Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  Nathu put the dagger down. Just then, far away, in some house, a cock fluttered its wings and crowed. Soon after, a jolting pushcart came creaking on the dusty track. Nathu heaved a sigh of relief.

  2

  At the start of the prabhat pheri, before daybreak, only a handful of Congress activists would be present. But as it advanced and passed through lanes and by-lanes, whosoever lived en route would step out of his house yawning and scratching his belly, and join in.

  It was the fag-end of winter: the air was dry and people still slept inside, swathed in blankets. Quite a few elderly people in the prabhat pheri were wearing woollen caps.

  The clock-tower in the Sheikh’s garden struck four. In front of the Congress office, three or four people stood waiting for their compatriots. Two constables from the Intelligence Department were already there standing on one side at some distance.

  Just then a glimpse of light was seen far away. A man with a hurricane lamp had turned the corner of the Bara Bazaar and was coming towards the Congress office. The light of the lamp fell only on the man’s legs so it seemed as though only a pair of pajamas was walking along.

  ‘Here comes Bakshiji,’ exclaimed Aziz recognizing the pajamas.

  Bakshiji was a stickler for punctuality. ‘Four o’clock means four o’clock,’ he used to say. ‘Not a minute past nor a minute to.’ But on that day he was late.

  Yes, it was Bakshiji, the thickset secretary of the District Congress Committee. His presence was essential to the programme.

  As he drew near, Aziz greeted him by reciting a satirical couplet:

  The mullah, the preacher and the torch-bearer—all have one thing in common—they show light to others while themselves walk in darkness.

  ‘I got up late because I slept late last night,’ Bakshiji explained apologetically. Then, after the usual exchange of courtesies, suddenly remarked, ‘But where is Master Ram Das? Hasn’t he arrived?’

  To this too Aziz answered, ‘He will come after he has milked his cow. He can’t come earlier.’

  ‘He used to come running even at midnight when he wanted a raise in his salary. Now that he has got it, why should he bother about coming on time?’

  In the surrounding darkness, a tall man, dressed in white, was seen coming up the slope from the side of the Naya Mohalla.

  ‘Here comes piety personified,’ remarked Aziz. ‘Doesn’t Mehtaji look every inch a leader?’

  As he arrived, Mehtaji looked around and on noticing the absence of Ajit Singh, Shankar and Master Ram Das, turned to Bakshiji and said, ‘Didn’t I tell you not to fix so early an hour for the prabhat pheri? Four o’clock is too early.’

  ‘It is only when you call the members at four o’clock can you expect the prabhat pheri to start at five o’clock,’ Bakshiji answered. ‘Had I fixed five o’clock as the time, they wouldn’t have been here even after sunrise. And how does it matter to you, Mehtaji, when you yourself are so late?’ Bakshiji said and put his hand under his shawl to take out a packet of cigarettes from his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘From a distance you look every inch a leader, Mehtaji.’

  A condescending smile flickered on Mehtaji’s lips. Putting his hand on Aziz’s shoulder, he said, ‘The other day I was standing at the taxi stand when I overheard someone ask another person, “Is that Jawaharalal Nehru standing there?”’ Giving a little tilt to the Gandhi cap on his head, he added, ‘Many people make this mistake.’

  ‘You are in no way less great Mehtaji. You have a personality all your own.’

  ‘I am slightly taller than Jawaharlal,’ Mehtaji said.

  ‘Did you take a bath before coming here, Mehtaji?’ put in Kashmiri Lal.

  ‘What a question to ask! As a rule I always take a bath before coming out, summer or winter. And it is a must so far as the prabhat pheri is concerned. Tell us about yourself, Kashmiri Lal, did you even wash your face?’

  Just then someone’s voice was heard from the direction of the slope: ‘Left…left…right, left…left…’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘Here comes the Jarnail,’ said Bakshiji.

  As the Jarnail (colloquial for General) arrived, the light from the hurricane lamp fell on his tattered shoes. It was difficult to make out whether what he was wearing was a pair of slippers or shoes. Nearly six inches above his shoes, appeared the lower end of his khaki trousers. A crumpled khaki coat hung over his emaciated body. It was covered with innumerable medallions and badges of Gandhi and Nehru along with ribbons and strings of diverse colours. He had a sparse greying beard and wore a dark-green turban on his head.

