THE ANATOMY OF PARTITION
IN the grey light of dawn, Tekchand stood at the window of his bedroom balcony, looking at the smoke of the fires in the distance, darker plumes mingling into the wispy blue lines of the clouds. The stillness of a town under curfew surrounded him. It was like a wall around the house, a persistent reminder of their isolation.
The disturbances had now been going on for more than a week. At first he had not been worried. His house was too far from the centre of the town to be affected by the riots. Sporadic disturbances between the Hindus and the Muslims were something that they had all learned to live with. Over the years, whenever either community had some kind of festival, there was inevitably a flare-up: processions, demonstrations, slogan shouting, even a few killings. Then the authorities stepped in.
The police made a lathi-charge or two and dispersed the crowds with tear gas; the magistrate imposed a curfew on the affected localities, and it was all over until the next Hindu or Muslim festival.
But these riots, as he could now see, were different. These riots were occasioned by the cutting up of the country. A vast landscape packed with people was now being partitioned according to religious majorities: the Muslims in Pakistan, the Hindus in India.
Every citizen was caught up in the holocaust. No one could remain aloof; no one could be trusted to be impartial. When men and women of your own religion were being subjected to atrocities, you could not be expected to remain friendly with adherents to the religion of the oppressors. The administration, the police, even the armed forces, were caught up in the blaze of hatred. Willy-nilly, everyone had come to be a participant in what was, in effect, a civil war.
Tens of millions of people had to flee, leaving everything behind; Muslims from India, Hindus and Sikhs from the land that was soon to become Pakistan: two great rivers of humanity flowing in opposite directions along the pitifully inadequate roads and railways, jamming, clashing, colliding head-on, leaving their dead and dying littering the landscape.
As a background to this great, two-way migration, religious civil war was being waged all over the country; a war fought in every village and town and city where the two communities came upon each other. The most barbaric cruelties of primitive man prevailed over all other human attributes. The administration had collapsed, the railways had stopped functioning because the officials and technicians had themselves joined the mass migra- tions. Mobs ruled the streets, burning, looting, killing, dis- honouring women and mutilating children; even animals sacred to the other community became the legitimate targets of reprisals.
It had been building up under the surface, building up for years, and now the fury had burst, as Gandhi himself had long ago feared it might. Any sensible man could see it now, as Tekchand was seeing it that morning of August 1947. The free- dom they had longed for was only a day away; a freedom that would bring only misery to millions of them. The entire land was being spattered by the blood of its citizens, blistered and disfigured with the fires of religious hatred; its roads were glutted with enough dead bodies to satisfy the ghouls of a major war.
They could have gone away. His wife had actually suggested it. But he had laughed at her fears. Now that he himself wanted to go, it was not easy. Your car would almost certainly be waylaid at the very first village-a log across the road or an abandoned bullock-cart would suffice. Men and women blind with hatred would come rushing from all sides to hack its occupants to pieces and rob whatever they possessed. They would disappear just as quickly as they had come, to prepare themselves for the next car that arrived.
Tekchand had never imagined that such happenings could be possible, now, in the middle of the twentieth century, after more than a hundred years of the sanity and orderliness of British rule, after thirty years or so of the Mahatma's non-violence...
Now he could see that as far as the people of India were con- cerned, Gandhi's message was merely a political expedient, that for the bulk of them, it had no deeper significance. At best, they had accepted it as an effective weapon against British power. It seemed that the moment the grip of British power was loosened, the population of the subcontinent had discarded non-violence overnight and were now spending themselves on orgies of violence which seemed to fulfil some basic urge.
Over these disquieting generalizations, came regret at his own failure to heed the signs. It was he who had told his wife he would stay behind and see it through. 'Why don't you and Sundari go?" he had said casually, knowing that she would never leave him to face danger alone-not that, even two weeks ago, they had really thought there was any danger.
'Dhansingh can drive you all the way to Delhi in a day,' he had said.
Was it only a fortnight ago that he had said that? Why had she not gone then? Why hadn't they all gone? It was as simple as that, just two weeks ago. Get into a car and drive away.
His wife had not even answered his question. She had merely given him a look, half-amused, half-reproachful, which told him that there could be only one answer to such a suggestion. She would not leave him, and the thought had made him inwardly happy.
Now Dhansingh was not there to drive them. He had still not told his wife what had happened to him. Indeed, he had even complained to her, forcing himself to sound suitably indignant, that Dhansingh had taken the Buick and gone away.
'He must have arranged with some of his friends to go away," he had said. "That story about bringing his family to live here must have been all made up. He wanted the car; that was all."
