Two

by Gulzar

  Avtar’s wife, Satya, saw Master-ji’s concern in his furrowed brow. He was cutting the wood not just to while away time, but to dispel his anxiety. She too was anxious, but there was nothing she could do.

  She said, ‘Even Bhuri keeps looking at the entrance. He feeds her every day before she is milked.’

  Master-ji grunted. ‘He will come, Bhuriye! Avtar must be on his way now!’

  In response, when the buffalo mooed loudly, he said: ‘Look, she has started calling out his name. You don’t call him by his name, but this one does!’

  A ripple of laughter passed between them, leaving their hearts no lighter. They were trying to reassure each other. Karam Singh said, taking a dig at his wife, ‘See, if he had been alone on his cycle, he would have been here by now. But he has carried along a two-ton sack.’

  Bahu protested, ‘But Beeji is not that fat.’

  ‘What do you know, bitiya, how heavy she is! Come, hand me the bucket, I’ll milk the buffalo.’

  ‘Bhapa-ji, have you ever lifted Beeji?’ Bahu asked, washing the bucket.

  ‘What do you know! I’d lift her on my shoulders and do the bhangra when we were young.’

  Bahu brought him the bucket. He washed the udder of the buffalo and began milking. In the meantime, Satya peeped out into the lane echoing all the way with hushed whispers.

  She said, almost to herself but within his earshot, ‘Some really bad news from Montgomery!’

  ‘About the riots? It’s nothing … Only rumours!’

  The first stream of milk fell into the bucket like the ringing of a bell. A crease appeared on Master-ji’s forehead.

  ‘I had told your mother-in-law … Let Avtar go alone … he’ll bring back news about his sister and her family. But she just doesn’t listen to anyone.’

  He was growing angrier with his wife by the minute.

  ‘The other day when I wanted to go there myself, she wouldn’t let me.’

  Satya tried to reassure him. ‘They will come back soon, Bhapa-ji. Why do you worry?’

  Just then, there was a thud in the lane outside. Perhaps it was Phajju’s bullock cart. Soon it came and halted in front of the door. When Satya’s face flushed red, it became apparent how pale it had been a little earlier. Avtar Singh was getting his cycle down from the cart. Master-ji spoke from where he sat milking the buffalo.

  ‘Oye, what took you so long?’

  Phajju shouted his greeting from the door: ‘Salaam alaikum, Master-ji!’

  ‘Walekum-as-salaam, Bhai Phajju. Come, have a couple of milk streams. Have a glassful before you go.’

  ‘Some other time, Master-ji. I’m in a hurry … Veer-ji’s cycle got punctured on the way. Good that we met. Okay then, Allah beli!’

  When Phajju had left, Master-ji asked Avtar, ‘Oye, where have you left your bebe? I don’t see her.’

  ‘She’ll stay there for a day or two. Nikki’s mother-in-law insisted.’

  Avtar Singh began to wash his hands and feet under the tap. Satya hung his clothes and a towel close by. A strange silence enveloped the courtyard. Master-ji put out the fodder for the buffalo, kept the milk in the kitchen and asked, ‘What news? From the Derewalans.’

  Avtar walked across the yard and said, ‘It doesn’t look very good, Bhapa-ji!’

  ‘Why? Has something happened there?’

  ‘Not really, but…’

  He paused and Master-ji said, irritated, ‘Oye, these are mere rumours. Just rumours. They fly around like bats.’

  ‘If they are mere rumours, why did Stephen Menon close the school and run away? In the middle of the night, he called for a military truck and escaped.’

  ‘That Anglo-Indian was bound to feel threatened … He belongs neither to India nor England. Where will he go after the British leave? He was the one who had Master Fazaldeen whipped in the school. His skin peeled off. His blood still stains my back. Who will run away if not he?’

  Avtar fell silent.

  After muttering something to himself, Master-ji said, ‘It’s been days since I last met Fazlu. People in his lane have started looking at me with suspicion.’

  Campbellpur was now simmering like a pot with a fire underneath – it had begun to rumble and smoke. Sometimes, when people heard of a fire somewhere, they climbed the rooftops to check. At least half of the city was visible from those rooftops, as were the many radio aerials.

