Land of Five Rivers (8 page)

My heart seemed rent asunder. I could have shed tears of blood. My cup of sorrow was full to the brim when I realised that Delhi, which was once the footstool of the Muslim Empire, the centre of Islamic culture and civilisation, had been snatched out of our hands. Instead we were to have the desert wastes of Western Punjab, Sindh and Baluchistan inhabited by an uncouth and uncultured people. We were to go to a land where people do not know how to talk in civilised Urdu; where men wear baggy
salwars
like their women folk, where they eat thick bread four pounds in weight instead of the delicate wafers we eat at home!

I steeled myself. I would have to make this sacrifice for my great leader, Jinnah, and for my new country, Pakistan. Nevertheless the thought of having to leave Delhi was most depressing.

When I emerged from my room in the evening, my Sikh neighbour bared his fangs and asked, ‘Brother, did you not go out to see the celebrations?’ I felt like setting fire to his beard.

One morning the news spread of a general massacre in old Delhi. Muslim homes were burnt in Karol Bagh. Muslim shops in Chandni Chowk were looted. This then was a sample of Hindu rule! I said to myself, ‘New Delhi is really an English city; Lord Mountbatten lives here as well as the Commanderin-Chief. At least in New Delhi no hand will be raised against Muslims.’ With this self assurance I started towards my office. I had to settle the business of my provident fund; I had delayed going to Pakistan in order to do so. I had only got as far as Gole Market when I ran into a Hindu colleague in the office. He said, ‘What on earth are you up to? Go back at once and do not come out of your house. The rioters are killing Muslims in Connaught Circus.’ I hurried back home.

I had barely got to my quarters when I ran into my Sikh neighbour. He began to reassure me.
‘Sheikhji,
do not worry! As long as I am alive no one will raise a hand against you.’ I said to myself: ‘How much fraud is hidden behind this man’s bread! He is obviously pleased that the Muslims are being massacred, but expresses sympathy to win my confidence; or is he trying to taunt me?’ I was the only Muslim living in the block, perhaps I was the only one on the road.

I did not want these people’s kindness or sympathy. I went inside my quarter and said to myself, ‘If I have to die, I will kill at least ten or twenty men before they get me.’ I went to my room where beneath my bed I kept my doublebarrelled gun. I had also collected quite a hoard of cartridges.

I searched the house, but could not find the gun.

‘What is
huzoor
looking for?’ asked my faithful servant, Mohammed.

‘What happened to my gun?’

He did not answer. But I could tell from the way he looked that he had either hidden it or stolen it.

‘Why don’t you answer?’ I asked him angrily.

Then he came out with the truth. He had stolen my gun and given it to some of his friends who were collecting arms to defend the Muslims in Daryaganj.

‘We have hundreds of guns, several machine guns, ten revolvers and a cannon. We will slaughter these infidels; we will roast them alive.’

‘No doubt with my gun you will roast the infidels in Daryaganj, but who will defend me here? I am the only Mussulman amongst these savages. If I am murdered, who will answer for it?’

I persuaded him to steal his way to Daryaganj to bring back my gun and couple of hundred cartridges. When he left I was convinced that I would never see him again. I was all alone. On the mantlepiece was a family photograph. My wife and children stared silently at me. My eyes filled with tears at the thought that I would never see them again. I was comforted with the thought that they were safe in Pakistan. Why had I been tempted by my paltry providend fund and not gone with them? I heard the crowd yelling.

‘Sat Sri Akal...
’

‘Har Har Mahadev.
’

The yelling came closer and closer. They were rioters — the bearers of my death warrant. I was like a wounded deer, running hither and thither, with the hunters’ hounds in full pursuit. There was no escape. The door was made of very thin wood and glass panes. The rioters would smash their way in.

‘Sat Sri Akal...
’

‘Har Har Mahadev.
’

They were coming closer and closer; death was coming closer and closer. Suddenly there was a knock at the door. My Sikh neighbour walked in
— ‘Sheikhji,
come into my quarters at once.’ Without a second thought I ran into the Sikh’s verandah and hid behind the columns. A shot hit the wall above my head. A truck drew up and about a dozen young men climbed down. Their leader had a list in his hand — ‘Quarter No. 8 — Sheikh Burhanuddin’. He read my name and ordered his gang to go ahead. They invaded my quarter and under my very eyes proceeded to destroy my home. My furniture, boxes, pictures, books, druggets and carpets, even the dirty linen was carried into the truck. Robbers! Thugs! Cut-throats!

