‘Ever since you got involved in this constructive work the freedom struggle has come to a standstill,’ retorted Shankar. ‘Go on plying the charkha and sweeping lanes with brooms,’ he said angrily as he threw a shovelful of mud on the pile.
‘You are a traitor,’ the Jarnail shouted. ‘I know you well enough. You hobnob with the communists.’
‘Enough, Jarnail,’ Bakshiji intervened. To let the Jarnail continue would only aggravate matters. Turning to Shankar, he said, ‘Can’t you hold your tongue, Shankar? Must you go on babbling all the time? Is this the place for an argument?’
Just then, a man came running from the direction of the municipal grounds, past the lane where Sher Khan lived and went straight to where the knot of local residents stood. He had on a black waistcoat and looked very agitated. He spoke to the residents in low whispers, all the while gesticulating furiously. The manner of his arrival seemed very odd. Suddenly the local residents began to disperse. Only a few children continued to stand in the lane. Soon enough, the women standing behind gunny-cloth curtains also withdrew and doors began to shut. One of the women hurriedly came out of her house, caught hold of one of the two children who had been easing themselves near the trough, and pulling him by the arm, took him inside the house.
An uncanny silence fell on all sides. The Congress workers were bewildered by the turn of events.
They saw the white-haired man, who a little while earlier had praised the Congress workers so effusively, coming towards them. Mehta and Bakshi were standing together trying to understand the situation and what had caused the sudden commotion. They wondered whether they should ask the old man about it, when the latter, swinging his rosary stopped in front of them.
‘Clear out of here at once if you don’t want to be skinned alive!’ he shouted in his high-pitched voice. His chin trembled and his cheeks turned pale. ‘Enough of your nonsense! Just get out of here. Aren’t you listening? Rascals, clear out of here.’ And turning round, he strode away.
The singing party was stunned. They looked at one another. It was Bakshi’s surmise that perhaps, Shankar and Kashmiri Lal, who were given to loose talk, had said something offensive to the local residents. But did it warrant the scathing outburst of the old man?
Just then a stone came flying from somewhere and fell near Bakshiji. Shankar and Kashmiri Lal, confused and bewildered, looked at Bakshiji.
‘There is something amiss. What do you think could have happened?’ asked Master Ram Das, coming closer.
‘There is something wrong somewhere. Let’s get away from here,’ said Bakshiji, ‘it was a mistake to have come here in the first place. Where is Des Raj who had been so insistent that we should come to this locality?’
But Des Raj was nowhere to be seen. Nobody knew when he had slunk away.
‘Some mischief is afoot.’
Two or three stones came flying, one after the other and one of them hit Master Ram Das on the shoulder.
‘Let’s get away at once. Let’s not linger here, even for a minute.’
The group rushed towards the end of the lane.
Holding the bamboo pole in his hand, the Jarnail shouted, ‘You are all cowards! I know each one of you well enough! I shall leave only after I have completed my job.’
At this Bakshiji shouted to the Jarnail like a military commander, ‘Jarnail, pick up the flag! At once!’
The Jarnail at once stood to attention and marched in step towards the trough, against which stood the national flag.
Two more stones came flying, hurled from somewhere. At the same time three men came out of a lane and stood at its entrance.
Kashmiri Lal took the flag from the Jarnail’s hand and the party of Congress workers started on their way out of the locality. Mehta overturned the tasla in which he had been collecting pebbles, and carrying it in his hand joined the others who were leaving the locality. The hurricane lamp once again swung from Bakshiji’s hand, but Bakshiji’s head was bowed as he walked out.
‘Shall we put back the shovels and taslas in Sher Khan’s house?’ Master Ram Das asked Bakshiji.
‘Keep walking. Don’t stop anywhere.’
Kashmiri Lal turned round to look back. Instead of three, five men were now standing at the entrance to the lane. Across the yard too, some men had gathered and were staring at them. As the party entered the Qutab Din street the scene that confronted them was similar to the one they had left behind. Here too, opposite the Nanbai’s shop, stood three men, silently watching them.