As he thought of what had happened to his chauffeur, his legs felt weak. Dhansingh had sought his permission to bring his family to stay in one of his servants' quarters because the other Sikhs in his locality were leaving. He lived in Chandpura, separated from the rest of the city by a sprawling Muslim bustee.
He had never come back.
On the return journey, the Buick was stopped beyond the bridge, and Dhansingh's wife and two children were dragged out. They stoned the children to death in front of their parents, and then poured petrol over Dhansingh's hair and beard and burned. him alive. After that they had taken his wife away.
The car had been found where it stood, beyond the bridge, a burnt-out shell; those who had killed Dhansingh could have had no use for it. The police had told Tekchand that he could take away the wreck; the other details he had ascertained from one of the Sikhs who had been watching from a distance. There was no room for doubt. The servants knew all about it, of course, they always knew everything. He had warned them to say nothing to his wife.
And now they were facing it all together, his wife and daughter and himself, for no better reason than that he had refused to leave earlier.
Why had Sundari come back, just at this juncture, bringing her dog with her? Even if she had left her husband for good, as she had told them, this was no time for a Hindu woman to be coming into West Punjab, when everyone else was leaving. And yet, he was secretly pleased that Sundari was with them. It was surprising how unperturbed she looked, as though nothing out of the way was happening. Suddenly, he felt a little ashamed of his own anxiety.
He flung himself into one of the cane chairs; his fingers had left wet marks on the polished wood of the balcony.
He thought of the night that had just gone. They had not slept much. Even from their bedroom window, they could see the red glow in the sky, like a winter sunset, the glow caused by the houses burning in the city, and now and then they could hear the roar of the mob, like the din of a migrating swarm of bees, punctured by shrieks, catcalls and the occasional report of fire-arms. What had happened during the night? What was happening now? There was no way of knowing There was the soft pad of sandals behind him, and his wife came and stood near his chair. 'Darling!' she said. "The servants, have gone."
He stared at her face. It was like wax. There is no one in the house now,' she was saying, 'except the three of us.'
He sprang from the chair and ran through the long passage and down the stairs, shouting: Kamruddin! Kishen! Nathani! -where are you? Nathani! Kishen! Hamid! HAMID!"
He stopped. He was behaving like a fool. They had all gone, his cook, the malis, his own bearer, everyone. How could they, after all these years? He had never known a time in his life when they had been without servants.
Where had they gone? What would they do? Who would look after them?
And with the doubt, came relief. Perhaps it was as well that they had gone, leaving him free. Hitherto, it had been his responsibility to look after them, give them food and water, and protection. Most of them were Muslims. How long could they remain loyal to him against the rising pressure of their own people?
As he climbed the stairs, he felt more composed, and his heart had stopped pounding. At least they had been spared the fate of his chauffeur, he consoled himself. They had gone out of his life and freed him of a burden. He walked into Sundari's room. She was already up and dressed. Spindle jumped up, wagging his absurd, ratlike tail.
'Sundar,' he said, trying to control his voice so as not to alarm her. Beta, you had better come and sit in our room. The servants have fled. They are bound to return when the scare is over-they have nothing to fear. I thought you were a little far away here, in this room. You had better come and sit with us."
'Of course, Sundari said. 'But I'll get you some breakfast first. Tea or coffee?" she asked. "Whichever you can stand without milk-coffee, I think."
Yes, coffee would be better... that was a horrible thing to have done,' he complained, suddenly remembering. 'Killing all those Saiwal cows just because they belonged to the Hindu gowalas. And now there is no milk, either for Hindus or Muslims."
"There is a tin of condensed milk, but we had better keep it for the journey,' his daughter said.
It was heartening to hear someone talking about condensed milk and breakfast. He looked at her fondly, thinking how grown up she suddenly looked, grown up and so sure of herself. What had happened to her, to change her from a girl to a woman, someone who had known pain and suffering? It seemed only a few years since she was a little squirming thing who used to be brought to the sitting room by the ayah to kiss him good night. How many years had gone by in a flash, to make him what he was today, fifty-one years old and tired and demoralized; the man of the house responsible for looking after his wife and daughter. 'Sundar,' he said. 'Do you mind changing into something a little old and drab? And try to put some stuff on your face I mean some kajal or something. Make a smudge or two." She gave him an amused smile. "What's wrong with you? Don't worry, no one's going to abduct me not when Mummy's around. You had better talk to her instead tell her not to look so devastating.'
He nodded. 'Yes, she too will have to get into something in- conspicuous,' he said very seriously. 'And Sundar, please take off those bangles and things. It's dangerous to wear gold." "Are you going to send the jewellery to the bank?" she asked.
"Bank!" he shook his head. 'None of the banks is functioning.
