Tamas

by Bhisham Sahni

  The cool morning breeze gently ruffled Liza’s golden hair. Her blue eyes looked clear and bright though tiny lines had begun to appear under her eyes, a result of boredom, long hours of sleep and excessive consumption of beer.

  It was to provide Liza with some diversion that Richard had brought her here. She had returned from England after a long absence of six months, and Richard could not risk a repetition of what had transpired earlier. If Liza did not take kindly to the new place and resolved to return to England, life for both of them would inevitably turn into a veritable hell. When he returned home from his office after the day’s work, the exchange of courtesies between them would often turn into a heated argument which soon degenerated to shouting, yelling and cursing. Richard now made a firm resolve to spend the mornings with her. Ever since she had arrived, hardly a week ago, he had been taking her out every morning to different place—the Mall, the Topi Park or horse riding. Liza too, on her part had been trying hard to take interest in her new surroundings and in Richard’s work in order to keep herself occupied. Sometimes she would venture out alone to the cantonment where, being the wife of the Deputy Commissioner of the district, the natives would fawn on her, bow low to offer their salutations and would eagerly want to be of service to her. But for how long can a person go about alone, and the Deputy Commissioner is not the master of his own time. Therefore, neither was sure whether the new arrangement, despite earnest efforts on both sides, would work and, if it did, for how long.

  ‘Very nice!’ Liza exclaimed. ‘What mountain is that, Richard? Is it part of the Himalayan range?’

  ‘Yes, one might say so,’ replied Richard, greatly encouraged by her interest. ‘The valley down below extends far into the mountains for hundreds of miles.’

  ‘What a desolate valley!’ Liza muttered under her breath.

  ‘But Liza, the valley has great historical significance. All the invaders that attacked India came through this valley, whether they came from Central Asia or Mongolia.’ Richard was warming up to the subject. ‘Alexander too came through here. Farther away, the valley gets divided into two routes, one leading to Tibet, the other to Afghanistan. Traders, monks, dervishes for centuries used these routes, covering long distances. It is truly a historic area. I have been exploring these parts for the last one month. For a historian no area could be more fascinating. At numerous places you find ruins of ancient buildings, Buddhist monasteries, fortresses, caravanserais…’

  ‘Richard, you talk as though this was your own country’

  ‘It is not my country, Liza, but its history is certainly of great interest to me.’ Richard replied smiling. Then, pointing his whip towards the high hill, said, ‘On the other side of that hill, nearly seventeen miles from here are the ruins of Taxila. You know about Taxila, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have heard the name.’

  There was a time when it used to be renowned for its university.

  Liza smiled. She knew that now Richard would narrate the entire history of that region. She liked Richard’s enthusiasm. He could talk with so much zest even about rugged rocks. There was something childlike about him, despite his being the Deputy Commissioner. How she wished she too could take interest in such things.

  ‘There is a museum there too. I am sure you will like it. Recently, I brought a sculpted head of the Buddha from there.’

  ‘Why, you already have a huge collection of the Buddha heads. Why did you need another?’

  ‘Excavations are going on nearby. They found quite a large number of such heads. The curator presented one to me.’

  Liza saw before her mind’s eye their large living room which housed Richard’s collection of statuettes and specimens of Indian folk art. The almirahs were crammed with books on the subject. Richard had had a similar obsession in Kenya too, while serving there. He had amassed a collection of African folk art—bows and arrows, all kinds of beads, feathers of birds, totems and the like. And here, in India, it was the Buddha heads.

  Liza again turned her eyes towards the surrounding view. Down below, towards the left was a cluster of low, stunted trees through which they had come. The vista before them opened on crossing that patch of trees.

  ‘The colour of the soil is red,’ observed Liza, looking at the hills in front of her. ‘There is no road to be seen down below. Shall we go back the way we came, through the shrubbery?’ Then, turning to Richard, added half in jest, ‘Where is the road by which Alexander came to India, Richard?’

