‘I am not joking, Liza. I really want you to take interest in something.’
‘I do take interest in your work. Tell me more of what you were telling me this morning. About the Indians.’
Richard smiled.
‘Well, all Indians are quick-tempered. They flare up over trivial things. They fly at one another’s throat in the name of religion. They are all terribly self-centred. And they all adore white women.’
His last words again made her feel as though he was pulling her leg. She regarded Richard as a very capable, erudite person and suspected that he considered her an ignoramus and would not miss any opportunity of making a dig at her. His conversations with her were often laced with sarcasm directed at her.
‘You never take me seriously, Richard.’
‘Why should anything be taken seriously, Liza?’ Richard said in a tone of disenchantment. ‘Listen, darling, we may have some trouble here.’
Liza looked up.
‘What sort of trouble, Richard? Will there be a war again?’
‘No. A riot may break out in the city. Tension is mounting between the Hindus and the Muslims.’
‘Will they fight one another? In London you used to tell me that they were fighting against you.’
‘They are fighting both against us and against one another.’
‘You are again joking, Richard. Aren’t you?’
‘In the name of religion they fight one another; in the name of freedom they fight against us.’
‘Don’t try to be too clever, Richard. I also know a thing or two. In the name of freedom they fight against you, but in the name of religion you make them fight one another. Isn’t that right?’
‘It is not we who make them fight. They fight of their own accord.’
‘You can stop them from fighting, Richard. After all they are from the same racial stock. Didn’t you say so?’
Richard was charmed by his wife’s simplicity. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Darling, rulers have their eyes only on differences that divide their subjects, not on what unites them.’
Just then the khansama came in with a tray. On seeing him, Liza said, ‘Is he a Hindu or a Musalman?’
‘What do you think?’ asked Richard.
Liza stared at the khansama for a while who, after putting down the tray, had stepped aside and was standing motionless like a statue.
‘He is a Hindu.’
Richard laughed. ‘Wrong.’
‘How is it wrong?’
‘Have a good look at him again.’
Liza looked hard at the man.
‘He is a Sikh. He has a beard. He is wearing a turban on his head.’
Richard laughed even more loudly. The khansama continued to stand motionless, without a muscle of his face moving.
‘The Sikhs do not trim beards. It is against their religion.’
‘You did not tell me that.’
‘There is a lot else that I did not tell you.’
‘For example?’
‘That the Sikhs, besides keeping their hair long, adhere to four other commandments; that many Hindus keep a tuft of hair on their heads; that the Muslims too have their dos and don’ts, they do not eat pork while the Hindus do not eat beef; that the Sikhs eat jhatka meat while the Muslims eat halal…’
‘Which means, you do not want me to learn anything. Who can remember all this?’ She looked at the khansama. ‘When I have mastered all these details, shall I be able to tell, just by looking at a person, whether he is Hindu or Muslim? How can one tell without looking at those particular signs?’ Liza said, and, laughing, added, ‘I bet these people themselves cannot tell one from the other, who among them is Hindu or Muslim. I bet you too cannot tell.’
And turning towards the khansama she said, ‘Khansama, are you Muslim?’
‘Yes, Memsahib.’
‘Will you kill a Hindu?’
The khansama was taken aback at the question. He looked at Liza. Then smiling, turned his eyes towards the Sahib. He came forward and placing a plate in front of Richard, stepped back into the semi-darkness. Richard picked up the paper on the plate, glanced through it and put it back on the plate.
‘What is it, Richard?’
‘Just a report, Liza.’ Richard replied softly and was soon lost in his thoughts.
‘What sort of report, Richard?’
‘About the situation in the town, Liza. Every morning I receive reports from the heads of three or four departments—from the superintendent of police, from the health officer, the civil supplies officer… Excuse me, Liza…’ Richard said abruptly and went out of the dining room.
Liza felt confused at Richard’s abrupt departure. He had not even finished his coffee. She didn’t know whether she should wait for him or drink her coffee. But Richard came back soon enough.
