Karma
All that morning, people sat in their homes and stared despondently through their open doors. They saw Malli's men and the refugees ransack Muslim houses. They saw Sikh soldiers come and go as if on their beats. They heard the piteous lowing of cattle as they were beaten and dragged along. They heard the loud cackle of hens and roosters silenced by the slash of the knife. But they did nothing but sit and sigh.
A shepherd boy, who had been out gathering mushrooms, came back with the news that the river had risen. No one took any notice of him. They only wished that it would rise more and drown the whole of Mano Majra along with them, their women, children, and cattle provided it also drowned Malli, his gang, the refugees, and the soldiers.
While the men sighed and groaned, the rain fell in a steady downpour and the Sutlej continued to rise. It spread on either side of the central piers which normally contained the winter channels, and joined the pools round the other piers into one broad stream. It stretched right across the bridge, licking the dam which separated it from the fields of Mano Majra. It ran over the many little islands in the river bed till only the tops of the bushes that grew on them could be seen. Colonies of cormorants and terns which were used to roosting there flew over to the banks and then to the bridge over which no trains had run for several days.
In the afternoon, another villager went around to the houses shouting, 'Oi Banta Singh, the river is rising! Oi Daleep Singha, the river has risen! Oi listen, it is already up to the dam!' The people just looked up with their melancholy eyes signifying, 'We have heard that before.' Then another man came with the same message, 'The river has risen'; then another, and another, till everyone was saying, 'Do you know, the river has risen!'
At last the lambardar went out to see for himself. Yes, the river had risen. Two days of rain could not have caused it; it must have poured in the mountains after the melting of the snows. Sluice gates of canals had probably been closed to prevent the flood from bursting their banks; so there was no outlet except the river. The friendly sluggish stream of grey had become a menacing and tumultuous spread of muddy brown. The piers of the bridge were all that remained solid and contemptuously defiant of the river. Their pointed edges clove through the sheet of water and let it vent its impotent rage in a swirl of eddies and whirlpools. Rain beat upon the surface, pockmarking it all over. The Sutlej was a terrifying sight.
By evening, Mano Majra had forgotten about its Muslims and Malli's misdeeds. The river had become the main topic of conversation. Once more women stood on the rooftops looking to the west. Men started going in turns to the embankment to report on the situation.
Before sunset the lambardar went up again to see the river. It had risen more since his visit in the afternoon. Some of the clusters of pampas which had been above the water level were now partly submerged. Their stalks had gone limp and their sodden snow-white plumes floated on the water. He had never known the Sutlej to rise so high in so short a time. Mano Majra was still a long way off and the mud dam looked solid and safe. Nevertheless he arranged for a watch to be kept all through the night. Four parties of three men each were to take turns and be on the embankment from sunset to sunrise and report every hour. The rest were to stay in their houses.
The lambardar's decision was a quilt under which the village slept snug and safe. The lambardar himself had little sleep. Soon after midnight the three men on watch came back talking loudly, in a high state of excitement. They could not tell in the grey muffled moonlight whether the river had risen more, but they had heard human voices calling for help. The cries came from over the water. They may have been from the other side or from the river itself. The lambardar went out with them. He took his chromium-plated flashlight.
The four men stood on the embankment and surveyed the Sutlej, which looked like a sheet of black. The white beam of the lambardar's torch scanned the surface of the river. They could see nothing but the swirling water. They held their breath and listened, but they could hear nothing except the noise of the rain falling on the water. Each time the lambardar asked if they were sure that what they had heard were human voices and not jackals, they felt more and more uncertain and had to ask each other: 'It was clear, wasn't it, Karnaila?'
'Oh yes. It was clear enough. "Hai, hai"-like someone in pain.'
The four men sat under a tree, huddled around a hurricane lamp. The gunny sacks they used as raincoats were soaking wet; so were all their clothes. An hour later there was a break in the clouds. The rain slowed down to a drizzle and then stopped. The moon broke through the clouds just above the western horizon. Its reflection on the river made a broad path of shimmering tinfoil running from the opposite bank to the men under the tree. On this shining patch of moonlight even little ripples of water could be seen distinctly.
A black oval object hit the bridge pier and was swept by the stream towards the Mano Majra embankment. It looked like a big drum with sticks on its sides. It moved forward, backward and sideways until the current caught it again and brought it into the silvery path not far from where the men were sitting. It was a dead cow with its belly bloated like a massive barrel and its legs stiffly stretched upward. Then followed some blocks of thatch straw and bundles of clothing.
'It looks as if some village has been swept away by the flood,' said the lambardar.
'Quiet! Listen,' said one of the villagers in a whisper. The faint sound of a moan was wafted across the waters.
'Did you hear?'
'Quiet!'
They held their breath and listened.
No, it could not have been human. There was a rumbling sound. They listened again. Of course, it was a rumble; it was a train. Its puffing became clearer and clearer. Then they saw the outlines of the engine and the train itself. It had no lights. There was not even a headlight on the engine. Sparks flew out of the engine funnel like fireworks. As the train came over the bridge, cormorants flew silently down the river and terns flew up with shrill cries. The train came to a halt at Mano Majra station. It was from Pakistan.
'There are no lights on the train.'
'The engine did not whistle.'
'It is like a ghost.' 'In the name of the Lord do not talk like this,' said the lambardar. 'It may be
a goods train. It must have been the siren you heard. These new American
engines wail like someone being murdered.'
'No, Lambardara, we heard the sound more than an hour ago; and again the same one before the train came on,' replied one of the villagers.
'You cannot hear it any more. The train is not making any noise now.'
From across the railway line, where some days earlier over a thousand dead bodies had been burned, a jackal sent up a long plaintive howl. A pack joined him. The men shuddered.
'Must have been the jackals. They sound like women crying when somebody dies,' said the lambardar.
'No, no,' protested the other. 'No, it was a human voice as clear as you are talking to me now.'
They sat and listened and watched strange indistinguishable forms floating on the floodwaters. The moon went down. After a brief period of darkness the eastern horizon turned grey. Long lines of bats flew across noiselessly. Crows began to caw in their sleep. The shrill cry of a koel came bursting through a clump of trees and all the world was awake.
The clouds had rolled away to the north. Slowly the sun came up and flooded the rain-soaked plain with a dazzling orange brilliance; everything glistened in the sunlight. The river had risen further. Its turbid water carried carts with the bloated carcasses of bulls still yoked to them. Horses rolled from side to side as if they were scratching their backs. There were also men and women with their clothes clinging to their bodies; little children sleeping on their bellies with their arms clutching the water and their tiny buttocks dipping in and out. The sky was soon full of kites and vultures. They flew down and landed on the floating carcasses. They pecked till the corpses themselves rolled over and shooed them off with hands which rose stiffly into the air and splashed back into the water.
'Some villages must have been flooded at night,' said the lambardar gravely.
'Who yokes bulls to carts at night?' asked one of his companions.
'Yes, that is true. Why should the bullocks be yoked?'
More human forms could be seen coming through the arches of the bridge. They rebounded off the piers, paused, pirouetted at the whirlpools, and then came bouncing down the river. The men moved up towards the bridge to see some corpses which had drifted near the bank.
They stood and stared.
'Lambardara, they were not drowned. They were murdered.'
An old peasant with a grey beard lay flat on the water. His arms were stretched out as if he had been crucified. His mouth was wide open and showed his toothless gums, his eyes were covered with film, his hair floated about his head like a halo. He had a deep wound on his neck which slanted down from the side to the chest. A child's head butted into the old man's armpit. There was a hole in its back. There were many others coming down the river like logs hewn on the mountains and cast into streams to be carried down to the plains. A few passed through the middle of the arches and sped onward faster. Others bumped into the piers and turned over to show their wounds till the current turned them over again. Some were without limbs, some had their bellies torn open, many women's breasts were slashed. They floated down the sunlit river, bobbing up and down. Overhead hung the kites and vultures.
The lambardar and the villagers drew the ends of their turbans across their faces. "The Guru have mercy on us,' someone whispered. "There has been a massacre somewhere. We must inform the police.'
'Police?' a small man said bitterly. "What will they do? Write a first information report?'
Sick and with heavy hearts, the party turned back to Mano Majra. They did not know what to say to people when they got back. The river had risen further? Some villages had been flooded? There had been a massacre somewhere upstream? There were hundreds of corpses floating on the Sutlej? Or, just keep quiet?