  ‘There were no pucca roads in those days, Liza, but there is surely a route, thousands of years old which lies on the other side of that hill.’

  Liza looked at Richard. Below his thick-rimmed glasses, the lower part of his face looked very sensitive. Liza wished he would stop talking about ancient routes and ruins and talk to her about love. But Richard’s attention was focused on his subject.

  ‘The inhabitants of this area too have been living here since times immemorial. Have you noticed their features? A broad forehead, brownish tint in the colour of their eyes. They all belong to the same racial stock.’

  ‘How can they be of the same racial stock, Richard, when invaders from all over, as you say, have been here?’

  ‘This is precisely the mistake some people make,’ Richard said vehemently, as though trying to prove some pet theory of his. ‘The first wave of migrants who came from Central Asia three or four thousand year ago and the bands of invaders who came two thousand years or so later, both belonged to the same racial stock. The former were known as Aryans and the latter Muslims. But both had the same roots.’

  ‘The people here too must know all this.’

  ‘These people know only what we tell them.’ After a little pause he added, ‘Most people have no knowledge of their history. They only live it.’

  Liza was getting bored. Once he got started on the subject there was no getting off it, she thought. At such moments, Liza felt relegated to the background. Though he was very fond of her, he had little time for her. Standing in front of a bookshelf, while leafing through a book he would get so absorbed in it that he would become oblivious of everything else. Inevitably, once again Liza would begin to have fits of boredom, everything around her would become insufferable, the natives would look abhorrent, and ultimately she would either have a nervous breakdown or leave for England for another six months or a year.

  ‘Is there a picnic spot nearby?’ Liza asked, interrupting Richard.

  Richard was taken aback, but the query was not so irrelevant.

  ‘Oh, there are many.’ Pointing his whip towards the hill to the left, added, ‘There are lovely water springs at the foot of that hill under the shade of the tall banyan trees. Water has spurted out from the inner recesses of the hill. The Hindus have turned them into bathing pools and named them after their mythological characters, like Rama and Sita.’ Richard smiled as he said this, thinking that these names must sound very odd to Liza’s ears, odd and unfamiliar. ‘There are many such spots around,’ he went on, then, pointing his whip towards another cluster of trees, said, ‘Not far from it, there is another lovely place. A fair is held there, once a year, for a full fortnight, during the month of March. Singing girls come from all over India to participate in it. The fair has some religious sanctity to it because there is the tomb of a Muslim pir there. Devotees light clay lamps on it.’ Then smiling, added, ‘There is singing and dancing during the night, and gambling during the day. I shall take you there one evening.’

  ‘Is the fair on, these days?’

  ‘Yes, it is. But it is not advisable to go there now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There is some tension between the Hindus and Muslims. We fear a riot might break out.’

  Liza had vaguely heard about the tension but she knew very little about it.

  ‘I still cannot make out a Hindu from a Muslim. Can you, Richard? Can you immediately know whether a person is Hindu or Muslim?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘What ab
out our cook? Is he Hindu or Muslim?’

  ‘He is Muslim.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘From his name, the cut of his beard; he offers namaz. Even his eating habits are different.’

  ‘You are so clever, Richard. Do you really know all this?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Quite a bit.’

  ‘You know so much. You must teach me, Richard, I too want to understand things. And that fellow, your stenographer, the man who came to the railway station, the fellow with glistening white teeth. Is he a Hindu or Muslim?’

  ‘He is Hindu.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘From his name.’

  ‘From his name alone?’

  ‘It is quite simple, Liza. The names of Muslims end with such suffixes as Ali, Din, Ahmed, whereas the names of Hindus end with Lal, Chand or Ram. If the name is Roshanlal the man is Hindu, but if it is Roshan Din, he is Muslim. If it is Iqbal Chand, he is Hindu, if Iqbal Ahmed, he is Muslim.’

