In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  And he turned to go. But Pandit Gurdayal practically grabbed his feet and said, ‘Don’t be afraid, please, just please come along; the police will see her busted head, then you can bandage it up right there.’

  Chetan wanted to say there was no use in that. It was enough to have the report written out at the station, but he considered it useless to argue with those fools. Four men lifted up the charpoy and set off for Charbagh Police Station via Baniyon ki Gali. The entire crowd followed them like a procession.

  Although Chetan was exhausted from walking around since morning, and Ma had told him not to go, he joined the crowd just to watch the spectacle.

  38

  This small, narrow gali that went via Chowk Andon (Ananda) to Baniyon ki Gali through Rasta Bazaar to Charbagh, became so narrow by Kot Pushka that an ikka or tonga could not pass through it. Nowadays, rickshaws go straight to Kallowani Mohalla, but in those days, no one had even heard of a rickshaw. The tongas always stopped in the chowk, and from there the passengers would have to carry their luggage on their heads or shoulders for great distances to their homes.

  Chetan had experienced a minor incident with regard to these same galis, chowks and tongas, one that was etched deeply in his mind, and he always recalled it at some point or other when he passed along those narrow lanes. He’d gone to fetch his wife from her parents’ home for the bridal departure. He’d told the tonga driver at the Basti stand that he had to go to Kallowani Mohalla, which is near Chowk Qadeshah. The driver was quite rude. He stopped the tonga right in the middle of the chowk. When Chetan pleaded with him to go just a bit farther to Chowk Kharadiyan, he refused, saying there was no room for a tonga to turn up ahead.

  ‘There is room,’ Chetan had retorted with some annoyance.

  But the tonga driver wouldn’t budge. He said he’d been engaged up to Chowk Qadeshah and he wouldn’t go any farther.

  ‘If you won’t go any farther, I won’t pay you.’

  ‘You can keep your money!’ cried the tonga driver, and he took down all their things—the basket of sweets and their bundle—and before Chetan could say anything, turned the tonga and departed, muttering sailor-grade curses back at them.

  Chetan called out to him again and again but he didn’t even look back.

  Chetan had stood there helplessly in the screaming sunlight of Chowk Qadeshah with his newly-wedded bride. His wife didn’t know the way to his home, so he couldn’t send her ahead and remain standing by the luggage himself. And he couldn’t leave her by the luggage in a Muslim mohalla—and that too, one inhabited by goondas and lowlifes—and go himself (well did he recall what had happened to Laloo’s wife). For a long time, he stood and waited for someone from his mohalla to come by so he could ask him to send his brother. When Chanda grew fatigued from standing there in the heat, Chetan finally told her to pick up the bundle of sweets, and he somehow picked up the basket and all the other stuff himself, and they set out. It really bothered him to come home carrying luggage like this on the third day of his marriage, and he worried someone from the mohalla might see them. When they reached the entrance to the gali a bit ahead of Chowk Kharadiyan, he told Chanda to put the luggage down. Then he piled it all up at Harlal Pansari’s shop and took his wife home.

  Chetan suddenly recalled that incident again as he joined the crowd of spectators in the narrow galis tailing Bhagavanti’s charpoy (which people carried on their shoulders like a bier as they rushed along), and he frowned with fresh anger and shame. But this time, he wasn’t angry at the tonga driver, but at his own foolishness. If he’d just said to the tonga driver, ‘Listen, just take us four more steps, I’ll give you another anna,’ or if he’d said, ‘Pehlwan, just go a little farther, our house is right over there; I have my new bride with me, I’d be so grateful to you!’ wouldn’t the tonga driver have agreed? Of course he would have. But he had threatened not to pay him, and the driver had insulted him and driven off without the money.

  *

  ‘Arré bhai, what happened, where is this procession going?’ asked Ved Vrat Kaliya, jumping up from a shop at Rasta Bazaar and throwing his arm around Chetan’s neck as he walked alongside him.

  Chetan didn’t like Kaliya putting his arm around his neck in this manner, but he didn’t say anything. Although Kaliya was two years younger than him, there had been a time when he’d thought of him as his guru, because it was from Kaliya that he’d learned how to play the mouth organ. Chetan told him about Bhagavanti being beaten by Amirchand. Suddenly Kaliya asked, ‘Where’s Chacha Maniram? How did he let all this happen?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask your uncle Juliyaram,’ replied Chetan sarcastically. ‘Chacha Maniram must be busy meditating with him somewhere.’

