I had a friend called Ghulam Ali. Our intimacy can be judged from the fact that we flunked our high school exams together twice. Once we had run away from home and were on our way to Bombay – from where we planned to sail for the Soviet Union – when our money ran out. After sleeping for a few nights on footpaths, we had written to our parents and promised not to do such a thing again. We were reprieved.
Shahzada Ghulam Ali, as he later came to be called, was a handsome young man, tall and fair as Kashmiris tend to be. He always walked with a certain swagger that one generally associates with ‘tough guys.’ Actually, he was no Shahzada – which means prince – when we were at school. However, after having become active in the civil disobedience movement and run the gamut of revolutionary speeches, public processions, social intercourse with pretty female volunteer workers, garlands, slogans and patriotic songs, he had for some reason come to be known as Shahzada.
His fame spread like wildfire in the city of Amritsar. It was a small place where it did not take you long to become famous or infamous. The natives of Amritsar, though by nature critical of the general run of humanity, were rather indulgent when it came to religious and political leaders. They always seemed to have this peculiar need for fiery sermons and revolutionary speeches. Leaders had always had a long tenure in our city. The times were advantageous because the established leadership was in gaol and there were quite a few empty chairs waiting to be occupied. The movement needed people like Ghulam Ali who would be seen for a few days in Jallianwala Bagh, make a speech or two and then duly get arrested.
In those days, the German and Italian dictatorships were the new thing in Europe, which is what had perhaps inspired the Indian National Congress to designate certain party workers as ‘dictators.’ When Shahzada Ghulam Ali’s turn came, as many as forty ‘dictators’ had already been put inside.
When I learnt that Ghulam Ali had been named the current ‘dictator’, I made my way to Jallianwala Bagh. There were volunteers outside the big tent. However, since Ghulam Ali had seen me, I was permitted to go in. A white cotton carpet had been laid on the ground and there sat Ghulam Ali, propped up against cushions. He was talking to a group of cotton-clad city shopkeepers about the vegetable trade, I think. After having got rid of them he issued a few instructions to his volunteers and turned to me. He looked too serious, which I thought was funny. When we were alone, I asked him, ‘And how is our prince?’
I also realized that he had changed. To my attempt at treating the whole thing as a farce, he said, ‘No, Saadat, don’t make fun of it. The great honour which has been bestowed on me, I do not deserve. But from now on the movement is going to be my life.’
I promised to return in the evening as he told me that he would be making a speech. When I arrived, there was a large crowd of people around a podium they had set up for the occasion. Then I heard loud applause and there was Shahzada Ghulam Ali. He looked very handsome in his spotless white khadi outfit and his swagger seemed to add to his appeal.
He spoke for an hour or so. It was an emotional speech. Even I was overcome. There were moments when I wished nothing more than to turn into a human bomb and explode for the glory of the freedom of India.
This happened many years ago and memory always plays tricks with detail, but as I write this I can see Ghulam Ali addressing that turbulent crowd. It was not politics I was conscious of while he spoke, but youth and the promise of revolution. He had the sincere recklessness of a young man who might stop a woman on the street and say to her without any preliminaries, ‘Look, I love you.’
Such were the times. I think both the British Raj and the people it ruled were still inexperienced and quite unaware of the consequences of their actions. The government, without really fully comprehending the implications, was putting people in gaol by the thousands, and those who were going to gaol were not quite sure what they were doing and what the results would be.
There was much disorder. I think you could liken the general atmosphere to a spreading fire which leaps out into the air and then just as suddenly goes out, only to ignite again. These sudden eruptions that died just as suddenly, only to burst into flame once again, had created much heat and agitation in the lacklustre, melancholy state of slavery.
As Shahzada Ghulam Ali finished speaking, the entire Jallianwala Bagh came to its feet. I stepped forward to congratulate him, but his eyes were elsewhere. My curiosity was soon satisfied. It was a girl in a white cotton sari, standing behind a flowering bush.