  ‘I will never be able to understand all this,’ Liza said, discouraged. ‘And what about the fellow who wears a turban, your chauffeur who has a long beard?’

  ‘He is a Sardar, a Sikh,’ Richard said, laughing.

  ‘It is not difficult to make out such a person,’ Liza said, laughing.

  ‘Every Sikh’s name ends with the word “Singh”,’ Richard said.

  They began to go down the slope. The day was warming up. The sun had risen and the thin curtain of haze which had lent an aura of mystery to the atmosphere was dispersing.

  ‘It is great fun roaming in these parts. You will like it. We’ll come out every weekend.’

  As they were crossing the bed of a dry stream strewn with round pebbles and stones, Richard leading the way, Liza said, ‘Where will you take me this weekend, Richard? To Taxila?’

  Richard did not miss the touch of sarcasm in Liza’s voice. Taxila drew Richard like magnet, he could wander there for hours. But what about Liza? Would she like to wander about in the midst of ruins?

  ‘No, not to Taxila for a few days, Liza dear. There is some tension in the town as I told you. We shall go there when the situation improves somewhat. As for this weekend…’

  Richard did not know what to say. He couldn’t tell what sort of a weekend it was going to be.

  ‘We’ll go somewhere,’ he said, as they reached the bottom of the slope and spurred the horses homewards.

  Before sitting down to breakfast, Liza and Richard, passing through the numerous rooms of their bungalow, came and stood in the spacious living room. With the approach of April, curtains would be drawn over doors and windows immediately after sunrise to keep out the heat and harsh daylight. One needed to use electric light even during daytime. Along all the walls stood shelves sagging with books. In between them, on wooden stands, rested heads of the Buddha or the busts of Bodhisattvas. Each statuette had been provided with a separate electric light which illuminated the face or a profile from a well-studied, favourable angle. The walls were covered with Indian paintings. On the mantelpiece stood a colourful doll beside which lay an ancient manuscript on copper plates. On a wooden pedestal by the side of the fireplace stood a rock-edict, while in front of the fireplace were placed three cane stools with a long, low, mahogany teapoy. Richard often sat there, his pipe in hand and browsed through his books and ancient manuscripts. The cook had been instructed to put the kettle on a stove close by with the necessary tea-service as Richard was fond of making his own tea. On the long teapoy lay half-open books and periodicals. At one end of it stood a pipe stand with half a dozen pipes of different shapes and sizes hanging in it. The round lampshade over the teapoy had been so arranged that, switched on, the light fell only on the three cane stools and the teapoy, leaving rest of the room in semi-darkness.

  His arm round Liza’s waist, Richard was showing her the busts and statuettes that he had collected in her absence.

  ‘When I step out of my bungalow, I find myself in some part of India; but when I am back in my bungalow, I return to the whole of India.’

  Wearing an old tweed coat with leather-patches on its elbows, loose corduroy trousers, a pair of thick, black-framed spectacles, Richard looked very much like the curator of a museum.

  They stopped in front of a Buddha.

  ‘The most beautiful thing about a Buddha is the serene smile. The light should so fall on the face that it highlights that smile. Let me show you,’ Richard said turning the Buddha head slightly to the right and switching on the light above the statuette.

  ‘See? See the difference?’ Richard exclaimed. To Liza too it appeared that the smile on Buddha’s face had become more pronounced—calm, soft, yet slightly ironical.

  ‘The smile always rests in the corners of the lips. If you shift the angle even slightly, the smile will become faint.’

  Liza turned round and looked at Richard’s face. Men are such odd creatures, she thought. A woman would notice all these things and yet not be so childishly excited about them. She pressed Richard’s arm, resting her cheek on his shoulder.

  ‘This is the most significant thing about a Buddha head—the soft mysterious smile,’ Richard said bending down to kiss Liza on the head.

  Every room in the bungalow had been fitted with all sorts of electrical devices. Wherever they chose to sit, a call-bell was available close by, linking them to the kitchen as also to the veranda outside.