We'll just put everything in a box and take it with us. We will give a party the day we arrive in Jullunder. And then you will both need your jewellery." "That's much better, his daughter said, patting his shoulder. "That's the way to look at it: to think of when we reach there; not go on mooning over what is happening here. What can go wrong? when we're all in convoy, escorted by the army right up to the border ?
"Nothing should go wrong,' he agreed. "There is a boundary force that is still under the British. The army is still relatively unaffected by all this."
There you are! There's nothing to worry about!"
He shook his head, unable to share her optimism. "One cannot help worrying,' he said, 'because no one can be trusted any more. And besides, there's the feeling that I myself have brought all this on you. Your mother wanted us to leave a whole month ago. Even two weeks ago, we could have done it just driven off. I could have brought over all the trucks from the works here, and we could have loaded them with everything we wanted to take from here. I told your mother to go, but you know how pigheaded she can be. And then you came...
'I would have hated myself if I'd left you and Mummy to this by yourselves,' Sundari assured him. face And now we have to wait for a convoy organized by the police; and that seems to get put off from day to day. According to their original plan, we should have left two days ago-we'd have been through by now. There is still no sign of it."
'Oh, but the poor things must have so much on their hands just now,' his daughter said consolingly. "You really have been spoilt all your life, haven't you, getting your own way every time. Come. You go and hold Mother's hand while I get you something to eat. You will feel much better."
And again he thought how comforting it was to have Sundari with them just then. It was she who seemed to think of all the practical things. 'Sundari,' he asked. 'Do you think we should all shift to the downstairs rooms?"
She gave him a level look. 'What on earth for? If they come and set fire to the house, whether we are upstairs or downstairs won't make much difference.
'Don't talk of such ghastly things!" he snapped.
'But isn't that what you were thinking?"
"That it should have come to this!' he said angrily, aware that his voice was dry and husky. 'After a lifetime spent in this part of India, in this town, and giving oneself to it and taking from it; letting one's roots sink deeper and deeper. There is a street named after my father, a library after me, a maternity home and a girls' school after your mother. This is my city, as much as that of its most respected Muslim families the Abbases, the Hussains, the Chinais. I, my family, have done as much as any of them to make it prosperous and beautiful. And what are they doing? Burning it down! And look at us! Waiting for police protection because its citizens want to finish us off." Sundari was taken aback by his outburst. 'Abaji, please; please don't talk like that!' she said.
'Damn it! I have to talk about it to somebody... talk or my head will burst. I trusted them and scorned your mother's fears. They are my brothers, I told her. Why did I not listen to her? Because I wanted to keep all this, all that my family and I myself have built. One of the best houses in town, a name honoured in the whole province, the best private collection of Indian
bronzes in the whole country. And suddenly someone has decided that this land which is mine should be foreign territory-just like that! And merely because some hooligans take it into their heads to drive all the Hindus away from their land, I have to leave everything and go, pulled out by the roots, abandoning everything that has become a part of me."
'Don't forget, Abaji, that you are luckier than most others,' his daughter reminded him. After all, you have a good deal of money. You have a house in Delhi; somewhere to go. You are not like the thousands-millions, who have to find shelter and work..." 'Money!' he flung up his hands in disdain. 'Do you suppose all the money in the world will make up for this? My house, my bronzes...I could spend hours just looking at them, over and over again, feeling an inner peace, a religious exaltation, almost, to be in the midst of all that beauty. True art that lived a thousand years ago and still lives and breathes...
He stopped, checking himself with an effort of will and gave a dry, forced laugh. 'Yes, you are right, my child. I am lucky. I don't have to start all over again. We shall never be in want. We can go on living as we do here, in Delhi, Bombay, anywhere. Yes, I am lucky."
That's the way to look at it,' Sundari said with obvious relief. 'Come on, I'll get you something to eat, and you ring up the police and find out the latest news about the convoy.'
She took his arm and accompanied him along the passage, the dog leading the way. "I shall ring up as soon as it is light,' he told her. It's too early now.' Sundari let his arm go and turned into the sitting room which now served as their kitchen. For a time he stood staring absent-mindedly at the door through which she had gone, and then, as though he had suddenly remembered something, turned and walked into his museum. Once in, he mechanically went straight to the windows, threw open the curtains one after the other, and the morning light fell in streaks upon his collection. Then he turned. There they stood, the Bramhas and the Vishnus and the Shivas; the creators, the preservers and the destroyers; the
Ganeshas and the Vithobas and the Hanumans; the Radhas and. the Apsaras and the Asuras; men and women and in betweens; elephant-headed, monkey-headed, eagle-headed; two-headed and four-headed; four-armed and eight-armed and ten-armed; gods and goddesses and demons and half-gods and half-devils; dancing, sleeping, blessing, preaching, bowing, fornicating; naked, bosomy, grotesque, beautiful.