The next day I learnt that Shahzada Ghulam Ali was in love with the girl I had seen the previous evening. And so was she with him, and just as much. She was a Muslim, an orphan, who worked as a nurse at the local women’s hospital. I think she was the first Muslim girl in Amritsar to join the Congress movement against the Raj.
Her white cotton saris, her association with the Congress and the fact that she worked in a hospital had all combined to soften that slight stiffness one finds in Muslim girls. She was not beautiful, but she was very feminine. She had acquired that hard-to-describe quality so characteristic of Hindu girls – a mixture of humility, self-assurance and the urge to worship. In her the beauty of ritualistic Muslim prayer and Hindu devotion to temple gods had been alchemized.
She worshipped Shahzada Ghulam Ali and he loved her to distraction. They had met during a protest march and fallen for each other almost immediately.
Ghulam Ali wanted to marry Nigar before his inevitable and almost eagerly awaited arrest. Why he wanted to do that I am unable to say as he could just as well have married her after his release. Gaol terms in those days varied between three months and a year. There were some who were let out after ten or fifteen days in order to make way for fresh entrants.
All that was really needed was the blessing of Babaji.
Babaji was one of the great figures of the time. He was camped at the splendid house of the richest jeweller in the city, Hari Ram. Normally, Babaji used to live in his village ashram, but whenever he came to Amritsar he would put up with Hari Ram, and the palatial residence, located outside the city, would turn into a sort of shrine, since the number of Babaji’s followers was legion. You could see them standing in line, waiting to be admitted briefly to the great man’s presence for what was called darshan, or a mere look at him. The old man would receive them sitting cross-legged on a specially constructed platform in a grove of mango trees, accepting donations and gifts for his ashram. In the evening, he would have young women volunteers sing him Hindu devotional songs.
Babaji was known for his piety and scholarship, and his followers included men and women of every faith – Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and untouchables.
Although on the face of it Babaji had nothing to do with politics, it was an open secret that every political movement in Punjab began and ended at his behest. To the government machinery, he was an unsolved puzzle. There was always a smile on his face, which could be interpreted in a thousand ways.
The civil disobedience movement in Amritsar with its daily arrests and processions was quite clearly being conducted with Babaji’s blessing, if not his direct guidance. He was in the habit of dropping hints about the tactics to be followed and the next day every major political leader in the Punjab would be wearing Babaji’s wisdom as a kind of amulet around his neck.
There was a magnetic quality about him and his voice was soft, persuasive and full of nuances. Not even the most trenchant criticism could ruffle his composure. To his enemies he was an enigma.
Babaji was a frequent visitor to Amritsar, but somehow I had never seen him. Therefore, when Ghulam Ali told me one day that he planned to call on the great man to obtain his blessing for his intended marriage to Nigar, I asked him to take me along. The next day, Ghulam Ali arranged for a tonga, and the three of us – Ghulam Ali, Nigar and I – found ourselves at Hari Ram’s magnificent house.
Babaji had already had his ritualistic morning bath – ashnan – and
his devotions were done. He now sat in the mango grove listening to a stirring patriotic song, courtesy of a young, beautiful Kashmiri Pandit girl. He sat cross-legged on a mat made from date-palm leaves, and though there were plenty of cushions around, he did not seem to want any. He was in his seventies but his skin was without a blemish. I wondered if it was the result of his famous olive oil massage every morning.
He smiled at Ghulam Ali and asked us to join him on the floor. It was obvious to me that Ghulam Ali and Nigar were less interested in the revolutionary refrain of the song, which seemed to have Babaji in a kind of trance, than their own symphony of young love. At last the girl finished, winning in the bargain Babaji’s affectionate approval, indicated with a subtle nod of his head, and he turned to us.
Ghulam Ali was about to introduce Nigar and himself, but he never got an opportunity, thanks to Babaji’s exceptional memory for names and faces. In his low, soothing voice he inquired, ‘Prince, so you have not yet been arrested?’