  And he freed his neck from Kaliya’s arm nonchalantly.

  *

  Kaliya’s father Gandaram sold sour-moong-dal laddus and papads, and his uncle, Pandit Juliyaram, was the postmaster. The two of them lived in separate households. Pandit Juliyaram’s wife had long ago departed for heaven, leaving behind her two boys, and since Gandaram brought nothing home and spent whatever he earned on liquor and gambling, Pandit Juliyaram helped his sister-in-law as much as he could. People had cast aspersions on him—they said he hadn’t remarried because he lived with his sister-in-law. But the thing was that his elder son was crazy, and he was afraid that if he remarried, a stepmother wouldn’t look after him properly. But how could the people of the mohalla allow anyone to live peacefully? Then they’d taunted Gandaram with the fact that his wife lived with his elder brother. Fights broke out many times, and finally, one day, people heard that Gandaram had left his wife and children and become a renunciant. Paying no heed to the gossip, Pandit Juliyaram brought his sister-in-law to his home and she began to look after his sons along with her own children.

  Pandit ji’s elder son was a hearty lad of nineteen or twenty, and he was not only crazy, but also mute. He ran away from home several times and each time Pandit ji found him and brought him back. But he finally ran away for good one day and no one could find him. For three years, Pandit ji kept looking for him but no one knew where he’d gone. His disappearance bothered him so much that the moment Pandit Juliyaram retired, he grew a beard and became a follower of Vedanta (the younger son and nephew had both finished their studies and started working). He found companions in this pursuit too—his own subordinate, the assistant postmaster, Lala Maniram, father of Amichand and Amirchand. Lala Maniram was a rather tall, skinny, fair-skinned man. He was always silent, though angry by nature. His son Amirchand took after him—he was just as tall and fair, and sturdier than him. Chetan remembered one time when Amirchand had been filling jugs of water at the well and made fun of a girl from the mohalla; his father had overheard his remark sitting somewhere upstairs in the house. He came downstairs and beat the stuffing out of Amirchand with his shoes. Chetan had seen him beat Amirchand unnecessarily in this way many times. But in the company of Pandit Juliyaram—who genuinely looked like a holy man, with his shaved head, fair complexion and beard down to his navel—an extraordinary change came over Lala Maniram. It was as though he’d risen above the ordinary world, while still living in it. He’d taken a loan against half his pension so that Amichand could sit for the competitive exams. Amirchand had found employment after completing the Matric. He’d got married and moved in with his uncle Sohan Lal in the bhuvara. Amirchand didn’t make it beyond the Matric, but Amichand always came first, and he’d always won scholarships. He’d broken the record in the FA, and his father had somehow got him admitted to Government College, Lahore. The third son turned out useless. A loafer and a no-account. He didn’t make it beyond the Matric. Who knows why Lala Maniram never ever snapped at him—maybe it was because his middle son had turned out a scholar or because of Pandit Juliyaram’s sermons. When Amichand was admitted into the PCS, he didn’t show any especial happiness. He politely accepted people’s congratulations and, according to his habit, went off to Chuparana to meditate. Twice a day, the two retired postmas
ters went to the well at Chuparana, three or four miles outside of the city. They did pranayama for two hours, and focused their minds on the Almighty.

  *

  ‘I heard Hunar Sahib’s in town,’ Ved Vrat smiled widely, changing the topic. What he wanted to do was to put his arm around Chetan’s neck again, but who knows what it was about Chetan that made him lose his nerve. All he said was, ‘There should be a get-together, Bhapa ji.’

