From inside came the sound of the lock being opened. Milkhi opened the door slightly, and on seeing Shah Nawaz smiled broadly, showing all his teeth. Shah Nawaz kicked the door open and entered.
‘Shut the door behind you.’
‘Yes, Khanji.’
As he crossed the long dark corridor, Shah Nawaz felt the warm cosiness of the house. It was after a long time that he had come into the house through this entrance. He liked the familiar odour. Years earlier when he would enter the house through the dark corridor, Raghu Nath’s young daughter would stare at him, her forefinger between her teeth, and would then raise both her arms wanting to be picked up. Every time he came, she would go running to the end of the corridor, raise both her arms and start giggling. In those early days the young women of the household would run inside on seeing him. It was only when they recognized who it was would they come back laughing.
‘Oh, it’s you, Khanji. We thought God knows who had come in,’ they would say.
Shah Nawaz felt deeply moved. He had spent many lovely evenings with Raghu Nath and his family. As soon as he would enter, the young wife of Raghu Nath’s younger brother would go into the kitchen to prepare an comelette for him. Everyone knew that Shah Nawaz was fond of eating omelette. And gradually, one by one, all the members of the family would come and sit with him in the inner courtyard.
‘I hope all is well at home, Khanji?’ Milkhi said with folded hands.
It was then that Shah Nawaz became aware of Milkhi’s presence. Milkhi stood there, with folded hands, a beseeching smile on his face. Shah Nawaz had never liked Milkhi for his beggarly way of talking, his muddy eyes and shrivelled body. Sometimes when a family member would poke fun at him, Milkhi would hide his face in his arm in embarrassment, which would set the whole family laughing. At such times Shah Nawaz did not dislike Milkhi. But generally, he always reminded him of a slimy lizard. No one knew from where he had descended on the household. He was neither a Punjabi nor a Garhwali. He would utter words of some hybrid dialect, squeezing them out, it seemed, from the stumps of his teeth.
Right in the middle of the inner courtyard stood an improvised choolha made from three bricks, the ashes from which lay scattered on the floor, as also butts of the bidis.
‘Why don’t you cook your meal inside the kitchen?’ asked Shah Nawaz. Milkhi merely tilted his head to one side and grinned.
‘I am all alone, Sahibji, I cook my daal here only.’
‘You have enough provisions here. You don’t need anything, do you?’
‘There is plenty, Khanji. The nanbai outside also keeps asking me. You had spoken to him.’
‘Which nanbai?’
‘Khanji, the one who sits by the ditch. He also throws packets of bidis for me. He is a very good man.’
The staircase went up from the side of the kitchen. As he put his foot on the first step, Shah Nawaz looked around. The door of the living room was shut tight. Shah Nawaz knew every article that lay in that room—the big bedstead, the large portrait of Raghu Nath’s mother on the mantelpiece. The sight of the closed door gave him a sense of desolation. Lying against the closed door was Milkhi’s hookah, with a dirty rag nearby.
‘What do you keep doing here? You don’t even sweep the floor.’
‘They have gone away, Khanji. What’s the use of sweeping the floor?’ said Milkhi, grinning.
To Shah Nawaz it seemed as though their voices were like echoes coming from a vaulted dome, and when they ceased talking an eerie silence descended on the house.
‘The store room is on the mezzanine, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Khanji. Right opposite the staircase. All the big trunks are lying there,’ said Milkhi as he followed Shah Nawaz up the staircase.
There were no fewer than fifteen keys, big and small, in the bunch. Bhabhi had singled out the key of the big lock hanging on the door outside and shown it to him and thereafter a small brass key to the cupboard in which the jewellery box lay, and had said, ‘This is the key, Khanji. I hope you won’t forget.’
But Shah Nawaz was finding it difficult to locate the right key.
‘Which one is the key to the big lock? Do you know?’
‘Yes, Sahibji, I shall show you.’
And Milkhi bent over the bunch, looking for the right key, like a clerk bending over his account book. The diminutive Milkhi barely came up to Shah Nawaz’s waist, maybe a little higher. Shah Nawaz’s eyes fell on the thin tuft of hair on Milkhi’s head, his chutia falling over his left ear like a centipede, and it gave him a creepy feeling.