  Umar Sheikh had a radio. Its aerial was fixed to a bamboo stick he had propped up on the roof of his house, which was at the end of Master Karam Singh’s lane. There was a time when Umar Sheikh would have the courtyard sprinkled with water during summer and sit down to smoke his hookah. At times, he would call out to Master-ji when the latter walked past his house.

  ‘Master-ji, your school gets the newspaper every day, which they discard every evening. Please bring it here for me to read,’ he would say.

  ‘But you have a radio. You listen to the news every day. Why would you want to read stale news?’

  ‘The newspaper confirms whether what is said on the radio is true … It can say anything…’

  ‘How is that possible? After all, it belongs to the government.’

  ‘Damn the government! After the whites leave, they won’t be able to manage.’

  When the radio was switched on at six in the evening for four hours, one did not feel like believing the kind of news it delivered.

  Master-ji said, ‘Then call me when the news airs. Even I’d like to know what the government has to say.’

  But that never happened. Sheikh never called him, nor did Master-ji ever go over. And now, Umar Sheikh had even stopped sitting outside.

  Tired of listening to all kinds of sickening news from his son and daughter-in-law, Karam Singh went knocking at Umar Sheikh’s door one day. To listen to the news. Sheikh Sahib answered the door. ‘Come, come in, Sardar-ji.’

  He seated Karam Singh in the living room with great respect and asked, ‘What can I serve you?’

  ‘Sheikh Sahib, I have come here to listen to your radio. This is perhaps the time for news.’

  ‘But the radio is not working today. Some fuse has blown.’

  ‘O ho … I thought…’

  Just then some sounds could be heard from within. ‘Do you have some guests?’ he asked, rising.

  Sheikh Sahib responded hastily, ‘Meera is here from Meerut.’

  ‘Oh … bitiya has come after many years! Can I meet her? Why should there be any purdah from the father?’

  Just as he stepped forward, Sheikh Sahib stopped him.

  ‘No, not yet. She’s not too well.’

  ‘What’s the matter with her? Did you call Hakim Sahib? Shall I get him?’

  Sheikh Sahib’s eyes welled up with tears.

  ‘No, no, Sardar-ji…’

  ‘What’s the matter, Sheikh Sahib?’ Karam Singh asked, placing a hand on Umar Sheikh’s.

  Sheikh Sahib broke down.

  ‘Meera’s husband was killed … in the riots … at Meerut.’

  Master Karam Singh’s legs trembled as he walked out. He took a few steps, staggered and fell.

  That night, Master-ji did not have dinner. He went to the terrace and lay down. When Satya came to call him, he turned the other side.

  ‘I am not hungry.’

  After a while, Avtar approached him. ‘What’s the matter, Bhapa-ji?’

  ‘Listen, beta. How will your bebe return? Who will go to fetch her?’

  ‘Jeeja-ji said he will bring her. Maybe Nikki will come too. She’s expecting, na!’

  ‘I see…’ Master-ji fell silent.

  What was once spoken of in hushed whispers could now be seen. Someone had set fire to Lakhbeera’s shack. Or maybe it caught fire just like that. It was inflammable, after all. But it burned down for no reason. The entire city held its breath. Everyone sat with their hearts in their mouths. And there was not even a rumour to offset the tension.

  Lakhbeera was a Sikh. Footloose and fancy free. A vagrant. His parents lived in
Rawalpindi. He was in school when he ran away from home after a quarrel with his stepmother. His house was close to a toll booth where the trucks going out of the city queued up at night. Lakhbeera hid in a truck full of sacks. When the truck halted at a dhaba in Campbellpur, the driver spotted him. He asked the boy to get down and discovered that he was from ’Pindi. Khan, the truck driver, left him with the dhaba owner, promising to pick him up on his way back. Lakhbeera worked at the dhaba for a few days.

  One day at the dhaba, the boy came across his picture in an Urdu newspaper. His parents were trying to find him. That day, he cut his hair short. And before Khan returned, Lakhbeera befriended another truck driver and left with him as a cleaner. He roamed all over Hindustan.