‘Something is amiss,’ Bakshi said to Mehta.
‘For all we know, Shankar or Kashmiri might have misbehaved with someone in the locality. You have let in all kinds of riff-raff into the Congress.’
‘What are you saying, Mehtaji? Kashmiri was busy cleaning the drain the whole time. Something else seems to be the matter.’
On entering the Mohyals’ lane, they again saw a knot of men standing ominously at the far end of the lane.
They were suddenly stopped by a tall resident of the Mohyal street.
‘Don’t go to that side, Bakshiji,’ he said, stepping forward.
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘Don’t go that way.’
‘Why not?’
By then, Kashmiri, Jarnail and Master Ram Das had come to where Bakshi and Mehta were standing.
‘Can you see anything lying at the end of the lane?’ Bakshiji strained his eyes to look. Outside the farther end of the lane, across the road stood a mosque, known in the locality as the Khailon ki Masjid.
‘What is it?’
‘Look towards the steps, at the entrance of the mosque.’
‘Something blackish, like a bundle seems to be lying there.’
‘It is the carcass of a pig, Bakshiji. Someone has left a dead pig there.’
Bakshiji looked at Mehta’s face, as though to say, ‘See? Didn’t I tell you something unusual has happened?’
Everyone was looking hard in that direction. On the steps of the mosque, lay a black bag from which two legs were sticking out. The green door of the mosque was closed.
‘Let’s turn back from here,’ whispered Master Ram Das.
Kashmiri Lal spat on the ground when he saw the pig and turned his face away.
‘Bakshiji, let’s turn back. Beyond the lane is a Muslim locality,’ Ram Das said again.
‘A foul mischief has been played by someone,’ Mehta muttered under his breath. ‘But are you sure it is the carcass of a pig lying there? It may be some other animal.’
‘Had it been some other animal, the Muslims would not have reacted so sharply,’ Bakshiji said, somewhat peeved.
The Jarnail with his small eyes under his bushy eyebrows stared hard at the pig and exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘It is the Englishman’s doing.’
His nostrils were quivering as he said again at the top of his voice, ‘It is the Englishman’s mischief. I know it for sure.’
‘Yes, yes, Jarnail, it is the Englishman’s mischief. But right now you had better keep quiet,’ Bakshiji said to him persuasively.
‘Let’s return by the back lane,’ suggested Master Ram Das once again. But the Jarnail pulled him up sharply, ‘You are a coward. It is the Englishman’s doing. I shall not spare him. I shall expose him.’
Mehtaji whispered into Bakshiji’s ear: ‘Why do you bring this lunatic with you wherever you go? He will be our undoing one day. Why don’t you expel him from the Congress?’
Whenever the eye of a Muslim pedestrian walking along the road fell on the steps of the mosque, he would at first stare hard in that direction, then abruptly turn his face away and quicken his pace, muttering something under his breath.
Suddenly a tonga dashed along the road. Soon after, sounds of running footsteps were heard from the side of the mosque. A few paces away, a butcher hurriedly covered the carcasses of four goats hanging in his shop with cloth and pulled down the shutters. Doors began to shut in the Mohyals’ lane too.
Bakshiji turned round. Ma
ster Ram Das, walking fast, had reached almost the end of the lane. Behind him, at some distance were Shankar and Aziz. Here and there in the lane, stood small groups of local residents.
Bakshiji’s Mohyal friend advised, ‘You too should leave the place, Bakshiji, your presence here will add to the tension.’
Bakshiji looked at the man and turning to Kashmiri Lal said, ‘Fold up the flag, Kashmiri. Take it off the staff.’ Turning to his Mohyal friend, said, ‘We must remove the carcass of the pig from the steps of the mosque. Tension will keep mounting so long as the carcass is there.’
‘What? Are you suggesting that you will remove the carcass from the steps of the mosque? I think you should not even go near the place.’
‘He is right,’ said Mehtaji. ‘We should keep away from it all. The situation can get worse.’