Milkhi opened the lock. It was dark and stuffy inside the small room. Milkhi stepped forward and unbolted one of the windows which opened towards the back of the house and overlooked the inner courtyard of a neighbouring mosque. Everything inside the room was now clearly visible.
It was stuffy inside but there was also the tantalizing odour of women’s clothes. The wives of all the three brothers had hurriedly made bundles of their clothes and thrown them in. The room was chock-full of boxes and trunks.
Threading his way through the boxes, Shah Nawaz reached the cupboard which contained the jewellery box. As he looked casually out of the window he saw a large group of people sitting close to the water-tank where the devotees washed their hands and feet before offering the namaz. Then his eyes fell on a dead body, duly covered, in their midst. The scene of the funeral procession which he had seen that morning on his way to Raghu Nath’s house also flitted across his mind. For a long time Shah Nawaz stood looking out of the window.
It did not take long to take out the jewellery box. Covered with blue velvet, it must have been given in dowry to one of the women of the house. He took it out carefully and locked the cupboard.
As they came down the staircase, Milkhi was in front holding the bunch of keys while Shah Nawaz followed with the jewellery box in both his hands, when suddenly something snapped in Shah Nawaz’s mind. How and why this happened cannot be easily explained—whether it was the chutia on Milkhi’s head, or the grieving crowd of people he had seen in the mosque or the funeral procession he had seen that morning on his way to Raghu Nath’s house, or what he had been hearing during the last few days and—Shah Nawaz gave a sharp kick to Milkhi on his back. Milkhi stumbled and fell head downward. As he went tumbling down, his head struck against the wall at the turn in the staircase; his forehead split and his spine broke. When Shah Nawaz came down the staircase, Milkhi’s head was hanging downward from one of the last steps in the staircase. Shah Nawaz was still in a rage, the spurt of anger had not subsided. Coming down the staircase, as he passed by Milkhi’s body, he felt like lifting his foot and hitting Milkhi on the face so as to crush the centipede. But he desisted lest he should lose his own balance.
Coming down into the courtyard, he turned round to look at Milkhi. Milkhi’s eyes were open and set on Shah Nawaz’s face, as though wanting to know for which fault of his Khanji had done him to death. As Milkhi fell a muffled cry had escaped his lips out of sheer fright.
Shah Nawaz left him where he was, put the jewellery box under his arm and came out of the house. He put the lock which Milkhi used to put on the inside, on the door outside.
That very evening, handing the jewellery box to bhabhi, Shah Nawaz was not perturbed. As bhabhi took the box, her eyes filled with tears, she had no words to express her sense of gratitude, and Raghu Nath was overwhelmed by the nobility of his friend’s character and the loftiness of his thoughts—even in such inflammatory times he could retain his balance of mind and remain loyal and steadfast.
‘But there is one bad news, bhabhi.’
‘What is it? Has there been a theft? Has our house been burgled?’
‘No, bhabhi. Milkhi fell down from the staircase and has perhaps fractured a bone or two. At first I thought I should go for a doctor, but then, doctors are not so easily available these days. But don’t worry, I shall attend to it tomorrow.’
‘Poor Milkhi!’
‘If you like I can bring him along and
leave him here and put one of my own men to guard your house. The poor fellow is so utterly alone there.’
But both Bhabhi and Raghu Nath had their reservations. They were strangers in the locality and could not arrange for the injured man’s treatment. If it was difficult for Shah Nawaz to get a doctor, it would be well-nigh impossible for them to get one.
‘Don’t worry. I shall look to it. There should be no problem.’
For this too, the Bhabhi felt beholden to Shah Nawaz and looking at his high forehead and beaming face she felt as though she was standing before a saint.