To him they were like living creatures; more alive than many people he knew. He felt at home in their midst, for they meant something to him they held a message for him, a message that was the secret of this life and the next and the many lives that lay beyond.
Their serenity made him conscious of his own weakness. He stood with bowed head, exposing his mind to its innermost promptings.
The only thing he could think of was the futility of resistance. He toyed with the thought of letting his wife and daughter go with the convoy. He would stay behind, with his men and women and half-beasts and half-gods of metal. He would like that; somehow he would be able to manage. It was his land, his town; its people were his people. They would come to their senses, a8 soon as this wave of hatred had passed; they would realize he was one of themselves and not to be spurned. 'But Radha would never leave me, he thought with a start. 'Never!'
He felt sick with emotion. His duty lay with his wife and daughter; they had to have a man to look after them, and that man was now himself. If Debi-dayal had been with them now, he would have thought seriously of staying behind, confident that Debi would be able to deal much more adequately with the present situation. Debi would have accepted the challenge, revelled in it.
He shut his eyes, deliberately denying himself a last look. He would leave them like that, just as they were; never allow himself to be swayed by their spell from what was clearly his duty. He turned, his eyes still closed, and groped his way towards the door. He shut the door behind him and then, opening his eyes, went to the telephone.
"But we have already told you that we shall let you know when everything is ready,' the police Inspector said. But everyone who is to go in the convoy has been ready for the past three days, Tekchand pointed out.
'We have to wait and see how the other side is behaving. There is still no information that the convoy of Muslims from Delhi is on its way."
'Does it mean, Tekchand asked, 'that we are being treated as hostages to see that the authorities on the other side send out your people safely?"
There was a long silence at the other end. Then the Inspector's voice came on again. You can call it what you like; but if they won't play, we won't, either." Oh, my God! If you wait for them, and they wait for you, we shall be here for ever!"
'I can't help that... and listen; I neither like your tone of voice nor your words." "I am sorry,' Tekchand said quickly. "I meant no offence. But can we expect to leave today?" 'I don't know about that,' the officer said gruffly, making it clear that he had not forgiven him. 'Everything depends upon how they treat our people on the other side. I hear a train was attacked in Patiala by the Sikhs; a convoy butchered in Amritsar. If that sort of thing is allowed to happen, how can we protect the Sikhs here from the fury of the mobs? Tell me that." I quite see your difficulty."
"Can you blame our people for trying to get their own back? Are we to be traitors to our own kind?"
No, of course, not,' Tekchand said politely. Then he added: I am sorry about what I said just now; I meant no offence.'
That was another indignity you had to learn to put up with; the insolence of petty officials. Though he had at least three senior retired police officers serving as security men in his company, he now had to be ingratiating to an inspector.
He made his way towards the sitting room, trying to overcome his despondency. Sundari was bending over the sigri, and the way she was concentrating on turning the toast, made it clear she had heard him speaking to the Inspector. He sat down and waited for his breakfast.
In a corner of the room stood a barrel of water and a bag of wheat flour. On the sofa and on the chairs were stacked boxes of candles, tins of sausages and beans and soup and a bag of sugar, and on the floor a stack of chopped wood and a crate of charcoal.
That was one emergency they seemed to have made provision for. His wife had had the sitting room turned into a store and kitchen so that the cook should be near by, instead of in the kitchen which was down in the basement. Now the cook had gone, and Sundari was cooking breakfast over the primitive sigri fire as though she had been doing it every day of her life.
That was what was important now; water and food and lighting; as though they were in a jungle camp, Tekchand reflected. Everything was there to keep them going for at least two weeks. The Kashan and the Kermanshah carpets which had covered the floor and were now rolled up, carpets that he had been collecting with a connoisseur's fussiness and avidity for the past twenty years and more, carpets that had come to him from. his father and grandfather, were now worthless; as were the other possessions they had prided themselves upon; the Spanish silver candlesticks, the baccarat chandeliers and the Georgian tea service, the Minton dinner set and the rosewood dining table that seated twenty-four.
In the garage downstairs was the car, the brand new Ford V8 which, because of his influence, he had managed to buy out of the very first lot of post-war cars to come to India. That car too was something to be grateful for. It stood behind locked doors, packed and ready, its tank full and with cans of spare petrol, oil and water for a long journey. The car, too, was far more important now than the furniture or the statues in the house, or the house itself.