  Kaliya had quit playing the mouth organ long ago and taken up poetry as a hobby. Chetan was studying in Class Nine when he’d first seen Kaliya passing through the gali with his mouth organ. For two or three years after that, the instrument was stuck to his mouth at all times. No sooner would some new tune (from the theatre, cinema, or the famous bards of Jalandhar) become popular, than Kaliya would start playing it on his mouth organ. Chetan bought one too and practised with him for two or three weeks, but he couldn’t get the hang of it. He preferred the flute. But Kaliya carried on as before, the instrument always at his mouth. He could play it continuously for hours. He was even able to breathe while playing. When Chetan was at home, he knew Kaliya was walking by the gali as soon as he heard the harmonica. Sometimes he wondered why the mouth organ had never found its place in art—he’d never seen a harmonica player in any band or orchestra. Its status had not advanced beyond parties of picnicking boys, and maybe this was why, once Kaliya passed the Matric, he gave up playing. He got a job as a clerk in the post office where the other clerks found his harmonica playing completely juvenile and began to avoid him. After Kaliya quit, Chetan noticed he’d suddenly developed an interest in poetry. He would come to Chetan and listen to his couplets. Sometimes he recited the couplets of other poets himself. But he was quite thick. He always recited the wrong couplets for the wrong occasions, and he spoke in a strange overly enthusiastic manner, his face plastered with a permanent grin.

  ‘Hunar Sahib must be at Lala Govindaram’s right now. There’s a gathering happening there,’ said Chetan. ‘Hunar Sahib’s translated the second section of the Gita into Urdu.’

  ‘Oh, really!’ Kaliya’s eyes widened and his mouth opened with excitement. Without saying another word, he rushed off.

  *

  The street grew wider as they neared Kot Pushka. The pace of the procession quickened. They rounded the corner and passed the mansion of Lala Accharu Ram, advocate, on Charbagh Street, and then turned left, towards the railway station, where there was a police station at the corner. Chetan had passed this street hundreds of times since childhood, but he’d never once glanced in the direction of the police station, and he hadn’t even known that Kallowani Mohalla was under the jurisdiction of this particular station.

  They walked through the station yard and stopped in the entry corridor where there were two tables and two chairs. To the left of this hallway was a room with a table and a chair; an officer in plainclothes stood in the corridor. The members of the procession placed the charpoy outside the hallway.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked the officer.

  ‘Amirchand has beaten her.’

  ‘His brother’s been made deputy collector, so he’s making it harder for the people of the mohalla to live.’

  ‘Is this the British Raj or the Raj of Amirchand and his brothers—they think they can dishonour anyone they want!’

  ‘Please go immediately and catch him and arrest him. He’ll soon learn the price of string!’ (This was Pandit Banarsidas—‘He was a thread seller, after all,’ Chetan thought to himself.)

  People were pushing to the front of the group and speaking all at once.

  But the officer appeared not to be listening to anyone. ‘The chief isn’t here. He’ll be back in an hour,’ he said carelessly.

  ‘But she’ll be dead in an hour. Don’t you see? See how she’s bathed in blood!’ appealed Pandit Shivnarayan Jhawan.

  Chetan knew the man wouldn’t write a report without a bribe or threats, and no one would be prepared to give a red cent for the sake of a bribe. All the same, he came forward and said in English, ‘Come on, let’s take her directly to the deputy commissioner’s bungalow. I’ll speak to him.’

  The threat worked. When everyone started to lift the charpoy disconcertedly, the officer called to someone inside, and a Sikh officer came out. The officer said something to the second and he came and sat in the chair.

  ‘The sergeant has come! Have him write out the report.’

  Everyone started speaking at once, as before.

  ‘One man tell the story. We’ll write out the full incident report. What is the lady’s name?’

  ‘Bhagavanti,’ said Hansa.

  ‘Husband’s name?’

  ‘Pandit Telu Ram!’

  ‘Let her husband come forward!’

  ‘Sir, he’s in Mandi.’

  ‘How are you related to the lady?’

  ‘Sir, I’m her nephew.’

  ‘Now, tell me, what happened?’

  And Hansa told him that an hour or two ago, his aunt had come from Mandi to her home, and that she had been sitting at the gate of the Sunars chatting, when Lala Maniram’s eldest son, Amirchand, had come and dragged her by her hair and beaten her with a lathi and left her half dead.

  ‘No, he beat her with shoes!’ said Shyama.

  ‘You keep quiet; how could she be bleeding then?’ Hansa shut up his brother.

  ‘What had she done to him?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Is he crazy, then?’

  ‘No, sir, what happened was that Chachi is Khatri and from his community. After her first husband died, she married my uncle and went to live over there in Mandi. The Khatris didn’t like that. Today she came alone, so he suddenly beat her.’