‘No sir,’ Ghulam Ali replied, his hands folded as a mark of respect.
Playing with a pencil, which he had pulled out from somewhere, Babaji said, ‘But I think you have already been arrested.’ He looked meaningfully at Nigar. ‘She has already arrested our prince.’
Babaji’s next remark was addressed to the girl who had earlier been singing. ‘These children have come to seek my blessing. Tell me, when are you going to get married, Kamal?’
Her pink face turned even pinker. ‘But how can I? I am already at the ashram.’
Babaji sighed, turned to Ghulam Ali and said, ‘So you two have made up your minds.’
‘Yes,’ they answered together. Babaji smiled.
‘Decisions can sometimes be changed,’ he said.
And despite the reverence-laden atmosphere, Ghulam Ali answered, ‘This decision can be put off, but it can never be changed.’
Babaji closed his eyes and asked in a lawyer’s voice, ‘Why?’
Ghulam Ali did not hesitate. ‘Because we are committed to it as we are committed to the freedom of India, and while circumstances may change the timing of that event, it is final and immutable.’
Babaji smiled. ‘Nigar,’ he said, ‘why don’t you join our ashram because Shahzada is going to gaol in a few days anyway?’
‘I will,’ she whispered.
Babaji changed the subject and began to ask us about political activities in Jallianwala Bagh. For the next hour or so, the conversation revolved around arrests, processions and even the price of vegetables. I did not join in these pleasantries, but I did wonder why Babaji had been so reluctant to accord his blessing to the young couple. Was he not quite sure that they were in love? Why had he asked Nigar to join the ashram? Was it to help her not to think of Ghulam Ali’s incarceration or did it mean that if she joined the ashram she would not be allowed to marry?
And what was going to happen to Nigar once she was admitted to the rarefied surroundings of the ashram? Would she spend her time intoning devotional and patriotic songs for the spiritual and political enlightenment of Babaji? Would she be happy? I had seen many ashram inmates in my time. There was something lifeless and pallid about them, despite their early morning cold baths and long walks. With their pale faces, sunken eyes and ravaged bodies, they somehow always reminded me of the udders of a cow from which the last drop of milk has been squeezed out. Would the monkey eyes of these same men who stank somehow of stale grass ogle this divine one made of milk, honey, and saffron? Would these same men, with their foul-smelling breath make conversation with this fragrant creature? I couldn’t see Nigar living among them, she who was so young and fresh, made up entirely, it seemed to me, of honey, milk and saffron. What did ashrams have to do with India’s freedom?
I had always hated ashrams, seminaries, saints’ shrines and orphanages. There was something unnatural about these places. I had often seen young boys walking in single file on the street, led by men who administered these institutions. I had visited religious seminaries and schools with their pious inmates. The older ones always wore long beards and the adolescents walked around with sparse, ugly hair sprouting out of their chins. Despite their five prayers a day, their faces never showed any trace of that inner light prayer is supposed to bring about.
Nigar was a woman, not a Muslim, Hindu, Sikh or Christian, but a woman. I simply could not see her praying like a machine every morning at the ashram. Why should she, who was herself pure as a prayer, raise her hands to heaven?
When we were about to leave, Babaji told Ghulam Ali and Nigar that they had his blessing and he would perform the marriage the next day in (where else?) Jallianwala Bagh. He arrived as promised. He was accompanied by his usual entourage of volunteers, with Hari Ram the jeweller in tow. A muchbedecked podium had been put up for the ceremony. The girls had taken charge of Nigar and she made a lovely bride. Ghulam Ali had made no special arrangements. All day long, he had been doing his usual chores, raising donations for the movement and the like. Both of them had decided to hoist the Congress flag after it was all over.