  After a few years, when he went back to Rawalpindi, Lakhbeera visited his house. His father had expired. He met his stepmother and his brothers and sisters. His brothers had grown up, were studying in school, and the mother was running the shop.

  They accepted him, but he was not cut out for domestic duties. Lakhbeera left again. Once again, he got off at the same station – Campbellpur.

  The same dhaba owner took him in. He did not shirk hard work.

  After all these years, he had himself become the owner of a dhaba. Trucks would come, halt here and leave. He did not marry. He did have a relationship with a woman or two, but it never worked. Next to his dhaba was a liquor joint. And in the shack, he sat with Fauji near the one-eyed window.

  After the fire in his shack, he asked Fauji, ‘Tell me, did someone set fire to it or did it start on its own?’

  Fauji’s eyes flashed for a moment and closed. Lakhbeera watched the eyeballs move behind his eyelids. Those eyes were thinking. There was something else on Fauji’s mind.

  Some days ago, Rai Bahadur Des Raj had sent for him. Des Raj was a well-known building contractor and got along well with the English. He wanted to send some of his domestic goods to Delhi. He had a good long-term working relationship with Ujagar Singh. Earlier too he had sent for something from Delhi. Or, maybe, something was sent to Delhi. Fauji didn’t really remember. He got a good amount of money for the job – three hundred rupees, but now he was talking about a thousand.

  ‘There is much more to carry, and the road has also become difficult. Earlier, one could go straight after getting on to G.T. Road. Now, they say people are attacked on that road frequently. The police stations are no longer functioning. Since the policemen have not been getting their salaries, they now participate in looting those travelling on G.T. Road. They snatch away whatever they can lay their hands on. One has to go through interior towns and districts to be safe.’

  Before Fauji could think it over, Rai Bahadur explained the plan to him.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ said Fauji and left.

  Since then, Fauji had been thinking of Rai Bahadur’s offer. If that worked out, why not take Panna along with the goods? And Lakhbeera! Why not take him along too? Ever since Lakhbeera’s shack had caught fire, he had started thinking. He felt that he should watch for a while. If the situation got worse, Rai Bahadur’s family might come along as well.

  Lakhbeera opened the second bottle and asked, ‘Say, Fauji, if this fire did not start on its own, who could have set it off?’

  Fauji responded philosophically, ‘Are you asking for the name of the person or his religion?’

  Fauji was not new to the city. Many people knew him in many ways. Ujagar Singh had brought him to the city. Though Ujagar hardly stayed in Campbellpur, his roots were here. He was born here and was brought up at his grandfather’s farmhouse. His father, Dilawar Singh, had moved the family to Delhi when Ujagar was very young. He owned a taxi which operated for Imperial Hotel. As his children grew up, they moved to different places. He had three daughters, all married in distant parts of Hindustan, one in Orissa, another in Rajputana and the third in the United Provinces. Ujagar married a girl from the neighbourhood.

  Ujagar continued to live with his parents along with his wife. In childhood whenever Ujagar visited his grandfather, accompanied by Dilawar, the grandfather would keep him back for a few days more, saying, ‘Let him stay with me for some time. I will teach him Urdu. You’re anyway becoming an angrez, replaced your pajamas with patloons. Take away your daughters, make mems of them and send them off to Englistan.’ Then, he would add jovially, ‘What’s wrong with that anyway, eh?’

  Ujagar liked to visit his grandfather even after he grew up. Dilawar did miss his father but never made it to Campbellpur again. Even after his grandfather’s death, Ujagar would visit the farmhouse where he used to listen to tales of the British Raj. His grandfather admired the British.

  His grandfather had always wanted Ujagar Singh to join the army and fight for the country. But Ujagar followed in his father’s footsteps and expanded the business. Soon, they had three taxis. Around the time the third taxi arrived, Dilawar Singh passed away. Ujagar Singh brought his ashes to his grandfather at Campbellpur and scattered them over the fields as per his desire.

  Sometimes, Ujagar thought of his grandfather’s words. There was no pattern to them – he said whatever came to his mind. ‘Beta, it’s like this – at least the British built a nation out of our country. Or else, we would have remained divided into little rajwadas, constantly fighting each other. They did not bring armies with them. They knew that our differences were as intense as our friendships. They created armies out of our own people and won our country. Really amazing, these English people! See? They got the rail started, established the postal system. And it’s not as if they brought any money from their homes. The money was ours and so was the country, yet they became the masters and we, the servants.’ He laughed and continued, ‘Driving them away may not be a good idea. Once they leave, the differences will resurface.’