As for the Sikh, who had pretended to sympathise with me, he was no less a robber than they! He was pleading with the rioters: ‘Gentlemen, stop! We have prior claim over our neighbour’s property. We must get our share of the loot.’ He beckoned to his sons and daughters. All of them gathered to pick up whatever they could lay their hands on. One took my trousers; another a suitcase.

They even grabbed the family photograph. They took the loot to their quarters.

You bloody Sikh! If God grants me life I will settle my score with you. At this moment I cannot even protest. The rioters are armed and only a few yards away from me. If they get to know of my presence...

‘Please come in.’

My eyes fell on the unsheathed
kirpan
in the hands of the Sikh. He was inviting me to come in. The bearded monster looked more frightful after he had soiled his hands with my property. There was the glittering blade of his
kirpan
inviting me to my doom. There was no time to argue. The only choice was between the guns of the rioters and the sabre of the Sikh. I decided, rather the
kirpan
of the old man than ten armed gangsters. I went into the room hesitantly, silently.

‘Not here, come in further,’ I went into the inner room like a goat following a butcher. The glint of the blade of the
kirpan
was almost blinding.

‘Here you are, take your things,’ said the Sikh.

He and his children put all the stuff they had pretended to loot, in front of me. His old woman said, ‘Son, I am sorry we were not able to save more.’

I was dumb-founded.

The gangsters had dragged out my steel almirah and were trying to smash it open. ‘It would be simpler if we could find the keys,’ said someone.

‘The keys can only be found in Pakistan. That cowardly son of a filthy Muslim has decamped,’ replied another.

Little Mohini answered back:
‘Sheikhji
is not a coward. He had not run off to Pakistan.’

‘Where is he blackening his face?’

‘Why should he be blackening his face? He is in...’ Mohini realised her mistake and stopped in her sentence. Blood mounted in her father’s face. He locked me in the inside room, gave his
kirpan
to his son and went out to face the mob.

I do not know what exactly took place outside. I heard the sound of blows; then Mohini crying; then the Sikh yelling full-blooded abuse in Punjabi. And then a shot and the Sikh’s cry of pain
‘hai.’

I heard a truck engine starting up and then there was a petrified silence.

When I was taken out of my prison my Sikh neighbour was lying on a charpoy. Beside him lay a torn and bloodstained shirt. His new shirt also was oozing with blood. His son had gone to telephone for the doctor.

‘
Sardarji
,
what have you done?’ I do not know how these words came out of my lips. The world of hate in which I had lived all these years, lay in ruins about me.

‘
Sardarji
,
why did you do this?’ I asked him again.

‘Son, I had a debt to pay.’

‘What kind of a debt?’

‘In Rawalpindi there was a Muslim like you who sacrificed his life to save mine and the honour of my family.’

‘What was his name, Sardarji
?’

‘Ghulam Rasul.’

Fate had played a cruel trick on me. The clock on the wall started to strike... 1... 2... 3... 4... 5... The Sikh turned towards the clock and smiled. He reminded me of my grandfather with his twelve-inch beard. How closely the two resembled each other!

...6...7...8...9...We counted in silence.

He smiled again. His white beard and long white hair were like a halo, effulgent with a divine light... 10... 11... 12... The clock stopped striking.

I could almost hear him say: ‘For us Sikhs, it is always 12 o’clock!’

But the bearded lips, still smiling, were silent. And I knew he was already in some distant world, where the striking of clocks counted for nothing, where violence and mockery were powerless to hurt him.

t
he mahabharata retold

Satindra Singh

        U
ntil the partition of the Indian subcontinent in August 1947, Gurdaspur was a small town. Life crawled on without change, without excitement. Its inhabitants were completely unaware of the brightness of life.