Just before Babaji’s arrival, I had been telling Ghulam Ali that we must never forget what had happened in Jallianwala Bagh a few years earlier, in 1919 to be exact. There was a well in the park, which people say was full of dead bodies after General Dyer had ordered his soldiers to stop firing at the crowd. Today, I had told him, the well was used for drinking water, which was still sweet. It bore no trace of the blood which had been spilt so wantonly by the British general and his Gurkha soldiers. The flowers still bloomed and were just as beautiful as they had been on that day.
I had pointed out to Ghulam Ali a house which overlooked the park. It was said that a young girl, who was standing at her window watching the massacre, had been shot through the heart. Her blood had left a mark on the wall below. If you looked carefully, you could still perhaps see it. I remember that six months after the massacre, our teacher had taken the entire class to Jallianwala Bagh and, picking up a piece of earth from the ground, had said to us, ‘Children, never forget that the blood of our martyrs is part of this earth.’
Babaji was given a military-style salute by the volunteers. He and Ghulam Ali were taken around the camp, and as the evening was falling the girls began to sing a devotional song and Babaji sat there listening to it with his eyes closed.
The song ended, and Babaji opened his eyes and said, ‘Children, I am here to join these two freedom lovers in holy wedlock.’ A cheer went up from the crowd. Nigar was in a sari, which bore the three colours of the flag of the Indian National Congress – saffron, green and white. The ceremony was a combination of Hindu and Muslim rituals.
Then Babaji stood up and began to speak. ‘These two children will now be able to serve the nation with even greater enthusiasm. The true purpose of marriage is comradeship. What is being sanctified today will serve the cause of India’s freedom. A true marriage should be free of lust and those who are able to exorcize this evil from their lives deserve our respect.’
Babaji spoke for a long time about his concept of marriage. According to him, the true bliss of marriage could only be experienced if the relationship between man and wife was something more than the physical enjoyment of each other’s bodies. He did not think the sexual link was as important as it was made out to be. It was like eating. There were those who ate out of indulgence and there were those who ate to stay alive. The sanctity of marriage was more important than the gratification of the sexual instinct.
Ghulam Ali was listening to Babaji’s rambling speech as if in a trance. He whispered something to Nigar as soon as Babaji had finished. Then, standing up on the podium, he said in a voice trembling with emotion, ‘I have a declaration to make. As long as India does not win freedom, Nigar and I will live not as husband and wife but as friends.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Nigar, would you like to mother a child who would be a slave at the moment of his birth? No, you wouldn’t.’
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nbsp; The crowd applauded again and Ghulm Ali grew passionate. He was so elated from having saved Nigar from the humiliation of mothering slave children that he strayed from the subject at hand and launched into a sermon on attaining independence. At one point, he looked at Nigar and stopped speaking. To me he looked like a drunken man who realizes too late that he has no money left in his wallet. But he recovered his composure and said to Babaji, ‘Both of us need your blessing. You have our solemn word of honour that the vow made today shall be kept.’
The next morning Ghulam Ali was taken in because he had threatened to overthrow the British government and had declared publicly that he would father no children as long as India was ruled by a foreign power. He was given eight months and sent to the distant Multan gaol. He was Amritsar’s fortieth ‘dictator’ to be imprisoned and the forty thousandth prisoner of the civil disobedience movement against the Raj.
Everybody thought that freedom was just around the corner. However, the Raj was cleverer than we were prepared to give it credit for. It let the movement come to a boil, then made a deal with the leaders, and everything simmered down.
When the workers began to come out of gaol, they realized that the atmosphere had changed. Wisely, most of them decided to resume their normal, humdrum lives. Shahzada Ghulam Ali was let out after seven months, and while it is true that the people’s former passion had fizzled out, he was received by a large crowd at the Amritsar railway station from where he was taken out in a procession through the city. A number of public meetings were also held in his honour, but it was evident that the fire and fury had died out. There was a sense of fatigue among the people. It was as if they were runners in a marathon who had been told by the organizers to stop running, return to the starting point, and begin again.
The Dog of Tithwal Page 3