  The Jarnail was the only one among the Congress activists who courted imprisonment irrespective of whether a movement was on or not. He went about making speeches all over town and took a roughing-up every other day. But that did not deter him. A thin cane stick under his arm, he would be seen ‘marching’ in one street or another. Whenever an announcement regarding a public meeting was to be made, and a tonga went round the town for the purpose, he would be the one sitting in the back seat, beating the drum. And when a meeting took place, he would be the first to jump on to the dais to address the gathering in his hoarse, husky voice, hardly audible even to the first row of listeners.

  As the Jarnail drew near, Kashmiri Lal made a dig at him, ‘Jarnail, why did you run away from the public meeting yesterday?’

  The Jarnail peered hard into the darkness and on recognizing Kashmiri Lal by his voice, tucked his cane stick under his arm and shouted, ‘I don’t want to have any truck with fellows like you early in the morning. You’d better keep out of my way.’

  Bakshiji turned to Kashmiri Lal, ‘This is no time for your tomfoolery, you had better keep quiet.’

  But the Jarnail was already furious, ‘I shall expose you and your doings. You keep the company of communists. I saw you with my own eyes, eating sweets at the hunchbacked sweetmeat-seller’s shop, in the company of that communist—Dev Datt.’

  ‘Enough, enough, Jarnail. Don’t expose him further,’ said Bakshiji, trying to pacify him.

  Just then Shankarlal arrived, his loose wide pajamas flapping.

  Dawn was breaking. Tints of yellow and orange coloured the sky. From the high wall of the bank building another layer of darkness had been peeled off. Across the road, smoke was already rising from the open furnace of the sweetmeat-seller’s shop located in the Arya School building. Now and then, men emerged for their morning walk, coughing and pattering the ground with their walking sticks. Here and there a woman, her head and shoulders heavily covered, made her way to a temple or a gurudwara.

  Bakshiji, lifting the hurricane lamp close to his face blew into it and put out the light.

  ‘Why has the lamp been extinguished? And that too on my arrival, Bakshiji?’ said, Shankar, the man who made announcements regarding public meetings.

  ‘Why, do you want to look at my face or Mehtaji’s?’ Bakshi said, ‘I cannot afford to waste oil. The lamp does not belong to the Congress Committee, it is my personal property. Get the oil sanctioned by the Congress Committee and I shall keep the lamp burning day and night.’

  At this Shankar, who was standing behind Kashmiri Lal, commented in a low voice, ‘When no sanction is needed for your cigarettes, why should one be required for kerosene oil?’

  Bakshiji had heard Shankar but swallowed the bitter pill. It was demeaning to talk to such ‘loafers’.

  ‘You are the boss, Bakshiji. Even a sparrow cannot flap its wings without your permission. What do you need a sanction for?’ said Shankar, then turning towards Mehtaji said, ‘Jai Hind, Mehtaji. Forgive me. I did not see you.’

  ‘Why should you take notice of us poor folks, Shankar? You are fortune’s favourite these days.’

  ‘Where is your bag, Mehtaji, by the way? You are not carrying it today.’

  ‘Who needs a handbag on a prabhat pheri, Shankar?’

  ‘Why, it is a handy thing. A client can be trapped at any time.’

  Mehta kept quiet. Besides
Congress work Mehtaji did insurance business.

  ‘Why can’t you keep your mouth shut sometimes, Shankar? Mehtaji is thrice your age. You must have regard for age.’

  ‘I didn’t say anything offensive. I didn’t ask him whether he had succeeded in bagging the fifty-thousand-rupee insurance policy from Sethi.’

  Shankar had shot the arrow. Generally the fellow was not given to talking in oblique, insinuating terms. He was a blunt, outspoken person. The reference to the fifty-thousand-rupee policy, however, was hitting below the belt.

  Mehta squirmed. He had spent sixteen years of his life in jail and was the President of the District Congress Committee. He was always dressed in spotless white khadi. To level such an accusation was unmannerly, to say the least. But a rumour had been gaining ground that he was about to secure a fifty-thousand-rupee insurance policy from Sethi, a contractor, in lieu of which, Mehta would help him secure the Congress ticket for the next General Elections.