11
After taking his morning bath, Dev Datt came and stood outside his house, rubbing his hands. Every time he rubbed his hands, or put his hand to his nose or gently stroked his cheeks and again rubbed his hands, it meant that he was busy preparing his work-schedule for the day. There lay a diary in his brain. By rubbing his hands and stroking his nose he was making one entry after another into that diary, another item of work to be attended to. ‘There is trouble in Ratta, the comrade there will not be able to send his report, we must send another comrade there.’ ‘To put a stop to the riots, it is imperative that we bring together leaders of the Congress and the Muslim League, to arrange a meeting between Hayat Baksh and Bakshiji.’
On the previous day too, Dev Datt had somehow managed to call on some people. Raja Ram had straightaway shut the door in his face. Ram Nath had said derogatory things about the communists. Hayat Baksh had agreed to attend the meeting even though he had turned red in the face and, with his eyes burning, had started raising slogans and shouting, ‘We shall not rest till we have achieved Pakistan… Pakistan will become a reality!’ He had not given Dev Datt even the chance to speak. ‘It will be necessary to go to him again today.’ Dev Datt again rubbed his hands and stroked his nose. ‘Send Bakshiji to Hayat Baksh; take Atal along and go to Bakshiji, and take Amin along and go to Hayat Baksh.’ But then he rejected the whole idea. ‘Leave out the leaders. Let ten persons each from the Congress, the Muslim League and the Singh Sabha be brought together and have a joint meeting. No, this too will not work. This proposal will have to be discussed in the Party office with other comrades. Another problem. Every effort must be made to stop communal riots from spreading to the labourers’ colony. To have only one comrade there is not enough. Ratta is a Muslim area. Comrade Jagdish is there, but he alone cannot be effective. Besides, two or three comrades must be sent to the villages; they must go from village to village, and try to stop the riots from spreading. We have so few comrades.’ He again moved his hand over his face, then looked at his wrist-watch. ‘There is a meeting in the commune at ten’clock, in which comrades will present reports about their respective areas. It is time to leave,’ Dev Datt said to himself and quietly went back into the house to take out his bicycle from the veranda.
‘Who is there? Is that you Dev Datt?’
Dev Datt left the cycle and went into the room.
‘Are you going out again?’ asked his father, a bulky, middle-aged man sitting on a cot. ‘If you are bent upon getting killed, then first kill all of us, all your family members. Can’t you see what is happening?’
Dev Datt stood in the doorway without uttering a word, rubbing his hands and stroking his nose. His mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her dupatta.
‘Why must you torment us? Don’t you know how we passed the night—that horrible fire raging and you not at home? Have you no thought for us? You were away the whole night.’
Dev Datt rubbed his hands and said, ‘This entire area, right up to Murree Road on one side and the Company’s Garden on the other side is inhabited by the Hindus, and well-to-do Hindus at that. There is no danger to you here.’
‘Have you had a revelation that there is no danger to us?’ growled the father.
‘In this row of houses, ten families have licensed guns. The members of the Youth League of this area have already committed three murders.’
‘You swine! Who is thinking of danger to us? It is you we are worried about.
‘There is nothing to worry about,’ Dev Datt said and came back into the veranda to take out his cycle.
His mother put the wrapper round her neck and tried to block his way. ‘I passed the whole night tossing in bed. Don’t you see the awful times we are living in?’
The problem was getting complicated, thought Dev Datt, his hand going back to his nose. He put his mouth close to his mother’s ear and said, ‘Don’t worry, Ma. I shall come back soon.’
‘You try to fool us all the time. Yesterday too you said the same thing. Put your hand on my body and swear that you will come back before nightfall.’
‘I can’t promise, Ma, but I shall come back.’ And he began taking out his cycle.
From inside the house came the thundering voice of his father. ‘Why are you breaking your head against a wall? The swine won’t agree. He must disgrace us. He has no thought for his parents! He thinks he will stop the riots. Bastard!’
His father’s fulminations continued: ‘No one has a good word to say about him! Good-for-nothing fellow, goes about gathering petty labourers, load-carriers, coolies and lectures to them. Hasn’t even started shaving and has become a leader, swine!’
Dev Datt had already reached the road-crossing.