‘Where was that report from, Richard?’
‘From the superintendent of police,’ he said, then added in a reassuring voice, ‘Only a routine report.’
But Liza felt as though Richard was hiding something from her.
‘There is something you are keeping from me, Richard.’
‘Why should I keep anything from you? We have nothing to do with what happens in the town.’
‘Still, there seems to be something urgent in the report. What has the superintendent of police written?’
‘That there is some tension in the town between the Hindus and the Muslims. Nothing new. This kind of tension prevails in many parts of India these days.’
‘What do you propose to do?’
‘You tell me what I should do. I think I shall carry on the administration. What else?’
Liza looked up.
‘You are again joking.’
‘I am not joking, Liza. What can I do if there is tension between the Hindus and the Muslims?’
‘You can resolve their differences.’
Richard smiled and taking a sip of his coffee said in a calm voice, ‘All I can say to them is that their religious disputes are their affairs and should be resolved by them. The administration can only render any help that they may want.’
‘Also tell them that they belong to the same racial stock and therefore should not fight one another. That is what you told me, Richard. Didn’t you?’
‘I shall certainly tell them, Liza,’ Richard replied, with an ironic smile playing on his lips.
They sipped their coffee. Suddenly Liza grew anxious and her face looked bleak.
‘I hope there is no danger to you, Richard.’
‘No, Liza. If the subjects fight among themselves, the ruler is safe.’
She felt greatly relieved and an expression of profound respect for Richard shone in her eyes, as the implication of what he had said sank into her.
‘Right you are, Richard. You know so much, I suddenly felt so frightened. Jackson’s wife had once told me that on one occasion, Jackson, holding a revolver in his hand ran after a crowd of natives, trying to disperse them. And his wife, who stood watching from the balcony, got terribly scared. Just think, Richard, Jackson, all alone, revolver in hand, running after a huge crowd. Anything could have happened.’
‘Don’t be alarmed, Liza,’ said Richard, getting up from his chair, he patted Liza on the cheek, got up, and left the room.
5
By the time the group of prabhat pheri activists, making their way through the maze of lanes, reached the Imam Din Mohalla, dawn was giving way to bright morning. Along the way they had picked up brooms, shovels and taslas from Sher Khan’s house. In the early morning light, the exhaustion on their pale, wrinkled faces was clearly visible. Barring Mehtaji, they were all in crumpled, home-washed clothes. The Gandhi cap on Bakshiji’s head was askew looking as though a heavy load had been lifted off it. Shankar, Master Ram Das and Aziz carried brooms on their shoulders while Des Raj and Sher Khan had taslas in their hands. The Jarnail carried a big bamboo pole. As the day broke, Master Ram Das, a Brahmin by caste, was acutely embarrassed
at the thought of being seen with a broom in his hand.
‘Oh Gandhi Baba, you have put a scavenger’s broom in a Brahmin’s hand. You are capable of anything. Isn’t that so, friends?’ and he tittered, putting the broom behind his back. Unable to catch anyone’s attention, he turned to Bakshiji.
‘I am telling you now, Bakshiji, I will not clean drains.’
‘Why not? Are you from a royal family or what?’
‘I can’t be expected to clean drains at my age, surely?’
‘If Gandhiji can clean his lavatory, why can’t you clean a drain?’
‘The fact is, I cannot bend. Honest to God, each time I bend I get a shooting pain in my back. Apparently, there is a stone in my kidney.’
‘How is it that the stone in your bladder does not act up when you’re milking your cow or mixing fodder for it? It only pops up when you have to do community work.’
At this Shankar turned round and said, ‘We have come here to spread a message, not to actually clean the drains. But if you feel so awkward, Masterji, I shall do the cleaning and you carry the refuse in the tasla.’
They had hardly gone a few yards and turned into a lane when Gosainji, who was at the back of the group, shouted, ‘Why are we going by this route today?’
Des Raj, walking in front, had taken a turn to the right and the others had merely followed suit.