  ‘He is a wag, Mehtaji, don’t listen to what he says.’

  ‘I never said that Mehtaji has promised to get him the ticket. Only the Provincial Committee has the authority to do that. The District Congress Committee can only make recommendations. Of course, if the president and the Secretary of the District Committee come to a secret understanding, it is a different matter. And both are present here, listening to what I am saying. If big contractors succeed in getting tickets in this manner, it will spell doom for the Congress.’

  Mehtaji moved away and struck up a conversation with Kashmiri Lal. Bakshiji lit another cigarette. The fact of the matter was that Shankar and Mehta did not get along with each other. They had fallen apart ever since Mehtaji had struck off Shankar’s name from the list of district representatives for a conference to be addressed by Pandit Nehru in Lahore. Ever since then Shankar had looked upon Mehtaji as his sworn enemy. Shankar had, nonetheless, gone to Lahore on his own and attended the conference. He had also attended the lunch meant exclusively for the delegates. The District Committee, on behalf of its members, was required to pay a nominal subscription for lunch, but Mehtaji had declined to pay for Shankar. At the lunch party, Shankar had made it a point to sit right opposite Mehtaji. He had gobbled the food like a hungry wolf, shouted at the volunteers serving the guests and, in general, caused much embarrassment to Mehtaji. When asked by Mehtaji to mind his manners and not bring disgrace on the District Committee, Shankar had retorted, ‘Keep your advice to yourself, Mehtaji, I am eating from my own pocket. I shall settle scores with you when we go back home.’

  ‘What will you do to me when we are back home? You are nothing but a babbler.’ Mehtaji had asked.

  On their return from Lahore, Shankar had succeeded in playing his master-stroke. The elections to the Provincial Congress Committee were at hand and every District Committee was required to send four representatives. Mehtaji had proposed Kohli’s name as the fourth representative. He would certainly have been elected had Shankar not spoken out. The meeting of the Scrutiny Committee was on, when Shankar suddenly stood up.

  ‘Excuse me, I have a question to ask.’ Mehta felt alarmed. He realized that Shankar was spoiling for trouble and said, ‘This is the meeting of the Scrutiny Committee. You can put your question to me later.’

  ‘It is to the Scrutiny Committee that I want to address my question,’ Shankar said, standing in a theatrical pose waiting for the Chairman’s ruling.

  ‘What is your question?’ asked the Chairman.

  ‘I wish to know the rules for the nomination of candidates.’

  ‘Come to the point. This is not the time to discuss irrelevant things.’ Mehtaji had retorted, only to be snubbed by Shankar’s, ‘Please keep quiet, Mehatji, I am not talking to you.’

  ‘Let him speak,’ said the Chairman. ‘Son, you want to know the rules of the Congress membership? Well, a member is required to pay an annual subscription of four annas, ply the spinning wheel daily and wear clothes made from handspun, handwoven cloth…’

  ‘That is so,’ said Shankar, adding, ‘Now may I ask Mr Kohli to stand up for a minute?’

  There was silence on all sides.

  ‘Excuse me, but everyone has the right to seek clarification from the Scrutiny Committee.’

  At which Mehtaji grunted.

  ‘Mehtaji, you do not have to play the high and mighty here. My queries are addressed to the Chairman of the Scrutiny Committee.’ Then turning to Kohli, ‘Yes, Mr Kohli, will you stand up for a minute?’

  Kohli stood up.

  ‘You wear khadi, don’t you?’

  ‘What’s all this? Get to the point. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘Can I see the cord with which you have tied your pajamas?’

  ‘The fellow is being rude to an honourable member. What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Please keep out of this, Mehtaji. You have no right to speak without the Chairman’s permission. Now, Mr Kohli, I would ask you again to show me your pajama cord.’

  ‘What if I don’t?’

  ‘You have to. The cord must be shown so that I can prove my point.’

  ‘Show it, Kohli yaar. This good-for-nothing will not let us get any work done, otherwise. All kinds of riffraff have come into the Congress.’

  ‘What did you say, Mehtaji? That I am riff-raff and you are a gentleman? Don’t force me to speak. I know black from white well enough. Yes, Mr Kohli… I don’t want you to untie your pajamas. Only show us the cord with which you have tied them.’