When they came back to the village nobody was about to hear what they had to say. They were all on the rooftops looking at the station. After several days a train had drawn up at Mano Majra in the daytime. Since the engine faced eastward, it must have come from Pakistan. This time too the place was full of soldiers and policemen and the station had been cordoned off. The news of the corpses on the river was shouted from the housetops. People told each other about the mutilation of women and children. Nobody wanted to know who the dead people were nor wanted to go to the river to find out. There was a new interest at the station, with promise of worse horrors than the last one. There was no doubt in anyone's mind what the train contained. They were sure that the soldiers would come for oil and wood. They had no more oil to spare and the wood they had left was too damp to burn. But the soldiers did not come. Instead, a bulldozer arrived from somewhere. It began dragging its lower jaw into the ground just outside the station on the Mano Majra side. It went along, eating up the earth, chewing it, casting it aside. It did this for several hours, until there was a rectangular trench almost fifty yards long with mounds of earth on either side. Then it paused for a break. The soldiers and policemen who had been idly watching the bulldozer at work were called to order and marched back to the platform. They came back in twos carrying canvas stretchers. They tipped the stretchers into the pit and went back to the train for more. This went on all day till sunset. Then the bulldozer woke up again. It opened its jaws and ate up the earth it had thrown out before and vomited it into the trench till it was level with the ground. The place looked like the scar of a healed-up wound. Two soldiers were left to guard the grave from the depredations of jackals and badgers.
That evening, the entire village turned up for the evening prayers at the gurdwara. This had never happened before, except on Gurus' birthdays or on the New Year's Day in April. The only regular visitors to the temple were old men and women. Others came to have their children named, for baptisms, weddings and funerals. Attendance at prayers had been steadily going up since the murder of the moneylender; people did not want to be alone. Since the Muslims had gone, their deserted houses with doors swinging wide open had acquired an eerie, haunted look. Villagers walked past them quickly without turning their heads. The one place of refuge to which people could go without much explanation was the gurdwara. Men came pretending that they would be needed; women just to be with them, and they brought the children. The main hall where the scripture was kept and the two rooms on the side were jammed with refugees and villagers. Their shoes were neatly arranged in rows on the other side of the threshold. Meet Singh read the evening prayer by the light of the hurricane lamp. One of the men stood behind him waving a fly whisk. When the prayer was over, the congregation sang a hymn while Meet Singh folded the Granth in gaudy silk scarfs and laid it to rest for the night. The worshippers stood up and folded their hands. Meet Singh took his place in front. He repeated the names of the ten Gurus, the Sikh martyrs and the Sikh shrines and invoked their blessing; the crowd shouted their amens with loud 'Wah Gurus' at the end of each supplication. They went down on their knees, rubbed their foreheads on the ground, and the ceremony was over. Meet Singh came and joined the men.
It was a solemn assembly. Only the children played. They chased each other around the room, laughing and arguing. The adults scolded the children. One by one, the children returned to their mothers' laps and fell asleep. Then the men and women also stretched themselves on the floor in the different parts of the room.
The day's events were not likely to be forgotten in sleep. Many could not sleep at all. Others slept fitfully and woke up with startled cries if a neighbour's leg or arm so much as touched them. Even the ones who snored with apparent abandon, dreamed and relived the scenes of the day. They heard the sound of motor vehicles, the lowing of cattle and people crying. They sobbed in their sleep and their beards were moist with their tears.
When the sound of a motor horn was heard once more, those who were awake but drowsy thought they were dreaming. Those that were dreaming thought they were hearing it in their dreams. In their dreams they even said 'Yes, yes' to the voice which kept asking 'Are you all dead?'
The late night visitor was a jeep like the one in which the army officers had come in the morning. It seemed to know its way about the village. It went from door to door with a voice inquiring, 'Is there anyone there?' Only the dogs barked in reply. Then it came to the temple and the engine was switched off. Two men walked into the courtyard and shouted again: 'Is there anyone here or are you all dead?'
Everyone got up. Some children began to cry. Meet Singh turned up the wick of his hurricane lantern. He and the lambardar went out to meet the visitors. The men saw the commotion they had created. They ignored the lambardar and Meet Singh and walked up to the threshold of the large room. One looked in at the bewildered crowd and asked:
'Are you all dead?'
'Any one of you alive?' added the other.
The lambardar answered angrily, 'No one is dead in this village. What do you want?'
Before the men could answer two of their companions joined them. All were Sikhs. They wore khaki uniforms and had rifles slung on their shoulders.
'This village looks quite dead,' repeated one of the strangers, loudly addressing his own companions.
'The Guru has been merciful to this village. No one has died here,' answered Meet Singh with quiet dignity.
'Well, if the village is not dead, then it should be. It should be drowned in a palmful of water. It consists of eunuchs,' said the visitor fiercely with a flourish of his hand.
The strangers took off their shoes and came inside the large hall. The lambardar and Meet Singh followed them. Men sat up and tied their turbans. Women put their children in their laps and tried to rock them to sleep again.
One of the group, who appeared to be the leader, motioned the others to sit down. Everyone sat down. The leader had an aggressive bossy manner. He was a boy in his teens with a little beard which was glued to his chin with brilliantine. He was small in size, slight of build and altogether somewhat effeminate; a glossy red ribbon showed under the acute angle of his bright blue turban. His khaki army shirt hung loosely from his round drooping shoulders. He wore a black leather Sam Browne: the strap across his narrow chest charged with bullets and the broad belt clamped about his still narrower waist. On one side it had a holster with the butt of a revolver protruding; on the other side there was a dagger. He looked as if his mother had dressed him up as an American cowboy.
The boy caressed the holster of his revolver and ran his fingers over the silver noses of the bullets. He looked around him with complete confidence.
'Is this a Sikh village?' he asked insolently. It was obvious to the villagers that he was an educated city-dweller. Such men always assumed a superior air when talking to peasants. They had no regard for age or status. 'Yes, sir,' answered the lambardar. 'It has always been a Sikh village. We had Muslim tenants but they have gone.'
'What sort of Sikhs are you?' asked the boy, glowering menacingly. He elaborated his question: 'Potent or impotent?'
No one knew what to say. No one protested that this was not the sort of language one used in a gurdwara with women and children sitting by.
'Do you know how many trainloads of dead Sikhs and Hindus have come over? Do you know of the massacres in Rawalpindi and Multan, Gujranwala and Sheikhupura? What are you doing about it? You just eat and sleep and you call yourselves Sikhs the brave Sikhs! The martial class!' he added, raising both his arms to emphasize his sarcasm. He surveyed his audience with the bright eyes daring anyone to contradict him. People looked down somewhat ashamed of themselves.
'What can we do, Sardarji?' questioned the lambardar. 'If our government goes to war against Pakistan, we will fight. What can we do sitting in Mano Majra?'
'Government!' sneered the boy contemptuously. 'You expect the government to do anything? A government consisting of cowardly bania moneylenders! Do the Mussalmans in Pakistan apply for permission from their government when they rape your sisters? Do they apply for permission when they stop trains and kill everyone, old, young, women and children? You want the government to do something! That is great! Shabash! Brave!' He gave the holster on his side a jaunty smack.
'But, Sardar Sahib,' said the lambardar falteringly, 'do tell us what we can do.'
"That is better,' answered the lad. 'Now we can talk. Listen and listen very carefully.' He paused, looked around and started again. He spoke slowly, emphasizing each sentence by stabbing the air with his forefinger. 'For each Hindu or Sikh they kill, kill two Mussulmans. For each woman they abduct or rape, abduct two. For each home they loot, loot two. For each trainload of dead they send over, send two across. For each road convoy that is attacked, attack two. That will stop the killing on the other side. It will teach them that we also play this game of killing and looting.' He stopped to gauge the effect he had created. People listened to him with rapt open-mouthed attention. Only Meet Singh did not took up; he cleared his throat but stopped.
'Well, brother, why do you keep quiet?' asked the lad, throwing a challenge. 'I was going to say,' said Meet Singh haltingly, 'I was going to say,' he repeated, 'what have the Muslims here done to us for us to kill them in revenge for what Muslims in Pakistan are doing. Only people who have committed crimes should be punished.'
