The meeting went on for a long time, with the three comrades deliberating over each item. And every item, on conclusion, was duly ticked on the notebook with a pencil by Dev Datt.
Then came the last item: to convene a joint meeting of the representatives of all parties.
‘It will not be possible to hold such a meeting,’ said one comrade. ‘The Congress office is locked. If you talk to the members of the Muslim League, they start shouting slogans. Over every issue, their first demand is: Let the Congressmen first admit that the Congress is the party of the Hindus, then alone shall we sit with them. Besides, no one is stirring out of his mohalla. With whom will you hold the meeting?’
Dev Datt stroked his nose for some time and then dismissed the idea of having a joint meeting of ten representatives from each party. It wouldn’t work. ‘But we must bring together some select leaders. They may bring along some of their fellow-workers.’
‘No one will come, Comrade,’ said one comrade. ‘If at all they do, there will only be accusations and counter-accusations. No positive result can be expected from such a meeting.’
‘Comrades,’ said Dev Datt, ‘the very fact of their sitting together will exert a good influence on the people. We can then issue an appeal in their name asking the citizens to maintain peace. It can be put across through the loudspeakers in every mohalla.’
‘What is the situation like at the moment? There is no large-scale killing but sniping continues.’
‘It is of paramount importance to bring together leaders of political parties.’
A few other issues were also discussed. What should be the venue of this meeting? It was decided to hold it at Hayat Baksh’s house.
‘I shall bring Bakshiji there. As we enter the mohalla, Comrade Aziz will receive us at the entrance along with two or three other Muslim residents and we shall proceed to Hayat Baksh’s house.’
‘Have you spoken to Hayat Baksh?’
‘I shall go now and talk to him.’
‘Comrade, which dream-world are you living in? Who will let you reach his house?’
‘You will accompany me,’ Dev Datt said smilingly to Aziz.
‘You are trying to put out a raging fire by merely sprinkling water on it. The fire will not be put out that way.’
But after the meeting, Dev Datt and Aziz went through lanes and by-lanes, hiding here and there, receiving threats and abuses and eventually succeeded in reaching Hayat Baksh’s house.
And truly enough the meeting did take place that afternoon at Hayat Baksh’s residence. Bakshiji was brought to the meeting by Dev Datt. Had he asked some other Congressman, he might have met with a refusal, but Dev Datt was sure that Bakshiji would not refuse. The man’s thinking may not be very clear and he may not be good at solving political tangles, but he had spent a total of sixteen years of his life in jail and he abhorred bloodshed. During the last few days he had been speaking irritably with one and all because he felt both deeply disturbed and helpless. Even as he came with Dev Datt he kept talking ill of the communists all the way. But he did come, and also brought along two young Congress workers with him and the meeting did take place. At the meeting, there was angry exchange of words and accusations. For a full half hour Hayat Baksh kept insisting that Bakshiji must first declare that he had come as a representative of the Hindus and that the Congress was a party of the Hindus. At last Dev Datt had got up and said, ‘Sahiban, this is not the time to go into such discussions. Outside, innocent people are being killed, houses are being burnt, and there is danger of the trouble spreading to the villages. Therefore it is our duty to stop this fire from spreading.’
Thereafter, Dev Datt read out the draft of the Appeal for Peace. Again a discussion started. ‘The appeal cannot be issued in the name of the Congress and the Muslim League. It can only be issued in the personal names of Hayat Baksh and Bakshiji.’ It was also suggested that some other persons too should be associated with it.
By then the people had grown tired. Hayat Baksh’s son whispered into his father’s ear that the appeal was an innocuous one since it was only an appeal for peace and that there was no harm in signing it. And so Hayat Baksh put his signature to it. Bakshiji too signed it. Thereafter slogans of Pakistan Zindabad were raised, and amidst these slogans, while Bakshiji was putting on his shoes, the news came that in the labour colony of Ratta too rioting had started and that two Sikh carpenters had been hacked to death.