‘Tell him to stop,’ shouted Bakshiji. He too had realized that they were not on the right route. ‘This is their time for offering namaz. We should avoid going by the masjid. O Kashmiri! Have you gone out of your mind? Why have you taken this route? Are you listening?’
Kashmiri Lal stoppped and turned round.
‘Sher Khan and Des Raj turned in here by mistake,’ he said, ‘But don’t worry. We’ll stop the singing when we pass by the mosque.’
‘Why go in that direction at all? You know the times we are living in. Turn back and take the lane that leads straight to the crossing. We shall enter the Imam Din Mohalla from that side.’
They turned back and took the new route which was unfamiliar to the prabhat pheris. Generally, the Congress activists did not go to far-flung colonies located outside the town. Even otherwise the route was long, for it involved crossing the sprawling municipal grounds.
They stopped as they reached a cattle water-trough and Kashmiri Lal, who held the tricolour in his hand, raised a full-throated slogan: ‘Inquilab!’
To which the others replied in a spirited voice:
‘Zindabad!’
‘Bharat Mata ki’
‘Jai!!’
At the sound of the slogans, little children came running out of their houses, and women peeped through curtains. A cock with a red crest climbed up a mud wall and flapping its wings crowed loudly, as though in answer to the slogans.
‘The cock did a lot better than you, Kashmiri. See how proudly it crowed!’ commented Sher Khan.
‘Kashmiri is no less than any cock! Kashmiri is the cock of the Congress.’
Shankar added, ‘Put a red cap on his head and Kashmiri will have a red crest too. Get him a red cap, Bakshiji.’
‘Why, Kashmiri doesn’t need any crest. He is the female of the species, a hen. Kashmiri hen!’
Such leg pulling and broad humour were an integral part of the activities of fellow activists.
‘Enough, enough! Let’s get to work,’ said Bakshiji as he put the lantern on the low wall of the trough.
Most of the houses in the locality were small, single-storeyed houses, built in two paralled lanes on either side of a spacious courtyard. Gunny-cloth curtains hung over the front doors of most of them. The lanes were not paved. Only one of the lanes had a kachcha drain, the other one had no drain at all. In some lanes, cattle was tied. From the houses, now and then, women emerged with earthen pitchers balanced on their heads to fetch water. A small boy was collecting dung from under a buffalo. Near the trough, two little boys sat on the ground, opposite each other, relieving themselves and chatting away merrily.
‘Why is your shit so thin?’ one asked the other.
‘I drink goats’ milk. That’s why. What do you drink?’
In one corner of the open ground, stood a tandoor.
Entering the locality one felt as though one was in a village.
‘Pick up your shovels and start working!’ shouted Bakshiji.
Mehtaji and Master Ram Das picked a tasla each and went to work in the yard. Shankar and Kashmiri Lal, armed with shovels headed for the drain, while Sher Khan, Des Raj and Bakshiji began sweeping the courtyard with brooms.
The residents of the locality watched them, puzzled. A tonga-driver came out of his house, and squatting on the ground, watched the goings-on. As his eyes fell on Bakshiji, sweeping the ground, he went over to him and tried to stop him.
‘Why do you put us to shame, Babuji? It is highly improper that you should sweep the ground of our locality. Pray, hand over the broom to me.’
‘No, no don’t worry. That’s what we have come here for,’ Bakshiji answered.
‘No, good sir, I won’t let you. You are well-educated men from good families. How can we let you sweep our floors? Heaven forbid! Please hand over your broom to me. Why must you push us into the fires of hell?’
Bakshiji was deeply touched by the man’s warm sympathy. ‘The community work is having its effect. This is precisely what constructive work stands for,’ Bakshiji muttered to himself.
Kashmiri Lal and Shankar were shovelling out the mud from the kachcha drain which ran alongside the row of houses. Ever since the drain had been dug, dirty water had been accumulating in it and now it had turned into slimy mud of dark colour. So long as the mud had been inside the drain, foul smell did not emanate from it, but when Kashmiri Lal and Shankar took out shovelfuls of it and piled it by the side of the drain at different places, an unbearable smell filled the air attracting a horde of mosquitoes. The drain was about a foot deep and it was filled with mud right up to the top.