‘Won’t it be worse if we walk away from it? Do you think the Muslims will remove the pig’s carcass from the steps of the mosque?’
‘They can get it done by a scavenger or a sweeper. Anyway, under no circumstance should we get involved in it.’
Bakshiji put down the lamp on the steps of a nearby house, and turning to Mehtaji said, ‘What did you say, Mehtaji? That we should slink away and allow the tension to aggravate? It would have been a different matter if we had not seen the carcass.’ Then, turning to the Jarnail and Kashmiri Lal, added, ‘Come with me,’ and went out of the lane towards the mosque.
Kashmiri was nonplussed. He couldn’t decide whether to follow Bakshiji or not. Stones had been hurled at them in the Imam Din Mohalla. God alone knew what lay in store for them here. Drops of perspiration appeared on his forehead. He put the flagpole alongside a wall and for a while stood wavering. But then, with a sudden resolve followed Bakshiji out of the lane.
On reaching the road, he turned round. The Mohyal too had left. Only Mehtaji was still standing in the deserted lane. The three or four shops standing in a row were all closed. Shops down the road near the well too were closed. Only four or five persons, stood in a knot there. They were all looking towards the mosque. People stood on their balconies or on rooftops with the doors of their houses shut tight.
‘We must first remove the carcass from the steps of the mosque,’ Bakshiji was saying.
The carcass was that of a pig with jet-black bristles. It was covered with a gunny bag from under which the pig’s legs, its snout and a part of its belly peeped out.
Mehtaji, still undecided, stood inside the lane, close to a wall. Removing the carcass was not only risky it was a dirty business too, for it meant soiling his clothes of pure white khadi. The Jarnail and Bakshiji had, in the meantime, caught the pig by its legs and pulled it off the steps of the mosque. Dragging it across the road they had pushed it behind a pile of bricks, thereby concealing it from view.
‘Let it be here for the present. The doors of the mosque can now be opened. Let us now wash the steps of the mosque.’ Bakshiji said and turning to Kashmiri, added, ‘The municipal corporation scavengers live in the lane at the back. Tell one of them to bring his pushcart and we’ll get the carcass removed from here.’
Just then, sounds of commotion were heard from the direction of the well. A cow came running towards them, followed at some distance by a young man whose face was half-covered and who carried a big stick in his hand. His chest was bare and on it dangled a talisman. The cow was young, with an almond-coloured hide and big startled eyes. Its tail was raised from sheer terror. It looked as though it had lost its way. All three of them stood perplexed, their minds filled with apprehensions. The youth with the half-covered face drove the cow and took it into a side-lane towards the right.
Bakshiji stood transfixed as it were, anxiety writ large on his face. He slowly nodded his head and muttered: ‘It seems kites and vultures will hover over the town for a long time.’
His face had turned pale and gloomy.
6
Before the dispersal of the weekly congregation, the vanaprasthi led the chanting of sacred hymns. He believed that such chanting of hymns and sacred verses was like the last oblation offered at a sacred rite and that the weekly congregation was in the nature of such a rite. He considered the hymns, carefully chosen by him, the very essence of Indian thought and culture. After years of persuasion, the vanaprasthi had succeeded in making the members of the congregation memorize them. Sitting cross-legged on the platform, his eyes closed and head bowed, with folded hands resting in his lap, he began chanting the holy verses:
‘Sarve Bhavantu Sukhina…’ (May every living being in the world be happy and live a contented life…)
The vanaprasthi was the only one in the congregation well-versed in Vedic lore and recited the mantras in chaste Sanskrit. Every word uttered by him seemed to emerge from the depths of his soul. The members of the congregation hummed or recited the verse after him. Some of them could not keep pace with the vanaprasthi, and invariably, their humming would continue long after the verse had been fully chanted.
Shanti Path was recited last. It was a prayer for universal peace. The entire congregation stood up and chanted it in a full-throated voice, since this was a mantra they were all familiar with. The invocation filled the hall with an atmosphere of serenity. It seemed as though this prayer for peace expressed so resonantly was reaching out to every home. It filled every heart with deep satisfaction. After the chanting of hymns, a prayer seeking the well-being of every living being was sung. The vanaprasthi kept the rhythm by softly clapping his hands.