The lad glared angrily at Meet Singh. 'What had the Sikhs and Hindus in Pakistan done that they were butchered? Weren't they innocent? Had the women committed crimes for which they were ravished? Had the children committed murder for which they were spiked in front of their parents?'
Meet Singh was subdued. The boy wanted to squash him further. 'Why, brother? Now speak and say what you want to.'
'I am an old bhai; I could not lift my hands against anyone-fight in battle or kill the killer. What bravery is there in killing unarmed innocent people? As for women, you know that the last Guru, Gobind Singh, made it a part of a baptismal oath that no Sikh was to touch the person of a Muslim woman. And God alone knows how he suffered at the hands of the Mussulmans! They killed all his four sons.'
"Teach this sort of Sikhism to someone else,' snapped the boy contemptuously. 'It is your sort of people who have been the curse of this country. You quote the Guru about women; why don't you tell us what he said about the Mussulmans? "Only befriend the Turk when all other communities are dead." Is that correct?'
'Yes,' answered Meet Singh meekly, 'but nobody is asking you to befriend them. Besides, the Guru himself had Muslims in his army ...'
'And one of them stabbed him while he slept.'
Meet Singh felt uneasy.
'One of them stabbed him while he slept,' repeated the boy.
'Yes... but there are bad ones and ...'
'Show me a good one.'
Meet Singh could not keep up with the repartee. He just looked down at his feet. His silence was taken as an admission of defeat. 'Let him be. He is an old bhai. Let him stick to his prayers,' said many in a chorus.
The speaker was appeased. He addressed the assembly again in pompous tones. 'Remember,' he said like an oracle, 'remember and never forget-a Muslim knows no argument but the sword.'
The crowd murmured approval.
'Is there anyone beloved of the Guru here? Anyone who wants to sacrifice his life for the Sikh community? Anyone with courage?' He hurled each sentence like a challenge.
The villagers felt very uncomfortable. The harangue had made them angry and they wanted to prove their manliness. At the same time Meet Singh's presence made them uneasy and they felt they were being disloyal to him.
'What are we supposed to do?' asked the lambardar plaintively.
'I will tell you what we are to do,' answered the boy, pointing to himself. 'If you have the courage to do it.' He continued after a pause. "Tomorrow a trainload of Muslims is to cross the bridge to Pakistan. If you are men, this train should carry as many people dead to the other side as you have received.'
A cold clammy feeling spread among the audience. People coughed nervously.
'The train will have Mano Majra Muslims on it,' said Meet Singh without looking up.
'Bhai, you seem to know everything, don't you?' yelled the youth furiously. 'Did you give them the tickets or is your son a Railway Babu? I don't know who the Muslims on the train are; I do not care. It is enough for me to know that they are Muslims. They will not cross this river alive. If you people agree with me, we can talk; if you are frightened, then say so and we will say Sat Sri Akal to you and look for real men elsewhere.'
Another long period of silence ensued. The lad beat a tattoo on his holster and patiently scanned the faces around him.
"There is a military guard at the bridge.' It was Malli. He had been standing outside in the dark. He would not have dared to come back to Mano Majra alone. Yet there he was, boldly stepping into the gurdwara. Several members of his gang appeared at the door. 'You need not bother about the military or the police. No one will interfere. We will see to that,' answered the lad looking back at him. 'Are there any volunteers?'
'My life is at your disposal,' said Malli heroically. The story of Jugga beating him had gone round the village. His reputation had to be redeemed.
'Bravo,' said the speaker. At least one man. The Guru asked for five lives when he made the Sikhs. Those Sikhs were supermen. We need many more than five. Who else is willing to lay down his life?'
Four of Malli's companions stepped over the threshold. They were followed by many others, mostly refugees. Some villagers who had only recently wept at the departure of their Muslim friends also stood up to volunteer. Each time anyone raised his hand the youth said 'Bravo,' and asked him to come and sit apart. More than fifty agreed to join in the escapade.
'That is enough,' said the lad, raising his hand. 'If I need any more volunteers, I will ask for them. Let us pray for the success of our venture.'
Everyone stood up. Women put their children on the floor and joined the menfolk. The assembly faced the little cot on which the Granth lay wrapped, and folded their hands in prayer. The boy turned round to Meet Singh.
'Will you lead the prayer, Bhaiji?' he asked tauntingly.
'It is your mission, Sardar Sahib,' replied Meet Singh humbly. "You lead the prayer.'
The boy cleared his throat, shut his eyes and began to recite the names of the Gurus. He ended by asking for the Gurus' blessings for the venture. The assembly went down on their knees and rubbed their foreheads on the ground, loudly proclaiming:
In the name of Nanak, By the hope that faith doth instill, By the Grace of God, We bear the world nothing but good will.
The crowd stood up again and began to chant:
The Sikhs will rule
Their enemies will be scattered Only they that seek refuge will be saved! The little ceremonial ended with triumphant cries of Sat Sri Akal. Everyone sat down except the boy leader. The prayer had given him a veneer of humility. He joined his hands and apologized to the assembly.
'Sisters and brothers, forgive me for disturbing you at this late hour; you too, Bhaiji, and you, Lambardar Sahib, please forgive us for this inconvenience and for any angry words that I may have uttered; but this is in the service of the Guru. Volunteers will now adjourn to the other room; the others may rest. Sat Sri Akal.'
'Sat Sri Akal,' replied some of the audience. Meet Singh's room on the side of the courtyard was cleared of women and children. The visitors moved in with the volunteers. More lamps were brought in. The leader spread out a map on one of the beds. He held up a hurricane lantern. The volunteers crowded round him to study the map.
'Can you all see the position of the bridge and the river from where you are?' he asked.
'Yes, yes,' they answered impatiently.
'Have any of you got guns?'
They all looked at each other. No, no one had a gun.
'It does not matter,' continued the leader. 'We still have six or seven rifles, and probably a couple of sten guns as well. Bring your swords and spears.
They will be more useful than guns.' He paused.
"The plan is this. Tomorrow after sunset, when it is dark, we will stretch a rope across the first span of the bridge. It will be a foot above the height of the funnel of the engine. When the train passes under it, it will sweep off all the people sitting on the roof of the train. That will account for at least four to five hundred.'
The eyes of the listeners sparkled with admiration. They nodded to each other and looked around. The lambardar and Meet Singh stood at the door listening. The boy turned round angrily:
'Bhaiji, what have you to do with this? Why don't you go and say your prayers?'
Both the lambardar and Meet Singh turned away sheepishly. The lambardar knew he too would be told off if he hung around. 'And you, Lambardar Sahib,' said the boy. 'You should be going to the police station to report.'
Everyone laughed.
The boy silenced his audience by raising his hand. He continued: "The train is due to leave Chundunnugger after midnight. It will have no lights, not even on the engine. We will post people with flashlights along the track every hundred yards. Each one will give the signal to the next person as the train passes him. In any case, you will be able to hear it. People with swords and spears will be right at the bridge to deal with those that fall off the roof of the train. They will have to be killed and thrown into the river. Men with guns will be a few yards up the track and will shoot at the windows. There will be no danger of fire being returned. There are only a dozen Pakistani soldiers on the train. In the dark, they will not know where to shoot. They will not have time to load their guns. If they stop the train, we will take care of them and kill many more into the bargain.'
It seemed a perfect plan, without the slightest danger of retaliation. Everyone was pleased.
'It is already past midnight,' said the boy, folding up the map. 'You'd all better get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we will go to the bridge and decide where each one is to be posted. The Sikhs are the chosen of God. Victory be to our God.'
'Victory to our God,' answered the others.
The meeting dispersed. Visitors found room in the gurdwara. So did Malli and his gang. Many of the villagers had gone away to their homes lest they get implicated in the crime by being present at the temple when the conspiracy was being hatched. The lambardar took two of the villagers with him and left for the police station at Chundunnugger.
'Well, Inspector Sahib, let them kill,' said Hukum Chand wearily. 'Let everyone kill. Just ask for help from other stations and keep a record of the messages you send. We must be able to prove that we did our best to stop them.'
Hukum Chand looked a tired man. One week had aged him beyond recognition. The white at the roots of his hair had become longer. He had been shaving in a hurry and had cut himself in several places. His cheeks sagged and folds of flesh fell like dewlaps about his chin. He kept rubbing the corners of his eyes for the yellow which was not there.