Dev Datt refused to believe it. He thought it was a baseles rumour. Has anyone seen the rioting? With his own eyes? That was his first reaction. He kept repeating the question till the very end. Nevertheless, he was downcast, his head bowed and he felt that if the workers had started fighting one another, it meant that the poison had spread deep. Which also meant that the meeting had been a futile exercise.
Dev Datt decided that he would pick up his cycle from the Party office and forthwith proceed to Ratta. ‘Come what may, I must reach Ratta. It will no longer be possible for Comrade Jagdish to face the situation alone. With my presence there the situation may improve and the workers may not lift their hands against one another.’
But when Dev Datt reached the Party office he found his father standing there, stick in hand. And when Dev Datt presented a Marxist analysis of the situation and said that every effort was being made to stop the riots, and began taking out his cycle, his father lost his temper. ‘Swine, if you get killed, there will be no one even to pick up your dead body. Don’t you see what is happening all around? You alone are going to stop the riots?’ and the father stepped forward and shut the door opening into the lane. He would have given his son a thrashing, he even lifted his stick, but then burst out crying: ‘Why are you tormenting us? You are our only son. Be sensible. Don’t you see how miserable your mother is? If you want, I shall put my turban at your feet. Come home.’
Dev Datt’s hand went to his nose, he rubbed his hands. The situation was getting out of hand. It was necessary to seek someone’s help. Someone will have to escort father home.
‘I must go to Ratta. I cannot stay back here. But I shall make arrangements to see you home. Comrade Ram Nath will go with you.’
That very afternoon another death took place. The Jarnail was killed. Whimsical as he had always been, he set out to quell the riots, marching military style, with the cane tucked under his arm. No one was any the wiser for his thoughts, but his heart certainly surged with emotions and also perhaps a crazy whim, that what was happening in the town was deplorable and that all those Congressmen who were sitting at home were traitors.
He set out on his mission, and at numerous places, sometimes from the projection of a shop or at a street-corner, he would stand and address the citizens:
‘Sahiban, I wish to inform you that when Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, on the bank of the Ravi took the pledge of full Independence, he danced round the national flag, and so had I. I too had danced with him. We had all taken the pledge on that day. Today all those who are sitting at home are traitors. Is this the day to sit at home? I say put on burqas and apply henna to your hands like women, if you have to sit at home.’
‘Sahiban, Gandhiji has said that Hindus and Muslims are brothers, that they should not fight one another. I appeal to all of you, young and old, men and women, to stop fighting. It does great harm to the country. India’s wealth is swallowed up by that fair-faced monkey who bosses over us…’
Through lanes and along streets he went making his appeal for peace till he entered the Committee Mohalla. The day was declining when, while he was delivering his speech quite a few bystanders gathered round him, and without knowing where he was, he went on in his usual vein:
‘Sahiban, Hindus and Musalmans are brothers. There is rioting in the city; fires are raging and there is no one to stop it. The Deputy Commissioner is sitting in his bungalow, with his madam in his arms. I say, our real enemy is the Englishman. Gandhiji says that it is the Englishman who makes us fight one another. We should not be taken in by what the Englishman says. G
andhiji says, Pakistan shall be made over his dead body. I also say that Pakistan shall be made over my dead body. We are brothers, we shall live together, we shall live as one…’
‘You, son of a…’ shouted someone standing behind him, and with one swing of his lathi, hit the Jarnail on his head and broke his skull into two. Jarnail fell down in a heap, with his cane, his green ‘military’ uniform, his torn turban and his torn chappals, before he could finish his sentence.
12
One of you will keep watch on the balcony,’ Ranvir turned round and ordered. After passing the initiation test by slaughtering the hen, he had developed supreme self-confidence. There was now a ring of authority in his voice. And he was, without doubt, the smartest in his group of young ‘warriors’.
The ‘armoury’, despite the sticks, the woodchoppcr, knives, daggers, bows and arrows, and the catapults, still looked rather bare. Outside the room, a little removed from the staircase stood an oven with a cauldron of oil on it, but the idea of boiling the oil had been given up due to shortage of firewood.