The situation had further deteriorated. Practically every road was now deserted. Not even a tonga plied anywhere. Shops were closed. If the panels of any shop were open, it meant that the shop had been looted. If some people carrying lathis were standing in a group somewhere, it meant that they were standing close to the dividing line between the mohalla of their community and that of the hated ‘adversary’. But all the mohallas had not been so divided. The houses by the roadside, invariably pucca double-storeyed houses, were of the Hindus, whereas the single-storyed, mud-houses at the back were of the Muslims, or, to use Dev Datt’s terminology, of the deprived classes.
‘Dev Datt!’ someone called.
The voice had come from the left side of the road-crossing. Applying the brakes and putting his foot on the ground, Dev Datt stopped.
‘Don’t go further. A man is lying dead there!’
A short-statured man with a lathi came up to him.
‘Where?’
‘Beyond the crossing. On the slope.’
‘Who was he?’
‘A Musla, who else? Where are you off to at this time?’
‘To the Party office. I have work to do.’
‘A Hindu is lying dead in the graveyard on the other side,’ said the dwarfish fellow, adding angrily, ‘Go and tell your Muslim patrons since you are always fawning on them, to take away their kinsman’s body from the slope and deliver our dead body to us.’
From a balcony on the right came a voice: ‘Don’t go that way. The fellows there may cut you to pieces.’
‘No one will kill him. He is always hobnobbing with the Muslims.’
‘But he is a Hindu all the same.’
Those who had earlier been working under cover, had by then, come into the open.
‘Go and tell them, if one of our men is killed we shall kill three of theirs.’
The man on the slope was perhaps not yet dead, and was struggling for breath, since his body had moved a little down the slope. He had a greyish beard but it looked red now, drenched in his own blood. His khaki coat had cheap nickel buttons on it—one could get eight such buttons for one pice—the shoe-laces had been loosened, as though he had loosened them himself in preparation for his journey to the next world. He appeared to be a Kashmiri. Dev Datt looked back towards the road. A group of men stood there, staring hard at him. When he again looked at the dead body, he recognized the person. He was a Kashmiri load-carrier who worked at the nearby timber-stall belonging to Fateh Chand, and carried firewood and charcoal to the customers’ houses.
Dev Datt thought for a while, his hand stroking his nose. Then he shook his head. ‘No. This is not the time to attend to this man, alive or dead. Nor is this th
e time to go and see the Hindu’s dead body. I must proceed straight to the Party office.’
The Party office had any number of flags, but only three persons were sitting there. The commune consisted of eight comrades; five of them were on duty at that time. There was one bad news, though. A Muslim comrade had lost faith and was leaving the commune.
‘Mischief of the British! You call this mischief of the British! They throw a dead pig at the door of the mosque? Are there any British to be seen here?’ the erstwhile comrade said, his lips trembling with rage. ‘Three poor Muslims have been hacked to death before my very eyes and you call this British machination. To hell with it all!’
All Dev Datt could say to him to cool his temper was: ‘Don’t take any step in haste, comrade. The class to which we belong—the middle class—is easily affected by traditional influences. Had you come from the working class, the question of Hindu and Muslim would not have bothered you so much.’
But the comrade picked up his handbag and left.
‘The comrade’s ideological understanding is weak. To view things emotionally can be very misleading for a communist. It is necessary to understand the evolutionary process of society.’
The meeting began. The situation in the town, particularly with reference to the working-class areas, was the first item on the agenda.
‘In no working-class area has there been any rioting so far. The information about Ratta is misleading. But tension remains. Comrade Jagdish’s presence is effective—people still listen to him. There are twenty Sikh houses in the colony. Not a single incident has occurred so far. But Comrade Jagdish reports that the situation is worsening. There was a tiff between two workers yesterday. They abused each other. The rumours about what is happening elsewhere are affecting the morale of the workers. The decision is taken: Send Comrade Kurban Ali also to Ratta, so that Comrade Jagdish is not alone.’ Dev Datt jotted down the decision.
‘Dada has already left for the countryside. There has been no news from him so far. All traffic has come to a standstill—only one Buick car, of deep blue colour, has been seen going from village to village. Some people say that it is Shah Nawaz’s car. Why is he going from village to village is not known.’
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