'What am I to do?' he wailed. 'The whole world has gone mad. Let it go mad! What does it matter if another thousand get killed? We will get a bulldozer and bury them as we did the others. We may not even need the bulldozer if this time it is going to be on the river. Just throw the corpses in the water. What is a few hundred out of four hundred million anyway? An epidemic takes ten times the number and no one even bothers.'
The subinspector knew that this was not the real Hukum Chand. He was only trying to get the melancholia out of his system. The subinspector waited patiently, and then dropped a feeler.
'Yes, sir. I am keeping a record of all that is happening and what we are doing. Last evening, we had to evacuate Chundunnugger. I could not rely on the army nor my own constables. The best I could do was to ward off the attackers by telling them that Pakistan troops were in the town. That frightened them and I got the Muslims out in the nick of time. When the attackers discovered the trick, they looted and burned every Muslim house they could. I believe some of them planned to come to the police station for me, but better counsel prevailed. So you see, sir, all I got was abuse from the Muslims for evicting them from their homes; abuse from the Sikhs for having robbed them of the loot they were expecting. Now I suppose the government will also abuse me for something or the other. All I really have is my big thumb.' The subinspector stuck out his thumb and smiled.
Hukum Chand's mind was not itself that morning. He did not seem to realize the full import of the subinspector's report.
'Yes, Inspector Sahib, you and I are going to get nothing out of this except a bad name. What can we do? Everyone has gone trigger-happy. People empty their rifle magazines into densely packed trains, motor convoys, columns of marching refugees, as if they were squirting red water at the Holi festival; it is a bloody Holi. What sense is there in going to a place where bullets fly? The bullet does not pause and consider, "This is Hukum Chand, I must not touch him." Nor does a bullet have a name written on it saying "Sent by So-and-so".
Even if it did bear a name once inside, what consolation would it be to us to
know who fired it? No, Inspector Sahib, the only thing a sane person can do in a lunatic asylum is to pretend that he is as mad as the others and at the first opportunity scale the walls and get out.'
The subinspector was used to these sermons and knew how little they represented the magistrate's real self. But Hukum Chand's apparent inability to take a hint was surprising. He was known for never saying a thing straight; he considered it stupid. To him the art of diplomacy was to state a simple thing in an involved manner. It never got one into trouble. It could never be quoted as having implied this or that. At the same time, it gave one the reputation of being shrewd and clever. Hukum Chand was as adept at discovering innuendoes as he was at making them. This morning he seemed to be giving his mind a rest.
'You should have been in Chundunnugger yesterday,' said the subinspector, bringing the conversation back to the actual problem which faced him. 'If I had been five minutes later, there would not have been one Muslim left alive. As it is, not one was killed. I was able to take them all out.'
The subinspector emphasized 'not one' and 'all'. He watched Hukum Chand's reaction.
It worked. Hukum Chand stopped rubbing the corners of his eyes and asked casually, as if he were only seeking information, 'You mean to tell me there is not one Muslim family left in Chundunnugger?'
'No, sir, not one.'
'I suppose,' said Hukum Chand, clearing his throat, 'they will came back when all this blows over?'
'Maybe,' the subinspector answered. 'There is not much for them to come back to. Their homes have been burned or occupied. And if anyone did come back, his or her life would not be worth the tiniest shell in the sea."
'It will not last forever. You see how things change. Within a week they will be back in Chundunnugger and the Sikhs and Muslims will be drinking water out of the same pitcher.' Hukum Chand detected the note of false hope in his own voice. So did the subinspector.
'You may be right, sir. But it will certainly take more than a week for that to happen. Chundunnugger refugees are being taken to Pakistan by train tonight. God alone knows how many will go across the bridge alive; those that do are
not likely to want to come back in a hurry.' The subinspector had hit the mark. Hukum Chand's face went pale. He could no longer keep up the pretense.
'How do you know that Chundunnugger refugees are going by the night train?' he asked.
'I got it from the camp commander. There was danger of attack on the camp itself, so he decided to get the first train available to take the refugees out. If they do not go, probably no one will be left alive. If they do, some at least may get through, if the train is running at some speed. They are not planning to derail the train; they want it to go on to Pakistan with a cargo of corpses.'
Hukum Chand clutched the arms of his chair convulsively.
'Why don't you warn the camp commander about it? He may decide not to go.'
'Cherisher of the poor,' explained the subinspector patiently, 'I have not told him anything about the proposed attack on the train because if he does not go the whole camp may be destroyed. There are mobs of twenty to thirty thousand armed villagers thirsting for blood. I have fifty policemen with me and not one of them would fire a shot at a Sikh. But if your honour can use influence with these mobs, I can tell the camp commander about the plans to ambush the train and persuade him not to go.'
The subinspector was hitting below the belt.
'No, no,' stuttered the magistrate. 'What can influence do with armed mobs? No. We must think.'
Hukum Chand sank back in his chair. He covered his face with his hands. He beat his forehead gently with his clenched fist. He tugged at his hair as if he could pull ideas out of his brain.
"What has happened to those two men you arrested for the moneylender's murder?' he asked after some time.
The subinspector did not see the relevance of the inquiry.
"They are still in the lockup. You ordered me to keep them till the trouble was over. At this rate it seems I will have to keep them for some months.'
'Are there any Muslim females, or any stray Muslims who have refused to
leave Mano Majra?'
'No, sir, not one remains. Men, women, children, all have left,' answered the subinspector. He was still unable to catch up with Hukum Chand's train of thought.
'What about Jugga's weaver girl you told me about? What was her name?'
'Nooran.'
'Ah yes, Nooran. Where is she?'
'She has left. Her father was a sort of leader of the Muslims of Mano Majra. The lambardar told me a great deal about him. He had just one child, this girl Nooran; she is the one alleged to be carrying on with the dacoit Jugga.'
'And this other fellow, didn't you say he was a political worker of some sort?"
'Yes, sir. People's Party or something like that. I think he is a Muslim Leaguer masquerading under a false label. I examined...' 'Have you got any blank official papers for orders?' cut in Hukum Chand
impatiently. 'Yes, sir,' answered the subinspector. He fished out several pieces of yellow printed paper and handed them to the magistrate.
Hukum Chand stretched out his hand and plucked the subinspector's fountain pen from his pocket.
'What are the names of the prisoners?' he asked, spreading out the sheets on the table.
'Jugga badmash and...'
'Jugga badmash,' interrupted Hukum Chand, filling in a blank and signing it. *Jugga badmash, and ...?' he asked taking the other paper.
'Iqbal Mohammed or Mohammed Iqbal. I am not sure which.'
'Not Iqbal Mohammed, Inspector Sahib. Nor Mohammed Iqbal. Iqbal Singh,' he said, writing with a flourish. The subinspector looked a little stupefied. How did Hukum Chand know? Had Meet Singh been around calling on the magistrate?
'Sir, you should not believe everyone. I examined...'
'Do you really believe an educated Muslim would dare to come to these parts in times like these? Do you think any party would be so foolish as to send a Muslim to preach peace to Sikh peasants thirsting for Muslim blood, Inspector Sahib? Where is your imagination?'
The subinspector was subdued. It did seem unlikely that an educated man would risk his neck for any cause. Besides, he had noticed on Iqbal's right wrist the steel bangle all Sikhs wear.
'Your honour must be right, but what has this to do with the preventing of an attack on the train?'
'My honour is right,' said Hukum Chand triumphantly. 'And you will soon know why. Think about it on your way to Chundunnugger. As soon as you get there, release both the men and see that they leave for Mano Majra immediately. If necessary, get them a tonga. They must be in the village by the evening.'
The subinspector took the papers, and saluted. He sped back to the police station on his cycle. Gradually, the clouds of confusion lifted from his mind. Hukum Chand's plan became as crystal clear as a day after heavy rain.
'You will find Mano Majra somewhat changed,' the subinspector remarked, casually addressing the table in front of him. Iqbal and Jugga stood facing him on the other side.
'Why don't you sit down, Babu Sahib?' said the subinspector. This time he spoke directly to Iqbal. 'Please take a chair. Oi, what is your name? Why don't you bring a chair for the Babu Sahib?' he shouted at a constable. 'I know you are angry with me, but it is not my fault,' he continued. 'I have my duty to do. You as an educated man know what would happen if I were to treat people differently.'
The constable brought a chair for Iqbal.