‘Yes, Sardar!’ Shambhu said and marched towards the balcony.
All the four ‘warriors’ were itching for action. Time had come to enter the battlefield and show one’s feats of valour. Standing on the balcony they felt the same way as the Rajputs of yore did, who, taking cover behind rocks and dunes waited for the mleccha hordes to enter Haldi Ghati before they pounced upon them.
Ranvir was short of stature, that is why, he visualized himself in the role of Shivaji. With eyes screwed up he would survey the road below and the adjacent area. He had an intense longing to wear an angarakha and a yellow turban with a steel ring covering it, and carry a sword hanging from his broad waistband. A shapeless pair of pajamas, an ordinary shirt and a worn-out pair of chappals was no dress for a ‘warrior’, and that too on the verge of a mighty conflict! But the impress of authority which his dress lacked was more than made up for by the tenor of his sharp commanding voice. He gave orders like a seasoned army commander, and enforced strict discipline on the members of the group. With his hands joined on his back, and a slight stoop of his shoulders he would stroll up and down the ‘armoury’ in much the same way as Shivaji must have strolled, before taking on Aurangzeb.
‘Sardar!’
Ranvir turned round. It was Manohar who had been putting small piles of pebbles beside the catapult on the window-sill.
‘We have run short of firewood and therefore the oil cannot be boiled.’
‘Don’t we have charcoal?’
‘No, Sardar!’
Ranvir strolled up and down the room for some time. War strategy demands that the commander assess the situation in all its aspects and take a quick decision. That was imperative for a leader.
‘Get it from your house, coal or firewood, whichever is available, in whatever quantity. Without delay!’
But Manohar continued to stand, somewhat nonplussed.
‘What is it?’
‘What if mummy doesn’t let me?’
Ranvir stared hard at Manohar’s face and shouted fiercely: ‘What are you looking at my face for? Get firewood from wherever you can.’
‘Yes, Sardar!’ and Manohar stepped back.
‘But wait. I can’t send you home at this time.’
The idea of boiling oil was given up for the time being.
The ‘armoury’ had been set up on the upper floor of a double-storeyed house which was lying vacant. The ground floor was occupied by Shambhu’s grandparents. The balcony on the upper storey faced the road. A stately banyan tree stood in front of the house. Its thick foliage provided a safe cover to anyone standing on the balcony. The entrance to the house was, however, from the side-lane—a dark, narrow lane with many turns and twists in it. A person entering it from the roadside would get lost in it in no time. While describing the locale to Ranvir, Shambhu had likened the entrance of the lane to the entrance to the Chakra Vyuh of Mahabharata and therefore eminently suitable as their base of operations. The lane, after some distance, turned to the left. At the turn stood a dilapidated grave of some pir, and right opposite the grave lived an old Musalman who had two wives. A little farther down was the municipal water-tap to which no one came till four in the afternoon. The houses beyond the tap were all inhabited by Hindus. Only at the end of the lane were there two or three mud houses in which Muslim families lived. In one of them lived Mahmud the washerman and in the other, Rahman who ran a hamam. Besides, there were many by-lanes which branched off from this lane and went in different directions. If a mleccha has to be attacked in this lane, then it must be done in the area between the water-tap and a little before the end of the lane. If anything goes amiss, one can immediately get into the entrance of a Hindu’s house.
‘What do you know about the mlecchas who live in this lane?’ Ranvir had asked Shambhu.
‘I know them well enough, Sardar. Mahmud, the washerman washes our family’s clothes; and the Mianji who lives opposite the gate is on very cordial terms with my grandfather.’
‘We shall not operate in this lane,’ said Ranvir decisively.
Shambhu felt greatly discouraged.
The day had come to launch their operations, when they would attack their first victim. So far the ‘warriors’ had been preoccupied with preparations. The day had come to prove their mettle. The line of a war-song: ‘Go into the battlefield like a whirlwind and vanquish the foe!’ had been ringing in Dharam Dev’s ears since long. Manohar was a little nervous. He had come away without telling his mother and it was nearing two in the afternoon. Manohar was afraid that his mother, after winding up her kitchen work, might come out looking for him and trace him out in that house.