  ‘Is he her brother-in-law?’

  ‘No, sir, nothing of the kind. Just from the same caste.’

  ‘Sir, Sergeant Sahib, so what if his younger brother has become deputy, he’s threatening to turn all the Brahmins out of the mohalla.’

  ‘Sergeant Sahib, is this the British Raj or Amirchand’s brother’s Raj, or the Khatris’ Raj, or Kallowani’s—how can other people’s daughters and daughters-in-law be humiliated in broad daylight?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry. We’ll fix him,’ said the sergeant, and he turned towards Hansa.

  ‘Were you present there?’

  ‘No, sir, my younger brother came to get me. The whole mohalla was present.’

  ‘Then who will be a witness to this incident? If it goes to court, someone must be a witness. If the defendant says his name was falsely entered by his enemies, and that the lady beat her own head on the ground, then . . . ?’

  ‘Sir, there’s no shortage of witnesses. You go ahead and ask.’

  ‘So many men are standing here. Why doesn’t one of them have his witness account written?’

  But at the mention of the testimony, everyone stepped back. Hansa requested Pandit Gurdayal, Shivnarayan, Pandit Banarsidas—all of them—to testify, but no one was prepared to come forward.

  Then Chetan came forward and told him in English to go and make Amirchand understand that such excesses are not permissible. ‘There were no men in the mohalla at that time, only women. All of them will tell you. These people are all just spectators. If something gets messed up, and this woman dies, the matter will go right back to you. Have Hansa sign the report, and go and investigate yourself.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘I am an assistant editor at Bande Mataram in Lahore.’

  Then the sergeant had Hansa sign the report (which he hadn’t entered into the register, but had written on a separate piece of paper) and said that when the chief came in, an officer would go from the station.

  ‘Sir, you won’t find Amirchand at home right now. Please catch him early in the morning.’

  The sergeant assured them that he would come early in the morning.

  Then Hakim Sahib dressed and bandaged Bhagavanti’s wound, during which she screamed loudly and moaned, and al
though she wanted to walk, everyone loaded her on the charpoy as before, and the procession turned back towards Kallowani.

  ‘Now we’ll see what kind of fun that son-of-a-deputy has,’ said Pandit Vishvambhar Dayal happily. ‘If his son stays in jail for two days, he’ll forget all about his deputy commissionery.’

  And Chetan laughed at those idiots.

  *

  On their return from the station, Bhagavanti’s procession went gali by gali to Rasta Bazaar instead of going by way of Kot Pushka. The thing was that from over there, the route was a bit shorter, and everyone was in a hurry to get to the mohalla and deliver the news that the police would come early the next morning and arrest Amirchand and throw him in jail. They’d only got as far as Khoslon ki Gali when Chetan could hear his father’s powerful, grating voice. It sounded like he was lecturing Parasaram about his duty.

  39

  There’d been trouble between the Khatris and the Brahmins in Jalandhar’s Kallowani Mohalla longer than anyone could remember. Who knows if the struggle began with a tug of war for power or if the Khatris, caught in the clutches of the shrewd Brahmins, had rebelled (they were forced to fill the Brahmins’ homes with money and gifts for everything from the pregnancy rite on the first indications of pregnancy to the birth of the baby; then the sixth day after birth, the eleventh, the first shaving of the baby’s head, the sacred thread ceremony, the engagement, wedding, death, the fourth day after death, the thirteenth day, and every year after that during the shraddha ceremonies). Whatever the reason, it was perhaps because of this same rivalry that the great sage Vishvamitra, despite being a Kshatriya, decided to call himself Brahmarshi, or why the great priest Pushyamitra started a kingly line of Brahmins. This rivalry in Jalandhar’s Kallowani Mohalla had reached such a nadir that the Kshatriyas (who were now called Khatris and shot arrows in the field of business rather than in battle) called the Brahmins (who were now Bahmans and, instead of giving the gift of knowledge, only took gifts) dogs and the Brahmins called the Khatris lying thieves. Both had come up with coarse sayings for one another. Those Brahmins who had become educated had stopped taking alms, and instead of inviting Brahmin girls and boys for feasts on Janmashtami and other festivals, the Khatris had started inviting boys and girls from their own community.