'Do sit down. Shall I get you a cup of tea or something before you go?' The subinspector smiled unctuously.
'It is very kind of you. I would rather keep standing; I have been sitting in the cell all these days. If you do not mind, I would like to leave as soon as you have finished with the formalities,' answered Iqbal without responding to the
other's smile.
'You are free to go whenever and wherever you want to go. I have sent for a tonga to take you to Mano Majra. I will send an armed constable to accompany you. It is not safe to be about in Chundunnugger or to travel unescorted.'
The subinspector picked up a yellow paper and read: 'Juggut Singh, son of Alam Singh, age twenty-four, caste Sikh of village Mano Majra, badmash number ten.' 'Yes, sir,' interrupted Jugga, smiling. The treatment he had received from the police had not made any difference to him. His equation with authority was simple: he was on the other side. Personalities did not come into it. Subinspectors and policemen were people in khaki who frequently arrested him, always abused him, and sometimes beat him. Since they abused and beat him without anger or hate, they were not human beings with names. They were only denominations one tried to get the better of. If one failed, it was just bad luck.
'You are being released, but you must appear before Mr Hukum Chand, Deputy Commissioner, on the first of October 1947, at ten a.m. Put your thumb impression on this."
The subinspector opened a flat tin box with a black gauze padding inside it. He caught Juggut Singh's thumb in his hand, rubbed it on the damp pad and pressed it on the paper.
'Have I permission to go?' asked Jugga.
'You can go with Babu Sahib in the tonga; otherwise you will not get home before dark.' He looked up at Jugga and repeated slowly, 'You will not find Mano Majra the same.'
Neither of the men showed any interest in the subinspector's remark about Mano Majra. The subinspector spread out another piece of paper and read: 'Mr Iqbal Singh, social worker.'
Iqbal looked at the paper cynically.
'Not Mohammed Iqbal, member of the Muslim League? You seem to
fabricate facts and documents as it pleases you.'
The subinspector grinned. 'Everyone makes mistakes. To err is human, to forgive divine,' he added in English. 'I admit my mistake.'
'That is very generous of you,' answered Iqbal. 'I had always believed that the Indian Police were infallible.'
'You can make fun of me if you like; you do not realize that if you had been going about lecturing as you intended and had fallen into the hands of a Sikh mob, they would not have listened to your arguments. They would have stripped you to find out whether or not you were circumcised. That is the only test they have these days for a person who has not got long hair and a beard. Then they kill. You should be grateful to me.' Iqbal was in no mood to talk. Besides, the subject was not one he wanted to discuss with anyone. He resented the way the subinspector took the liberty of mentioning it.
'You will find big changes in Mano Majra!' warned the subinspector for the third time; neither Jugga nor Iqbal showed any response. Iqbal laid down on the table the book he had been holding and turned away without a word of thanks or farewell. Jugga felt the floor with his feet for his shoes.
*All Mussulmans have gone from Mano Majra,' said the subinspector dramatically.
Jugga stopped shuffling his feet. 'Where have they gone?'
'Yesterday they were taken to the refugee camp. Tonight they will go by train to Pakistan.'
'Was there any trouble in the village, Inspector Sahib? Why did they have to go?'
'There would have been if they had not gone. There are lots of outsiders going about with guns killing Muslims; Malli and his men have joined them. If the Muslims had not left Mano Majra, Malli would have finished them off by now. He has taken all their things-cows, buffaloes, oxen, mares, chicken, utensils. Malli has done well.'
Jugga's temper shot up at once. 'That penis of a pig who sleeps with his mother, pimps for his sister and daughter, if he puts his foot in Mano Majra I will stick my bamboo pole up his behind!'
The subinspector pursed his lips in a taunting smile. "You talk big, Sardara. Just because you caught him unawares by his hair and beat him, you think you are a lion. Malli is not a woman with henna on his palms or bangles on his wrists. He has been in Mano Majra and taken all the things he wanted; he is still there. You will see him when you get back."
'He will run like a jackal when he hears my name.'
'Men of his gang are with him. So are many others, all armed with guns and pistols. You had better behave sensibly if you hold your life dear.'
Jugga nodded his head. 'Right, Inspector Sahib. We will meet again. Then ask me about Malli.' His temper got the better of him. 'If I do not spit in his bottom, my name is not Juggut Singh.' He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. 'If I do not spit in Malli's mouth, my name is not Juggut Singh.' This time Juggut Singh spat on his own hand and rubbed it on his thigh. His temper rose to fever heat. 'If it had not been for your policemen in their uniforms, I would like to meet the father of a son who could dare to bat an eyelid before Juggut Singh,' he added, throwing out his chest.
'All right, all right, Sardar Juggut Singh, we agree you are a big brave man. At least you think so,' smiled the subinspector. 'You had better get home before dark. Take the Babu Sahib with you. Babu Sahib, you need have no fear. You have the district's bravest man to look after you.'
Before Juggut Singh could reply to the subinspector's sarcasm, a constable came in to announce that he had got a tonga.
'Sat Sri Akal, Inspector Sahib. When Malli comes crying to lodge a report against me, then you will believe that Juggut Singh is not a man of hollow words.'
The subinspector laughed. 'Sat Sri Akal, Juggut Singha. Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji.'
Iqbal walked away without turning back.
The tonga left Chundunnugger in the afternoon. It was a long, uneventful journey. This time Jugga sat on the front seat with the policeman and the driver, leaving the rear seat all to Iqbal. No one was in a mood to talk. Bhola, the driver, had been pressed into service by the police at a time when it was not safe to step out of the house. He took it out on his skinny brown horse, whipping and swearing continuously. The others were absorbed in their own thoughts.
The countryside also was still. There were large expanses of water which made it look flatter than usual. There were no men or women in the fields. Not even cattle grazing. The two villages they passed seemed deserted except for the dogs. Once or twice they caught a fleeting glimpse of someone stepping behind a wall or peering round a corner-and that someone carried a gun or a spear.
Iqbal realized that it was the company of Jugga and the constable, who were known Sikhs, that really saved him from being stopped and questioned. He wished he could get out of this place where he had to prove his Sikhism to save his life. He would pick up his things from Mano Majra and catch the first train. Perhaps there were no trains. And if there were, could he risk getting onto one? He cursed his luck for having a name like Iqbal, and then for being a... Where on earth except in India would a man's life depend on whether or not his foreskin had been removed? It would be laughable if it were not tragic. He would have to stay in Mano Majra for several days and stay close to Meet Singh for protection-Meet Singh with his unkempt appearance and two trips a day to the fields to defecate. The thought was revolting. If only he could get out to Delhi and to civilization! He would report on his arrest; the party paper would frontpage the news with his photograph: ANGLO-AMERICAN CAPITALIST CONSPIRACY TO CREATE CHAOS (lovely alliteration). COMRADE IQBAL IMPRISONED ON BORDER. It would all go to make him a hero.
Jugga's immediate concern was the fate of Nooran. He did not look at his companions in the tonga or at the village. He had forgotten about Malli. At the back of his mind persisted a feeling that Nooran would be in Mano Majra. No one could have wanted Imam Baksh to go. Even if he had left with the other Muslims Nooran would be hiding somewhere in the fields, or would have come to his mother. He hoped his mother had not turned her out. If she had, he would let her have it. He would walk out and never come back. She would spend the rest of her days regretting having done it.
Jugga was lost in his thoughts, concerned and angry alternately, when the tonga slowed down to pass through the lane to the Sikh temple. He jumped off the moving vehicle and disappeared into the darkness without a word of farewell.
Iqbal stepped off the tonga and stretched his limbs. The driver and the constable had a whispered consultation.
'Can I be of any more service to you, Babu Sahib?' asked the policeman.
'No. No, thank you. I am all right. It is very kind of you.' Iqbal did not like the prospect of going into the gurdwara alone, but he could not bring himself to ask the others to come with him.
'Babuji, we have a long way to go. My horse has been out all day without any food or water; and you know the times.'
'Yes, you can go back. Thank you. Sat Sri Akal.'
'Sat Sri Akal.' The courtyard of the gurdwara was spotted with rings of light cast by hurricane lamps and fires on improvised hearths over which women were cooking the evening meal. Inside the main hall was a circle of people around Meet Singh, who was reciting the evening prayer. The room in which Iqbal had left his things was locked.