Most important of all was the fact that his wife and daughter were with him, giving him strength and a sense of purpose, enabling him to overcome his emotional involvement in the land of his birth, his material possessions. A wave of gratitude passed over him as he looked at his daughter bending over the coal fire. Her mere presence was reassuring.
The coffee's ready now,' Sundari said, 'and there are toast and pickles. I have even made you a fried egg on toast, just as you like it. No use keeping the egg any longer. Mummy is having a bath; you'd better have your breakfast."
The smell of coffee suddenly made him hungry; but just as he went over to the card table on which Sundari had put his break- fast, the telephone rang. His heart gave a sudden leap; it could only be the police, with news about the convoy. He gave a quick smile at his daughter and ran to the telephone in the passage. There was such a humming in his head that for a time he could not make out who it was or what the speaker was trying to say. It certainly was not the Inspector's voice.
Then it began to be clear. Sardar Awtar Singh, one of his friends, was ringing up to ask him if they would like to come and stay in his house.
We are at least fifty here about a dozen men,' he was saying. "We have three shotguns and a pistol-just in case and the men take it in turns to keep guard, night and day."
"Why, thank you! Tekchand said gratefully. 'Of course, we would like to. It is most kind of you... what did you say?"
How many will you be?' Awtar repeated.
'Only three of us-besides myself, my wife and daughter; oh, there is her dog, too." A dog? There was a short pause at the other end. 'What a pity! What we need is men here, as many as we can assemble.' Tekchand felt suddenly light. You say you have twelve of your own men,' he pointed out. 'Surely a dozen Sikhs are as good as a score of other men!"
Awtar did not laugh. 'As good as a hundred,' he said very evenly. But we may be attacked by five hundred... five thousand! Come as soon as you can. Have you any firearms?- a rifle or pistol or something?" "Firearms! Oh, no!"
Never mind. Bring whatever food you may have stocked; everything helps. We have to cook meals for fifty here-over a dozen children. And listen, couldn't you leave the dog behind?"
'Oh, no! No, we couldn't do that. But he's a very little one,'
he said apologetically. "We have been telling the others to put down their pets, before coming here oh, well... do bring all the food though."
'Of course! We have a lot of provisions stored," Tekchand told him, and then he remembered what the Inspector had been telling him. 'Listen!" he said. 'I was just talking to the police. I don't want to alarm you, but the Inspector said something about the people in the city being particularly roused against the Sikhs. There was some trouble in Patiala and Amritsar, so he says; and they want to retaliate.
Oh, my God!' Awtar gave an audible gasp. "They already hate us so much! Look, I will understand if you don't want to join perhaps it would be wiser to keep away from us, just now.
'Nonsense! Tekchand said. 'Of course we will come. I just thought I would warn you to be extra careful-not do anything that might provoke trouble."
"Thanks, Awtar said. 'I shall be expecting you then. The food will be very useful, but it would have been so much better if you could have contributed a weapon."
Tekchand sat down to his breakfast and ate hungrily. He gave his wife a bright smile as she came in, bathed and dressed, and now wearing no jewellery. "We are going to Awtar's house,' he told her. 'We'll wait for the convoy there with the others."
It was a great relief, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Where they were situated, right out of the town, with no other house within half a mile, they were almost wholly isolated a little island of Hindu affluence in the midst of the. wastes, a ready-made target for the random whim of any village gang. Now they would be in the company of others; strong, virile men; men with guns, ready for all emergencies; everyone waiting with their own cars for the convoy to form up.
Another cup Sundari asked.
"Yes, thank you."
Then the telephone rang again. He pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet, spilling his coffee. He ran to the instrument and began to shout into the mouthpiece: 'Hullo! Hullo!"
It was Awtar again, his voice hoarse and cracking. They are already here... hundreds... thousands! And over the hammering of his own heart, Tekchand could hear the buzz of the crowd surrounding Awtar's house, punctuated by the cracks of shots and the hoarse yelling of a mob thirsting for blood.
'My God!' Awtar was saying. "They are setting the house on Hullo-hullo-hullo-Awtar!-HULLOP he kept shouting into the telephone. 'Hullo-hullo-hullo-what's the matter? It was a few seconds before he realized that the line had gone dead.
'It was good of him to try to warn us,' he told his wife. 'At a time like this-when they are already there.
"They will drag out the men and pour petrol over them and burn them alive, his wife said. "Just as they did to Dhansingh. That's what they usually do to Sikhs."
He avoided her eyes. So she knew about Dhansingh. The servants could not have heeded his warnings, because no one else could have told her. Suddenly he felt weak and helpless.