‘Grant mercy O Lord, to everyone
Grant every living creature your blessing…’
On his insistence the practice of chanting the traditional aarati had almost been given up, because it contained such mortifying expressions as ‘I am a fool, a lout, O Lord,’ which, the vanaprasthi thought, had a demoralizing effect on the singer. Similarly a song composed by some Khanna rhymester which comprised the line, ‘We, your sons, O Lord, are utterly worthless,’ had been discarded.
The prayers over, the congregation would normally have dispersed, but the members continued sitting because the secretary was expected to make an important announcement. The secretary stood up and requested the members comprising the core group to stay back to deliberate over an important matter. The members already had a hunch of what it was about, for in his discourse, the vanaprasthi had hined at it. Not only that, while making references to it he had got excited and agitated, and even recited, in a deeply anguished voice, the lines of a couplet:
Much blighted has this land been by
the sins of the Muslims, even the
Divine has refused us this grace,
and the earth its bounty.
After the announcement, the congregation dispersed. Members exited from the seven big doors of the hall into a long veranda and began putting on their shoes. Some members, at the time of entering the hall, had deliberately left one shoe outside one door and the other outside another to ensure that no one pinched the pair. This caused some confusion and crowding in the veranda. Even otherwise, after congregational meetings, members would hang around in the veranda, chatting and exchanging views. It was even more so on that particular day when the situation in the town was on everyone’s mind. The vanaprasthi, after his impassioned discourse, continued to sit on the raised platform. His face was flushed and he still appeared to be agitated.
Just then some people were seen coming towards the hall from outside. They were important functionaries of another Hindu organization in town. They were soon followed by a group of six or seven Sikhs, representatives of the local Gurdwara Committee. They too had been invited to participate in the deliberations of the core group.
The secretary, a gaunt, wiry and very fiery person, gave a telling account of the deteriorating situation in the town, of the rumours that were rampant; he even spoke about the carcass of a pig found on the steps of a mosque and made a special mention of the fact that for the last several days, lathis, lances and other weapons were being stored in large quantities in the
Jama Masjid. He then made a fervent appeal to give serious thought to the gravity of the situation and devise ways and means to combat it effectively.
‘This place is not suitable for such deliberations’ said the vanaprasthi, raising his hand. ‘Let us move to some other place. It is only proper that the subject is discussed in a more suitable place.’
So saying, he got down from the chowki and proceeded towards the back of the hall. The members of the core group followed suit. Climbing up a winding satircase, the vanaprasthi led them into a small room on the first floor in which lay a few benches and some chairs.
After they had all sat down, the vanaprasthi continued in his sombre voice, ‘Our primary concern is self-defence and safety. Everything must be done to ensure this. Every householder must immediately store in his house, a canister of linseed oil and a bag of coke and charcoal. Boiling oil can be poured over the enemy from the rooftop, red-hot coals can be flung…’
It was straight talk, members listened with close attention, but to some ears the suggestions, coming as they did from the mouth of a vanaprasthi, sounded rather odd. Most of the members present were elderly businessmen, a couple of them were lawyers or men in service. They were all anxious and concerned, no doubt, but not so agitated as the vanaprasthi. They were still not convinced that the situation had deteriorated to such an extent that people should store canisters of oil in their houses. They were largely of the view that even if a few untoward incidents did take place, the situation would eventually be brought under control by the administration.
One of the members, turning towards the secretary, said, ‘How is it that our youth wing has gone into hibernation? You have put Shri Dev Vrat to all sorts of other jobs. It is absolutely necessary that our young men are activized. They must be given training in lathi-wielding. I would suggest that two hundred lathis be purchased today and distributed among them.’
At this, the chairman of the core group, a well-known merchant of the town and philanthropist, nodded his head and said, ‘I shall pay for these two hundred lathis.’
Tamas Page 6