  ‘Show it, Kohli. Get it over, otherwise this man will…’

  Kohli lifted his khadi kurta. Below it, a yellow cord was hanging.

  Shankar leapt forward and caught the cord. ‘See gentlemen. The cord is made of artificial silk. It is not handspun cotton.’

  ‘So what? What if it isn’t? It is only a cord.’

  ‘It is incumbent on a Congress member to wear khadi. That he should be wearing an artificial silk cord compromises the principles the Congress stands for. And you propose to send his name as candidate for the Provincial Committee?’

  Members of the Scrutiny Committee looked at one another. They were forced to strike out Kohli’s name. Since that day, Mehtaji could not bear the sight of Shankar.

  Bakshiji was becoming restless. Neither Ram Das nor Desraj had turned up. Who would lead the singing? There had to be at least one person who sang well. If neither came, then Bakshiji would manage it himself somehow, but then, those who were paid for the job were expected to be more responsible.

  ‘I can tell you what will happen, Mehtaji,’ Bakshiji said. ‘When we have already covered three lanes, Master Ram Das will come running. “The calf had sucked all the cow’s milk.” That’s the excuse he will make. That is how these people work.’ Then, turning to the other members, he added, ‘We can’t go on waiting indefinitely. Let’s start. Kashmiri Lal, you lead the song.’

  Kashmiri Lal, who enjoyed pulling people’s legs turned to Jarnail and said, ‘We must have a speech, Jarnail. Come on, give us a speech.’

  Nothing suited the Jarnail better. Waving his cane and marching military-style, he went and climbed up a stone by the roadside.

  ‘What nonsense is this, Kashmiri? What are you up to?’ shouted Bakshiji. ‘There is a time for everything. If you don’t want the prabhat pheri, tell us so.’ Then he turned towards the Jarnail, but the latter had already begun his speech, ‘Sahiban…’

  ‘No Sahiban business. Come down!’ shouted Bakshiji. ‘Get him down, someone. Why are you out to make a tamasha of the whole thing? Making a public exhibition of ourselves early in the morning.’

  ‘No one in the world can silence me,’ the Jarnail said, commencing his speech. ‘Sahiban…’ he again said, in his grating, hoarse voice.

  The Jarnail was a middle-aged man of fifty years or so, with a worn-out, emaciated body—the result of long spells of imprisonment as a political prisoner. Whereas other Congress activists would invariably be given ‘B’ class cells, he would be huddled into ‘C’ class cells, which
meant, among other things, eating food mixed with sand. But the Jarnail neither relented, nor took off his self-designed ‘military’ uniform. During his younger days, he had attended the Congress session in Lahore as a volunteer. There the famous resolution calling for full Independence had been proclaimed. The national flag had been unfurled on the banks of the Ravi and Pandit Nehru had danced with joy along with other activists. The Jarnail too had been one of them. Ever since then, he had always worn his volunteer’s uniform. As and when he had money, additions would be made to the uniform, a whistle, or a few more badges or a new string the colours of the national flag. But, in general, the uniform was crumpled and unwashed. The Jarnail never did any work, nor could he have secured one. He received a sum of fifteen rupees every month from the Congress office as propagandist’s fee. If Bakshiji was not prompt in making the payment, the Jarnail would then and there, come out with a long speech. A passion had gripped his soul, and on the strength of that passion he was able to bear the troubles and tribulations of life. He had neither a home, nor a wife or child, neither a regular job, nor a regular roof over his head. Two or three times a week he would be roughed-up somewhere or the other in the town. Every time there was a lathi-charge by the police, while other activists would manage to get away to safer places, he would bare his narrow, shrivelled chest and get his ribs broken.

  ‘Get him down, Kashmiri Lal; why are you out to create a scene?’

  It was Mehtaji who had shouted this time. But the Jarnail became all the more adamant.

  ‘Sahiban, I am sorry to say that the President of the District Congress Committee has betrayed the country. We shall live up to the pledge we took on the banks of the Ravi in 1929 to our last breath. Without taking much of your time, all I would say is, no man is born yet who can flout the rules of the Congress. Mehtaji is a nobody. We shall deal with him and his sycophants, namely Kishori Lal, Shankar Lal, Jit Singh and such other traitors.’