This Is Not That Dawn: Jhootha Sach (64 page)

‘Everyone in our gali did just the same. Everyone of the four Hindu families was able to get out safely. We, six members of Ralia Ram’s family, seven from Ushnak Mal’s house, and everyone from Laddha Ram’s. We hired a bus for ourselves. Had to pay three hundred rupees for it. We went to D.A.V. College, and joined the convoy under military escort. A different convoy had an escort of Baluchi soldiers, and may God send them to hell. There were eight buses in that convoy. When they reached Amritsar, the only people found alive were the drivers. The rest were dead… Bhai, we’ve been here for four days, and things are not working out. We are thinking about going on to Delhi.’

The concern for his own family deepened in Puri’s heart. He again asked Narang about the possibility of joining a convoy going to Pakistan.

Beyji tried to dissuade him, ‘Kakaji, don’t lose hope like that. Do you suppose it’s wise to jump knowingly into the jaws of death?’

Narang said, ‘Do you suppose Masterji is still in Lahore? Even if he is, the government must have made some arrangement to get him out. What might happen is that he’d get here, and then worry about finding you somehow.’

Beyji said, ‘Kakaji, the times are such that all we can do is to have faith in God. Just look at our family. What haven’t we been through in the past six months?’ Tears came to her eyes. Puri knew that she was referring to
her daughter becoming a widow. ‘When we see others in trouble, all I say is never mind what we may have suffered. May God show His mercy to others.’ She wiped her eyes with the end of her dupatta.

Narang kept his voice low as he told Puri, ‘That old Sikh couple with the infant, lying there quietly behind you, they were coming from Gujarat in the train. The train was attacked at Kamoki station. The poor man’s young sons were murdered, his daughters-in-law were kidnapped. They killed his grandsons too, and took away his teenage granddaughter. All their boxes, bundles, bags filled with pots and pans, were snatched away. Just by luck, one infant grandson survived. These people would have been killed too, but for the Sikh guard regiment that arrived just in time. The soldiers put the couple back on a train. They’re practically out of their minds with despair.’

Narang said, pointing to a man with a bandaged knee sitting with his back against the wall, ‘See him? There are three of them. They fought back when their train was attacked, but the Pakistani police intervened and let their families be murdered. Eleven members of their two families were killed. Their women were raped in front of them. None of the women was let go. He suffered a broken knee. His two companions have gone to loot the Muslim houses in the villages around here. What else can they do? They need something to live on, now that they’ve nothing of their own left. And just look at our government, they’re so unfair that they fire upon our people to save the Muslims.’

Narang continued, ‘Well, our government is at least giving some protection to the refugees. The Pakistani government couldn’t care less for any of their people. Our government is also trying to have the Muslim convoys reach Pakistan safely. But, bhai, neither side has been less cruel than the other. Very large numbers of Muslims have been massacred in the east as well. The road to Amritsar is strewn with dead bodies.’

Narang began a lecture on the virtues of patience, ‘Go and shave. There’s a communal water tap over there, have a bath. It’s difficult to recognize you. Gives one a bad feeling, as if someone’s in mourning. And in that beard, someone could take you for a Muslim and stick a knife in you.’

Puri replied that his trunk with his clothes and shaving kit had been lost.

Narang said, ‘Why do you think you have no friends left? You can have Jaggi’s safety razor.’

Beyji spoke to someone behind her back, ‘Urmi dear, get up. Give kakaji
your brother’s shaving things. Get up now. How’re you feeling?
Channa
, you’ll feel worse if you keep on lying like this.’

A girl lying curled up, her face and head covered with a dupatta, put a hand on the floor to prop herself up and got to her feet. She went quietly to a corner and opened a suitcase.

Narang, sitting cross-legged as before, with one hand massaging his foot, said, ‘Shave and have a bath at the tap. No one bothers about privacy here. There are no bathrooms. Women also bathe openly at the tap, but what can anyone do? You’re a man.’

Beyji said to Urmila, ‘
Dhiye
, you go and have a bath too. Just look at you. Wash your hair. I’ll hold a sheet around you to give you some privacy.’

Puri asked, ‘Have Jagdish and Praveen gone out?’