Iqbal took off his shoes, covered his head with a handkerchief and joined the gathering. Some people shifted to make room for him. Iqbal noticed people looking at him and whispering to each other. Most of them were old men dressed like town folk. It was quite obvious that they were refugees.
When the prayer was over, Meet Singh wrapped the massive volume in velvet and laid it to rest on the cot on which it had been lying open. He spoke to Iqbal before anyone else could start asking questions.
'Sat Sri Akal, Iqbal Singhji. I am glad you are back. You must be hungry.' Iqbal realized that Meet Singh had deliberately mentioned his surname. He could feel the tension relax. Some of the men turned around and said 'Sat Sri Akal.'
'Sat Sri Akal,' answered Iqbal and got up to join Meet Singh.
'Sardar Iqbal Singh,' said Meet Singh, introducing him to the others, 'is a
social worker. He has been in England for many years.' A host of admiring eyes were turned on Iqbal, 'the England returned'. The
'Sat Sri Akals' were repeated. Iqbal felt embarrassed.
'You are Sikh, Iqbal Singhji?' inquired one of the men.
'Yes.' A fortnight earlier he would have replied emphatically 'No', or 'I have no religion' or 'Religion is irrelevant.' The situation was different now, and in any case it was true that he was born a Sikh.
'Was it in England you cut your hair?' asked the same person.
'No, sir,' answered Iqbal, completely confused. 'I never grew my hair long. I am just a Sikh without long hair and beard.'
'Your parents must have been unorthodox,' said Meet Singh coming to his aid. The statement allayed suspicion but left Iqbal with an uneasy conscience. Meet Singh fumbled with the cord of his shorts and pulled up a bunch of keys dangling at the end. He picked up the hurricane lantern from the stool beside the scriptures and led the way through the courtyard to the room. 'I kept your things locked in the room. You can take them. I will get you some food.'
'No, Bhaiji, do not bother, I have enough with me. Tell me, what has happened in the village since I left? Who are all these people?'
The bhai unlocked the door and lit an oil lamp in the niche. Iqbal opened his kit bag and emptied its contents on a charpai. There were several copper-gold tins of fish paste, butter and cheese; aluminum forks, knives and spoons, and celluloid cups and saucers.
'Bhaiji, what has been happening?' Iqbal asked again.
'What has been happening? Ask me what has not been happening. Trainloads of dead people came to Mano Majra. We burned one lot and buried another. The river was flooded with corpses. Muslims were evacuated, and in their place, refugees have come from Pakistan. What more do you want to know?'
Iqbal wiped a celluloid plate and tumbler with his handkerchief. He fished out his silver hip flask and shook it. It was full.
'What have you in that silver bottle?'
'Oh this? Medicine,' faltered Iqbal. 'It gives me an appetite for food,' he added with a smile.
*And then you take pills to digest it?'
Iqbal laughed. 'Yes, and more to make the bowels work. Tell me, was there any killing in the village?'
'No,' said the bhai casually. He was more interested in watching Iqbal inflating the air mattress. 'But there will be. Is it nice sleeping on this? Does
everyone in England sleep on these?' 'What do you mean there will be killing?' asked Iqbal, plugging the end of the mattress. 'All Muslims have left, haven't they?'
'Yes, but they are going to attack the train near the bridge tonight. It is taking Muslims of Chundunnugger and Mano Majra to Pakistan. Your pillow is also full of air.'
'Yes. Who are they? Not the villagers?'
'I do not know all of them. Some people in uniforms came in military cars. They had pistols and guns. The refugees have joined them. So have Malli badmash and his gang-and some villagers. Wouldn't this burst if a heavy person slept on it?' asked Meet Singh, tapping the mattress. 'I see,' said Iqbal, ignoring Meet Singh's question. 'I see the trick now. That is why the police released Malli. Now I suppose Jugga will join them, too. It is all arranged.' He stretched himself on the mattress and tucked the pillow under his armpit. 'Bhaiji, can't you stop it? They all listen to you.'
Meet Singh patted and smoothed the air mattress and sat down on the floor.
'Who listens to an old bhai? These are bad times, Iqbal Singhji, very bad times. There is no faith or religion. All one can do is to crouch in a safe corner till the storm blows over. This would not do for a newly married couple,' he added, slapping the mattress affectionately.
Iqbal was agitated. 'You cannot let this sort of thing happen! Can't you tell them that the people on the train are the very same people they were addressing as uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters?"
Meet Singh sighed. He wiped a tear with the scarf on his shoulder.
'What difference will my telling them make? They know what they are doing. They will kill. If it is a success, they will come to the gurdwara for thanksgiving. They will also make offerings to wash away their sins. Iqbal Singhji, tell me about yourself. Have you been well? Did they treat you properly at the police station?'
'Yes, yes, I was all right,' snapped Iqbal impatiently. 'Why don't you do something? You must!'
'I have done all I could. My duty is to tell people what is right and what is not. If they insist on doing evil, I ask God to forgive them. I can only pray; the rest is for the police and the magistrate. And for you.'
'Me? Why me?' asked Iqbal with a startled innocence. 'What have I to do with it? I do not know these people. Why should they listen to a stranger?'
"When you came you were going to speak to them about something. Why don't you tell them now?'
Iqbal felt concerned. 'Bhaiji, when people go about with guns and spears you can only talk back with guns and spears. If you cannot do that, then it is best to keep out of their way.'
'That is exactly what I say. I thought you with your European ideas had some other remedy. Let me get you some hot spinach. I have just cooked it,' added Meet Singh getting up. 'No, no, Bhaiji, I have all I want in my tins. If I want something I will ask you for it. I have a little work to do before I eat.'
Meet Singh put the hurricane lantern on a stool by the bed and went back to the hall.
Iqbal put his plates, knife, fork, and tins back into the haversack. He felt a little feverish, the sort of feverishness one feels when one is about to make a declaration of love. It was time for a declaration of something. Only he was not sure what it should be.
Should he go out, face the mob and tell them in clear ringing tones that this was wrong-immoral? Walk right up to them with his eyes fixing the armed crowd in a frame without flinching, without turning, like the heroes on the screen who become bigger and bigger as they walk right into the camera. Then with dignity fall under a volley of blows, or preferably a volley of rifleshots. A cold thrill went down Iqbal's spine.
There would be no one to see this supreme act of sacrifice. They would kill him just as they would kill the others. He was not neutral in their eyes. They would just strip him and see. Circumcised, therefore Muslim. It would be an utter waste of life! And what would it gain? A few subhuman species were going to slaughter some of their own kind-a mild setback to the annual increase of four million. It was not as if you were going to save good people from bad. If the others had the chance, they would do as much. In fact they were doing so, just a little beyond the river. It was pointless. In a state of chaos self- preservation is the supreme duty.
Iqbal unscrewed the top of his hip flask and poured out a large whisky in a celluloid tumbler. He gulped it down neat.
When bullets fly about, what is the point of sticking out your head and getting shot? The bullet is neutral. It hits the good and the bad, the important and the insignificant, without distinction. If there were people to see the act of self-immolation, as on a cinema screen, the sacrifice might be worth while: a moral lesson might be conveyed. If all that was likely to happen was that next morning your corpse would be found among thousands of others, looking just like them-cropped hair, shaven chin... even circumcised-who would know that you were not a Muslim victim of a massacre? Who would know that you were a Sikh who, with full knowledge of the consequences, had walked into the face of a firing squad to prove that it was important that good should triumph over evil? And God-no, not God; He was irrelevant.
Iqbal poured another whisky. It seemed to sharpen his mind.
The point of sacrifice, he thought, is the purpose. For the purpose, it is not enough that a thing is intrinsically good: it must be known to be good. It is not enough only to know within one's self that one is in the right: the satisfaction would be posthumous. This was not the same thing as taking punishment at school to save some friend. In that case you could feel good and live to enjoy the sacrifice; in this one you were going to be killed. It would do no good to society: society would never know. Nor to yourself: you would be dead. That figure on the screen, facing thousands of people who looked tense and concerned! They were ready to receive the lesson. That was the crux of the whole thing. The doer must do only when the receiver is ready to receive. Otherwise, the act is wasted.
He filled the glass again. Everything was becoming clearer.