  Soon, his grandfather too passed away. Ujagar Singh sold his land but retained his farmhouse.

  After the taxis, he took to driving a bus from Campbellpur to Delhi, Delhi to Campbellpur. When he incurred losses with the bus service, he replaced it with two trucks. He did not abandon his roots in Campbellpur and would drive down often.

  One rainy night, on his way to Campbellpur, Ujagar met with a serious accident on a bridge. An approaching truck crashed into his and left half of it dangling precariously off the bridge. The windscreen shattered into a spray of shards over Ujagar’s face. Though the other truck driver was also injured, he had the presence of mind to use a rope and rescue Ujagar Singh. The instant he pulled Ujagar to safety, the truck plummeted into the river.

  It was there, at the bridge and above the river, that Ujagar met Fauji. Fauji put him in his own truck and brought him to Campbellpur. He took Ujagar to his farmhouse and looked after him well, laying out a charpai for himself at Lakhbeera’s dhaba.

  After he had recovered, Ujagar Singh pooled his two trucks with Fauji’s and they became business partners. When he offered his farmhouse for Fauji to stay in, the latter refused. He then got Fauji a place at the adda. It had an office-like space downstairs, and a living area upstairs, with an open terrace. He told him, ‘You are the manager here and also my partner. You can run the business as you like. I’ll keep visiting. I have another business in Delhi. With Waheguru’s grace, the businesses will flourish.’

  This was about four or five years ago, when the World War was at its peak and trucks used to be requisitioned at the cantonment. Everyone made money in the war. Petrol could be bought only with a permit. Fauji used to go to the cantonment and manage the permits. He was adept at paying off the officers, including the white ones. Fauji would say, ‘They take bribes too, the goras, but not as blatantly. They never dirty their hands. They use knives and forks even to eat. With one hand they carve us up, with the other they devour us.’

  Now, Fauji belonged to Campbellpur for all practical purposes.

  He helped many a people of the city in dealing with the British, making payoffs wherever necessary. It is a different matter that people often greased his palm as well, but Fauji alw
ays respected the friendships he forged. He was a Pathan in such matters. He never went back on his word. And Lakhbeera was the closest of his friends; Fauji had even got him his liquor shop licence.

  Since Lakhbeera’s shack had caught fire, he had asked Fauji twice, ‘Tell me, who do you think set the house on fire?’

  Instead of answering, Fauji referred to the insignia Lakhbeera had painted on the dhaba’s signboard. ‘Aren’t you afraid? You are a Sikh. You have got the khanda displayed so prominently.’

  Lakhbeera’s hand froze on its way to his lips.

  That night, he lay in his bed, thinking. The fire in his tandoor had not yet gone out. He picked up a piece of burning wood and scraped the part of the board that had the khanda, blackening it … He did not have the heart to scour it out.

  At the adda, people had started calling Chandu ‘dungar chor’, the cattle hustler. Whenever he set out in a truck, he would pick up stray goats or cows and sell them to butchers. Soon, the truck drivers began mocking him, mooing and bleating when he approached the adda. ‘Mind your goats, oye!’ someone would call out.

  One day, Chandu picked a fight with Fauji, who thrashed him so badly, he left the adda for good.

  It was Chandu that Tiwari’s wife was talking about that day.

  ‘You know, your friend … that truck fellow…’

  ‘Chandu?’ Tiwari caught on at once.

  ‘Yes, that’s right … that dungar chor who keeps stealing other people’s cattle…’

  ‘What friend? I just happen to know him.’

  ‘He does a lot of such things. Picking up a cow or goat from one place, selling it at another…’

  Tiwari understood what she meant. ‘Cattle is one thing, but to carry away a girl…’ Suddenly, his voice fell to a whisper. ‘There is a lot of difference between a butcher’s shop and a brothel. The mute, after all, cannot protest, but her tongue works frantically like scissors.’