For the first time since the riots had started, he looks a really beaten man, Sundari thought as she looked at her father; some- one who had given up all pretence of courage. It was awful to see him looking like that; the eyes with the permanent frightened stare, the slight trembling of the head, the fingers twitching nervously. She ached to comfort him, to say something that would shake him out of his gloom and make him smile again. Was this, she wondered, the time to tell him about Debi-dayal?
She knew how overjoyed her parents would be to learn that Debi was alive, and back in India, a free man, because now that the British were going, there was no danger of anyone denouncing him for anti-British activities. If anything, he would be hailed as a patriot who had taken part in the struggle for independence. But how was she going to tell them about Debi's return and keep the details of his marriage secret?
She and Debi had planned it together, first in Bombay and then in Kernal where she had spent two days with him. She had undertaken to go to Duriabad to prepare their parents' minds to accept Mumtaz as their daughter-in-law. Debi and Mumtaz were to follow her four days later.
Even at the time, it had seemed a formidable task. And when she had seen the communal discord that raged in the Punjab, her mind had shrunk further from it. She realized that in the climate of suspicion and hatred, her parents would never accept Mumtaz as one of themselves. The fact that she happened to be a Muslim was far worse than her being someone their son had picked up in a brothel; even Debi's conviction as a terrorist could not have shocked them more.
She had hesitated, and after a few days, there had seemed no point in her mentioning anything about it. The riots had flared up. Two days after her arrival, the incoming train had been attacked by a mob, and after that, all railway services had come to a stop. Now there seemed no possibility of Debi being able to make the journey to Duriabad-in the opposite direction from the flow of the migration.
And yet, knowing her brother, she was not so sure. In the face of all that was happening along the border, would he still try to come? The thought kept haunting her.
For a long time, Tekchand sat rigidly in his chair, while Sundari and her mother went about their chores. Then he went on to the balcony and stood gazing outside, holding the wooden railing tightly. Was that a good sign?-Sundari wondered. Did it mean that he had at least begun to take an interest in things again?
"You had better go down to the garage and see that everything is in order,' she said, trying not to betray her anxiety about how he would respond, 'so that we can get going the moment we have news of the convoy."
He turned with a start. 'Yes, of course,' he said with alacrity, and went running down the stairs, obviously grateful to be told what to do.
The Ford was in the garage, gleaming; the paintwork and up- holstery still smelling new. He thanked the day he had installed the strong, roll-down shutters on both the garages and also the Chubb locks. The second garage was now empty, the Buick having gone. But this was no time to think about the Buick or his chauffeur. He got into the car, pressed the starter, and the engine responded instantly. He let it run for a few minutes and then shut it off. He brought the shutters down and locked the garage door.
They spent the rest of the morning looking out of the windows towards the town and running to the telephone every now and then to see if it was working again. 'How are we going to know when they want the convoy to assemble,' Sundari asked her father, 'now that the phone is dead?'
He had been thinking of that. In fact, he had been thinking about little else. 'Oh, the police will come to escort us,' he said, "They know it will mean baksheesh. Anyway, the telephone is bound to be put right soon." save the sitting room floor, making her fire outside. Seeing her like that, her eyes squinting against the smoke, her hands en- crusted with dough, brought on another wave of self-reproach. He found Sundari in the open passage that ran all along the front of the house.
"You know,' he said, pointing a hand at the museum, 'when I was in that room this morning, I wondered to myself for a moment about the futility of going on struggling. Why not regard this as a signal from the gods-the signal of defeat-and recognize that this is the end, instead of struggling to keep things going? I have had a good life and a full life, and it would be improper for me to go on hanging on to it indecent, almost, according to our philosophy. At my stage in life, a man should be prepared to turn his back on sansar-the involvements of the world. Of course, that is all nonsense; I realize that I cannot give up. One has to go on living, struggling, if only for the sake of those who are near and dear to one. There is your mother, yourself...
And your son,' Sundari blurted out. It was out of her hands now, for whatever pleasure or pain it would give him. "Yes, your son too,' she said, looking hard into his eyes.
The eyes remained expressionless. 'My son,' Tekchand said very flatly. He shook his head. "We don't even know if he is alive. Eight years now; and do you know, sometimes I get the horrible feeling that I have killed him with my own hands. Anyway, what I was telling you is that it is not easy to give up, however down and out one may feel, when one is caught up in the coils of sansar. There are ties of love that bind one...
Sundari felt a twinge of alarm at the way he was rambling on. "I have not said anything about it to you before,' she said. 'I think you should know that Debi is back."
He looked into her eyes with a smile that made him appear even sadder than before. You are a sweet girl and you are only saying it to cheer me up,' he told her.