‘Yes. I have this bloody diabetes as you know. My insulin ran out. Only two injections left. Jagdish went to look for my medicine. Praveen was getting bored sitting around, he too went along.’

Puri glanced at Urmila. If he had seen her anywhere else, he would have never given her a second glance, much less recognized her. The golden-brown curls that spilled over her forehead, that refused to stay covered by her dupatta, now looked like strands of old rope. Her fair skin looked pale and lacklustre. Those eyes that had sparkled with youthful mischief, she had not raised even once to look at Puri. Her head lowered, she quietly took out the razor, shaving soap and brush from the suitcase.

Puri began to shave off his beard. Narang sat describing the dangers faced by people in his gali, ‘… even women were carrying pistols.’

Puri’s thoughts had turned from his own problems to Urmila. What could have happened to her? That irrepressible spring of love had turned into a dirty puddle of tears!

He nicked himself under the nose.

After he had shaved, his face again began to look like that of someone people would recognize as Puri. He had a bath at the tap. He tied a bed sheet around his waist as a lungi, took off the trousers and shirt, and rinsed them to get rid of some of the sweat. He hung his clothes to dry in the veranda, spread out his bed, and lay down. He was feeling hungry, but fatigue brought on sleep.

It was quite dark when he awoke. One family had lit a hurricane lantern, and a candle glowed in another spot. The rest of the people lay or sat in the darkened veranda. The door to the room where the Narang family was
staying was closed. Small cooking fires had been lit in the field in front of the veranda. In their dim glow Puri could see that bricks meant for the construction of an extension to the building had been used to build makeshift fireplaces. The delectable smell of chapattis cooking filled the air. The family with the candle sat with chapattis in their hands, having a meal.

Puri had had two chapattis around eight in the morning. He had been walking most of the day, and now he was feeling very hungry. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 9 o’clock.

The city bazaar was over a mile from Islamia College. What to do about food? He thought of going back to sleep, but the hunger pangs were getting harder to ignore. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. He got up, removed the sheet from around his waist, and put on his still damp shirt and trousers. He put back in his pocket the money that he had tucked in the waist of the lungi for safekeeping, and rolled up his bedding.

The grandson of the old Sikh couple from Kamoki was crying. They were both taking turns to cradle and rock him in their arms.

Puri said very politely to the old man, ‘Sardarji, I haven’t eaten since morning. I’m just going up to the bazaar. My bed is over here. Please keep an eye on it.’

‘Don’t worry, babu,’ the old man said. ‘May Waheguru help you, and help us all. He looks after everyone. I’ll keep an eye on it.’

Puri turned right onto Jarnaili Road at the gate of the college, and began walking towards the bazaar. He had difficulty keeping on the road in the pitch dark. He could see some lights in the distance, and the glow of the city on the horizon. Those bright points of light made the darkness around Puri even denser. He had walked about a hundred yards when he heard, ‘Babu, what time is it?’

Puri stopped and raised his wristwatch to his eyes to look at the time, but found he could not speak.

A vice-like grip tightened around his neck, and a knifepoint was touching his nose. He was stunned. He heard, ‘Take off your watch! Don’t make a sound!’

Puri was breathing hard. With his right hand he began removing the watch from his left wrist. The man held the knife next to Puri’s face and pulled out the fountain pen from his shirt pocket with his other hand, patted his shirt pocket and then the pockets of his trousers. Along with 23 rupees 7 annas and 5 paisas, Puri also parted with the key to his lost trunk.

As he took off his watch, Puri had been able to steady himself. He gathered enough courage to say, ‘I’m a Hindu… just like you.’

‘Everyone’s a Hindu here. I myself lost everything. And now I have to feed my family.’

What could Puri say? The man who had robbed him lifted a bicycle lying on the ground. He threatened Puri once more, ‘Careful! Not a sound!’ He got on the bicycle and began pedalling in the direction of the city.

Puri stood for a few moments in silence, and then turned back helplessly towards the college. He unrolled his bed again, and lay down in despair, holding his head between his hands. The mewling baby nearby, the pangs of hunger, the hurt and humiliation of being robbed, all drove sleep away. And he had no way of knowing how much of the night had passed and how much was left. No point now in thinking what he’d do the next day.