If you really believe that things are so rotten that your first duty is to destroy -to wipe the slate clean then you should not turn green at small acts of destruction. Your duty is to connive with those who make the conflagration, not to turn a moral hose-pipe on them-to create such a mighty chaos that all that is rotten like selfishness, intolerance, greed, falsehood, sycophancy, is drowned. In blood, if necessary.
India is constipated with a lot of humbug. Take religion. For the Hindu, it means little besides caste and cow-protection. For the Muslim, circumcision and kosher meat. For the Sikh, long hair and hatred of the Muslim. For the Christian, Hinduism with a sola topee. For the Parsi, fire-worship and feeding vultures. Ethics, which should be the kernel of a religious code, has been carefully removed. Take philosophy, about which there is so much hoo-ha. It is just muddle-headedness masquerading as mysticism. And Yoga, particularly Yoga, that excellent earner of dollars! Stand on your head. Sit cross-legged and tickle your navel with your nose. Have perfect control over the senses. Make women come till they cry 'Enough!' and you can say 'Next, please' without opening your eyes. And all the mumbo-jumbo of reincarnation. Man into ox into ape into beetle into eight million four hundred thousand kinds of animate things. Proof? We do not go in for such pedestrian pastimes as proof! That is Western. We are of the mysterious East. No proof, just faith. No reason, just faith. Thought, which should be the sine qua non of a philosophical code, is dispensed with. We climb to sublime heights on the wings of fancy. We do the rope trick in all spheres of creative life. As long as the world credulously believes in our capacity to make a rope rise skyward and a little boy climb it till he is out of view, so long will our brand of humbug thrive.
Take art and music. Why has contemporary Indian painting, music, architecture and sculpture been such a flop? Because it keeps harking back to BC. Harking back would be all right if it did not become a pattern-a deadweight. If it does, then we are in a cul-de-sac of art forms. We explain the unattractive by pretending it is esoteric. Or we break out altogether-like modern Indian music of the films. It is all tango and rhumba or samba played on Hawaiian guitars, violins, accordions and clarinets. It is ugly. It must be scrapped like the rest.
He wasn't quite sure what he meant. He poured another whisky. Consciousness of the bad is an essential prerequisite to the promotion of the good. It is no use trying to build a second storey on a house whose walls are rotten. It is best to demolish it. It is both cowardly and foolhardy to kowtow to social standards when one believes neither in the society nor in its standards. Their courage is your cowardice, their cowardice your courage. It is all a matter of nomenclature. One could say it needs courage to be a coward. A conundrum, but a quotable one. Make a note of it.
And have another whisky. The whisky was like water. It had no taste. Iqbal shook the flask. He heard a faint splashing. It wasn't empty. Thank God, it wasn't empty.
If you look at things as they are, he told himself, there does not seem to be a code either of man or of God on which one can pattern one's conduct. Wrong triumphs over right as much as right over wrong. Sometimes its triumphs are greater. What happens ultimately, you do not know. In such circumstances what can you do but cultivate an utter indifference to all values? Nothing matters.
Nothing whatever...
Iqbal fell asleep, with the celluloid glass in his hand and the lamp burning on the stool beside him. In the courtyard of the gurdwara, the fires on the hearths had burned to ashes. A gust of wind occasionally fanned a glowing ember. Lamps had been dimmed. Men, women and children lay sprawled about on the floor of the main room. Meet Singh was awake. He was sweeping the floor and tidying up the mess. Somebody started banging at the door with his fists. Meet Singh stopped sweeping and went across the courtyard muttering, 'Who is it?'
He undid the latch. Jugga stepped inside. In the dark he looked larger than ever. His figure filled the doorway.
'Why, Juggut Singhji, what business have you here at this hour?' asked Meet Singh.
'Bhai,' he whispered, 'I want the Guru's word. Will you read me a verse?' 'I have laid the Granth Sahib to rest for the night,' Meet Singh said. 'What is it that you want to do?'
'It does not matter about that,' said Jugga impatiently. He put a heavy hand on Meet Singh's shoulder. 'Will you just read me a few lines quickly?'
Meet Singh led the way, grumbling. 'You never came to the gurdwara any other time. Now when the scripture is resting and people are asleep, you want me to read the Guru's word. It is not proper. I will read you a piece from the Morning Prayer.'
'It does not matter what you read. Just read it.'
Meet Singh turned up the wick of one of the lanterns. Its sooty chimney became bright. He sat down beside the cot on which the scripture lay. Jugga picked up the fly whisk from beneath the cot and began waving it over Meet Singh's head. Meet Singh got out a small prayer book, put it to his forehead and began to read the verse on the page which he happened to have opened to:
He who made the night and day, The days of the week and seasons. He who made the breezes blow, the waters run, The fires and the lower regions. Made the earth-the temple of law. He who made creatures of diverse kinds With a multitude of names, Made this the law- By thought and deed be judged forsooth, For God is True and dispenseth Truth. There the elect his court adorn, And God Himself their actions honours. There are sorted deeds that were done and bore fruit, From those that to action could never ripen.
This, O Nanak, shall hereafter happen.
Meet Singh shut the prayer book and again put it to his forehead. He began to mumble the epilogue to the morning prayer:
Air, water and earth, Of these are we made, Air like the Guru's word gives the breath of life To the babe born of the great mother Earth
Sired by the waters.
His voice tapered off to an inaudible whisper. Juggut Singh put back the fly whisk and rubbed his forehead on the ground in front of the scripture.
'Is that good?' he asked naively.
'All the Guru's word is good,' answered Meet Singh solemnly.
'What does it mean?'
'What have you to do with meaning? It is just the Guru's word. If you are going to do something good, the Guru will help you; if you are going to do something bad, the Guru will stand in your way. If you persist in doing it, he will punish you till you repent, and then forgive you.'
'Yes, what will I do with the meaning? All right, Bhaiji. Sat Sri Akal.'
'Sat Sri Akal.'
Jugga rubbed his forehead on the ground again and got up. He threaded his way through the sleeping assembly and picked up his shoes. There was a light in one of the rooms. Jugga looked in. He recognized the head with tousled hair on the pillow. Iqbal was sleeping with the silver hip flask lying on his chest.
'Sat Sri Akal, Babuji.' he said softly. There was no reply. 'Are you asleep?"
'Do not disturb him,' interrupted Meet Singh in a whisper. 'He is not feeling well. He has been taking medicine to sleep.'
'Achha, Bhaiji, you say Sat Sri Akal to him for me.' Juggut Singh went out of the gurdwara. 'No fool like an old fool.' The sentence kept recurring in Hukum Chand's mind. He tried to dismiss it, but it came back again and again: 'No fool like an old fool.' It was bad enough for a married man in his fifties to go picking up women. To get emotionally involved with a girl young enough to be his daughter and a Muslim prostitute at that! That was too ludicrous. He must be losing his grip on things. He was getting senile and stupid.
The feeling of elation which his plan had given him in the morning was gone. Instead there was one of anxiety, uncertainty and old age. He had released the badmash and the social worker without knowing much about them. They probably had no more nerve than he. Some of the leftist social workers were known to be a daring lot. This one, however, was an intellectual, the sort people contemptuously describe as the armchair variety. He would probably do nothing except criticize others for failing to do their duty. The badmash was a notorious daredevil. He had been in train robberies, car hold-ups, dacoities and murders. It was money he was after, or revenge. The only chance of his doing anything was to settle scores with Malli. If Malli had fled when he heard of Jugga's arrival, Jugga would lose interest and might even join the gang in killing and looting the victims of the ambush. His type never risked their necks for women. If Nooran was killed, he would pick up another girl.
Hukum Chand was also uneasy about his own role. Was it enough to get others to do the work for him? Magistrates were responsible for maintenance of law and order. But they maintained order with power behind them; not opposing them. Where was the power? What were the people in Delhi doing? Making fine speeches in the assembly! Loudspeakers magnifying their egos; lovely-looking foreign women in the visitors' galleries in breathless admiration. 'He is a great man, this Mr Nehru of yours. I do think he is the greatest man in the world today. And how handsome! Wasn't that a wonderful thing to say? "Long ago we made a tryst with destiny and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure but very substantially." Yes, Mr Prime Minister, you made your tryst. So did many others.