I am doing nothing of the kind. It is true. He came to see me in Bombay. It is a long story, but the Japanese sent him to India to work for them. But he has done nothing to help them. He lived in Assam, all the latter part of the war, in hiding, because the Japanese would have given him away....
"You actually saw him, you say?"
"Of course, I saw him! He rang me up at my house. We had meals together; we went for walks. I went and saw them at their room at the Ocean Hotel."
"Them!' he asked. "Them?"
'He and his wife. He is... he is married.'
Now that it had come out, she wanted to get it over. 'Debi went to Lahore, to see someone, and there he met this girl. A very nice girl-I am sure you will like her. It is just that... that she is not from our kind of family.'
But her father was paying no attention to what she was saying. "Tell me, how was he looking? Is he, is he all right-after all that horrible life?"
Sundari's face clouded. "Yes, he is as handsome as ever; very brown and slim. Only his hand, his right hand. It is pitted and there is a scar, and a finger slightly crooked."
"We mustn't say anything to your mother about that, just now,"
he was saying, "What did they do to him?" "They didn't do anything I mean it didn't happen in the Andamans. It was in Lahore. Someone threw one of those bulbs filled with acid at-at his wife. He caught the bulb... Debi would. Of course, he would,' Tekchand commented with a touch of pride. 'Is it... the hand, very deformed?" It is not deformed or anything. It has healed very well. His wife nursed him through it."
'But why didn't he come here? Why didn't you bring him with you?
By now she was prepared with the answer. It would never have done to tell him that his son should have been with them a whole week earlier; that it was almost certain that something had happened to prevent him from coming.
I was supposed to break the news to you; I mean, about his having married the girl, and then write to him. After that he was coming here. both of them. Kernal is hardly a day's journey from here at least it was." It was as easy as that. She felt grateful for her father's lack of curiosity. Almost as though she had manipulated it, what had come out in their talk was just what would please him. The unpalatable details still remained unrevealed. She had not told him that the girl was from a brothel, nor that she happened to be a Muslim.
And now of course, no one can send a message or a letter," he said. 'But how stupid of him... both of you. You should have told him to come, Sundar, brought him with you. We would never have said anything."
It had come and gone, and she felt the better for it. There was no doubt that when her mother came to know about it, she was bound to ask for more details, but at the moment it was wonderful to see the effect it had on her father. The colour had come back to his face, and the slight trembling of his head had passed. 'Does your mother know?' he asked.
Sundari shook her head. 'But, Abaji, it is for you to tell her. I wanted you to know first. Go and tell her, now.'
Suddenly the pattern of gloom was broken. The load of un- resolved guilt which he had carried for the past eight years was to be lightened by his son's return. He no longer thought of death, or that he had had his time, a full innings. The future had acquired a meaning; it was worth struggling for.
Yes, I should like to do that. I will go and tell your mother. This will make her very happy.' He rose to his feet with a quick movement.
'One moment, Abaji,' his daughter was saying. "Wait!"
"What is it?'
"There's someone on the road, on a bicycle. Look!
He turned. It was quite strange to see someone on the road. They had not seen a single human being on the road all day.
"It must be someone going to the Mullicks' place,' he said. No; he's passed the turning. I think he is coming here."
'I wonder who it could be ?
"Wait! I think I know who it is. Gian... Mr. Talwar.'
For a moment the name meant nothing to him. Then, as the cyclist came nearer, he saw who it was. The young man who had sold him the statue of Shiva and who had persuaded him to give him a job. He was glad that he had done so, now that Debi was said to be back. His son would be pleased about it.
"I wonder what he wants? Tekchand said. go down and find out. You go and tell Mother about Debi. Tell her that he is fit and bronzed and more handsome than ever... and Abaji?"
Yes P
I shouldn't mention anything about his hand... all right?
'No, I won't.'
Nor about the marriage,' Sundari said, making up her mind on the spur of the moment. Just tell Mummy that Debi is back -that he is waiting for her when we get to the other side. Let us not complicate things just now."
He stood blinking at her for a few seconds. Just as you like,' he said. "Perhaps you are right." And explain that now that the British are going, he can live here openly... there's no danger of his being sent back to jail.'
Yes, that should please her."
Tekchand turned towards the sitting room and then stopped. 'Sundari, do you think he is quite... safe?"
Who? Mr. Talwar? Oh, yes. I'll tackle him... send him packing. Don't you worry."
The dog was already barking and making darts towards the stairs. Sundari was running down. Gian was just getting off his bicycle when she opened the door. As he saw her, he let his bicycle go and it keeled over slowly and fell down. He stood looking at her, panting. His face and limbs were covered with sweat.
'What is it? Sundari asked. 'My father is hardly in the mood for visitors.' Gian wiped his face with a handkerchief before he spoke. 'I am not a visitor,' he said. 'I have come to stay."