  Looking at Richard, going from one room to another, nobody could tell that the man was the highest executive officer of the district. He looked more like a connoisseur of Indian art and a scholar of history. But when he sat in his administrator’s chair, he was the representative of the British Empire carrying out the behests and policies laid down in England. He was a pastmaster at keeping the two identities distinctly separate from each other as also the emotions involved with either. That was the hallmark of his mental make-up. He would, with the greatest ease, shift from one kind of activity into another, even though each might be diametrically different from the other. He could draw the line between private interests and official concerns. His life moved, impelled by a peculiar kind of discipline. Three days in a week he held court in his capacity as the District Magistrate. Sitting in the judge’s chair he would forget that he was the rulers’ representative and dispense justice in strict conformity with the rules of the Indian Penal Code. It was difficult to say what his own beliefs were, if at all he had any. Perhaps Richard had never put this question to himself. As a matter of fact, there was no room for personal beliefs in his life. The thought that one’s actions should conform to one’s beliefs was considered juvenile idealism to be dispensed with the day a person joined the Civil Service. As a Civil Servant, Richard was required to implement policies, grasp the essentials of a situation, take quick decisions and enforce them without the least fuss or noise. Personal beliefs or convictions had no place in such a role. Besides, who has ever bothered to consider the moral or ethical aspects of the profession he or she was in?

  Arm in arm, they proceeded towards the dining room. It was Liza’s favourite room. In its centre stood a big, circular dining table, of black mahogany. A lampshade hanging low from the ceiling right above the table shed its light on a copper vase filled with red roses. The room spoke of Richard’s taste and Liza was well aware that if she was to live with Richard she would have to adapt herself to his idiosyncrasies.

  Richard paused a little before stepping into the room.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ asked Liza, her head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Well, what exactly was I thinking? Where should I begin…?’

  ‘Begin what, Richard?’

  ‘You wish to know about the situation in the town, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t want to know anything. All I want to know is when you’ll be back from your office?’ said Liza caressing Richard’s chest. Richard bent down and kissed her on her lips.

  ‘Getting bored already?’

  Richard felt as though a small cloud had
appeared on the horizon which could only grow bigger and darker till it covered the entire sky.

  He drew Liza closer but his heart was not in it. Behind his affection lurked the fear that things might not turn out well again this time between them. Though his lips passed over her hair, her forehead, her eyes and her lips, he felt strangely removed from her. The ardour and passion of the night had now been replaced with indifference. He was only playing at love, observing a formality.

  The khansama, who had been standing in a corner of the room, stepped forward, the red waistband over his white uniform shining brightly in the light. Walking softly, he began laying the table for breakfast.

  Liza and Richard continued to hold each other in their arms. Earlier, if a servant would suddenly appear, Liza would try to extricate herself from Richard’s arms. Richard would continue to hold her close, and the servant would go on doing his work. Embarrassed, Liza would close her eyes to forget the servant’s presence. But gradually, she came to realize that the servant was a mere native and that his presence was beneath notice.

  ‘You had better start taking interest in some activity. A Deputy Commissioner’s wife is looked upon as the first lady of the district. The officers’ wives will be only too willing to help you in whatever you take up.’

  ‘I know. I know. Collect donations for the Red Cross, hold flower shows; children’s fêtes; collect shoes and clothes for disabled soldiers’ wives…’

  ‘There is another association which we propose to set up for the care and protection of animals. The stray dogs roaming freely on the cantonment roads may be rabid and bite people. Then some people make lame horses to pull carriages…’

  ‘What do you propose to do with such animals?’

  ‘Have them put to sleep. It is cruel to harness a lame horse to a vehicle, and stray dogs spread disease. You can choose any activity that may be of interest to you.’

  ‘No, thank you. That I should go about killing stray dogs while you go ruling over the district… You are always pulling my leg, you never take me seriously.’