There was Hukum Chand's colleague Prem Singh who went back to fetch his wife's jewellery from Lahore. He made his tryst at Feletti's Hotel where European sahibs used to flirt with each other's wives. It is next door to the Punjab Assembly building where Pakistani parliamentarians talked democracy and made laws. Prem Singh whiled away time drinking beer and offering it to the Englishmen staying in the hotel. Over the privet hedge a dozen heads with fez caps and Pathan turbans waited for him. He drank more beer and forced it on his English friends and on the orchestra. His dates across the hedge waited patiently. The Englishmen drank a lot of beer and whisky and said Prem Singh was a grand chap. But it was late for dinner so they said, 'Good night Mr... Did not catch your name. Yes, of course, Mr Singh. Thank you very much, Mr Singh. See you again.' ... 'Nice old Wog. Can hold his drink too,' they said in the dining room. Even the orchestra had more beer than ever before. 'What would you like us to play, sir?' asked Mendoza the Goan bandleader. 'It is rather late and we must close down now.' Prem Singh did not know the name of any European piece of music. He thought hard. He remembered one of the Englishmen had asked for something which sounded like 'bananas'. 'Bananas,' said Prem Singh. "We'll Have No Bananas Today."" 'Yes, sir.' Mendoza, McMello, DeSilva, DeSaram and Gomes strummed 'Bananas'. Prem Singh walked across the lawn to the gate. His dates also moved along to the hedge gate. The band saw Prem Singh leave so they switched onto 'God Save the King'.
There was Sundari, the daughter of Hukum Chand's orderly. She had made her tryst with destiny on the road to Gujranwala. She had been married four days and both her arms were covered with red lacquer bangles and the henna on her palms was still a deep vermilion. She had not yet slept with Mansa Ram. Their relatives had not left them alone for a minute. She had hardly seen his face through her veil. Now he was taking her to Gujranwala where he worked as a peon and had a little room of his own in the Sessions Court compound. There would be no relatives and he would certainly try it. He did not seem particularly keen, sitting in the bus talking loudly to all the other passengers. Men often pretended indifference. No one would really believe that she wanted him either what with the veil across her face and not a word! 'Do not take any of the lacquer bangles off. It brings bad luck,' her girl friends had said to her.
'Let him break them when he makes love to you and mauls you.' There were a dozen on each of her arms, covering them from the wrists to the elbows. She felt them with her fingers. They were hard and brittle. He would have to do a lot of hugging and savaging to break them. She stopped daydreaming as the bus pulled up. There were large stones on the road. Then hundreds of people surrounded them. Everyone was ordered off the bus. Sikhs were just hacked to death. The clean-shaven were stripped. Those that were circumcised were forgiven. Those that were not, were circumcised. Not just the foreskin: the whole thing was cut off. She who had not really had a good look at Mansa Ram was shown her husband completely naked. They held him by the arms and legs and one man cut off his penis and gave it to her. The mob made love to her. She did not have to take off any of her bangles. They were all smashed as she lay in the road, being taken by one man and another and another. That should have brought her a lot of good luck!
Sunder Singh's case was different. Hukum Chand had had him recruited for the army. He had done well. He was a big, brave Sikh with a row of medals won in battles in Burma, Eritrea and Italy. The government had given him land in Sindh. He came to his tryst by train, along with his wife and three children. There were over five hundred men and women in a compartment meant to carry '40 sitting, 12 sleeping. There was just one little lavatory in the corner without any water in the cistern. It was 115° in the shade; but there was no shade -not a shrub within miles. Only the sun and the sand... and no water. At all stations there were people with spears along the railings. Then the train was held up at a station for four days. No one was allowed to get off. Sunder Singh's children cried for water and food. So did everyone else. Sunder Singh gave them his urine to drink. Then that dried up too. So he pulled out his revolver and shot them all. Shangara Singh aged six with his long brown- blonde hair tied up in a topknot, Deepo aged four with curling eyelashes, and Amro, four months old, who tugged at her mother's dry breasts with her gums and puckered up her face till it was full of wrinkles, crying frantically. Sunder Singh also shot his wife. Then he lost his nerve. He put the revolver to his temple but did not fire. There was no point in killing himself. The train had begun to move. He heaved out the corpses of his wife and children and came along to India. He did not redeem the pledge. Only his family did.
Hukum Chand felt wretched. The night had fallen. Frogs called from the river. Fireflies twinkled about the jasmines near the veranda. The bearer had brought whisky and Hukum Chand had sent it away. The bearer had laid out the dinner but he had not touched the food. He had the lamp removed and sat alone in the dark, staring into space. Why had he let the girl go back to Chundunnugger? Why? he asked himself, hitting his forehead with his fist. If only she were here in the rest house with him, he would not bother if the rest of the world went to hell. But she was not here; she was in the train. He could hear its rumble.
Hukum Chand slid off his chair, covered his face with his arms and started to cry. Then he raised his face to the sky and began to pray.
A little after eleven, the moon came up. It looked tired and dissipated. It flooded the plain with a weary pale light in which everything was a little blurred. Near the bridge there was very little moonlight. The high railway embankment cast a wall of dark shadow.
Sandbags, which had guarded the machine-gun nest near the signal, were littered about on either side of the railway tracks. The signal scaffolding stood like an enormous sentry watching over the scene. Two large oval eyes, one on top of the other, glowed red. The two hands of the signal stood stiffly parallel to each other. The bushes along the bank looked like a jungle. The river did not glisten; it was like a sheet of slate with just a suspicion of a ripple here and there.
A good distance from the embankment, behind a thick cluster of pampas, was a jeep with its engine purring gently. There was no one in it. The men had spread themselves on either side of the railway line a few feet from each other.
They sat on their haunches with their rifles and spears between their legs. On the first steel span of the bridge a thick rope was tied horizontally above the railway line. It was about twenty feet above the track. It was too dark for the men to recognize each other. So they talked loudly. Then somebody called.
'Silence! Listen!'
They listened. It was nothing. Only the wind in the reeds.
'Silence anyhow,' came the command of the leader. 'If you talk like this, you
will not hear the train in time.'
They began to talk in whispers. There was a shimmy-shammy noise of trembling steel wires as one of the signals came down. Its oval eye changed from red to a bright green. The whispering stopped. The men got up and took their positions ten yards away from the track.
There was a steady rumbling sound punctuated by soft puff-puffs, A man ran up to the line and put his ear on the steel rail.
'Come back, you fool,' yelled the leader in a hoarse whisper.
'It is the train,' he announced triumphantly.
'Get back!' repeated the leader fiercely.
All eyes strained towards the grey space where the rumbling of the train came from. Then they shifted to the rope, stiff as a shaft of steel. If the train was fast it might cut many people in two like a knife slicing cucumbers. They shuddered.
A long way beyond the station, there was a dot of light. It went out and another came up nearer. Then another and another, getting nearer and nearer as the train came on. The men looked at the lights and listened to the sound of the train. No one looked at the bridge any more.
A man started climbing on the steel span. He was noticed only when he had got to the top where the rope was tied. They thought he was testing the knot. He was tugging it. It was well tied; even if the engine funnel hit it, the rope might snap but the knot would not give. The man stretched himself on the rope. His feet were near the knot; his hands almost reached the centre of the rope. He was a big man.
The train got closer and closer. The demon form of the engine with sparks flying from its funnel came up along the track. Its puffing was drowned in the roar of the train itself. The whole train could be seen clearly against the wan moonlight. From the coal-tender to the tail end, there was a solid crust of human beings on the roof.
The man was still stretched on the rope.
The leader stood up and shouted hysterically: 'Come off, you ass! You will be killed. Come off at once!'
The man turned round towards the voice. He whipped out a small kirpan from his waist and began to slash at the rope.
'Who is this? What is he...?' There was no time. They looked from the bridge to the train, from the train to the bridge. The man hacked the rope vigorously.
The leader raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. He hit his mark and one of the man's legs came off the rope and dangled in the air. The other was still twined round the rope. He slashed away in frantic haste. The engine was only a few yards off, throwing embers high up in the sky with each blast of the whistle. Somebody fired another shot. The man's body slid off the rope, but he clung to it with his hands and chin. He pulled himself up, caught the rope under his left armpit, and again started hacking with his right hand. The rope had been cut in shreds. Only a thin tough strand remained. He went at it with the knife, and then with his teeth. The engine was almost on him. There was a volley of shots. The man shivered and collapsed. The rope snapped in the centre as he fell. The train went over him, and went on to Pakistan.
