the steel bangle on his wrist to show he was a Sikh. A Nihang Sikh with fox-tail moustaches, playfully struck the wrist which was raised to exhibit the bangle, and cut it clean from the elbow. When Badru raised his other hand in abject imploration, the tyrant struck that off too.

‘Send this pig as well to Pakistan,’ someone shouted and ran towards me.

Sending one to Pakistan was a common phrase for killing a Muslim.

‘He’s a Sikh one, you fool,’ a voice checked him. It was the Nihang Sikh who had speared Noora.

From his saddle he lifted me up and put me in his lap.

I do not know what happened after that, for I lost consciousness.

When I came to my senses next day I was lying in bed in the verandah. My mother’s eyes were red and swollen with crying.

‘He’s saved, don’t you worry
.
It was only shock. He is just a child after all.’
Babaji
was talking to my mother.

‘It was almost the end of him,’ my mother said wiping her tears and rubbing my limbs.

‘What a dreadful shock for you, my son! God protect you, God bless you,’ she said wiping my face with her
duppatta
.

‘Bless and be blessed afterwards, first give offerings to the Martyrs who saved his life,’ said
Babaji
and everyone agreed to this proposal. They started making preparations for the Martyrs.

Chokingly, I told my mother about Noora’s death and asked her in a trembling voice if she knew anything about Rahmte. She told me in tears that Jaina and Rahmte were abducted by the crusading rioters along with other Muslim girls of the village. Many were murdered, about fifty of them. Whoever was seen with a new yellow scarf and bright steel bangle was killed.

Meanwhile the whole of the village made ready to offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. Though it was a quiet evening, everyone was frightened. Baba Phuman Singh was absolutely stunned. He was almost out of his wits. Just a while ago he was informed that his life-long friend Ghanshamdas had also been killed by mistake. He had been carrying a yellow scarf to one of his Muslim friends out in the fields, when he was surprised by the rioters who killed him, taking him to be a new convert. They did not wait to check who was who. They were busy people. They had to visit and plunder other villages too. For them the sight of a yellow scarf was enough to tell them of ‘converts.’

While praying at the Martyrs field,
Babaji
(my grandfather) was still thinking of Ghanshamdas. Yes, true, he had to die some day. But this sudden and uncalled for death had given a new uncertainty to people, including
Babaji.
It meant that anyone who was carrying a yellow scarf, even if he was a Sikh or a Hindu, would not be spared. Where then was the guarantee of safety to converts? In fact those who had not accepted Sikhism were safer, for they were cautious, not caught so easily and hence not killed. Thus, absurdly, avowed Muslims were escaping while Sikhs were being slaughtered!

Even though he was singing aloud the praises of Guru Gobind’s sons, the Five Beloved Ones, and the Forty Martyrs, his heart was crying over the calamitous riots towards the end when he was reciting verses in honour of those who had shared their wealth, fought sinners, offered sacrifice for the faith, suddenly his legs buckled beneath him. The mention of ‘sacrifices for the faith’ choked his throat. His
khunda
fell off on the ground. The rest of the prayer was completed by my father. Having finished the ceremony my father told me to go and offer
parsad
to the Martyrs. As I placed the
parsad
on their tombs, the crows from the
peepul
tree nearby came cawing and swooping and ate it up in no time. ‘Let the Martyrs remain hungry,’ I said to myself.

As my father distributed
parsad
to everyone and was about to leave,
Babaji
came forward and held him there by his arm.

‘Tell the boy to put some on the
Pirs
tombs too,’ he said pointing towards the
Pirs’
graveyard. Looking in that direction I remembered Noora. The
peepul
in the field reminded me of Rahmte who had frowned at me under it. Had she done it in love or in hatred? I would never know now.

‘What do you mean?’ father asked
Babaji,
a little puzzled — ‘on the
Pirs’
tombs?’

‘You remember the massacre,’
Babaji
whispered to father, after taking him beyond the boundary of the field. Perhaps he dared not say it within the Martyrs’ domain, afraid of their curse on his unbelief.

‘Yes, I remember,’ father said bitterly.

‘Those who were initiated have been killed, haven’t they?’

‘So what?’ whispered my father still puzzled.

‘Those who did not agree to initiation are saved, you know that.’

‘I don’t understand,’ father said, frowning perplexedly. ‘Well, if you don’t, I can’t help it,’ snapped
Babaji,
a little irritated by my father’s denseness.

‘Listen,’ he tried again, whispering very low to prevent the Martyrs overhearing. ‘Those who remained Muslims were saved, were they not? Well, who knows if tomorrow the
Pirs
don’t turn out to be more powerful than our Martyrs?’

Suddenly enlightened, I ran and offered
parsad
at the
Pirs’
tombs. Father did not stop me.

Perhaps the insinuation in
Babaji’s
remarks still escaped him?