True, there was some variety and colour in its otherwise drab and seemingly changless existence when religious festivals came. On Dussehra, there was some gaiety and pageantry when the effigy of the demon king, Ravana, was burnt amidst the deafening exploding of crackers. On Diwali, the festival of earthen lamps, too, there was some commotion and some excitement and some change in the ancient routine of life. Holi was also celebrated with joyous abandon, with sprinkling of colours and coloured water. On Baisakhi, the rustic and sturdy peasants performed bhangra dances in order to celebrate the coming of the harvest when the golden wheat swayed delicately in the spring breeze.

The routine of life was also somewhat ruffled in a pleasant way on the occasion of the birth anniversaries of Guru Nanak Dev and Guru Gobind Singh. On these auspicious occasions, robust and bearded Sikhs, naked swords in hand, led the procession, heads bowed before the holy
Granth
carried shoulder-high in a palanquin.

There was also some change in the lazy and colourless stream of life on Eid and Shab-e-baraat when puritanical Muslims let themselves go.

On all these occasions, flung far and few between, children put on new clothes and were allowed to while away their time — playing.

Besides these religious — and necessarily communal festivals — children had opportunities to celebrate common events without consideration of caste or community. Though not regular, such occasions were looked forward to with great keenness.

One of these was the arrival of the road-roller during the summer season. For us it was a day to keep away from school. We did not come home for our mid-day meals and the ordained siesta thereafter. All this, of course, meant the birch both at school and at home. But who cared? We exultingly followed the road-roller from one end of the main street to another. Its whistle sent us into ecstasy. We stopped our ears with our fingers, closed our eyes and felt lifted up and floating in the air.

The only thing that dwarfed the road-roller in our estimation was the arrival of a circus, a theatrical company or a touring cinema. For that was a completely new world for us. The arrival of anyone of these threw Gurdaspur into unusual activity, sweet and colourful. We hovered around its encampment like flies around jaggery in grocer Nathu’s shop.

What transpired inside was always a mystery to us. Our elders did not take us to those shows. Nor were we allowed to go unescorted. If we ever insisted on accompanying them, they turned round and angrily reminded us that, ‘Sons and daughters of gentle folk do not go to these exhibitions of vulgarity.’ Sometimes they said: ‘When you grow up and begin understanding the facts of life, then you may go and see such performances. But not now, you mealy-mouthed kids.’

If we persisted we were scolded, spanked and shut up. Our parents firmly believed that if we ever happened to see a film show or a theatrical performance, we would go astray from the narrow, straight path of virtue and miss the purpose of life. Any return to correct life would then be as impossible as caressing the sky.

Whether this was the truth and nothing but the truth our infantile reasoning could not figure out fully. But a film or a theatrical performance always remained an unextinguished craving. How to satisfy it was a problem forcing us to all manner of scheming.

At school, teachers dinned into our ears the glory of unquestioned obedience to parents; to hurt the feelings of parents even unwittingly or to fail to respect their wishes, even whims, was the depth of degradation. In the tussle between craving and duty we found the former was always stronger.

Some sort of a show was permitted to us only during the Dussehra holidays. The triangular drama of man, beauty and the devil represented by Rama, Sita and Ravana, respectively, was a great concession to us.

I was in the sixth or seventh standard when a theatrical company again strayed into Gurdaspur. I conspired with my younger brothers to persuade — force would, in fact, be the right word — father to take us to a show. We thought up a line of action and mugged up a few decisive sentences to waft our request to the heart of the man in father.

Our excitement grew with the decline of the day. Before the evening set in, we took our stand at the entrance, anxiously awaiting father’s arrival. We sighted
Pitaji
at last; he came home with a stick in hand and in a grave mood. We respectfully made way for him. Noticing our unusual behaviour, he gave us a faint smile of approbation.

Heartened, we followed him into the house. On the way I winked to my younger brother. Now was the moment to open the issue.
Pitaji
was in an amicable mood. My brother answered in sign language: ‘Don’t think I am a coward or that I have forgotten. Let
Pitaji
change and have his glass of
sakanjbeen
.’

As usual father put the stick in corner, sat down upon a charpoy
,
called our younger brother, Billoo, and began fondling him. The opportunity was not lost on him. Haltingly, he farmed the request:
‘Pitaji,
take us to the theatre tonight.’

Hari, the younger brother, immediately lent support in perfect rehearsed words.