Ranvir summoned the three ‘warriors’ into the armoury and reflecting over the strategy declared:
‘Time has not yet come for the use of boiling oil. It is when the enemy attacks your fortress and other weapons become ineffective that you pour boiling oil on the enemy.’
Then, after thinking for a while he added: ‘Here only a dagger will serve the purpose, a dagger with a spring.’
Turning to Inder, the Sardar said, ‘We want to see your footwork. Give us a demonstration of how you will turn on your feet while attacking the enemy. Pick up a knife from the window-sill.’
Inder promptly brought the knife and came and stood in the middle of the room, his legs apart. Holding the knife in his right hand, its blade directed inward, he lifted his left foot, took a sudden leap in the air and making a semi-circular movement, came down on the floor, with his knife aimed at Ranvir’s back.
Ranvir shook his head.
‘Never aim at the enemy’s chest or back. Always plunge the knife into his waist or stomach. And when the blade is inside, give it a twist; this will pull out his intestines. If you attack the enemy in a crowd, do not pull out the knife. Leave it there and get lost in the crowd.’
Ranvir was only repeating what he had heard from Master Dev Vrat’s mouth.
A little later, the group was divided into two sections. It was decided that Inder would be the first one to attack. Hence, while Manohar stood watch on the balcony, Inder, Shambhu and the Sardar came downstairs into the entrance. Whereas Manohar would keep his eyes on the road, the other three would watch the lane. And when Ranvir gave his signal, Inder would step out of the house and pounce upon the enemy. On opening the door slightly one could see a part of the road and the front part of the lane. Beyond the thick trunk of the banyan tree the road was bathed in the afternoon sunlight.
A tonga stopped at the entrance to the lane. Through a chink in the door, they all looked out. A man was alighting from the tonga.
‘Who is he?’ whispered Inder.
They all put their eyes to the chink.
‘It is Jalal Khan, Nawabzada Jalal Khan,’ whispered Shambhu. ‘He lives across the road. A big landlord. Goes to meet the Deputy Commissioner twice a month.’
Through the chink the fluttering tuft of his white turban, his pointed moustaches and r
uddy face could be seen. But he disappeared as quickly as he had become visible. As he passed through the lane, the rustling sound of his well-starched salwar and shoes was heard. But before any decision could be taken the man had already gone into some house. All the ‘warriors’ stood nonplussed. Otherwise too the man was tall and well-built, and on seeing him pass by, they felt overawed. He had given them so little time to think.
Masterji had said that one must never look closely at the enemy, because then, one begins to waver in one’s resolve. Looking closely at any living being produces sympathy in one’s heart, which must not be allowed to happen.
A door opened in the lane and was immediately shut with a bang. All the three ‘warriors’ pricked their ears. Ranvir adjusted the panels of the door in such a way that the chink between them revealed more of the lane.
‘Who is there?’ asked Inder in a low whisper.
‘A mlecch, replied Ranvir.
Both the warriors glued their eyes to the chink, one below the other. An elderly man with a beard was coming through the lane towards the road.
‘It is Mianji,’ Shambhu said, on recognizing him. ‘He lives in the house opposite the pir’s grave. He goes everyday at this time to the mosque to offer his namaz.
‘Shut up!’
The man went out of the lane and, near the banyan tree, turned left. He was wearing a black waistcoat, a salwar and a loose pair of chappals. A small rosary dangled from his right hand. Being an old man he walked slowly with a stoop.
‘Shall I go?’ Inder asked the Sardar.
‘No, he is already on the road.’
‘So what?’
‘It is forbidden to attack a person on the road.’ Shambhu had felt shaken by Inder’s insistence, but felt greatly relieved when Ranvir said ‘no’ to him.
Some more time passed. At four o’clock, women would start going with their pitchers to the water-tap. And therefore, with the afternoon declining, more and more people would start stepping out of their houses.
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