A clamour of voices woke him up. As he shook sleep away, the light of the morning sun shining into his eyes dazzled him. He shaded his eyes with his hand, as his ears picked out one voice:

‘You’re a weird one! The baby’s been crying from hunger since yesterday, and you haven’t said a word to anybody! If you did, who would be so stony-hearted as to let the baby go hungry while they had a feed themselves? Here, take these leftovers and feed him. And how long will you starve yourself? We have to go through what Waheguru wants us to. One can’t quarrel with Parmeshwar. Your fate is no different from what has been suffered by hundreds of thousands of others. No use crying over it. The government has fixed a free daily ration of a quarter seer of wheat and one-sixteenth of a seer of lentils a head in all the camps. Go and collect yours, cook it and have a meal. Why feel ashamed? How long can you afford such feelings, my good man?’

There were several people speaking, but Puri still heard the old woman’s sobbing voice, ‘I’ve been telling him since yesterday that if it’s the will of God, of Waheguru, what can he or I do to change it? What can I do when he refuses to listen?’

The old man said in a voice choked with tears, ‘Am I a cripple, a beggar or a fakir? I’m a farmer, and have been all my life. My limbs are still strong. Never in my life have I eaten without setting aside the shares for a Brahmin, a
nai
, the poor and the fakirs, and before feeding ten others. Now you want me to go and beg for wheat? If you have become so shameless, go and get it yourself.’

As Puri sat up to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight, his head moved into the shadow. As he looked around, he understood the reason for the hubbub. While he was sleeping, more people had arrived and occupied the remaining places. He turned his head to look at the room where the Narang family was staying.

Narang was sitting, as usual, cross-legged on his dhurrie, smoking a cigarette. He had shaved and washed. Beyji was making paranthas over a makeshift fireplace beside the wall of the veranda. The appetizing smell of food fried in ghee spread all around. ‘Namaste, Puri
bhraji
,’ Praveen called out. He was eating a parantha in a small thali. Urmila was lying on one side, beside a wall, her face turned away.

Narang’s eyes met Puri’s. He flicked ash through the door into the veranda, in Puri’s direction. He spoke softly so that only Puri could hear, ‘Just look at the differences between these two different individuals, bhai. Hooray for the old-timer! He’s a real Sikh. His young sons murdered, his womenfolk kidnapped, all his belongings looted, but he’s not going to beg for a quarter of a seer of wheat. Then there are those who have turned begging into a fine art. They take advantage of their own and other people’s misfortune. And they don’t just beg honestly! They concoct such lies: They’d say with a sad expression, “We’re from a well-off and respectable family. To beg we are ashamed, we feel like drowning ourselves in embarrassment. Our bullock cart is not far from here, just around the corner. There are ten of us, including women and children. We were robbed on the way here…”

‘Another will say, “One of our two oxen was injured on the way here. Somehow it dragged the cart this far before collapsing. Please help us. Note down our address. Once we’re back in our village, we’ll send you back by money order whatever you give us.” Others will tell you, “Whatever we managed to bring with us has been stolen in the camp…”’

Someone called loudly from the direction of the college gate, ‘Hey Dhaniramma! Oye Mohan Singha! Hey, people, come quickly! Come and see the parade of Muslim women!’

Several people ran towards the gate.

How could Puri talk about the previous night’s incident after hearing all this? The Narangs were the only people he knew in the whole camp. He felt dizzy and faint from hunger and frustration. He didn’t know what to do next. Sitting on his backside wouldn’t get him anywhere, but where
could he go, and for what purpose? The first thing was to get his strength back by getting something into his stomach.

He bit his lip to control himself and suppress the pain in his heart, and stood up. The bedding that he had found so burdensome was now his only resource. The only way to get any money was to hawk the bedding in the bazaar next to the station. The blanket alone had cost him eighteen rupees, only a year before. There were also the dhurrie, two sheets, and a pillow.

Even if he got eight or ten rupees for it, Puri thought, how long would that money last him? But at this time, that was a considerable sum. Afterwards, he’d think of something, even do manual labour for a daily wage. Everyone wanted to work, but there was nobody to offer wages in exchange. Maybe he should go to Delhi, he thought. Several people had travelled on the train without a ticket, so why should he buy one?