Father’s immediate reaction was to wave off that very serious proposition. But when he found us insistent, he said angrily:
‘Ankh ka jadoo’
(Magic of the eyes) is not meant for you. You are kids.’

‘But we must see it.’ I insisted with obvious vehemence. Hardly had I finished the sentence when a slap descended on my cheek. Sobbing, I made for the door. My brothers followed humbled and humiliated.

This incident broke our spirits immediately. For days we were afraid to show up in father’s presence. But all the time our teacher’s other exhortation continued to echo in our ears: ‘Man does not give up his efforts because of defeats and diffculties: failures are stepping stones to success.’

After the lapse of a week or so, the theatrical company announced its next play, the
‘Mahabharata.’
I called my brothers to a conference. We discussed the issue and unanimously decided to press our demand again, but this time first on mother.

We filed gingerly into her room. She smiled and asked, ‘Now whom is the army going to attack?’

We told her what we were after. Solemnly, she chanted father’s oft-repeated sermon. But finding us adamant, she thundered and threatened. We remained unimpressed and went on repeating:
‘Mataji,
the
Mahabarata
is a religious play. You yourself often narrate stories from the epic. Why don’t you take us to the play?’

Cornered, she said: ‘Go and tell your father. He is after all the master of the house, not I?’

When father returned home in the evening, we put up our demand to him. He fretted and fumed, thundered and threatened and otherwise tried his utmost to wriggle out somehow. But the play was religious. Our demand could not be brushed aside.

That night father took us to the show. We were bursting with joy. This was our first victory.

We went into the theatrical hall — an improvisation for the occasion. Excitedly, we waited for the show to begin.

With the deafening explosion of a cracker, the curtain began rolling up — too slowly, we felt.

And nothing was visible on the stage: a thick wall of smoke stood between us and the stage. After the smoke dispersed we spotted out some male and female figures offering prayers in unison. The ritual over, the show began with one or two skits.

I was yawning and soon dozed off. I don’t know how long I remained unawake. I was rudely woken up by father. With clenched teeth and suppressed anger, he was saying: ‘You damned son of a sin! You son of a pig! I have had to spend hard-earned money only to see you go to sleep in the hall. Never ask me to take you anywhere again or you will regret it, I tell you.’

Jabbering, I woke up. I myself could not make out why I had dozed off.

I rubbed my eyes and looked at the stage. The Pandavas were locked in a gambling bout with their cousins, the Kauravas. With every throw of the dice, excitement rose in the hall. After losing all their worldly possessions, the Pandavas staked their common wife, Draupadi. Everyone was engrossed in the scene. I was pitying poor Draupadi and saying to myself: ‘If I were the Pandavas I would never stake Draupadi for the life of me.’

No sooner had the Pandavas lost Draupadi than Duryodhana, the Kaurava chief, ordered that she should be brought in. She was dragged to the stage as a slave. When she tried to rush out she was forced back again by her hair by Dushasana, Duryodhana’s mighty brother; she was made to sit in Duryodhana’s lap.

After these insults, Duryodhana ordered Dushasana to strip her.

Everyone in the hall craned his neck and fixed his anxious gaze on the stage. The God-fearing among the audience began chanting, ‘Ram Ram.’

When Dushasana began pulling off her
sari,
Draupadi closed her eyes, and with folded hands prayed for intervention by Lord Krishna, her brother: ‘Have pity on me. Come to my rescue and save me from this dishonour. You have saved the honour of millions. Save mine too.’

Her prayers were touching.

When half of her
sari
had been pulled off, excitement mounted to a crescendo in the audience. Lord Krishna had thrown no wrap from the sky to cover Draupadi’s shame.

Spectators started shouting: ‘Cast the wrap, cast the wrap.’

The more enthusiastic among them could not rest content with shouts. They stood up and began yelling for the wrap, gesticulating angrily. Youngsters climbed up the chairs and benches and began whistling, howling and thumping.

With a heavy thud, a bench broke down and the clamour was stilled momentarily, bringing audience and players to familiar dimensions.

In that pin-drop silence a voice confided from somewhere behind the curtains and drapery: ‘Lord Krishna won’t throw down the wrap tonight; his salary has been in arrears for the last four months.’