‘O good fellow! What are you up to?’
It was the voice of an elderly man with a henna-dyed beard standing behind the low parapet wall on the roof of one of the houses. ‘Have you come to spread disease here? Why can’t you leave the filth where it is, inside the drain? By taking it out and leaving it to scatter all over the place you are making it a potential source of disease. Who will clean it when you are gone? You’ll leave the place a lot dirtier than before.’
Bakshiji who was sweeping the lane close by, straightened his back and stood up. He felt angry with Shankar and Kashmiri Lal. ‘These young fellows will never understand anything,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Constructive work does not mean that you should actually clean the drains. It is only a symbolic gesture to make the residents aware of the need for civic sanitation and gradually earn their trust and participation in the struggle for Independence.’
The old man, having made his comments withdrew from the parapet wall and Bakshiji resumed sweeping the lane with his broom.
Just then another elderly man, with a flowing white beard and a rosary in his hand, emerged from the lane opposite. Obviously, he was on his way to the mosque for his morning prayer. In his white salwar and kurta, an open waistcoat embroidered with a fancy design, a mushaddi lungi on his head, he looked a very pious man. He stood watching the ‘constructive’ programme for some time, then turning to Master Ram Das, who was covered with dust from sweeping the yard, said in a voice trembling with emotion: ‘We shall remain indebted to you for all this.’ His eyes turned towards the other activists. ‘God bless you! What goodness of heart! What nobility of purpose!’ He muttered again and again.
Bakshiji walked over to the old patriarch. ‘It is nothing,’ he said in a self-effacing tone. ‘We are contributing in our small way to social welfare.’
‘It is not the work, it is the lofty sentiment behind it that is so inspiring! Congratulations! Wah, Wah! Wonderful!’ and smiling, walked out of the locality at a leisurely pace. Hearing words of such high prais
e, Bakshiji felt gratified. ‘Today’s work has yielded rich dividends,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Look at Mehtaji and Aziz,’ Sher Khan said, laughing. Neither of them has even touched his broom. Mehtaji can’t risk soiling his clothes.’
Careful, lest his fingers should become dirty, Mehta was picking up a stone at a time from the ground, very daintily with his forefinger and thumb and dropping it into the pan. Master Ram Das already had a thick coating of dust on his hair and thick moustaches.
By then, besides children, quite a few residents of the locality had gathered. Women and young girls stood behind curtains while men stood on roof-tops, interestedly observing the goings-on.
The Jarnail, who had been standing with his long bamboo pole near the trough, moved slowly to where the drain was being cleaned.
‘Is the drain blocked? Do you want me to open it with the bamboo pole?’ People standing around burst out laughing at his military abruptness.
‘This constructive programme is really worthless, if you ask me,’ said Shankar to Kashmiri Lal as he straightened his back. ‘Shovelling mud out of drains will not bring freedom.’
Sweating profusely, both Shankar and Kashmiri Lal had by then made three piles of slimy mud along the drain.
‘Don’t go blurting whatever comes into your head, Shankar.’ Bakshi had overhead Shankar’s remark. He stood in the middle of the lane, broom in hand.
‘I credited you with more intelligence than that. Is Bapu a fool to want us to ply the charkha and do constructive work?’
‘What else am I doing if not that? Still, it makes no sense to me.’
Bakshi was in no mood to get into an argument with a fellow like Shankar who was unerringly blunt and outspoken. Even so, he couldn’t help adding, ‘Try to understand, Shankar, what we are doing is only the symbolic expression of our patriotism; it brings us close to our people, to the poor. When we come, clad in khadi, brooms and shovels in our hands to their locality, they regard us as their own; it inspires confidence in them, which it won’t if we came to them in the Western attire of coat and pant.’
Tamas Page 5