'Stay! What are you talking about?"
He stood in the porch, still panting and wiping his face, but looking strong and determined. "That's right, he announced. 'I am going to stick here like glue, right up to the time when you join the convoy. If necessary, sit on the doorstep."
Sundari's hands shook with anger. 'I see. That means you want to attach yourself to the convoy."
'Look," he said very evenly, for by now he had regained his breath. I am not attaching myself to your house or to the convoy or anything. As soon as you are out on your way, I shall drop out. And may I point out that it is not at all safe for you to be standing like this, in the doorway? Anyone hiding in the trees can take a shot at you. I think you should let me come in, or shut the door and we will shout through it at each other. I mean to remain here. You can't get rid of me by being rude now...not for a while yet." She opened the door wider and stepped aside.
Without a word, he picked up his bicycle and wheeled it up the steps. Sundari closed the door behind him and bolted it. He left the bicycle leaning against the wall, and went into the room behind the stairs where he had waited for his interview with her father. The clock on the mantelpiece had stopped at nine minutes past eight. I shall sit here,' he told her. You can lock me in, if that will make you feel safer." She had followed him into the room. 'Why this sudden eager- ness to help?' she asked.
He stood facing her squarely. 'Look,' he said. "This is some- thing you won't believe, but it happens to be the truth. I don't know what possessed you, that day of the explosion, to come and look for me. That is exactly the sort of thing I am doing now. I have just arrived from Delhi; it took me a whole week. And the things that are happening everywhere, there as well as here, are not such that your father and mother should be exposed to. It came to me all of a sudden, in the middle of the night, when I discovered that you people were still here. So I came... to give whatever help I can."
"The thought just came to you,' Sundari said with sarcasm, 'here is this family in distress; let me go and give them help.' It sounds pretty awful, the way you put it; but that's about what it is." But I happen to know you well, Mr. Talwar. You have never done anything without a selfish motive. You even professed to fall in love, with a mercenary motive; you sold my brother to secure favours and then.
"You have said all this before,' he pointed out.
"You are making it necessary for me to repeat it.'
'Since we are talking about my degradation, may I tell you that that is partly the reason why I have come?" Gian said. To try and prove, if only to myself, that there can be some good in the weakest of human beings...don't you see that I am trying to make up?"
"You say that is part of your reason; what makes up the rest?' He gave her a hard, almost challenging stare. 'I hardly know myself. It's the same feeling that prompted you to come looking for me in the docks; I am certain of that. It might even be love."
Sundari said: 'Now that you have said your piece, I think you had better go. It is just as well that I happened to be here. You would certainly have taken poor Father in."
He walked over to the sofa and sat down. He smiled at her, a slow, gentle smile, and shook his head. 'I am not going."
I am going to tell my father all about you,' she threatened. This is just a trick to get taken on our convoy, knowing you've no chance of getting a lift otherwise. This would be the safest bet for anyone caught up on this side, Mr. Talwar..." 'You can tell your father all about me, but that is not going to make me go away. And remember that I was not caught up on this side, as you say. I came."
He was still smiling. The smile, the assurance, the arrogant awareness of being in command, made Sundari tremble with anger. "Yes, there are a lot of things in the house that are valuable! But remember, there are bound to be other claimants...' she stopped, conscious of having drawn blood, knowing that she had made him lose his aplomb.
He had jumped up from the sofa but then sat down again. "You nearly succeeded,' he laughed. "That was the one thing that would have made me forget myself-made me go away."
'Then why don't you go away?' she taunted. Because you are a silly, spoilt girl saying these things just in order to score off me. No, I am not going."
Sundari turned on her heel, walked out of the room and up the stairs. "What does he want?' her father asked. 'I didn't see him go away.
'Nothing,' she told him drily. 'He says he just wants to keep us company. He's come all the way from Delhi to do it."
'He must be mad to come into something like this!"
'He certainly sounds unbalanced,' Sundari said. 'He has parked himself in the waiting room."
'Well, I think it's most kind of him,' Sundari's mother joined in. 'Another man here, at a time like this. A friend of Debi's. Can he drive a car, do you think?"
I think so, said Sundari. He had a small car in Bombay."
'Why don't you ask him up?' her mother said. 'He can share our meal. I think I have made enough chapatties." You can ask him, Mummy,' Sundari told her mother. 'I don't feel very friendly towards him... not just now."
'I'll go, Tekchand offered. 'I'll go."
"That's a fine thing to say,' Sundari's mother said in a tone of irritation. "Why shouldn't you feel friendly towards someone who has come all the way to help?"
